The Girl in the Window

Three weeks ago, while I was in Corpus Christi. I was sitting in the hotel jacuzzi after a long day at work. The night air was warm and humid and the heat from the jacuzzi was making me light-headed and sleepy. I closed my eyes for a few minutes to enjoy the quite fizz of the bubbles exploding on the surface of the water and the muted sounds of the freeway traffic hidden by the trees that enveloped the hotel.

I let my mind wander and it wandered across thoughts of girlfriends long past, a rooftop jacuzzi, and a view of the city that included her lips and hair and water-slicked skin.

I opened my eyes and surveyed the windows of the hotel room. Most were dark, many had the blue-night flicker of late-night TV, and some had the steady gray static of channels gone off the air as their watchers slept the night away.

One window was open, the night air was moving the cheap gauze curtains in and out of the open balcony door. I focused my attention on the soft yellow light of the tabletop lamp that gave it's light to the darkness. As I stared, a figure passed in the background. Definitely female, up too late, perhaps, to work on a presentation, return an e-mail to a lover, or to whisper sweet nothings through the phone to a lonely husband.

She passed behind the lamp again and the green hotel towel came in to view. Fresh from the shower, or heading that way, she stopped and looked out her open door into a quiet seaside night. Did she hear the soft whisper of the jacuzzi or was she drawn to the distant view of the sea that beckons to all. She stepped to the balcony and became a silhouette, an outline of beauty, a shadow of desire.

Her curves were generous but not soft. The wrap of the towel hid, as did the shadow, the details of her frame, but her hair, now lit up from behind, cast a beautiful red hue. As I watched, the mist of the bubbles tickled my nose and a small sneeze escaped into the quiet night, and she looked my way. The switch to the bubbles was several steps from my position, and there was no hope of escaping notice.

She looked my way, perhaps seeing me in shadow and light as I could see her.

She stared right out me but could not see. Perhaps she realized that her face was in deep shadow. Perhaps the mini-bar had been emptied, perhaps the phone had held only the voice of betrayal from a loved one back home. Perhaps, but her motives were unknown to me.

Standing on the 4th floor balcony her moved and her towel unwrapped and flew to the ground, revealing her sensual outline to the night. I stayed perfectly still in shocked attention. She stood tall and spread her feet wide, open to the night, and to my gaze. The curves of her legs were inviting, the shadow of her lips, intoxicating, the unspoken invitation extended.

I stood up on the shallows steps of the jacuzzi, revealing myself to my shadow lover. Hooking my thumbs in my waistband, I peeled off my boxers till they floated on top of the swirling bubbles, intensely aware that other eyes may be upon me.

Her reward was as simple as it was sweet. With just three steps, she moved back into her hotel room and revealed herself to me. Standing on the other side of the lamp, the light bathed her fully. She shared with me her nakedness and blew me a kiss, and stood, open, exposed, and unashamed.

Her gift to me was her boldness, and it made my night complete.

bad bus

Lost on the Bus

My bus driver got lost today. No, I’m not kidding. I let myself sleep in and got on the bus an hour later than I usually do. Though I have a busy day ahead, I needed the extra sleep or I would have just dozed my way through the day, and nothing would have been done.

I left my house at 6:35 to catch the bus at 6:50. I even got on one stop early to avoid some announced roadwork. I thought I was firing on all cylinders. The bus was 5 minutes late, but that’s not so unusual, so I didn’t worry. When the door opened, it was a new driver, but he had his trainer in the seat next to him, so I didn’t worry.

I found my seat, always on one of the last three rows (but never the last row) and always by the window, and promptly fell asleep. I woke up and stretched a while later, and looked out the window. I saw my mechanic’s shop and was confused. It felt like I had been asleep for a while, so I pulled my phone out of my gym bag. I had been asleep for a while, over 20 minutes had gone by and we were only three miles down the road, with another mile to go before the freeway.

Now I was starting to worry.

But traffic cleared up on the freeway, I chatted with the cute girl in the seat next to me, and promptly fell back to sleep. With a 45-minute commute, I know I can get a pretty good nap in each morning as I head to work. Coming home is more social, and I rarely sleep.

Out I go, zonked, dead, out. I was so tired I barely woke up when we got off the freeway. I pulled my sunglasses off, stretched so big I almost pushed my seatmate out into the isle, and looked out the window. WTF? As I stare in confused disbelief, I see one of my favorite sushi places go by. For the 2^nd time of the morning, I’m seeing out the window and not believing where I am, because, my favorite sushi place is nowhere near my office or my bus route. The driver had either missed the exit by accident or been forced to get off the freeway by bad traffic in an attempt to get around it.

Either way, he was heading west when we should have been going east, and he was a full mile past the stop for the college kids, and the clock was ticking louder with each passing second. Since I was in the back with all the sleepers, I didn’t know what happened to make him, and his trainer, miss the right freeway exit. Now he was on the wrong side of the freeway heading the wrong direction, and getting nowhere fast.

Usually the riders in the front are very vocal if the driver goes too fast, so slow, take the wrong shortcut, or turns on the wrong radio station. Where were all the back-seat drivers when we needed them?

As he tried to cross a main road, some of the drivers insisted that he pull to the side of the road and let them off. An argument ensued about making unscheduled stops, and they replied that he was on an unscheduled route all together.

The riders won the argument and they stormed off the bus to catch the local headed the right direction. We were turned around going the right direction but then got stuck in freeway on-ramp traffic. After 10 minutes we made it ½ mile, and got back on open road and he, under the now interested direction of the other riders, made it back on route and back on track. But back on schedule he would never be. We were 35 minutes late. Late enough that my friend, who was on the bus behind us, caught up to me as I was entering my building. He left home 30 minutes after me, and walked in at the same time.

What a morning.

The Patio

Three years into our marriage, we were living in a small apartment near the water just north of San Diego, CA. We were lucky and had found a rent-controlled sub-let that allowed me to be close to work and my wife to be near her school. The sea breeze and a private patio made it a great location for young lovers who enjoyed the outdoors.

Futons were big back then and we had purchased a queen-sized mattress to keep under the awning that had been built by the owner the year before we moved in. The apartment was on the corner of the building, almost like an outcropping from the rest of the building, and, while we were not on the top floor, we had an unobstructed view from our corner of the building.

During the warm summer months we would eat dinner, sleep, and make love on our little patio, enjoying the sun’s heat during the day, and the cool ocean breezes in the evening. We had learned to make love quietly since our neighbors were close by, and more than one pillow was ruined by teeth marks that evidenced a suppressed scream.

It is understood, but I will say it anyway, that neither one of us had tan lines. We folded the futon into its corner and laid out a rescued section of my college wrestling matt that was liberated by me and some of the team the day before the gymnasium was shut down for remodeling. Franklin claimed to have broken in before the rest of us arrived, but the jangling keys in his pocket said that Coach had a soft spot for us, and let us in by letting his keys get ‘stolen’. We cut the matt into nine sections, one for each of the seniors on the team and we tossed it into the back of Kevin’s truck and raced off into the night.

Ever since then it has been our spot. Melissa liked it because it was soft and absorbed the sun’s heat. I liked it because it was impervious to the copious amounts of suntan and baby oil that got drizzled on to it each summer. When her tan got dark enough we left behind the suntan lotion and started in with the baby oil. We filled our palms with the slippery clear liquid and rubbed each other’s bodies, coating ever inch, every crack, and every bare square of skin.

Most tanning sessions ending with fingers and hands exploring naked flesh in the hot summer sun. We were insatiable back then. As I rubbed the oil into her skin, she positioned herself on her stomach in the brightest part of the patio. I would work my way down her back, massaging out the kinks in her lower spine before moving to the tight muscles of her bottom.

As more oil drips from my hand and between her cheeks, she would always giggle and spread her legs for me. She knew what was coming and I never disappointed her.

I would kneel to the side, trying to avoid casting a shadow on her bare skin. My hand would follow the dripping oil between her cheeks. If the mood was urgent, she would reach down herself and spread them open, and that told me that I shouldn’t waste any time. I would coat her skin with a generous dose and slowly work it in. My fingers would knead the muscles of her ass and brush lightly over the sensitive skin that rarely saw the light of day. As my caressing became firmer, I would stop avoiding the cute brown pucker of skin and massage and caress her 2^nd opening.

She always tried to resist the urges that this brought on. She whispered “No, No, No” under her breath, but her arching hips and the quickening breath always told me to continue. I would bring both hands into the action as her arousal increased. If I were kneeling on her right side, my right hand would stay on her backside while my left hand, coated with oil, would reach between her legs and coast her already wet lips with more oil.

My fingers would spread the oil across her lips and start swirling gently. As I slowly began to open her body with my fingertips, my right hand presses ever more firmly, pressing in to the pucker that was her only taboo. My fingers would find her clit and press hard, squeezing it between my finger and her pubic bone, forcing her to lift up to escape the pinch.

As she lifted, my other hand entered her from behind and the double penetration would begin. Slowly I would enter her from both sides, two hands, two holes, the summer sun, the open air, and unleashed passion.

The middle finger of my right hand would press itself deeper as she held her cheeks open for me. Her knees would start to come towards her body, lifting her hips off the slippery mat, allowing me more access from both angles. I would press harder, forcing my finger inside her dark side, tickling her in the most forbidden way. My left hand, not to be out done, intrudes further in her moistened vagina.

My fingers spread her further as her hips raise and her knees spread. The hot summer sun beats down on the backs of her legs and makes her feel open, exposed, and vulnerable. Her face and chest press down in to the mat, now covered with oil and sweat. She feels her body being penetrated, opened, violated by my probing fingers and she makes the conscience choice to give it, to let go, to cum.

As her climax begins to wash over her, my fingers find more resistance as her body clinches and tries to reject the intrusion, but I fight back. Not just one now, but two, and then three fingers enter her twitching and wet pussy and a second finger enters her tight brown pucker.

Thrusting against each other, fingers, hips, hands, legs, body and sun all converge to sending her crashing over the orgasmic edge. Her breathing is shallow and quick, and thrashes and grunts under my aggressive hands. As the intensity of the climax increases, she struggles to get away from my touch, but this is part of the game that she plays, for she has confessed to me, in the quiet hours that she struggles to escape, but likes to be trapped.

I continue to caress and stroke her as she squirms and twists under my touch. My body is hot and sweaty from exertion and arousal and I long to kiss and taste and hold her. As her hips sink slowly back down to the mat, I allow my fingers to leave her body, both front and back, and the return to gentle caresses that both soothe and extend her orgasmic waves until they are complete, and calm.

She rolls over on to her back, luxuriating in the finals jolts of her climax. Her hands rest above her head, pulling her breasts into fullness, and she smiles up at me and whispers her thanks. I stand to get her a glass of water that I know she will ask for as soon as her breathing calms down.

I return from the cool air the apartment into the heat of the day with two glasses in hand. She is still naked, supine, her legs spread wide, her skin glistening, facing the sun, soaking in the rays and the heat. It is this openness that arouses me to new height each time I see her.

Unashamed of her orgasm, unafraid to cum long and loud, unafraid to ask for pleasure, she is my sexual muse and she draws me to new places and makes old places feel fresh.

“Cum for me” she whispers as I hand her the icy glass.

I take her by the hand and she stands, her body shiny with sweat and silky in her movements. I know where she is going, the director’s chair that sits hear the patio’s edge. She bought it while with her mother on a Hollywood excursion. She told her mother she bought it because it would stand up well in the summer heat and winter rain of San Diego, but she confessed to me, that she bought it because it put her body at just the right height for sex.

Knowing she was thinking of pleasing me, of me being inside her, even while shopping with her born-again Baptist mother, made the chair very special. Now, it sits on our patio, almost in view of our neighbors to the north.

She climbs into the chair and leans back, exposing her face to the sun, and to anyone passing by on the boardwalk below. Without any prompting, she slides her hips down to the edge of the chair and props her legs wide open, hooking the backs of her knees on the arm rests.

I stand back and soak in the view, her legs open, still glistening in the sun from the baby oil and cum. She likes me to look at her like this, to be seen, to be sought, to be enjoyed. She displays herself to me like a wanton woman, to be had by her man, to be put on display, to be taken.

I step closer and enter her with one long stroke. She is exhausted from her powerful climax and knows that this will be gentle, and short, but that this is my release after pleasing her with such devotion. To enter her, to be inside her, with the sun shining down and the wind on our skin, is my greatest pleasure. I imagine young surfers off shore, watching us, seeing only my upper torso and her head, rocking together in rhythm. They can’t see, but they know, and their surf shorts get tighter.

My strokes are long and languid, caressing her from the inside with my hardness, enjoying the sight of my body entering and penetrating her. Her lips enfold me, blushed pink with blood and heat. My hand slide over her body, touching her feet, now locked behind my back, her powerful thighs, her flat stomach an full, firm, breasts.

As I soak in the sight of my lover, my wife, I feel my own orgasm building with me, and I pump harder, rocking the chair, rocking my world. I sink in as deeply as I can and she wraps her legs and arms around me, pulling me down and into her body. Our lips meet and we kiss deeply as my cum fills her. I freeze and enjoy the pulsing of my cock as it empties itself into her. She holds me close, kisses me gently, and traces her fingernails across my back.

My body quiets and I stand and extract myself from her. She stands, presses her breasts against my chest and smiles up at me. She takes me by the wrist and guides my hands between her legs, urging me to feel the wetness I bring to her. We kiss once more, and she steps away from me and into the shower that extends from the wall of the house.

She turns the water on and I step towards the patio door to retrieve her a towel, but she calls out to me from within the cascading water, “Don’t forget to turn off the video camera and put in a new tape. We’re going to need it for your Dad’s birthday party tonight.”

I follow her instructions with a smile on my face. The tape ejects itself and I grab a sharpie from the camera bag and write today’s date on the clean white strip on its face. I step into the cool of the house and open the linen closet, grabbing her a fluffy blue towel from the top of the stack.

I then open the drawer of our desk and put today’s tape in with the rest, in with my many, many, many reasons to smile.

First Touch

I got to rub her shoulders last Friday. She came in to ask some questions about working out at the gym. She’s looking for stronger calf muscles, firmer arms, and better quads. I showed her a few exercises in my office, chair dips, leg lifts, extensions, and some abs moves that she can do at her desk. As each demonstration progressed, I touched the muscle that should be working. First her calves, even though she protested that she hadn’t shaved that day, her arms, as she put her feet up on a chair and did a dip. I put my hand on the small of her back and supported her as she moved up and down.

I had her sitting in my chair doing leg extensions and calf raises with books on her lap for weight, when she asked me how she could strengthen her back and shoulders. As I described a seated flys, the rowing machine, and a number of other exercises, I stood behind her and began to touch and describe the muscles of her upper back. I was careful to keep my hands on top of her clothes and resisted the urge to do anything that could be considered inappropriate.

Then, she took my hand, placed it softly on her neck, and squeezed it, telling me that it was sore. “Are you sure?” I asked, need confirmation that this was OK.

“Just rub it for a minute.” She said.

It was wonderful. I even resisted the urge to look down her blouse. Maybe next time.

I’ve been pretty good on this trip. I slipped up on Monday night and watched too much of “Real Sex” on HBO, but I didn’t jerk off, surf the Internet, go to a strip club, or have phone sex with any of my girlfriends. All things that have happened on previous trips. Now, granted, I haven’t had phone sex or gone to a strip club in over 5 years, but still, when I was driving back from the movies the other night, I passed 6 clubs, all promising beautiful women, good food, and a low cover charge.

Earlier that day, before I decided what to do about dinner, I pulled $80 out of the ATM. Some of it was for dinner, maybe a tip at the hotel, and a snack at the airport, but why did I get $80 when I already had $22 in my pocket?

$100 dollars used to seem like a lot of money. $100 was a gold mine when I was in high school. It even meant something when I was still in college, though by the time I was out, $100 was already fading as a big deal, but I’ll tell you what $100 will buy you.

$100 will get you in a club, get you three (non-alcoholic) drinks plus tips for the girls, a hand full of $1s for the stage dancers, and two or three lap dances of 2-3 three songs each, and usually a crashing orgasm that sends you reeling into the night.

I’m sure my wife would disagree, but that $100 would be the best money spent all month.

But, besides the $100, there are other costs.

• You pay the price with a pounding heartbeat that just won’t stop once you’ve made the decision to go to the club instead of back to your hotel room.
• You pay the price when you get that scary, nervous feeling, and try to control your voice, so you can lie to your wife on the phone about going to the movies.
• You pay the price with a feeling that you are taking advantage of somebody’s daughter, a girl who’s just a few years older than your own at home, as she grinds her body into your crotch for $20.
• You pay by being “one of those guys” who goes to strip clubs and, even though your friends pat you on the back while you tell your story, they think of you differently.
• You pay to keep your secrets tucked inside from your mom who still thinks you are a good boy.
• You pay a price to live two lives, one at church, and work, and at the park, and another when you are on the road, alone, and covered in the perfume of strange women.
• You pay a price every time you look in the mirror, and ask yourself if the price is too high.

I love going to strip clubs, I love the feeling of her skin, the smell of her hair, and the softness of her touch, but the price is mighty high.

Starting Over

Damn that HBO!

I made the mistake of commenting on 37 days without porn. Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut. I'm back to day one, and it's all because of that freakin' HBO! And, perhaps, my own weakness, but for now, I'm blaming HBO.

The time was almost midnight. I'm in a hotel room on a business trip which is a very dangerous place for me. But I've been good. I blocked the adult movie channels. I stayed at the office until 10:00 PM, I got to the hotel room and left my computer turned off and in its bag. All the things I'm supposed to be doing. At 11:00 I called my wife and said goodnight, and went to bed. In bed, but not asleep.

I'm a horrible sleeper when I'm on the road. By the 3rd or 4th night I'm OK, like last night, I was dead asleep by 11:30. I know this because my friend's IM woke me up at 11:40 PM. So then I was up. Since I'm no longer masturbating I didn't have that to help me fall asleep (but believe me, it beats the heck out of a sleeping pill). So I made the biggest mistake any insomniac can make. I turned on the TV.

At about 11:30 here the TV turns to crap. Late night infomercials are in full swing, the bad movies are starting, the old, lame reruns are on the WB, and TNT has some version of "Law and Order" marathon going on. Even ESPN is running "Sports Center" for the 4th time of the night and ESPN Classic, I kid you not, was running "American Gladiators."

So I'm flipping around and come across the end credits of a movie I didn't know. From the music, it was something about getting killed, in the hood, by your homies and bitches. But besides a few lyrics in that direction, I couldn't guess the title. As they roll, I get undressed and go to the sink to wash up. I'm 1/2 way done with brushing my teeth, then I hear the music. That music, and I know I'm hooked. I'm dead. I'm walking wounded. I know I'm going to be up for at least 30 minutes, and that I'm going to be horny.

The show was "REAL SEX", a documentary/news show, originally about the sex industry, that is normally on Thursday nights (even though I can't find it on the HBO website right now). I usually just glance at it and turn it off because they have stories about fat chicks who like ponies and they run the same episodes over and over, but this was different. This was a "best of" compilation and so I started watching.

I shouldn't have.

I'm not sure how others define porn, but I think I have to define "Real Sex" as porn and just reset my counter. They showed women kissing women (a favorite), naked women rolling around in chocolate sauce (good in fantasy, sticky in practice), women testing sex machines (modified power tools with dildoes on the end), women F***ing a realistic mannequin, and two highlights about threesomes and women filming their sexual fantasies on professional porn sets.

Sounds like porn to me.


The real problem, of course, is that I just should have turned it off when I realized what it was. But instead I chose to watch. I let myself forget my goal and I watched. Only 15 minutes, but I watched. And then I was horny, which was a problem, because I'm not jerking off any more. I was as hard as a rock with no where to go.

37 days later

37 days ago I stopped masturbating, I also stopped using porn. Those are two very separate decisions because I rarely masturbated while watching porn, and I rarely thought of porn while masturbating.

I was challenged to stop by a religious leader who feels that both habits interfere with my ability to be spiritually in tune with God and the member of our congregation so that I can take on a more responsible role in counseling member of our group. I am leaving out the details of what church I attend because this post is not about the accuracy, truthfulness, or validity of religion in general or my faith, in particular.

This post is about the impact of porn in my life, the perceptions and expectations of my wife since I told her I liked porn and that I’ve stopped, and the fall-out from breaking the masturbation habit.

I know that confessional blog posts can sound pretentious so I will try to stay to the facts as I see them. I am certainly not saying that my current approach is “right”, instead, I just want to make a few observations.

First, some background, mixed in with a certain amount of self-delusion and denial.

Let’s start with denial. I am not addicted to porn. I like porn. I like watching beautiful women do erotic things to themselves and to others. I like straight porn in all of it’s variations, mainly MF and MFF, and I love lesbian porn. I like watching women orgasm if it is real and I prefer women who are realistic in their looks. Some of the silicone enhanced porn stars are all right, but I found myself gravitating to reality porn, though I admit that very little of it is “real.”

I used to hit three main web-site each morning before I went to work. I get up at 5:00 AM and have to leave for the subway at 5:25. During that time I have to get dressed, get my lunch from the fridge, return any critical e-mails that came in during the night, and pack my briefcase for day. All in all, I have about 15 minutes to check out my three favorite sites.

The whole point of this is that I’m not sitting at home watching porn and yanking my dick all day. I start the day off with a quick look, some beautiful pictures, and then I move on to my day.

When I promised my wife that I would stop looking at porn 5.3 weeks ago, she thought that there would be several changes. None of these were spelled out in our counseling session, but I’ve picked up on them. She expected that I would be different and that we would get along better, and that I’d stop bugging her for sex, and that she’d enjoy sex more.

None of these are realistic or logically connected to me stopping my porn habits. I’m still the same person, I just sleep in 15 minutes later and leave the computer off in the morning. We still argue over money, disciplining the kids, cleaning the house, and how much TV we watch, and how late we go to bed. I’m no different now than I was 5 weeks ago. And as for sex, well, she really is clueless…

I don’t know how she thinks that I would want less sex after cutting out the largest part of my sexual life. Masturbation was not a daily thing for me, but it was 3-4 times a week. Most mornings I am at the gym with very public showers so that is out, and the other mornings I have very little time, though, after many years of practice, time is not a challenge.

So now, I've gone from 12-14 orgasms a month down to 3-4, if I'm luck, and if she's in a good mood, and if I haven't said anything to "break the mood."

One very real impact of our discussions on this topic is that she now has something to blame for her not wanting sex. She has started re-interpreting our lives together, blaming her aversion to sex on a porn habit that she knew nothing about. She has always been reluctant to have a expansive sexual relationship with me. I'm not talking about threesomes, bondage, or water sports, but I am talking about an enthusiastic, spontaneous, experimental, experiential sexual life.

For example. We have only had anal sex once in our marriage. She has only swallowed me during a blow job on 5 occasions in 15 years. She will not do role-play, or have sex outside of a locked room, or in a car (even a locked mini-van in our garage). She likes it calm and controlled, she's a girl that plays by the rules. These restrictions are in place even though she it, paradoxically, a very orgasmic lover, a great kisser, and incredibly sexy to me. She doesn't like me to tell her any of that though. Even while we are in the middle of having sex, especially when she is on top of me and getting close to her climax, she hates for me to tell her how she turns me on, how I love her body, and how I love being inside of her. She just hates it.

And, as for the one time we had anal sex? She came so hard that she couldn't catch her breath for several minutes. It was freaking fantastic. But, once done, we've never gone back there again (no pun intended.)

So, now that I've cut out porn and masturbation, for 5+ weeks, I find myself not thinking about or wanting sex nearly as much. At first glance, she thinks that is great. I'm finally calming down. But the flip side is that I don't want sex with her near as much. She is still sexy and sweet. The site of her naked still makes me smile and get hard, but now there is so much baggage around it that I'm done.

It feels like I have forgotten how to ask for sex. In the past, a quick hand-job was an acceptable start to the day. I would nudge her a little, she would say that she's too tired, I'd direct her hand downward, and 10 minutes later she was back to sleep, I was in the shower, and the day was on it's way. Now, a hand-job is just a reminder that I used to do it by myself, and she resents being asked to get me off.

Sex has the overtones of her worrying about me thinking of porn girls, though I rarely did. She doesn't believe me, but when I'm with my wife, or masturbating, I would think of my wife and me, and maybe her best friend Jennifer or Cindy. Nothing fancy, just an extra person in my head to move things along.

Another problem with stopping is that for me, 37 days without porn is about 30 days longer than I have ever gone during the past 10 years. So for me to go 37 days is a great accomplishment. For her, it's just 37 days of doing what I always should have been doing, and so I get no support, no acknowledgment that it's difficult for me to do what I'm doing. It's like I'm just barely staying at zero. If I mess up and glance at a porn site (www.dailyniner.com) I'm a failure, but if I don't, then I'm just OK.

Another offshoot is that I'm on a road trip for work right now, and I'm at the office. It's 8:07 pm and I don't dare hang out at my hotel room with unlimited and unfiltered Internet, 55 adult movies to pick from, and a lobby full of pharmaceutical sales reps (mostly cute blondes) getting sauced at the bar. OK, so this last one isn't a temptation, because I am neither rich, thin, tall, extremely handsome, or particularly smooth. As a defense mechanism, and to preserve my 37 day streak, I walk into my hotel room and put a block on the adult channels, put my computer away, and try to go to sleep. That has worked on my last two trips.

One good thing to come out of this, is that my wife insists on having goodbye sex to "hold me over," until I come home. So last night I got a blow-job and we had some pretty good, old-fashioned, missionary sex. And, I will have to say that one thing my wife does, in contrast to her other odd aversions, is finger herself while I'm inside her. She puts her hand between our bodies, finds her clit, and fingers herself to orgasm while we are going at it. It is the sexiest thing ever. I love watching her touch herself, and feeling her hand between us just sends me over the edge. I love it.

And I love her. So, 37 days isn't so bad. It's going to take some time for her to trust me alone with a computer again, and maybe that's something I need to earn. I'll let you know how it goes; 50 days is just around the corner.

37 days later - things I cut out

As I was writing "37 days later", I started thinking about all of the things that I miss. I shouldn't dwell on these things since I'm trying to stop thinking about them, but here is a list of things I really enjoyed, but now do without.

• Other people's home sex tapes.
• "Reality" porn that is far from reality
• First time masturbation videos
• extremely attractive women making each other cum
• Women who have real orgasm even if they don't look "real" on camera
• short skirts and pantie lines
• playboy models
• girls with vibrators
• foreign women pretending to be "bribed" into having sex in public
• Paris Hilton, in all her naked beauty
• cum shots
• anal sex videos where the woman actually appears to be enjoying it (rare, indeed)
• bikini shots where the nipples are poking through
• camel toes on french women
• self portraits from women who have no self esteem
• crazy stalker videos from 18 year old girls madly in love with the wrong guy
• well written erotica
  
• beautiful, naked, shaved, waxed, smooth women who look like they might actually talk to me.

But I'm not thinking about that any more.....

Question of the Day

TO: My few readers
RE: Comments and Thoughts

Why doesn't anyone comment? Is my writing so blah as to not even elicit a response? Are my comments not working? Is my blog boring? repetitive? poorly written?

I'd love to hear a little something.....

Even if it's negative or "constructive criticism."


Advizor54

Morning Magic

I woke up horny this morning and my wife woke up and put her arm across my chest. I slipped my pajama bottoms off (with three kids, you learn to wear your pajamas) and began to stroke myself as she rubbed my neck. After a few minutes I directed her hand down and she took over in a slow motion hand-job. It was really nice. Her skin is soft and her fingernails are trimmed short, os it is all just soft skin contact and gentle pressure. As she moved her hand up and down th eshaft of my erection I began to moan and arch my hips up to encourage her to go faster.

Her lips locked on to my nipple and she bit down hard as she knows that I like it that way. Her free hand was rubbing the back of my head and I spread my legs wide to increase the tension in my thighs and get that sense of open vulnerability that improves my sexual response.

She was gripping my cock tighter now, methodically pumping up and down, gently stretching the skin and swirling her hands up and over my self-lubricating head every few strokes. My breath shortened and she could tell that I was about to cum so she sat herself up, whipped off her top, a threadbare white spaghetti strap t-shirt, and revealed her beautiful chest to me.

My hands went to her nipples and began caressing them and I took her left breast, the one closest to me, in my hand and felt the warm fullness of it.

Now my orgasm was nearly upon me and she did what she knows how to do best. She bent over me and let her long brown hair tickled my skin as she took my penis into her mouth. I started bucking and thrashing and my cum exploded. It was amazing. Her hands never stopped pumping and her tongue did amazing things to my head as my orgasm washed over me. I arched my back and lifted my hips off the bed and she kept me inside the whole time, swallowing and stroking me until she was almost kneeling upright at my side.

I held that position for just a moment, allowing her one last suck, before collapsing back on to the bed. In wonderful relief.

She threw her head back ans swallowed the last of my load and opened her mouth wide to show me that she had done her job completely. She then hopped off the bed and stripped off her panties. Turning her back to me she bent over and flashed her beautiful pussy at me and reached into her "toy" drawer.

She plugged her vibrator into the wall and, turning towards the shower, said, "Tonight's my turn."

I can hardly wait.

Summer Storm - Part 1

I was 17 and the oldest employees in my group at the amusement park that summer. I was working in the food services after 3 years in “Rides” and I was glad to be there. Rides was full of the wild ones. They were the grease monkeys, the roustabouts, the carnies, who liked to mess with the machinery, fix the sets, fool around with the sound systems and, above all else, hit on the customers as they came through the turnstiles every summer.

My first year at the park I was only 14 and scared to death of the older kids and the cute girls in their summer shorts and cut-off t-shirts. I would come to work dreading my boss who seemed, at 18, to be the most frightening creature ever. She had three tattoos that I could see, swore like a drunken sailor, and threatened to take my virginity by force on a regular basis.

“Kid!” she would yell at me in front of the other employees, “Some day I’m going to take you to the back of the Terror Shack and make you into a man.” They would all laugh; I would turn red, and try desperately not to show them that their bawdy talk was arousing me. Her tattoos were the only distraction on an otherwise perfect body. Looking back on that summer, I definitely should have taken her up on the offer for I have met few women since then who could match her beauty and bravado.

Since I was only 14, I wasn’t allowed to work the late shift, so I would be at the park at 9:00 to clean and inspect the rides before the gates opened at 10:00. The rides were old and corny, but I liked the smell of old wood and older axel grease. The roller coaster was my favorites, one of the oldest operational wood coasters in the country at the time. I walked the high track, in violation of several labor laws, looking for loose bolts and track. I would stop on the high side of the first turn, Coffin Corner, and look out over the park and feel the summer wind in my hair.

I walked the track twice each day, once in the cool morning and once in heat of the afternoon before the dinner crowd. We always shut down the coaster for 15 minutes each afternoon. The stated purpose was to run a safety check on the tracks and chains, but the real reason was to give the crew a chance to pee and throw back a drink. The older kids chugged a beer in the operator’s shack below the repair yard, while the younger kids, who didn’t dare get caught drinking underage, tossed down a soda and tried to belch loud enough to be heard over the engine room.

On most days my boss would wander by after the afternoon break to make sure that we had thrown away the beer cans and gotten back to work on schedule. Customers would tolerate a short break in the heat of the day, but they started getting antsy about 11 minutes into the 10 minute delay.

Late in the summer that year I was heading up the stairs to Coffin Corner when I noticed an envelop stapled roughly to the top rail of the safety fence. I thought it was going to be a safety violation notice or a message from the park’s safety office, Gill. He was a bastard, he was. Gill had been working in industrial safety his whole life and didn’t let a thing slip through. We all accused him of loosening bolts and fraying wires to see if we’d notice them before the park opened. Years later I heard that he was fired from a job when a little girl was seriously hurt on one of is rides because a loose bolt fell from the canopy of a gondola that traveled across the park. The girl, walking below, was hit in the head and lost most of her sight in one eye. Gill quit, or was fired, that afternoon. When I e-mailed the story to a friend of mine he wrote back with the accusation that it was one of Gill’s “special” bolts, and that he probably felt guilty for blinding her.

But the envelope this day wasn’t from Gill, it was from Noel, my beautiful and frightening boss. It was a handwritten note asking me to meet her in the maintenance shed behind the Terror Shack before I left for the day. The early shift ended at 6:00, before the night crowed arrived and the park got rowdy.

For three hours I wondered what was up. Was she mad, was I in trouble, was I going to be fired for staring down the blouses of the riders as they bent over to get into the roller coaster cars? All the fears of a 14 year old ran through my head, driving me to distraction. Twice I was lost in thought and almost forgot to set the brake as the car came into the station. Catching myself before the car careened through the loading platform I hit the brake lever hard and stopped the train with whiplash intensity.

The 5:45 bell rang in the control room and the shift change began. The older kids arrived. They were only 2 years older than me at 16, but they were legally allowed to work until the park closed at midnight, and they were able to drive themselves home, which made it easier on the parents. I was a bus kid. With a mom that worked I usually hung out at the park for dinner, using my employee discount to get full on cheap burgers and the best fry’s ever to come out of a fryer.

Another depressing update

I haven't had sex for 9 days. WTF?

Summer's almost over and we only have a few days of hot summer nights to break in the playhouse I built my kids during the summer. All we have to do is throw down a blanket, sleeping bag, and a couple of pillows and we are good to go.

Why not?

The neighbors can't see us, the kids can't hear us, and it's not like we are going to be filming anything, so why not?

I should give her a little credit, after bugging her one morning, I did get her to give me a hand-job, but she wasn't very enthusiastic.

Of course, being denied like this makes me pissy, which annoys her, which makes me more pissy, and so, it looks like I'm on my own for a while, and, since I'm trying not to "indulge" on my own, I'm S*** out of luck for a while.

I wonder if Kobe's $4 million diamond ring got him laid.....? Hmmmmmm?

Question of the day. - The impact of porn

FHM (UK) had an interesting article in this months magazine. I can't get to their web-site from work so I can't link to it, and, since I read the article for free standing at the news stand, I can't tell you the name of the author, but the author had an interesting point.

He said that he stopped looking for porn when he realized one night that he was acting out the porn he was used to watching. He caused "a look of pain and fear" to come across his lover's face, and that was the tipping point moment for him. He was riding her doggy-style and something caused her to ask him to stop, but instead of stopping, he went harder and in his own words was almost raping her. A girl that had come to his bed voluntarily was now in fear for her own safety.

Which brings me to my question(s) of the day:

Has watching / reading / seeking out porn had a negative impact on your love life, your social life, or your personal (private) life?

Has your wife / lover / partner / husband etc, ever asked you to to stop doing something that you saw in porn?

Have you ever done something you later regretted because of your attraction / addition to porn?

I'd love to hear from others as I re-examine porn in my life based on this article and some comments from my wife.

What have we learned? Please share your comments....