Friday, August 8, 2008
The picture to the left really has nothing to do with today's post, except for the fact that I'm mildly obsessed with Marissa Miller these days.
But I've been thinking about how lucky I am to be a guy. It goes beyond the economic and social advantages that being a male in our society, and most societies, and extends into the trivial things that I don't have to worry about. I know that there are entire lists dedicated to this idea, see 100 reasons it's good to be a guy that are funnier than I am trying to be here today.
The thing that made me think about it is my admin here at work looked awful yesterday. She is a beautiful girl. Perfect figure, wonderfully cute smile, a great laugh, terrific and eclectic dresser, but she looked awful. And she knew it, and she cared.
I, on the other hand, have had a baby-migraine for three days (a tumor?), I feel like sleeping all the time, and no one notices, no one cares, no one can even tell.
My admin didn't do her make-up, though she wears very little to begin with and always looks great It's just that everyone cares too much about how we look day-to-day and it impacts our mood, usually in a negative way.
As a guy I'm just glad that no one cares what I look like. I mean, I try to look presentable and professional. My shoes match my belt, my slacks are cleaned and pressed, and I wash my hair everyday, I'm not a caveman. It's just nice sometimes, not to be noticed.
Women, on the other hand, are noticed and judged and are under pressure every day. That's gotta suck.
(Of course, I just realized that by making Marissa's picture a part of this post, that I'm putting women under even more pressure to conform to the modern standard of beauty. Well, a girl has to have a goal, right?)
Thursday, August 7, 2008
I was cleaning out a few old drafts and came across this one. First drafted in May 2008, and more fictionalized than the one I just posted, this is really just another version of the post from August 4th. Strange how she is never far from my thoughts.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s been over 12 years and I still think of her every day. I think about her infectious smile, her quick laugh, the twinkle in her eyes, and her beautiful, soft skin. I may have written about this before, but she had been on my mind all weekend and I miss her deeply. I have been clearing out my office to get ready for a move to a different floor. My building management, once again, has decided that having people who work together, sit together, is entirely too efficient and so the are shuffling the deck, or as they call it, “restack” the building.
With the economic downturn we have lost several clients from our building. A small videogame company went bankrupt, taking my Thursday basketball group from me. A group of financial advisors, hard hit by declining real estate values, have moved from “Genius” to “Idiot” status in the eyes of their investors, and have now moved to cheaper quarters, lower to the ground, further from the beach, and much closer to “The Hood.”
As a result they are consolidating the remaining tenants on to the higher floors where they can charge us more rent in an attempt to empty out the building all together. So I am moving.
Last Thursday I emptied my shelves and found a large binder of old calendars from my last job, the one I shared with her. Our personal e-mails were shredded years ago, not long after our affair ended, when the thought of keeping them was too painful and the fear of discovery too great. Our e-mails, on the company system, no less, were witty in a childish way, daring in our innuendo, transparent in their “hidden meanings” and would have been all too incriminating if sought out by our spouses or supervisors.
I found page after page of meetings, schedules, agendas, and plans, all with her name emblazoned across the page, and my heart got heavy.
I miss holding her hand during stolen seconds in the elevator. I miss the thrill of seeing her at the supermarket in her neighborhood and seeing the panic on her face when a friend of neighbor walked by. I miss seeing her name in my in-box, or her handwriting on an inter-office envelope, or hearing her voice when I pick up the phone.
But most of all, I miss her, her smell, her skin, her smile, her hair, her clothes, her house, her lips, her fingers, her everything.
We were only together physically for 4 months, but the 8 months of foreplay that came before made my heart race every time I arrived at work.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
were unanimous, that a little glimpse at work is sexier than all the rest.
What is so powerful about the hidden that makes it so desirable?
Why do I watch at the girl across the room for a flash of thigh when she bends or moves, more than I care about the latest spread in Playboy? Why do men get excited about a "nip-slip" picture when millions of naked photos flood the Internet?
What is so powerful about a nipple that make grown men act like 12-year olds?
I was at the gym yesterday and the sexiest woman their, among many beautiful women, was a tall Asian girl who had a loose fitting sweatshirt over a very cute sports bra. It was all pretty tame, except she kept bending down to pick up her weights, adjust her shoes, etc. and every guy within 30 feet stopped and stared each time. This wasn't even to catch a nipple, it was just to see her bra!
My wife doesn't like me to come to bed naked when Sex is on the agenda. I have my special silk boxer shorts that give her the signal i'm in the mood without being so blatant. Granted, a naked guy is rarely a thing of beauty. A few of us can pull it off (no pun intended), but most of us are middle-aged, a bit out of shape, a little too hairy, and then our goofy looking penis starts doing it's thing. I get it, I understand. Cover it up until the main event.
I, however, love to have her come out of the bathroom in the nude. I love to see her body completely uncovered, ready to be kissed, suckled, stroked, worshiped, and adored. I love seeing her breasts sway as she walks towards me, how her hips rock, and how her thighs open as she crawls on top of the bed and then on top of me.
There are some nights that I will lay out my favorite bra and panties for her to wear as she gets ready. Sometimes I like the slow undressing as much as I like the end result. But I don't like the slow tease, the witholding when the blood is up and the fever is high.
At work, at the gym, the park, or the beach, the stolen glimpse, the unbuttoned blouse, the panty flash, the big nipples on a cold day, they are wonderful and sexy, the they captivate us. And we, the men, thank you, the women, for it all.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
I don't know why this caught my eye, except for, I don't know, the perfectly shaped breast that is so wonderfully on display. I don't know if shots like this are accidental, or a calculated move by the fashion designer, the stage manager, or the model, to get a little extra attention.
No matter what the cause, the motivation, or the reason, I am grateful that she is so very, very, beautiful.
Monday, August 4, 2008
This is where she lived.
Her house was a simple post-WWII starter home that had been remodeled in the late 70's and it was home for her, her husband, and cute little son. As you walked in the front room, she had those awfully tacky harlequin masks that were so popular in the early 90's. Over-done with ribbons or dyed feathers, they festooned her entryway giving a false sense of art, and a bad sense of design.
It didn't really matter to me though. I had fallen in love with her and she was all I could think about. We worked together for a couple of years before we got to know each other, but once we did, it was the most entertaining relationship I had ever had.
We flirted outrageously through company e-mail, building long, extended, painfully obvious metaphors about sex, usually under the guise of a conversation about "grinding coffee.” I found out that her husband liked sex but had trouble reaching climax, so sex became long, painful sessions of him pumping, her trying to fake it, and him finally reaching climax and immediately ap9logizing for taking so long.
She claimed to be unhappy, and probably was, though she had no intention of ever leaving him. But that was OK; I had no intention (then) of leaving my wife. I think we connected out of a mutual need, she needed to feel young and sexy again, and I need to feel wanted.
I can’t remember when we started to be more than friends. I know that her jokes took on a decidedly more sexual nature and that gave me permission to be more forward. Our conversations about “coffee” got more explicit, and I remember one particular moment. I saw her in the glass-walled conference room next to our boss’s office. She pointed at me and then gave me the “Come here” motion with her index finger. I walked the 20 yards to the room and stepped inside, closing the door.
“Yes?” I asked
She got this big grin on her face and said, “I just wanted to see if I could make you cum with one finger.” And she laughed.
That was just too much, I couldn’t believe it. That was the tipping point.
Everything escalated after that. Sneaky touches in the elevator, more direct discussion about sex, more jokes about grinding coffee, and a complete openness when I asked her what she was wearing under her cute little sun dresses.
‘What are you wearing?” I would ask if I hadn’t seen her by noon.
“A pink thong with a floral pattern.” She said one day. About an hour later, my e-mailed chimed. “Ask me again.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Snack room – 5 minutes”
I went for a snack.
She was already there, sitting at the table in the far corner, her smooth brown legs crossed so demurely, her back to the door. She was in a short, yellow baby-doll dress. When I walked in, she used her foot to push the chair opposite her away from the table, inviting me to sit.
As I sat down, she stood up, 5’6” of Hispanic perfection.
She walked towards the vending machines and turned around when she reached the wall. She faced me. With the vending machines on her left, the coffee machines on her right, she was hidden from the other three people in the room. With a big grin she looked past the coffee maker to see if the coast was clear, and lifted the hem of her dress to her ribs.
Her pantyhose were shear white nylon, and there, with a cute little patch of hair at the apex, was her beautiful body peeking out from within. She had shaved it all bare except for that one small patch. She had no panties, just her shear white hose, and she was showing herself to me.
She dropped her dress and walked back to our table and sat down with a giant smile on her face. “JT’s going to get it tonight.” She said, “But I’ll be thinking of you.”
She stood and left the snack room, leaving me in shock and grinning from ear to ear.
That was just the first time, but I’ve never forgotten her. I miss the way she made me feel, the fun we had, the sense of excitement, or pursuit, of capture and conquest.
I think of her more often than I should.
I’m thinking of her a lot lately.