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I’m Not Wearing Any Pants

I have to put something on top of that last post, and quick.

I wouldn’t want it to be the first thing people see when they look here. I really don’t know what gets into me. Am I like that all the time, and most of the time I’m hiding it from myself and everyone else? Or am I normally well-adjusted, confident and cheerful, overtaken by the howling only on those rare dark nights of my soul? Well, no matter now. I’ll deal with it when I have to.

I was going to discuss what I did yesterday, but it’s probably more germane (what does that mean, really?) to tell what I ate yesterday. I was invited to two Superbowlâ„¢ parties. Have you ever noticed that the TV commercials for big-screen televisions that proliferate in the weeks leading up to the Superbowlâ„¢ never say the word “Superbowlâ„¢?” Beer and taco commercials, too. They always refer obliquely to “the big game.” That’s because the National Football League has claimed the word “Superbowlâ„¢” as their own, and if you try to make money with it, they will make you pay. Dumbass idea, since everybody and his Dutch uncle knows what is meant by “the big game.” I’m going to trademark that phrase. Then I’ll get that Lexus and that penthouse.

Anyway, I could hardly sleep last night, not because I was pondering the monumental importance of who won the game, or who was even in the game, or the fact that I didn’t get to see Paul McCartney’s tits (although I was told that Alicia Keyes was trying to have a wardrobe malfunction, but nothing happened). No, I couldn’t sleep because the things in my stomach weren’t getting along, and some of them were trying to leave the way they came in. Because I ate

20 grapes
5 pineapple pieces
8 pieces of salami
8 pieces of cheddar cheese
1 hot dog (no bun or condiments)
1 hamburger (white bun, mayo, catsup, pickle relish)
Chex mix (numerous handsful)
Doritos (much crunching)
2 bowls of pasta salad with feta cheese
5 pieces of rotisserie chicken (very small)
1 10-inch skewer of little shrimps (possibly poisonous)
20 round crackers of some sort, plain (couldn’t find anything to put on them)
2 bowls of chili (cheese and onions on top)
7 glasses of water (due to heavy salt intake)

It should be noted that I consumed all this in less than three hours, and that the water was in addition to the usual amount of water we all drink every day (you’re swallowing eight glasses, right? Good.). This intake was necessitated by the extremely high salt content of everything else I ate yesterday. Add in the fact that I didn’t do much chewing, but simply kept stuffing things in the front, thus forcing earlier items down the back and you can see that my stomach had a big job, and one it was not used to, or, evidently, up to.

So I stuffed in two pounds of useless crap, stayed up way too late on a school night, lay in bed moaning for a good long while before drifting off into a fitful coma, and I still don’t know who won the game.

Also my pants don’t fit.

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Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This

I’m a distressed blogger tonight.

There are a lot of us out here. You know who you are. You’re students, stay-at-home parents and office workers. You know how to use a computer — many of you are certified computer gurus, twiddling with your blog templates, writing your own code, tracking the IP addresses of your readers. Some of you know just enough to get Blogger working, don’t care about anything but typing your thoughts.

And a lot of those thoughts are unhappy. Marital problems are huge these days. There are husbands frankly admitting that they want to find some nookie on the side, wives who are at the ends of their ropes with unresponsive, uncommunicative husbands; students who are so bored with classes that they are blogging during lectures; receptionists, secretaries, IT personnel and various levels of administrator who are so disgusted by their jobs/paychecks that it seems all they do at the office is blog about how they’d rather not be at the office.

I am your brother tonight. My life hasn’t changed, but something is different. This has nothing to do with the Superbowl and the imminent end of the football season. The Vikings got drunk after Thanksgiving dinner as usual, and they’re just sobering up now, so I haven’t been following football since then.

I have a sense of foreboding this evening, as if something bad is happening, but I am not in on it. Yet. I have dark confessions burning within me that must not escape. I am contemptible. I am wallowing in undefined self-pity. It’s unworthy of me. My mind knows this, and is repulsed, but my heart doesn’t care. It is heavy with longing and broken hope.

I have never shown my face but I can’t hide from myself. I have gone too far, or have I moved at all? No one knows me, or have I revealed too much? I have nothing to say, but an urgent need to talk. I am your distressed blogger.

I’ll be fine by the time the sun comes up.

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What I Like About You

I like a woman who says “panties.”

If you say “panties,” you probably think everybody says “panties,” but you’re wrong. Some women say “underpants.” Some say “underwear.” Panties is what they are: sexy, frilly, taboo articles. I tried to wear my sister’s panties when I was a kid, so I learned they are naughty. When you say “panties,” I think you’re naughty, too. Am I alone in this, guys?

I also like a woman who can handle a stick shift. OK, a manual transmission. It’s a control thing: You have to know how a drive train works in order to drive a stick. RPM’s, flywheel, clutch, synchros. And connect all that to pushing the right pedals at the right time and sliding the shifter into position. Being in the right gear. And this doesn’t even take into account the motion of the legs required to accomplish this, preferrably in heels. This is a woman who knows what the hell she wants, and how to get it. The ultimate extension of this is the woman who downshifts to pass. If you drive like that, can I ride along?

I love a woman who can carry a tune. She doesn’t have to be a pro, or have any particular singing style, but the ability not only to recognize a melody, but also to recreate it more or less faithfully — that turns me on. It’s magic when she pulls the notes out of memory and performs the task of converting that memory into physical sound, using lungs, larynx and lips. I did it for a living for a long time, but the how of it remains a mystery. I become entranced when I witness it.

And red, red lips. I like lips a lot, and they can be plain or painted with any number of colors and glosses, and it’s all good. But when you do ’em up in Real Red they take on an erotic charge that’s hard to look away from. Maybe you think red is the wrong color for you. I urgently request you to think again.

Did I say “heels” earlier? Yeah, I know they’re uncomfortable and orthopedically incorrect, but good God you look hot when you wear them! And every time I hear a pair of them clicking down the hall outside my office, I start having nasty co-worker fantasies just from the sound. They could be the simplest black pumps or exotic platform sandals — they do something for you, from the tilt of your ankle to the line of your calf to the curve of your ass. Geez, now I’m all sweaty again.

Put on your pretty panties, baby, your high heel shoes, red dress and lipstick. C’mon out and play. C’mon out and dance in the sprinklers, twirl in the moonlight. I’ll be wearing my skinny red tie. Pick me up at the corner and let’s go for a ride.

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The Chump Chronicles, Part 3

Hoo boy, am I buzzed!

There was a power failure in the office this morning (no, I wasn’t here, because I am always a full hour late for work). It was described to me thus: off, then on, off, on, then off, then finally on for good. So all the PC’s, terminals, printers and servers were scrambled.

It is not my job to fix this stuff, but the people whose job it is don’t know how, so I have been called all over the building all morning by folks who can’t get their work done because, hey, their computer doesn’t work. To work around the fact that I can’t get MY work done while I’m fixing their stuff, they bribe me. With coffee. “Siddown! How you doin’? Have a cup of Starbucks. Hey, will you take a look at this…” So I have had like eight cups of strong joe today, and I haven’t done one thing in my job description.

My last stop was in The Big Guy’s office, and as I was wrapping things up there, who shows up but the NEW Regional IT Director, just going around to all the branches and introducing himself. What happened to the OLD Regional IT Director? That useless, know-nothing, do-nothing, sack of rhinoceros dung, whose father is a corporate executive? He has been promoted to NATIONAL IT Director. So he will be driving a Lexus and living in a penthouse, and I will be fixing all the computers.

At least I get all the coffee I can drink.

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So, for the most part, it looks like my literary exploration into the psyche of the Modern Woman was not a big hit. I am chastened. I will stop.

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The Gift

What if you were tied spreadeagle to the bed?

Not with painful metal handcuffs, of course, or wimpy ribbons, but something substantial. Nylon stockings, tied just right, are inescapable. I’ve been reading you between the lines, and I think you’d allow it. In fact, I think you’d like it. You might play the part of a bad girl, just to get yourself in “trouble.” Or you might just come right out and ask to be tied.

Oh, you might have second thoughts after a wrist or an ankle is secured, and you might try to break free. But your struggles would be half-hearted, wouldn’t they? Because you intend to give this gift, it excites you to offer yourself in this way. You won’t make it easy, but you’ll make it possible.

And then there you’d be, on your back, without your clothes, helpless. You could pull at your bonds, and I’m sure you would, but you’d find them quite sturdy. Still, it would be fun to observe you for a while, trying in vain to escape. I wonder what you’d be thinking then, as you came to the realization that you had lost all control, that whatever was going to happen was going to happen with or without your consent. You might be excited. You might be a little bit apprehensive.

You might be blindfolded.

In the darkness you listen for your lover. Is he still there in the room? You strain to discover what’s going on. You feel the openness of your perfect body, perfectly ready. You lie there in the silence, exposed and vulnerable, a willing slave-girl, a sacramental gift to this one in whom you have placed your trust. Your senses are charged, and it seems like a long time is passing. Suddenly you feel a hand behind your knee, fingers barely brushing flesh. The thrill shoots down to your toes and up to your scalp and you shiver.

Unseen fingers trace ever so lightly up one thigh. A tiny moan escapes you as they pass your crotch, brush across your belly and start down the other thigh. You arch up toward them but they are quickly withdrawn, and you learn again that you are not in charge here. A tug at your bonds reminds you of your helpless position, and you sink back to the bed.

In a moment your submission is rewarded as you feel hot breath on your breast; then a tongue, just the tip, begins slowly to circle a nipple. By instinct you want to reach around to the back of his head and pull his face into you, but your restraints hold your arms wide and above your head. You moan in frustration as your other nipple is teased into hardness. Then both nipples are squeezed between thumb and forefinger, the pressure alternating from one side to the other, back again, almost reaching the threshold of pain, stopping just short.

Your breath is coming shorter now, as you feel your lover climb between your spread legs. He blows gently on your pussy. You whimper. He plants a kiss right on the center of your womanhood and you think Yes! There! Kiss me there! but it is not to be, not yet.

Now his fingertips stroke down your sides, from your shoulders, whispering along your ribs, down to your hips, so softly they might be feathers. You gasp, then moan, as your body betrays you. The fingertips move from the sides of your hips to meet in the middle of your belly, then begin to move lower, stroking through the bush of your dark delta.

You have no movement, you have no light. All your senses focus on what is happening to you down there, and you urgently push upward, toward the probing fingers, but again they are taken away. You cry out and thrash against the ropes, but soon you know that you must relax, that indeed you have given up your power and you must take what comes.

He wants you to beg for it.

And so you beg. You plead touch me, let me have you! You receive little rewards, a kiss behind the ear, a moment of petting on the pussy, a bite on some sensitive part of you, but you must beg for everything. You are eloquent, you are vulgar. You are crying out loud. In time there is a damp sheen on your velvet skin, and you are taut with arousal.

And frustration.

Gradually, more of his attention goes between your legs. For an eternity he plays with you, petting, fondling, spreading, fingering, kissing, licking and when you are almost there, he stops. Again and again you are almost there, and it is taken away from you. Your pleading becomes like the cry of an animal as you struggle for relief. You are driven nearly to frenzy by the sweet torment, until you are laughing and crying and pleading all at the same time.

And finally, when you are insane with lust, he is ready to come inside, to cut you free, to take possession of your gift…

OK, I think we all know how this ends. I don’t have to write it, do I? This is not pornography, people. I see it as more of a literary exploration. Pornography is later.

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Amazing Grace

I just realized that the residents of Baghdad are probably called “Baghdadis.”

I also realized that I know less about women than even I thought possible. Blogging women, anyway.

I fought in the Sexual Revolution of the 1960’s on the side of Free Love, raised consciousness, gender equality and mutual respect. Some of us thought that’s what women wanted, and I lived a large segment of my life thinking that. Turns out they want to be tied up and played with — spanked, tormented, tickled and sexually humiliated.

As you know, I am more of a blog reader than a blog writer, and I regularly cruise for blogs to enlighten me. Since half of all blogs are written by women in their thirties, I have become one with that demographic, and in the past ten days, I have read no fewer than five posts from these girls admitting, sometimes shyly, sometimes brazenly, that they are curious about this particular kink, and want to try it, with someone they trust, of course. These women are not web sluts cruising for horny guys willing to pay for a peek at their webcams. They are single and married Moms, working women, college students and computer geekettes and other apparently normal people.

What the fuck? Why didn’t I know about this? I didn’t get the memo, I guess. This is a fantasy that I gave up on as a boy, thinking it was unattainable/creepy/illegal/perverted. Sounds like fun now, though.

To get in the proper mood I will write a bit of soft core pornography, and post it here this evening. Get the candles ready and the ambient music queued.

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In the meantime, while you wait for the dirty stuff, you may savor this picture. While I was working out this morning, I watched part of To Catch a Thief, with Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. The part I saw was the section in which they meet and get to know each other, over a 24-hour period. The chemistry is unbelievable, the erotic tension palpable — you don’t see it in movies these days — and the dialog is so fucking snappy I wanted to memorize all of it. Sadly, I was not able to. However, I did come to the conclusion that this woman is indeed a goddess.


Amazing Grace. Who’s your Baghdadi?
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How To Waste Your Life

So, it appears I have wasted my entire life.

It was a challenge, and there were times I didn’t think I’d be able to do it, but after a thorough inventory I am here to report that I have apparently frittered away enough of my time on this planet that there is no way I can salvage anything of value. Oh, well. At least you can benefit from my experience. Just read and follow these handy pointers.

#1: Be Born Into It

OK, this first one isn’t really a pointer at all — it’s just a sad fact of life. If your parents are underachievers, chances are good you will be, too. It’s not heredity. It’s environment. Nothing could prepare your young mind for failure better than growing up with people who aren’t focused on success, tuned into personal growth or interested in making it. It may not seem fair to you that some of us have this advantage, but get used to it: Life isn’t fair. If you really want to waste your life you can catch up by following these other tips.

#2: Be Afraid
Be very afraid. All of us have fear: the unknown, rejection, retribution, criticism and failure. Just make sure you don’t stand up and confront your fears. When facing a difficult or scary proposition, such as starting a business or asking for a date, remember: Your concerns are legitimate. The results could be devastating, the pain unbearable. Keep this in mind and you’ll never get anywhere. As an added bonus you will be able to go through your whole life virtually unknown.

#3: Screw Around in School
Where I come from you have to go to school until a certain age. This is the time of your life you will one day think of as “your youth.” Your mind is at its most fertile during these years, and school is an excellent place to stifle any creative thinking. Hang out with friends, cut classes, eat pizza and attend football games and dances. Remember: You don’t have to learn anything to graduate from high school.

#4: Go To School Forever
If you didn’t follow the advice in Tip #3, you may have graduated from high school and you could now be tempted to get started on some kind of productive career. Go to college instead. You’ll get nothing real accomplished there. Also, there is no end to it. You can take ten years to get your first diploma if you want to, and then there is no end to the number of additional degrees you can pile on. A growing number of people are stopping right here at Tip #4 and wasting all the rest of their lives in college.

#5: Avoid Successful People
It may seem self-evident, but don’t forget that if you get too close to people who are making something of their lives there is a danger that you will be swept up in that maelstrom of success. These people may appear friendly at first but don’t be fooled: They are scary people, they have an agenda and they are liable to suck you into their alien world.

#6: Try the Arts
A career in sculpture or music is almost as wasted as one in academia (See #4 above). There’s maybe one chance in a million that you’ll be any good at it, and even then you won’t be able to earn a living. If you really want to taste the waste, go into pop art, like movies or rock ‘n’ roll. In those fields you will be competing against other “artists” who may not even be as good as you and who have billions of fans. The odds of producing anything useful? Zip. (Bonus tip: Shooting for a career in sports can also be a monumental waste of time.)

#7: Experiment With Drugs
A lifetime addiction is best, but even if you find that you cannot make a real committment to drugs or alcohol, substance abuse can slow you down for years, often your most productive years. You’ll find a wide variety of recreational drugs, from pot to heroin and cocaine. Cocaine packs an excellent double whammy: It wastes your money as well as your life. Those who want to keep it legal will find liquor to be every bit the equal of the heaviest drugs, with a bonus: it can destroy your liver, too.

#8: Be A Team Player
In any enterprise, somebody does the work and somebody gets the credit. The work has to get done, and it’s always good sports like you who do the heavy lifting. But the acclaim — and the money — generally goes to someone else. Understand that these are two distinct skills: Doing the work, and being known as someone who gets things done. The latter lead lives of happiness and wealth. The former just waste their time.

#9: Play Fair

Treat people with dignity and respect. If you have an unfair advantage, don’t press it. Consider the feelings of others. Resist the urge to simply take whatever you want from those who are weaker, less experienced or ill-prepared. Crippled in this way, get out in the world and fight for your share of the action. But fight fairly. This will ensure a lifetime of failure and frustration.

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Dream Lover

Last night Linda came to me in a dream.

I was at a race track, watching the ponies. There were people around, but no big crowd. It was broad daylight, hazy sun streaming through a stand of cypress. It felt like early morning, not racing time. The horses were warming up, training. In my waking life, I don’t go to race tracks.

I turned to the woman standing with me at the chain link fence. She looked at me and it was Linda. She gave me her sweet smile, the one that always melts my heart, her dark eyes downcast shyly. She pressed her side against my side, so the only place for my arm was around her shoulder. It felt OK there.

We made small talk, but I knew she was dead. I wanted to ask her why she left. I wanted to know if anything hurt. I wanted her to forgive me for…what? I wasn’t sure, but I needed forgiveness. I wanted to hold her, take her face in my hands, kiss her eyes.

She turned her head. I heard someone say You know she can’t be here.

A pack of horses thundered by. I rode one, and saw Linda, standing at the edge of the track. She was waving and calling to me, something I couldn’t hear. I’m sure she would forgive me, if I knew how to ask, if I knew my crime, if I could talk to her again.

But I rode away, around the turn.

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Of Stats and Tabs

Geek Alert: This is a Geeky Post!

The things we can do with internet technology. I had this blog for a few months (before I became obsessed with it), and since I read way more blogs than I write, I started to notice that people — some people, anyway — were blogging about their blogs. Their own blogs. I suppose this is inevitable. This kind of thing is so new, a lot of us are still going “Wow! I can’t believe I just thought up something and now someone in New Fucking Zealand is reading it and talking about it.” Anyway, inevitable , and totally OK with me. Just as enjoyable reading, actually, as stories about their pets or their vacations.

But one category of writing about one’s own blog had my curiosity up more than certain others, and that is writing about who is visiting your site. People were talking about BlogPatrol and Sitemeter and other such tracking services. I had only a vague idea what these were, and I thought “If they’re free, they must be bogus.” I decided not to bother with them, a decision that lasted until about a month ago. First I signed up for BlogPatrol. I was horrified.

I found that I could look up IP addresses of visitors to this blog and correlate the time stamp with comments they had left and figure out who was who and when they visited at other times and didn’t leave a comment. The amount of information available stops just short of physical measurements, and I think I could get those for a small additional charge. Shocked and revolted, I added Sitemeter to my blog.

Even more info. This time charts showing entry and exit pages, and duration of visits. Quick links back to the home pages of visitors’ ISP’s, where I could sometimes figure out approximate geographical location (Do not look out your window. That is not me out there in the rented Malibu.)

After each session with one of these “services,” I felt like I had just been to a cheap whorehouse. I needed a shower. Damn this weasel-like spying! Could I ever be clean again? But I kept going back. I told myself that I was just doing research, trying to determine the best-liked posts, so that, as a public service I could focus more on those types of stories. But in the end I had to admit to myself, as I now must admit to you, that it was just plain nosy prying.

So, ashamed of myself and with eyes averted, here now is My Pledge to you: I will never try to figure out who you are, where you live or when you visit my blog. (The real question, anyway, is why you visit my blog.) I will always respect your privacy and your personal space. No further effort will be made at tracking anybody here. You will not be stalked just for visiting this blog, unless you ask me to stalk you. Then we’ll talk.

Which brings me to Firefox. You may think these topics are unrelated, but stay with me for a moment.

Firefox is a web browser. It’s freely available here. I use it because the number one browser, Microsoft Internet Explorer, has a lot of security holes in it, and it is targeted by hackers, who use it to install Trojans, keyloggers, password stealers and viruses on your computer. For those of you who don’t know, Internet Explorer (IE) has the ability to use what Microsoft calls ActiveX Controls. Just the name sounds scary, doesn’t it? Without going into all the details, this is a harmless technology that can be used either to greatly enhance your internet experience, or to take over your computer.

So several months ago I downloaded a beta version of Firefox, which was called Firebird at that time but I guess they couldn’t keep the name because of Pontiac or something. I installed it and started using it instead of IE, although I kept IE on my system because some web pages are designed in such a way that they only work with Internet Explorer (this is also known as Bad Web Design). Long story short, I was delighted with it. It has a built-in popup blocker and a password manager. It automatically imports all your settings from IE when you install it, so switching is no hassle. It is impervious to ActiveX exploits. And it has tabbed browsing.

Tabbed browsing works like this: You can open multiple web pages, and Firefox creates a row of tabs along the top. Click on a tab to view an already-open web page. Hold the Ctrl key and click on a link on a page you are viewing, and that link opens in a new tab. Switch to the new tab when you’re ready, and switch back to the original page if you’d like. You can even save a group of sites as bookmarks or favorites, and open them all at the same time in separate tabs, and here is how this connects to the first part of this post.

I have a group of blogs (yes, your blogs) saved as bookmarks in one folder, and when I want to read all my favorite blogs, I can open them all with one click. Then I start at one end of the panel of tabs and read all the blogs and write comments, if I think of any. Along the way I answer the phone, drink coffee, pet the cat, write emails and generally live my life. By the time I get half way through this procedure, some of these blogs have been open, sight unseen by me, in their own tabbed windows, for a long damned time. Hours, maybe.

Do you see where this is going? When I open all these blogs at the same time, the BlogPatrol and Sitemeter clocks start running on all of them at the same time. So to the owners of the ones near the end, when they review their site statistics, it must look like someone is obsessed with their blogs and lingering on them for hours. They could be proud and honored, of course, but most likely they will just get the heebie jeebies, thinking some creep is paying way too much attention to their semi-private musings.

So here are the morals: 1.) Get Firefox. Your computer will be less likely to pick up a nasty virus and transmit it to me, and 2.) if, at bedtime you notice that Jones has been on your site since 8:30 in the morning, don’t worry — I just haven’t gotten to your tab yet.

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