Remembering... on a sweltered morn...
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Posted:Jul 17, 2006 5:49 am
Last Updated:Apr 29, 2024 3:4 am
1505 Views
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The heat is building, soon I will go to bed. I am thinking of a summer thirty years ago... yes i AM that old...lol.. Chris and Marlene, and Rick and I sharing a tiny apartment. Fortunately, none of us had much so we didn't need much. The hot Chicago summer was baking the breath from our lungs. Chris and I climbed out onto the roof next door and catching a breeze, we curled on a blanket and watched the Playboy Spotlight sweep across the Chicago sky.
An ardent feminist at that stage, Chris snarled and said , "Just Hefner waving his penis over the city.". Who knew that within a year she would be such a successful stripper and hustler.
I did not corrupt her. I did help her to keep honest with herself.
Working in a strip club, hustling drinks, being paid by the number of swizzle sticks, two for a 'double'. A 'very sweet old guy' Probably not unlike myself now thirty years later.. spent a few hours and almost a hundred dollars on her. She felt so consumed with guilt, until he came back two weeks later and spent another seventy.
Did he get value for his money?.. He seemed to think so. Chris was never not Chris, even when she wasn't.
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anger...
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Posted:Jul 16, 2006 5:53 am
Last Updated:Apr 29, 2024 3:4 am
1420 Views
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I am a nurse. It is a strange job, because in its most basic part... the care of another.. it is easy and moving and fulfilling. even when the other is not always able or willing to appreciate, you know that you are helping. Then there is the human element. Your co workers, your bosses, your administration.. I grow weary. Last night I was trying to explain why a casual action of an unknown co-worker, was wrong, dangerous , and arrogant. My annoyance was seen as picking and not being a team player. I realized that I see myself in a world so unlike that which most of my co-workers inhabit. It made me sad. I think they thought I was angry. which made me feel even more remote.
I get angry with indifference, and laziness. I do not get angry with the individual but with the situation. Why is it so hard for some people to understand that?
>>>>>
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strange insight
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Posted:Jul 14, 2006 12:05 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2007 5:18 am
1668 Views
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Cutting the grass. Shirt off. Not bad body for a fifty eight year old guy. No one around to see, but I enjoy the play of my muscles under the sweaty skin as I work the beat up old mower and see the emerging patterns in the grass. Thought occurs about sexuality. A neighbor's clothesline has a small ,,, and I do mean small...s.. group of g-strings. Or possibly small bikini bottoms. pretty sure they are thongs. very hot. Except. She has daughters. One is about twenty and cute, but far too young for my taste.. or good taste. The wife is not bad looking but her husband is a nice guy, and she reeks of cigarette smoke. They also have two girls in their young years. Shudder. So.... the thongs are not un-noticed but definitely unappreciated. It is not the lingerie, but the wish-fulfillment fantasy that it creates. I have been more excited by a glimpsed pair of cotton regular cut panties in the home of a who is in her forties, bright, attractive and cultured. I curbed myself. One must never overstep the bounds when dealing with family of in home nursing. sigh.
The point?... I do not want to make love with someone I would not want to sit in a restaurant with, or go on a train ride with, or just sit on the porch watching the lightning and counting the seconds til the thunder.
so... since likelihood of the above is becoming more and more remote, finding it harder and harder to fantasize. Sit, quietly in the chat rooms watching the others interact so easily, slipping in and out of each other's playlets with practised ease. ...
Perhaps there is nowhere for me to go. Perhaps I have used up all of my allowance.
Sigh.
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reverie
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Posted:Jul 14, 2006 10:20 am
Last Updated:Apr 29, 2024 3:4 am
1460 Views
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I wake to feel the warmth of you near; I smile. I roll over and just look at you. We are neither of us as young as we were, but you are so beautiful to me. I see your lids flutter and your eyes, still soft with sleep smile at me. You know I want you. It is warm, but you lie on your side, offering yourself to me. My hands caress the fullness of your breast, my thumb caressing your nipple as it rises. You breathe deeply. I savor the feel of your nipple beneath my thumb, and your breast in my hand. I know the feel of you, the fullness of you. It is written in my soul. My lips caress yours in a soft brush that promises. Your breath catches. I know that you are getting wet, and I smell you, though I know I cannot. I taste you. I feel you. I sigh. The world is far away and we are near. Your hand caresses my face, feeling the need to shave, and teasing my ear as only you can. I smile, and you know I will get my revenge, later. There is no need to hurry, but my need drives me. My hand slides down and under your shirt, to slide down the cotton panties. You raise your knees and they slide down to the abyss at the foot of the bed, to be retrieved later as a delaying tactic to your redressing.
My hand rests on your hip. Claiming. Possessing.
I do not ask your leave. My hand slides between your legs to explore that wet warmth that welcomes even as it demands.
I wake. Alone. The empty bed an indictment and a reminder. Would it have made any difference? I will never know.....
..........
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funereal
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Posted:Jul 13, 2006 8:08 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2007 5:18 am
1512 Views
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I went to the funeral of my wife's grandmother today. It was amazing. The woman was 92. She had 'earned' the right to be as mean and nasty as she wanted to be.. and she was... but almost never to me. Her smile when she saw me was almost flirtatious. I think she liked me.
She died soon after a major heart attack so didn't linger long, though long enough to know that the time was near.
She had been a tyrant with her and at times a bigot and a bully... but she also was a mother who fought as bravely as she could for her .
Her daughters... now in their sixties and seventies, were all there, with their families and their 'baggage'. "I think he has AIDS", Her really a little 'wild'...don't you think. Didn't she gain a lot of weight... I smiled to myself, and when the priest spoke of the 'old days'...when diapers were cloth and had to be cleaned and hung outside, I had a story idea about an old woman who sat on her porch most of the spring and summer looking out at an old dying rose tree.... her stroke had left her with no speech but she seemed in no ill health.
Finally, her , a stock analyst with a painfully acute IQ, could take no more. The men came and tore the bush up by its roots. The next day the woman sat in her chair and wept, silently, then when they went to bring her to dinner, she had passed.
At her viewing, her younger brother, a of 88, asked,
"Still got the rose bush?"
"No. It was beyond saving."
He didn't speak for a long time . Then he nodded, and said,
"Dumbest thing. She saved all that crap from the 's diapers, and mixed it with that worthless soil, then when the diapers were done, she planted that stupid bush. Everyone was amazed how well, and how full, and beautiful it grew."
He knelt to say a prayer then moved to the pew behind the family, never seeing the tears that coursed down his niece's face.
....
Weird the things one thinks of at funerals. The Black Priest looked a little like Morgan Freeman. and they had removed one set of pews to make a space for handicapped access but left the kneeler, which I, of course, pointed out to my 20 year old , which made her laugh with an embarrassed blush. Grandmom would have laughed out loud.
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an admission.....6
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Posted:Jul 13, 2006 3:56 pm
Last Updated:Apr 29, 2024 3:4 am
1505 Views
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when I was a young lad...about ten or twelve.. which is about 46 years ago... I had a log. I would make entries almost every day. Most were nothing more than observations.. occassionally, I would add a poem, or a hope or a dream. One day, I wrote a 'letter' to a dream girl. I was so lonely. I was one of seven , went to a Catholic grade school with sixty classmates, and still I was lonely. I spoke with her and imagined her listening, and writing back. I often responded to the thoughts that I dreamed were her words.
We grew close. It was , of course, impossible for any flesh and blood young teenage woman to even approach the openness, sensuality and warmth of my dream-lover. None came close. I worked in a delicatessen..(yes, , and illegal which is why I worked for essentially slave wages.). I watched the 'older' young women. How rare any of them even approached HER in gentleness and caring.
For years after she would make surprise visits to my heart, yet never did I find her. I came very close with a young woman in Chicago. Chris, My Kookla.. lovely, sexy, bright, insightful, joyful.... but we were not ready for each other. time came between us. I miss her, and wish her well.
twenty-three years of marriage. I hoped in the beginning that we would learn from each other. I finally came to realize that to learn from another, you must wish to learn. the past twelve years have been incredibly barren.
three . One in college...one going back to college, and a high school senior preparing for college. bills. R E S P O N S I B I L I T I E S.
So... I see no end.. I see no love. I see no laughter. I hear no song, and I have no dream. I go on.....and on....and ....
Somewhere..... perhaps... she sits, looking out of a window in a world that is somehow not as full as she had dreamed, and she wonders what ever became of .....him.
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yondering
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Posted:Jul 9, 2006 7:05 am
Last Updated:Apr 29, 2024 3:4 am
1466 Views
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wandering in a world undefined, unmapped, and open to exploration or appreciation. I have lived my whole life that way. As a young , I spent many hours just walking, or riding my bike.. nothing fancy.. 23 incher. with backpedal brakes and one gear...lol.. but went everywhere on that beast.
on the road as a young man.. hiking to Denver.. or somewhere... stopped over in chicago for two years..lol..
The point is that now at 58, I still go to the swamp and wander with my mind and heart open and let the world speak to me. Sometimes she whispers, sometimes she murmurs, sometimes she seems to scream, and always she laughs. there is such joy in the experience of life.
i wish i were not alone. the wished this, as he careened down hills on his bicycle. The young man wished this in a corn field in Iowa. The adult wished this as he stood on stage in Washington dc waiting to compete as an adult in Irish dancing.
perhaps that is all there truly is.
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Touching
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Posted:Jul 8, 2006 7:49 am
Last Updated:Mar 27, 2008 5:09 am
1786 Views
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I do not know how long it has been since I have touched someone. As a nurse, I palpate, percuss, and tend as well as soothing and pressing, but I rarely have occassion to touch. My sham of a marriage forestalls any touch of intimacy. I have no intimate friends. I feel the need to touch and to be touched as a burning hunger worse than any that I have felt in my fifty eight years. I read of love in a passing novel and feel the burning of unshed tears, and move on.
When we deny a part of ourselves, whether it be our sense of humor, or our need to touch, or the joy of making love, we stultify it. The person who begins to see himself or herself as too mature for such nonsense becomes inured to it and loses it. Often without ever knowing what they have lost.
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Bi and the kiss of death
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Posted:Jul 7, 2006 5:16 pm
Last Updated:May 9, 2007 5:19 am
1489 Views
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two women flirt in an open room, and twenty men, with tongues hanging out try to join in. Is there anything more erotically challenging than the idea of trying to be the meat in a tongue sandwhich..(ouch)?... But if a man says 'hey, nice cock, man.... in a general or even threesome room, he is as like to be met with ..."aren't you in the wrong room?" or OOOOOOO....lol..
I have had a few pleasant interludes with men. When I was a young actor and still incredibly naive, I was 'seduced' by an older, urbane, witty and very gregarious gentleman who did not 'look' gay. When I realized what his interest was, I was as flattered and intrigued as I was shocked. We had some very pleasant sessions, though he realized that for me it was just a sensual play. He accepted that.
One of my friends from the theater later told me that she wondered at first if I were gay, since I was so reserved. She told me that two of the more Out gay actors laughed and told her I was totally straight.
I have had a couple of pleasant sessions since and enjoyed them, without feeling that it changed who or 'what' I am. I do not fantasize about men... does Johnny Depp count?.. I almost never see a man on the street or in a bar and say, wow.. I would love to play with that. I often see women who elicit that response. I have been married though unhappily for 23 years. I have never stopped appreciating and enjoying the loveliness and desirability of women. I am in inveterate flirt.
I do not admit to being bi..nor do I think of myself that way. I have heard the term cosmopolitan.. shrugs. Personally, I eschew such need for labeling. I can 'play' almost any part, but at core, I am a straight Dom. To thine own self be true and it follows as the night doth follow the day that thou canst be false with no man.''....
I long for a woman with whom I can be open and free. I do not necessarily desire to 'share' her, though the thought does not rankle. I do not wish to impose myself upon any other. I enjoy knowing that the moment is a gift.
I do go on.
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prayer or prixe fixe
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Posted:Jul 5, 2006 12:54 pm
Last Updated:Apr 29, 2024 3:4 am
1402 Views
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Does God really respond to prayer?.. I was raised in the belief that one should pray. Pray for the souls of the faithful departed, pray for our parents and family. Pray for forgiveness, and for grace. In Church they solicit prayers for special needs, and they offer novenas... special occassions of prayer for special requests.
I worry about a God who listens to prayer. Is it the quality or the quantity? If you fall a few prayers short will your nephew walk, but never run? Will the team win the series? Do you believe how many times one sees people praying in the stands in a critical game. What is that all about?.. who prays hardest?
If God does not know what we need unless we pray, then He is not living up to His/Her billing. Of course, if S/He exists, then S/He must know everything. Can you believe that a just and loving God would say, Sorry, have to let Grand-Mom die; you just didn't pray hard enough?
We can pray but what if what we are praying for is not in God's best interest? Or , for that matter, if it offends God?
There is a saying; be careful what you pray for, for you might get it. Is that God showing a sense of humor?
I realize that we feel a tad less alone, and a bit less helpless when we pray, seeking the intercession of One who is more powerful, but other than making us feel that we have 'done something' what purpose is served?
I hate it when a friend tells me of a dying relative, or a sick . I wish I could say I will pray for them, but that feels so hypocritical, now. I say I will keep them in my thoughts, but that sounds so lame.
Conversely... and this may offend or confuse some, I do feel that their may be a point to collective prayer. Don't get mad. The point is that like with tinkerbell, when the are told to all whisper, "I do believe in fairies", perhaps there is some strength in group awareness that is more than we know. Perhaps when a large enough group focuses the energy of their desire upon a single point, there is some energy involved that truly lends strength to the needy. I doubt this, because there have been too many times when the focus of so many seemed to be bent to a single hope and the miners were still found dead, or the war was still fought, or the President still died.
I do not know if there is some solace in group awareness, or if that is merely a personal ego stroke, but I do know that their is no answer that supports the image of prayer.
Now I guess I better pray I am right....lol.
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new beginning
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Posted:Jun 30, 2006 5:11 am
Last Updated:May 9, 2007 5:19 am
1478 Views
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Throughout my life I have been a poet. Always. I have been told that I speak in iambic pentameter. I am incapable of seperating myself from the poet. So be it. But over the years. I am now 58. I have come to realize that reality is a cruel jest. There is no such thing. The loving family I treasured as a was never true. They are not bad people, but they are as venal and self-absorbed as any stranger. I realize that they do not exist to conform to my preconcieved notions, but the idealistic image that I harbored could not have been further from the reality. I 'forgive them'.
I have hungered for love. I have seen her in my mind. our eyes have danced in a private hall of mutual concern, while the chaos streams about us.The reality has been somewhat dissappointing.
I realize that no one ... not even Me... can live up to the perfect perception. I do not seek perfection. I have always been willing to work to achieve the bond. Still, I find that having to balance the demands of the world, even those I find totally un-acceptable, in the mix of these emotions has caused me to withdraw from the fray.
Raised a Catholic, at one time pondering priesthood. Lapsed. Quelling anger at insufferable priests who preach to their captive audience with their mindless drivel of old worn out and worthless sins and suffering. He taught of love and forgiveness and inclusion. They speak of atonement, and exclusion. What book are they reading?
So, I read novels. Lost in the writings of Andrew Greeley, and wishing that his world were real. How closely it approximates the reality that I envisioned, even as I find my tears obscuring his words, I laugh at the insanity, knowing that he is a celibate Cleric. How much easier to live in his world without dealing with the tipping of the insane scales.
Hope stirs like a restless fever. Dreams disturb the cynical rest. Poems speak of love and laughter and life fails the test.
..................
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beginning
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Posted:Jun 30, 2006 4:52 am
Last Updated:May 9, 2007 5:20 am
1492 Views
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To link to this blog (rm_Roryardri) use [blog rm_Roryardri] in your messages.
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