A Very Strange Dream

I have 15 minutes to write this up, so it’s going to be brief.

Last night my church youth group had an activity. One of our leaders (Kate) is a tall, striking brunette with the best body at church (and yes, I know I’m going to hell for thinking of her in this way, especially when she’s being all churchy and I’m thinking about bending her over a pew and sending her to heaven in a totally different way).

5’8”, long brown hair, fantastic shoulders, great waist, terrific chest (full, firm, no giggle, great bras, and great nipples that tend to show through just about anything). She has a fantastic ass, which I saw at a swimming party last year. Side note - She was horsing around with some of the younger girls and somehow developed a total wedgie. She ran up the stairs out of the pool to retrieve a beach ball and, well, she might as well have been wearing a g-string. It was wonderful. It got even better when she realized it and reached deep between the cheeks to get it all out again, the whole thing was fun, sexy, and I couldn’t get out of the pool for several minutes.

Anyway, her husband is a total jerk. I don’t have any idea how they got married. On his best days his is only 5”6”, must weight about 180, scruffy beard, bad hair, an accountant, and, according to the girls who are “in the know,” he doesn’t keep her at all happy in bed. Seriously, if I was with her, she’d be dressed in THIS all day and I’d get fired for never showing up for work.

She is funny, blunt, open about sex, and wears fantastic tops that are modest because they cover everything, but totally sexy because they are thin, tight, and show every curve. I have such a crush on her, it’s surprising that I haven’t blurted out something stupid yet, but I’m sure she’s oblivious to my interest.

Last night I was in a flirty mood and complimented her on her hair (something safe), and told her that she looked very cute. She said “Thanks”, gave me a long full-eye contact smile, and leaned in towards me just a touch. I’m sure she wasn’t going to kiss me in front of 20 witnesses from the parish, but the body language was very intimate.

But, to the dream. (I’m already 6 minutes over my allotment)

We are at a dinner party at their house, a new ranch style mini-mansion that is set on 3 acres on the edge a nature preserve. She’s in high heels, a short skirt, a tight blouse with a thin lace bra, and her hair was in an “up” do. The crowd is all standing in the kitchen and living room, listening to her little troll of a husband make a speech. I have a drink in one hand and she walks up behind me, take my drink, sips it slowly, and stands very close behind me.

With my hands empty, she reaches for my right hand that hangs by my side and takes me by the wrist, guiding my hand up under her skirt and between her legs! I naturally pull back in surprise, but she grips my wrist tighter and holds my fingers tight against her panties. I press back in to her, forcing her up against their pantry door and her free hand unzips my fly and pulls my erection out of my pants.

Dozens of people are in the kitchen with us, dozens more are in the living room, but there I am with my hand up her skirt, rubbing furiously through the wet satin of her panties, and she’s giving me a hand job just inches away from her other guests. Suddenly her panties were gone and I my fingers were inside her and she started to cum, and she was loud. Several of the guests turned and watched her orgasm knock her to the floor and giggled as she tried to keep her hands on me as her knees buckled. One of her friends (an unknown face to me), place her hand over the end of my cock and whispered, “Don’t make a mess” and I came in to her hand.

As my orgasm finished I turned to look for Kate but she was nowhere to be found. Suddenly I heard her voice from the front of the room and saw her standing next to her husband as his speech ended. She wrapped her hands around him and gave him a big kiss for the cameras, and I looked down and saw that I was totally dressed.

I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t worth blogging about, but it was an amazing dream, a very sexy image for me to fantasize about today, and she’s a wonderful, sexy, vibrant woman who’s not getting what she needs at home.

Confession – I am a coward, I changed the ending of the dream because it makes me uncomfortable to admit the real ending.

90% of this dream was real, but the last 10% was changed. In the “real” dream, we were getting close to cumming when her husband appeared next to us and saw what we were doing. Instead of being mad, he simply stated, as if it were a business transaction for 20 reams of paper, “If you want to fuck my wife, that’s fine, but I get to fuck you while you do it,” and I started to consider it.

Even in my dream‑state I was debating if I should let a guy have me just so I could get to his super-hot wife. Then we started bargaining.

“You can have my ass if I get her three times, twice without you there.” “Agreed”

“Oral or not?” “Not”

“I can do anything I want with her?” “Yes”

“Does she have a say in this?” “No”

“No?” I was shocked that he didn’t let her decide. I looked in to Kate’s eyes for an answer, and she nodded her head yes. She was asking me to spread my cheeks for her husband so I could have her. A compliment? A sacrifice? I wasn’t sure, but I knew then, in my dream, as I do in real life, that I wanted her very badly.

She rolled over and opened her legs to me and suddenly the three of us were naked. I was about to enter her, and he was about to enter me, when I slapped him away and pulled myself off of her.

“What’s wrong?” they both asked?

“If I let you fuck me, I won’t be able to donate blood anymore,” I said, “and that’s how I earn all my free meal passes.” I started to dress. “There is a question that asks if you’ve had sex with a man, even once, since 1970, and I’d have to start answering yes, and they won’t let me donate. Sorry.”

I walked off, and the dream ended.

That’s what made me pick the title of “A very strange dream.”

(and this took way more than 15 minutes to write)

Dallas Massage - Part 1

Of course she fell for it, why wouldn’t she? I’m older, smoother, more confident, and I’ve been practicing this scam for years. She’s just a young little coed, barely 21, paying for her gym membership out of her first few paychecks from her idealistic little job over at “Doctors without Borders,” as my medical buddies call them, “Doctors without Profits.”

She came in and took a bike next to mine quite by chance. Her curly brown hair was barely contained in a black scrunchy that seemed just as tangles as her hair. Her t-shirt was that of a classic college-age liberal, some ACLU event shirt that declared her love for America and freedom, and blah, blah, blah.

What I noticed was what was under the shirt, typical guy, I know. She was young and perky and a few pounds away from being skinny, but her bright green eyes made my heart pick up its pace before class even started. Her black biking shorts hugged her full hips and revealed the outline of her organically harvested cotton thong as it slid itself between her beautiful cheeks.

She hopped on the bike and looked lost immediately. I was already clipped in and warming up but took the time to pull my earphone buds out and tell her a bit about the bike she was trying to master.

“Use the upper lever to control your resistance,” I said, reaching across to apply the brakes, bringing her beautiful legs to a stop. Releasing the brake, I told her to raise the handlebars to prevent lower back strain, and to slide the seat forward to put her hips in line with the pedals. She stood up in the pedals and tried to twist around to get to the seat’s release handle. Seeing that she wasn’t getting it, I stepped off my bike and adjusted her seat for her, bringing it forward and between her legs. She sat down to quickly and landed on the back of my hand as I slid the seat into place.

She squeaked in surprise and hopped back up again, causing her to lose her balance. I grabbed her around the waist and steadied her until she found the seat, without my hand this time.

“I’m so sorry.” She said, trying to be heard above the teacher’s music, “I’m a bit of a klutz on these bikes still. They are very different than the ones I’m used to back home.”

“Where’s home?” I asked.

“Originally Oregon, but now D.C, and for the next two weeks, here in Dallas.”

The rising volume of the workout music put an end to any meaningful conversation so I pantomimed some more instructions, where to put her hands based on the teacher’s lingo, how to position her hips to get the best workout, and how to strap her feet into the baskets on the pedals.

The class was terribly hard and before long we were both concentrating on keeping up with our instructor, Blake. I stole a glance now and again, but from my position to her side and slightly in front, I couldn’t look without being painfully obvious. I flashed her a smile and nodded my approval when she handle the twists that Blake through in to the workout.

Mercifully class came to an end and we started working our way through our cool-down routine. Long, slow, steady stretches allowed my new friend to show off her gymnast background. Her flexibility was impressive and it gave me a chance to see just how supple her hips and ass could be. As she reached to the ceiling, extending her spine and throwing out her ribcage, her breasts pressed through the sweat soaked shirt. Her nipples cast a shadow that made my mouth water, and I decided that I would make a play on our out-of-town visitor.

“You’ve done this before.” I said.

“Yea, for about 3 years. I started to ride to rehab a screwed up knee and decided to stay.” She continued her stretches, but winced when she rotated downward to untie her shoe.

“Problems?” I asked.

“Of, it’s just a strained muscle from a snowboarding accident last month, still doesn’t feel right.”

“Listen, I have a massage therapist who is fantastic. Give him a call and he’ll work you in tonight if you want. He’s on-call with a couple of pro teams in the area and is used to working odd hours.”

She thanked me and walked out of the room carrying my phony business card and smiling.

Her call came in to my personal cell phone about three hours later. She gave me a short description of her problem, stated that a “friend from the gym” had recommended her, and asked if I could work her into her schedule.

“Which friend recommended me?” I asked, dying to find out what she would say.

“Well, he’s really not a ‘friend”, I met him today at CardioZone, good-looking guy, seemed to know what he was doing on the bike, pretty blue eyes.”

“What?” I asked in shock, “I don’t usually check out my friends pretty blue eyes.” She laughed at her choice of words. “But I think you are talking about Peter. Bright yellow cycling shoes, iPod turned up too loud, bad haircut?”

“Yea, that’s him. I remember the shoes.” She was still laughing.

“I can fit you in after 6:30, but I have to be done by 9:00. I have dinner with a friend downtown.”

“How about 7:00?” she asked.

“Great, you can come to my office, or I can come to you. Your choice.”

“Where’s your office?”

“I’m down by the Old Oak district, but I’ll need to give you directions, it’s an older part of town and it’s a bit tricky.”

“Well, I’ve got a rental car and I’m awful at directions. Can you come to my hotel?”
 

“Sure,” I grinned, “Where are you staying?”

“I’m at the Hotel Lumen”

“By University Park?” I asked.

“You’re right. My client is in University Park, I’m just east of there.”

Terrific, I’ll see you there at 7:00. If you have time after work, get showered and cleaned up so I can work on your back right away. I’ve worked at the Lumen before so I won’t have any trouble getting up to the room, but give me your information just to be sure.”

“I’m Jenifer Alps, like the mountain, and I’m in Suite 1602”

“Terrific, I’ll be there at 7”

I hung up and immediately speed dialed my friend Tony.

“Tony, I need your massage table, some fresh linens, one of your work shirts, and your travel kit, and I need it be 6:00.”

“Screw you Jackson, are you pulling the masseuse scam again?”

“It’s not a scam Tony, I just happen to be an unlicensed massage therapist who believe in full service and happy endings for everyone.”

“Listen, I have a real client, who will pay me real money, so you really can’t borrow my stuff tonight. I’m probably saving some young virgin from a night of regret.”

“On the contrary, you are taking me shopping as soon as I get to your place. I think it’s time I got my own gear.  3 hours and $500 later, I had a state of the art travelling massage table, the best linens I could find, a bottle of oils, and a supply of candles that would seal the deal, just after 7:00

Right now

Right now.....

she is dressed in gray slacks
I am naked
she is wearing a white cotton top with too many buttons and small gray ribbons
I am stroking myself
she is wearing a black cotton thong that I saw when she bent over to file my expense reports
I am erect
she is in the office across the hall
I am excited
she is trying to sleep on my bosses couch while my boss is in Washington DC
I am hard
she is thinking of her boyfriend and slipping her hand inside her panties
I am listening to her moan
she is wet
I am close
she is aroused
I am dripping
she is cumming
I am cumming
she is gasping
I am finished
she is sighing
I am in love

Nobody Home

“The Wall” came out in 1979, when I was a freshman in high school and it has been my favorite album ever since. Why? At first we all adopted the rebellious, anti-establishment rhetoric for “We Don’t Need No Education” as a white boy’s protest against what we saw as a mindless education system that herded us cattle-like through a system that allowed for little true creativity and stifled our best efforts at defining an identity that differed from our neighbors.

Most of my friends rode the popularity of the song like a wave and then move on when it crashed on the shores of popular culture and vanished from the public’s eye. The imagery of the movie, the lyrics, the sense of growing isolation and disillusion stayed with me and remains with me to this day.

The are chords, both emotional and musical, that resonate through my life in ways that keeps this entire album high on my “most played” list on my iPod.

Back in the days of cassette tapes and bulky headphones, “Comfortably Numb” was always the first song on every mix tape, and serenaded me through countless hours of night skiing in the deep powder hidden within the trees of Colorado. To this day it is the song I think of first when a full moon breaks through the trees of my back yard, or when the first chill of winter sets in. It spoke to me of the layers of protection that build up over the years, carving out a safe, if emotionless space in which to live our lives.

Emotions were dangerous in those years. As my parent’s marriage descended into icy silence and separate bedrooms, our family devolved into 6 people in one house that rarely spoke, never smiled, and stayed away as much as possible. It was typical for us to all arrive at home within 30minutes of each other, late at night, trying to avoid the crypt-like atmosphere that hung over the house. It was better to shut down and stay out of the chilling crossfire.

Lately, “Nobody Home” whispers to me of the fears I have over my own marriage. The fear that someday I will get home and there will be nobody home. A note will be on the kitchen table, or maybe taped to the computer monitor, saying that she has taken the kids to her Mom’s house for a few days and that it would be best for me to pack my things. There will be no discussion beforehand, no fight, no big show. She will just trip a switch in the mental math that she invents each day and decide today is the day I lose my family.

I’ll grab my large duffel, fill it, and be gone with 15 minutes. I will take the external hard drive with a backup of my family photo’s and medical records; my toiletry kit stays in the small duffel with my gym clothes. I will add 3 pairs of jeans, my 6 best t-shirts, my new shoes, my running shoes, a couple of pairs of socks, fresh underwear, my iPod, and camera bag. A quick trip through the garage fills my trunk with food and water, my tent, sleeping bag, and emergency cash from the fire safe. After that I walk.

Or will I? Do I take the house with me, with a single match and a can of gas from the lawnmower shed? Do I strike out at her in spite of the damage it would do to the kids? Would I play out the cool and collected disappearance that I obsess over, or would I make it mean and messy and full of tears and screams and hate and damage? Would I be able to hold it all in, as I have learned to do for the past 42 year or do I let it go?

In my fantasy I walk out quietly. She wouldn’t even notice that I had taken anything unless she noticed a small dust-free square on the floor under the computer, and an almost empty sock drawer.

The next day $15,000 would be withdrawn from the bank and I would leave behind a signed request to take my name off the accounts. The remaining money would easily carry her through 6 months while she looked for work and came to understand that I was not paying alimony or coming back.

My first stop would be Las Vegas. I don’t gamble, but my first $1,000 of freedom would be spent, over 4-5 days, a the Olympic Garden strip club. After that it’s off to New Mexico to try and seduce an old girlfriend. Then, it’s either Kentucky or Ohio, because I have absolutely no connection to either place. Day labor will get me through the first few weeks while I establish a new identity. I figure a small farm, factory, or store would be the best bet for someone with a past to settle for a while without being noticed.

At the year mark I leave the country north through Canada and then it’s a fishing boat to Europe via Iceland. Another 6 months pass in the lower east side of London, and with no criminal complaints following me from the States, I slowly come out of hiding, adopt a cash only lifestyle, and wander for a while.

I’ve always wanted to see Germany on foot.

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I've got a little black book with my poems in.

Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in.

When I'm a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in.

I got elastic bands keepin my shoes on.

Got those swollen hand blues.

Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from.

I've got electric light.

And I've got second sight.

And amazing powers of observation.

And that is how I know, When I try to get through

On the telephone to you, There'll be nobody home. I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm. And the inevitable pinhole burns All down the front of my favorite satin shirt. I've got nicotine stains on my fingers. I've got a silver spoon on a chain. I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains. I've got wild staring eyes. And I've got a strong urge to fly. But I got nowhere to fly to. Ooooh, Babe when I pick up the phone "Surprise, surprise, surprise..." (from Gomer Pyle show) There's still nobody home. I've got a pair of Gohills boots and I got fading roots.

“Pink Floyd – The Wall – Nobody Home” 1979

A beauty, but not quite

She has a fantastic figure. Slim but athletic hips, true washboard abs, great calves, and beautiful breasts. I mean they are the perfect example of the art of plastic surgery. (confirmed when my friend asked for, and got, the name of her doctor).

They looked natural with a beautiful teardrop shape and when she moved, they moved, just as nature intended. Her outfit in class today was adorable and sexy at the same time. Yellow sweat bottoms from the Victoria’s Secret “PINK” collection and a tight yellow top that looked like a spandex tankini. Which ever bra she put underneath was working wonders. It held her breast out and proud and let them shine like crown jewels in the front window of a Harry Winston boutique.

From my seat on the instructor’s bike, and with her on the front row, just 6 feet away, I could see her lightly tanned skin, her brazen cleavage, the faintest hint of the darker skin of her nipples, and, when she bent forward over the bike for sprints, her bellybutton ring.

I spent most of the class trying NOT to stare and her beautiful breasts. I mean really, they were right there. If it was a porn movie, I would have cranked up the music, dismounted the instructor’s bike, walked two steps in her direction and kissed her fully on the mouth while my hand snaked itself inside her shirt, cupping the perfect flesh in my sweaty hand while the other students watched.

They jiggled, they bounced, they swayed, they did all the things that good breasts should do, and yet….

And yet I wasn’t turned on. OK, a little, but not nearly as much as by the slim blonde behind her, or by Sarah, this mysterious raven-haired dynamo to the left, or even by Olma, a Swedish woman with really fake boobs, a terrific ass, and iffy hair.

Why didn’t golden girl up front do it for me? She had the complete package, the boobs, the butt, the low-cut top, the good hair, and the face. Ahhhh, the face.

That is where she lost me.

She isn’t ugly in any sense. In fact, her face is nice, kind of cute in a tomboy way, but not quite right. Too harsh, perhaps, too lean, not enough smile lines to prove that she laughs out loud, that she giggles with children, and that she finds Craig Ferguson to be the best late night host ever.

She flashed a distant smile and waved as she left the room, and I realized that she came to the gym angry, and left, I hope, with one or two fewer demons. Her hat was down low, covering her eyes, accenting her scowl, hiding from a world that values breasts over beauty? Looks over love? Maybe she left angry because her cycling instructor avoided her eyes in fear of her chest. Beauty opens some doors, closes others. Like being too rich to know if people want you, love you, or your money.

Maybe her inner demons aren’t exorcised at the gym, maybe they are fed and nurtured there. Maybe she sees Sarah, the cute and always younger blondes, the new moms with supple curves and nursing breasts that get all the attention.

Her body was beautiful, near perfect, sexy, sensual, enticing, notable, but something was missing, a spark of fun, of joy, of confidence, of life.

I hope she comes back, because I want to see her smile, and I want to know she means it.

Thoughts on Losing Weight

Once again my posting is in response to another blogger's ideas. Chanda, author of "Trapped under something heavy" was writing about weight loss. I mentioned a while ago that I wasn't going to write too much about my efforts at losing weight, but her comments about obsessing over food struck a nerve so I decided to add my thoughts here, as well as in her comments section.

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To Chanda

First off, after clicking on your Flickr photostream, and, assuming that you are the hottie in the cowboy hat, you look terrific.

WW is a real mixed bag. 3+ years ago I had great success on the program after 2 previous tries that did nothing except cost me money. Third time's a charm, right? I lost 30 pounds and kept it off for 2 years. The last 18 months have seen it all come back. Aaaaagh.

I went on WW twice since the weight started to come back and again, nothing changed except for my upward creeping weight. I found myself really fighting the changes I was imposing on myself, I felt very schizophrenic, started arguing with myself in the mrror, the whole bit. I too was starting to obsess over counting, and cheating, and more counting, and angry cheating, and then I just quit trying, knowing that whatever was happening to me wasn’t healthy mentally or physically. I wasn’t ready to change.

Then, about 2 months ago, I just started, on my own, to follow “the plan.” I don’t count points, I don’t log my food, I don’t even consider myself, “on plan.” I just am. I know enough about WW, and so do you, that I could teach the course tomorrow. I really try not to think about food at all. When it’s time to eat, I make a decision to eat smaller. Get the dollar burger instead of the Whopper. Get the 8 oz. steak instead of the 12 oz. Get brown rice instead of potatoes, water instead of soda, a cookie instead of a milkshake. And, in the mornings, when the guys from the field bring in all the donuts, I just walk away, literally, I leave my office, walk around the building, twice if I’m really hungry. By the time I get back, 90% of them are gone, I cut one in ½ and head back to my desk. This way, if I get a craving later, they are all gone, and my apples and oranges, are there to save me.

I’m only losing about a pound a week, but do you know what? I’m losing a pound a week!! Today I weighed in at 218, down from 228 and I’m thrilled. I know I could start journaling, attending meetings, and counting points and I’d probably lose faster, but I would rebel more, cheat more, resent it more, and be miserable to be around.

If you are ready, and it sounds like you are, do it your way. Keep in touch with your epiphany, and allow yourself to feel connected to your group, to feel their support, to learn from their mistakes, and to share your successes.

Be aware, but not obsessed.
Be mindful, but not concerned.

Good luck. I’m bookmarking your site so I can come back and track your progress!

And sorry for the long post, I didn’t plan in it getting so long.

Is it cheating?

This started out as a response to a question posed by Leesa. Basically, "Is it cheating if a woman steps out on her husband with another woman?" I've posted my response below, but I'd love to hear what other's think. Read the original post, and then join the discussion.

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I've always figured that if an orgasm is involved, then it's cheating.

This goes against all of my friends who claims that getting a full-contact lap-dance (really, just dry humping a insanely hot and naked girl) isn't cheating, or that a massage with a "happy ending" isn't stepping out.

If both parties agree that strip clubs and massages are OK, and full disclosure has occurred, then it's between the people in the couple.

I've heard cheating defined as "going outside the primary relationship for sexual or emotional gratification." That's why cybersex, intimate workplace flirting, and and having a "work wife" are so fraught with danger, especially from the woman's perspective. The man denies that getting off during cybersex, or getting a hand job at the strip club is cheating because it's "just" physical and has no emotional content.

The wife sees it as cheating because she sees all sex as an emotional expression and feels betrayed because he went to someone else. Most women that I have interviewed say that sex is their duty and their pleasure, so when the husband steps out, their feel betrayed because he broke a vow of fidelity, but also rejected, because, in the woman's mind, the man isn't getting what he wants at home so he goes out and gets it elsewhere.

While it's fun to imagine Leesa with another woman (and believe me Leesa, we've all done it, in fact, I'm doing it right now.. hhhmmmm, baby oil... hmmmmm) it's also nice to know that she's making good choices for her marriage.

Skinny girls

I like skinny girls. I realized this, again, at the gym this morning, when I noticed that if you added up the chests of the three prettiest women in my cycle class that together, they might fill a C-Cup bra.

Instructor (K), is strong and lean and fast and a blazing redhead with maybe a solid A-Cup. They are firm and perky, barely moving as her body bounces up and down as she puts us through our paces.

Hardcore (D) isn’t as skinny but she has a fantastic ass and the best-looking thighs a man can imagine. They are firm, sculpted, and narrow and they appear to wrap around her the whole of her upper leg, terminating in the perfect circle that is her ass. I’m not talking the big beautiful butt of a curvaceous girl, I’m talking about a gluteus maximus that is to tight, and fat-free that sculptures would cry over the opportunity to carve it out of marble for posterity. Her breasts, however, are small, giving no cleavage even when she hunches over the handlebars to sprint.

Then, there was NewShoes, as skinny as a rail, smooth skin, jet-black hair, and absolutely no boobs. None.

She was on the bike in front of me and normally I just admire her legs and the obvious panty lines that sneak down so quietly between her slender cheeks. Today, because she took off her sweatshirt as the room heated up, I realized that she has no breasts at all. Her tank top was smooth and tight and gave no hint as to if there was a woman or a smooth-skinned mannequin from a gender-neutral storefront window display.

Now, I know many guys like small-chested women because they have a thing for under-age girls. That is not the case here. None of these three look younger than 20+, they are all in their early 30’s and are professional, working women. Just with no boobs.

What turns me on so much when I see them?

Is it their athleticism? The fact that all three of them could outrun me in race, out distance me on a bike, and leave me behind as shark-bait in the water?

Is it because they are so different than my current lover, a curvy and full C-cup brunette with a shrinking, but still generous backside that just cries out of doggie-style?

Maybe it’s because I think they would be bendy in bed. They would be light, and flexible, and able to get into positions that I have so far just seen in movies and books about horny gymnasts. Maybe I think I’d be able to make love to them standing up, in the shower, or against the back wall of a noisy nightclub with her girlfriend watching us in the dark. I would like to feel them wrap their legs around me and let me enter them while they writhe and moan, elevated off the ground. I would hope that their nipples, unencumbered by the weight of a large breast, would be small, tight, and sensitive, that they could climax based on nipple-play alone and that my lips and teeth would be able to make her gasp, and cry, and beg for more.

So to any woman that bemoans the fact that her chest is too small, come over to my gym, hope one a bike, and I will appreciate every missing inch of your chest. And to K, D, or NewShoes, thank you for the beauty you bring to class, and to the fantasies you have, and will, inspire.

When did we all start?

Leesa announced that it was Masturbation Month, and Edge, one of her readers, asked "When did we all start...?"

My original response is in black, with a few extra comments in red since I didn't want to write too much on her blog...

Wasn't it right about the time we found our sister's copy of "Desert Hearts"? (it's a movie - rent it, and enjoy).
I remember being so turned on that I had an orgasm without touching myself at all. It was late at night, on the living room couch. My jeans were tight, providing the required tension/friction, and when the lesbian love scene (my first) played itself out, I had a wonderful climax.

Or maybe is started when you found that ratty old copy of Playboy under the bridge by your house?
I might have been 10, or maybe 8. The magazine was fuzzy and wrinkled and tattered, but the women were naked, and as owner of the magazine, they were mine. I could probably get the issues from that year and flip through them and identify just which women were in the magazine, it's been indelibly etched in my mind. My friends and I stored the treasure up underneath the bridge on concrete wall that protected it all summer. Then it vanished. Found, and stolen by some other hormone-driven boy just like me. That mag inspired me in to ways, one, the love of Playboy, and two, the love of outdoor masturbation. Both life long loves.

Or maybe it was when Donna W. yawned, stretched, and pulled off her sweatshirt during band practice and accidentally let you see her bra?
She was the first girl in my life to get breasts, and they were beautiful, and I yanked it to her memory for years. thanks Donna!

Or maybe it was after reading "Logan's Run" and asking your mom what the word "orgasm" meant, and decided that it sounded like fun.
My mom told me that it was a really good feeling that happened when two people made love. While I didn't know exactly what it meant, the books passages fired me up for a whole summer. The book is much more erotic than the 1976 movie. Though, that movie, I believe, was the first time I saw a naked breast in a movie. I was 12.

Hmm.... When did we start? It's been too long to remember. But I'm in the mood to start again right now.......

The real question is - When did we realize that our mom's knew what we were doing the whole time? I mean, really, what 12 year old kid wants to take a 20 minute shower, and hey, where did all the hair conditioner go? But more on that in another post.

A Lazy TMI Tuesday

I know it's Thursday, and I had a great idea for a post (a memory/fantasy of my old secretary) but the day turned to Crap, I've been in a bad mood, but I'm also trying to post on a more frequent basis. So I'm using the questions from TMI Tuesday, to get things started.

1. Early bird or night owl?
Unfortunately I'm both. I stay up late watching TV, folding laundry, and surfing the net, but have to get up at 5:00 AM to get to my bus so I can go to the gym before work. I'm always sleepy.

2. Where was the first place you ever had sex?
Full-on intercourse was in the Omni hotel in Los Angeles with my wife, on our wedding night.
First oral sex? In her apartment several months before.

3. On a scale of 1-10, how happy are you? (1 is lowest, 10 is highest)
Usually about a 4, some days spike to an 8, but I have not had a 10 day in years.

4. Are you more submissive or dominant?
Dominant by nature, submissive by training (being married will do that to you.)

5. Do you believe in love at first sight?
Yes, but I was too much of a coward to do anything about it.
Years later, I knew that I was going to marry my wife the first time I saw her. The jury is still out on whether or not that was a good idea.

Bonus (as in optional): Describe your bed time habits. What side do you sleep on? What do you usual wear? Any night time rituals?

Gather the trash to the kitchen trash can, take it outside when full.
It's my job to "shut down the house" which includes turning off the lights, the computer, locking the doors, starting the dishes/laundry, and putting up the "baby gate" so the kids come in to our room if they get up in the middle of the night. I brush my teeth, I should floss, I usually pee and then wash my hands.
I pick out my clothes and pack my gym bag for the next day so I don't have to turn on the lights in the bedroom while the wife is still sleeping. I'm up @ 5 and gone by 5:30, she wakes up at 6:30.
If it's early enough and we are going to have sex I slip into my silky boxer shorts, or take off my underwear and put my jeans on (she likes that). If it's too late or if sex is off the books for the night (too late, too tired, too upset etc.), i sleep in cotton pajama bottoms and a t-shirt if it's chilly. I sleep hot so I'm rarely under the covers while the wife is in long sleeved PJs, and socks, and deep under a sheet, blanket, and comforter.
I sleep on the right side (if you are at the foot of the bed looking at me)
We say our prayers together, she's big on that, but since I almost always go to bed after she does, we do "the routine" and then I'm up for another 1/2 hour or so. It's my only quiet time of the day.


This is officially, my most boring post ever.