Girls Passing

Few among you will appreciate my subsequent pontification. For one, you may not be attuned to esoteric dissertation along these lines. Then again, you may not give a shit. If you lose interest after half of the next paragraph, it means that you and I are not on the same wavelength. Still, I would like to know whether there are any of you out there who give a damn.

I used to like girls. Their lithe strutting on the athletic field twisted my psyche to lay myself at their feet in a manner of speaking. Acne notwithstanding I was willing to lay my soul in willing servitude if only they would acknowledge my presence in waiting along with all of my fellows in pain. We ached for their attention and vied for first in line if they ever allowed one of us to serve. Alas, we were inexperienced and naïve. Nothing happened that I would call memorable. Yes, we did exchange saliva from time to time, but no ownership on either side was assumed. Merely chance encounters took place regardless of all the plotting, planning, and arranging. These were prior to smart phones, television, and texting, Etc.

I matured in some ways, and became discerning in the selection. I began to distinguish between sexual attraction and deeper yet less primal feelings. Words became my tool in my fantasy where I imagined myself dealing with scenarios of wanted females who would appreciate me in some ways. Somehow they aged from the pimply silliness toward the curvy sanity that they demonstrated over my unbridled doglike slobbery attitude. Yes, I needed to show maturity to attempt to measure up to their superior attitude.

By the time I worked out the strategy, I was already behind. They wanted marriage with children in the plans, and a man reliable enough to pay the bills until … when? They simply played with me until finding out that I was not the one, and then they went on to other unsuspecting males to try again. Meanwhile I took time off from reality and did my manly adventures with guns and such. All it did for me was to want the sweet softness of females more than ever. It was as if I had fettered myself in order to make it easier for them to get me. Really, I wanted it. It happened, and I do not regret it.

Now, years later, I am still coping with the changing fauna of my environs. I still like girls, but it is now in a very different respect. Girls now are people whom I protect and treasure for their beauty, loveliness, and value. I am willing to die for them to protect them from harm and to give them a good life. The sexual component of my attention of youth has transferred to the total support for their success in becoming satisfied women in their own lives. As they and I age I appreciate their charms more then ever. My vista of female appreciation expands in depth and width. I no longer have strict rules about my former requirement. I enter any visage of female endeavor with an open mind. She may charm me with any attitude, aptitude, or attribute as she chooses. Maturity, intelligence, and calm demeanor will get my attention. Physical charms are on the same level, yet they are the first alert. I am now in more the protective mode then ever. I am alert to a woman needing help, or be protected from predators. I have become vulnerable to false needs. I am to be had for a penny. Females of any age can own me at a glimpse. I need a female to protect me from females.

Debunk Still Another Site, Oh My ..

I have read with some interest a blog posted at http://www.msmariedmx.blogspot.com. She writes well. Her grammar is good, and the material sounds real. Actually, she may be real, at least to a certain extent. Then again, I am not the only reader questioning her veracity. I left a comment on the August 30, 2011 post as follows:

Your switch from a “good little housewife” to a dominant wife is admirable and appropriate. I am still trying to catch up with your earlier posts, so I may not have your current position assimilated. I especially like the outdoor shots of you and sissy. I find your narrative provocative, and your photographs enticing. You and your sissy are beautiful. I have a question, however: how do you manage to take your action pictures? Is there a third person who is taking the pictures? I have a devious mind, but I would have a hard time arranging these sexy pictures while I was in the foreground. Please give us a hint.

I was being kind to give her a chance to respond without being pressed or accused of anything. She did not respond. Well, at least she allowed the comment to be posted. The thing is, there is no way that she could have those photographs of her and “sissy” taken without a third party in attendance. Actually, most of the photographs are such excellent quality, that I assume a third person with great skill in commercial photography is doing it. I have no problem with that. However, I do have a problem with her presenting it as if it were just she and “sissy”.

There has been some controversy and comments on this blog and others concerning this same issue. I have no problem with it other than it being fake. No amount of covering her beautiful ass will explain the fact that some other person is taking the pictures when she and “sissy” are both in it. Given that, the question comes up, “What else is fake?” Is she fake? Well, she is taking care to cover her face, so she is probably real as a person. “Sissy” may or may not be real in the given scenario, for he has no face, no voice, no words, no thoughts, so he may not actually exist as her "sissy" other than an actor. As much as I would like to think that she has a real situation, I cannot accept the other conflicting presentations. So, unless she comes clean and explains the situation, I accuse her of being fake.

Oh, The Sexual Attraction ...

I drove to town today on some errands. None of them were worthy of note on this blog except one of my observations as I slowed the vehicle toward a traffic signal turning red. On the wide walkway to my right a woman was pausing to give her dog on a leash a chance to sniff the vegetation. My necessary preoccupation with driving in traffic prevented me from doing justice to the view that she presented. Nevertheless, the fraction of a second take was memorable, even worthy of thought later on the day. You all know that I am no longer a young man in my prime. I have done my deeds, and am trying to reap the benefits or fallout thereof. As a consequence, I have a wider range of appreciation for female beauty as opposed to those of you of much younger age.

My wife was next to me on the passenger seat of my car. She most likely missed the exquisite view that I retained of that creature. I could not say anything without arousing her wrath in the fashion that females do when feeling threatened by competition. It is a shame, for I wanted to share with her my feelings. Alas, some feelings need to remain private. This may have been one.

The fraction of a second image of a woman on the road was satisfying, and also provocative. She was underdressed for the time of day and season, but presented her features well. She was not in her younger days, but showed her self with grace and charm. Dog notwithstanding, she could have raised much support from males of all preference and age. I was just thinking, If I were free to date, how would I approach her, for surely I would be compelled based on her looks. My sweet wife was oblivious of my wayward thoughts and rightly so. I did not, and would not follow up on the provocative female with her dog. Yet, if I were free to do so, …

Heartbeats Accelerating

Those of us who are terminal romantics have a problem with listening to love songs and as a result not getting drunk or harming ourselves in other ways. It is the case of just not having another way, constructive or otherwise, to serve a worthwhile woman for the moment.

It is not that I am in that way, at least, not to that extent. I have a worthwhile woman to serve. My problem is that I am aware of many other worthwhile women out there who need to be served, and there is no one to serve them. It may be a matter of ill-timing, bad vibes, problematic social skills, and many other ills. In most cases a one-time encounter with well-meaning loving man she could build her confidence. She could build her acceptance of the fact that she is desired by someone, and that someone is willing to care for her, and serve her, at least, in a one-time scenario. It need not be kinky. It need not be weird. It need not be sex oriented.

I am listening to Linda Ronstadt’s “Heartbeats Accelerating”. For many of you she is passé and old time. Still, one must give credit to accomplishment and to talent. She has had both in addition to being a beautiful woman. This song is heartrending, being emanated by a woman who is in need of love, perhaps lust satisfaction as well.

“Love, love, where can you be? Are you out there looking for me?”

She is reaching out for the part of her that is unfulfilled. Not sex, not sensual satisfaction, just love.

She is ready. Her workweek over, no plans for the days off, she hopes for someone to appear and take her away to joy.

“Will you come on a Saturday night
Maybe then the time will be right
Love, love, where can you be
Love, I am waiting
Heartbeats accelerating”

The tempo, the cadence, the melody, all support the mood of this needy lover. She is open to the outcome of the encounter, not dismissing the sensual aspects,

“When you steal into my room
What earthly body will you assume
Love, love, where can you be
Love, I am waiting
Heartbeats accelerating”

I love women without bounds. This is one of my wishes to be super hero, one who could multiplex my time and place to satisfy women such as this. No harm done, not regrets, no bounds, no commitments, just pleasing one person at a time in the way they would learn to be self-appreciative because they are loved, because they are beautiful.

Alas, I am only human. I can work only on one deserving woman at a time. Even then, I cannot change one person’s view of herself. We are our own worst critics.

Was that a Reward or Punishment?

I had done some hard labor on the property in addition to my daily weight lifting. Not being as full of vigor as in my early days, consequently, I was dragging my ass toward the end of the day. MW noticed. She fixed leftovers for dinner, and we made a good meal of them. As usual, I would have begun to pick up the dishes in preparation for washing them. She said, “You will not. I will take care of them.”

Hm… Taking care of “them” is usually my job. The idea of her washing dishes is blasphemous. I tippy-toed out of the dining room and went back to wasting my time on the computer. An hour or so later I ventured into the kitchen and found the dishes in the sink waiting to be washed. Not having much to do for the evening I decided to do just that. Afterward I settled down with a book.

Some time later I was ready to shower, and then watch a movie with MW. As I crossed her path, she said, “Look at your reward on the bed. You may have it before or after your shower.” The only thing on the bed that she had neatly made was a bath brush. I was not in the mindset of expecting a reward, but I sort of guessed the intent of the brush, which was neither a shower nor a bath. I left the bedroom with some feelings of less than anticipation. Some time later when I returned she ordered me to lean on the bed and present my naked ass. I did, and waited for the rest that followed almost immediately.

I am not a pain slut. I do not like pain. Still, under some circumstances, pain is almost like pleasure. You know, you take what you get and don’t argue. Pain I did get. That plastic bath brush has features that accentuate the impact when wielded properly. She did wield it properly, and it hurt my ass something fierce. I don’t know why she stopped after about twenty strikes, since the visual effect was not immediately apparent. She let me go about my business after feeling the welts on my tender butt skin. Soon after that she had stopped me and ordered me to pose so that she could take some pictures of her administration of her rights. The reason for my punishment, or “reward” in her terminology was that I ignored her order of not washing dishes after dinner. After I showered she asked me how my buns felt under the hot water. She really cares.

Problem with Postings

I can post as before, however, I cannot respond to comments. This blog site, it is free so I should not complain, has stopped me from accessing the comments section of the posts. Those of you who left comments please do not think that I am ignoring you. I just cannot get to the place where I can either read or respond to you. In time it may be resolved, or I may find another way.

Wasted Chances

My patriotic friend is hanging in there, but the years have made an impression on him that, I am sure, he does not relish. He has never been verbose, but as the days go by he uses fewer words to express his needs or responses to queries by others about his views. He still writes, and I am amazed at the similarity of style that I have picked up from him. For all anyone knows, I could be writing all that. Except, I am not that good. I assume that I could be in some years. I could use the practice at least. In a small way some thought nags me, saying, “It’s not the years, dummy, it’s the wisdom that he has.” Yeah, right. Wisdom comes with years for some. Maybe for me. We will see.

He was more morose than usual, probably attributed to a recent acknowledgment of his mortality. He had tried to do some work on his truck that required lifting it so that he could slither under it to access the transmission. He decided that lifting the truck was not within his immediate priorities given his other options. After he had related the event to me I laughed, and said, “I did that some years ago, but would not want to do it now. Get a tow truck and have the dealer fix it for you. You have more important and less dangerous things to do.”

His subsequent musing was recorded partly by him in text, partly by me from memory.

I must have been in my forties when I realized that there were things I could not do such as I had done before. Running through the elephant grass as I dodged the bullets sprayed at me by the VC [Viet-cong] I had the feeling of “I’ll get you bastards, as soon as I get back to my truck.” I did get back, I did get my 50 caliber gun pointed, and did return fire. If I had to do it today, I would not be here to write this. I am now many years later although not necessarily wiser. One thing I have learned is that time is getting distorted. Anything that I do takes more time, but there is less time to allocate to it, resulting in less and less opportunity to do anything that needs to be done.

I will give you an example. I had a sweetheart whom I courted for some years. I got nowhere with her as far as sexual intercourse was concerned. It was fun and a challenge, but not blatant. I had plenty of time. Then things got in the way. I was in the Army, I was in Vietnam, gone for three years. During that time she met someone, and then … you know.

I was young enough to start again. I did. I did well. Still, there were things I meant to do, but did not so, for I thought that I still had time to do later. It is now later. Much later, and I have not the time. Even if I had the time, I do not have the means. A moment of pleasure missed yesterday is hours missed later, assuming that I had the means to suffer that pleasure. The opportunities that I had and wasted are gone. They will not come again. The capabilities that I had have diminished to where only wishes remain. Regrets abound. I now must plan a graceful exit from this world.

I was unable to deal with his statement. I could sympathize with his position, but was fearful of my coming to be there in turn not too long from now. I did not know what to say. I have had my own regrets of lost opportunities, and guessed what he felt.

I have lost opportunities over the last three years that I cannot recover. I am getting to be the age where an opportunity lost is lost forever.

Am I morphing into my patriotic friend?

We are inseparable. If he leaves, will he take part of me with him?

When he leaves, will I?

... Been There ...

Maybe I am just a bit too sensitive. Tell me. Have you heard someone say, “’Been there, done that?”


What does that mean?

Does that mean, “Ho hum, you aren’t telling me anything new here?”

Does that mean, “I’m with you, I’ve experienced it like you, but you’re boring me?”

Does that mean, “You schmuck, quit boring me with your drivel as if you ever had an original thought?”

Have you ever said “’Been there, done that?” and did not realize that you were insulting a person because of your repeating a common inane phrase without regard to its veracity or usefulness?

Alone

I wrote this a bit over a year ago.

I am free as far as messing with the little guy is concerned. I can do to him, with him, or he can do to me whatever our fertile imagination provides. Yet, it is not as good as it would be with MW.


MW is off on her annual week’s stay with her friends at a nearby resort. I drove her there and moved all their luggage and stuff into the units that they were to occupy. We had a nice dinner in the main unit, and, as usual, I spoke many words of double meanings and they were understood. They knew that I am a horny bastard ready to be used. With wine and spirits I may have had an excuse for my wise-ass comments. I assumed that MW would punish me for them, but she let me get away with them for now. That is both good and bad. I stayed overnight, and left mid-morning the next day to go home to allow the lovely ladies enjoying a few days of vacation.

I am now at home alone. I can indulge in my right hand gratification as much as I want. If she were to ask about it later, I would tell her. If she did not, it will remain between me and the little guy. I miss her. Her absence reminds me of how much I love to be with her.

Nothing has changed.