Coffee, Gentle Readers?

I am on my own again and in London, England. Holler if you'd like to coffee, Pret, or show me something I'll never find on my own (and I'll warn you, I go off the beaten path, it's a place I visit often, and my standards are high - that said, I love a person who rises to a challenge!). The email's to your right, as always.

I'm debating whether to have any...erm...professional contacts while I'm there - on one hand, new city, new rules, don't want to get into a bad situation or god forbid get deported, on the other, well, have you seen the dollar versus the pound lately? I can only hope to make it out with my pocketbook not too badly dinged...Your thoughts? Any sources you know (other than Craigslist) where a girl might meet like-minded individuals and have a chance to vet them before committing?

Journals

Next week, I go to Amsterdam. It's to be a long-delayed honeymoon for Husband and I, his first time to Europe, my eighth? Ninth? And as per usual, I dig through old notebooks, smiling at who I was, rewriting the note that begins them all:

Remember, you were afraid and lonely when starting the trip. It's OK to be that way. It will pass.

The former me is very reassuring to the present me.

I make lists of things to see, my favorite cheese shop, a store with hats, the photography museum. I contemplate whether this year will be the time I try space cake, visit the live sex show, consume substances more altering than ice cream, though even Euro convenience store ice cream gives most drugs a run for their money.

I turn the page, and there is the first night I spent with Guitarist, who lately sends me emails with photographs of his cock, messages no less sexy for their simplicity and bad phonetic porn spelling, and codes to good software for the mac (it's like I've joined a cult - when do I get the sneakers?). I wrote:

Changed in the bath - earlier, in the lobby, "I hope you don't think - I'm not getting fresh or whatever." Asking me about my deal [with Husband]. "You're a very adventurous person." And later, "Let's get adventurous." Jewish men are the best lovers, the first time I came [age 19, partner number 37], no wonder they're God's chosen people [thank you Wex]. Kissed hungrily. "I love how responsive you are." Pinched my nipples. So sensitive in his nipples that he gasped. Turning me over, taking my pants off on all fours, thrusting his fingers inside me, still tender from ex-Lover's hand days earlier. Rolled me over, went down on me, very good. Went and smoked in the bathroom, brushed his teeth, came back and it burned my pussy, so intense, I could have come but I think I didn't want to. He finger fucked me again, very good. "I really like my hands, I'm proud of my hands and forearms, I think they're my best feature." I sucked his fingers, took them into my throat, he was excited by that. Went down on him, told him he could come (in my mouth) if he wanted to. "Yeah? In your mouth?" He stood by the bed, I knelt, he asked me to look up at him, open my mouth, he slid on my tongue and came over my face, in my mouth, rubbed it on my face. "That's so hot. That was so hot." In the morning, we made out, I gave him more head (last night, I worked my way down his body, kissing his side, under his arms, put my fingers in his ass, sucked his balls), he came in my mouth, holding my head down to take it. It was amazing. He walked me to my car, I said, despite my being an inherently slutty person, I really like you. You're the only person I've slept with in Europe. He said the same. It was nice. He was nice. I say nice too much.

What I remember most is the look on ex-Lover's face when he read it, later, in another city, in another country, another place. For years after, I could make him harden by opening my mouth, rubbing his cock on my tongue, and looking up.

Coming Around to the Mac

...so to speak.


Things still troublesome -

- Hate iPhoto
- Can't play my favorite solitaire, for which I may yet install Windows.
- Something's funny with my iTunes, it won't sync up my podcasts. I'm sure there's some button I need to press and the gang at the mac store - who by now need "I survived Hurricane Mandy" shirts - will help me.

Amazing Thing One
I filled out the online survey about my experience with the mac. You know, the standard, tell us about your shopping thing. I wrote quite a bit, most of which boiled down to, "I'm probably experiencing the same level of difficulty I would switching to any new computer, mac or PC. But because you market the mac as easy-easy-perfect, that's the quality of experience I am hoping to have and feel that I'm missing out on."

Two days later, I sit down to drinks with friends of Power Girl, who also work at the local Apple store. Geek Boy says, "Oh....you're that Mandy. I've heard about you." Geek Girl (whom I already know) says, "After your first Genius Bar appointment, our guy came back and told me, 'I think I may have met the first person in the world too high-strung to own a mac.'" They fall over themselves with helpfulness and indicate that I may be eligible for either an upgrade or money back, because in the five days since I bought the computer, during which I have been at or on the phone to the store every day, a better version has come out. I resolve to call the store the next day.

The next day, Geek Girl calls me. "Yeah, we got your online survey and the manager really wants to make sure you're having a good experience, so come in when you get back from your business trip and we'll give you the newer, better computer, transfer your data for free, and set you up with a free hour of one-on-one time to learn to use it for what you need."

I suspect that, as a whore, I value good service even more than most...

Amazing Thing Two
When home with jet lag, watching Alisha Klass and masturbating (damn that girl is enthusiastic!), it's so easy to use the two-fingers-on-the-touch-pad scrolling method with my left hand, so my dominant hand can focus on my personal touch pad. Now I can balance dildo, vibrator, and not run out of movie right before I come! Go mac!

Bits and Pieces

Gentle Readers - I am so darn cold...I'm in a geographical location right now that just involves being cold all the time, and it's sapping my will to live. I swear I'm trying to write, but between the cold and the cold and the worrying about gaining weight and the cold and the working 15 hours a day and the being around other people and the cold, it's been challenging. Until such time as I pop out something better, I hope you will enjoy this. Just keep hitting "random"...

* * *

...I'm working with a member of a local team who is 100% Survivor Called, They Want Their Fan Back. He has long straight hair with poufy bangs, tight jeans, and wears a lot of vests. He has become less openly skeeve-y since the last time I worked with him, now appearing merely socially inept and wanting to play a flirting game he hasn't properly learned rather than oozing slime over every woman he meets. As I think this, while executing some work tasks with him, my hand brushes his and I realize, shit. If I was sixteen/fifteen/fourteen, I would have dated you. And not the you at that age, the you now. We'd have made out in your backseat, you'd have picked me up on your motorcycle when I cut Gym, it would have been you coming over when I was babysitting, asking if you could "just see if it fits." Sobering...

* * *

...due to some wacky phone zone issues, I'm not able to call ex-Lover. And work has been busy enough to keep me from texting much, or emailing at all. Which is a lie. If I wanted to badly enough, I'd make it happen, just like always, slide into the bathroom, the closet, get five minutes alone however I could. But there's a new stage happening, sliding up on me like a Prague pickpocket. The footsteps get closer, closer, why doesn't this guy pass me? The sidewalk's plenty - oh! and then I check my bag, change purse, postcards, pens, notebook, camera, what's missing is trust.

A Little Postcard

I am learning a new language.

It takes him awhile to get hard. I am used to younger men, I am used to older men popping pills, taking my sore pussy a second time, a third, ready to go again right after the bang. This fortnight I have been with four men and each time there was a moment where they slowed, I was puzzled, and then one says, “don’t want to come yet, feels so good…” and it all falls into place.

Ungentle Thoughts

(Should they happen by, I hope that each of the three men I was with this week will assume this bit happened to one of the others…)

I’m fantasizing before I come. I often do, calling up the faceless strangers who watch me on the stage, the pool table, the bar, in the back alley. And in the crowd of eager hands, eager mouths, suddenly there is Lover’s face. I change venues, now it’s a club, I’m in another ring of grasping fingers, the collar around my neck. Follow the leash to the hand that holds, the arm rising to a familiar shoulder, Lover’s face again. Change. The hand that holds the bottle, his again. Change. The hand across my face, across my ass, twined in my hair, the voice in my ear, low, murmuring, come now, come for me, and I do.

Things That We Have Carried Here

(beautiful muffins from Foodbeam, where the recipe also lives)

Sunday morning, lazy Sunday, and Husband and I have brunch at a local foodie place. We nibble muffin samples, I observe the price of cheese, and we sit at the breakfast bar to miss some of the wait. A happy hippie artist sits down next to me (Later, “Well, yeah, I have a name, that my parents gave me, but I just think names are so limiting so I don’t really use it.” I think, you’ll have to use it if you want to apply for that grant I just told you about for your sustainable housing project, Rainbow.

When he first sits down, though, he smiles big and says, “Is your bag over here so far so I can look in it?”

“Sure is,” I say and push it towards him on the counter.

“It’s open, that must mean you’re a very open person.” But he bails out before actually poking around. I wouldn’t have minded, but the gesture was really to see how big his balls were. I poke through his sketchbook, he’s pretty good with pen and ink in an anime/Banksy way, but my slouchy just-big-enough bag remains inviolate.

And for you, Gentle Reader – a list.

ipod (red), earbuds, itrip, charging cord
Dark chocolate raspberry lemon biscotti bar, ¼ eaten by Power Girl and I on the way to see Folk Rocker in Midwestern City
Purse pack of Kleenex
Smart phone, which has to go into the case the same way every time or it turns itself on and then it’s dead when I need it.
Camera (digital) in case, camera a present to me from me, case a present from Husband
Brown kraft notebook with red spine, for ideas relating to a specific project
Blue and green spiral notebook for writing ideas
Pink Japanese notebook that I’m trying out to see if it’s the right size to carry around in Europe next month (it’s not, sadly)
Card from Be-My-Real-Friend, with notes for a contract on the envelope
Pen from a city I visited in Austria
Utility pen
2 passports
Receipt for the Mac
Contract to be faxed when I get to it
Corner of a condom wrapper that fell into my purse during a visit with Big City Lover and can’t be thrown away at home
Black Swiss Army pouch with chapstick, ibprofen, gum, enough hair ties to do pigtails, flash drive, token from Sex Addicts Anonymous (one day), lipstick in a color called Stained that I shoplifted from a not-as-good-as-Sephora cosmetics place in Atlanta, pin of Southern City’s crest and accompanying card thanking me for service to said city, vitamins, 2-inch origami paper and set of small folded sheets of paper for a conversation game called Oracle that I made up.
Wallet (black leather outside, hot pink silk inside, lately I’ve started liking pink which is a first, don’t worry, I’ll never buy underwear in pink) with ID, bank cards for two countries, debit card, ancient student ID (still works at the movies!), AAA card, Barnes and Noble gift card from Power Girl, business cards, frequent bagel, coffee, taco and smoothie cards and $268 in bills only.

What does your hippie-spider-sense tell you?

Zurich (again)

(there would be photos, except that there is mac.)

I take a plane to Midwestern City, a place of ice and ugliness, where I am going to see Zurich. Lately he has been unusually unguarded. I find myself hoping, hoping that we will connect, that he will say he likes me, that I will feel worthwhile. He is handsome, and when he wishes to be, charming. He looks like Michael Keaton. I want to curl into his arms, I want him curled into mine, I want to touch his skin, and see him breathe more slowly. I want, I want, I want most of all to be what he wants.

He is finishing some work when I arrive, surrounded by people who adore him, are impressed by him. I watch him work, watch him reassure, lead, goad, coax. I am silly, I am proud to leave with him, leaving the girl who wants to walk with him behind. The cold makes us both gasp, his car follows mine, we run to the door of the hotel.

“You know, you could have parked farther.” He’s deadpan as always.

“I didn’t think you could run it.” Two can play bitter and acerbic.

We walk in, Hotwire has graced me with a four-star glass tower, the last time I was here was with Ex-Lover, not the best surprise but at least I know my way.

“This is way nicer than anywhere I would have taken you.” He’s right, but in fairness, the last two beds we shared were booked by his clients. Elevators whoosh us softly to the twelfth floor. Going down the hall, he texts his wife.

“How are things going?” I ask.

“We’re allowing each other space. Mostly by not talking to each other.”

The room is well-lit and warm. He starts the shower while I call Husband, check in, share the day. I get in the shower and Zurich’s touch surprises me, I am always slightly astonished when he reaches out, volunteers anything. His hands soap my back, the curve of my neck, my ass. He kisses me, the water on my back, his tongue in my mouth. His skin is soft, his hands callused, I love his hands.

We go to bed, good sheets, good mattress, Zurich flips channels, “Should we fuck to Home Shopping or Crossfire?” then turns it off. We kiss for a long time, his mouth gentle on my face, my ears, the side of my neck. He moves down my body, licks my nipples, takes them in his mouth, pinches with his fingers don’t worry it can never be hard enough runs his hands along the sides of my body, kisses the inside of my thighs where they meet my body, moves his mouth over my pussy, his tongue wide and soft. He’s good, he’s always good, but it’s so hard to come this way without feeling I’m asking for too much, taking too long. I pull his head up, he kisses up my body, I sometimes wonder if men do this to take away the taste, but I like tasting me on you. I roll him over and take his cock in my mouth, so sweet and hard. Suck him, lick him up and down until he laughs, “Sex, please!” Roll on the condom (always a little sad, but he has more to fear from me than I do from him) and slide on, his cock rising into me, filling me, hurting just a little as it connects with my cervix. I come almost immediately, the velvet of his skin against my breasts, my thighs, my belly as I lean in. Shaking, crying a little, release is still immense in my heart, in my head, almost more so than my body. He sits up, gathers me into his lap, I fold my legs around his back and we rock eye to eye, pelvis to pelvis, his favorite position. Roll over for mish, he tucks my legs over his shoulders, thrusts into me, I can’t remember how he came, what it was like, the look on his face, just that I was still trying not to cry, to make a scene.

He gets up to toss the condom, comes back and lunges for his underwear, he can’t stand to be naked in front of anyone else. I tear them away from his hands, “No! I like you naked!” He dives for them, we wrestle, I pull away and hide them in the bathroom. In the night, he finds them when he gets up to pee, puts them on, holds me in his arms.

I mumble in my sleep, “wake me before 7 and I’ll kick your ass.”

He waits until 7:15.

Ah, the Mac

Still behind. Still trying to catch up. Not helped by the computer change-over. Thank you all for the wise advice. I have to say, the shopping experience was less than thrilling - I got a lot of "Mac is so great/easy/fantastic/drink this Kool-Aid!" and not a lot of what I needed to know to need to run this sucker.

I feel a bit lied to, because the thing I perceive Apple touting all over their ads (and the thing I hear from my Mac-cult friends) is "It comes with everything you need! No more pesky shopping for software! No more uploading!"

Well...it comes with a lot of bright shiny toys. And if I want to build a website for my cat, or start a band in my garage, I'm set. But as far as the programs I actually need to use to do my business on a daily basis - word-processing that can pick up all my documents from Word, spreadsheets and so on...those have to be bought separately. Just like PC. And let's not get started on the 600 emails I need to rescue from Outlook Express...

At least I've managed to open up my documents, so I'm hoping to get you back to your regularly scheduled blog sometime tonight.

(If right click isn't important, why is there anything at all that can be right-clicked to? If right click is dumb, make another way to do everything! If you need right click, support it with a button! Auuughh!)

The only thing keeping me from chucking it out the window is that I may yet return it.

Bursting forth, ready to...oh.

Late last night, I began tentatively emerging from the coccoon of
writer's block, tapping away at any and all of the past three weeks'
adventures in no special order, letting my brain happily pursue dead
ends and false trails, just pleased to be making words again.

This morning, my laptop became a paperweight.

Gentle Readers, Mac vs PC?

(I must say, the lovely feeling of not panicking, of saying, oh, it'll
be alright, this is a problem money can fix, has been worth any number
of hours flat on my back. Vive la whoring!)

(Laughing)

So I have another pseudo-deep whiny-whiny post already written, and it will eventually see the light of day.

But not yet.

I am lounging in the syrup of once again being with someone where I replay what happened in my head in the car, the next day, as I fall asleep, it distracts me from eating, I pause with food on my fork and get temporarily lost in the warm glow of memory all the more precious for being fleeting, tenuous, likely to be recaptured eventually from mutual desire, but unlikely from circumstance.

Notes were taken, porn will be written - but I beg your indulgence for a few hours, while this swirl of sensations and skin-tingling memory settles into transcription. You'll excuse me if I am disinclined to reach that point...

Well...

...if I stay until 6, the breakfast buffet will be up when I get back...

OK, ok...

...but I absolutely *have* to get back to my own hotel by 3AM.

Mandy's Mailbag

I write:

B____,

Because your sig says "newbie", I'm answering a message I normally would delete without reading. I'm going to be a little harsh here because I think you will have a better time on this [hobbyist]board if you put slightly more thought into your communications.

I'm not interested in making friends with anyone who can't write a complete sentence. It pretty much specifically says that in the bottom of my profile/sig line. I don't know what kind of experience you are hoping to have, but do you really want to meet a lady who is so un-choosy that she is willing to meet up with a gentleman whose first message reads in its entirety:

“[city name]?"

Do you really want to share your gift, your time and your person with someone willing to just dive right in there with so little information?

You don't have to write a novel. But you might find it worthwhile to start off with something more along the lines of "Hey, I saw your profile/post/you-at-a-meet-n-greet and would love to chat more/meet you. I'm in [city name], are you near me?"

Good luck, happy hunting, and a friendly smile and hug your way -

[Whorename]

art by Nick Bantock

Whore Sex Vs. Not Whore Sex, Episode 4

Painting by John Currin, who is doing amazing things with porn images painted with Old Master techniques.

(Episodes One, Two, Three)

Pre-dawn, I usually wake up right before the beep but today it yanks me out of sleep, the puzzled “why did I set the alarm?” feeling lasting for a few minutes. Out of bed, first thing move all my stuff to the hall, laptop, suitcase, extra bag, pillow, make all the noise at once so Husband can go back to sleep. Why am I doing this again? Oh yes, taking Husband to Europe, every day of whoring is another week abroad.

Space heater on in the bathroom so I won’t freeze after the shower, contacts in, teeth brushed and flossed. Home dermabrasion with my hair in a band. It’s a trade-off – better skin, more pimples (say breakouts, Mandy, it sounds less disgusting, do you want them to think you’re gross?) from taking off the layers.

Into the hot water, shave all the bits, grit in my mouth from the dermabrasion, how the hell does it get there? Towel dry, blow dry, hate hate hate my hair, I just got it cut and it won’t do a damn thing. Makeup, I never used to wear makeup, my best eyeshadow is starting to crumble and only half-used. Undies, cute enough to be seen in, comfortable enough to travel in, bra bought with Be My Real Friend’s money so he can see it, leggings, top, hot pink mini that’s on the safe side of funky/trashy. The hair still sucks, no product can save it, the straightening iron helps but not a lot. Keep it down, men like it loose no matter how awful it is. Last kisses goodbye, pat all the cats, and into the morning, thank God it didn’t snow enough to have to dig out the car.

The sun rises. Breakfast burrito. Mocha with only half the coffee. Two hours of more-boring-than-usual NPR, a chat with Secret Scientist, a chat with Lover (still my safety friend), through security and onto the plane.

Know what sucks about whoring? The hours.

Whore Sex Vs. Not Whore Sex, Episode 3

Be My Real Friend calls, or I call him, I don’t remember, it was a month ago, we talk about the election, about the weather, about his sons, about sports. He has an idea – we’ll meet in another city, get some sun, avoid the pressures of time and being recognized – even in a city as big as his, he was asked the morning after our first meeting, “Who was that redhaired woman you were walking with last night?” I call him to set dates, I get the voice mail.

He emails:
I'm sorry I missed your call yesterday because I wanted to talk to you about my latest thoughts regarding our rendezvous. I know it won't happen soon enough for me, but I'm very excited by the prospect. I think it takes our relationship to another level; one I hope you're looking forward to as much as I am.

I think, I should charge him more, overnight is more time than evening and morning, and then I think, greedy bitch, let it go. This man is nice, this man is good to you. He calls me back, says he’ll get the hotel, he wants to take me shopping. This is a little message from God – calm down, you will be taken care of, the net will be okay. Trust. Even this “another level” shit, let’s see what he really means and if it’s as scary-real-relationship as it sounds before you freak.

We decide on Southeastern City. It’s the city where I found out about Lover and Cute Girl. I have to go back through contracts, daysheets, find out what hotel we were in, warn Be My Real Friend not to book it, Motel 6, Super 8, Crack Whore Arms, anywhere else. I price plane tickets, rental cars, think of things to do. He visits Asia. I spend time in the Southeast, hang out with Power Girl, reconnect with Husband. I tell Be My Real Friend about what I’m going through.

He emails:
I know it's odd that I would get cold feet while I'm half a world away, but that's what's happened. I can't believe I'm writing this, but I think it's best we call things off. I did a lot of thinking on the flight, and something you said and wrote has me thinking that I need to focus my energies on my wife. Although I've really enjoyed our adventure, I realize that it can't compensate for everything, and I need to figure out what I want/need in my life. I hope you understand.

It catches me, unexpectedly, in the gut. But I write:

I understand and it's totally OK. I'll be disappointed not to see you, but we're still friends, I hope, and feel free to call when you get back - love to talk to you and know more about what you're going through and thinking about! (And if you need to not talk to me as part of this process, that's OK, too - just let me know) Have a safe and wonderful journey.

He answers:
Thanks for being understanding…The main thing I got from our last conversation, is that cheaters like us need to be honest, with ourselves if no one else, about what we're doing. In your case there's more room to be open with your husband, but I felt that we're both is similar situations. Cheating comes from being selfish enough to put our own sexual needs ahead of our respective marriages. Like you, at one level I'm ok with that. After all, it's not like we're withholding ourselves from meeting our spouses' needs in that department. If it's selfish to want our (greater) needs met as well, then so be it.

The downside comes from letting that turn into something through which we would also fail to meet other, broader, needs that contribute to having a successful marriage (aside from the cheating)…My concern is that I not lose what I have in order to get what I want. I hope it's possible because when you told me what you wanted in a lover, I knew that it was also what I want. Fucking you has been one of the true joys I've experienced this past year, and I ache to be the man next to you who wants to wake you with his cock sliding into you…

I haven't actually canceled my reservations yet. If you're interested in talking about whether we can be cheaters together, maybe we can still talk through this process.

I tell him yes, I’m interested in talking.

I’m not completely sure what I’m signing up for.

Da-dum...da-dum...

I whip into the drug store with my mother, who needs milk, and my intern, who needs hair gel. What I need is condoms. Magnum XL, thank you very much. And I *know*...I just *know* that this will be the only convenient time and place between now and when I need to actually have the condoms in my little hand ready to go.

So as Mum debates 1% vs 2%, I nip down the aisle towards family planning, located right by the pharmacy so they can watch for shoplifters and embarrassment, grab the black and gold box, dart towards the cash.

The shelving in the aisles is all just about eye level. And I can't resist.

I catch my intern's eye in the next aisle, hold the box of condoms to my head like a fin, and hum the theme from Jaws all the way to the cash register, the box seeming to float above the shelves, something big and hopefully-not-grey on the way...

I do in fact manage to get them rung up, bagged and into my purse before Mum comes up behind me. But only just.

* * *

CD's just went into the mail box yesterday. Sorry about the delay, so I tried to make them extra special. Holler if it doesn't show up in a week or so!

Sugasm #115

Aradia Ardor courtesy of My Fetish Diary.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #116? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks

Debauched nothings
“You promised me you’d give me your cock.”

Sex Trophies
“Inside the drawer are two pair of panties.”

Who gets to talk about sex?
“I was thinking the other day about who gets to talk about sex and sexuality.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Cashback

Editor’s Choice
The houseboy’s rebellion

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Erotic Writing and Experiences
About Chantal, now…
CyberGirl goes beyond amazing
Lady Chatterley’s Ruf
My New York Indiscretion
Off on the right foot
Table Top
Tonia (Part 2)
The Train
Valentine.
Walking Home In Her Panties

Sex Humor
A joke

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Because.
Bragging rights and the name game
Circumcise Me
An Eco-Sexy New Year
I mean this in a caring way
A Time For Sex Ed Innocence
An unexpected sexy anniversary
The Way I Like It

Sex Work
Keeping It In The Family II
What Do You Look Like, Rose?

NSFW Pics & Videos
Aradia Ardor
The Cam Lover is lonely and needs rough sex with a new doll
Crystal Klein super hottie
Kyla Cole
Missy Nicole - I’m Bored

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Adult Entertainment Expo 2008
Dana DeArmond Submits To The Training Of O (Bondage, Forced Orgasms)
Fetish Fair Fleamarket recap
Harmony HotMovies Interview
Jamye Waxman Wants You to Find Your O Face

BDSM & Fetish
Effervescent
Flavours of Pain
Half-Nekkid Toe Licker
The houseboy’s rebellion
LA Story: the night I learned to f-u-c-k
Padme amidala: My history of blowjobs
Recovery
Sexy porn turns into a sexy mental fantasy
Spanked Her Off to Work. - The Husband
Trick or Treat
(The Worst?) Profile of the week

Text Interlude

I have just finished 28 days of fairly vigorous work without a day off, (highlights included 78 children, David Duke, two oyster bars, the Lincoln Monument and believers speaking in tongues, not all at the same time) and skipped out on my plane ticket for the sake of warm weather for a few more days...I'm getting caught up, including here. Thank you for your patience.

***

I text: Flying into Midwestern City, where shall we meet?

He texts: Meet you Wed night in Hometown.

I text: Spend the night or just hang out?

He texts: Spend night

I text: OK. I have a conspicuous car. Any chance of a city further from home? Makes me jumpy.

He texts: Lol. You pick.

I text three more times trying to figure out where is good, and then: It s like planning the invasion of Normandy.

He texts: You make plans as you need. I be when/where you need me.

I text: You re the best :) How can I ever repay you...?

He texts: Tee hee hee

Yum.

Yum, yum, yum.

Fragments

This is when I think of him:

When I brush my teeth
Eating an avocado
In the cities of New York, C_____, N______, Chicago, Louisville and Ann Arbor
In the state of Mississippi
At rest areas
In sex shops
While driving long distances
While shaving my ass
While brushing my hair
While toweling off after a shower
As I wake up
As I go to sleep

***

Looking across the table at Beautiful Girl and Zurich, her skin so smooth and soft, his eyes so blue, her laugh so lovely, his face so open and unguarded (rare). I sniff the beers they try, none of them suit me, Miss Half-OJ-Half-Ginger-Ale-Please. I will see him soon, outside of her company. I will see her soon, outside of his company. I will see later but still soon my best friend, a continent away. My best friend has also recently broken up, finished by her get-over-the-previous-bad-relationship-boy, finished the contents of her liquor cabinet and the contents of her medicine cabinet in one go, not enough to do the job. I call her, I tell her, wait for me. We’ll bring boltcutters and jump from Hornsey Lane Bridge together, the city spread out before us. I am only half joking, only half cheering her up. That’s the half that would never choose plummet-to-a-sharp-stop as the means. Nor guns, gas, water, automobile. Not sure enough, too messy, too protracted, can’t stand not being able to breathe. (Might as well live, right DP?)

I’ve never been drunk.

I’ve never been high.

What I am is addicted to drama. Addicted to mattering, meaning, having the cock that tells me so.

Maybe coke would be less draining. Probably more expensive. Maybe not.


***

I am in the company of others 24 hours a day, and have been since New Year’s. Down side: hard to carve out time to write, to connect with lovers, to think, to be all moody. Up side: hard to carve out time to be all moody. Hard to inconvenience others with feelings, tamp them down, bottle them up.

I am sharing a bed with Beautiful Girl – in the night, I lie with my head next to hers, smelling the scent of her face cream. I am too tired, too tiny, too alone to wrap my body around hers, throw my arm over her shoulders, place my hand on her belly. But even so, her smile is the first thing I see in the morning. I head for [the workplace] with a carload of people, we go inside, we work together in a way that makes me remember how I love my work. Power Girl is there beside me, and Beautiful Girl, and Secret Scientist and Hairline Boy, and all of us are focused, intent, something larger than us is happening, something larger than can happen alone.

We share dinner together, passing back and forth to the salad bar, we cluster by the restrooms chatting in little groups. Zurich is heading out to meet a friend in the city, he hugs me, he leans in and whispers, “I’m not shooting myself in the foot am I? I’m not missing out on you-me time?” No, I tell him, this time, no time alone. Next week? Midwestern City? We make tentative plans.

I am ridiculously pleased.