The last sane bloke in Chicago

A return home, for a short while

2011-12-27T14:07:00.003-06:00

My arrival back in my hometown of Chicago coincided with the holidays. Packed airports, packed airplanes, packed taxi cab lines, packed grocery stores.

Thanks to the decision to throw a small portion of my annual income at hiring a houseboy, I was able to avoid 2 of these 4 areas of mass infestation: the airplanes were calmer in first class, and the airports even more calmer in the private clubs that seem to be getting fewer and fewer members as the supposed recession carries on. That, my friends, is a good thing.

Chicago in the winter is lovely to look at, but terrible to witness. My gentleman's gentleman pulled up mere seconds after I texted him that I was waiting by the terminal exit, and I hopped into his/my car for the journey back to my headquarters/home. Joseph was a random find, appearing outside my door, drunk, at 2am on warm summer weeknight. His callous attitude and unfriendly nature made me like him immediately. 2 days later, he was hired to assist me in the areas that most women fail: cooking, cleaning, pressing my shirts and organizing my schedule.

With only a week left in 2011, I've come to realize that 2011 was neither a bad year nor a great year. I had plenty of travel, a few lovely ladies to keep me company, and generated enough income to really blow the doors open on the adventure I called life in 2012.

Let's see if I can stick to keeping the details together long enough to toss some words onto your screen on a more regular basis.

Thanks to those who continue to email me or Facebook PM me, requesting an update on the life of Sane. Let's try again in 2012 -- I've missed you all. Speaking of Facebook, kindly add me as a friend if you so desire: Brian Chi Sane.

My Way or My Way

2011-04-18T00:12:00.003-05:00

I had an interesting Google Chat conversation tonight with a lady who I am soon to meet on a upcoming trip to the East Coast. I'm not sure what exactly put us on this line of conversation, but I felt the drive to share it with you find readers.

My dating rituals haven't changed much over the years, but I've honed some skills that I find make dating more fun, not just for me, but for the lovely ladies I let spend time with me.

One area of dating where I've always found the most success over the schmucks in the market is forcing the issue that dates are for my sake. I don't date a woman for her pleasure, I date her for my pleasure. That's one reason I tend not to date women higher up in financial status than myself, or more popular in terms of society. I'm the one spending my (more valuable) time with her, and my money, so its my way. There's no highway, but they're free to stop seeing me. Few do.

Recently, one of my lovers gave me a wonderful Valentine's Day present: she gave me the phone number of her best friend and said I should ask her out. Her best friend I had only seen in rare pictures, but I had commented on her attractiveness. The friend Facebook stalked me (I later learned) and was curious about me. She's a model, of sorts, but not on the same level as one of the more popular bubble heads you see Photoshopped on the cover of a magazine. Still, she's prettier than most, which makes my internal alarms go off.

As you'll discover through reading my little diary here, I have this bad knack of being an asshole but still providing women what they want the most and understand the least. Kimberly, the best friend of one of my favorite lovers (let's call her Justice), definitely gets hit on too much, so she's used to the attention of schmucks in her life. Little did she know that I have almost zero schmuck genetic material in my cells, thanks to my Casanova father and racist and prejudice mother. Gotta love good genes.

Our first date was uneventful: 45 minutes in a coffee shop. I told her after 45 minutes that I was done. "Done?" she asked. "Yes, done."

"Do you have plans now?" she inquired. "No." I left.

Our second date happened when I called her randomly and told her I was picking her up the next day (Wednesday). I told her to wear a dress, preferably not red. I picked her up at 7 and we went to dinner at a halfway decent restaurant. I had planned on paying, so the date was for my sake.

Sidenote: would you buy a $1000 airplane ticket and let Expedia pick your destination? Would you pay $30 to go to the movie theater and let the theater pick which movie you're seeing? Of course not, unless you're a schmuck. I pay, I choose.

We sat at a table at the restaurant, far from the kitchen as I had requested when I made reservations. The waiter brought us 2 menus and a wine menu. I grabbed Kimberly's menu off the table and handed it back to the waiter, who walked off for a few minutes. Kimberly gave me a stare but said nothing.

The waiter walked up to us and asked if we wanted anything to drink. I ordered a glass of red for myself, and a different glass of red for Kimberly. That's when she asked: "don't I get to pick?" I said "No."

Once the waiter brought our wine, he asked if we were ready to order. I said "Yes" and proceed to order food for Kimberly (a small steak and some veggies) and food for myself (a big steak and no veggies). I ordered hers medium, mine rare. She didn't put two cents in.

"Why don't I get to make a decision, I'm a big girl," she asked, with almost a bitchy attitude.

"I'm paying. You eat what I order or you get dinner after this one. I won't order you something I won't eat myself if you don't like it, and I hate leftovers." End of discussion.

We made small talk when our meals came. The wine was great and she commented as such. I scarfed my steak down (16 ounces) in record time while she was still eating her small order of veggies and 8 ounce steak. I started to eat her veggies and part of her steak without asking. "You're in a rush!" she exclaimed.

"I don't like wasting time." She finished her meal and I chomped down the bits she couldn't. I told her I was done (I didn't ask if she wanted desert), I flipped a few $20s on the table and we left, before the waiter could return with the bill.

Off to a bar we go, with her in her sharp green dress, a color that few women can pull off, and me in my dark green jacket with distressed vintage bootcut jeans and a deep maroon tailored shirt (with black cuff links). The bar wasn't too busy, but busy enough, but the bartender saw me come in and made 2 seats at the bar appear magically. We sat.

He asked what we wanted, and I immediately ordered her a drink (a Moscow Mule) and myself a Scotch neat with a water back. Again she asked if she gets to make a decision, to which I said "You plan the next date, you pick me up, you pay for everything, you can do whatever the fuck you want."

We drank, chatted, had a good time. Her physical contact with me was intense, which was helpful since practically every gal in the bar was jealous of her amazing legs and her gorgeous eyes. If this one is a waste of time, she at least increased the desire of other women towards me 500%. I'd keep her around just as eye candy and a jealousy trigger for the women in the room (90% of which were fat and disgusting).

Kimberly finished her drink before mine was half empty. "Can I get another drink?" she asked. "Sure," I said, and waved down the bartender. "She'll have some tap water," I told him.

"Umm, I was hoping for something...stronger."

"Yeah?" I asked.

"That first drink was tasty," she responded.

I said nothing, just sipped my cocktail. I paid for the first round in cash immediately, and if she had ordered her own cocktail, she'd be footing the bill. From how tight her dress was and how small her purse is, I doubt she brought cash with her anyway.

We had another round of drinks -- on MY schedule -- and I told her I was done. "I'd like to stay out a bit later!" she meowed. "You're welcome to. Cabs are easy to get here," I let her know. "Oh, no I meant with you."

"I'm sure there will be other opportunities."

And that was that. Of course she's seen me since then. Of course she's spent time in my bed. When I buy airfare, I pick the destination. When I go to the movies, I pick the film I'm watching. It's my money, it's my way. I don't really care what other people want -- they're welcome to stop seeing me. Few do, though, and that's a lesson for the guys who read this. Don't be a schmuck. It's your time and your money, and both are valuable to you.

Don't forget to add me to Facebook. I need more "friends" on there.

A New Year, a New Sane?

2011-02-15T00:50:00.002-06:00

2011. It's been 1 year and 4 months since I posted something of value to this site. Who knows why I stopped. Maybe I found something I thought I wanted, but in the end it wasn't what I needed. That's a lesson in life: you have what you want, but is it what you need?

Whatever happened, I've been bored not airing my grievances and pleasures to the masses. It was a good run for awhile there. The last I spoke of was a partial, incomplete story about the lovely Sandra, my latin lover for a moment in time. She still crosses both my mind and my fantasies often, and we still communicate via email now and then. With the women I've been with since her, none have compared to her beauty and sexuality and raw courage. I'm proud of what she's doing, although I do find some frustration that our time together was so short. So it is, my friends: life passes us by if we don't make the most of it.

The rest of my time away was locked in a bad relationship with a good person. This new gal, Kira, wasn't what I wanted. I pushed her off of me when we first met, but then I tumbled into a relationship that did neither of us any good. The breakup was rough. She's doing fine, I'm doing great, but we don't talk. There are some amazing stories there, and some sad ones. In due time, I'll tell them all.

Since my breakup with Kira just under a year ago, I've dated some fine women: Christen, Rebecca, Helen, and some others. Nothing too serious until Christen, who I am seeing still to this day. She's amazing. She's pretty and driven, she loves sex and loves to be with me. She also loves that her man is with other women, and she openly encourages it and defends it when people take issue with it.

Is she a girlfriend? Not quite. A long term lover, for sure. But she also knows that with my busy life, the travel, the events, the galas, the excitement -- I need more than one gal in one city. It's good to have women like that.

Busy has been good. I've excelled, grown, profited, and made a bigger name for myself, both in the States and around the world. 2011 will be more of the same, but you can bet it will also be more of the Sane.

Stay tuned for details.

Cough, cough...

2011-02-15T00:47:00.001-06:00

Is this thing on?

Back for another harsh winter...

2009-11-16T10:38:00.002-06:00

...it's been since August 1st since most of you have heard from me. Thanks to those who continue to communicate via email -- it's been one of those summers, for sure.

I traveled too much, worked too hard, and let a lot of my year get crunched into a period of hectic behavior so I could have an easier winter ahead of me. For those who have been actively waiting for me to get back to hang out -- I accomplished my goal. My winter is free.

My sex life has calmed down quite a bit. This will change this winter, so if you only come here for scandal, may the scandal begin.

I've missed you all. Say hello if you're still listening!

Tools of the Trade

2009-10-19T09:44:00.001-05:00

You are already aware that I carry a gun. I don’t kill people, I rarely even have to fire it at someone. A gun is not the tool of violence; in most cases, just brandishing this tool can prevent violence from breaking out. In situations where a scared or intimidated mark decides to try to take the advantaged position, my gun’s barrel facing them or penetrating them can shut that idea down fast. If I need to knock someone out without permanent damage, the gun’s buttplate is just strong enough to put them down but not so strong as to leave a permanent mark. It’s useful to pop doors off their hinges, stop a vehicle from pulling away and even take out a security camera.

Read the rest.

1...2...3...4...5, Part II

2009-08-01T13:28:00.003-05:00

Continued from Part I yesterday.

"1" stands for the first orgasm my latin lover had, face down, belly down, thighs spread, my face nestled gently between them.

After she had come down, I was nuzzled up against her, my arm hugging her from the side. Her goosebumps had disappeared, which means she was resting, but I would have none of that. I carefully caressed her back and arms again, more gentle than before, and within moments those gorgeous signs of desire returned. I jokingly hit her tickle spot, just to tease her a bit more. Her back jumped a bit, but when it returned so did my hand, caressing its way down to her ass and thighs. Her body is muscular but she still has a feminine form, and I really can't keep my hands off of her.

This time, my caresses brought forth the moans faster. Her face was turned sideways, facing me, but her eyes were closed. Her mouth was forming the moans beautifully, and I figured I may as well bring her off one more time. I realized that this lovely lady needed to be fucked, and I needed to fuck her, but I had no idea if she'd come from penetration, so I wanted to secure her second "O" now rather than later.

As my hands touched her thighs, one then the other, she parted them slightly. "I'm still wet" she told me. A quick check confirmed it. Later she would tell me that the words "I'm still wet" means "Do me now." I caressed her dripping pussy courtesy-reach-around style, spreading her full lips and pushing a finger only a little bit inside her. Again her ass and hips were grinding, up and down, so I manipulated her clit and pussy lips to the rhythm her body commanded me to.

Because of her full clit, part exposed and part open, her orgasms come quickly. She can come faster than almost any woman I have ever bedded, and they're sexy and loud and fill the air with a scent of heaven. What feels great for her is an ego stroke for me, but I have a feeling that her future lovers won't have an issue bringing her off unless they aren't gentle to begin with.

And it's not just about her orgasm, it's about teaching her my various tricks to find a woman's safety zone and then breach it. I've spoken with hundreds of women over my sexual years (maybe thousands?) who have boyfriends or husbands or fuckbuddies that just don't pay attention to how to bring them out of their shell and then ravage them before they can return. Women who learn from a solid lover can pass it on to future lovers, and that's my end result: bringing this lovely young lady's sexual peak to her life NOW rather than in her 30s.

As I slowly penetrated her with 2 fingers, not really entering deeply, just beyond her lips, she grinded harder, moaned louder, and put her hands out to her sides as she grasped the side pillows while biting and pressing against the pillow under her face. It didn't take long for her to come, and when she did her body tensed and released over and over. Her goosebumps came to full fruition, capturing her whole body in the only form of braille I know how to read.

And then she was done. That's number "2."

As she came down, I straddled her back, my hard cock growing even harder. I put my cock head onto her neck and slowly rubbed it down he back. Moans. I went from her neck to just above her ass, and then rubbed my cock all the way back up. Groans. It's electric, especially when my cock can bring goosebumps to her body.

I turned her over and asked her if she wanted to get fucked. "Yes, please, fuck me." I love her latin accent that carries through to her perfect English. Where should I fuck you? "Fuck me in my pussy, please, fuck me." I nodded. I straddled her tits and took my hard cock, grabbed her head and slipped into her mouth. Yesterday, she had some problems getting my full length into her mouth. After a great blowjob, she managed to get a little under half of it into her mouth.

Today, I'm going to challenge her. I watched her eyes and she watched mine, and I fucked her mouth slowly. I used my own pressure, my own rhythm as I pulled back to her lips and then penetrated her again. When more than half was in, I hit her throat, causing her to gag a little, but not lose how wet her mouth was. I continued to pull into and out of her mouth, getting a little bit more in each time.

I wanted to throat fuck her harshly, teach her a lesson in what she'll get if she teases me as she had. Instead, I wanted to make her comfortable with my cock in her mouth. This won't be the last time I see her, and I want to build her up to the point that I can slide my entire thick cock down her throat as fast and harshly as she deserves it.

She admitted to never swallowing a man's come or getting a full load on her face. Both of these issues will be resolved on this trip, and she will love and desire both from me in the future.

Finally, I realized I needed to be inside of her, inside of her pussy instead of her mouth. She's beautiful, but I want to break her cherry that had rebuilt itself after months of not having sex with anyone.

I stood up, reached down to the nighstand and unzipped my medicine bag. There are 4 condoms in there, so I pulled one out. I tore the package, squeezed the tip and unrolled it onto my thick cock. I prefer the "larger" sized condoms because they're not as tight and forgiving as the larger ones, but I was worried that GOD'S PENIS would show itself, which would hurt her pretty bad.

After the condom was unrolled, I used a muscular technique to lessen my erection without losing it completely. Historically, I can lessen my girth by about 30% and my length by about 10% if I do the right movements. If I am too aggressive about it, I can lose my erection entirely, so it's a risk.

I pulled her ass to the edge of the bed, stood on the floor, spread her legs and put my cock right at her pussy. "Fuck me, please please fuck me" she said in her Latin-distressed English. Gladly.

I pushed my cock in and her Latin eyes opened up majorly. Her back arched a bit and her hands fell against the bedsheets, gripped. Uh, oh, ouch? Are you ok? "Yes, fuck me." I pulled back a bit, and tried to penetrate her tight pussy again. Again, another arching and hands gripping the bed. Does it hurt? "No" she lied, "please."

I pulled back, used my muscles to try to lose a little more of my thickness, and then slipped it, obviously tearing a little but she took it in stride. As my cock finally penetrated her pussy's reborn virginity, she dumped a load of wetness all over my cock. As I pulled part of the head out, it was covered in her lube. "Ohhhh, yes," she moaned.

I ran my hands on her tight abs and then grabbed her hips as I pulled back into her, slowly. "Ohhh god, fuck me" she commanded.

I didn't pick up the pace, just pulling out a little and then sliding in a bit more. Within 10 minutes of at that soft rhythm, I was able to get about 1/2 of my cock inside of her, but no more. She's incredibly tight, but so wet that there was nothing holding back but my own desire not to bring too much pain to her.

She looked beautiful. She stared at my face, alternating between opening her eyes in lust and closing them in passion. After a good 15 minutes of stroking into her, I realized her thighs were getting tired from being spread. "Put my legs on your shoulders" she asked, almost immediately after I saw her legs get tired. I followed her advice, throwing each ankle onto my shoulder.

This also allowed me to pull in deeper, but still only at the half-way mark of Little Fire Hydrant. I could tell he was getting thicker, so I tried to relax him as I slipped in and out, always making sure to keep the head inside. When a woman hasn't been fucked in a long time, the act of first penetration can be painful, but reoccuring penetrations will still hurt. It's important to not fall out.

I found her rhythm that she liked, and I found a rhythm that gave me the best sensation while still allowing me to keep my cock from becoming too thick and long. Her limit was about 1/2 of my cock, and definitely not the full girth, but it felt amazing for both of us.

And then it happened as I kept the rhythm strong: she told me "I think I'm going to come." Ladies, there are two things us guys love about a gal: 1. when she tells us she's about to get there ("Don't stop, don't stop" works, too), and 2. when she actually tells us she IS there. Sandra doesn't say when she's coming, but she does have an awesome, LOUD orgasm. "ah, Ah, AH, AHHHHH" was all it took and I continued to keep my rhythm up, pushing a tiny bit deeper to see if I could get her to accept more of me.

I fucked her for another few minutes while she laddered up her orgasm, and then slid down slowly. Finally, I could tell she was done, and I didn't want her too sore from our first soft fucking, so I popped up and took off the condom.

I stroked my cock, hovering over her belly, and asked where she wanted my load. "Come on my tits, please." I love that she asks for it, so I spit on my hand and cock and continue to stroke the head, just inches above her belly button. As I looked at her gorgeous face, I knew I had to unleash on her tits and see her beautiful bronzed skin covered in my white come.

"Yes, come on my tits" she implored, and I exploded. My first shot landed on her left tit, then I moved my cock and hit her right tit with the second. I was trying not to be too explosive, but the third shot flew over her tits and chin and hit her square in the nostril and her nose, so I aimed the fourth shot at her right tit again and missed completely, landed a huge comeshot on her nose and her left eyelid. FUCK. I had 3 more shots left, and all fell on her tits and her belly.

Gorgeous. If I had a pic, I'd happily share it with all of you, because it was serene and sexy and I fully owned her body with my come.

I had brought a towel from the bathroom but it was out of reach, so I used my ring finger to pull the come off of her eyelid so she could open it. She smiled, almost laughed, and was enthralled by my come on her nose, which she grabbed with her finger and tasted. "You taste amazing" she told me, but it was probably a lie since my diet was out of whack in this Latin America country. I'll accept it, though, but I know it can taste better.

I finally grabbed the towel, covered her tits and belly, and crawled up next to her, to nuzzle, to nap, to contemplate when and if this will happen again.

To be finished in Part III.

1...2...3...4...5, Part I

2009-07-31T22:00:00.001-05:00

As you kind readers may know, I had a whopper of a day on Wednesday.

I arrived in a certain Latin American country EARLY. While I had business scheduled, I also invited a local blogger who I read and email here and there to meet me for a cup of coffee. Considering that she is MUCH younger than me (I was double her age not that many years ago), I figured it would be a great cup of coffee, good conversation, a nice hug, and off she goes. As I said in my previous 3-part post, we talked, walked and ended up at my hotel room just 2 hours later. 2 orgasms on her part, 1 on mine and we had a nice afternoon in my king-sized bed.

I wasn't sure if I'd see her again, considering my busy schedule and her summer of fun with friends, but the next morning, as I was walking to get breakfast at 9:45am, I received an SMS from her: "I want to see you, NOW." Uh oh, I need to eat.

As I wandered looking for food to eat, I saw her walk up. Tall, slim, curvy, gorgeous Andalusian eyes and hair that makes me swoon, my gaze was fixated on watching her walk up to me. Since she's my secret latin lover, and I'm her gringo, we had to limit PDA to basically a latin hello smooch on the cheek. It was hard not to embrace her, bend her at her waist and throw my lips on hers. Ouch.

I hadn't eaten, and I didn't see any breakfast-type places at the center of the action, so I invited her to my hotel lobby for breakfast there. She had already eaten, but we sat down in the lobby restaurant and she helped me order an omelette with cheese and chilis. The waiter, in Spanish, warned me that they were caliente. Duh, it's LATIN-FUCKING-AMERICA. I ordered coffee, she ordered orange juice.

My plate came, quickly, and it was perfection. I'm not sure what it is about the beef and eggs in this country, but it definitely tastes better. Sandra, my new latin lover, sipped her orange juice while we talked about her evening prior, hanging out with friends and doing the college summer break thing. Ahh, to be sub-21 again.

I finished, quickly, as I always do, but realized I had forgotten my cell phone in my room upstairs. I asked her to follow me while I get it. No, no, you perverted fucks, I really just needed my cell phone, and it wasn't a Costanza-style leave-behind. In the elevator, she threw her face at me and we kissed, arriving at the 3rd floor too quickly. We wandered down the hallway, and I could FEEL the eyes of the cleaning ladies after the loud cries of pleasure emanating from my room yesterday. I hope Sandra didn't notice.

We entered my room, and I snagged the cell phone, and a few more kisses. I've said it before: I love passionate women, age is not a factor. This gal, with her minor dalliances of past lovers/boyfriends, has passion down to an art and a science. She can get Little Fire Hydrant ready to put out her fire in about 3 seconds.

But that's not how Sane rolls. It's important to me to stay one step ahead of their teases, and she knew full well what I had in mind. Our first day we met, and 2 hours later I had my face between her thighs, bringing her off loudly and harshly. But no sex. I wasn't going to corner myself into bed with her without knowing how she'll handle the next step -- if there is to be another step. I'm here for a few days, and then who knows when I'll see her again? It's important to me that a lover's head, heart, body and soul all be in the right place; I never want to be the guy who takes advantage of someone.

So we left the hotel room. The smile on both of our faces was bright, and it brought smiles from every hotel employee as we walked past them. I wanted to check out the mall in town, which was a 10 minute cab ride from my hotel. We caught a cab in front of the hotel and zipped off, ready to spend my money on something nice.

We arrived at the mall, which is very modern, just like back in the States. $5 for quite a long haul, not bad. As we wandered, I told her I needed a belt, but I would love to put her in some shoes, or a dress, or get her a purse or another accessory. She had no part of it at all. I could barely pay for her orange juice earlier; she's not looking to be my sugar baby. Too bad, I'd love to doll her up and then strip her down to only what I bought her.

So we wandered the mall, looking at every men's store for the belt I want. I HATE belts with holes and pins, prefering the kind that clasps at any size without the need to puncture leather. After 3 or 4 stores, we found it: PERFECTION. The perfect color (light tan), the perfect size, and a unique clasp I had never seen before. I paid for the belt after trying to get her to pick out something for herself, but I let with only my bag.

We wandered the mall a bit more, and then hopped another cab to yet another mall to wander around a bit. Again, she denied my desire to put her into something sexy or slinky or gorgeous. We sat down and I had an espresso doble (again) and she had a strawberry smoothie (again) just like our first "date" yesterday. We also shared a keylime and grapefruit pie/cake that was fairly decent if not enough acidic.

After the second mall, we headed back to my hotel, both of us realizing we hadn't slept enough and needed a nice cuddle-and-nap. Back up to the third floor it was, and she sat on my bed while I checked my email, twitter, Facebook and blog comments. I could see the tiredness in her eyes, so I sat on the bed with her, laid down, and cradled her head on my chest and shoulder.

It didn't take long for her bronzed skin and toned body to beckon my fingers, and again I played teasingly on her shoulders and arms, taking her hands into my hands and entangling fingers while I returned back to her upper back. Goosebumps, again.

As she let me tease her skin and back, clothes slowly came off as we embraced, holding each others faces with our fingers as we passionately battled lips and tongues. I withdrew a few times, which made her erupt "TEASE!" more than once. Yes, yes I am.

She inhaled my man scent a few times, and commented on it. I've heard it before, and I have no idea what I smell like: cigarettes, coffee, halitosis? Well, whatever works.

She straddled me, her gorgeous thighs wrapped around mine, both of us still wearing our jeans. She removed her top, and I moved my hands from the small of her back to her shoulders, casually flicking her bra strap off in a split second. I'm sure she was impressed, and she laid her tits on my chest and we wrapped ourselves up in our bodies, our kisses, our mutual passions and desires for one another.

After what seemed like eternity (but wasn't, I move too fast with this gal!), I brushed her off of me in order to go wash my hands in the bathroom. It's a good tactic, because I also leave my medicine bag in there, the one with the 6 condoms. I was a bit worried about not being able to find my particular brand of condoms in this part of the world, and I was right: none of the pharmacies carry it. Argh.

As I returned, I had her remove her jeans and her underwear. For a young gal, she is quite the comfortable nudist. I absolutely adore her body: her curves, her skin, her almost-invisible tan lines. Her goosebumps I provide her drive me up a wall, and her pussy is always glistening and ready for what I have in mind, be it teasing or licking or touching. As I stroked her thighs and they spread, her scent filled my nose and reached down into my soul. There is nothing more sexy than a woman who is wet with desire from just my kisses and my caresses.

I needed to taste her, and I didn't waste time at all. I kissed my way down her chest, actually giving her nipples a smooth encircling with my tongue before teasingly biting only a slight bit. She moaned as my mouth passed her pubic mound; I inhaled and took in her gorgeous feminine scent. I had already made her come with my mouth once yesterday, so I turned her over onto her belly.

I spread her legs, ass pointing to the ceiling, and shoved my head between her legs. With her belly on the bed and her pubes also touching fabric, I wanted to give her a different clit licking than she had probably had before with her limited experience.

Her pussy tastes amazing, definitely a top notch situation. I've tasted some boring ones, but this is nothing short of perfection. I lapped at her lips, her clit, fucking her pussy with my tongue as I rubbed her ass and thighs. Every time her ass tried to move into the air, I forced it down with my hand, knowing the pressure against the bed will bring her off quicker.

And it didn't take long. Her mouth her buried in the pillow, biting down possibly on the fabric. I kept her ass forced down as I put all the pressure I could on her clit, taking it into my lips and then licking at it as it became fully engorged. She moaned, muffled, and tried to tell me she was going to come, but it really came out as "ah, Ah, AHH, I'm going to (muffle) AHH AHHH AHHHHHH" and then she did.

My face, as the day before, got soaked as she came on it and into my mouth. I slurped up as much as I could while she came down, her hips grinding less and less.

The she collapsed on the bed, and I nuzzled up next to her, my arm around her back and shoulder, my hands on her arm, feeling her breaths slow, her body loosen, her goosebumps falling away as she basked in the glory of what seemed to be a very strong orgasm.

To be continued in Part II. Suckers.

The Mindfuck: worthy of years of brainwashing

2009-07-31T12:15:00.000-05:00

It's an interesting life, trying to submit one's self to living beneath others. It's important to me to try to hide my own value and power in any relationship, be it family, friends, business or love.

I do the opposite of what others do, and it works. Whereas other men in dating try to show their power and financial strength with expensive cars, expensive watches, expensive homes and expensive spending, I do the opposite: I drive old, used cars, I wear a watch from 1984, I have a tiny apartment in a low-income neighborhood, and I tend to not spend a lot of money when I am with people or on a date.

Those who see through the charade are keepers for life, and I have a few of those that would consider me their equal in many ways. I even try to keep my mental strengths lower than those I deal with. When you play poker, you never want to show your cards, and in life's poker game, I don't even want people knowing I'm in the game.

The businesses I am a part owner in rarely have my name associated with them. I don't want employees or managers knowing I'm involved; I can stop by and judge their service without getting a fake response. I don't tell friends or family what I am involved in as I don't like to discount my own value by giving freebies to those who don't really deserve them.

There comes a time, though, when the cover needs to be blown. For me, especially in business, I find that the mindfuck is the absolute greatest talent a strong entrepreneur can have. I've used it against lifelong clients, I've used it during the negotiation process in bidding, and I've used it against my enemies and my colleagues when the time comes that I need to defend my own status, profit or investment.

Recently, I had to put the hammer to the anvil in a harsh way, due to what a subordinate involved in one of my business ventures did. The best part of the mindfuck is the long term oppression that comes of doing it correctly.

In a new business venture I started early last year, I aided 4 very-excited peers in starting a business venture. They're all college bred with tons of paper knowledge, but zero business strength. One of them has an MBA that is more useless than the paper I wipe my ass with, but they like to tell people about it. Wasted effort, I would never personally hire an MBA, and I tend not to do business with them, either.

Still, they had a decent idea for a new market that was completely untapped, and I had capital sitting on the sidelines, plus inside connections in a sister industry that I had favors waiting to be paid to me. Of course, the peers I was investing in didn't know much about my history, and they solely looked to me like an angel investor. They didn't know where the money came from, and all I told them was that I would be a middle-man for finding OPM (Other People's Money) and take on those debt notes under my name while funneling the capital to their business.

By using inside connections discretely, I was able to afford their business some interesting value that others would never be able to touch. It's amazing what a few favors pulled from a warehouse manager or a distribution sales representative or even just having helped out a guy who installs PBX systems can do for a fledgling business.

Within 6 months, they were profitable. The profit was so strong that they wanted to take on debt themselves to buy me out, but I warned them about it: I don't want my money back, I want the profit over many years to make it worth my time (and favors) invested. A clause in our agreement said I could dispel any offers for buy-out at less than par plus 40% per annum over 5 years. They weren't going to give me 3X my money back, so they accepted the fact that I was going to be a part-owner until 2013.

Then it happened: I asked the managing partner for a favor, a simple favor. It would take him 1 hour of his time, wouldn't take him out of his way, and would cost him zero, other than the 1 hour and maybe $2 in gas. No big deal.

I reiterated the importance of this simple favor. Imagine if I asked you, on your way to or from work, to stop by ANY store and buy me ANYTHING worth $2. I don't care what it is, just can you please do it for me? That's how simple it is. Now imagine that I came up with $100,000 a year earlier to help you start a business that is making you $60,000 a year in profit. Would you go barely out of your way and spend $2 in exchange for what I had done for you? Sure, you would.

But this managing partner had decided that my favor payment was not worthy of his time. I texted him the day of in the morning and he said "Sure, sure." I followed up 9 hours later and he said "Oh, I am so busy, maybe tomorrow." Maybe? The next day, I waited until 5pm and he said "Oh, I just can't get around to it, it's no big deal. Can't you do it yourself?"

No. I can't. But I didn't tell him that. In fact, I didn't reply.

Weeks passed and I felt a need to go visit the campus of the business, look through some of the books, and pick up a check for my share of the recently acquired booty. I never warn people when I stop by, I just go.

Everyone was happy to see me, there were smiles on their faces, we all shook hands, hugged, shared some cups of coffee, broke bread in the virtual sense. We sat down for a good hour, and I listened to their tales of new contracts, higher-than-expected earnings, and smooth acquisitions of needed assets and tools through suppliers that I secretly opened the door for. It was good to see them flourish, and better to know that my favors pulled would mean an extra 5-10% profit for yours truly.

All was kosher, but Mr. Managing Partner didn't take me aside and apologize for his inept management of the little favor I had asked. In fact, never once did he apologize, or even address it after the second day he blew it off. I hold grudges, but I don't mention them.

The next day, he had the opportunity to buy out a competitor's failed inventory of office equipment: $250,000 worth of assets and tools for under $20,000. Mr. MP called me up on my personal cell and told me about it. I told him it sounded like a fantastic idea. He asked if I could drum up the cash capital to make the acquisition, and I told him surely I could. He asked when I could get him the money, and I told him: Oh, I didn't want to extend myself for his hobbies. "Hobbies?" You know, the little side hobby you 4 have running in my shop. "Your shop?" Well, I do own the building. "WHAT? I thought you negotiated a lease with the landlord." Of course I did, I am the landlord. He was flabbergasted. I told him I had to run, that I was busy playing a game on Facebook and hung up the phone before he could answer.

A few weeks passed, and Mr. MP called me again. This time, he wanted some advice on a possible bid package they had received. It was 50 pages of disclosures that normally I would spend the time reading and approving. "I think this is a huge project." It probably is. "We really want to get it." I hope you do, it'll be a great lesson in getting to the next level of the market. "Do you want to look it over?" Not really, I'm not interested. "It'll be huge profits for you, too." I'm fine with what I'm earning. I told him that my cat needed to be fed and hung up the phone again without waiting for a response.

More time passed, and I collected my checks regularly until they had a problem on a job that I decided not to get involved in. Pressure was building, and things were slipping because I wasn't pulling the puppet strings anymore. At this point in time I had made back almost 70% of my investment, and the asset value of the company was significant enough that I could liquidate it at 30% of par and come out well ahead for the year. A 20% gain isn't much, but it means I'm ahead with very little time invested. I lost my heart for the business, over that 1 hour favor dropped.

Mr. MP called me again, begging for help on fixing the failures of their contract negotiation. "I think we underbid on the labor side." Fire people. "Well, we need those people for the next project." Cancel that contract. "There's a 25% neglect stipulation we'd have to pay." I guess pay it. "We can make this job profitable." All jobs are profitable, it's the management that dropped the ball.

They didn't make the job's end point, again because they had no insiders in the acquisition process. My own insiders called me personally to ask if I wanted them to help the company, and I told them hell no. In the end, the firm lost close to $20,000 in negligence fees for dropping the ball and harming other contractors on the job. No big deal, they had the money in the bank. Barely.

Other projects brought in nice profits, though, so by year's end I had profited enough to cover my own investment fully, plus I was making an excellent return on the lease rate they were paying. I calculated my hours worked total on my time with them, and I divided them into the profit I made. It wasn't a good profit, but it was profitable nonetheless. Plus, their net asset had risen, so liquidating the firm would mean a great profit on investment: over 35% for the year.

Then the shit hit the fan. They came in low on some bids that I knew were too low, they hadn't read the contract documents clearly enough, and they never negotiated a list of concerns about various schedule conflicts with other trades. I could have looked at the bid documents for 10 minutes and made a list of 30 conflicts immediately, but I didn't. Again, my heart was gone.

Mr. MP asked me to attend a meeting, so I decided to go. They all aired their grievances with their mistakes at each other, and I decided to stand up and walk out. "Why are you leaving, we need your advice." I'm leaving because your little hobby is boring to me. Don't be late with rent. "You're going to lose a fortune!" I've made a fortune, I'm done playing games. Go and have your MBA and your college degrees printed on big banner material so that you can brag to the world how smart you are. "What should we do?" Retire. Get jobs at Wal*Mart. Move in with mommy and daddy, or whatever it is that people do when they fuck up so much. I left.

It was at this time that I took a hiatus from life, just before December of 2008. I had ZERO contact with them other than casually reading their emails pleading with me for more capital infusion. I emailed them and said "Ask mommy and daddy, or contact some alumni from whatever school you think taught you business." Mr. MP was not happy, and I heard through the grapevine that he was blaming me solely for the mess. My insiders would always laugh for a good 2 minutes after getting off the phone with him.

When I returned in March of 2009 from my 4 month break, the company was disheveled. I arrived one day when they were slow, looked over the books, and sat them down in a meeting. I told 3 of the partners that they were exceptional workers, but all their problems came because Mr. MP had no clue what he was doing. They all stared at him, then asked me what to do. "Buy him out. Let's put in someone better, someone who didn't waste 6 years of their lives sitting in classrooms with 3 fingers rubbing their prostates." They all nodded. Mr. MP stared at the red-heavy P&L report on the conference room table below him.

After the meeting, Mr. MP asked me why I blamed him. I told him it was because he was clueless, useless, and had no virtue or sense for business. "But I went by the book on everything." Exactly. There is no book on business, there is no school or training that explains the intricacies of the 5000 decisions you SHOULD have made but didn't. "So what will happen to us?" You will be fired with a buy-out that should leave you with a few grand after paying your corporate share of the outstanding accounts payables. "And the rest?" I'll help them find someone who can run things in better shape.

Two weeks later, he cleaned out his desk and his closet. The partners and I all countersigned a check for $7334 in his name, and he turned over his stock share in the firm. I looked over his paychecks for the 14 months he worked there, and he ended up making about $40,000. If I was involved, his second year could have been three times that, but I stayed hands off.

Once he was out the door, I introduced the staff to a bright kid, about 24 years old, who failed out of high school. I told them that he bought Mr. MP's shares from me, and would be an equal party in the firm's rebirth. The bright kid, who I had known for 8 years, was a strong earner, and he also knew how to play the game. He had zero education, but his business sense was second only to me.

In 4 weeks, he recovered 3 lost clients by placing the blame fully on Mr. Ex-MP, explaining exactly what Mr. Ex-MP failed to do. The clients bought it hook, line and sinker. He acquired new projects and paid off past suppliers, plus interest, to re-open a few accounts. He turned the business around by month #2 (May, 2009) and by the end of June, he was earning a decent bounty for the other partners and myself.

I saw Mr. Ex-MP in the middle of July. He didn't have a job, and his $7334 check wasn't going to last long. Due to the stress of losing his position and shares, his relationship with his girlfriend imploded. He was couch-surfing with a buddy from college (who was also out of work, but was lucky to have parents footing his rent). I heard he applied at a video game store and was turned down.

We didn't talk long, but he did ask me a question: "Why did you drop the ball on the company?" I didn't, I dropped the ball on you. "It wasn't over that little project you asked me to do, was it?" Of course it was. "You could have paid someone $50 to do it." I asked you to do it. "I was too busy." You're not busy now, are you? "No. But it seems senseless to throw away tens of thousands of dollars over a simple favor." No favor is simple. The money you burned running things badly will be recovered in no time. "They're doing well?" Better than you ever did. Profits are skyrocketing, and I am letting them buy me out this year with no fee. "Why?" Because I wanted to pass on a lesson to you.

He nodded, and again looked down, his confidence blown. For the next few years, I will happily badmouth his degree and his MBA and his inability to understand business. Hopefully he makes the right decision and moves to another city, because I don't want to cross paths with him again. He's useless, and worthless and doesn't have a name for himself. I needed him to do a simple thing for me, and he failed. Now he's a failure.

And so, the Mindfuck happens. If you're walking down the street, basking in the sun, smiling at how life is going well, and you step on a colony of ants crossing the curb to get to their destination, you think nothing of squishing them. For me, Mr. Ex-MP is the same. He's vermin, thinking he's the top of the world when in fact he's squished under my shoe.

What will happen to him? He'll get a job in a lonely cubicle, with maybe his degree and MBA plastered on the wall, earning huge profits for a boss he never sees, for managing partners he rarely gets to meet. He'll never work in the industry I put him into again, because he fucked the wrong person over.

And I'm glad this is the way it is to be. He isn't the first person who crossed me that I crushed, and he won't be the last. People need harsh lessons to pass on to their kids. We'll call it a blood war, lasting the generations. Maybe my own son or daughter will get to a point in life where they pass his offspring in the business world, and you better believe I will remind them to never do business with anyone related to him. Why?

Because I can. Because I myself have been crushed, many years ago, by fucking over someone who I owed a small favor to. Because I appreciate THAT person more than anything, and now they know I have changed my act, apologized, made amends above and beyond the value of what I failed to do. Mr. Ex-MP won't do that. He's too proud. He doesn't understand business. Business is not a set of rules and regulations to be followed, there is no ISO stamp to tell people what to do and when.

Business is one thing: relationships. Not the ones you fulfill through phone calls or emails or orders or sales; relationships made through bribery and blackmail, pushing people as high up on the ladder you both climb as possible so when they hit their own ceiling, they'll pull you up after years of you pushing them up. That's how you climb, how you profit, how you win the game: by paying out favors done for you with favors others should do for you.

We're not talking big favors. We're talking the little ones. And when the sun is out, and there's a person walking down the street of life, and a shoe meets the curb and a colony of ants is wandering around, remember one thing: be the person wearing the shoe.

Somewhere in America, Part III

2009-07-30T21:00:00.000-05:00

This is Part III of a 3 part series (you should hope).

There I am, my beard glistening in her come, her lips raping my face, her hands on my neck and hair. A woman unafraid of tasting herself on the man that brought her off is 5 stars in my book.

We fall back to the bed and cuddle, noting that the sun is still up -- it's barely late afternoon. She has to be back at her place because she's going out to a party of some sort with friends later, so we don't have much time left.

The cuddling didn't last long as her face is on mine again. She's an amazing kisser, right up there with the best. She handles my aggressive kisses without shrieking, but she also accepts my teasing kisses by pouting when I pull away. A kiss is a tease like a back touch, but also a display of intimacy moreso than even fucking. From her kisses, I know I want to be inside of her, just not today, mere hours after our eye first made contact.

As we kiss, I feel her hips grinding again, up into thin air. It's not even 5 minutes after she came on my face and I can tell she's ready for more. I playfully dance on her body, her arms and shoulders and let my mouth wander to her beautiful breasts, licking around her nipples, underneath to her belly, up to her neck and shoulder and any protrusion I can put into my mouth fully or partially. She's moaning, surely ready for more.

I know I could have gotten my medicine bag and fucked her, but I wanted her to beg. Since her mouth is open but words aren't coming out, I decided to see how far I can push her orgasmically before penetration.

My hands danced down the middle of her torso, teasing her breasts and the sides of her body, her mouth making contact with mine again. My other hand is supporting her back and her neck, still teasing it slightly with the smallest touches, bringing forth those amazing goosebumps that just lead me to tease even lighter.

As my hands pass her latin hips, she moans. It's obvious she wants to come again. Finally, as my hand makes its way over her light pubic hair, she really moans. I let a finger slide past her clit and her hips push up to meet it. I pull back on her gorgeous lips and they're soaking again, fully wet so quickly. I'm amazed at her sexuality, her appetite for me, and her desire to come at my command.

I cupped her pussy fully and used a finger to only lightly penetrate her. That's when I noticed why she's so sexual: her clit extends from her hood where it's large, but it hides for a little bit and comes out again just at the opening to her pussy. It's amazing, and it has to be sensitive as all hell.

With my palm cupping her clit and my middle finger slightly penetrating her, I realize that I am going to hurt her BAD when I fuck her for the first time, if I can fuck her, if she wants me. Still, my finger is bouncing completely out and then just partially in, being careful to be very gentle with her extended clit.

Every time I pull out, she moans and grinds her hips. Every time I re-enter, she does the same, just as powerfully. She's sensitive, but she's ready so I don't need to hold back. I only do for teasing sake.

But she's still sensitive and wanting to come hard again, even with my teasing. I'm kissing her, trying to pull her attention away from the fact that my finger is caressing her dripping pussy. I can still taste it on my mouth from her first orgasm, and I can feel her body tense-and-release as my finger plays its medley on her clit.

It doesn't take long as I continue to pull out and in. "I think I'm going to come" she warns me (HOTT), so I use the bottom of my palm to add extra pressure to her clit hood while still stroking the entrance to her pussy, which has thickened up. She's dripping to the point that I can feel it. "Oh yes, like that, like that" she says with her Latin accent. I could always come myself just from her melodic and gorgeous voice.

"Unhhh, unhh, ohhh, unh" she mumbles as she comes, her arms reaching out to her sides on the bedsheets as her pussy moves 6 inches upwards to meet nothing but my palm and hand. As she comes, I look at her face, the gorgeous closed eyes which slightly open to show me pure white: her eyeballs are in the back of her head.

Her toes are curled, her feet extended forward, her legs are spread, and she continues to come for 30 seconds or more as I continue to rub her clit, lighter and lighter to not bring pain.

Finally, she stops. She's breathing heavy, kissing me, cuddling her face into my neck as she comes down from her orgasm. After a few minutes, we just cuddle again, my hands on her shoulders and her back as she holds me, fully spent.

Finally, she gets up to put her panties back on. Her gorgeous tits and ass get me fully erect in my jeans, my shirt still laying somewhere on the floor. I decide I can't handle it anymore, so I stroke my cock through my jeans and notice I totally flooded myself with precome. Ouch.

I unzip my jeans, unbuckle my belt, and slide my thick cock out. I spit on my hand to lubricate it as I stroke it. She turns, notices, and hops back on the bed, watching intensely.

I look at her face and see she wants it, so I ask if she wants to kiss it. Instead, she opens her mouth, licks her lips, and puts the head into her mouth, which fits, but just barely. I'm stretching her cheeks and love the look of this gorgeous, bronzed skin latin lover swallowing my cock head into her mouth.

She tries to put more in her mouth, but its girth gives her some problems, so she backs off, licking the head and underneath, causing me to moan. She puts it back in her mouth and tries to get more inside, succeeding at swallowing about 1/3 of Little Fire Hydrant. Then she backs off, obviously hitting some sort of gag reflex. It's still hot as hell, and this girl can give head.

She's switching between licking my shaft and underside of the head and popping it in her mouth, getting more of it little by little, finally ended with her lips at about the halfway mark on my average-length cock. Fuck I want to drop a load in her, on her, whatever.

Sadly, we're out of time. She HAS to leave, her ride is coming to pick her up and we're still a 5 minute walk from the pick up point. Still, she doesn't stop, until I remind her that we have to leave. I want to squirt my load all over her gorgeous face, but that's going to have to wait until next time -- if there is a next time.

I pull my hard cock back into my pants, find my shirt and dress. She finds the rest of her clothes and I watch her dressing, contemplating finding my condoms and fucking her, or pushing her to her knees and jerking off on her mouth. Wouldn't that be a nice surprise for the people she's seeing later?

But it wasn't to be. I walk towards the door out of my hotel room and she kisses me, deeply. Neither of us want any PDA while we're in her small and gossip-prone hometown, so I kiss back, knowing it could be our last. I have business to tend to, and my lifestyle causes me to leave cities sometimes hours or only a few days after I arrive.

"Tomorrow?" Maybe.

We leave the hotel, both of us smiling aggressively. Everyone in the hotel must know -- this gal is loud. We wear the smiles proudly as we walk over to her pickup point. She turns, gives me a platonic latin kiss goodbye on the cheek, and I turn on my heel and head back.

Tomorrow. Maybe? I hope so. I want to be inside of her, badly.

Somewhere in America, Part II

2009-07-30T08:00:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part I.

As I'm rubbing her back, her body is completely melting at my touch. A Chicago blogger I met told me that my stories of women might be getting boring because I tend to do the same thing to women, but it's not true at all. When I first investigate a woman's body, I touch her EVERYWHERE, looking for the spots she needs touched the most. Is it my fault that practically every woman, regardless of the number of lovers they've had, tend to have the same spots ignored?

Anyone (including the woman) can go for nipples and the clit, but only the rare bloke goes after every spot. Sometimes it's the back of the knee, sometimes its the small of the back. I've found scalps can be comforting or erotic, feet can be ticklish or orgasmic. That blogger who made that comment hasn't had my touch, so it's easy to say "meh" when all I've heard, time and again, is "oooooh" or "oh my god don't stop that ever." This blogger in my hands has read me, and she knows my style, and she still melted because I found her body's forgotten areas.

I'm not pressing her for anything, but I've wanted to touch a woman for months. My one real opportunity never happened (yet) because of her schedule and my schedule. So here I am, with this knock-out who was beaming over me in 3" heels (not that much taller, but taller), caressing her shoulders and arms and the upper portion of her back.

I know when a woman is comfortable, and this gal was in full-on bliss. She could pretend to know how I handle women my words, but now she knows the truth: her body is unique, just as everyone's is, and everyone has needs that have gone unfulfilled for far too long.

Eventually, we leave the near-spoon position and she rolls onto her belly. I hike the bottom of her skin-tight red cami top up to her bra strap, and start looking for ticklish spots. There, and there. She doesn't laugh or jump, I know how to find the spots to avoid. The rest of her back? Goose-fucking-bumps. When her hips were grinding into the king-sized bed, I knew my resolve was out the window.

So here I am with this tall, slim-yet-curvy, bronzed like a Maxim beach cover gal who is growing goosebumps bigger than the volcanoes that dot practically every Latin America country. What happens next? I turn her head and she kisses me. No, not a nice little Sane lady kiss but she tears my face off.

Another new blogger I email told me that her biggest turn off with guys is that they're bad kissers, or they jump the gun. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that this gal is NOT the type to just destroy a man's face, but I have a pretty good feeling that everything I was doing (or not doing) created this urge to annihilate my lips, tongue, facial scruff and possibly the neighbor's room in one fell swoop.

My fingers were still barely touching her back and shoulders, arms and hands, and our mouths were battling. Soft kissing, teeth clanking, tongues appearing and disappearing, moans and groans. I held her hands back so she couldn't touch me and before I know it, she takes her own shirt off. I'm not sure exactly how we were kissing with her on her belly and my belly on her back, but the next thing I know is her gorgeous ass grinding up against my cock which is on the edge of becoming GOD'S PENIS and causing us all problems (including you, fair reader).

I need to fuck this young woman, but she needs to be taught a lesson. I'm strong and weak, the sun is shining in the window in this early afternoon just hours after we met for the first time, but I know what I have to do. I have to break her into tiny little pieces so I can fuck each one separately and repeatedly until they melt back together.

I keep looking at her gorgeous face, these eyes that penetrate my mind stronger than I could penetrate her pussy on 100mg of Viagra. Yet every time I look at her, she destroys my face with the see-saw of hot, wet kisses and soft, tiny, sensual kisses. Who the fuck is teasing whom?

At some point, one of us gets her to flip over, straddling me from beneath. My cock is on her pubic mound and she's grinding, moaning, enveloping me with her latin lips and her Spanish/Andalusian eyes. My hands are still fighting the urge to tear her clothes off, dancing their light tune on her skin, still bringing forth strong goosebumps worthy of many photographs.

I unbutton my dress-shirt and lay my hairy chest on her bareback. She moans. I pull back and then put my chest on her again, a louder moan. Holy mother of gumbo, she's that sensitive on her back. I wonder if her not-even-a-handful of previous lovers had any clue.

And then we flip, me on my back, her straddling my cock with her jeans warmed by what is obviously a pussy that needs immediately attention. We're kissing and the next thing I know, I feel tits on my chest, and not the feel of her black satin bra. My hands trace up from her still-covered thighs to her sides up past her surprisingly large and soft tits, ending up on her shoulder.

I use my nails (not long but not short) to dig into the bottom of her back, and forcefully tear them up her back, bringing forth a moan/groan that sounds different in Spanish than it would in English. I'm in real trouble here, folks.

And still she kisses me, taking in every nerve ending on my tongue and my lips and my face, while my nails dig, my fists massage, my fingers push and dance on her back. Latin lovers have always ruined me for the Gringo ladies, I just forget when I don't have one in my life.

I can't tolerate her pussy grinding on my cock still hidden in my jeans, so we roll over again. "I'm so wet" she tells me, not having to as I can smell her pussy through panties and jeans. I stare at her eyes and she asks if I want to check if she's right. I know she is, and I really don't want to rush it, but this gal is going to explode and I don't have enough towels to clean it up.

I make my way down her chest, skipping her nipples as usual and kissing softly down her stomach, which is gaining goosebumps. I decide to throw her off and plant a soft kiss on the one section I know is too ticklish. She laughs, but she doesn't break her stride as it turns into a moan as I venture lower.

Her belly is cute: tight, flat, solid, but still feminine. I could spend hours on it (and I probably will if she decides to visit me again). I make my way down to the edge of her jeans and pull them down slightly, still fully buttoned and zipped. Her panties, white and black, are obviously soaking in her lube, so I kiss past their edge to the start of her nicely trimmed and perfect pubic hair.

She can't stand it, and I can't stand it either. I kneel between her legs, unbutton and unzip her jeans, place each hand to one side of her jeans just below her hips and tear them off. Clean in 10 seconds. I wanted her to remove them, but I don't think she was thinking clearly.

Now her jeans are off, so I snuggle up against her pussy, covered by her thin black-and-white panties. They're soaked straight through, but I lightly kiss her thighs without tickling, run my big schnoz across her covered clit "accidentally" eliciting an awesome moan, and kiss around her panties in every part of skin imaginable.

She's done for, and now I can do what I want. If I wanted to fuck her in her pussy, she'd have come instantly. I could have fucked her in the ass and she'd probably still come. I might be making this story sound like I had her fully under control, but I think the reality is that she had me mesmerized. I want to hear this polyglot come, wondering what language it'll come out as.

The panties come off and are thrown over the bed. Her pussy is gorgeous. I force her thighs wider, and her pussy lips are fully engorged and spread, her large clit is visibly throbbing, and she's soaked. The sun is still out, and it is causing her to glisten like the frothy head of a bottle of blow-bubbles.

No teasing is needed at this point, but I lick her full pussy lips and bring them farther apart magically. I lick her pubic hair above her clit, lick the inside of her pussy lips listening to her moan, feeling her sopping wet ocean of lust pressing against my face for me.

Her hands are on my head, pulling me in, so I go for it. My tongue hits her clit and she's grunting, her back is arching, she's practically begging.

I don't let off, I don't go easy. She's beyond the point of any foreplay doing anything other than causing her to pull my hair out if I don't swallow her load in the next 30 seconds.

I misunderstand her say "STOP!" while I'm swallowing drops of her lube as its pouring out, so I back off. She grabs my hair, hard, and pulls me back. "I said DON'T STOP" she quietly yells, so I dig back in, impressed by how good she tastes, and pleased that her big clit is even bigger as I pull it between my lips.

And that's that... "I'm going to come" she says, and a few moments later, she does. I don't let off, tickling and sucking and pushing against her clit as waves of orgasm fuck through her body. My face is SOAKED, my beard is wet, her thighs are clenching and releasing my head, her hands are all over the bed. She keeps coming, I keep prodding to try to get every last ounce of come out of her and into my awaiting mouth.

Finally, she's done. She softly pushes my mouth from her pussy, and out of nowhere grabs my head, bends over and puts her mouth on my mouth, on her own come. "Mmmmm, your face is covered in come," she says.

To be continued in Part III.

Somewhere in America, Part I

2009-07-29T21:10:00.000-05:00

Meeting bloggers is always fun, but lately my bloggers I've met were local to me in Chicago, and one in DC.

I've talked about my world travels that occur often, and a blogger who I chat off-and-on with asked if my next trip would land me anywhere near where she lives, somewhere south of Mexico and north of Argentina. I like to make fun of her when she calls the U.S. "America" because where she is from is ALSO America. North America, Central America, South America, we're ALL Americans.

As luck would have it, I had a trip planned to HER America region. And not just to her country but to her home town. I dropped her a note when we chatted, and a possible coffee "date" was planned at some time in the future.

My client kept moving his schedule, so I booked 5 different flights for 4 different date segments. The blogger was also busy here and there with life, but I did want to meet her. I'd seen her picture and even some video she shared with me, and she was gorgeous, slim, curvy and fun to chat with. Just like with Delecta and AFCBs #1-3, my goal was to make friends.

Finally my client said "Come on this day" and I told the blogger to see if she was still interested in that coffee. She confirmed her interest, so we made plans to meet on one of the days I'd be there when she was free.

I hopped a bunch of flights, landed in said random country, and texted my client and her as I walked out of the plane just shy of lunch time. My client decided to be too busy, so I checked into a VERY nice hotel, turned on my laptop and found the blogger online.

We'll call her Sandra, not her real name. Sandra told me she was free in the afternoon around 3pm, and that we could meet at the mall that was 1 block from my hotel and just a half mile from where she lives. Bonus. She asked me where we should meet, and I quickly picked a coffee shop at the mall.

The mall is awesome, but wasn't very busy. The coffee shop was in a rotunda part of the mall, all glass -- I could see people entering the mall, and I seated myself so I could see her coming up the escalator. She's tall, loves to show off her body, has an ass that one should worship, and is completely out of my league. Oh, and she hasn't hit 21 -- yet. Umm, yeah, that's as safe as it can get.

At 2:30 she chats me that she'll be there early. ARGH, no time for a shower, a shave, or a change of clothes even. I haul into the elevator, walk over to the mall, find the coffee shop and situate myself so I could see her before she sees me. A few minutes late, as the latin women prefer, and I see her coming up the escalator. Holy crap, I need to bail.

I became nervous, which is very rare for me. As she walks around the windowed second floor of the rotunda (the coffee shop wraps around about 40 degrees of it), I stand and she beams a smile. I throw back my toothy, crooked, broken smile and we embrace, hard. Nice boobs. TIGHT, muscular body. Amazing skin and her face is just lit up.

We talk, my nervousness obvious. A cute waitress brings us menus, and we order our drinks: espresso doble for Sane, some sort of strawberry smoothie for Sandra. We continue our conversation, just feeling the other out for comfort and comedy. We smiled, we laughed, we made eye contact. We drank our drinks, fast.

At one point, she turned her head and her neck cracked, causing her hand to shoot up to rub it. "Ow, that hurt," she told me, sitting across from me as I watched her unsuccessfully rub her own back.

As I paid for the drinks, we decided to walk the mall since my belt was so loose it was falling off my ass. We wandered in and out of various stores, me pointing at cute gals clothing and her nodding her head NO. She knows I like to buy pretty gals gorgeous clothes so I can be seen with them, but she already looked gorgeous in her red A-shirt, tight jeans and red fuck-me-heels. Oh, and the bitch wore glasses. Grr.

We checked out a bunch of NICE stores (high fashion labels), which is surprising since the minimum wage in the country is around $1 per hour, maybe less. I found TWO suits that I am buying before I leave, but no belts. I needed a belt in the color I was wearing. Tomorrow I'll find a leather shop that can poke holes.

We wandered a bit more, neither of us hungry, but I needed toothpaste and lip balm, so she took me to the local pharmacy, which is more drugs than consumer goods like Walgreens back home. Found the toothpaste and the lipbalm, I paid, and we left.

She had plans with friends in the evening, and I had a fresh carton or two of cigarettes, plus I had to drop off my purchases at the hotel barely 2 blocks away, so I asked if she wanted a pack of smokes in exchange for showing me around the area. She agreed, so we headed up to my hotel.

Originally I had a penthouse suite, but they were doing construction in the hallway and it was NOISY, so I requested a lower floor to avoid the noise. No big deal for them, and I was lucky to still keep a smoking room ($20 tip lucky). The majority of the hotel is non-smoking, so the rooms are hard to come by.

I showed her my room and then sat on the large, red couch while she sat on the king size bed, her feet dangling off. We talked some more, her flirtatiously making eye contact with me while her legs kept dangling off the bed, swinging, inviting, teasing. Argh.

I stood up, for whatever reason, adjusted my ponytail, and sat down next to her on the bed. Why? Because it was safe. We were fully clothed, there wasn't any touchy-touchy beyond some accidental glances (uh huh) and she had plans with friends so there wasn't really that much time to do anything but talk.

So there we are, talking, making eye contact, laughing, obviously enjoying each other's company. For background purposes, the gal doesn't have a lot of sexual experience. Less than anyone I've met in a LONG time. That means that Sane has to be a total gentleman, and I stick to it.

And then she fucking seduced ME. Her hand was on her neck a few times, obviously hurting. At one point, she laid down on the bed (it's comfortable), so I did, too, staring at the ceiling as we talked. Then she rolled over to her side facing away from me, continuing to talk but also putting her hand on her neck, her entire back north of her bra-strap exposed with tan skin. Uhhhh, yeah.

I asked her if she needed help, and her hand was replaced by one of my hands as I rolled to my side to get a better angle. I used my (very) soft fingers with some force to detect what muscles were tight and found that her left neck muscles were extremely tight, and her right neck muscles were needed some attention but not as much.

I proceeded to find the pressure amount between healing and pain, not pleasure and pain. As I used my thumbs and fingers into her neck and shoulder, I could see her body loosen up. She even let a gasp fall from her lips. Just a few minutes of that and she was feeling looser in the neck and shoulders, and her body's posture took on a different angle -- more relaxed, rehabilitated.

Her body slid back a bit, her back touching my best, her ass pushed up against my cock which was already starting to get happy from the body touching, from her scent, from her gasps and moans from my simple back rub.

In order to find a comfortable position, I put my arm on her arm, my fingers on her shoulder and my other hand that I was laying on rested on her back.

To be continued in Part II.

Sermony Sunday: The foundation of peace, freedom from fear

2009-07-26T18:15:00.000-05:00

Sunday is always an interesting day for this Sane bloke. Most Sundays you will find me at a random church sometimes in a random town, congregating with members of a religious cult who have beliefs far from my own.

I have a history as possibly being the most hated man of faith in the world of the religious. I've been excommunicated, booted, and spit at with words of hatred and vitriol. I've been asked to never open my mouth, never share my name, never come back.

And yet I continue to go, visiting congregations of all faiths, creeds, races. I worship with them but outside of them, I listen to their sermons, I watch with open eyes when they pray together.

I am a man of faith, but a man without religion. I found my faith through reading, research and much introspection after perusing the Scriptures that many called the Bible. I researched outside of the Book, finding an old codex here or there, finding words of other authors from the same time as that Book was probably penned or the stories told.

And yet I don't call myself Christian. I don't partake of the creeds, the sacraments, the masses and liturgies. I don't see the point of religion.

Today was good for me because I joined with a good Christian friend and a good atheist friend. After the early morning service, I met them both for breakfast at a local cafe (great eggs and coffee) and we talked about faith.

As many know, I run my life in ways that are contrary to what society thinks is right. I debate and appeal my judgment, my desires, my own logic-founded results often to try to come up with new ways to resist the river-flow of life that often takes many over a waterfall. I prefer to swim against the current to spawn rather than fall over the cliff with the current of society's movements.

I believe in a creator, but I don't believe in God as most Bible-believers do. The word God, as written in modern Bibles is ghastly in terms of translation and transliteration. It's a failure of a word, a single word that to many means so much, but in the context of the Story is useless, wrecked, wretched and uninspiring.

I believe in the man called the Christ, the Messiah, the Savior, but I don't hold the faith that most Christians do regarding the long term results of what they believe. I don't want to be born-again, and I don't believe that is even possible. I don't believe in sin, and I think the Scriptures prove that it doesn't exist. Hell? No such thing. Punishment, salvation, redemption, sacrifice? Not important anymore.

I've never heard God's voice in my head or in my heart, I don't cry at the idea of Jesus being crucified for me or anyone else who lives today. I am not shaken by the scare-tactics of the religious cults, but I don't harbor any grudge or guilt at their penetrations into the minds of others, the brainwashing that happens when anything is drummed into your head over and over and over.

And yet, every moment of every day, I stand in the presence of proof of God's existence, just in my own body, mind and soul. I truly believe that this Creator of all things had produced me before my parents' egg and seed mixed, created me with a genetic structure that gave rise to my talents and my failures, my tools and my thoughts. I don't believe in karmic justice or fate, but I believe that each person is planted with that soul before they come into existence. I don't agree that life begins at conception or at birth, it doesn't matter to me.

I said I've never heard the voice of God, but I see Him in everything around me. There are a set of undeniable "laws" that the world is governed by that are outside of governments and rules and human regulation. It is these laws that I live my own life by: I must eat, I must drink, I must sleep, and on and on.

And yet there are many who castigate me or don't believe in my own faithful worship of my creator through acts of interaction with others, for others, for myself. "How can you have sex with women if you follow the Bible?" or "So you think it's OK to get drunk?" or "Your job sounds criminal, if it hurts others how do you match that up with what you believe?"

I rarely answer them except for those who want to sit down and hear me out. Few do, but those who do usually have a life-changing experience after they contemplate what I have to say, how I sell it, and what my points of logic are.

And yet, I don't believe that faith or religion or a belief in God is important to people. My friends who are atheists probably have the best point of view regarding God. My most faithful religious friends have crazy views and ideas that, to me, seem like a great waste of time and of life, but I don't ever try to change them of it.

So what's the point? There is none, except to remind myself that every moment of every day I take my breaths, knowing and trusting that all is good with the universe, that there is no punishment or retribution awaiting me moments after my last breath is exhaled.

Sane's Smoking Saturday (Audioblog)

2009-07-25T11:39:00.010-05:00

I recorded this audioblog last night, for those who wonder what I sometimes sound like.

Please note I am drunk here, and I didn't actually edit it, so the quality is fairly low.

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Upcoming trips, upcoming schedule

2009-07-24T13:30:00.000-05:00

I took July off to deal with family needs, household makeovers, visits with friends and just a recharge from what was a fairly hectic late spring.

Alas, with all good long breaks comes my internal drive to accomplish something. I may have the world's most exciting job, but not finishing something for a client regularly can bring on the doldrums quickly. So off I go to international territories to visit with clients, get some work done, make some money, and maybe make new friends along the way.

So far, I have 3 trips planned: Venezuela (South America), Paris (Europe) and possibly Turkey (Asia). I have plans to meet some new bloggers that I read, one in Venezuela, one in Paris. We'll see how it goes, and you all are sure to hear about it first.

Towards the end of August, I think I'm going to hop over to Las Vegas for a 1 day shopping spree. Even though I haven't been working hard, some money is coming in from other jobs I did earlier in the spring. I've lost some weight since winter (10#) and really need some new pants, dress shirts, and a suit or four. We'll see how it goes, maybe I'll videoblog the shopping spree.

I'm really riled up lately. I've had the company of nothing less than some of the best looking gals around, but alas the chemistry just isn't right with any of them. Yes, I'm picky. Yes, I'm superficial. Yes, I love physical attention from women I date to see how much they desire my body. At the moment, my prospects are almost zero, so I know what I have to do: I have to go out on dates.

In other news, August is also new recipe month. I am working on a Bacon, Gouda, Apple and Sage soup recipe with almost no starch. It will be to-die-for and you'll get it here first. Also, I decided to try to push forward with a new low-starch bread that isn't all flax and soy. I won't say what I'm using, but initial test batches have proven it to be the gooiest, tastiest, crispiest bread I've ever had. Sadly, the shelf life is about 3 days, but it's amazing.

I have a bunch of minor hops around the country planned for August and September, mostly to seek out good restaurants that I can call my own. Kansas City, St. Louis, Portland, Seattle, Phoenix, Miami, and more. My goal is to find really nice places that are out of the usual tourist-trap areas, meet with the owners, and start visiting more often. I am on track to be traveling 60,000 miles less than I did last year, and I think I need to make that up in droves in the second half of 2009.

So that's my plan, nothing too exciting, but still fun. And I do promise to write more, I had a big of an Internet mental failure the last week. Now I'm back, with coffee in one hand, cigarettes in the other, and my laptop on my lap, where it should be living more often.

Porn, Pigtails and Platonics (UPDATED)

2009-07-24T01:32:00.007-05:00

It's Thursday. I love to eat on Thursday. Actually, I love good food on every day that ends in "Y". I decided to make plans to go out and eat, and who better to invite out for a food-porn non-date but AFCB#2?

You all know the gal -- we went out to lunch once, and have been regular fixtures at amazing food joints all over town. The poor gal (financially and socially) has not had a very good run with fine dining establishments, but she's a foodie. For her, it's the worst of all worlds: the desire for good food, but her busy lifestyle doesn't allow for it.

I asked her to dinner and told her I'd do something above and beyond our usual "very hip but ridiculously busy" restaurant get-togethers. Chicago, like most large towns, has a small count of VIP clubs. VIP clubs are lounges where you pay to be a member. Some clubs are reasonable at "only" $1500 a year per member, where as the others are $5000+ per year. That's just to go and drink.

She'd never heard of this particular lounge-restaurant combo, as most Chicagoans haven't. I gave her the name and the date and the time, and she used her Google wonder-talents to look it up. She was impressed by the photos, to say the least, but reviews were very hard to come by.

I made the reservation for 8:30pm, knowing full well that we'd be in a luxurious restaurant completely alone. That's the downside of private lounges: they never really get too outrageous during the week. The chef is locally renowned, and I was excited at the menu posted online.

As usual, I left at just the right time. Sadly, I had a fairly hectic day (hectic for me) and never made it home to change, so I went out in a business outfit: pinstripes, shiny dress shirt, custom cut-and-sew vest, ponytail, glasses. I was hoping to run home and change, but leaving the suburbs at 6pm to pick up #2 at 8pm left little room for a quick-change (or a shower!). Also, I had to drop off something for a family member.

Still, with 1/2" hail pouring down on my truck, I pulled onto #2's street at 7:55pm while sending her some gchats. I cranked up to her walkway and called her at about 7:59pm -- right on time, as usual.

I hopped out of the truck and walked to her doorway just as she came out. #2 is a very pretty lady, so it's hard for me not to double-take every time I see her, because in my mind's eye I see her as a friend, not a body and a face that probably should just be grabbed, shoved up against a car, a tree, a mirror or a lamppost and penetrated in more ways than imaginable. But today she was dressed to kill: a great white-ish skirt with a form-fitting salmon top.

Addition: I should also mention that she was wearing these HOT new black heels, which I had a feeling would kill her feet in record time. Still, they gave her a few inches of height, and they looked fantabulous, too. Why don't guys get sexy shoe choices? Ugh.

I have good resolve with women, friends, fuck buddies, dating interests, etc. When she walked out, though, it took me a little extra strength not to stare at her chest and say "whoa, momma." Good for me, and her, I didn't.

As we walked to the car, #2 noticed I had a string hanging off the ass of my pants. I went and gave myself a courtesy reach-around (over the pants) to try to find it but failed. This sweet lady better not put her hand ANYWHERE near my ass or there will be hell to pay.

I helped her into my tall truck (she's a petite gal) and we drove off, her giving me guidance in the streets that I still get lost in after 20 years of driving.

We made it into the busier part of Chicago, but there was construction traffic, one-way streets, and other things to throw off my (not so good) directional compass. After a few mis-turns, we made it to the valet, pulled my truck up, and waited a good 10 minutes for a valet in front of the busy hotel where the lounge lives.

We ventured in, were greeted at the host desk with a hand-written lettered envelope with my name on it, and made our way into the private elevator to the lounge-restaurant. Most people who have been to this part of town have no idea the lounge or restaurant even exists; I prefer it that way.

Upon exiting the elevator climb a few stories up, the lounge hostess greeted us and showed us a tour of the fairly large lounge. #2 was obviously impressed, the interior design of this join must top a million bucks, with antique wood ceilings, amazing furniture, and foreign linens lining everything. I wasn't here to impress her, but it's good to watch her face as she soaks up the better things in life.

We took the circular stairway down to the restaurant portion, also decked out in amazing cloths, colors and woodworking. It was EMPTY. Considering both the fair pricing and the amazing wine list, it always leaves me chagrined to see the place empty, but it was Thursday night.

The hostess told us who our server would be, and left us to talk. #2 and I have great conversations about nothing important and everything important. We tend not to talk over each other, but I do talk more to her than practically anyone else. Our server showed up, a kitschy and extremely attractive gal named Corinne. Brown hair (meow), great posture, and the cutest eyes and pigtails imaginable.

We all know where things went the last time I took out a server: hellsville, plainsville, etc. It's a rule of mine to NEVER ask out someone serving me. Nonetheless, Corinne was awesome, talking us up (we were her only table, probably all night), bringing us our menus, and making some recommendations on wine.

#2 and I wandered the private and empty restaurant area, checking out the private eating rooms in awe of the design and cost to maintain it. Cleaning, as well as keeping people from damaging or stealing expensive items, has to be a bitch.

#2 doesn't drink red wine, I don't drink white, so we ordered a glass each of our preferred varieties, as well as amazing appetizers: foie gras with endive, and a lobster salad. Our wine arrived on Corinne's platter, and she chatted with us through her happy-server smile. I've never been one to trust a server's smile, but I appreciate it because it's part of the job. Corinne's smile definitely changed from "I'm working one fucking table all night, I better be happy because I don't want to get stiffed" to "These folks are crazy and insane, I like them." Maybe I'm wrong on the latter.

We snacked on some bread with an amazing triple-serving of flavored butters, with even Sane having a few inches of the starchy devil. It was good, but we didn't want to fill up.

#2 makes the best proto-orgasmic face ever when she eats good food, and the appetizers left me chuckling. She's a beautiful gal who really does need a great guy in her life, once she gets through some relationship issues that almost everyone I know is going through. I'm glad to call her my friend, and I love the fact that we can be goofy, vulgar, and even critical of each other without any backlash. She knows how to shut me down when I get ridiculous or outrageous, but she also likes to go along for the Sane ride.

The appetizers were cleaned off to the point of us practically licking our plates. We kept forgetting our glasses of wine, the food leaving such a pungent bouquet of sex and foreplay on our noses and tongues. We looked over the menus again as we finished our appetizers, letting the lovely Corinne know that we were going to order our dinners, too: Lamb Loin with Endive, and a Veal Porterhouse. At first, #2 was uncertain about the Porterhouse because I prefer meat rare and she likes it medium. I told her it was VEAL and she basically said "ooooooh." Yes, folks, they make HUGE chunks of baby cow, and yes it is to die for (and maybe drop your pants for).

As we chatted some more, incorporating Corinne into our conversations (with the poor gal having to hold our plates for long bouts of time, swapping hands as she joined our conversations). It was at this point that I noticed how pretty Corinne was, her brilliant eyes gleaming, but her body hidden in the black-on-black outfit that she was wearing. Our seats were low, so I thought she was 5'10" towering over us. I think I bugged her about her height 5 times, but I also couldn't stop looking at her eyes.

I turned to look at #2, and must have stared at her hooters for a good 10 seconds. BUSTED, she totally saw. Most women will tell you that I _NEVER_ look at boobs, because I'm not that interested, but here I am surrounded by 2 lovely women, and something's gotta give. Oops, sorry #2.

Corinne popped out again with our entrees, and I could smell them from the doorway 15 feet away. The presentation, like the appetizers, was amazing: perfect plating, perfect temperature, perfect scents. The veal was a HUGE t-bone cut, and the lamb was nicely plated on a square plate, with the lamb cooked well (it would have been better slightly rare, #2 said, but we did order it medium).

We dove into it all, with #2 having her second foodgasm of the night. Sexy. In another universe, I would probably have tipped Corinne $100 to leave and bent her over the table. Alas, it is not meant to be -- we're pals. Keep that in mind before you email me telling me that she only goes to dinner with me hoping that I jump her. I can bet you a trip to Prague that she's in it for amazing companionship, a lot of laughter, and really good fucking food, a la food porn as said earlier.

More conversation between #2 and I, more conversation between Corinne and both of us. I keep looking at her, trying to lock eyes with her to see if she's interested in Mr. Sane, but that wasn't happening. Still, we all talked, with me finding out that Corinne loves dangerous and risky outings: skydiving, roller coasters, traveling all over the world, etc. Ok, now I have two women in my presence who are worthy of a good body rub: #2 for her food love, and Corinne for being, well, another version of me when it comes to idiocy and danger. I told her we'd swap information, at least so I can have a roller coaster buddy for the summer.

As dinner came to a close, we ordered dessert, which was wholly unnecessary. The restaurant was famous for dessert, but my favorites were not on the menu. Sad. Still, we ordered a Brown Butter Cake and Chocolate Berry tart. Corinne again exited the dining room to the kitchen as #2 and I attempted to try to finish our FIRST GLASSES OF WINE. Fail.

Addition: I should mention that the music in this lavish and expensively decorated dining room was AWESOME 80s AND 90S ROCK. Completely out of character, but perfect. It's a little bit like Sane: cultured and cared for on the outside, but a complete rock star on the inside. Well, I think so, at least.

#2 had to get up early, so around 10pm I started to get nervous and asked if I could check my phone. She checked hers as well, and we chatted each other up some more on more inane and exciting conversation, with Corinne putting her 2 cents in happily. Damn, why don't I meet women like these two in REAL LIFE instead of like this? Sheesh, I need to stop blogging and start getting out, for real.

Dessert came out and it was fine -- nothing exquisite, but not terrible. I don't believe we even finished our desserts, both of us happily full enough but not TOO full.

I'm not sure how it happened, but #2 reminded me to get Corinne's information (right in front of her). She's originally from another state that I visit a few times a month, and I attempted to guess her area code but failed, twice. Boo. Still, I got her number. #2 told Corinne that I would probably not call her for a week and a half because I am traveling a bit over the next 8 days, something I forgot about. Corinne said "It's OK, I probably would have forgotten anyway." That, my friends, is usually a sign to take that phone number, tear it up, and forget about it. If I am not remembered, and if a gal doesn't want me to call, I generally don't. In fact, I've broken the rule TWICE and both times were ruinous.

But she likes roller coasters and skydiving, so maybe it's worth calling her. We'll see. At this point, I'd bet I will probably lose the number and move along, because Sane is not the type of guy to be lost in the mix of douchebags, drunkards, and guys with tons of debt who go to restaurants to prove something. No, this man is 100% Grade A awesome to hang out with, but if I am not memorable, what's the point? We'll see. #2 said she'd remind me, but chances are I will remember that one dangling statement and put a nix to it.

#2 did remind me to share the website with Corinne, so maybe me talking out of my ass like this is a bad idea, but it's still what I thought, so why not be honest? We're being honest here, aren't we? If Corinne reads it, I'm surely out quite possibly as a friend, even, but I have been more open with people I meet to check my site if they care what I think.

Dinner came to a little over $200, which didn't jive in my head. I am VERY good at adding things up in my head, so when I found a problem, Corinne fixed it right away. The total? Nearly $200 even. Not bad for a fun night of 3 hours for 2 people. Here's the issue: what the hell do I tip? We were her ONLY customers, and she had to bus it to the restaurant and back home. Probably 4 hours of work, minimum, ugh. I tipped her 35%, but now I feel like a jackass because I sure as hell wouldn't work for only $20 per hour. I should have tipped 50%, and will gladly make it up if I see her again, somehow. Boo, Sane. TIP-FAIL.

We decided to skip after-dinner drinks because time flew, and #2 has work in the morning. We exited, saying good night to the director of the lounge operations, a cute and bouncy lady older than me but young at heart. Sadly, it was this manager who was the only woman of the night to touch me in the good ways. Fuck.

We hit the elevator, returned to the valet (where we waited forever again), poor #2 walking a little stilted due to her feet hurting (KNEW IT). I think she also snagged my ass-string at this point, but I was too happy with the foodsex to even realize a woman's hand within millimeters of my ass. We then zipped off to the highway, me of course going the wrong way at least once, and #2 having to remind me where to get off. I dropped her off close to midnight, with a friendly hug and a promise to regroup soon.

The conversation driving home was cute, with her giving me the grandest compliment I could get: if I treated her like shit, she probably would've been into me. I've heard this before, mind you, and I just can't do it. I love to fuck, I love to offer a passionate night of ridiculous desires met, but I'm not an asshole to women. I say it too often, I know: my mom taught me well. Customers, plebians, cretins, politicians and police officers always get the mean version of Sane, but ladies should be honored and respected, at least until you get half their clothes off and it's time for some hair pulling, ass spanking, shoulder biting and the use of words that would make your mom blush and your dad disown you.

Still, it was an AWESOME night. I always have fun with #2, and I know we'll have more fun. We're already thinking about a trip together -- maybe a flight to the West Coast for one purpose: IN-AND-OUT BURGER. She's never been, and I think she'd be an absolutely blast on a 1 day flight in and out for a $5 burger. Let's do it. I'm in.

As for Corinne, we'll see. She has the face and hair and eyes that can drive me nuts, but (A) she was my server, (B) she wasn't interested and verbalized it, and (C) it's just another person who will get in the way of me finding what I'm looking for (not a girlfriend, not a fuck buddy, not a friend with benefits, but what?). So if #2 pushes me to, I'll call her. At the very least, I'll have a pal who I can roller coaster with, something #2 won't do even if I paid her. In Foie Gras. And Lamb Loin.

Well, maybe with that form of payment. But I doubt it.

Another non-date, but one Sane admires

2009-07-21T17:33:00.000-05:00

I had a good talk with Gay Miguel about my propensity lately to acquire more gal pals who I have a non-physical friendship with versus the "let's have fun and then let's bang" friendship I've been hoping to find. He had a laugh-yell conversation with me because he is also aware that I've dumped a bunch of friends (75% women) in recent months due to the fact that they never would come up with fun things to do or even take the time to contact me first with a casual hello. Some of you readers yelled at me thinking I dumped these friends because we weren't banging, but the truth is that I hate one-sided friendships; it wasn't over sex.

Last week I made plans to see a semi-famous galpal who lives in LA. She was planning on flying to Chicago to see the Sane, but she had to skip her first flight and reschedule. When she told me she had to skip the second flight, I told her not to worry about it. We'd meet again soon when I was out there.

Sadly, I was in the mood for some food and maybe a drink, but I had already passed on plans with other friends. Google Chat to the rescue as AFCB#2 found herself free on that very same night, mere hours before it was dinner time. We made plans to meet in her neck of the woods, to try a restaurant neither of us had tried before.

We made plans for me to pick her up and we'd drive together instead of her facing the 15 minute walk to the restaurant. Earlier in the afternoon, I helped her out with an errand that she was planning to handle on her own, but the rain was coming so she ended up taking my offer to give her a ride and save not just time, but her clothes from a possible downpour that never happened.

I arrived at her apartment, on time as usual. She took care of a few things and then came out, looking hot and happy as usual. I'm a superficial person more often than not, and I see nothing wrong with having gal pals who I admire for their friendship but can still catch a glance of their ass shaking as they walk away. I'm a man, and I think one of our finest abilities is to admire sexiness.

Sidenote: Whenever I see her again for the first time, I always flash back to a very good friend of mine from my high school years. Her face and body are not similar at all, but something about he vibe takes me back almost 2 decades. I can't put a finger on it, but there is something there that keeps me thinking to my past.

We drove from her place the mile or less to the restaurant, looking for parking. None was on the main street, but a quick right turn onto a side street and we found a place to park my behemoth of a vehicle. We walked to the restaurant down the middle of the street, uncertain which direction it was.

We entered the quaint and tiny Tex-Mex restaurant, impressed with its cleanliness and overall good vibe.

The restaurant wasn't busy on this weekday, with a single waiter taking care of all the tables as best as he could. He had an interesting and memorable name, which usually helps me to remember to return to a restaurant if the service and food is good.

I ordered a glass of wine, wanting a little alcohol to bring me to my senses after a long day of doing really nothing important. #2 had her own day of stress and work responsibility, and she ordered a margarita off the restaurants healthy and hefty list of Mexican-focused drinks. We perused the menu, both excited at two pork options, as well as the variety of other Tex-Mex fusion foods that made our mouths water. We ordered the pulled pork nachos to share, making me think deep about how this is one gal who can actually get me to eat starchy foods.

Our drinks came and we clinked glasses, diving into our usual/unusual banter about life. She's a fun conversationalist, very set in her ways but also hilarious, vulgar and even responsible. It's always a pleasure to talk to her, lock eyes with her, watch her pouty yet full lips mouth words that bring a smile to my face. On occasion, she's able to see the rare Sane blush, usually when I slip up and say something stupid, private or embarrassing.

Our nachos arrived, and I started to talk to the server, but she shut down my usual banter. She's harsh in her judgement of how I deal with wait staff, mostly due to her own experiences in the past in the a similar job. I usually don't care much to follow the advice of others, but in her case I respect her enough that I am happy to cater to her wishes in this case and keep my mouth mostly shut.

Our nachos arrive, and they're heaven on Earth. We both shove food into our mouths, almost competing for the pulled pork instead of the plentiful corn-produced chips. Before the appetizers were served, I washed my hands in the men's room and was pleased by its cleanliness and brightness, but scared out of my mind by a HUGE stick-bush that was hiding behind me. I don't like big, dark, hovering objects in my periphery, and I didn't notice the bush walking in. I mentioned it to the server, and he had no clue what I was talking about. Excellence in design, and funny how I almost jumped into my defensive crouch thinking someone was behind me ready to take me out.

Our drinks were good, and her margarita was flavorful, if not a little too full of sugar. No one makes a good sugar free margarita in the city anymore, sadly.

Sidenote: Her margarita again brings flashbacks to my past friend, Margaret. She didn't have a sip of alcohol until her 17th birthday, at her house, when her parents were away. I concocted fresh Margaritas that I made myself of fresh ingredients. Another interesting seg.

We continue to attack the nachos while sipping our drinks slowly. We order, each of us finding something on the menu that will bring our mouths and bellies pleasure while still giving us the opportunity to catch up. AFCB#2 and I have had meals a number of times, always enjoying the food and conversation, never getting past the stage of being "just friends." I seem to have a talent to gain amazing gal pals, but lately my success rate beyond that has been uneventful, even failing.

Talking with #2 is always intriguing to me, because she is obviously in it for friendship and not any lusty attraction. She has never touched me, my one sign that is the "all systems go" to go in for more than a friendly hug. As I mentioned, this has raised the ire of readers and even some actual friends who are adverse to the idea of me spending quality time with a woman who is just a friend. Odd, but that's how some of my readers and friends are, wanting the Sane to put my body on someone else's body so I can wax ecstatic about the events. Trust me, I am in the same boat, folks.

And yet, as I watch her lips form words and catch glimpses of her body, I wonder: is this going to be a problem for me in the future? When I mean "this" I mean blogging about my truths and then meeting bloggers who may have read me.

Females who I meet who have read me know that I am oblivious to any sign of attraction if they don't grab ahold of me teasingly or even flirtatiously. AFCB#2 hadn't done it, and some others didn't as well. Even AFCB#3, who I brought to an orgasm orally, didn't touch me to grab me or show me any signs of attraction. That was a rule broken there, and it's one I rarely break, except in that case when I was fairly drunk. I don't regret it, and will definitely see her again for a recount, a naked one.

So I thought about it: what if I meet someone who is very attracted to me, but the fact that she knows my "spots" keeps her from doing it because it might seem contrived or obvious? What if I take a gal out and keep her at the level of a friend, even if I am attracted to her and she to me, but she's uncertain about showing me a sign of attraction? Does writing here and then meeting people work against me?

I don't ask her. It's not important in this case, but it's something to think about.

Sidenote: Thinking back to Margaret, I remember that she never touched me, either, but admitted to having a crush on me that lasted over 13 years until she met her husband. I would have jumped her in high school or college, but removed my feelings entirely, based solely on the lack of any sign of desire from her part. Maybe that's why I even think about her when I meet AFCB#2: they have similar mannerisms, and they're both very hands-off. Interesting.

Our meals come, and we continue with our drinks and conversation. #2 is a great talker, and I could listen to her for hours, mostly because she has a life that is something I am not familiar with. My closest friends are in business, with a few hardcore clubbing buddies (the Gay Miguel is one), and some galpals I've clung to over the years. #2 has a full life, but she's missing some key elements that she has to work on. Her honesty is ridiculously refreshing, and I always strive to see her more often than my readers or friends would accept.

It would be a lie if I said that #2 didn't rile me up in some way, but not necessarily in "jump on her and make her my slave in bed way." She's young, she's attractive, she has a sexy vibe to her, but she has obvious boundaries in place and she sticks to them. I appreciate that and respect that more than I could ever say in words, written or spoken. Most people I know give in and loosen their boundaries when people persist or pressure, but hearing her stories of men and boys who have tried to push her beyond her acceptable safety line always proves to me that she is way more responsible and a deeper thinker than some of her stories let on. It's also obvious she needs more gentleman friends in her life, and I'm happy to oblige those needs for her.

We check our phones as the clock passes 9pm to make sure she doesn't miss her outing with her gal pal later. Our conversation never wavers, jumping from topic to topic effortlessly and sometimes comically. In terms of life, #2 and I have very little in common but our passion for good food, good clothing, good sex (not with each other, mind you), good adventures and some passionate goals. Her life is probably boring to her, but I see its stability as refreshing. She is not someone I would likely have befriended, and vice versa, had we met in person and not over our mutual blogs.

Sidenote: Back to Margaret, she is also not someone I would have become friends with had we not met more than 10 times in various different high school cliques and groups. She was nothing like me, and I was nothing like her. We liked each other's company because we were so different from one-another. I do regret never taking things physical with her, but it was probably more post-teenage-hormones than an actual active desire.

As time progressed and it was getting closer to when she had to take her leave, she decided to hit the ladies' room as I took care of the check. As she stood, I automatically stood myself, just as she was telling me I didn't have to. As I've said before, and as I likely told her, my mother taught me well.

When she passed me, her hand touched my shoulder for a split second. She acknowledged the touch jokingly, but her face was turned away towards the direction she walked. She completely missed the electric shock that ran from her finger tip, into my arm, through my chest and down to my legs. Holy crap, that was good. Unexpectedly good.

A woman's touch is something I crave. Not necessarily a specific woman's touch, just the touch itself. I don't know why I am programmed this way, maybe it's a bit of dysmorphia, maybe it's an ego stroke, maybe it was just something I was wondering about. I didn't give it much thought, not up to then or since then. It was a funny, casual, not contrived touch that meant nothing, but it was still electric and reminded me that I want a pretty, funny and sexy gal in my life who will do that regularly.

As the bill was paid and as #2 returned from the powder room, I looked at her again and realized the comedy in what I had just experienced. I filed it away for more thought.

We left the restaurant and as we hit the street, she noticed the gal pal she was intending to meet was already waiting at the venue just across the street where they planned on meeting. Her and I were both walking in the same direction, so we both took 2 steps towards each other and had the shorter embrace since we met. Hugs don't bring out the same jolt than a solo touch can, and hugging her is always nice from a friendship level and a guy level (she has a great little body, who wouldn't want a hug? Or two or three?). She hopped across the street and I wandered away to find my car, which she gave me good directions on re-discovering.

Sidenote: Margaret and I were big huggers, even once in a blue moon spooning while watching a movie. Since a full-on friendly body contact is very different than a woman teasingly touching, I never took spooning as a sign to dig deeper with various parts of my body.

It was an easy dinner, one that reminded me of my past, brought me some thought on my recent frustrations in attracting the right type of woman, and also caused me to contemplate the problems with meeting people from this particular site: does knowing and remember what I write here make it uncomfortable for a woman who is attracted to me to show me that attraction because she knows what I will think, and she will not want it to see forced.

So that leaves in a weird spot. I _like_ meeting people from the web, male and female alike. But if I meet a gal who I am obviously attracted to, and she to me, but she refuses to follow the path she physiologically wants to follow because she knows that I would see through it, am I setting myself up for a painful crush-destroying experience?

I'm not sure, but it is something to think about.

Regardless of my response to that solitary, accidental touch, it still gives me pleasure to know that my body responds to that. If I meet someone, even you, and there is a mutual attraction, will that someone refrain from showing it because I am so obvious and blantant in my needs?

I guess only time will tell.

You worthless whore (NSFW)

2009-07-21T03:20:00.000-05:00

I don't know why I bother with you. Seriously, you're a tease, you're vicious, you're a total cock-tease, you pick boys up and play with them like a cat and a mouse, and you throw them away. At least kill them or let them go, but to let them hang there in a state of limbo is unreasonable, and it's mean.

Thankfully, you never played with me. It was obvious we'd be pals from day one. We met on a boat, out on a huge lake. You were playing with the hearts of males who earn more in a year that I'd ever want to make in a lifetime. They're boys, regardless of income and net asset value.

When we left together that same day, I started 10 feet away from you. We ended up in another state, booking adjoining hotel rooms because I sure as hell wasn't going to sleep in the same bed as you. You told me it would be OK, that you trusted me, and I knew it was a ploy from the start. I am not a conquest.

Our time together from that point forward let months pass while we just hung out, had fun, tormented bartenders and hotel concierge desks and travel agencies. You could afford to travel, so you'd come see me in the most mystical places around the globe. 9 months of that, and I never touched you once. I never wanted to.

A month ago, you told me that I was a throw-away. I pull my right hand back and slapped you in the face, bringing a rose color to where my fingers glanced your cheek. You cried, I laughed. You cried more, and I laughed even harder. You covered your cheek and yelled at me that a man never hits a woman. I locked eyes with you, once they were open, and said "and so far, I still have never hit a woman."

We had fresh fruit here on this island, a full month later from the first time I recall ever touching you. It wasn't the touch of a brother or a friend, a touch of a lover or one of the many boys whose hearts you play with. My touch was the touch of an enemy. I should have used a fist, but I didn't want to be seen with a battered waste of space.

So how did we end up here?

I think it's because I tell you NO where the boys just cower and kow-tow to your every whim. "Let's have seafood" you said at lunch, to which I responded NO. "That's it, no?" Correct. "And you have what right to tell me this?" I'm a man. "Oh, so men are better than women?" At making logical decisions, that's also correct.

I saw your look of anger at me. You wanted to start quoting whatever bullshit you learned in feminine studies, but you know I have a logical and scientifically accurate response to pretty much everything your parents spent $100,000 on helping you learn. So you bit your tongue.

I saw your look of sadness at me. You crave my attention, but your addiction to what you know by rote completely bores me in every sexual way.

I saw your look of questioning when I left you for 3 hours, coming back with no story to tell you.

I saw your look of intrigue when you caught me shoving fresh 100 Swiss Franc bills into my briefcase, bundled and wrapped nicely. You didn't question it.

So there we were, just finishing up our dinner. I paid the bill because I felt I owed you for disappearing this morning with no warning. We talked pleasantly at dinner, but I saw your eyes on me in a heavier way than I can remember in recent months.

When we adjourned to our hotel rooms, crossing the hotel hallway like a modern day love story, I knew there would be trouble when I unlocked my door and I didn't hear your key turn. Instead, I turned around and your hand on the key, in the lock, ready to turn.

You yelled quietly when I grabbed your long, red hair hard and pulled you across the hall. When your back hit my door, I put my hand up to your neck and held it against the door, watching your eyes open wide in shock, your lips parse slightly. I kissed you, immediately and faithfully, my hand still tightening around your neck.

I pulled away from your lips, your hands catching my body and pulling me back. I tightened my grip on your neck and stepped backwards, just barely out of your grasp. Your hand criss-crossed, your long fingernail attacking at me either to strike me for pain or grab me for passion. Instead, I released your neck and ran my strong hand down your chest to your dress, buttoned in front.

Your buttons were dangling or on the floor before you could know it.

I was surprised by your body, even though I had seen it in bikinis and the like. For some reason, a woman who is half out of her clothes, even by the will of my hands and her body, is sexier than a woman who is fully in her bikini. When I pulled my body into yours, your chest and hips touched mine.

Our lips connected for the first time, aggressively, our hunger for each other coming out of nowhere. Until this point, I didn't even know you had this passion inside of you.

My door was already unlocked, and your hand left my hip and turned the French doorknob. I pushed your body with both of my hands against your shoulders, and you fell into the room. You turned from me to wander towards the bedroom, but my lithe arm snaked out and grabbed at your long hair again, pulling you backwards towards me.

My hands grabbed at your tits, then at your shoulders as I pulled your dress down to your hips. I circled your hip and belly with one arm as the other unclasped your bra, and I used my hips and my hands to force you to the bed in front of us.

I bent you over the bed, the top half of your dress fall down to your waist, doubling up the skirt portion. I pushed your arms over your head, holding them down by your elbows as I pushed my groin against your ass. Your moan told me everything I wanted to hear.

I held your elbows down, putting my face against your neck as I bit and licked up to your earlobe, where I continued to taste your skin, your perfume, your body scent. I released one arm and slid your skirt up along with the rest of your dresstop, exposing your panties. I quick slide of my hand inside of them, along your ass, down to your pussy lips, proved to me that you needed nothing more than this.

My hand reached to my back pocket, grabbing a condom I had kept there in case I came across another woman who was deserving of my cock inside of her. You don't deserve it, but you're getting it because you want it this bad that I had to take it when I was good and ready.

I unbuttoned my pants and let them fall to my ankles. I continued to hold your arms down as best as I can with one hand while my other hand pulled your panties away from your pussy, but still covering your ass. I tore open my condom with one hand and my teeth, and carefully placed it on my cock.

With your panties pushed away from your drenched pussy, I slid my cock in, not taking the time to make sure you were ready. I slid all the way in, not teasing or giving you any opportunity to do anything but say the word you said: "Yes."

And then I fucked you. Not passionately like I would a woman I respected, but like a whore who I just bought for a $200 meal. And I did fuck you that way, for my pleasure. Your pussy is tight, it's wet, it's grasping for me to pound you, so I obliged, but only for what I want.

I fucked you with your face in the duvet cover for what seemed like eternity, but the clock showed me only a half hour passed since I had slipped inside of you. Your hands are now on my hips, wrapped behind your back, trying to prevent me from ravaging you as deeply as I am.

I considered finishing without coming, but as I pummeled into your pussy, I realized your breaths were getting shorter. I grabbed one of your wrists that stopped me from entering you fully, and pulled out almost completely before fucking you as deep as possible. As I heard you inhale, I grabbed your hair and pulled it tight, causing your neck to arch back just as I slammed into you again. That was all it took as you swore and cussed and told me you were coming.

I didn't stop my pounding, because this fucking is not for your pleasure. In fact, I am angry that you came so quickly, you whore who needs no foreplay, no passion, no teasing, no attention, just a dinner and drinks and a complete attack on your body.

After you finished, I pulled out. Your rolled over on the bed to look at me, so I pulled on your legs and tore you from the bed cover. You tried to stand as both feet hit the floor, but I pulled my knee up, slipped a foot behind your knee, and pull it towards me, causing you to buckle and fall to the floor, ass first.

The condom was off before your eyes opened. I grabbed your hair again, pulled your mouth to my cock. One hand on the back of your neck, one hand grabbing your hair, my cock choking its way into your throat past your tongue.

The same hard and deep fucking I gave your pussy I now give your mouth and face. I held back nothing, not even when you gagged, not even when the tears rolled out of the sides of your eyes. I felt spit collect on your tongue and into your gums as I rammed my cock, thick and as long as it gets, in and out of your mouth.

You looked up at me, almost pleading. Not for me to stop, but to finish. A few more thrusts, a few more tears picking up your mascara and eyeliner, and I was there. I pulled my cock out, and without asking, started the process of drenching this beautiful face of a cheap whore with my come.

Shot after shot landed on your face, on your cheeks, on your nose, on your forehead. I covered you completely, emptying days of build-up from deep within.

With my last spurt and a last gasp from my lips, I finished. You looked at me and almost gave away a smile. I told you I'd go get a towel and walked to the bathroom.

When I returned, your were sitting on the bed, your face coated with my come primer. When you saw me return, my cock still hard and a new condom on, you laid back on the bed, spread your legs again, and stared at me. I slipped into your pussy again, this time taking things a little slower. My fingers played with my come on your face, tracing lines down to your mouth, causing you to finish what my promised-but-ignored towel would have cleaned up.

And I fucked you, again. I fucked you still like a whore, but a whore bought and paid for and used up, beyond the allowed time that such a small purchase would normally cover.

It didn't take long, either. Another half hour of me fucking you, my remaining come rolling down your cheeks to the bed and your neck below, and you came again. You didn't verbalize it, but your moans and groans were of desperation, your orgasm fully aligned with a hope that I would come again.

And I did. I pulled out of your pussy, hopped onto the bed and straddled your gorgeous tits as I unleashed a second load into your open mouth (held open by my fingers), onto your chin and neck and a little on the bed.

Now I'm finished. Your orgasm continued even as I came on you a second time. As I step back from the bed, admiring the tease I turned into a whore, owning fully, I pulled my boxers and pants back up. My shirt, which was never even unbuttoned, lay hung over my belt. I looked at you again and noticed a smile. Maybe you feel you won this round?

I turned from the bed and walked to the door. "Where are you going?" you called as my own hotel room door closed behind me. Your key, still in the door, allowed me to enter your room, remove my clothes and slide into your bed.

I heard through the door that you opened the door from my room. Were you chagrined at the DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from your door handle?

May, 2000. "Electra"

The problem with Sane and the ladies

2009-07-13T13:30:00.000-05:00

Written earlier and posted while I'm having lunch in Greektown.

I received some great emails and chats over the past few weeks from a variety of ladies (where are the fucking MEN) aghast at my pickiness over women.

It doesn't take long for me to search through years of journals to come up with the reason for my pickiness. It isn't my lack of attraction for a woman or confidence issues or the lack of desire on my part to take a vertical girl and make her horizontal in 3 seconds. It isn't any fear of commitment or lack of wanting to share my heart. It isn't that I set ungodly high standards, even.

The number one problem I am facing, and have faced for more than 3 years, is the lack of women who are interested in chasing and being chased, but not in the most obvious fashion.

I've gone out on a number of dates: some obviously dates, others ended up being dates or just being fun times with a beautiful lady. They've always ended up with two different outcomes: (a) she wasn't attracted to me or (b) she was TOO attracted to me. Both are downers, really.

I like teasing and I love being teased. Even though I often write about how women are generally the first ones to kiss me, I prefer to be the one to kiss them first. But I don't do that unless they're showing signs of attraction, and lately most women act like little girls and are totally hands off, even if they find me hot. Hence why they end up kissing me first.

When it comes to even a purely sexual relationship with a friend-with-benefits, I still like those signs of attraction that the well trained woman offers: the touches, the smiles, pulling hair away from my face so she can watch me talk and listen, the hand on my side or my shoulder, the stares at my face while I drive. This form of teasing HAS to exist at some point before I make a move or let her make a move, because it is a solid foundation of attraction.

I had a great friend who turned into a lover not too long ago (years, but not decades). I lusted after her from day 1, but she never showed a sign. Months past and we ran around the town, having a blast at dinner, drinking, even goofy fun at her pad. Then one day, she emails me and asks me if I find her attractive. Umm, yeah, duh.

So we end up making out -- a lot. She was a terrible kisser, one of the worst ever. I taught her to slow down, to show me her desire by NOT destroying my face and tongue and lips. Eventually, she got the gist of kissing and things were solid. We'd jerk off in front of each other (often) but I never touched her below the neck. When the clothes came off, we'd spoon but not fuck.

Finally, we had sex and it wasn't that good. I only came maybe 1 out of 4 times, she just wasn't a good lover. She was so hands off physically, but she'd tell me how much she was attracted to me. To this day she continues to tell me that I'm the most attractive man she's ever met, let alone been with.

I broke it off after a few months, not really wanting to be with her sexually. It hurt her, but it didn't destroy her. She had a hot body and a cute face, so finding another guy to date or just fuck wasn't hard. Yet her scene was mostly boys with big dreams but no goals, so of course she bored and swept through a chain of boys in short order. We never touched again, I had no desire.

When I think about the boredom in bed, I can attribute it to the lack of her showing me she wanted me, being part of that great tease that can stay solid for years through a relationship. In some of my emails, you readers have told me that I need to jump the gun and kiss everyone I go out with, just to see. Here's the thing: I don't. If a lady isn't mature enough to play the game correctly, then she's going to be a boring lover, even if she's good in bed.

Looking over EVERY first date I've been on, I can honestly say that I've been attracted to practically everyone, but none have shown me the type of soft teasing that I really like. Saying to my face that I'm hot or that they want me is nice and all, but it's not as nice as the sly look in their eyes when they show me how much they want me in some way, and are willing to play it slowly at least for one night.

So I usually go out on a first date, and then never a second. Some fall into friendship roles, some pass away into the night like ships passing. Rarely do I notice the wake trails because the tease was never there.

It's rough on me, especially as I age. I tried dating some women closer to my age, but there is such animosity and anger towards men. I try to explain to them that their 20s was about dating boys with no goals, no successes, no passions, but few understand. They just want to feel 25 again and they can't. They could, with me, but the drama and baggage is too heavy for me to lift.

So I date younger. I'm shocked lately that the majority of people I meet who aren't that much younger than me consider me too old to date. I've heard it from 10 women in the past 6 months alone, and yet all I hear from most of them lately is how immature the guys are they date. 1+1=2, it's not hard to figure out.

On the asking-out front, I've been bombing a LOT lately. It's odd to me that in LA I crashed and burned 100%. In Chicago my numbers have been a little bit better, maybe getting the phone number from 1 in 5 women I talk to. It's not a horrible percentage, I'm not a 6'1" alumnus with the face of Johnny Depp, so I push forward. Yet when I go out on first dates there, it's the same ritual: either they jump on me too fast, or they don't give me a single sign of interest.

So that's where I am: a whole slew of pretty girls in my life, and either they're not into me (which is fine) or they're too into me (which is an ego stroke but bad for my sex drive). Yet I'll keep on keeping on, looking for someone to spend time with -- but not too much time; someone to make out with -- but not try to force them to be with me and only me; someone to fuck -- but not force into a love affair that neither of us can handle.

It's not a rough life, bachelorhood, but it does get boring. I never feel lonely, but incomplete without a fun person I can hitch to my wing and fly through life at a slow pace, eating the best foods, drinking the best cocktails, fucking with intensity when desired and passion when required. As the midsummer nights approach, I start wondering if I am doing the right thing turning down those who are too into me.

I think so. I can't break a heart, because it takes a little piece of mine when I do.

A quiet week

2009-07-13T11:42:00.005-05:00

I have a quiet week ahead, with no major plans to keep my attention from much needed sleep, cuddle time with the kittie, doing some cleaning and preparing for some rehabbing of the old apartment, etc.

AFCB#1 called me up today out of the blue, telling me she saw me on Saturday but I didn't notice her waving. She told me she's missed my company and would like to hang out again, so I'm putting some ideas together for gal-pal festivities. I'm thinking of taking a road trip up to Ren-Faire or maybe Woodstock, Illinois for good food and sunlight. We'll see.

I'm going to drop a line to AFCB#2 as well, might as well make it a blogging buddy week. Maybe lunch, maybe dinner, not sure really. Always good to have eye candy 3 feet in front of me while I stuff my face and belly.

My mind is cluttered from lack of good sleep, so I'm definitely doing a nap this afternoon in the sun. Millenium Park or the beach, anyone?

I have two VIP tickets to Harry Potter for Tuesday night at 12:01am at a fantastic theater (the best in Chicago if you ask me) but I can't go due to plans I already made for Tuesday, so I traded the tickets for Wednesday. Not sure if I should take a friend for movie and dinner, or push for calling up a possible date interest or not. It's a tough call.

Bea from Saturday added me to Facebook and said "we should hang out again soon." I would very much like to stick my ears on her thighs for awhile, but I also don't like hooking up with any of gay Miguel's friends. He loves to blabber, and then simple stores like "He had sex" become "He's having orgies and is going to have a polygamous marriage and children with his entire concubine." So I'm leaving that one simmering on a back burner because I think it would be wise to stay 10 feet away. My resolve this weekend was nearly broken.

I'm trying to make lunch plans with a competitor of mine, Brach, who is in town from Germany. He's about my height and weight, but his body fat is probably 2%. When he comes to town, we pound on each other in an alley behind one of my buildings, and then wander into bars bloody and bruised. Lots of fun with the surly German, but I'm not sure if these old bones can take it.

So that's about it. Not a lot of interesting things happening, but I sure as hell am ready to get my mouth on someone's lips (yes, those too) and tell you all about it.

Any of you getting laid? Tell me about it.

Sleeping with a friend, Part II

2009-07-11T16:07:00.000-05:00

Continued from Part I earlier today.

"Why do you keep saying that? It's completely a mind game, you know." I smile, let her know I'm serious. "So you've gone gay?" Haha, maybe. "I doubt it. What's your angle, Sane? Miguel joked with you about not getting laid in a year." Not that long, but it's been awhile. "Too picky?" No, but I don't like one-night stands and I don't like breaking hearts.

She's quiet. I brew some tea for us and we sit down and talk more. She's been on a dating wreck for 2 years, chasing really broken boys who lied, cheated and even stole. "They're so good on paper." Never trust paper. Or words. "Interesting angle from a successful writer." I'm not successful, but I warn my readers to not even trust me. "Saying don't trust me makes it more trustworthy, you know." Maybe.

We sip our herbal tea, share a few cigarettes (Miguel will yell to holy hell) and I lay back perpendicular to the couch, my feet on the glass coffee table (more yelling tomorrow). I kick off my shoes and socks, as does Bea. As we talk, she puts her head on my right pec. I put my arm on her shoulder, teasing her bare skin with my 3 fingers.

I'm getting tired. I ask her if she's taking the bed. "Yeah. Alone, if I have to." You should. "You're a strange fruit, Sane." Are you hoping I'll dangle from a tree? She doesn't get the Lady Day reference. Damn.

She kicks her legs up over the far side of the huge couch, the back of her head on my lap. My hands tease playfully up and down her arm as we talk, both feeling tired but not ready for sleeping. Eventually, her jeans pop off, leaving her in her tight purple panties, her men's A-shirt showing off her small tits and VERY erect nipples. "You can take off your pants, too. I won't try anything."

I ignore her, feeling her forearms, her shoulder, her neckbone and her neck. She loses her grip and moans. "You're a fucking clit tease." I'm not. We're just talking, I like your body. "So why refuse me?" I told you, I'm not looking for a short term thing, nor a girlfriend. "It's just sex." That's my line, but it isn't. You're ready for a great guy, I am not him.

She closes her eyes and then turns on her side. My cock is hard, unfortunately. "Whoa, cowboy. Your brain and body fighting?" Always. The brain wins. "Always?" Yes.

I put my hand on her back, the part showing over the wife-beater she's wearing. "You can take it off. You have amazing hands." If I take it off, I'll lose my resolve. "Oh, a weak spot." Don't tempt me, woman. "At least you proved I'm not ugly." Lord, far from it.

Finally she gets up. "Lay down." No. "We can just cuddle." I'm warning you. "I'll be good." I lower my body on the huge couch. I pull my hipster-tight jeans off and toss them on the floor. She straddles my hips with one leg, the rest of her body is to my left on the huge Corinthian-leather couch. Her pussy is on my hip, very warm. Her scent is in the air and I'm fighting offering her a clit teasing lickfest.

She puts her head on my chest again and touches my body, my cock pushing through my signature Armani boxers, black. "Want me to suck your big soldier?" No, I'm serious about cuddles only. "He looks like he needs it." He does, but I'll pass.

She touches my abs and my obliques. "Holy shit, you're cut. How many hours a day do you work out?" Zero. She unbuttons my shirt completely and runs her hand through my chest hair, down my chest bone and caresses my abs and my minor "V" of my obliques. "Bullshit. Your body is amazing." Seriously.

"Good genes?" My family is a pack of fat fucks. "Writers sit on their ass all day." Maybe.

She continues caressing my body, eventually putting her warm, and wet pussy on my cock, two pairs of thin underwear preventing something I really want, just not with her. "You're holding out for someone else, aren't you?" Maybe. I don't think about it.. I try not to. "Who is it?" Oh, no one specific. A fantasy woman, she probably doesn't exist. "They never do. Tell me about her."

I give her the run-down: petite but feminine, not too skinny. Someone who loves my body, my scent, my cock in her mouth and in her hands. Someone who wants my kiss, but not my heart. Someone who listens, who can help me unwind. Someone who can't give her heart fully because she has goals, passions to discover and plant and grow and cultivate.

"Sounds rare. Go on."

Someone who finds me attractive, especially on days I feel ugly. "You're hot. Women love your confidence." My face is a wreck. "You're different looking. I think you don't see how good looking you are. Every time I've met you, I was fucking intimidated as hell."

Thanks, I appreciate it. A lot.

She lays her tits on my chest, puts her face in my neck, our legs bundled like two forks, tines intertwined. She falls asleep as I tease her back down to just above her ass. I fall asleep right after.

I wake up at 8, her asleep in the crook of the couch, her hand on my hard cock over my boxers. Oops. I slide away, find coffee, pull my pants on. Miguel comes out, wearing tiny man-shorts, come on his chest. "Shit, hombre, I thought you were in the befroom." He sees Bea. "Man, you finally fucked her." You have spooge on your tits, dude. He looks down, grabs a papertowel and rinses of. "Sorry. How was she?"

We didn't fuck. "What? Why?" Just cuddled, wanted to talk. "Hombre, you are such a player." Players get laid. "She didn't turn you down, hijo, you did." Yeah. I'm an asshole. "You need to get your fire hydrant emptied, man." Soon, I promise.

We talk as the coffee brews, then click mugs and sit in his Cuban-motif kitchen. I like Miguel, love him fully. I tell him this. "You're my brother, of course we love each other." He finishes his coffee, hugs me with one hand on the back of my head and kisses my forehead. "You're a good man, hombre. A real gangster, but so nice." You're a fucking flamer. "I'm glad you know it." He smacks my ass hard. "Hijo, you doing lunges? Shit, maybe you need a boyfriend."

We laugh, hug again and he gets in the shower.

I leave before Bea wakes up. I kiss her forehead, eliciting a sleeping smiles. Bye, Bea. You rock. Her smile is still on her face as I wander down Halsted, looking for food.

I need exactly this, once a week or twice a month. She's just not the one who can handle my life, my truth, my reality. I'll try again with another, hopefully finding a woman who finds my mind and body and face hot and handsome, but doesn't want more of my heart than this Sane man can give.

Sleeping with a friend

2009-07-11T14:19:00.002-05:00

Mobile-blogged while catching some rays.

Last night I landed at 10:40pm and was home by 11. Great flight, but I hadn't slept for almost 48 hours. No big deal.

I texted a mass of individuals, hearing back from a solid dozen. Paulo, Celine's boyfriend of many years, invited me to hang out with the guys. I chose that.

I threw on a gorgeous club-style dress shirt, my most hipsters jeans from Theory, a new pair of shoes and a silver wrist brace under my long cuffs. Then I bounced to Uptown to a trendy and dead pub.

Paulo looked like shit, which happens once every few years. His pack of male-model types was out in full effect but not too happy with the lack of ladies. Celine was there, nursing a martini cocktail with a lemon. We hugged and smooched lips and Paulo hugged me and smooched my cheek.

I ordered the same drink as Celine, a lemon vodka martini cocktail. Refreshing and solid. As the music changed to 90s pop, Celine dragged me out on the dance floor, and I shook my ass for an hour. She saw my abs flex through the custom fit shirt, and would casually dance with her fingers on my obliques. What a flirt.

As Paulo's friends bounced to other venues, he called for a change of pace: boystown. We piled into my tiny car, Paulo, Celine, some cute-ish gal Kenny (don't ask) and a fast-talking Vegas type guy named Paul. We zipped to Boystown and wandered into my favorite gay bar.

The bartenders at this place love me, mostly because they can serve me free cocktails and get my shirt off and dancing by midnight. Instead I refuse the drinks, settling on diet colas and talking to Kenny and a friend of hers who joined us, Margie. I named K & M because I will see them again.

Around 1am, my queerful friend Manuel popped in with a gay butch bartender I have the hots for, Laura. We made out off and on over the years, she's even talked about LFH but has never seen him. It's cute fun play.

Celine was trashed, touching my back muscles as I danced with Miguel. We have this drunken synchronized shuffle that we call E-boney and Eye-vory, but I'm getting tanned so the joke was beyond most people.

Paulo came up and hugged Miguel and they kissed like brothers. Celine was losing her balance, so Paulo said his goodnight. Laura took my phone number and cabbed with them back. Damn it.

For the next 3 hours, Laura's hot ass butt-dialed me 19 times. I was going to kill-a-bitch. Miguel's buddies paired up at 1:30 as last-call was called, doing the gay Friday thing attentively. Miguel said his latino monster was hurting from some biting he got a few days ago, so he passed going home with his live-in boy toy.

As we were leaving, 3 ladies Miguel knows from the area wandered past our bar. The valet had my car waiting out front and left it tagged so it wouldn't get ticketed. I grabbed the keys from under the floor mat and left it there as we decided what to do.

One of the ladies is Cara, another butchy gay bartender who remembers me from the dive bar she works at. I have no memory. The other gal is a casual friend of mine, Bea, who is tall (5'8") and pretty and has the most vulgar mouth. She phonesexed me twice 2 years ago and we still laugh about our close call after those.

The other gal was gorgeous but left before I could associate her name with another word. I have to do this or I forget. Miguel, Cara, Bea and I hopped to a Mexican restaurant in Logan Square and ate, coming out with late night plans.

As we finished our triple fajita platter, my hipster friend Jerry texted me: party in Logan, full keg. I hate beer, but I keep some Scotch Whiskey in the trunk.

Bea says "I hate hipsters." Free beer. "I hate beer." I have Scotch Whiskey. "I'm in." We cab back to my car and tear off back to Logan, where I double park in an alley.

The scene sucks. Ugly girls, uglier boys, ugly music, shitty beer. The notorious foursome drinks my firewater, and Bea and I slow dance to some crazy Irish funeral music. Her hands are on my sides and she comments on how I feel like steel. Whoa.

Miguel and Cara are talking to boys, most of whom probably go both ways because it's cool. No thanks. Bea and I break from the high school prom moves and sit on a railroad tie, swigging my brown water of life, her more than I. We talk about our lives.

"You're a writer?" I am. "Is it hard to find work?" Not at all. "What do you write?" I give her a website that has a list of some of my topics, and also forward her to some posts I have on some major newspaper websites throughouy the country. She promises to read them.

As 3am comes and goes, I'm starting to catch a buzz. Bea can hold her own, not looking trashed at all. I notice that she's not wearing a bra, and I'm having problems focusing on her face. Small boobs but a great bod for 26. "How old are you again?" Too old. Don't think it. "Haha, really?" I lie to her, adding 3 years. "That's not too old." Don't think it.

We drink, slow dance, make fun of hipsters to their face and pick out which grotty kid hasn't showered for the longest time. Big crowd to choose from, too.

At 4, we're bored, Cara is wasted and burp-puking, Miguel has a cute skinny latin guy rubbing his back, and Bea wants to bail. I'm sober, not wanting to have to cab it and find a place for my car.

We all pile in the small beast and hightail it back to Boystown, where I find a spot 5 meters back from Miguel's door. The Scotch Whiskey latecoming drunkenness hits me, and I feel tipsy upon walking into his house.

Cara goes to sleep on the loveseat in Miguel's room. Bea and I sit on the couch and continue talking. Miguel goes into the bathroom and comes out completely naked. The boy is hung like a horse, wandering into his boytoy's room. "Take the bed, one of you. Or both." Bea says "we will" as I throw her a sideways glare. Don't think about it, woman.

To be continued in Part II. Today.

Re-design

2009-07-10T16:50:00.001-05:00

My good friends at a web design shop have decided to take on the task to redeveloping this blog. Over the next few weeks, things may be broken. I'm sorry about that, in advance.

In the long run, the new design will be much more comfortable to read. It will be less busy, more interactive, and it will offer a nice section where you can field articles by category better than Blogspot currently allows.

We'll see how it goes. I hope you like it.

If you missed it, I'm looking for votes on which story of mine my readers would like to hear me read as a podcast or MP3. Go over to that article and vote your thoughts.

Riding into the sunset, a guide to real social status

2009-07-10T16:00:00.002-05:00

Written on the plane this morning.

I read Chicago Social, but I laugh when I do. Real socialites, the ones who control the media, the governments and the distribution of wealth in the top echelon of society would never want their pictures taken or their names released to the public.

Yet many of them are out and about, just like every day people. I'm not talking about the millionaires who live like paupers, I'm talking about the billionaires who live like billionaires.

It's a world that seems like fantasy to some. There aren't movies that make fictional documentaries of this world, there aren't books or magazines or stories to be told outside of the circle of power and distrust that enslaves the members and ostracizes those unable to join or attend.

I've had lovers join me at some truly ridiculous social galas, even a friend or two has attended as my date. They always ask "How do you get invited to these shindigs?" It's not money, I am not a wealthy bloke by any means. It's not family, I don't have a name that rings attention when I enter the door and have my name called out. It's not business always, when I attend I am always "Sane, the writer."

Instead, it is a membership that I joined mostly by mistake, starting very young in life. As a teenager, I didn't feel connected to other teens at my high school or in my social class. I wasn't interested in high school sports, teenage girls were boring and deceitful, I failed classes more than I passed, I wasn't into leather jackets and stone-washed jeans. Instead I was a fan of the arts, of culture.

At a young age, I started visiting some of the art museums in the city, and would ask questions to staff about how I could get invited to some of the private showing and showcases of art exhibits that came through the gallery but weren't mentioned to the public. With a little needling and prodding, I learned that contributors to these museums were invited to various events that the public wasn't aware of.

My first membership was to a famous museum in the city that I still love to this day. I asked to speak to the director of contributions, and she sat me down and inquired what I was looking to get. "Access to things normally unseen or unheard." She smiled and asked what I knew. I spilled the beans, mentioned what I had only heard stories of from clients. She asked my age and I told her, shocking her that I was trying to infiltrate a society that people twice my age had no knowledge of.

At the rip age of 16, I paid $1000 a year to the museum. They put my name on the wall in brass, my name entered the public directory as a contributor, and she gave me a huge packet of tickets, invites and special gathering information. There was an upcoming "Dinner with the Curator" as well as a ton of previews of exhibits. The comical part of donating was that this inner circle of people was actually CALLED The Circle. It is still prominent on their website.

That year was only 1 of 2 years where I contributed with my name. Googling me still pulls up those 2 years of those contributions, and now I donate anonymously. The price of membership to that museum has gone up $5000 per year, $10,000 if you want to have dinner with one of the wealthiest men in Chicago (once per year). Still, $5000 isn't as much as people think, since what you can get from networking in that clique pays itself tenfold.

Going to dinners as a young teenager felt weird. I was the youngest one in the room by a decade, and even those in their 20s were in short supply. It was the best move I could have ever made. Since I was young, and since I attended every gala, banquet, dinner and event, people knew me as "The Young Sane." I met and considered myself an acquaintance of some of the wealthiest people in Chicago, some who actually hooked me up with work early in my career.

After a year of rubbing elbows with Chicago's elite (and hitting the social rags), I found myself invited to other events outside of the museum. When I attempted to RSVP for these events, I was saddened that I wasn't a member of other clubs and groups that were required to just get an invitation. The next year, I joined 2 more groups, spending almost 5 figures (which was a HUGE chunk of my income!) to join. Within a year, my income had doubled, thanks to membership to the group that was considered the next step up.

My young age, plus my confident nature, combined with the fact that I was financing these contributions on my own (I was making more than both my parents combined by the age of 19) led me to getting some stardom amongst the blue-hair set. My "friends" at these events were always in their 60s or older, which was always a surprise when I brought a date.

As I grew older and wiser, I starting finding that some of these events led to private parties at private homes. We'd go to an exhibit preview and catch a glimpse at a $5 million painting by Pollock or Kandinsky that the public would never hear about, but then there would be a quiet invite to retreat to a Gold Coast home to see $10 million paintings hung in a foyer or a Champagne room. That's when the doors blew open: there's a public high society, and a private one.

Business was booming for me, but I decided to cut back. I am not money-greedy, I just like good jobs that pay well and leave me time to travel, write, date, and have fun. Instead of trying to be the best in my trade, I wanted to be known as the guy that is hardest to land. That was a wise move as well.

One summer, I went to a breakfast gala at a large museum in the city. A good friend of mine worked at the museum and when I told her, she said "There's no such event, I work there!" She was wrong. The breakfast was over in 2 hours, and we all shuffled to our cars or limos to head for the marina, where we boarded a yacht 20 times bigger than my apartment. As the day progressed, people were talking about another party tomorrow in another state. I whittled myself an invite (verbal), zipped to the airport to find an airplane ticket, and found myself in the middle of nowhere just 14 hours after leaving the boat party. What I witnessed there blew my mind. I felt like a spy venturing into a private gathering of the heads of state in Monaco. I was definitely a fly on the wall, not sure if I should even be there.

But I had fun. I made connections, I didn't have to explain myself or my attire or my long hair. I was still one of the younger ones in the gathering of the elite. I laugh now thinking that I make in one year what some of those people make in a day, just on their investment income. Still, the super powerful need servants, and I am happy to serve.

Throughout the years, I have kept up my anonymous contributions to the museums, the festivals, the social groups and welfare organizations. I don't attend as many events as I used to, but I still like to rub elbows and meet the powerful whose names don't even come up on Google to show anything more than a wealthy patron of the arts or sciences or the poor and unfortunate.

As I get older, I still push younger men and women to make their way to these events. For me, it was a better investment than any college degree or job. No one talks education or job portfolio, they go by word of mouth. There are no favors given or freebies granted, you earn your position based on your value to their society, not to real society.

For more than half my life, I have met and known names that even I won't share with others. They're not actors or musicians (although they are known to visit), they aren't politicians or entrepreneurs. Their pictures don't appear in magazines or websites, the gossip rags don't mention them or the mentioner will find themselves unemployed and blacklisted.

These are the powerful, the ones who live just over the horizon where the sun sets. If you squint closely, you'll see their long shadows creeping from the edge of the earth, casting only a soft darkness over the lives of the people who are more impressed by the power of the sun millions of miles away than from the shadow-casters just over the ridge.

If you're young and want a glimpse at the powerful, it will require a HUGE undertaking. Get a second job and put that money aside for next year's contributions. I would recommend a minimum of $15,000 spent at a total of 3-4 museums or welfare groups. That's about $60 a day of income extra you'll need. It isn't cheap, but just cutting back on eating out, Starbucks, extra useless clothes and knick-knacks, it's doable. Try it on for one year only, and you may be surprised at what doors open to you.

Some day, I will no longer be part of the parties and galas, the events and cruises, the conversations and discussions on who they are dominating and puppetmastering. For me, it's almost a joke because I really don't care. I do it for financial stability, I do it to entertain myself at their expense. It's just one more thing that keeps me Sane.

Why I avoid the gym, and gym-goers

2009-07-10T15:00:00.001-05:00

Written on the plane this morning.

I recently spoke with a friend about why I avoid the gym and why I even avoid gym-goers. I'm older than most of my readers, but I also started dating younger than most, so I have a long history of dating and follow-through. Since I am also friendly with all of my exes (save 2), I have a good ear for issues that come up in most relationships over time.

One of my biggest problems about my own taste in women has been physical shape. I'm not superficial about a beautiful face (of course I love them, but I also love women with aggressive features). I am superficial about a person's body type. Please note that I've dated, successfully, women who were a size 10 (which isn't large), but my smaller frame and height adapts better to women who are in the 2-6 size range. I've dated some 0's and 00's (they exist, and don't always look unhealthy), but I also prefer a little muscle and a tiny bit of surface fat rather than sheer boniness.

And yet, even though I prefer a tinier woman, I don't date health-club junkies. It's something many friends find odd when they try to set me up with women: "You'd really like Lisa, she's thin!" Does she work out? "5 days a week!" No, thanks. "???"

Here's the reason: through my entire life of being able to penetrate people's frustrations and get to the root of their relationship issues, the number one problem I have come across is "He's not the man that I first met" or "She's so different now than when we were dating." It doesn't always mean physical changes, but change that is significant in any way can be a real deal breaker.

We all change, some more than others. I've been told by women who knew me since my toddler years that I haven't changed much. Even photos of me as a child have the same facial expression, and I guess I've been Mr. Cool Cat since I was born. Still, I do see a lot of relationships fail due to significant changes in personality, emotional stability, financial comfort and physical well-being.

As I ventured into my 30s, I found a lot of my friends lost the drive to stay fit. The best looking and strong high school football quarterback who stayed fit through 23 looks like a pile of pudge and rolls at 29. There's no going back to his high school body, he's given up the strenuous exercise.

An ex-girlfriend of mine who had the body of a bikini model at 25 now looks like a poster child for Weight Watchers Extreme. She hasn't had kids but is 35 and lost the drive to hit the club 5 days a week for an hour at a time. She hates her body, and it affects her emotionally often.

There are many reasons for weight gain, but one of the primary ones is genetics. Some of us are pre-disposed to not handling certain foods well. When we're younger and more energetic, we can fight off the pudge and bulges with more energy expended, but as the body ages and the pancreas can no longer regulate fat storage, we gain weight.

Then there is me. In my 30s, I'm in great shape, without exercise. I live on a diet of pork and cheese, yet my cholesterol and blood pressure are below the average for my age. My doctor said, ignoring smoking, my body is in better shape than people who are 15 years my junior. Genetics, diet, lifestyle all play a major role.

But the lifestyle I've chosen is one I like. I love how I eat, I love the amount of energy I expel on a daily basis. No part of my daily routine is something I want to necessarily see changed. If I went to the health club, I'd probably have an incredibly sexy body, but I am happy with my body the way it is.

So when I date, I look for people who are in good shape, but don't go through huge daily routines to get there. I'd rather date a size 8 who is that way naturally than a size 2 who has to work her ass off and invest 1-2 hours a day traveling to and rigorously using a health club. What's going to happen when she hits 30? A body change that I may not be comfortable with.

I get my ass reamed by friends for seeming callous, but as I've talked to some mommy blogger and even a Facebook friend who just past the age of 70, I've realized that both men and women seem to be discouraged by not just their weight, but the weight of their significant others. It's a downer. It can destroy one's sex drive, confidence, ability to negotiate better terms when making deals, job raises and position climbing and even respect from people one meets for the first time.

It's not something I like to deal with. I especially don't do well with "Am I getting fat?" questions, because I am brutally honest. When a lady I was casually dating over 6 months went from a size 2 to a size 6, she asked me I had notice. Sure, I did. "Am I getting fat?" You're on your way. She hated me for weeks. The relationship failed over those 4 words she said, and my 4 words in response.

And now she's a size 12. We're still pals, especially on Facebook, and she asks me regularly why she didn't listen to my words rather than spitting them back in my face. I've explained to her, religiously, that she should accept it because her genetic predisposition is to being heavier rather than lighter, plus her diet and sedentary lifestyle add to the bulge. Yet she has no energy or desire to change it, so she's larger than she was when we dated over a decade ago. It's OK.

Then there was Kari, who was my friend-with-benefits in 2008. Her body is fantastic and she doesn't spend even 1 hour a month in a gym. She does do a little biking, but nothing aggressive. She ate well and wasn't on a particular diet. She kept herself active enough, but nothing out of control. I adored her body and couldn't keep my hands or mouth off of it when she prompted me with the signals that she needed some body worshiping attention.

My one time lover Celine has a body to die for, but her entire family is gorgeous, including her mother who birthed many kids. She eats healthy, does a little cardio at the club a few days a week, but can go months without working out and still stays fit. She used to be a model, so there is some genetics, some lifestyle, some diet, but nothing out of control. I highly doubt she'll get the pudge that she sometimes fears. I ask her what she does to control it and her answer is always "Nothing, but I'm fearful." I would be, too.

Liz, another fly-by-night lover from last year, has a crazy hot body that she hides because she had a fat spell before puberty. Her weight changes more frequently, varying from the small side of a size4 to the larger end of a size 6, but I prefer her body in the latter size because it fills out her hips and tits much nicer. She, too, doesn't work out or shove herself into crazy diet mode. It's that same combination: genetics, diet, lifestyle.

Stace, the last person I had sex with used to be fat. Not huge by any means, but obviously there are leftovers from her struggle with weight gain and loss. We're not currently speaking due to a mutual decision to part company, but her memories of being fat have caused her to close doors that should be left open. She has a predisposition to being heavier, plus her lifestyle and diet are under strict control to stay fit. If she doesn't stick to her guns, she'll get fat again in no time. I can't imagine being in a relationship with someone who has to be that careful, it seems like a great waste of mental space.

As we can see, I tend to navigate towards the gals who have the genetics, the lifestyle and the regular diet to stay thin. I don't like to waste time over someone who I am not compatible with in these areas. In terms of recent people I haven't necessarily dated but have gone out with, there's almost a consistency to why I stick with one over another. Delecta, my friend-with-food-benefits, is someone I've never seen naked or even a hint of it (no bikini or anything) but from what I can gather, she has an incredible body and she obviously doesn't exert herself trying to stay in shape. She's been on an emotional roller coaster, though, so that can contribute to weight loss. As time goes on, she may return to her "normal" weight, which I believe is still more than admirable for someone who stuffs her face with pork rinds and beer when she's with me.

So there's the problem, solved: I don't do well with gym-goers. I have no problem if someone needs to do it for their own sanity, or for weight control, or muscle growth, or heart-health, but in general I've seen way too many people be all hot-and-heavy to sweat with a machine in their 20s and then give up the drive in their 30s, with their body feeling the consequences.

It's peculiar, I'm sure, but it's how my mind works, it's even how my heart works. Compatibility and chemistry come from not just how someone looks now, but why they look that way. Too much makeup, obvious plastic surgery, overdosing on the stairmaster, keeping track of every calorie -- these things just don't work for me. I know what I like, and it's someone who leads a lifestyle and diet similar to mine. This means, if we should get serious, that things will likely stay a lot more stable, at least in one area that affects so many people I know.

Bedtime Stories

2009-07-10T13:06:00.003-05:00

Mobile blogging from the coast. It's 71 degrees, the sun is popping out of the smoggy cloud cover, the beautiful people are wandering about aimlessly. I had a good breakfast, my client was two thumbs up if he had two thumbs, so one thumb will do nicely.

I've been bouncing around the idea of putting a little more of myself out here, not just story, but more of me. Since I do some voice acting, I think it might be fun to try my hand at reading my own stories and creating a simple podcast with a listen-on-blog button on those posts.

Do you have a favorite story that you'd like performed out loud by yours truly? If so, post the title in the comments or send me an email. I'll see what I can do about sitting down in my recording studio and seeing if I like how the performance sounds.

If I'm happy, and you're happy, maybe I'll make it something to look forward to every Friday. Get your votes in now, post a link, too, as I forgot my own publishing history.

Truth Vomit

2009-07-10T03:56:00.003-05:00

I'm sitting in an airport in the midwest, the bar has closed. I leave on a red-eye flight for one of the coasts in a short period of time.

At first, I arrived at the airport fully expecting to slide into the private airline lounge (a perk if you fly a bazillion miles a year like I do), take a nap, and get escorted to my business or preferably first class seat. That didn't happen.

Instead, a bar was surprisingly open. They're never open late on a Thursday, but there were 8 people in a bar and they stayed open. God bless those who take the red-eye.

Red-eye flights are interesting. MOST search engines don't list them, including Expedia and Orbitz. Even the main websites of airlines don't always have them in their default. Who wants to fly at 3am?

So I wander to the bar, sit down, and the cute old man bartender walks up. "Mr. Sane, it's been awhile." Umm, who the hell are you, bucko? "We met in a bar in Atlanta. Wait." He flips through his wallet and producing a business card of mine.

It says Chicago Sane, Man on a Mission. Holy crap, I haven't had that card in 8 years. How does this man remember me? "It's my job to remember names and faces. Why do you think a guy in his 50s would work in an airport?" Win. I'll have a... "Tequila on the rocks?" GEEZUS. "$7." I leave him a $20 and tell him to keep the change.

As my drink is poured, a lady 2 seats over to me slides over to the seat to my right. "He didn't know me, but I had met him once before." In Georgia? "Denver." Oh. "I'm flying early, figured I may as well get drunk before boarding the flight." I'm staying sober.

We chat. She's really attractive, maybe late 20s. I'll call her Xena, because she's gargantuan tall but probably a size 2. We end up discovering we have 3 mutual friends on various coasts, we may have met at a party just 3 years ago. She was drunk, and after 2 hours I was drunk. Her hands were all over my body, something I haven't gotten properly with the last few gals I took out. Damn it, mile high club here I come. Again.

She's also flying to the same destination I am. Alas, she's flying cattle class. Too bad, because she's a trip, and she knows all the punch lines to every bar joke imaginable. Still, we had a good talk, and it's always nice when a gorgeous Amazon woman gives you her number, her business card, her email address and all that without you prompting her for it. I promised to call her the next time I visited her home town.

So here I am, completely shitfaced, using whatever WiFi one of my cell phone companies provides free of charge. It's OK, I needed this. I board shortly anyway, and I was pleasantly placed in the last remaining first class seat on the plane.

So I'm heading to a coast, allegedly to meet to friends of mine who were miniature rock stars in their previous lives. In reality, of course, I received a phone call from a client who is in quite a bind and needs superior assistance with whatever it is he's gotten himself into.

I wasn't going to go, in fact I was going to go visit another friend in another town and drink mass quantities of vodka and put my face on hers and see where it landed us. But then he pitched a price, and I couldn't say no. Imagine that you own a crappy microwave oven made in 1995 and someone you know calls you and says they'll pay $1000 cash for it if you can deliver it. Even without a car, you're going to schlep that bastard on the bus and the train to make $1000 for a microwave work $20 or less. So here I am.

I love the coasts -- New York and Los Angeles, Miami and Seattle. The first two have a disgusting amount of gorgeous women, and in this economy, beauty gets you jack shit. So you have gorgeous women who can't get jobs as baristas because they're too pretty and the fat dyke who manages won't hire them. It means that "actress" gigs are gone, and even the good bar jobs are hard to come by. I love recessions, personally, because I make a shit-ton of money when things are supposedly slow, so I can conserve it until things pick up financially for the Joe Six Pack, which means more vacation time for me.

I hate the coasts, though, because people are blind to reality. My friend on one coast owns a $2 million condo that is about 2000 square feet. Idiot. It's filled with another million work of junk that I would scoff at for 1/100 of the price. Then there is me, Mr. Opposite. I drive an old car, I live in a tiny apartment in the ghetto, I tell women I meet that I'm an unemployed writer. Why? Because I can hide my wealth so simply, and no one has to know I'm taking them out for $6 burgers and then taking myself out for a $100 steak alone the next night.

It's a love-hate relationship, me and the coasts. I'm a Midwest guy, hell I AM CHICAGO. There is no doubt in my mind that I am more Chicago than Mayor Daley, Chicago-style pizza or a "drag it through the garden" hot dog. They all came after me, at least that's how I'll rewrite the history books.

I need the break, but I think I need to makeout with some random stranger and run before she can give me her spare hotel room key. Chances are, I won't do it. The girls on the coasts are DIRTY, and I'm clean. Sane and clean, that's me. Sane and clean and discrete and mysterious, etc.

So here I am, sitting in an airport, drunk. Xena is sleeping in a chair about 10 feet way from me, the last thing I noticed was her lips mouthing "call me" or possibly "caw eemee." Probably the first. She's passed out, though. My flight leaves eventually, and I'm in no rush to take off. But that's my life.

Sometimes people I know say they wish they could disappear for a day or two, maybe a week, tops. For me, that's part of the job. I fly on big planes to big cities with big hotels. I do a big job that I finish in less time than it takes a woman to get a manicure and pedicure. I get my payment, haul ass back to the Midwest, and resume my path to being known as an author and an entrepreneur.

And I love life. I really, really do. I feel bad for those who are duped into thinking life is about HUGE houses with 2 $80,000 BMWs parked out front. Maybe for most it is, but I could never let life pass me by that fast. Instead, life feels slow, like I can feel it, the palpable heartbeat of life. In an airport, drunk, hopping a flight to the edge of the border of the U.S., that's where I want to be. That brings me sanity.

Staying Sane is the most important activity in my life. It's what I do for others, it is who I have become.

She wasn't Not just a one night stand, Part II (PREVIEW)

2009-07-09T20:28:00.003-05:00

Continued from Part I. Mobile-blogged this, so I'll edit it later and post an update tomorrow. Consider this a preview for you late-night readers.

While smoking, I talked to the two valets outside. They said their tips were down significantly from last year. Sad.

I noticed very nice cars parked out front, expensive ones. I made a joke to them about how I expect my car (a 10 year old rust bucket that I love) before dinner is over. They laughed back, but both knew my car and also loved the model. Beauty is in the eye of the intelligent beholder, I guess.

Speaking of beauties, the lovely Delecta was waiting inside, so I flicked my butt across the street and headed in. As I sat down, I noticed my glass of beer was still 30% full, so I downed it. I normally hate stale beer, but this organic lager was still tasty as it went down. Not too shabby.

I poured a little more of my Serie A, and Delecta had more of her beer in her typical slow-drinker fashion.

We chatted about our usual topics: my non-existent lovelife, her aches and pains in love and work. I continue to be surprised that such a polish young vixen isn't used to nice dinners out. Where are the young, gorgeous men who don't mind spending a few C-notes to woo this sweet lady?

As usual, our cell phones were tucked away. The mean couple next to us each had their cell phones out, prominently displayed as if to say "you mean less to me than anyone who might text me." Ugh. Bad date for them.

Laughter was pronounced and obvious at our 6 square feet of table. I glanced around and so some happy people, some serious; none were having a grand ole time like Delecta and I. Fun and foodsex, something that goes hand-in-hand together.

Our first plate came: the boutin blanc with blueberry moutard. The damn sauce had whole blueberries in it. D sliced the phallic sausage in two (ouch) and we battled for the sauce and gristle, playfully.

It was amazing. I wanted to say something but she held up her finger, closed her eyes and trembled from her belly to the nape of her neck. Yes, folks, the boutin was that good.

After practically licking our plates clean, we sipped our drinks and were eager for the dish I noticed making its way out from the open kitchen behind the lady.

As it was presented, we both gasped. The fish was crispy, countered by an odd-green vegetable that looked and felt like zuchini but the taste was unique. I have no idea what it was.

We split the fish in two, me cutting the larger piece down to share. I did a piss poor job, eliciting a great laugh of dominance from Delecta. I'm a good sport, blushing and accepting my failure in stride.

As we ate, we were silent. The fish was fried perfectly, the inside flaky but solid. The flavor was aggressively meaty without a hint of fishiness. Outstandinf 5 star fish at a 4 star price.

Again we licked the plates clean, watching as the excellent table servers (4 of them) removed the plates and quality silverware from the table quickly. They poured water when it was 3/4 full (perfect!).

I lightly flirted with the server, an interesting looking gal with a face of early 20s but arms that say 30s. I asked her for her name and when she replied, I spelled it. It was a different spelling for a common name, and she was shocked. Once I broke the ice, she touched me not once but 4 times on the back and the arms. I was casual play, almost begging for a big tip.

I tried to guess where she was born but failed, twice. Damn it. The age guess was also off by a decade group. Damn it, again.

I earlier had told Delecta that we should stick to 2 entrees so we could get dessert. She agreed. With dinner finished and both of us coming down from our mutually-timed foodgasms, we asked about the desserts and received a small menu.

We had scene the berry waffle on our way in. Done. We also grabbed a second dessert, but I honestly forgot the name. It was a pot de creme of some sort with two cookies.

Delecta decided to take her break to adjust her hair or whatever it is than women do, and as she got up to wander towards the powder room, I fought the urge to check the ass. With her, it becomes a losing battle. For a gal who doesn't work out, holy shit. No, seriously, everyone should be so lucky. After gazing for a good 15 seconds, I turned to see TWO of the young lady servers looking at me. Caught in the fucking act. I smiled, they smiled, and one guy working gave me a thumbs up.

I nodded no, but he smiled a yes. Haha, fuck me.

As she returned, dessert was presented. The belgium waffle topped with fruit and cream was ridiculous: it was light and crispy like the pork rinds, with zero bready gummy inside. It melted in our mouths as Delecta and I performed the only version of post-sex cuddling we'll do. Damn it, so good.

I think we agreed to return, just for pork rinds and waffle desserts. The pot de creme, or whatever it was, was great too but it was too much dessert. I told her later in the car that we should have waited for the other dessert for next time. She agreed, which means we'll have a next time there, soon.

I ordered coffee and downed two cups as we slowly finished the remaining dessert. The restaurant was emptying out, and D and I were still enjoying the other's conversation, locking eyes, covering our faces in laughter. We bantered more with the waitress server, who presented me with the bill. I paid using my debit card, her hinting she'd tell me where she was from if the tip was decent.

I had no problem leaving a hefty tip for the great service. 30% and away she went, smiling at the total as she said "Utah." FUCK, I knew it. Or I should've. Total for the night was under $200, tip and valet included.

Delecta was stuffed, but I looked at her belly (yumm) as we left the table and it didn't seem bloated. This tiny package of joy can handle her food, and two starchy beers! Awesome.

As we left, my car was waiting right outside. Hah, good valet boys. We hopped in and zipped off, Delecta mentioning how tired she was. Bummer, I was revving for more, but alas she works in the morning.

I hopped on the Kennedy expressway, forgetting I wasn't alone as my car accelerated to over 100 before leaving the on-ramp. I freaked a bit when I felt her freeze up, so I released the accelerator and got down to a normal 65. 10 minutes later, we pulled up to her place. Another 5 minutes of conversation and I took the hug she offered, watching her walk to her apartment door and disappear inside.

So I drove off, hungry for a longer night but lacking in decent people to hang out with. As I finished my drive, I thought about other places I'll take Delecta in the future. That's always a good thing to think about: food, good company, light and vulgar conversation.

I know many of you will be dissapointed in the Sane. You'll ask more questions, or beat me up for not sticking my tongue down her throat. I'd like to address that.

First of all, we've had 5 meals together, 2 lunches, 2 dinners, 1 community festival. I knew going in that she was off-limits, dealing with her own personal hell that she's going through. As a gentleman, I'm not one to EVER coopt a healing person's space.

Secondly, I'm aware of boundaries, too. If a woman doesn't show me the signs of physical attraction, I file them into friendship status. I don't pine for attractive and fun women who aren't into me for more than my friendship. I received dozens of emails about this today. You can press the issue, but I don't budge.

Third, I like her company. Just because she's pretty with a hot bod doesn't mean I have any desire to go beyond what we have now. We're pals, we're comfortable, and I'm not dating anyone right now, so dinner with a good buddy is better than dinner without one.

If I find an in-town makeout buddy or friend-with-benefits, my time with Miss D will be more limited, but not over. She's too cool to put on a backburner!

I promise you all good rip-roaring sexual stories of lust and vulgarity, soon enough. I appreciate you watching my backs and reminding me of those needs. I agree with 2 of you that spending too much time with just a friend can satiate some of the dating need but leave other needs unfulfilled. You're both right. I'll address that by going out on more first dates, if I find people willing to go there.

So don't be mad at the Sane. Delecta has battled me for not allowing her to go Dutch. We worked out an agreement to fix that. She's not a gold-digger, and I invite her to these fine restaurants because that's the food _I_ demand. She works a real job, and weekly outings to top rated restaurants is not in her budget. It's in mine.

I'll work harder at finding a mouth to smooch on and a body to adore. I need to, I miss having the company of a lovely lady that I can ravage after a great night out. But at the moment, I would miss having an equal who can join me for dinner. Delecta fulfills the latter perfectly with no pressure on being the former.

Accept it for what it is. I do.

And send me your single friends' email addresses, there's always room in my belly for more first date dinners.

She wasn't a one night stand

2009-07-09T12:57:00.004-05:00

Mobile blogging while waiting for coffee, in the loop.

Last night I met up with Delecta, a little charmer who I had made dinner plans with earlier in the week. D and I had gone for dinner and drinks last week, where we had the equivalent of food sex until both of us made it to our homes, satiated.

I think she doesn't believe me about the fact that I am almost always right on time. Like the Hepcat album, my ability to predict traffic kicks Google and WBBM-AM's asses to the curb. We chatted on our anonymous Gmail pseudonyms and made plans to meet at 8.

I left my tiny bachelor pad at 7:39 and sent her a mobile gchat letting her know I'd see her in 21 minutes. I took off in my car, zipping down the highway zig-zagging through the anti-torrent of slow drivers.

As I approached her place, it was 7:58. A final right turn onto the cross street from hers and I pulled up at 7:59. I hopped out of my car, grabbed my cell phone, and called her. "Wow," she laughed. "I grabbed my cell phone to check the time and it was 7:59. Then it changed to 8:00 and the phone rang. I'll be right out."

I told her earlier that I bought an umbrella, so she left her umbrella behind. I held the door for her, and she leaned her tiny lithe body across my gear console to pop my door open. So sweet.

I made a restaurant reservation at a new dig in Chicago, a few blocks from the French house of food we visited last week. This new place focuses on locally grown vegetables and meats, primarily pork. They also have a huge beer menu and a nice wine menu.

Delecta was wearing black jeans (not too tight but just right to show off her ass which I've happily glanced at more than once), a cute black shirt with a pretty fair dropping V-neck, and cute flats with stitching and colorful embellishments. Her hair is pulled back in a curly ponytail.

I'm wearing a Ted Baker vertical striped dress shirt in blue, purple and dark periwinkle, my Emporio Armani jean slacks (flat front) and my current walking kicks by Stacey Adams. No man bag, hair falling natch over my ears.

We arrived at the restaurant and dropped the car off at the valet. Our reso was for 9:30 but we arrived at 8:20. Oops. D and I stood in the foyer and chatted for 30 minutes, laughing and joking and keeping it hilarious as our hang-outs always are.

At some point, D saw something in my hair, now pulled back into a ponytail to protect our future lovemaking session on the dinner table of food, drinks and fun conversation. She yanked two hairs and something crispy and jizzgusting. Embarassing. I'll comb my hair next time.

The hostess finally grabbed us and took us to the "bar" area: 4 round tables at 36" height, perfect to drink at and watch the family-style tables where different dinner parties are thrown in together.

The beer / wine menu waited for us and it was intimidating. I have had fewer than 100 beers in my life, but I decided to have a beer with D. She ordered a gorgeous thick hops-in-suspension microbrew from famed Japanese microbrewmasters Hitochine. I ordered a Samuel Smith organic lager. Our beers arrived and we took sips of our own as well as sips of each others.

Her beer was fantastic: golden, cloudy, tart and sharp. They even served it in the brewery's glass. Wise.

We looked over at the dinner tables and saw amazing fair: pork shoulders, sausages, crispy and flakey fish, crab, and a run of desserts that made little D's eyes pop right out.

As we continued talking, we were offered a seat at a family-style table rather than the cute and private booths. My reservation was for a booth, but we were hungry and horny to have our mouths on meat so we accepted the shared table at 9:25. I tabbed out with our drink server, $21 including tip.

As we were introduced to our seats, a grotesque Asian bitch stared at our waitress angrily as she had to move her knock-off purse from our table area to the storage cubbies under her chair. Cunt. Her ugly wananbe yuppie date had no clue why she was looking so religious at the agnostic request. Fuck them both. We sat and impressed ourselves with the menu. Almost everything was local, and listed the farm to boot. Amazing. Pricing was respectable.

We wanted the pork rinds, which are legendary. Ordered, a $5 amouse bouche of sorts. We also ordered a selection of bacon-style lovelies: an amazing prosciutto, sliced thin; a Serrano ham, sliced thick (our favorite), and an odd Kentucky shredded prosciutto-style bacon.

The pork rinds are amazing. Light, crispy, with a hint of grease, I had to turn my head as D ate hers. We laughed at the dorkiness of our passion of fried skin. I had to turn my head and avoid her orgasmic face as eyes closed and she tasted these sweet fruits of heaven. I had promised myself not to get riled up again at her dainty hands wrapped around food as she popped things in her mouth. Will. Stay. Friendly.

The meat plate that came next arrived with soft, sweet goat butter and peasant bread. I had a bit of bit (rare!) and we mutually devoured the meats that melted in our mouths. I've never laid my hands on the woman in front of me, but I've witnessed the next best thing: a food fuck that began with the light touch of ham and ham. Ugh, someone save me.

We finished off our first round of drinks and poured over the menu again. For a second round, Delecta returned to her Japanese mistress that must have left a good taste in her mouth. I switched to a white wine by Zuccardi, the Serie-A line of Chardonnay Viognier that I happened to have at home. They served my wine in a third carafe along with a Scotch glass. Quaint.

For dinner, sharing plates was in. We decided on a boutin blanc, a white pork sausage. I make my own boutin, and we had another boutin last week. Why not? This one had a taste of celery root, an interesting addition that left us surprised and giddy. It also came with blueberry moutard, yum.

In addition to watching D take a big white sausage into her mouth, we attempted to add soft-shell crab, but they were out of stock. We "settled" for a white seabass, which didn't look too appetizing, but we found out later was an excellent addition to the pork. Fuck me, get your face on my abs, because this boy is going to rape two plates of pork and fish and I don't care what the neighbors, your parents or your pastor thinks.

I asked the serving waitress how long for the main course, she said 15 minutes. I excused myself for a cigarette and wandered out front.

To be continued in Part II.

More "Sex" with Delecta tonight

2009-07-08T14:17:00.004-05:00

Over the past few days, Delecta and I decided we would regroup for another round of stuffing our pieholes with good food, maybe good drink.

We're picking a restaurant that gets rave reviews for their large beer selection and HUGE selection of pork products made fresh in-house.

Considering the proto-orgasm that we both had, simultaneously last time, I'm looking forward to more good food, more cherished and hilarious conversation, and quite possibly another night where we both adjourn to bed, fulfilled, flush and exhausted.

A losing defense of honor, Part I

2009-07-08T10:01:00.010-05:00

"Have you ever been in jail?"

How does one exactly answer that question? When Anonymous Lilies asked it of me yesterday, I normally would have laughed and turned the question around on her. Stupid questions can always be turned around on someone else.

The problem is, I guess it's not a stupid question.

Jail or prison? I asked. "There's a difference?" Of course. Jail is a holding cell before you're charged with a crime. Prison is where you go for punishment after you've been found guilty of a crime. "I really didn't realize that. So?"

A memory flooded back to me, one I didn't share with her in my answer.

In 1998, I was in a serious relationship. Jeri. She lived in the city in an area that used to be horrible but is now not so bad, even considered posh. After a Tuesday night of drinking at a horrible dive bar known for its share of junkies, musician has-beens, and punk rockers on the verge of yuppidom, I was not feeling up to hang out for much longer. It was only 1am, and we were known to drink until 4am when some of the late bars close.

"Are you heading back?" I'm heading home. We didn't live together, but she lived in the city itself whereas I lived in the outskirts. We were having a rocky few weeks and I was seriously contemplating breaking it off. "Will you come by in the morning?" Sure. Please get home safe. We hugged and kissed, she said her I love you, that she didn't really completely mean.

I wandered down the major street towards my car, sober because I was holding back while my "friends" pounded them back. I didn't have a lot of love for the folks at the bar, not even the employees who I usually get along with. These were Jeri's friends. I think.

Jeri was particularly gorgeous, a thin, dishy blonde with a streak of brilliance that shined on rare occasions. Everyone and their father wanted to be with Jeri, it seemed. Rock stars, actors, television reporters, athletes. She was always asked out by this person or that person. I was never bothered by her popularity, and always figured she'd meet someone "better" than me and dump me. I was prepared. Then she fell in love.

I picked up my car a few blocks away and started the trek home, normally a 15-20 minute drive. Back in 1998, cell phones weren't that popular and the one I had was the size of a toaster. I did have 2 pagers which were alphanumeric. They had operators who took messages and beamed them to the screen.

Almost halfway to my home, I get a text page: "Dont feel safe. Bill creepy. Walking home soon. Call you. Love you." I didn't like the sound of the text, but there was no reply feature. She didn't have a cell phone or a pager, so it was just update-style text messages.

I decided to turn around. I rarely do that, never getting in the way of people's lives unless they ask me. Honestly, there is little you can do to effect a person if they're not ready to be effected. I'm not talking just about helping them out, but even offering advice or assistance in finding a job is useless if they don't want advice or a job. Jeri was the partying socialite, she knew how the handle herself.

Bill was a problem, though. A tall, good looking, strung out waste of oxygen, Bill was a spoiled rich kid who partied himself through his folks' inheritance. He had enough money to go forever with his useless stunted life, but he preferred hard drugs, hard partying, hard living. I never understood why people are attracted to such drivel, but so it is.

Bill liked Jeri. A lot. He constantly put pressure on her, right in front of me, to at least sleep with him. Jeri wasn't the sort to be trusted, but I am not a jealous lover. I would never get sad or jealous if someone I was with decided to be with someone else -- it happens so frequently in life that you have to accept it, like mold on mushrooms, soft spots on apples. I never asked her who her other or previous lovers were, though.

I got back to the bar in record time, parking illegally right in front. One could say that I definitely learned in a heartbeat that there was no love from any of the regulars there. All I heard when I asked was that Jeri and Bill were making out in the back seating area the moment I left, and that they had left together a few minutes ago.

At this point I contemplated just leaving. She was a free woman, even if we had a relationship. It is not my place to babysit her or tell her what she should do or who she should be with. A 26 year old should sleep in the bed they make, and the more a person pushes for a different lifestyle, the harder people fight back and do worse things.

One my way out, the one person that I still call my friend to this day told me that she was worried for Jeri. Jeri had a tendency to get drunk and stupid, and Bill was always carrying odd pills and drugs. I shrugged, thanked her for the information, and decided to drive to Jeri's house not 12 blocks away just to make sure everything was OK. She did text page me, so I felt I had to at least follow up.

Instead of driving down the main thoroughfare, I hopped into an alley that goes behind the shady bars. It's a bit of a shortcut, and as the bars let out the pedestrian traffic tends to clog up the road. All I needed was a 5 minute hop down the alley, double park in the next one, and zip up to check to make sure she's safe and sound.

I never made it to her apartment, though. 2 blocks into the alley, there they were. Having sex, obviously. Jeri loved her punk rock skirts and tank tops. Her skirt lifted up, Bill against her, against a dumpster. My heart fell because I knew he wouldn't be using protection, and I'm adamant about being safe. I wouldn't dump her for fucking another guy, I'd dump her for fucking a dirty, disgusting crackhead without a condom.

I contemplated pulling into reverse and zipping back from where I came from when I looked again and noticed she was crying. Her face was twisted and she had a bruised eye. Something isn't right. I stopped the car 50 feet back with my lights on and stepped out.

Bill looked over his head. "Don't worry man, it's nothing." It's nothing if she's OK and she asks me to leave. Jeri opens her bruised eye and screams, "please." I step forward, walking slowly towards him, knowing that the worst thing I can do is run which would give him a warning that I was pissed.

Instead, he pulled out of her legs and zipped up his pants, then turned around to face me. He was big, about 6'2", lanky but muscular. I had seen him do pull-ups to impress the women, and I knew he was a reasonable fighter since he did get drunk and put his mouth on other men's women often. Of course the ladies loved him, he was a complete loser, and they could rush to be his mommy.

As he took his first step towards me, Jeri collapsed onto the rocky alley pavement, her arms looped in front of her and her face against those arms. She was balling, a horrible death knell siren call of pain and suffering and humiliation.

"She wanted it, man, she asked for it." All I want to know is if she's OK. I'm not here for you, Bill. "I'm telling you, ask anyone. She was all over me and she told me to come with her." I just want to check on her. He was slowly walking towards me as I was slowly walking towards her. 10 feet from her and we were set to pass in the night. I was certain he'd walk past me and keep walking.

I didn't expect his fist in my ear. A man of that size and strength can usually cold cock a man of any size and put him down fast. Surprise is the only virtue in fighting, and if you can tell your opponent isn't prepared for your lashing, you can win over them before a real battle begins.

That was Bill's mistake. He had seen me coming, a short guy with little obvious muscular build, and he took a shot to my face in what most think is the weakest part. Lucky for me, I wasn't expecting it but my inner senses told me to be prepared. I was already compressing my muscles on the right side of my body, the side closest to Bill, when he struck.

His fist hurt, but I had already sprung to my left as I felt his arm extend. A microsecond later and I would have been down, and probably out. Instead, the scream of pain flooded into my ear and then converted to energy to spend as I twisted counterclockwise, away from Bill. Most people will lose a fight by offering exactly the maneuver the other person expects. By spinning counterclockwise away from him, I was able to gain rotational momentum. As my right hand came around, my eyes made contact with his and I saw the stunned look on his face mere seconds before I made contact with his neck.

It wasn't a pretty sound. A cracking fist and cracking cartilage can never be duplicated properly in Hollywood. It wasn't pain that caused him to fall back, it was a mouthful of blood that came down his lips.

He fell back, against an anonymous brick wall in this anonymous alley. I fell to a knee and checked on Jeri, who was still crying and saying she was sorry and she trying to fight him off. Her eye looked bad, the tops of her arms had obvious bruises the size of Bill's hands. She'd be OK, at least physically.

I turned to see if Bill was up when his foot made contact with the right side of my jaw. I still have the scar from the jagged metal band of his shoe, my jaw is still a little off-centered when it didn't heal properly.

I flew back, not expecting his attack. Usually people who cough up blood are down for the count. Bill was obviously high, I'd gathered, because his persistence didn't go along with expectations. My jaw was killing me and I felt the wet and warm burn of blood coming down my own face. As I bounced up from my back to my feet, Bill attempted to jump towards me to grab my head. I'm not muscular, but my strength is all core. I was able to easily dodge his bear hug attempt.

Every time he came at me, I dodged his hands and arms. He was yelling, grunting, screaming, swearing at me to keep still. I started to play games with him. "Keep still, you fag." Or what? Are you going to rape me, too? "I'm going to fucking kill you." You're going to fuck and kill me? That sounds like a two-fer.

As he stepped forward to me again, I put my hands backwards on the dumpster and launched both my feet up at his face. Considering he has 6 inches on me, I'm glad I was working out my traps which gave me added height and kicking power. As my heels made contact with his mouth, he fell straight backwards. A split second later, I was standing over him, he was spitting out a tooth or two.

His hands were not prone, they were grasping at the rocky road beneath him. His forearm muscles were tight, and it was clear that he was ready to get up and try to take me down again. I turned to the restaurant back door 5 feet away and saw 4 cement cinder blocks stacked on top of each other, cigarettes put out on the top block. I grabbed the top block, heaved it to my left and dropped it on Bill's chest before he found a way to pull himself up.

The cracking sounds of ribs only echoed in my head for a split second, replaced by sirens. As I looked down on him again, the cement block knocking the wind out of him, the red and blue strobes coming from behind my car were getting brighter on the alley walls, on his face, on Jeri's white tank top as she lay passed out.

I turned to face the police car, trapped by my own car. I put my hands on top of my head, my fingers laced together. The officers had called for backup, and not 30 seconds later another cop car was coming down the alley from the opposite direction. Only once they had their positions safe did they come out.

To be continued in part II.

Breakfast with Lilies, Part II

2009-07-07T16:25:00.005-05:00

Continued from Part I.

Lily and I sit down at a table after a 2 minute wait. She faces the door, I face the painted wall behind her.

She's very attractive, as is the case with all the Anonymous Female Bloggers I've met so far. Her eyes are bright and she smiles a LOT. She has nice teeth, unfortunately. I love a gal with a few junky teeth in her grill.

"So. Who are you?" I smile. "I mean it." I continue to smile. "That's not going to work on me. I've read your entire site, I know your tricks." I'm Sane. I like to write words. What do you want to know?

"Born here?" Chicago, yeah. "Why are you so interesting?" I shrug. "Are you for real?" I'm here, right now. "You bullshit a lot, right?" Not at all. Every story I've written is backed by real people, many of whom have read the stories about them. Sometimes I discombobulate time frames or reference points, but they're as accurate as they can be.

"I read the post about that girl Celine. And I read her blog, too. You killed that girl." Woman. And I may have, but she wanted it and needed it. What do you need? "Nothing. Just breakfast. I'm surprised you accepted my invitation." Why? I like to meet people. "To sleep with them?" No, definitely not. "So what's the reason?" Just to meet people with a similar passion. "And that's it?" Totally. "And you don't try to sleep with them?" I'm not a whore, I'm picky. Plus, I never try to sleep with anyone. If they want me enough, they come to me.

"I would never do that." A lot of girls don't. It doesn't bother me. "What if you miss someone great?" Then I do. Women, and men, are a dime a dozen. I have no time for dancing around chances. If an opportunity doesn't arise, I don't bother. It's not a risk worth taking. So why did you bring this topic up first?

"Just wondering. Your blog isn't about sex always, but it seems to be a reoccurring theme." I have readers who request those stories more. I always oblige a faithful reader or commenter or emailer. "That's nice of you." I guess. I don't do it to be nice, I do it because it gives people more reason to communicate or look for new paths to take in their own lives.

"You like knowing the effect your words have." I do. Not just sexual vibes, either. "I like that. You talk for yourself, but you talk to us." Do I? I never thought of it that way. Most of my older stories are cut-and-paste from past journals with a little refreshing.

"What do you do for a living?" I'm a writer. "I know, it's your cover and all that. I mean for real." I slay dragons. She laughs. "Dragons?" Big ones. Fire-breathers with huge wings. I'm like Harry Potter. "Your glasses and haircut are wrong." I smile. "Your hair isn't too long. There are many women who go for that look." Maybe. I don't do it for them.

Our waitress comes and we order near identical breakfasts. She gets orange juice, I ask for a glass of OJ only 1/10th full. To mix with water. She raises her eyebrow. "No sugar, right?" Bingo. "So you slay dragons and cast magic spells." Basically. What do you do? "I working in marketing and advertising." I figured. You dress well. "I love this dress. We're a casual office, so we get to wear what we want." Better than jeans and a T-shirt. I secretly look over her body and realize it's pretty nice. Good rack, not too big. I'd jump on it given the right chance.

We chat, nice conversation and all, as our food quickly arrives. She covers her mouth as she eats the bigger chunks of flesh, which is cute. "So why are you single now, again?" I haven't met anyone that I like enough, or that likes me. "So you have people you like, but they're not into you?" It happens. The crush passes quickly, I don't get sad or frustrated over anyone anymore. How about you? "I'm dating a guy, but not that seriously. He's a good guy, just a bit boring." A bit? "Ok, a lot boring." Video games, sports, etc? "Something like that. He's nice, just not very confident about trying new things." I nod as I eat.

"So are you looking?" For a girlfriend? She nods. No, not really. "Then what?" A summer lover. A secret mistress. A sugar baby who wants to jump on my chest and put her face in my V on my hips. Someone fun who isn't going to go crazy for me, who understands my busy schedule means I can disappear for a week with little warning but an email. "Good luck. That's hard to find." Not that hard. But I don't look that hard, either. "You should. You're interesting, women get a kick out of that." Some. Most want a simple guy, I think.

"I have a simple guy and it drives me crazy some days." What do you do about it? "Fantasize about something better." Does it help? "Not really. Your blog helps me through that, that there are interesting guys out there. If you're for real." I think I'm for real. "Do you hold anything back, when you write?" A lot. Details that shouldn't be shared. Sometimes I'll do a dinner or a movie or drinks with someone and not post it for their sake. Or my own.

We get halfway through our meal, chit-chatting about this and that. Common friends, common writer's block issues, etc. "So tell me what you think about me." That's a new question. Haven't gotten that one before.

Cute, mature, good conversation. We probably wouldn't get along in real life, but here we're comfortable, one not knowing the other. It's the opposite of normal comfort. I'd do this again, just to chat. "And?" And what? "What will you write on your blog?" About? "Your typical sexist female rating." Ohhh, do you mean would I have sex with you or tease you? "Something like that." Hmm. That's a tough question. You're not flirtatious at all. You haven't done any of the usual signs of physical attraction. So it's a hard question to answer.

"What if I don't do that stuff." Then I wouldn't waste my time. "You never chase?" Only when the door is opened. "That has to make dating hard." Actually, it makes it easy. If she's too immature or frigid to show me a good sign of attraction, I don't ever have to worry if she likes me enough or not. Girls grow past those problems, usually. Some don't. "So if I was flirtatious or showed you a sign?"

I ate as I thought about it, and took a drink. "And?" I'd play it right back. "With no goal?" I never have a goal. "You don't meet a girl and think right away about kissing her, or more?" Sure I do, but I don't act on it unless she gives me the green light, even passively. "I've never done that." And you date boring guys. Go figure. "Maybe it's a problem." I'm certain about it. Ever dated a guy who showed no interest in you? "Sure, a lot." I bet they were interested, but they played it cool because you played it cold. A man can never be warmer than a woman is or the woman will quickly get bored.

"You know this game well." It's not a game, it's hormones and chemicals and posturing and peacocking. It's how humans have done it for all of history. "And you know this why?" I've succeeded, always. I rarely get hurt or burned. I never hurt or burn another. I give them exactly what I can read that they want, and fulfill them completely. "Do you know how hot that sounds?" I'm sure it does. "You know it drives some women crazy, right?" I guess. It's not a goal. "You probably love it." I love knowing that for some people I reignite that burning desire inside. That's a worthy goal, but I don't aim for it.

"You're really interesting." You said that. "I mean it. So if I don't do one of the signs you like, you wouldn't make a pass at me or anything?" No. And since we're talking about it, I would venture that it will never happen. But you are cute, you have a great body, and if I was any other guy, I would try. And you'd be disappointed. "I would. But thanks for that."

Breakfast was interesting, to be sure. Will I see her again? I'm not sure. If she invites me out again, I'd do it if my schedule allowed.

As for her, as a woman, physically she's totally fuckable. That's my problem, though, with Chicago women. The ones who want me are really not my type. The ones I want don't have an attraction to me. So I move on these railroad tracks, softly sliding over the hills and valleys, not really looking back but also unsure of the road ahead.

It's always great to meet someone who reads me, or who I read. This gal was pleasant, fun, jovial with an obvious air of sexual desire for SOMETHING, just not me. I hope things get spiced up with her boyfriend, or that she meets someone that she can't stop touching because she needs to.

That's what I look for. The gal who meets me and just needs to feel her hand on some part of my body, even for a glancing moment. It's electric for her, and it opens the door for me to pursue, woo, envelope, tease and inhale. In time, I'm sure she'll appear. Hopefully before the summer is over.

It was nice meeting you, "Lily," and I hope we can share breakfast again. Thanks for some interesting questions, and thanks for some heart-felt answers. I hope I was everything you thought I'd be with a little surprise thrown in for good measure.

Missed Chemistry Connection (NSFW)

2009-07-07T12:46:00.003-05:00

I've a history of being "online." Back in the 80s, I was affiliated with a large BBS with international reach. I was on the Internet in 1989, before WWW was even a term. My oldest email address reaches back to 1989, and I still monitor it from time to time.

While meeting bloggers is something new for me, something I appreciate a great deal, I've been meeting people from online communities since my teen years. Most of the time it was uneventful. One person I had met was from an early Internet community back in 1993.

My name online was my real name. Even today, on most blogs and websites and news forums, I use my real name. Googling it will bring up almost 20 years of posts and comments and stories and written entries. It's fun to see people try to look me up online and then freak out that there are almost a million hits if you enter my name in all its variations. All of them are me, I've written and commented and been quoted and interviewed that much.

I met Sheila on a forum. We had an odd connection in that we came across each other on 15 different forum groups, which had no real connection to each other. Eventually our differing opinions led us to becoming the "leaders" of two different groups of opinion-sharers, since we each had the best ability to debate the others.

3 months into it, she contacted me through private email wondering where I was from. I told her I lived in the Chicago area. Surprisingly, she was from Evanston, going to college at Northwestern. Surprise, surprise, young journalist friend.

We made plans to meet in the summer. Sheila at first meet was gorgeous: mocha skin since she was about 1/8th black, beautiful blue eyes, amazing european hair with just a touch of kink. She dressed like a tom boy, though, so her body was hidden from me. Baggie everything, but a perfect neck line.

We quickly became friends, meeting up at a local pub for drinks and sandwiches at least a few times a month. She had a boyfriend, I had a fuck buddy, there wasn't much chemistry evident from her to me. I considered making a pass at her, but she never showed me a single sign of interest, other than the many hours we spent talking about loves and hates, virtues and sins, food and drink. One time we spent over 12 hours together, laughing and lying, poking and prodding, joking and joshing. It was a fun friendship, but I found myself excessively attracted to her body as much as her mind. I was young, but I still knew when a woman wanted me as more than a friend.

Still, I had my fuck buddy, and after meeting Sheila I'd always go over to her place and rail her for hours, with Sheila's skin and face and lips and hair on my mind. I don't think the fuck buddy cared that I was so aggressive after meeting the other lady, and she fully well knew that I had the major spooge-urge for this college scholar. I'm sure she actually appreciated the fantasy sex, but we never discussed it.

After a few months of our casual-and-serious conversations, she invited me over to her place so I could show her my cooking techniques. Her boyfriend, who also went to school with her, was home for the summer for a few weeks. I didn't ask about him, but she ventured that information.

I cooked for her with no recipe, and with mostly things SHE bought from the store. Non-sequitir shopping style, just like me, this one had. 2 hours of preparing, 1 hour of baking and frying and checking the oven and stove top. 10 minutes of plating and pairing a wine from her minimalist collection and it was done.

Her face was shocked at the flavor, texture, mouth feel and bouquet. There's nothing sexier than a woman who closers her eyes when she eats (meet Anonymous Blogger #2 for this, friends). It's food sex, certainly.

Her apartment was hot now, both from the oven and stove top session, as well as the lack of a decent air conditioner. I told her I should clean out her A/C to make it more efficient, but she told me she liked a little sheen of sweat on her. I did, too.

Because of the heat, her sweat shirt finally came off. She was wearing a tight blue cami, and then shorts. Her body was fantastic, better than I had fantastized. No bra added to my discomfort, and the fact that she was post-orgasmic after dinner made me consider leaving stage left and running for my fuck buddy. But she wanted to talk more, to come down from her food high.

We chatted, and as 11pm came around I was drenched in sweat, as was she. She was sitting to my right, with a hell of 18 inches between us. I prayed and begged the maker to let her fall closer, as a sign of her wanting my touch. Sadly, it didn't happen. No touches, no flirtations other than the usual, no talk of what may lay ahead in her bedroom where the air conditioner was installed. Shit.

As the clock struck 11, she said she had to shower, she was too sweaty and needed to relax under the stream of water. I jokingly told her we should conserve water, and she finally gave me a flirtatious smile and said "We could." I looked at her closer, and then she said "We should." Perplexed, I wasn't should if I should have enveloped her in my arms and put my mouth on hers, so I took a half step backwards.

"We're not going to fuck. Or even touch. I have a boyfriend, but I think you and I would be more comfortable if we saw each other naked. Just once, at least." Only once? "Who knows, but it will lessen the sexual frustration in the room." You can sense it? "I meant mine." Uggggh.

So she grabbed my hand and took me into her surprisingly large bathroom. Her apartment was obviously a larger condo decades ago, split in two with a wall in the wrong place. I stared at the size of her bathroom, never having visited it before. "We got the big one," she said into my thoughts. She had an enclosed shower and a separate bathtub, it was a bathroom dream come true.

Her cami came off and her gorgeous breasts were less than 2 feet from me. My cock got hard instantly, impossible to hide in my summer shorts. She walked up to me and took my shirt off, then put a hand on my shoulder. "No touching in the wrong way" she said as she looked down on Little Fire Hydrant pushing through my trunks.

Then her shorts came off, her panties immediately after. Her pussy hair was gorgeous, just perfectly trimmed. Her body was muscular, her skin the perfect color of caramel. She was almost flawless, her hips a bit bonier than I would like.

She pointed at my shorts and then made a fast finger fall towards the ground. I embarassingly took off my trunks, and Little Fire Hydrant was in full view. "Wow, not bad for a little man." I blushed and she turned the shower on.

She stepped in and let the water fall on her. Then she backed away in the large shower and put her hands behind her on a hand rest. Her tits stuck out, her legs were slightly spread, the water from her hair fell down her shoulders and her ribs and her hips.

I got under the spray myself and let it fall over my face, pointing to the sky. I was trying to think of the seduction of the water, not the woman mere inches behind me. Little Fire Hydrant was drenched in his own liquid, the water mixing with my precome. This isn't helping, the water needs to be completely cold.

She lathered up, her hands playing on every part of her body that I wanted my mouth on or my cock in. She squirted the liquid body wash on my chest, but she didn't take the next step I so wanted. I had to lather myself up.

We swapped sides, my cock glancing against her ass cheek which brought forth a giggle from her and a groan from me. She rinsed off, turning to face me a few times, locking her eyes on my eyes instead of on my cock. I kept my hands on my own body, trying to focus on the oils and scents of the body wash. I still had soap on my cock, I was that afraid to grab it to rinse it off.

We swapped sides again, this time not touching in any way. I rinsed off and asked her if I should turn off the shower. "No. I'm fucking horny as hell. Let's swap sides again. Keep your hands off of me." Why do you keep thinking I'm going to touch you? "Because I want to touch you, badly."

She got to the shower head again and removed it from the holster. She turned, her shoulder blades touching the cold wall causing her to jump forward slightly before leaning back on the wall. She put her hands on her belly and slide her palm down over her pubes to her pussy lips, spreading them apart with two of her fingers. Her pink pussy was gorgeous, and I wanted my mouth on it all, very badly.

Her other hand brought the shower wand to her knees and turned upward. Her thumb flicked a button which changed the soft spray into a combination of soft spray and shuddering focused blast. When the blast hit her clit, she moaned.

I couldn't handle it anymore, so I stroked my cock, looking at her mouth and her tits, her thighs and her hips, her pussy convulsing slowly under the hard and soft pressures of the water hitting it. Her face was gorgeous, completely sexual but still youthful. I was so close to putting my hands on her shoulders and forcing her to her knees so my cock could slip between her lips.

Out of nowhere, she came, really hard. She stared at my face as she came, her eyes wide and her mouth open. I remember the orgasm clearly, the sound, the texture, her voice, her body shuddering. I wasn't close to coming, but I could have then and there. She was gorgeous during and just after her orgasm.

Then she slid down the wall in the sexiest move I have seen to this day. Her back was against the bottom of the shower wall, her legs spread, her pussy still open, her hands on her knees and the shower head dangling, throwing water in random directions. If I could have, I would have fucked her silly, right there.

I stroked slowly, unsure if I should come now or wait until she stepped out of the shower. "Ok, I'm doing this for me." What? "I want you to come on me. Your dick is gorgeous, and I need to feel something of yours on my body. Don't get any ideas, though, it's all up to you." My cock grew harder seeing her mouth those words. It felt like a fantasy, but it was happening before my very eyes.

She got on her knees and put her hands on my hips. I stroked, asked her where she wanted it. "On my tits, if you want. Not in my mouth." Can I come on your gorgeous face? "I don't usually like that, but yes. If you want." I do. I stroked for only a minute longer as she moaned and cooed for my load.

And then it came out, her mouth closed, her eyes closed, her face tilted back as if it would provide more surface area for my come. I unloaded barrels of jizz on her chin and her neck, some on her ear and in her hair, even a little on the tip of her nose. She opened her mouth to moan when I noticed her hand was playing on her pussy again. As I finished my final spurt which fell short of her face and landed on her right breast, she came again, pounding her hips into her hand, one hand gripping my hip with force.

My cock was still hard, harder from her second orgasm. I really wanted it in her mouth or her pussy or even her ass, wherever she wanted it. She rubbed my come from her face to her neck, more on her tits as she grabbed the shower head and let water run down her hair and face, mixing with my come all over her torso.

She opened her eyes after cleaning off and saw my cock was still hard. "Geez, what are we going to do about this now?" You came twice, why shouldn't I? "Oh, you think you have a right to blasting that thing again at me?" I do. It's either that or you stand up, bend against that wall, and take it in your cunt. "I'm surprised you didn't finish that with Bitch." Fine, either you get another taste here, or I'll fuck your cunt, bitch. She smiled. I smiled. Neither of us had a power trip, just playful, friendly banter.

Her hands returned to my hips, and her mouth started uttering the vulgar words of desire that I love so much. I returned both hands to Little Fire Hydrant, and stroked with my eyes on her eyes, looking at her mouth and thinking how easy it would be to pull her hair hard, eliciting a scream, and then forcing my cock down her throat as she finished her yell. But I refrained.

As I listened to her words, and felt her hands on my hips pulling and pushing and grabbing and twisting, I knew I was close. I warned her and her eyes closed again, her lips pursed together, and her face pushed forward. I unleashed again, sending another load at her mouth, still closed, but the next load landed in her closed eye socket. Fuck. A few jets hit her chin, which caused her to smile. My hands wanted to grab her hair, but instead I grabbed the handrail behind me and fell back on it.

"God damn you're hot. I'm sorry we can't fuck." I'm not. "Really? You don't want to?" Of course I do, but this was better. I think you're right, the sexual frustration needed to be settled. She laughed, a lot. I did, too.

She rinsed off my come again, and sprayed the water on my cock and onto my belly and hands. "You taste pretty good." I thought you said none in your mouth. "A girl has to know." I smiled.

The water turned off and she toweled off and then threw me a towel. She pulled her clothes back on, as did I. Eventually, we returned to the couch, not mentioned what happened for that half hour. When I left, she hugged me and kissed my cheek. "Most guys would have tried something more." More guys are morons. "Thanks for being a gentleman." That was the second time in my life I heard it, but never the last. I thanked her for being her.

Over the next few weeks, we repeated that same act, only once in the shower. She let me cover her face in my car. One time she took my cock in her mouth for a few minutes, but had to stop because she wanted it so badly elsewhere. When her boyfriend returned, I was immediately good friends with him. We barbecued. We rode motorcycles. She laughed at how well I got along with him.

Our interludes with her on her knees never repeated, although we are friends to this day, so many years later. We never fucked, and the only real sexual touch was the one time my cock was in her mouth, and one time she let me play with her pussy lips while she batted at her clit. I'm mostly happy we didn't fuck, but I have never had sex ruin a friendship -- never. I think there's still a chance, someday, for it. We've talked about it off and on during our friendship, but never took the step needed to fulfill that urge.

Sometimes urges are more fulfilling than completion. It's not like running a marathon or a sprint, it's like building up the power and strength to attempt them. We're all build up, for now.

Breakfast with Lilies, Part I

2009-07-07T10:38:00.005-05:00

I woke up too early. I had my mental alarm clock set for 6am, but I pounced awake at 5am because something didn't feel right. I live in a ghetto neighborhood of a prominent town, as I have always. Wherever I move, I find the ghetto. I prefer the ghetto, there is more to do, there is more vibrancy. The wise people float to the top of the shit pile, form a union of barter and negotiation; we watch each other's back.

I sleep really deep -- World War III won't wake me up, but if I think my neighbors or my own property is being penetrated by a vile creature, I am up and conscious and defensive/offensive immediately. My cat looked up at me and licked her paws in shame of her daddy bouncing up, fully naked, at nothing.

Pulling my sleeping pants on, I went into the hallway and realized what I was nervous about: the neighbor was trying to break into his own apartment on the top floor. I wandered up there, asked if he needed help. 5 minutes later, I popped the lock on his door and told him to get a more secure lock. He was thankful.

As I wandered down, I logged onto my Google Mail account for this blog to see what lovely emails I had received from the night before. While I love email from all of you, I especially love the emails from the foreigners halfway around the globe. When you're about to get off of work, I'm waking up. I promise some of you that someday I will come and visit, just for the simple fact that I am greatly entertained by your random expressions. There's also a few of you who are worthy of being bent over the rickshaw or the rice paddy float or whatever other prejudice thing I can think of.

Nonetheless, I was up. A quick shower, just to rinse down from a sweaty eventless night (plus I wanted all traces of the manspooge gone from my belly hair), fed the cat, Swiffer WetJet'd the kitchen and living room floors, and noticed I was out of eggs.

I get fresh eggs delivered 2 times a week to my humble tiny apartment from a dairy farm. Eggs, cheese, heavy cream (pasteurized but not homogenized!), and sometimes little trinkets that they or their neighbors have grown. Sadly, today is the day for the next delivery, and I made too many eggs since Friday. Damn it.

Ask I pondered a low sugar protein bar instead, my "phone" rang. That's what I say when someone pops open a chat to yours truly. My friends find it comical, my clients and employees find it annoying. I almost always say, out loud, "Hello?" when I hear that lovely bloop sound.

It's a Guest. That means I have no idea who it could be. I look outside and notice the sun hasn't crested over the top of the apartment complex, leading me to think it is shy of 6am. I check my clock, which shows that I'm short of noon, according to GMT, my preferred time zone.

I say good morning/good afternoon, not knowing where this person is from. "Good morning. You're up?" I am. "At home still?" For now. "What's your plan?" Car wash. Maybe lunch with someone. "In the city?" Maybe. Which city, I have no idea. Who is this? "A reader."

Oooh, anonymous. Sexy. I am not one to dive into mystery too much, I prefer to dole it out. I'm not a chatwhore or a mailwhore, but I never mind a new friend or two online. Offline, I have little time for more people until I dump the remaining 9 friends who are on my axe list.

"Want to get breakfast?" they ask, before my reply completes. I hit the backspace key to erase my reply. What town are you in? "Chicago." Have we met before? "We've never talked before." Email? "No."

Hmm. When this person asked to get breakfast, I made a short list of who it could be. 4 possibilities, 5 if I included one person who would be obviously making a joke. What the hell, I'm out of fucking eggs and I look good after my shower. "So?" they ask again, a little impatient.

First, I didn't shave today so I look extra scruffy. "I don't care. I don't even know what you look like." Second, I don't know if you're male or female, so I think we should at least describe each other. "So that's a yes." Impatient, aren't you? "I work at 10am." Oh, on a time limit. Fine, what area? "Closer to the loop. Or convenient to the El." I throw out an idea.

"I haven't been there before, but fine." I throw on some slacks (grey with pink pinstripes), a pair of shoes I just acquired but haven't worn in, a dress shirt that I've been wanting to wear (pink, linen) and avoid the tie. Of course my cufflines are a mess, so I grab a pair of Turk's heads instead. Americans don't wear Turk's heads, ever. It's a nice change of pace, and 99% of people don't even notice them.

I zip back a reply: I can be there in 40 minutes. "Exactly?" Or whenever you're ready. "How about 8 instead?" 8 is fine, that gives me time to find coffee. "See you at 8, Sane."

Her description of herself: 26, 5'5", athletic fit, summer brunette (light), blue eyes, glasses (YES, cock-in-mouth), will be wearing a green casual dress. So she's a female, that's interesting. So far, I've yet to get any man-date requests from the 2 guys who are supposedly reading, lurking, fearing whatever it is that they fear so they don't post or at least say hi. Time to de-lurk, men. I know you're out there.

I break into the car and notice some lilies are blooming. When was it hot enough or wet enough for the lilies to come out, I have no idea. I like lilies, they remind me that the hot of summer has come, but in Chicago this is untrue. Poor lilies, reaching the peak of their lives late, I guess. I pop a few of my post-bulb beauties off to keep in the car as a reminder of my hard work and the dirt I had under my fingernails not that long ago.

Traffic is fine. I zip downtown and drop my car off at my usual lot, the owner a long time friend. I wander the area, missing my office in this part of town, talked to a few business owners just opening up their lighting galleries or furniture showrooms. It's early, very early, but the city is alive. The El passes overhead and I'm thankful for my earplugs, which I always wear near public transportation. You can't make it to your 30s with great hearing with a box of the ugly orange 28db plugs at the ready.

I have no idea who this person is. I know I've never talked to her, and she mentioned her name and I have no idea who she is. Still, I like meeting bloggers, and I will go out of my way to do so because you're all such interesting folk.

I finish my slow-paced walk around my old 'hood and finally make it to the restaurant we chose. It's a perfect day for a walk, and I may do more of it later, if these new shoes weren't bugging my ankles. Nordstrom FAIL, these fuckers are going back.

I look at the sun and estimate it to be around 8, so I have one more cigarette outside when I notice a brunette in a green dress. A lovely specimen of a young lady, she smiles at me with a crooked smile behind her awesome and sexy glasses. Her hips shake just enough, but more to the left than the right which tells me that her purse is really heavy.

She walks up to me and we shake hands. "You're exactly what I was expecting." One of my eyebrows raises in surprise, since most people's fantasies about what I look like are far from reality. "You're short, but you do stand tall." I laugh as I open the door for her, flicking my cigarette almost 15 feet away with a tap of my middle finger.

The restaurant isn't too busy, which is sad. 2 years ago, their morning crowd was always pretty thick. I guess the interior design "artists" have their credit cards maxed out and can't afford $20 for breakfast anymore. Their loss, my gain, but I really prefer busy restaurants because the food is fresher, usually.

We sit at our table and she smiles nervously. I ask her if she's nervous. "Hell yeah, you could be a crazy murderer and if I'm late to work, I'll get fired." Late because I killed you? "Exactly."

I smile.

Continued in part II.

These uninteresting boys and girls...

2009-07-06T10:32:00.003-05:00

I've had an interesting email back and forth for the past few days with a new online friend that has taken the same shape as some recent online chats, in-person discussions and other email back-and-forths with various ladies: men and their uninteresting displays of feelings.

I blame Hollywood. In the movies, the guy always seems to spew emotional nonsense, and the lady love interest swoons eventually. Even the audience does, with the big ole "awww" choreographed by writers and cinematographers and actors and the director. So maybe the boys of the world decided to take a little hint from the movies and become these idiots of massive feelings.

I don't understand it, for whatever reason it happens. It seems there are two types of guys out there (three, if you include me): the ones who are so cold that no one knows what they feel, and the ones that are so hot that they spew feelings vomit (as another female blogger likes to say) all over your soul. Both of these guys are not men, ladies, they're still little boys looking for an ego stroke. Run, girls, run.

If I am with a woman who I am dating, I don't think it's necessary to ask "Are we dating?" In time, the answer will provide itself, usually within the first 2 dates. If by date #2 it is not obvious to me that we're going out on dates, I shift into pal mode. I don't push the issue, I don't ask those questions, I don't try to change her mind or my mind. The chemistry wasn't there for one of us (or both of us), so let's be friends. Why would a man ever step forward and show his cards by asking that question?

Another one that I can't figure out is a man saying "I really like you" or "I've liked you since ________." If you are attracted to a woman, ASK HER OUT. That's a sign of having an attraction for her. It's not that hard, just go up to her and say "I want to take you out soon, can I have your phone number?" Cha-ching.

If she refuses to give you her number but asks for yours, go ahead and give it but don't give her much time to call. 1 week tops. If she calls way after that, move along, little puppy dog. She wasn't that interested in you in the first place, there are billions of women out there.

I've heard of men who whine that a woman they're dating is closed off or frigid or doesn't show him her desire for him. Then what does this lame boy do? He asks her about it. VERBALLY. Hello interest-level-destroyer. How about rather than talking to her about why she doesn't show you any interest, you dump her ass and move along to a better gal? She'll learn, when she's still single years later, wondering why she didn't take a chance on a great guy instead of trying to attract the attention of a complete buffoon who is bouncing from pretty-girl to pretty-girl nightly.

I can't figure it out. If a woman I like doesn't show me hints that she digs my shit, I move on. I can look back at dozens of women who held themselves to ridiculously high standards who are now in their mid-30s and still single. Those very same women thought they were going to get their Brad Pitt and now they don't have a chance for Screech. Let it go, fellows. She's one person, she's not worth you pining over her for years and years. No one is.

And, ladies, when a guy is that dumb that he's going to show you his entire self, what's the point of dating him any longer? He just told you everything, and now you're going to head into that territory I called permanent boredom. A true man lets you know he likes you by being interested in you when he's with you. If he's more interested in himself, it's going to end badly. Run.

When he's away from you, he's doing whatever he likes or has to do. Save the story-telling and emotions swapping for when you are together, and keep them physical and interesting. Using words to try to express one's feelings shows weakness most of the time.

Guys, save words for those really rare moments when you want it to count. Saying "I love you" or "You're beautiful" over and over makes those words have much less value. Showing it through spending quality time, remembering details about her, and being truly interested in what her life is about -- that's the best way to show your attraction to her. If she doesn't respond in kind, hit the road.

It's a messy time period for Americans, that's for sure. It's very hard to try to find someone who is your equal, but who still has a mystery about them that keeps you interested. I know so many guys and gals who judge their possible dating partners strictly on looks or education or job, when none of these things really makes the person who they are. I prefer to be focused on goals and passions, matching sex drives and intelligence (outside of whatever bullshit degree they like to brag about).

That's where I know I am different. Finding people to take on first dates is easy, finding people to take on third dates is almost impossible. I'm dealing with children, both men and women, who just aren't ready to grow up and aim for something interesting and fulfilling and fun. Maybe that's why I do better with foreign women, truly foreign women. That sense of entitlement seems to be more rare in foreign women than in American women, probably due to the same reason American men are broken: Hollywood.

Kiss my ass, Hollywood. You'll never change my dating style. You'll never ruin the fun I have getting to know someone, seeing if we're compatible, seeing if she wants to tease me as much as I want to tease her. I'll never complain about dating the way most do, because I am willing to go WAY outside of my typical "type" or "boundaries" for a chance at an amazing run. Even if it doesn't last forever and ever till death do us part, it can still be a great relationship.

Fourth of July

2009-07-05T17:07:00.002-05:00

Another fourth of July comes and goes, with many barbecues, friends in from out of town, piles of parties that I hit for a few minutes here and a few hours there. I love to eat, I love pretty gals in sun dresses, their boys huddled around the grill with beer in hand.

Saturday was good to me, even though I was a bit light-headed. I saw many friends who came in from out of town to visit family or other friends.

Saturday morning I received a text from Paulo, the boyfriend of blogger and reader Celine. He invited me to swing by his pad in Lincoln Park for a BBQ and to meet some of his co-workers. I was surprised at his invitation, only having seen him twice since winter, but I obliged and hopped over.

When I arrived, I was not too shocked to see the party filled with beautiful people, men and women alike. I was definitely the uggo one here, but it never bothers me much. Common topics of conversation were unemployment, college debt crises, and relationship issues. I'm not party to any of that misery, so I can hold myself to a higher standard than just superficiality. Add in the fact that there were obviously men and women alike who had recently had cosmetic surgery, and I knew what most of them were sad about: their outsides looked amazing, but their insides were pure darkness. Sad.

I heard Paulo talking, so I wandered over to that direction. He saw me and waved me over, and as I pushed through the crowd, there was Celine. Looking sexy as can be in a bra-less summer dress with spaghetti straps almost falling off her tanned shoulders. Shit.

As Paulo slapped me on my shoulder and gave me a half man-hug, Celine bounced up, excited to see me. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, saying she was glad I made it. It was obvioust that she didn't know I was coming.

"Oh, that's right, you two have met once or twice," Paulo said after we unlocked our hug. It was hard for me to play the martyr, considering I fucked his girlfriend 9 ways from Saturday barely 7 months ago.

Celine's dress was short, hiked well above the lower thigh. I had forgotten her beauty, honestly, but she is a stunner. And I fucked her. And I missed the opportunity to let loose on her face, something I regret because of her beauty and her desire to give up everything to me on that night.

The horniness comes and goes. In her case, memories of that night flooded back to me as her dress was definitely not hiding any part of her body's form and physique. She gained a little muscle since then, and her tan was amazing. Her hair was longer, something I mentioned she should try. Thank the maker that she wasn't wearing glasses or I'd have found a way to proposition her to the alley behind the garage and bend her against it. Ouch.

Celine, you'll read this, so don't take it as a request to re-ignite those passions. You looked amazing, as always. Paulo is a perfect guy for you, and I'm glad I was able to share some laughs at your party. I'm glad things are going well for both of your careers and lives.

Still, I looked around and didn't make strong eye contact with a single female out there. I wonder if Celine told her gorgeous gal pals about me, if they'd look at me differently. Maybe, maybe not. It's hard to say. Still, I'd probably turn most of them down for even a date because they're obviously not passionate about life. And that's sad to me.

The party was fun, I swapped some numbers with people interested in some of my real businesses that front as alibis for the life of a simple businessman. I arranged to see Paulo out and about later in the month, maybe with Celine in tow, or not. We'll see.

For me, the fourth isn't about celebrating independence from an Empire of the King, but for families and friends to get together and witness love and honor and respect, which I saw at most of the parties I attended. In this particular case, it also reminded me of the night of love, honor and respect I was able to show a young lady who needed all 3, and needed them from me. It's something I'm glad I wrote about on this blog, as I often forget the details, or even the event, without my own words to prompt the memories to flood back into my cranium.

Was it a fig or a date, Part III?

2009-07-04T19:40:00.003-05:00

I promise this is the end of this mini-series, for those of you who love to skip to the end. I almost wrote a fake last 2 paragraphs, just to piss you off. Cheaters.

We drove back to her place, which was not too far from the little wine bar. She was giggling a lot in the car, which can either be a BIG turn off, or a BIG turn on. Since she was drunk, I decided not to really judge the act. It WAS cute, though.

She asked me some questions about my recent writing work and I waxed ecstatic about some projects that are in the editing phase and two projects that are being pitched for wider distribution. She seemed interested, but every time I hit a speed bump, her hand would tap my hand "accidentally" and she giggled again.

I looked over at her, the seat a little further back than the normal position. She has a nice face, a good profile, a cute smile, and a pretty decent small rack. From a physical standpoint, she has many good attributes. Her life is stable enough (which can be a little boring, actually), has a good temperament, but in terms of personality we don't click. She's way too prudish, and I think it would be wise for her to keep herself that way. I have been known to turn good girls into rip-roaring-whoring-gals in the bedroom. While none have ever complained, I _have_ heard them complain about future beaus not being as adventurous in the sack as I.

We pulled up to her house and there was a spot 3 cars down from her door. I got out of the car and helped her out of her side. She'd noticeably sobered up a little on the short hop back to her place. I did have to help her a little bit, but she wasn't sloppy drunk, just happy drunk.

As I held her apartment's screen door open for her, she put her hand on my shoulder. "I'm not asking you in for sex, but you should come in for a little while." I smiled at her and told her that while I would absolutely LOVE to oblige her, I didn't want to be her bad boy. She pulled my shoulder closer to her, and with a small taste of wine on her breath, she said "No bad boy needed, just some fun on the couch." Then she kissed me on the lips.

It was obvious that was her ploy, but she was wasted and I wasn't. She's a good girl and I'm far from a good boy. If I went in, the night would not end well.

I could use some sex, really I could. Local sex would be nice. Better than the booty-call, I would gladly accept a smoochy-call from someone and keep it friendly. But with this gal, I just didn't feel right. She obviously has well designed boundaries that she's proud of and lives by, and I don't think taking advantage of her when she's been drinking would be the move of a gentleman.

I broke her kiss, put my hands on her back (just to check) and ran my fingers up to her shoulder. Her body gave a tiny convulsion, which told me exactly what I needed to know: this nice, sweet gal shouldn't be alone in her apartment with Mr. Sane. She pulled me back for another kiss but I turned my head a little and her lips sloppily hit the side of my mouth and my cheek.

"So you really don't want to come in?" No, I want to come in, but it's a bad idea. "Do you think I'm ugly?" Oh my god no. I just think I'm the wrong kind of guy for you. "What kind of guy is for me?" Someone with a good job, good morals, who mows the lawn and has a similar lifestyle to yours. "Oh, they're boring." She's obviously still drunk.

I ask her for her keys and open the door after trying 3 different ones. I open her apartment door on the first try, though, and lay her down on her couch. I even removed her shoes and put her purse on the kitchen counter. She was tired, her eyes falling slowly. I smooched her on the forehead, and thanked her as she sleepily waved at me goodnight.

Back in my car, back on the road, back to my cat and my apartment and my solitude that I know I needed right now.

Maggie is a great gal, there is no doubt about it. I can't do a great gal now, not just sexually. I have no desire to lead anyone on. I see so many friend bloggers and real life friends who are dicked around by scum and scoundrels and I don't want to be that guy.

Now, if a cute, sexy, hot, fun, fuckable and vulgar gal came my way who was comfortable with my situation, that'd be another story. But for now, Little Fire Hydrant stays in his pants, and Chicago $ane sleeps with his kitty. And I'm OK with that.

It's bizarre: I have no problem meeting golddigging whores bags or hot model types, but I have no desire for either. When Miss Average comes around, she ALWAYS shuns me. I haven't dated an average looking woman in over 15 years. Then you have a cute, sexy, responsible gal like Maggie, and I don't even want to touch her because I don't want to spoil her for the next, better guy who is more in line with her life.

Maybe I'm becoming soft. My mother definitely taught me too well. Thanks, mom.

Bizarre week ahead

2009-07-04T18:57:00.003-05:00

Dental surgery sucks. But that's how it is when you have genetically bad teeth.

I've had almost ZERO internet connection the past few days, which is OK because practically everyone I've ever known in my life has been back home in Chicago for the 4th. Saw a LOT of old friends, a few enemies, crossed paths with some exes I've loved.

Had a great dinner this past week with a new found friend, which is always nice. Also got to see a great face-height shot of her ass walking up stairs. Never a bad thing, trust me.

Next week is a little travel, a little work, hopefully a lot of fun and recuperation from the root canal. I don't do well on vicodin, so it means early nights in bed.

Next week I am going to LA to see a client for possible work in Japan or Hong Kong. That's always exciting. While in LA, I made plans to have lunch or dinner with two different friends who have interesting stories. Both were lead singers of fairly popular bands (not Pearl Jam popular, but some radio play and MTV coverage). Both have solo careers. What unites them, in my mind, is that they BOTH wrote songs for their own solo albums that were covered by other artists on other albums BEFORE their own solo records were released. Kind of cool, actually.

I'm bouncing back to Newark for an afternon voiceover session with a producer who is looking for pitch voices for some odd commercial shorts. I try to avoid those gigs, but I'm excited because I actually like one of the products. Maybe I'll get it.

In other news, I have a ridiculous amount of creativity flowing through my mind. Maybe it's a surge caused by a new muse, or maybe it's excitement for my end-of-July trip to 4 continents in 8 days lasting through the first week of August.

Sorry for the silence at this blog, not having good Internet sucks. Tuesday I'm getting a real broadband install, and then kicking AT&T to the curb forever.

Was it a fig, or a date? Part II

2009-07-02T14:21:00.001-05:00

Continued from Part I a few days back. Sorry for the delay, consider it foreplay...

So Maggie and I had a nice, calm dinner and decided to head back to her neck of the woods for a cocktail or beer. As I follow Mr. Gipps' directions, I realize she lives very close to a small wine bar I love. I ask her if she's a wine drinker. "I'm not really a big drinker but I like wine. Reds are great!" I park, right in front, and we wander into a fairly dead wine pub.

Lucky me, the big couch is open. The server, a guy, remembers me and my name, though it's been a good 9 months. We snag the couch, her sitting to my right. I browse the menu and order a South African red, bottle.

She asks about the wine, and I go into a long story about the vineyard. She's captivated by my story, watching my snagged and jagged profile as I speak. My hands get more verbal, which elicits smiles that I see peripherally. I ask if she wants any finger food, but she's stuffed. Our wine comes.

The server pours me first and the bouquet is powerful yet sweet. I nod my head, accepting the wine without tasting, and he finishes my pour and then hers.

I'm a wine snob, taking in deep inhales of it before every sip. This bottle is a personal favorite. She sips softly, our conversation slow and immaculate, only breaking when we taste our glasses.

She watches me when I drink. "Why do you inhale so deep when you drink?" Good wine is all smell. Try it. She does, but purses her lips as she sips. I tell her that a glass has a shape to match how your mouth should open. Cocktail glasses have bitter, strong alcohol that should be imbibed with a wide mouth. It causes the cocktail to skip your bitter taste buds, landing on sweet and savory.

She widens her mouth and tries again. "Wow, that does taste different." Better? She nods as she takes another mini-gulp. "Wow!" I smile.

As her mouth widens, I did momentarily consider what else she might want to taste wide-mouth tonight, but she turns and smiles at me. Way too pure, this on. I'd break her in an hour, sending her home crying to momma and Jesus. Damn it, I'm horny.

As we're halfway into our second glasses, the bottle empty, she's obviously tipsy. She laid her head into my shoulder, forcing my arm over hers, like high schoolers. Her forehead was touching the bottom of my jaw, very gently and sensually. I feared Little Fire Hydrant making an appearance.

We talked, I ordered 2 more glasses of huskier vino. I told her to swirl and sniff, and she was amazed to notice a difference. She said so: "I don't understand you, but I'm amazed. You're different." Am I? "Very. I feel strange." You're drunk. "Yes, but I mean I feel like I'm in a different universe." I like to taste things slower than most. I take my time.

"Always?" I nod my head. As I put my glass down, she smooches my cheek. "That surprises me most." I refuse to turn my head, instead letting her snuggle into my neck. She kisses it gently, forcing me to withhold a moan. LFH twitches ever so slightly.

She returns her head to my neck and shoulder. She asks about countries I've been to. I play it shady and tell her to ask about specific countries and I'll answer her. She lists some. Yes, yes, yes. She inquires how I've traveled so much, but I don't answer clearly, instead asking her where she's been.

Our final glasses are finished. As she puts her down, she kisses my face, some cheek, a touch of the side of my lips. "Let's tab out, I'm tired." The check comes and she snags it before I do. "Wow." I grab it and give her a glare. "You don't have to pay it all." I'm glad she offered, but please. I shove some twenties into the bill holder, stand up and help her stand.

She wobbles to the car, I let her in. I tap her address into the GPS and head off towards her place.

Yes, jump to the end first readers, to be finished in part 3.

Was it a fig, or a date? Part I

2009-07-01T00:58:00.001-05:00

I met a cute server ("waitress") last week and broke a major rule: I asked for her number. She gave it to me.

Mind you, I discovered her restaurant after texting some people I know, one who I had recently gone out with. I had no idea this server is friends, or at least friendly with, this other gal who I had certain relations with.

As I said before, when I called her, she answered the phone knowing it was me. I gave her some nights, she re-upped the ante to meet tonight, a day early than I proposed.

I have no idea what our mutual friend told her about my style, but she knew all my first call rules and even called me out on it.

I arrived at her place at 8pm sharp. As Anonymous Blogger #2 will tell you, I am an on-time kind of guy. I walked up to her door and it opened before I could ring or knock. Someone's antsy.

We matched. Ouch. Both wearing identically colored jeans (black), both of us wearing black t-shirts with horizontal pinstripes. Double ouch. My shoes were dark grey, hers were light grey. She had a nice purse, I left my man-bag at home.

"I was going to wear a dress, but it's cold out!" I just smiled. As we turned towards my car, she hooked her arm into mine. Ho-lee crap, a little early for that, but I still fought off my shit-eating grin.

I let her into my car and she smiled at me. I smiled back as I walked to the driver's side. "So, American?" American. Burgers, etc. "Have a place in mind?" Two actually. Different neighborhoods. "I should've guessed."

We talked about our days as we drove. Her restaurant was quiet, as was the one I ate at today. Nice, easy, conservative conversation.

We get to the restaurant that she picked, on the outskirts of town. "I've never been here before." Few have. The food is fantastic. "Looks like it." The restaurant is packed for 8:30, but the secret handshake to the hostess gets us a quiet table for 2, away from the kitchen. Bonus.

She sits, facing the restaurant, me facing the wall. I prefer it this way, lessens the distractions. Our hostess leaves us with the menus and some glasses of water.

"So. You probably want to know everything she told me, right?" Not at all. "You're kidding." I'm not. If it's good things, she's stretching the truth; bad things she's still being too nice.

She laughs. I'd say she's an 8 in looks, which is a pretty high mark from me. I'd put most people at a 6 because they overdo it and lose their best assets. She's a size 4 and everything sits properly. On her, I'd almost say she's TOO skinny, but it suits her face, her haircut.

I mention htat she's cut her hair since I met her. "Wow. Most of my friends and co-workers didn't even notice." I shrug and she laughs about it. Everything's comical to her, which is a MAJOR turn-on for me when women can laugh.

She's not too into sports but loves basketball live. She doesn't get drunk very often. She sees her family a few times a month and even joins them for church. She belts out a cackle when I tell her I go to an assembly of faith every Sunday.

She quizzes me: "Favorite book of the bible?" Malachi. "Favorite verse?" Malachi 2:3. "I'm not familiar." No one is. Churches skip that book. "Second favorite?" Amos. "Didn't read that, either." I smile.

We talk about activities: she rock climbs (huge bonus points), swims, likes the ponies (for riding on, not gambling on), does some scrapbooking with her sister, prefers books over TV but is a semi-addict to some show I've never heard of. Overall, a very nice gal.

"How about you?" Old fashioned entertainment. Shooting guns, riding colts, cooking, traveling. "Where have you been?" Here and there. I try to visit Europe at least once a year.

She touches my knee here and there, which really gets my motor going. "Your job?" A writer by day, a writer by night. "Publish anything?" Nothing exciting but it pays the bills.

She's done with school and looking for work but is picky. She declined two job offers due to needing to drive to the suburbs. Her restaurant gig pays well, so she's comfortable waiting it out.

We both order massive burgers, identical without planning on it. She went first: cheddar, mushrooms, bacon. Exactly what I intended. Weird. I double the order, substituting cole slaw instead of fries. "Oh, make mine the same" she backs up my substitution.

She's fun. Lots of little jokes, a decent understanding of my wordplays, and talks well. She's obviously smart but still has a lot of life to learn from.

We don't talk about exes, no innuendo pops up, and she doesn't even say "hell," nor anything stronger. I'm drinking what she's drinking: diet Coke. I asked if she wanted a beer or a cocktail, but she admits to being a lightweight if she hasn't eaten. "Maybe after dinner." It's pushing 9:30 and both of us are stuffed -- no dessert.

I ask if she'd like a beer and she says "Yes, but not here." An eyebrow goes up on my face. "Let's go somewhere closer to my place. I'm not going to get smashed, but I can get pretty tipsy. I can trust you, right?" I nod my head. She smiles.

As we walk to my car, her arm is in my again and she's smiling. She is really cute, but the good girl thing is eerie. So few of them left, and I'm not the kind of guy to prevert someone's moral compass. "I'm having fun. You need to talk more, thought."

We get in my car and zip off towards her neighborhood, her watching me peripherally, and my mind spinning over my options.

For those of you who skip to the bottom first: To be continued in the next part, later.

My readers remember all

2009-06-29T19:25:00.003-05:00

Posted while on the road, mobile-blog FTW.

I love that my readers are cogent enough to send me emails reminding me that I should call the waitress I met not that long ago. Thanks to those of you who emailed me.

On my way to meet my gay friend Miguel and his sister Jandra (who, by the way, is the TENTH Jandra I've ever met), I decided to give her a jingle from the car.

I pull up her listing in my phone, listed as "Maggie, Server, Call!" and let it ring a few times. I don't leave voice mails if I am calling someone to ask them out. I figure I'll let it get to 4 and then just hang up when the call is answered.

"Sane." Whoa, how'd you know it was me? "I learned we have a common friend. And she said you'd call on day 7." FUCK. "Are you nervous that she'll tell me something you don't want me to hear about?" No, you should actually listen to every word she has to say about me.

"What?" I mean it. "Aren't you supposed to say DON'T listen to her?" If I did, you'd pay more attention to her. "I understand your logic. But now that I know you're playing mind games, doesn't it mean I will still?" No, that's why they're mind games.

She laughs, loudly. Then the phone is muffled while she talks to someone else in the room. "Sorry, roommate. OK, I was expecting you to call. Now you're going to ask me out, right?" I'm not sure I even have to answer that, you know what I'll say next. "Two choice for this week?" Right. I laugh. Pick one. "I already did. Tomorrow night, or is that too early?" I laugh again. This is not good. Tuesday is fine.

"Let's see, did you pick Persian and Italian food options?" Close, Indian and Thai. "Oh, not too exciting, are we?" We've yet to see. 8pm? "I can do that. If you still want to go out. Now that I know everything." No one knows everything, and the more people know, the more they actually don't know. "She said you were mysterious." Not mysterious, I'm an open book. It's the closed book who seem not so interesting. "Ok, then it's a date." Is it? Or is it just two friends gossiping about a mutual third?

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sane." Mmmhmmm. If only I knew where to pick you up. "Shit! I live in Lakeview." Figured as much. "What does THAT mean?" I gotta go. I hang up.

So there you have it, fine readers. The Man that they call Sane has a date, of sorts.

Of course, we know it can go nowhere. She knows someone I've met recently, and the word is out. That means she's going to try to be competitive with our mutual friend and see where she can get me. That actually reduces my desire to jump on her and pound her until she melts through the mattress. Sad, too. But it's a date, and I like dates, and I'd like to go on more dates, so I'm going to follow through.

Who wants to bet that we DON'T hit it off, and that neither of us jumps the other one? I bet you a night of cooking, handmade ice cream and casual sex that we don't.

I own a part of you, just for my own pleasure

2009-06-29T14:29:00.003-05:00

I don't put you in gorgeous outfits because I care how you feel about them.

I don't cover you in MY favorite perfume in hopes that you'll like your scent.

The jewelry you wear that I bought is dressing you for my sake, for my happiness.

When I slip my cock inside you, it's for my pleasure.

When I leave the remainder of my come on your neck, it's for me to know I've marked you as mine.

Now don't think that I want to own you, because I don't. Every other guy wants to be possessive in who you are, in everything you do, in full control of your life. I'm not talking about that.

I'm talking about owning you in tiny pieces, little segments that remind you that a small percentage of your body, your mind, your heart and your pussy are mine, when I want it. On all the other occasions, they're all yours to do with as you please.

You can't tell me what you want, because I don't care. It's not my concern, you're a bright, aggressive, responsible lady and you can get it all yourself. When you do ask me for something, you should know, right now and always, that I will only give it to you if I want you to have it. You will have to be weak and show that weakness in accepting that I am digging deeper into you, taking a piece of you as a trinket, as a trophy, as a conquest.

Don't think for once I am trying to stroke your ego. The limited time we have together is a prize for me, a secret trophy that belongs in my secret room, to display to me alone.

When you wear that dress I bought you, with those shoes, those panties, the necklace and the bracelet, remember the small piece I've taken from you to put on that secret shelf. Maybe you'll be on a date with another man, or a boy. Maybe he'll have you in ways you want from him. I won't be jealous, because I will still come and take that piece when I want to.

You can fight it all you want, think that I am giving you something for your sake, but I never will. When you plunge your fingers into your pussy and think of me, that is mine, too. I am fully aware of it, and you should be, too. I want you to remember that when I come, it's for my pleasure, and when you come, it's still for my pleasure.

When I caress your back, your thighs, your hips, your shoulders, I am leaving my mark of my conquest. The smile on my face is an ego stroke for myself. The smile on your face only adds to it. It doesn't matter that you want it, too. It doesn't matter that you're hungry for me, as I will be the one to eat and be satiated fully. Do you want to be satiated, too? That will only happen when you've given that part of you completely to me.

I know you're afraid. It's OK. When other men want to own you completely, you'll revel in the knowledge of the one man, this man, who owns only a tiny part of you. You'll detest the others because they want to envelope you in themselves, but you'll ache wondering why I won't. Why I don't.

When I leave your bedroom in the morning, you'll be aching in both body and soul, your spirit crushed because the thread of ownership is so small and so light, but you can feel its pull as I close the door behind me. Another man may try to force all of you over to him, but you won't feel that pull at all. Instead, you'll feel a pressure to run away. Pulling too hard fails you, whereas my small prompts of non-aggression will make you want to fall into me.

When I'm sitting in my desk chair, an important article displayed on my desktop PC, and you're sitting on my lap, me still inside of you, my focus will be on the screen, not on your wetness rolling down to my thighs. You'll get frustrated, but not like the other guys who watch their sports on TV and ignore you. My cock will be inside of you, taking what it wants when it wants, and you'll never know what is more important: your pussy on my cock, or my hands on the keyboard in front of both of us.

I want you to know this. I want you to hate it and love it at the same time. I want the battle in side of you to remember it when other men wear their hearts on their sleeves, and I wear your heart on my sleeve.

I would normally say you shouldn't worry about it, but you will. You'll think about it constantly. When you peak in your closet, you'll remember it. It will complete you because I have taken a tiny part of you that needed to be taken. Will I give it back? Only when I have nothing left to do to you, to say to you.

That's why you'll want to give me more. But will I allow it? Will I accept it as a gift given by a woman, or will I ignore it as a tantrum thrown by a little girl?

Writer's Unblock: deciding what to post

2009-06-29T12:24:00.002-05:00

Many of my writer friends, both online and offline, have witnessed a stage of writer's block that has caused them to lose the desire to move forward with their work or hobby. I'm the opposite. I maintain dozens of blogs, 2 print newsletters, and have even written 2 full-length novels in the past 2 years. I love to write, and I can't stop writing once I start.

This is a curse, I'd say. I have so many unpublished posts that it's hard for me to figure out what to post and how often. I hate to produce TOO MUCH for readers to go through, but I also don't like to have days of bland and boring post topics. Today I decided I'll work on what I want to post and stick to it.

For those who experience or are experiencing writer's block, I find it really advantageous to keep a mini-journal of things I do every day: "Saw Tom. Ate salmon. Cooked a pie. Wanted to bang Nina." Etc, etc. It works to help keep my active writer's mind motivated to write deeper about any of the things I've done that may flow into a longer term topic.

I've journaled, privately, for 20+ years. I still have all those journal entries (typed into plain text since day one) and have decided I'm going to write about 4 different main topics: businesses/jobs I've had, women I've loved and lusted over, friends who mattered, and food I've cooked. They're all interesting stories, and I have enough of my past set into written stone that I can pull information from a variety of journals to create interesting stories that some of you will love.

That'll take time, but thankfully I type 150+ wpm, so it won't be too long. Plus the fact that I am horny beyond even spring's break gives me good ammunition to re-read some of my own conquests and failures in the bedroom, stories which are always comical and fun and sexy.

Off to read my own autobiography now.

Whoa, summer horniness

2009-06-29T10:55:00.004-05:00

The last few weeks I haven't been excessively horny. Well, I've had my share of fantasies and jerk-off time over one particular long distance lady, but that doesn't count because she is there and I am here. So we can scratch that off because of distance for the moment.

Today, I woke up with HORRIFIC morning wood. I'm not talking about the kind of morning wood that you just poke at until it goes away (one way or another), I'm taking about the kind of boner that you want to parade out in front of the world.

I woke up at 6am, went to make coffee, and couldn't read the coffee maker because Little Fire Hydrant decided to bang into the cabinet in front of me. Yes, folks, my kitchen cabinet got laid. Ouch, by the way.

It banged into the door jam when I turned around coming out of my bedroom. I almost took out my cat who decided to jump up on the couch at 7:30. The shower towel had a happy home to hang on.

W.T.F. I'm not a young guy, aren't these problem supposed to go away? I feel like a 14 year old with the little fucker just popping up and staying there. And it's a bit frustrating because I have (A) no local lovers, (B) no desire to go out on dates to find one and (C) no patience for masturbation lately.

So I let him salute the cabinet, the door, the cat and the bath towel for as long as he would stand at attention, then I just had to take care of business. Half hour down the drain (or in the Kleenex, however you prefer to look at it. Does anyone want to look at it?).

It's Monday. I have one trip to the east coast planned this week, and at month's end I will find myself south of Florida in one of the many gorgeous latino countries for a week. I plan on having a LOT of sex on one of these trips, but I won't mention which one.

Still, summer horniness is something I admire. Air conditioning but still sweating, the dark kiss of the sun on each other's skin, body spooge all over the place, screaming and yelling and moaning in the bedroom after an awesome night out at dinner or a show or whatever. It's something I admire, I appreciate, and god damn it I could use more of that.

But still, I find myself SO FUCKING BORED lately with the ladies. Not all ladies, and I've met a few in recent months who are 100% fuckable and dateable but either are not interested in the Sane or are too fucked up in the heart to make a run for it. It's Chicago, I know it is. My visits to practically every other city in the States and in the world has led me to realize the ocean is much bigger than previous thought, and there are FAR many more fishies in it. But still, I'm Chicago. It's not my name, it is who I am. I love my town, myself, and need to get out more to meet someone worth my time who also wants her mouth on the Sane's suntanned body.

So I urge everyone to beat me with a big stick if they hear that I am staying home. Seriously, there is no reason for me to be reading a book and watching movies on Saturday, just because I've become so misanthropic. It's a curse, because that misanthropy isn't worldwide focused, it's just on Chicago.

Maybe I should start a Chicago 30SB group. At the very least, we can bang, right?

The end is the means

2009-06-26T14:00:00.000-05:00

Auto-posted at 2:00pm as I am on a flight from Europe back to Chicago.

Kari and I spent that night together, but we didn't fuck. Oral sex was good to both, really good if you consider how few women can make me come from a blowjob. I slept in her bed but woke up much earlier than her. It's a blessing and a curse for me: 3 hours of sleep and I'm revved to start my day.

It sucks when it's the first night over at a dame's place, though. I don't want to be "that guy" who gives a gal a good time and then shovels off before she awakens. Note that even with booty calls and friends-with-benefits, I'm still a gentleman out of the bedroom. I woke up at sunrise feeling a lot of pain in my bruised side. I turned over and looked to see Kari still sleeping, her blanket pulled up to her belly, her perfect tits and gorgeous long neck showing minor signs of my come from not many hours ago.

She's pretty, but not stunning, but she sleeps smiling, and that's a pleasure to wake up to. I get up and her hardwood floors creak, so I use my silent-walk technique to get myself to the kitchen to scrounge up some food. Her fridge isn't too packed and neither is her freezer, so I ring up my assistant who happens to be in the city and ask her to pick up some eggs, cheese, a tomato, an onion and a package of mushrooms. 45 minutes later and my assistant is meeting me out front on this cold spring day.

I find her frying pan (which needs a mean cleaning) and some oil (which I am hoping isn't rancid) and whip up an omelette (4 egg, thankyouverymuch). I sit in her living room window, grab the notepad and pencil that my assistant brought me, and take the notes that cover the journal leading to now.

Where am I going with this? Is she going to be my first one night stand, or is she looking for a lover for those lonely summer nights? Will she booty call me (I haven't done the booty call thing in 2 years) or will be be friends with benefits, or just friends who never approach the bedroom again?

It doesn't really matter, but I find myself enamored with her body. She has the shoulders and neck and back and arms that I love on a woman; her belly is almost perfect. She's confident and studious, works a regular job for regular pay, and isn't too spend-thrifty. She won't be a sugar-baby because she doesn't care for material things like I do.

At about 10am, I hear her get up. Walls shake from the floor that creaks, so I stand up and walk to the kitchen to get the frying pan going again. A little oil (ok, a lot of oil), crack the first egg and there she is: wearing new panties but also wearing my dress shirt from the night before. Women, I know it's cliché but wearing a man's shirt is hotter than hell. It's an ego stroke to end all ego strokes (other than bragging to your friends about us).

She has a smile on her face, asks me what I'm doing. I'm making you breakfast. "That makes it two for two then." Huh? "Most guys don't make me come the first time we fool around, and no one makes me breakfast." I guess you'd hungry, right? "Sure."

I slice up some more tomato and onions, drizzle oil on the mushrooms, and toss up a perfect omelette a few feet in the air as I flip it to completion. A little cheese (read: lot) and flip it onto her plate.

My shirt is unbuttoned on her body, and it's making Little Fire Hydrant perk up a little. I'm wearing my jeans, but I don't want to be uncomfortable so I start thinking about what I should do today. I'm on a break from a hellacious winter work schedule, with no major travel plans ahead. Money is good, plans with family are set, most of my friends are busy with family and work, so I have as much time as she has for me to stick around.

"So," she said, chomping down her omelette gracefully. So? "I think we should fuck." Ok, I agree with that. "No, I mean after I brush my teeth." Uh oh, LFH bounces up a bit more. "Do you have condoms?" Of course I do. "Let me finish this and you can meet me in the bedroom." I didn't say I agree to this idea. "You will." She removes my dress shirt and lets it fall to the floor. She wins.

She gets up, her tits even better than I had expected, and strolls to the bathroom to scrub that morning breath from her mouth. I already took care of brushing my teeth (my overnight medicine bag has it all). I watch her stroll out of the bathroom and remove her panties in the hallway as she disappears into her bedroom. I grab my medicine bag, double-check to make sure my favorite condom is at the ready, and head on it.

She under the covers, which is a bit of a thrill killer. But she's smiling, which balances it well. A sexy woman with a sexy smile basically tell me to get inside of her is probably the hottest thing a woman can do, short of wearing glasses. I get into bed, crawl under the covers, and she immediately rolls over to her side to clench her body against mine, her head on my chest.

"I said it last night, I don't want a boyfriend." I know, that's a good thing. "Let me say that I haven't had a lot of guys I've fucked, but they all get emotionally attached and annoy me quickly." I won't. Who's to say you won't be the one to get all weak-kneed for me? "Maybe I will."

She turns her face up and I bend my chin down and we try to kiss. It didn't work as well as it does in the movie, but I like kissing her. I like knowing this beautiful and sexy lady wants my dick in her.

We kiss for quite awhile, her hand stroking my cock readily without my prompting. The gal can kiss, that's for sure. And her moans are ambrosia to this lover's ears and body. My hands dance playfully on her body and I find her spots are her neck, her back just under her shoulder-blades, her forearms and her legs just below her hips.

"I want your dick in my mouth again," she says. I nod my head no, letting her know non-verbally that I want to save it for her pussy. I flip onto my back and pull her on top of me, my cock throbbing between my belly and hers. She pulls her hair out of my face and smiles at me, causing me to smile back. Then I laugh, which makes her laugh, too. Laughter in bed really is funny. And sexy.

We kiss some more, my hands in her hair and her hands in my hair, then she pulls back again. "I should let you know, I don't ever come from penetration." Never? "Never." Do you get close? "Sometimes." What breaks it? "I don't know." Willing to work on it, seriously work on it? "I want to, but seriously sounds scary." Give me some time and we'll find a way to do it.

With that, she crawls her face down my chest to my belly, my thighs, and envelopes my cock in her mouth. I moan, and she strokes my cock with her two hands below the head while popping the head in and out of her mouth, keeping her tongue on the parts that matter. The gal is really good at this. She'd get a mouthful every day if it was up to me.

After a good ten minutes of fantastic sloppy head, I pull her face off of me. She resists a bit, really liking my cock hitting the back of her throat. A few times she almost had her face buried in my pubes, but she gagged enough that she had to withdraw. I know she's one who can overcome that gag reflex, which means some furious and aggressive throat-fucking to come. Lucky me.

I pull her up to me and roll her over, pushing her shoulders down. I want to get on her back so badly, but she pushes my head to one nipple and screams at me to lick it. I do, but I still tease enough that she pulls my cheeks down to it against my will. The more I fight, the more she moans. My hands are on her forearms and her back, eliciting moan after moan.

"I think you need to fuck me now." I think I need to lick your pussy and clit for a half hour. "No, I need your cock inside me."

While she is straddling me, my cock laying on top of her shaven pubes, I reach over and grab my medicine bag. As I reach for a condom, the bag topples over to the floor, spilling the entire contents across the hardwood. Shit. She laughs, as do I.

I get between her legs, on my knees, and stroke my cock a little bit more to regain the hardness I like for penetration. It's not as hard as it can be, but that's LFH for you. I'm not nervous, and she spreads her pussy and tickles her clit herself while I open the condom, squeeze the tip, and unroll it over my cock.

Her eyes are on me, not on my dick. I push her hand away from her pussy and rub my cock her across her lips and lightly on her clit, which is fully engorged and ready for a good licking. She smiles as I tease her, battling my tease with her own goading glances. I put my cock between her pussy lips, the head just barely penetrating them and look at her. She nods. As I push in slowly, I realize she is completely soaked, but her pussy lips are full enough to prevent major spillage. Her smile retreats and her eyes open nearly to the point of bugging out.

"Fuck, that's thicker than it looks" she says as I slip the cock head in finally. "Ohhhh, fuck that's good." Yes, tell me that. "I love it, put more in." I need to hear that you really want it. "Ohhh I really want it" she says as I slide another inch inside.

"Fuck, put it all in." I refuse, putting only the first three inches inside of her, then pulling out to make sure she's wet enough. "No, put it back in" she implores as I pull out almost entirely.

She grabs my hips and pulls me, and I give her a little power as I slide back in, only 3 inches. Her pussy is wet and fairly tight, paying the rent expected from my cock landlord. "God damn, put it all the way in." I nod my head no, smiling nefariously as her eyes pop out again when I give it a little more penetration than before. "Yes, like that. Please fuck me." Why? "I need it, so bad."

I push in further, spreading her legs a bit more on the bed and laying my own body on top of hers. "Oh God please more." I pull out again, grabbing her biceps in my hands as I kiss her. Her eyes are still opened as I push in another inch, leaving the final inch outside.

"Ohhhh my" she moans. I love her verbal openness. My cock is now almost entirely inside of her, but her moans cause it to get thicker than usual. "Oh fuck, I can feel you stretching me." I look at her eyes, which are open but dazed.

I pull my cock out almost entirely, leaving just the head in. I pull one hand down from her shoulder, lick my thumb, and put my hand flat on her belly with my thumb on her clit. "Oh God, yes. Please fuck me now." I abide by her request and push my cock in, feeling it thicken at the looks she's giving me, at the "O" shape of her mouth that wants to speak or moan but can't.

I still don't give it all to her. I leave the last inch out, but she doesn't know it. I pick up the pace, leaving my thumb barely touching her clit, almost no pressured contact, just warmth and touch. "God I needed this, I needed your dick so bad." I'm fucking her faster now, still refusing to push entirely in.

"Yes, fuck me, Sane." Do you like my cock? "Ohh, I love it." You know it's in your pussy, right? "Oh God yes, it's amazing." We kiss, me temporarily withdrawing my hand from her clit as I embrace her face. We kiss, and I slowly penetrate and withdraw, forcing myself to withhold from entering her fully.

As we kiss, I nuzzle my cheek to her cheek, kissing her cheek, forcing her to kiss mine. I let her kiss my chin, my nose, my mouth as I continue to pummel her slowly and softly.

As I return my finger to her clit, I realize just how wet she is. She's loving every minute of this. I give it a little tickle, just a touch of pressure. Her eyes close as I push into her, stretching her, while giving her clit just enough attention to make her feel filled and attended to.

She's biting her lip, moving her head to one side as I continue my rhythm, trying to find the rhythm that she needs. I continue to thumb her clit, and suddenly her pelvic bone is pushing against me in rhythm to my cock falling into her. That's just the sign I need. Instead of pressing harder on her clit with my thumb, I push down on her pubic bone, right under her pubic hair. I massage her clit still gently with my thumb, but the pressure on her pubic bone causes her eyes to open, she screams "My God, don't stop" and then closes her eyes again.

As I push onto her pubic bone, I thrust my cock into her, still refraining from giving her the last inch. She starts making moaning noises, and her hips are thrusting back at me, knowing subconsciously themselves that there is more there to conquer. I pull out entirely and slide back in, pushing down on her pubic bone with each thrust, removing pressure a little with each withdrawal.

"Fuck, don't stop, please don't stop." I say nothing and continue the rhythm, the pressure on and off, the penetration and withdrawal, increasing the speed at which my thumb is circling her clit, but not increasing the pressure yet.

Finally she gets there "Oh fuck, I'm coming, please, please." I laugh a little inside, wondering what she's begging for. Her clit pushes up at my, and only then do I push back with my thumb. I also push down on her pubic bone as hard as I can, finally pushing my cock all the way into her, completely. "Ohhh fuck yes, fuck fuck fuck, yes, God yes." I stop fucking her, at least I don't withdraw anymore. Instead, I push my cock as deep as possible, holding her hip with one hand, keeping my cock as far in as possible.

My other hand is pushing her pubic bone down, my thumb is pushing and releasing against her clit in the exact rhythm I was fucking her before. I keep my cock pressed inside of her, and feel her body quake. Her chin is aimed at the ceiling, her face tipped backwards, her tits are up as her back arches. I keep my cock pushed in, but I withdraw the pressure on her clit. I still keep my hand pressed against her pubic bone, as her hips push back. My cock is soaked.

Finally she comes down. "Oh God no, I'm I'm" I look up and her eyes are filled with tears. No sad tears or happy tears, just emotional release. "I'm sorry" she says as she closes her eyes, pushing tears down both sides of her temples. I laugh a little, release my hand from her hips and clit, grasp her shoulders and put my chest on hers as I nuzzle into her neck.

"Oh God I didn't think THAT would happen." I chuckle again, saying nothing.

She takes 15 minutes to come down entirely. My cock is still hard, still inside her. Finally, she lets out a final strong breath. "Ok, wow. Just. Wow." I smile as she sees me watching her face.

"Shit, did you come?" I nod my head no. "Oh crap. I don't think I can handle anymore fucking." I smile and nod and begin to pull out of her. "NO. Don't pull out, just don't push in yet. I think I'm sore." Hah!

"Holy crap, what the hell were you doing to me?" Nothing, just investigating your body. "No, I mean that crazy shit with your hand on my pubes." Oh, just seeing what brings you off. "Fuck yeah, you can do that shit always. I love it."

We kiss again, and I fight hard not to fuck her. At this point, I could actually pound the hell out of her for 2 hours, she was that sexy and gorgeous when she came on my cock. But I can tell she's sore, I was letting her pussy adjust to my cock by not giving her all of it, and then I gave her the last inch pushing past her adjustment/comfort phase. It's a cheating trick, for sure.

"I want you to come." I'm actually OK. "No, it's not fair." How many times has a guy fucked you, come, and left you without anything? "Always. Well, often." So what's wrong if we consider the job done here this morning, and I'll get a little extra attention next time? "It's not fair to you." I just got to fuck you, I got to see your first good orgasm from a cock, I had my cock in your mouth for 10 minutes, what's the problem? "You need to come." How about I take a rain check? "Did you lose respect for me?" I laugh LOUDLY. Fuck no! I'm just happy with what we just had.

"Are you sure?" Yes, I'm sure! "I can suck you off again." I know you can, but I'm honestly OK.

I withdraw. My cock is still hard and she doesn't believe me. I'm honest when I say that orgasm is not the end result. Fucking isn't the end result. The end isn't justified by the means, the means are what matter. We had sex, really good sex. Not for very long, not very hard and hot and heavy, just a good fucking. She needed it, and I wanted to be the one to give it to her.

Sure, I'm horny, but that doesn't mean I have to satiate my desires right now. For me, I was just happy to please her. If it happens again, and I know it will, she'll get her chance to give me something and not get anything in return. Until then, we'll be pals. Good pals, I hope, but pals first. The next fucking can wait for another day.

A Man's Intimate Needs

2009-06-26T12:55:00.004-05:00

Auto-posted at 1:00pm because I am on a return flight to Chicago today from Europe.

I had a bizarre discussion with a blogger recently regarding men in bed. She complained about how bad her recent lovers were, and wondered what she was doing wrong.

I've heard this before, and most of the time the answer is the same: you're a bad lover. No, no, not he's a bad lover, YOU'RE a bad lover.

I always laugh inside a little when I hear the trite complaints of a typical woman: "He needs to give me more attention" or "He moves too quickly" or the like. Guess what, women: you're the problem, not him.

A woman who is frigid in bed is going to have a guy who moves too fast. Why? Because he's the only one moving. It's plain as day, I've been with women like you. I get bored. Usually I'd rather go to sleep than even THINK of having sex.

If a guy is moving too fast, check yourself. Are you teasing him back? If he's going for the nipple, how about flipping him over and giving him a back rub, or roll him onto his back, straddle him, grab his face and kiss him for awhile? No, you're not "teaching him" anything new, you're just putting in as much work as he does.

Then there are the guys who orgasm too fast. Yes, I know there are actually men who have this problem for real, but in most situations that I've talked to, the guy is just trying to get there because the woman is showing no sign of pleasure. How about letting out a moan or even a little dirty talk? Be vocal, be physical, show him that you're having fun. When I see that a woman is actually having a good time when I'm pounding away, I last even longer.

I generally don't have a problem with stamina, but if the woman acts bored, then I'm bored, too. Let's just get it over with and skip sex in the future. What's with being all quiet and ladylike in bed? WE'RE FUCKING, so fuck me back.

Then you have the guy who is just BAD at sex: he pounds too hard on the clit, his legs shimmy like a jackrabbit when he's thrusting, etc. This is an easy solution, too: BE VOCAL. Asking him to slow down or go lighter actually works. You're not teaching him something he needs to know, you're letting him know that your body is different than past lovers.

I've been with lovers who can't orgasm unless I'm biting a nipple practically to the point of blood. I've been with lovers who can't have clitoral stimulation until 30 seconds before they're ready to pop. Each woman is different, and it is not the guy's job to figure out how they're different. If a woman wants good sex, she better be ready to explain her physical needs and issues as they arise.

It won't spoil the fun, it makes it better.

So there you have it: a man has intimate needs, too, but we're more vocal and aggressive about moving in the direction of orgasm. Women who lay there, silent, and don't vocalize what they're liking and not liking are frigid boring lovers. I sure as hell don't want her. Most guys won't either, and they'll hit the road as soon as the next lovely lady comes around who seems a bit more passionate about life.

Just because you're hot, have nice boobs, and think your pussy is heaven-sent doesn't mean that you're good in bed. From my experiences in my 20+ years of dating, I would say that half the women I've been with have been TERRIBLE lovers at first and needed their asses slapper (regularly) to get them into shape.

Open your mouth for more than our cocks and you might be surprised at how much better that guy you think is boring Mr. 5 Minutes becomes.

Getting in your head

2009-06-25T15:00:00.000-05:00

My final autopost as my air carrier shuttles me to destination Europe for a 14 hour layover before I head home tomorrow.

Last night I had a lovely dinner with an anonymous blogger. We chatted a bit about ex-love-interests: fuck buddies, significant others, casual flings.

Her run down rankings brought intrigue to my mind. Her fuck buddies were gorgeous, but not really mentally and emotionally challenging. Her most significant others were still prettyboys, but something about them got in her head, more than sexual attraction.

She mentioned that some guys got really close to breaking through her skullgates, but fell short before the relationship ended. Some recent love/sex interests didn't have much of a chance for breaking through the barricade, but those relationships fell apart young.

I know it's not just a woman thing, so I'm asking guys AND gals alike: what causes a love interest to get stuck in your head? How fast does it happen? Do you show signs of being mindraped to them? Do you ever fight it off to try to nip it in the bud, and how?

If you're a regular reader who lurks, jump in with a comment. I allow anonymous comments, so use that feature if you like.

Fiends with Benefits, Part III

2009-06-25T12:03:00.009-05:00

Auto-posted at 1pm while I am on a flight somewhere over the Atlantic. More auto-posts coming, and I'll be returning tomorrow evening.

This is the final part of a 3-part series. You can read the first part here.

She unlocked the door to her apartment and we walked in. It's a nice place with common hardwood floors, off-white walls, and a touch of color from the curtains and furniture that brings her living room together. She doesn't have a lot of stuff, which is very attractive.

I ask if she lives alone. "I do, now. I had a roommate but she had a revolving door of shady guys she'd bring home. When the last guy stole some things from me, I told her she needed to find a new place." How do you afford it? "My parents help, since I'm still in school." I'm glad she's honest about her parents helping. I think it's a good thing for parents to help a student. "Me too," she laughs.

I sit on her big green couch and she runs to the bedroom. I hear the tap-tap-tap of an animal running into the room. It's a little tiny hound of some kind, medium brown with gorgeous eyes. "This is Cheval, he's 4." Cheval? Like from doucheval? "That's right!" It means two horses in French. "Haha, I know." He runs up to me and stares at me, not growling or barking. Just staring.

I pat my hand on the couch and his tail turns into a wag-fest. "Be careful, he doesn't like guys." He'll like me. All dogs love me. He wags his tail and then his little frame gets frustrated as it runs back and forth, trying to figure out how to get onto the couch. "He's not good at jumping." I reach down to grab him and his tail goes CRAZY. "Careful, he's a nipper." I call his name and grab him under his chest. No nipping, he hops right into my lap as I lift him up.

"Wow. Chevy never likes guys so quickly." I give him the alpha male stare and talk to him in my deepest basso voice. His tail his wagging and his face is between his front paws. Cute. "You must love dogs." Actually, I do, but I don't tend to have many in my life. Dogs are great pets, but all pets can get in the way of excitement and travel. "That's true. My folks watch him often if I have a busy schedule at school." That's good to know.

It's also exciting to me. I tend to not date women with dogs only because it has fucked up chances of last minute travel. It's not a hard and fast rule, but I've followed it fairly well. Knowing her folks are around to watch this little mutt increases her chances of something with me, whatever that might be.

She comes back with a beer for her and a glass of vodka on the rocks for me. "My ex-roommate left a bottle in the freezer, I hope it's not spoiled." I laugh, vodka doesn't spoil. "Oh, I guess that makes sense." We clink glasses and she sits down next to me, with Chevy in between us.

"Anything you want to watch particularly?" I don't have a TV, so just throw on whatever is on TV. She zaps the TV on and some sitcom I've never heard of is on. "You don't have a TV?" I do, but it's not plugged in. I use it to dry hand-washed shirts. She laughs, a LOT. Chevy looks at her and then back at me and his tail goes crazy again. I put my hand on his head and rub his temples. Her beer bottle returns to the table and her hand lands on to of mine. Chevy's tail goes crazy.

We watch whatever show it is, and I laugh a bunch. It's well written, and the timing of the actors is perfect. Kari keeps glancing at me, and after the show is over, she puts her back into the corner of the couch and looks at me. Chevy is asleep but he'll open his eye every once in awhile to give me the side-glance and wag his tail a few inches back and forth.

"So, tell me more about you." What do you want to know? "Do you have any plans this summer?" Not really. Some travel, visit with my folks, see friends, do some writing. "Do you travel alot?" Yes. "For writing?" Absolutely. "That's so interesting!" It's OK. It's a job. "I think most people would want that job."

Maybe. I turn my body into the opposite corner of the couch and we look at each other, both of us smiling. Kari lifts up Chevy and puts him on the chair. "That's HIS chair, never sit there." I would never even consider it. She sits back down and lays her her against my chest and her hand touches my ribs. My body bounches back a bit. "Oh, did you not want me laying on you?" No, not at all. I have a little injury there, that's all. "Injury?" I fell into a wooden fence, I lied. "Oh is it bad?" No, just bruised.

I have my hand on her hair and then it falls to the back of her neck. She moans. I look at her and she's blushing. "Sorry, that's umm, sorta..." your spot? "Yeah." She blushes again. My hand leaves her neck and my fingers play on her back. "Ohhh, I love my back touched." Who doesn't? Another half hour of it and I can tell she's got goosebumps. Her light moans are an incredible turn-on and Little Fire Hydrant decides to wake up. She's laying on me, so I'm sure she notices.

In response, she rolls herself over and grabs my shoulders, repositioning me better on the couch. She crawls up my chest and puts her hands on my neck and cheek and kisses me. It's a great kiss, not much tongue, not inhaling or exhaling. She kisses 50 times better than Lena does. It's obvious the girl is passionate.

As we kiss, she straddles my jeans. I can feel her warmth against me and I'm sure she can feel my cock straining through the jeans. Whenever I kiss her cheek or her chin, she moans. My hands tease her neck, too, and my fingers run through her soft brown hair and end up on her shoulder, teasing her neck by barely touching it. She's writhing a bit, grinding a bit, kissing her way down my neck to my neckbone as she unbuttons my shirt slowly.

She pulls my shirt off my shoulders and kissing my shoulder and my bicep. "You don't look that muscular but you seem so strong." Muscles don't mean strength. She pulls my shirt down further and unbuttons it completely down as she kisses her way down my chest to my belly. I'm a bit hairy on the front but she's not concerned. As she pulls my shirt away from my ribs, she sees the 9 inch bruise on it. "HOLY FUCK." What's wrong? "That's not from a fence!" The bruise is actually 4 bruises all in the same general area.

"Did you get punched?" No, I fell on a fence. "Don't lie. I dated a football player in college, I know bruises from falling and crashing into bodies. It looks like you were punched 3 times!" Ok, I lied. It's from a fist. "What the hell happened?" I was sparring with a friend of mine, he was teaching me some new moves. "Sparring? You fight?" Only to stay in shape. "That's bullshit, what happened!"

I tell her that's the truth. "You do this often?" Only when he's in town. He's a fast, skinny strong guy who teaches me to be able to defend myself. "Wow, that's really sexy." Her lips softly kiss my bruise without eliciting a response of pain. I have my hands on her head, running my fingers on her scalp which brings forth a series of moans. I run my fingers through her hair softly, ending up on her neck and then her back through her shirt.

She sits up and pulls my shoulders forward so she can get my shirt off. As she throws it onto the coffee table, she pulls her own T-shirt off. I look at her face, not her tits, but she puts her hand on my chin and tilts my head down. "You can look at me you know." I know, but I like your face. "You're a tease. You know I had NO idea you found me attractive? At least look at my body once in awhile." I did, I'm just good at hiding it. "Tease."

In honesty, her body is great. She's a 32B, almost perfect. Her tummy is flat and her hips are fantastic. As she puts her mouth on mine again, I play my fingers on her back and on her hips. She's grinding heavier now, and my cock is really wanting to get out of my jeans. As our tongues battle and we nibble on each other's chins and necks and earlobes, I softly run my fingers from the bottom of her back up to her bra strap. She moans louder than ever and pulls her face away from mine and stares into my eyes. With that, I unsnap her bra strap in 2 seconds. She reaches up to push her shoulder straps off and her bra falls to my belly off her arms, past her hands. Her tits are PERFECT.

"You like?" I look into her eyes and nod. Again she grabs my chin and forces me to look at her chest. In response, I move a hand up from her hip, up her ribcage slowly, and trace the outline of her breast without coming close to her nipple. She moans. She climbs up higher on my pelvic bone and throws her tits right at my mouth. Instead of licking or biting, I open mouth kiss the area between her boobs and then run my tongue in a wide circle around one breast, staying far away from her nipples.

She moans, a long moan that finishes in "teeease." I grab her shoulders, pull her back and in one motion push her to the couch on her back. Her hand runs up her side and she grabs a nipple lightly, but I pull her hand away, putting her fingers in my mouth. Another moan.

I look in her eyes and she how pretty she is like this, completely at ease but turned on beyond expectations. "Do you want to go to bed?" Maybe. "Maybe?" I don't fuck on a first date, and I don't sleep around and do one night stands. "Neither do I." Also, I'm not looking for a girlfriend, and I don't want to lead you on. "You're so much fun and exciting, but I don't want a boyfriend either. We don't have to have sex, but my couch is really lumpy and small." It is, I laugh. She laughs back.

She pushes me off of her and stands up. Perfect tits. She sees me watching her so she runs her hands from her shoulders down to her nipples and down her flat belly, her thumbs finally resting on the top of her jeans. Then she unbuttons her jeans, turns and walks to the bedroom. I stand still, and she turns around, smiles, and bites her bottom lip. Little Fire Hydrant jumps again and she notices.

I follow her into her bedroom and she douses the light, leaving only the light from her kitchen softly bouncing into the bedroom through the hallway. She unzips her jeans and rolls them to the floor. "You can take yours off if you're comfortable. I promise I won't fuck you, too much at least." I listen and unbutton my button fly and toss the jeans on top of her hamper.

She gets into bed and under the sheets, the bedroom colder than the rest of the house because of the small window facing an alley. I climb into bed with her and we embrace, kissing deeply. She moans so much, I know this one is going to be fireworks in bed. She pushes her leg outwards and forces it under my thighs, bringing me between her legs. My cock popped out of my boxer hole and is pressing up against her panties, which are obviously wet with desire.

And her damn dog is in the bedroom, running around trying to find a way to hop on the bed. Oops.

We kiss more, our hands playing on our bodies. Her moans are intimidating, but as my mouth finds more of her body, they just get deeper and lower. Her hips are really sensitive, so I am careful not to tickle her. Her knees are ticklish to, so I avoid them as I work down to her ankles and feet. I bite down a bit on the side of her foot and she moans at that, but doesn't jerk away.

I work my way back up her body, avoiding her pussy and her tits. I kiss her again and she grabs my shoulder and rolls me over to my back. She works her magical mouth on me, not avoiding my nipples. As she kisses my belly, her hand grabs my cock. "Oh, it's beautiful. You're thick." I say nothing as she slowly strokes my cock and licks my belly and then my thigh. My cock is inches from her face and she strokes it, watching it in the light as it gets harder.

"I have to suck your dick, really badly." I look down at her and smile, not resisting. She licks it from the base closest to my balls, licking around the shaft slowly. I moan and put my hands in her hands to caress her scalp and hair without forcing her to do anything specific. As her tongue plays on my cock, it gets even harder than earlier. I moan when she licks the underside of the head and then she runs her tongue up the head to lick up my precome. "Mmm, not bad at all" she says. I moan my response and then she widens her mouth and takes the head in.

I don't come from blow jobs, almost never. But she's popping my cock in and out of her mouth, getting the head in and using her tongue as it penetrates her mouth to caress the underside of my head. She's VERY good at this, and I'm really happy about it.

She caresses my balls but I push her hands away. "Too sensitive?" she asks, and I nod my head. My hands push her mouth back onto my cock as she struggles to get more of it in her mouth. I grab her neck more and give it a little pressure, letting my cock push deeper into her mouth. Finally I hit the back of her tongue and she gags. "Fuck, that thing has gotten thicker! What the hell?" I laughed and then force her mouth back on it, pushing again to the back of her mouth. Another gag.

"I don't think it's going further than that, not without practice." Oh, so you want to practice more in the future? "Fuck yeah! I want this thing in me, by the way. Are you sure you don't want to fuck?" I do want to fuck, but I think we shouldn't do it tonight. Let's go out again and figure out if we're right for that. "Ok, but I had so much fun, I don't think you're going to hurt me and I'm not going to hurt you." Just suck my cock and shut up.

She complies, bobbing her head up and down my cockhead, trying to get it deeper in her mouth without gagging. Every time she gags, she takes a deep breath and goes back to it. Good gal. I'm shocked that I feel my balls tingling, a sure sign that I'll come. Blow job orgasms NEVER happen for me, but she's really enthusiastic about sucking me off. As I get closer, I pull her hair up so my cock pops out of her mouth.

"What's wrong?" I'm close. "It's OK, I want you to finish." In your mouth? "Sure, you taste really good, I'm not afraid of it." She puts her lips back on my cock and picks up speed to match my pulling and pushing on her neck and hair and scalp. Less than 5 minutes later, I tighten up and I feel her mouth get wider. Her hands grab my cock at the base and on the shaft and start pumping with her mouth just open.

I come, shooting my first arrow straight down her throat. That causes her to gag BIG time so my cock falls out of her and she coughs from my load. The rest of my come hits her chin and her neck and some of it lands on my cock and my belly. "Damn, I wasn't expecting it to be so strong!" I laugh and she licks up what is on her chin using her finger and then cleans off my cock with her tongue. "What the hell, you taste really good. I can do that again." She looks at my cock as I come down from my orgasm and it's still mostly hard. "I guess you can, too." I laugh and she laughs, crawling up my body, my boxers still down at my thighs.

"I think we should fuck, soon. Maybe?" Definitely. She kisses me, the taste of my come on her tongue still. My cock gets harder from the kisses and she starts stroking it again. "This is good." Yeah? "You're going to fuck my brains out aren't you?" If you keep talking like that I will. "You're going to fuck my wet pussy and make me come, right?" More than once. "Haha, one is good enough and usually all I have." Trust me, my cock in your pussy for the long haul will do wonders. She strokes me more, "I know."

We keep kissing, me on my back, her straddling my hips. I grab her ass and pull it upwards on my body. Her eyes widen and I smile, pushing her hips up to my belly then past my chest. I tell her to stand up and pull off her panties. She stands, but is a little wobbly on her old mattress. She pulls her underwear off and I stare at her pussy. She shaves but hasn't in at least a week, leaving me the impression she wasn't expecting to get here tonight. That's VERY attractive, plus I like a little bit extra there on occasion. More natural and fun.

Her dog sees her standing, and yelps a few times to get her attention. She ignores him, which is good because I've been with dog owners who COMPLETELY lose their train of thought with the ole mutt in the room.

"Now kneel over my tongue and get that gorgeous pussy of yours on me." She smiles and kneels over my head, still wobbly but stabilizes as I put my hand on her ass cheeks and guide her pussy to my face.

Her lips are fairly big, but her clit is beautiful. She's definitely past the foreplay stage and ready to be fucked, no doubt. Instead, I tease her pussy by using my tongue to pull her lips apart, licking the inside of her lips while avoiding her clit and her pussy hole. She moans, her hands on my forehead and pulling on my hair.

She thrusts her hips a few times, suffocating me a bit as I pinch her ass to get her to back off a bit. Her pussy tastes good, and she's incredibly wet. I keep teasing, running my tongue from back to front, barely glancing off her large clit. I keep pulling her pussy apart, running my tongue into it, around it. I take her lips into my mouth, and then her clit is surrounding by my lips, but just barely.

She bucks a bit, moans a LOT. Good thing her roommate moved out. Her hands are pulling on my hair and squeezing my forehead as she rocks onto my tongue and lips. I use my nose to push into her clit harder this time and she lets out a little scream. "Eat me" she commands, and I do, finally taking her clit into my lips and using my tongue to push up against it gently, but just with enough force to get her really moving.

Her pussy juices are streaming into my beard, her thighs are compressing against the sides of my face, and her clit is popping in and out of my mouth with a great rhythm.

"Oh fuck, like that don't stop" she screams as I start sucking on her clit and massaging her ass to the rhythm of her face-fucking me. "Yes, yes suck it don't stop" she screams as her hips push HARD into my face, her clit throbbing in my mouth and against my tongue. I run my finger across her asshole to tickle it a little and she comes, hard.

"Oh god yes suck me, suck my pussy, I'm coming." I love it when a girl is vocal. A woman SHOULD tell a guy she's there. I hate those quiet orgasms, they bore me. She wasn't faking it as her pussy unleased more of her juices into my mouth, down my chin, down my bearded cheeks. Her pussy lips slammed against my mouth and chin as I finished sucking her clit just before the point of being too sensitive.

As she finished I backed off, opening my mouth and withdrawing my tongue so she could grind her clit into my mouth at her pressure level. Not too rough, just enough to get the rest of her orgasm out. Finally, she collapses to my right, falling over with her forearm on her forehead, wiping sweat in this cold room. "God damn it." I look at her and ask what? "Damn it. If you can eat pussy like that, I really have to know what your cock feels like inside of me." Ok. "Now?" No. She looks at my cock which is just as hard as when it was in her mouth. "You look like you can go again." I can.

"Crawl onto my tits now." Huh? "Straddle my tits. I want to watch you jerk off on me." I comply, straddling her gorgeous breasts. She pushes them together, giving me a little more to work with as I stick my cock between them. A few pushes and it gets harder. She glances down and tells me to stroke it for her.

And I do. She's just dirty-talking enough to keep me really horny. I stare at her face and know I'll be covering it in my come. Maybe not this time, but sometime. Her eyes are wide and her lips mouth the words I like to hear. I stroke my cock for a good ten minutes, pushing it between her lips often to get it lubed. As I start to moan, she asks me to come.

I ask her where. "Anywhere." Tell me. "On my tits, my neck." Just there? "On my chin, in my mouth, just come for me." I do, sending my first stream across her neck. She opens her mouth a bit, and I aim for it but completely miss her face and land another stream across her shoulder onto her pillow. She turns her face to try to catch it, and the third stream hits the back of her cheek as I always compensated for my bad aim. She turns her face towards me and I push my cock up to her tongue and send the final load down her tongue. I tell her not to swallow it. She smiles and sticks her tongue out, my come dripping off of it down onto her neck.

You can spit it out. She say "uhh uhh" and she smiles and shakes her head no. Her tongue pulls back into her mouth and she makes an obvious over-acting job of swallowing what little I gave her. "Mmm, definitely can use more of that. You can come in my mouth anytime." Yeah?

I pull up next to her, forgetting about my own come on her pillow which now is embedded in the back of my hair. Oops. She cuddles up to me, pulls close to me and straddles one of her legs between mine. My cock is still semi hard and she notices, asking me if I'm sure I don't want to fuck her. "Not tonight."

We talk more, and at some point we both fall asleep. Eventually she goes to the bathroom, so I turn over. When she returns, she spoons up to me, my back to her front, and we fall asleep until the next morning awakens me early.

Kari ended up being my fiend with benefits for most of 2008. More on that to come in a future journal entry from my past.

Fiends with Benefits, Part II

2009-06-25T11:15:00.003-05:00

Auto-posted at noon while I am on a flight somewhere over the Atlantic. More auto-posts coming, and I'll be returning tomorrow evening.

This is a continuation of Part I.

Wednesday came without much excitement, although I was looking forward to taking out Kari. I hadn't dated many people in the service industry (retail, in her case), and she definitely was cute and she definitely had an interest in the Sane one. Win and win, at least so far.

Since I didn't have many high hopes, I decided to go as casual as I possibly could: jeans, a simple dress shirt (it was COLD still), my current favorite spring jacket (tweed) and a decent pair of shoes that I hadn't worn out completely yet. I promised her an 8pm pickup, and found myself running early, giving me time to get the car washed inside and out. I love a clean car. My car is a massive piece of shit: 10 years old, dings and dents and rust and all that, but most people who have ridden in it know I have pride in my car, she's like my secret lover. I own a small share of a local car wash company, so I can get it washed twice daily if I wanted to.

The car wash happens to be about 10 minutes from Kari's apartment, so I zipped through there, had them do a quick hand-wax, shine up the tires and vacuum the fuck out of the inside. Perfection in 15 minutes. As I sped down Halsted, I realized I'd arrive at exactly the perfect time.

I pulled up at 7:58pm and miraculously found a spot right in front. Her apartment is an older building, about 20 units. I tried her cell phone but it went to voice mail, so I hopped out of the car and rang her bell after navigating the buildings that don't have their addresses prominent. I heard her door slam closed upstairs and heard her hop down the steps. I can usually tell a person's mood by the way they walk, and it was obvious that she was in a good mood.

As she came down the stairs, I saw her through the glass door. She was beaming, and she was dressed casually but cute. It's obvious she works at a shoe store because she was wearing jeans and a dress t-shirt, but she had gorgeous flats on. My kind of gal.

She opened the door and immediately gave me a hug. Whoa, easy there vixen. My hands wrapped around her slim waist and accidentally bumped on her ass. Tight. Nice.

"You smell good." Do I? "Yes. Is that cologne?" Nah, just my body wash. She looked at me after she released me. "Thanks for picking me up and being on time. Which car is yours?" I point to my beloved vehicle and she squeals. "I LOVE THAT CAR. Is that the same car that McRae drives?" My eyes widen about twice their usual size. How do you know who McRae is? "I LOVE that guy." Umm, me too. Man-crush for sure. Few Americans have any clue who you're talking about, and yes that's his car. "That's SO exciting."

We wander down her step and I let her into the car. As I close the door and walk around the front, I notice her checking out my ass. I have a big ass, but I think it suits my body. I've been told by numerous women that my ass and my hair are my only two good physical assets. Well, that and Little Fire Hydrant, but not because he's big, just because he's pretty. So be it.

I hope in the car and rev up my sweet mistress. We take off as the car lurches forward down the rocky street, undisturbed by the bumps and potholes of winter. "It does drive well. Wow." She's excited about MY CAR. "So where are you taking me?" I was thinking sushi, but if you're not into fish, then burgers for sure. "Oh, I like sushi but it's too expensive. Burgers are good." Too expensive? I'm buying, I asked you out. "No, I think I asked you out." Well, maybe initially, but I called you, therefore it's my treat. "That's not necessary." Of course it's not necessary, but it's the right thing to do. How about this, if you don't have fun, then we split the tab and we move on. "Ok, deal." She squeezes my forearm and giggles a bit. Oh, how I love a woman's giggles.

We chat a bit in the car: she's 26, went to college and was finishing her master's degree in something to do with kids. She's surprised that I didn't attend college, but I explained that I was lucky enough to learn more during my high school years than most. She accepted that answer and even told me that I seem way smarter than most. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

So we finally arrive: Kuma's Korner. Outskirts of Roscoe Village, some of the best burgers in town, and a great beer selection if that's your thing. "Ohhh, I've wanted to come here for months, but it's out of the way." It's a good place to go, but it's getting ridiculously popular and busy. "That's OK, I'm in no rush. I snacked earlier." Me, too.

I assist her out of The Car and she grasps my forearm again as she stands. "You're stronger than you look." Maybe. She smiles at me and THEN lets go. Whoa, hott. I love a woman's touch, especially a casual/tease touch like that.

We wander into Kuma's and it's not too crowded. It's cold so the outdoor patio is closed, so we leave our name and wait for a table. It's PACKED for a Wednesday night, but a table opens up in 10 minutes. We chat during the wait, both of us restraining from ordering a drink too soon.

"So what do you do for a living?" I'm a writer. "What do you write about?" Whatever I feel like. "And you get paid for this?" Not well.

It's been a goal of mine to downplay my income severely. I drive an old car, live in an old, tiny apartment, and wear designer clothes that aren't flashy or logo-oriented. Money can either attract gold-diggers, or it can turn off those who have none. It's important to downplay it, especially when dating.

"I hate working at the shoe store, but the pay is great, I'm treated like a manager, and it never gets too busy." Retail is hard, especially now. "I know, business is down, but we have so many regulars. It's a cute shop." I like it. Lena likes it.

"What's her story, anyway? Why don't you date her." We're not physically compatible, but I like her company. "Physically compatible?" Lacking chemistry and mutual attraction. "Oh, what doesn't she like about you?" It's not that direction. She laughs, a lot. Another touch.

I don't ask, but she offers that she isn't seeing anyone. I ask why not. "Guys either want to treat me like a slab of meat, or they get too lovey-dovey too quickly. No one knows how to take their time and just have fun." I heard that often. Do you at least date a lot, try different things? "When I meet someone, which is rare to none." Try internet dating? "Yes, and it's a failure. The guys are all so desperate for SOMETHING that they try too hard." Right.

We sit and look over the menus. She orders a draught beer, I order vodka on the rocks. "No beer?" It doesn't sit well with me. I casually check out her body without making it obvious and she's got a nice one: 5'5", great figure, good skin, nice eyes. Her teeth are imperfect, which drives me CRAZY. Sadly, no glasses and no jewelry. I love earrings and finger rings on a lady.

We talk more about a lot, with her leading the conversation and me prompting her to talk more. She doesn't pay attention to the crowd around us. I'm surprised that she doesn't pay attention to the 4 strapping gorgeous guys at the table next to us. Interesting.

She orders her burger, I order mine. They arrive in about an hour (it's THAT busy) and we both gobble them down, hungrier than we had realized. The conversation is smooth, there's a good amount of laughter but we cover some of the deeper topics. Politically we're 180 degree apart but neither has a problem with the other. Family-wise hers is quite simple and basic: mom and dad still married, a brother and a sister with her in the middle. Parents live in burbs with her older brother.

We cover her school schedule and she said she wants to finish her master's the next semester if time allows. I asked her if school got in the way of her dating. "Definitely. I just don't have time for a 'real' boyfriend I guess." I nod my head and she smiles. There's a definite understanding here. As the night progresses and the alcohol fills my head, it has the opposite of the usual effect: she's looking cuter and cuter. Alcohol usually makes women LESS attractive in my head, but I'm seeing things about her that I find absolutely adorable. She's fidgety on questions about dating, but completely confident on everything else.

We wrap up around 11pm, the bar jumping and the music blaring. "Want to go somewhere else?" she asks, also obviously annoyed by the masses around us. Sure, drinks or coffee?

"I have coffee at home, we can hang out on the couch and find a movie." Uh oh. Coffee and couch? This girl wants the Little Fire Hydrant, maybe. I hope not, I really can't handle another woman looking for a one night stand, something I'd never done yet.

Coffee is fine, couch is fine, movie is fine. "Just fine?" No, I mean it sounds like fun. "You're a hard one to penetrate, aren't you?" I don't think so. Do you take me as cold? "Oh, no, you're really passionate about things, for sure." PASSIONATE. There it is. My NUMBER ONE attraction in a person.

The tab comes and she lets me pay it without a fight. She does thank me, though, and I tell her I appreciated her company, so there's nothing owed in either direction. Her eye brow raises at that and she sends me an evil grin. Uh oh, trouble.

We wander to the car and she has her arm looped in mine. *swoon* She walks tall for her height, and she's beaming as we get to my car. I'm getting a little nervous, unsure of how I should handle myself if she tries to jump me. Even if it's just a person I fuck, I still like to get to know them a bit better. I hate to be used for just sex, thrown away. So far it's never happened, but there's always a first.

We zip back from Roscoe Village to her neck of the woods, and again there's a parking space right out front. 3 for 3 today, parking-wise. Again I help her out of the car and let her lead the way up her staircase towards her door. As she stops to get her keys out of her purse, she turns to face me, mere inches from my face since her stoop is small.

Then she kisses me. Hand in her purse, hand on the doorknob. Out of the blue. Whoa, good kiss, too. "I wanted to get that out of the way." Oh? She blushes. "Not that I expect anything, but I've been wanting to do that since dinner." Why? "You're good looking and I wanted to make sure you found me attractive." Would I have stayed at dinner for almost 3 hours if I didn't? "I don't know. Men are so odd, either total players or total losers." Women are the same. "I guess. I had fun, I just needed to know." I smiled, and then I blushed. She grabbed her keys and popped the door and we hopped up to the second floor, both of us happy from what was a really good, albeit short, kiss.

Wrapping up in Part III.

Fiends with Benefits, Part I

2009-06-25T09:55:00.004-05:00

Auto-posted at 11am while I am on a flight somewhere over the Atlantic. More auto-posts coming, and I'll be returning tomorrow evening.

March, 2008:

Beward the Ides of March! It's my favorite holiday, actually. The one where the people revolted and took down their monarch. What is better than revolution? I prefer peaceful revolution, of course, but it's still a holiday to celebrate.

I was semi-seeing Lena. She was a mix of 16 races and I'd say she had the absolute best combination of each. She wasn't pretty, really. She wasn't hot. She wasn't cute. She wasn't what I normally considered someone I'd date. But she was sexy as hell and looked good in EVERYTHING. Lena was my most recent sugar-baby. We had some sex, here and there, but I didn't really get into her as much and I think she sensed it. It was good sex, but nothing mind blowing (not for me at least).

I still loved seeing Lena in great outfits, and when I had particularly good jobs, we'd go out and splurge a bit. After returning from a trip to South Africa (I was TANNED and I was CUT because of surfing for 5 days straight), I called her up and asked if she had found any digs she liked. "Nothing much. Oh, wait, I did find something!"

Lena was the perfect sugar-baby: she never asked for things, and when I proposed shopping, she rarely bought. When she did, it was always something we both loved.

"Shoes!" Uh oh. Shoes are a tricky part for me. If I buy a woman shoes, she's getting fucked in them, that day. I don't care WHO the woman is, but shoes are a line drawn in the sand. Usually with Little Fire Hydrant. Shoes?

"Yeah, I found this little boutique in the city. And I'm horny. And I know you're horny. Let's get shoes." Let's! We made plans to meet around 1pm at her place, and I arrived a few minutes early. She was dressed for success, and I was excited to see what shoes she found.

We drove down to one of Chicago's many boutique neighborhoods and popped in the shoe store. She went to find her shoes while I browsed other women's shoes to see if I saw anything I liked for her. The store had tons of great smaller boutique brands, but the styles were just boring to me. As I wandered down the long and thin boutique searching out Lena, I passed the check-out counter lodged in the middle of the store.

"Hi!" said a young-looking brunette. I turned to look at her and replied back. "Looking for something for your wife or girlfriend?" No, just a friend. I pointed at Lena down at the end of the store. "Oh! She's been in here before. Does she have something in mind?" I think so. I look at the gal closer, and she reminds me of a friend of mine from high school. So I ask her name.

"Kari." Nice to meet you Kari. She smiles and I turn to see what Lena is trying on. Sadly, she doesn't find her shoes, which happened to be on sale and were already sold. Neither of us is sad, so we prepared to say goodbye to Kari when she added "We can order you shoes, even those that are on sale." Lena jumped up at the chance after looking at me for approval, brought over the style she wanted and asked for her size. "You're going to love these, they're really comfortable. Who should I call when they come in?" Me.

I wrote my number down and made a joke about being the most frequent customer at women's shoe stores it seems. Kari laughed at it and let her hand glance mine that was holding the paper. Interesting. I looked up and her eyes were twinkling and her smile was wide. I didn't break the glance as I pushed my name and number towards her.

"Thanks, I'll call you next week when it comes in." Lena and I left and went to her apartment. We fooled around a bit on her couch but didn't have sex. It had been over 2 months since we had last fucked. I liked seeing her in pretty things but I didn't really like fucking her. Ugh. I was horny, too.

We made out for a bit, went and grabbed a bite to eat, and I told her I'd give her a ring when the shoes appeared. A few more kisses (she WAS a great make-out buddy) and off I went.

2 days later, I had a call: it was Kari. "Your shoes, err, your friend's shoes are in." Awesome, that was fast! "We had another order from the same company so they put them in the boxes. When should I expect you?" Later today.

I zipped over there, Lena was at work and she had a first date with a guy later that night who she met online. I was on her ass to date more, and I figured good shoes wouldn't hurt her chances of meeting a decent guy. When I got to the boutique, Kari was working solo again. And she looked better than just a few days ago.

"Hey, Chicago!" she said, remembering my name. I go by Sane, if that's OK with you. "Sure Sane. Again, I'm Kari." I remember.

We chit-chatted while she rang me up. "So she's not your girlfriend?" No, not at all. "You buy your friends shoes?" It depends on the friends. Clothing, usually. Not shoes generally. "Your girlfriends, too?" Rarely. I haven't dated a lot lately, so it's mostly friends. "With benefits?" Something like that. Whoa this gal is forward. Her eyes were twinkling still, and she had the cutest smile.

"Want to hang out sometime?" AND STRAIGHT FORWARD. I wouldn't have expected that from her, but she did show the signs of interest. I accepted. I asked for her number and said I'd call when I was free. "Hopefully soon, I've been bored lately." Me, too.

I grabbed the shoes and zipped to Lena's. "Was that gal all over you again?" Haha, the shoe girl? "Yeah, she's cute and she digs your shit." She asked to hang out. "Ohh, you should TOTALLY do it." Maybe. "No, she's cute and she's your type. Why, don't you think she's cute?" Definitely. Eh.

Lena tried on the shoes and she looked great in them. Awesome purchase. She was meeting her date at 8pm for a late dinner and asked me to check her over. I thought she looked lovely and told her so. "Oh, Sane, you're so fucking precious. We should fuck, soon." Sounds good to me. In truth, we never did again.

The next week Lena had told me about her date (crash and BURN touchy-feely dork). She reminded me to call Kari, who I had honestly forgotten about. So I did, on a Tuesday evening. Her phone rang 3 times and she answered it. "Hi?" Hi Kari, it's Sane. "Ohhh, hi! I was just thinking about you today, wondering if you were going to blow me off." Why would I do that? "Guys have been weird lately." Tell me about it.

"So are we getting together today?" Again, aggressive. I like it when a woman CAN be aggressive, but not when she's ALWAYS aggressive. I told her tonight was bad, but I was free Wednesday and Thursday. Two options, friends. "Wednesday! What do you want to do?" Afternoon or evening, I asked. "I work until 6 at the shoe store, so maybe 8? Food or beers?" I don't drink beer, but drinks is fine. Food is, too. "How about somewhere quiet?" Done, I'll pick the place.

She gave me her home address (a good sign of interest, actually) and I promised her I'd see her at 8. I was a bit concerned by her enthusiasm (don't get me wrong, I love when the ladies like me!). I had a recent history of breaking hearts and was trying to get over that. It's not that I played around a lot, but I dated a lot and found myself bored a lot.

I never understood it until recently: when a gorgeous guy dumps a gal, she usually accepts it. She knows he's out of her league and at least she "got with him." When an average-looking guy decides not to move forward, it hurts the woman's self esteem. Maybe it hurts more. I decided to play it cool with this one, let her come to me if she wants it, and see if I want it, too.

More in Part II auto-posted later today. Yes, I'm a tease.

I had sex. And a date. Actually 2.

2009-06-25T00:18:00.003-05:00

I had sex tonight. Not the kind of fast and furious sex you're probably used to here, not even in a bed. That kind of slow and passionate sex that includes every taste, every touch, with conversation and laughter in between sessions. The kind of sex everyone should hope for, but rarely gets.

We fucked on the dining table, sloppy sex that tasted amazing. It was loud in the room, the lights were bright, and our neighbors didn't care at all.

THE SETUP
It all started when an anonymous blogger and I chatted a bit online. Neither of us had much in the way of large plans later, and I'm flying out of the country tomorrow, so tonight would be a good night to get together with someone fun and cute. Since my in-town bootie calls number in the low zeros, I figure what better than to take a lovely lady out for dinner, drinks and good conversation?

I proposed we get together, and she said she'd let me know. Usually that's a bad sign, but it WAS last might. She left work, I went home. Eventually, she hit me up on the Google Chat, confirming wanting to do something.

We bantered back and forth about where to go: Taxim (tapas) or maybe Avec (French). I love Avec because it's good French cuisine served "family" style: everyone sitting at one big table, with their own orders.

I left my house at 7:55pm and told her I'd be there in 22 minutes. She didn't seem impressed with my ability to know times and distances. 21 minutes later, I pull up to her apartment building and stepped outside of the car to call her.

I'm here, but I'm a minute early. "Oh, that's a problem, I need a minute more" she joked. We laughed and she said she'd be right out front. She was a COMPLETE FUCKING KNOCKOUT in a purple dress. I told her to dress casually and she comes dressed in a way I'd expect a woman to dress for Alinea. Thank god for tanned women with great curves AND good legs who can dress. God graces me regularly.

I hold the car door for her and she makes a comment, to which I replied that my mother taught me well. We hit the main thoroughfare to get to the highway, and we're pulling up to Avec not 20 minutes later. Avec is a restaurant that packs itself to the gills. Family-style dining is WISE if you're busy, there is NEVER an empty chair. This makes it hard to give the hostess $20 for a seat when there are none. So I drop my name and we step outside.

THE TEASE
The hostess warns us that the bartender may or may not come outside. Anonymous Blogger and I look over the menu, her noting that she doesn't like heavy reds (generally my favorite) and both of us agreeing against pink wines. She likes Champagne, as do I, but there is neither Champagne nor prosecco on the menu. Drat!

Within 20 minutes, our 2 seats are called so we wander in. Our waiter is Gentile Dave (my nickname for him so I don't forget). I do ask him if he's Jewish Dave, to which he frighteningly/jokingly responds "No, Gentile Dave." Good enough. We're seated in between a party of 4 or 5 guys and a pregnant girl, with a bunch of ladies on the other side of us. Not many gorgeous people in the joint, but everyone's cute and dressed well.

I wore a simple pink linen dress shirt and jeans. Anonymous blogger had tits, I mean, she had a purple dress. Right. We decided to take a stab at a PINK sparkling wine, I believe a Baga Rose Brut. I could be wrong. The waiter wasn't sure if he even had it, so I proceeded to back it up with the best sparkling white on the menu. The price list was CHEAP.

A few minutes later, he arrives with our wine, the rose brut I ordered. He pours for me to check the wine, and I take a whiff and nod as he finishes my pour and then hers. GOOD wine. Perfect for a hot summer day.

Anonymous Blogger and I go over the menu. I'll call her Delecta from now on (it doesn't mean what you think it means). She hasn't been to Avec before, so I make a few recommendations. She wants the Yelp favorite small plate, and we decide on one large plate to share. Gentile Dave takes our order, and we don't see him much from that point on unfortunately. I hate shitty unfriendly unbantering waiters. FAIL.

We imbibe more of our sparkling pink and make GOOD conversation. She's laughing. A lot. I'm laughing. She notes that I talk about myself a lot, something I rarely do if EVER. But I'm comfortable with her, and I don't mind making a fool out of myself if it means she'll laugh again. Contagious, damn it.

THE FOREPLAY
The first small plate comes out: asparagus, hummus-s spread, on crostinis. It's VERY good. I don't eat asparagus often due to my kidney stones, but they didn't affect me at all tonight. Hott. My spooge will taste like asparagus for the next 2 days though.

We eat, in conversation, and continue laughing and drinking our rose sparkling wine.

The the date portion of the night comes: spicy chorizo, wrapped in dates, wrapped in bacon. She had 2 dates, I had 2 dates (hence the 2 dates of the night). I try to talk, but she shushes me and puts her finger up to her mouth. I'm not kidding, I was 80% tempted to throat fuck her then and there. If that wasn't the hottest move I've seen a woman due as a precursor to food fucking, I don't know what is. I think Little Fire Hydrant may have moved a bit to the left.

We eat the chorizo/bacon/date combos slowly. They're AMAZING.

More chat, all over the place. We do cover it all: movies, dating, fucking, food, friends, animals, family, hobbies. I even told her about a real sword fight I had. Fun.

THE FUCKING
We're on our second glasses each of the wine as the foreplay comes to a close. In perfect timing, the final small plate comes with the large plate hitting our table moments later. The small plate is a hand-crafted boudin (sausage) with fava beans, parsley and onions. GOOD, but fell far short of the other plates. But then the orgasm happen, and it was mutual, and it happened over and over: pork shoulder, basted with sausage (boudin) and noodles in its own cast iron tub.

Her eyes rolled up into her head as her eyelids shut. We split it in two and it was so tender that it fell apart, but still so tender it didn't get snagged in my rough teeth. And it was GOOD sex, I tell you: wet, tender, loud, quiet. She swallowed all she could handle and still left a little bit for later.

Sadly, it was passing 10:30, more than 2 hours of fun, and she had responsibilities at home, plus work in the morning. I tabbed us out, surprised at the low 3 figure total. My car was valet parked right in front (I usually as for my car to be placed RIGHT in front, but the valet guys did anyway). The restaurant was still packed as we left, her with her doggie bag, me with a post-orgasmic look on my face.

I drove her home. We continued to chat. Fun was had by all.

THE CUDDLE
We both admitted the lack of good sex in our lives. I've had it more recently than her, but she's ready to pile-drive the next big dick that comes along her way attached to an attractive and intelligent man.

Still, I was THISCLOSE to the throatfucking after she confided in me regarding something about my blog. I'm not kidding, if I had let her out of the car, I'd have bent her over the hood of my car and had my way with her. There will be a LOT of fun-times by myself tonight thinking about THAT story that, alas, I can't share.

So there it is. It wasn't the sex YOU wanted to read about, but it was as good as it can come. And I'm looking forward to doing it again.

Maybe next time we'll hit a dive German bar, get sloppy drunk, and food fuck for 4 hours. Who knows? But I definitely am ready for round-two.

Confusing the educated masses, one word at a time

2009-06-23T00:34:00.002-05:00

Also posted mobile-y, sorry for the spelling and grammar.

After dinner I hit a local pub I generally like, although notsomuch on Mondays. A friend from years past introduced me to his girlfriend, and her and I talked when he left to do some business of sorts.

I knew it was time to leave when this COLLEGE EDUCATED ENGLISH GRADUATED became confused by our conversion:

Me: I guess I have a flair for being histrionic, but I tend to think it's just jealousy over my urge to introduce every sense I notice in my daily journeys.

Her: Histrionic?

Me: Grandiloquent.

Her: Huh?

Me: Declamatory?

Her: I have no idea what you're talking about.

Me: Bombastic?

Her: ...

Me: Over the top? Dramatic with a capital D?

Her: Oh. You should have said dramatic.

Me: But histrionic means MEGA-dramatic.

Her: Then say mega-dramatic.

Me: Where did you get your degree from?

Her: Rutgers.

Me: Didn't they just get a Guinness Book award for having the most people dressed like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?

Her: Yes! I went to that.

Englih Major FAIL. Remembers a day of people dressed like weirdos, en masse, but can't decipher a simple word that ALL English majors should know, and use, daily.

I had to leave after that. My brain hurt.

Breaking a Dating Rule: the server

2009-06-22T23:14:00.003-05:00

Posted from my mobile device. Sorry for spelling and grammar.

I decided to take myself to a new restaurant in the city, this time for seafood. I yelped, I googled, I even Metromixed. None did me good. So I texted a few upper crust friends and got the same reply from 3.

I ventured out to town and arrived at the mostly-empty restaurant. It's late for dinner, so I expected Monday to be slow. The down-side? Rarely fresh seafood.

I dressed it up: Italian tailored shirt (tagged super slim fit), bespoken jeans, new shoes, argyle socks. I am fairly tanned, so I hopped up the ponytail and left the glasses at home. Even though I'm getting zero attention from local women (zero), I'm feeling quite attractive and confident of late.

The hostess was nice, early 20s with a cute outfit. "Are you waiting for someone?" No, dinner for 1. "Sounds good." I notice a very cute server talking to a lady my age by the bar serving station. I probably had a stupid grin on my face displaying my happy mood. Both ladies noticed, and both smiled back. Bonus!

I sit down and the hostess takes my drink order: Campari on the rocks. "No one drinks Campari!" I do. On the rocks. She smiles, shakes her head, and ventures to get my drink as she leaves a freshly printed menu on my table.

I breeze through the menu, and see the seafood options are plenty, many with no pasta or taters. Perfect. The hostess arrives with my drink, letting me know that Maggie will be my server tonight.

I sip my drink and close my menu. My back is towards the bar area so I can focus on the road out front.

"What is that?" I hear from my right. I look up and make contact with the cute server in burgundy hair. The color doesn't work on most gals, but it brings out her brown-green eyes. Ouch.

Campari. It's a drink that takes time to acquire a taste for. "I've heard of it. What does it taste like?" Earwax. "Oh, gross." It's an acquired taste. Give it 5 chances. "Maybe. Do you know what you want?"

Ugh, she's cute. Great mouth, flat-ish tummy, nice shape overall. But I don't date servers who serve me. It's amateurish. But my friends are nagging me to date someone local: not for sex, but so I have a date when I'm out on occasion.

I glance around the room. There's at least one other server, plus the 30-something manager (I assume). So I ask Maggie if she'd mind if I switched to another server.

She frowns, her eyebrows dropping half an inch. Cute. "Why? Do you have a usual server here?" No, but I'd really like to get your phone number, and I hate to break rules.

"Rules?" Your rules or establishment regulations. "Oh, well I don't generally date customers, right. As for the restaurant, I doubt it would be a problem. My manager said you looked cute, too." Too? She blushes.

"I mean when she saw you walk in." That's not answering my question. "If I give you my number, will you accept that as my answer?" She blushes again. Yes, that's acceptable. "And will you call?" We'll see, a lot can happen in an hour. "That's not answering MY question," she says playfully. So I tell her I'll call.

She jots her number on a check-stub and puts it on the table. Through a reflection I can see the manager watching, maybe smiling. "Do you know what you want?"

Yes. Something NOT on the menu. It's slow, ask the chef to whip up something HE likes to cook. Simple is good. Seafood, veggies, no pasta or potatoes. "That's how you stay in shape?" No, that's how I keep the crazy out of my head. She smiles again. "Cute." I blush. Off she goes, giving me ample time to check out her ass. Good. I cock my head a few degrees and notice her manager watching me check her out. She smiles. I blush.

Dinner is fantastic. Maggie is playful, friendly, and professional. The check comes, and I leave her 20%, less than I would if I didn't ask her out. No need to be an idiot here.

She asks me my name, saying she was assuming she'd get it from my card. I paid cash. Sane. Chicago Sane. Just call me Sane. "Ok, Sane. Hope to hear from you soon." My week's busy, I lie, but I will call. Promise.

She touches my arm as she laughs. I finish my wine from dinner, stand up, and smile and wink at the manager on my way out. She returns both.

Maggie showed three signs of interest: she asked for my name, she touched my arm, and she mentioned the future date. All very positive signs of an interested woman.

Will I call? Probably. Do I want anything of her? Not really, but she WAS cute, and maybe it'll shut up my friends until I can fly an out-of-town lover to Chicago for a weekend.

A secret of the elite: staying skinny

2009-06-22T17:10:00.001-05:00

After my intercourse amongst the wealthy and powerful, I realized I forgot to post something I promised a few of you that I'd post: the secret to staying skinny.

Many people believe what they read: what supposed doctors say, what dieticians say, what governments suggest, what TV commercials push. The lies that these conspiratorial masses vomit on us haven't changed in decades, and most people still fall for it.

The lies are the following:
1. Eating fat will make you fat.
2. Exercise will make you skinny.
3. Calories matter.

All 3 of these things is a lie. Not just a little lie, but a big horrible lie. The wealthy and elite have known about it for 200 years. Hollywood has known about it for 100. To this day, most people still believe these lies. They waste their time at health clubs, they waste good flavor for horrible-tasting cardboard, they spend time counting calories and reading boxes. All for a great big lie.

When the FDA created the food pyramid, it was based on a lie. They did it to pander to the wheat and corn industry. When doctors propose counting calories, they do it for a lie. Fat people sell more medical services, more medicines, more long term profits for the medical industry as a whole. Health clubs push the lie, as do diet book writers. But it's a lie, and it's a lie that can be confirmed with very little effort.

There is only one thing that effect body fat: insulin. That's it.

A few people over the years actually discovered this to be true, and attempted to help others to acknowledge it. Dr. Atkins of the famed Atkins Diet was one, but he didn't go far enough, or he went to far. The Atkins Diet works wonders for weight loss and health, but it was sold to consumers in a way that caused boredom. The media (part of the liars and conspiracists) also fought the lower-carb way of living.

Dr. Taubes also wrote recently about it, clarifying the case for reducing one's insulin reaction to what we eat. Insulin in the body comes from a reaction to one thing: eating too much sugar or starch. The baddies are always the same: potatoes, bread, rice, ice cream, pancakes, pasta. These things either ARE sugar, or they convert to sugar quickly. When any of them touch the tongue, the body reacts to the soon-coming sugar rush by creating an insulin rush.

Here's the problem: processed foods confuse the body into creating too much insulin. When the sugar hits the gut, the insulin battles it, but there's too much insulin left. The reaction: we get tired. Know when you hit the 2pm doldrums? That's because you ate too much sugar and starch, fatty. After you overcome the insulin-created tired phase, you get hungry. The body wants you to eat MORE sugar to clear out the insulin. So you eat again, and then you create MORE insulin.

Insulin in the body also creates other side effects, mainly weight gain. When you eat so much crap (sugars and starches) the body stores ugly byproducts of that as body fat. It feels like it can protect against starvation by loading the body up with long term energy.

The medical industry found a wonderful way to sell more services and drugs by lying to people that calories matter. Calories don't. And because people THINK calories matter, they think that working out matters. It doesn't. When I lost 35# of fat (from eating too much sugar and starch for a year), I didn't work out AT ALL.

Many people think that eating 2500 calories in a day means they can work off 1000 calories in a day and only have 1500 calories to count. Wrong. They'll still get fat. Fat people won't get skinny. Working out CAN increase muscle mass, which may stretch out some of the fat to give yout he appearance of being healthy, but the fat will still be there. It won't get burned off as long as your body has sugars and starches from consumption in the blood.

I've seen it before: people thinking they can indulge in a pizza because they worked out hard that day. Sadly, that pizza will still convert to glucose in the body, and still add fat to your ass and belly. I'm not saying you can't eat pizza, or pasta, or bread, but you have to consider the short term effects those foods can and will have on your body's insulin reaction.

There are those lucky people who have bodies that adapt very well to consuming sugars and starches. They're a rare few, and yes you should be jealous of them. For the rest of us, we need to focus on foods that are lower in sugars and starches, especially if we're obese. I'm not saying jump on the Atkins Diet (which fails most people), but seriously focus on the effects of EVERYTHING you eat, and continue to find foods that don't effect you that way.

One way I gauge the effect of certain foods is by monitoring my belly after eating. If it's bloated, I ate too much starch. Your belly doesn't get big from eating too much food, just eating too much starch. Insulin has that effect. I can eat a 2# burger and not get bloated, but if I eat a 1/4# burger with a huge pretzel bun, it will bloat. Insulin-galore.

Note that I do think that working out strenuously is wise. It's heart healthy, and it makes you stronger overall. But the way MOST people work out makes little sense. They spend 30 minutes on a stair machine, working out the same muscles that get bored of the energy expenditure. If you're not pushing your muscles to failure, you're not working out properly.

Doing repetitive exercise IS good for your heart and lungs, but it won't help your fat problem. Neither will doing a few reps that cause your muscles to fail (and grow), but it will cause you to add some muscles to areas where your skin is loose and could use some definition. Exercise doesn't burn fat enough. It makes you hungry, which causes you to eat, and if you eat the wrong foods, you'll get fatter.

It's funny that the wealthy and powerful tend to know this (especially the young gals). It's also funny that Hollywood has ALWAYS know this (they have to stay trim, so it's in their best interest to keep it a secret). I only wish that other people knew this. We'd have fewer diabetics. Health care in the country would PLUMMET in cost (fat people cost the most, because they have the most service needs and drug needs). We'd be more active individuals as a whole, producing more with less energy. Food costs would fall as we wouldn't all be trying for the same unhealthy grains.

Still, there aren't many who believe me. Even if I point them in the direction of actual medical advancement that proves that sugars and starches are BAD and make you fat and lazy, they still want to listen to those who conspire against them. Their doctors, their governments, their diet advisors, their health club trainers. These people ALL have a financial interest in keeping you fat.

And that's the key to living independently of those who want to control you: believe no one. Trust no one who has a financial interest in the product of services you are paying for.

Instead, stick to a diet of healthy fats: cheeses, meats, fish, heavy cream, dollops of oil on everything. Stay away from the unhealthy products: "low fat" anything, "light" anything, "skim" anything. Bundle in GOOD vegetables: the darker the better.

If you want pasta or rice or potatoes, keep them to a fist-size or smaller. Add in more fats to offset the sugar rush. Don't be afraid of red meat or greasy cheeses. Good fat in your diet won't end up on your ass, but the pasta will.

If you're going to work out, don't JUST do repetitive exercises that increase your heart rate. ALSO work out muscles independently to the point of failure: low reps of ridiculously heavy weights. If I can lift a weight more than 5 times, it's too light. I prefer to burn my muscles out doing 3 reps, 3 times. My arms or legs or abs will be broken for a day, but they'll look huge in a week.

Graced by fingers of the hands that control the world

2009-06-22T15:10:00.003-05:00

After a heckuva travel schedule for the past 2 weeks, combined with having NO internet at home thanks to AT&T's failed network (thanks iPhone users) and Sprint deciding that my account no longer exist (I prepaid annually, and they canceled the account, oops), I decided to get back into the swing of the social scene I have ignored for many months.

Mind you this: I prefer to be amongst normal people. While I strive for aristocracy of sorts, I tend to abhor most of the people in the upper echelon of society. So many of them are merely inheritors of vast wealth and power, and few know what to do with it other than spend it on ridiculous social causes that are not bettered by their charity.

Still, the invitations arrive at my doorstep by courier, and I always RSVP my desire to come but my inability to join their ranks due to prior commitments. Basically, I lie.

This past Friday happened to be an event I wanted to attend to: it was held in Chicago, a few of my friends and even a few ex-lovers would be in attendance, and I had my eyes on a certain possible client that I've been trying to meet face-to-face for at least a decade. He would be there, so I sent my first RSVP in the positive back in February.

I recall the invitation clearly (thanks more to my notes than to my actual memory). It arrived neatly wrapped and hand-delivered by a competent courier. The invitation, printed by letterpress on beautiful card stock and placed in a wooden case that I now use as a cigarette holder by my old bedside, looked to cost more than most people spend on their entire wedding invitation set. For one.

The response card was gorgeous, and instead of an address for reply it included a phone number for the very courier who I faced upon receipt of the invitation. He laughed when I answered the door, for a multitude of reasons:

1. He never delivered invitations to ghetto apartments,
2. He had been ignored on other recent invitations to my address,
3. I was wrapped in a bath towel.

I signed the invitation response for myself plus one with only my name and title. When I called the courier, he arrived the same day to retrieve my response card and told me it would be returned to the hostess that same evening. I filed a note for myself to remember the event, with notices blaring at me 2 weeks, 1 week and then 3 days before the event.

Saturday had come, and I was fighting the urge to avoid it. Still, my Berluti Rapiécés Reprisés shoes were freshly polished (with Champagne, if you'd believe it). My cuff-links, a flair long forgotten by the equivalent of the peasant class of men in America (read: all men), were freshly recast on my last trip to the Middle East, showing a prominent glitter and shine with sharp edges made of 22K gold. My favorite dress shirt, a purple filigree patterned linen and cotton blend, was neatly pressed and starched by my launderer. My pants were a basic flat front cotton in deep charcoal grey/black.

My jacket is a masterpiece hand-tailored in the House of Lacroix in Paris, one of three in existence. The other 2 jackets are owned by a famous actor and a more famous musician, so I am in good company that I was one of 3 people chosen to wear the frock of silk and cotton, patterned with hand stitched florals of shiny silver thread. It is a jacket that causes an outrage when I wear it amongst the huddled masses. Considering its cost, I wouldn't deign to wear it should a drunken belligerent spill their swill on it.

I contemplated a vest, but the humidity of Chicago would leave me sweating, something I prefer to resist when amongst the socially graceful. I clipped my own fingernails and presented even my cuticles to others in a neat and manicured fashion. I contemplated hiring a car for the evening, but remembered the great glee of others when they see my disheveled, rusty and bent decade-old vehicle parked among the Porsches and Bentlys as the valet accepts our vehicles and returns with our keys and a location card.

Before I left, I grabbed my signature paperstock: a fine golden linen crafted in Chicago by one of the remaining papercraftsmen who still understands that an inkwell pen draws best on parchment with short fibers and crisp strength. I quickly signed my name along with my title and placed it into my chest pocket, followed by a handkerchief of exquisite design that my grandfather had left me as my only inheritance, on my request.

As I left my small apartment, I realized I was venturing into a world that does bring me joy, but only for short periods of time, and infrequently at that. Like great sex, it is better to resist the urge to ruin an irregular passion through regular mingling of flesh and soul and heart and conversation: intercourse. My closely trimmed beard was perfectly set, my small circle glasses a la John Lennon were on my face, a pair I hadn't worn since the last engagement of this sort over 10 months ago.

I arrived in one of the best kept secret neighborhoods of Chicago: Astor. The home, a 20 room house with more bedrooms than exist in my entire apartment building, was already crowding inside, visible through the windows, but the entry way was mostly empty short of the introduction chieftain who stood at the ready. The valet grabbed my car, shuffled it off down the street, and returned in 4 minutes with my keys and a note of its approximate location. I placed that card into my wallet, knowing I would likely not see the vehicle for more than 24 hours.

At the past event I attended, I left the coterie amongst peers higher in rank and class than I. The 5 other gents invited me to accompany them in their driven vehicle to a private airport, and we flew to a villa in a southern state for 2 days. Bacchus would have been proud, for sure.

Still, with Father's Day coming quickly and with my desire to grant Wisconsin with my presence on Saturday, I knew I would be reunited with my beloved vehicle quicker than the past event. I stepped towards the greeter, handed him my handwritten title and name card, to which he announced to 4 people in the foyer what was written: "Master Sane of Somewhere." One of the 4 people waiting to disrobe from their outerwear had heard the calling, turned and stepped forward to great me. An old friend from earlier days, someone I could call my equal at times, my superior at others, and possibly my inferior today.

"Sane, it is so lovely to see you again. You remember my wife, Bel?" I greeted the lady as one would, with a bow as I raised her hand closer to my shoulder level, looking squarely at her feet. As I rose from the bow, I shook Peter's hand, and he embraced me with a one-armed hug and a kiss on my cheek. A lady and her gentleman, obvious from their meticulous stance, the vague smile on her face as I smiled at her. Peter had been an assistant to a wonderful and long dead client of mine. We've shared many a cigar and aperitif over the years, but he had longed for privacy and retired from his job, happily stable with the investments he had made over his 40 years of working diligently up the company ladder, as well as the social ladder.

We promised to touch base soon, exchanging hand-written contact cards with one another. Another hug with Peter, another hand raise for Bel, and I withdrew into the tea room, due left from the large foyer with 3 floors of round staircase above, casted shadows and glare off the incredible crystal chandelier above.

It is odd attending social engagements without a female's presence, but unfortunately it is even odder for a bachelor to attend with a woman lacking stature. When I've had serious relationships, it would oftentimes end in battle when I refused to have my significant other accompany me to events. "But I'm your girlfriend." True, but you aren't my wife, and you aren't acclimated to society's respects of how one conducts themselves amongst their noble mien, amongst their carriage. "You and your big words." Exactly. How does one stand with a lady and then explain every third word that comes up in conversation? I've done it twice, and both times I promised myself never again.

I don't consider myself a snob, and those who have met me would probably agree. I am a chameleon, though, able to acquire the traits and talents and speaking style of those in front of me. When I am with vagrants in an alley, tossing dice to deprive them of dinner later, I have slur and slang that trounces that of the best navymen. When I am in the presence of royalty and the regal few, I stand with better posture, refrain from possessing a street accent or behavior, and attempt to provide entertainment through my distinct conversation. It's business, not pleasure. It's how I attract the attention of those rare few who don't only understand my career choice, but have need of it.

So I go alone. I contemplated ringing someone last week to accompany me, but after pursing through my list of available women and even unavailable women, I was unable to find even one who would possibly be able to join in the gaiety of the evening. Such troubles any man could want, but this man.

The party was jumping, but there was no movement in body or facial presence. The snobs of the elite don't smile often, except to show disgrace on the lesser folk (in their mind). A few single ladies had complimented me on my shoes or my jacket, knowing exactly who the designer was and the year of commissioning. I entertained two ex-lovers, both with their beaus, joining stories of parties attended internationally in the past.

I met with old clients, who introduced me to new possible clients. I drank amazing Champagne (Louis Roederer Cristal Brut, bottled in 1990) from even more amazing glassware (leaded crystal flute from d'Oro Presente, 1940s-ish). The barkeepers don't accept tips, as the valet didn't either. The tipple arrives on silver platters by men dressed in starched shirts of blue and vests of black. The flutes are thin and long, and I always fear breaking one as they probably cost the party throwers $200 a pop. Still, at night's end, I see the cleanup crew toss flute after chipped flute into the trash. Amazing.

An ex-lover, Angela, presents her beau Chandro, a man of impeccable dress and stature from Switzerland. He is obviously gay, but when we were together, she had a significant other who was openly gay. She slept with me, in private, since her and him never had seen each other naked. It's an acceptable premise when dealing with those who have to at least play "in love" in order to acquire whatever networking they feel they need. Myself, I'm happy to be considered a bachelor-at-large.

I joined Angela and her gentleman towards a room with a quartet of strings, playing a melodious concerto that I had no recollection of. "Telemann," said Angela. Ahh, Georg Phillip Telemann, to be more exacting. "Yes. 18th century man of mystery. Like yourself." Ugh. Angela always heard stories of my work, but never specifics. She dug and pillages and spelunked into my past, but could never retrieve the basic truth of what I did. I was mysterious then, and even more mysterious now, I guess. Her loss, my gain.

We parted ways as Chandro invited me to the cigar room. The cigar room is closed off to cell phones and pagers and PDAs and cameras. We enter, and the smoke-eater has prevented this room from clouding up. There is not a woman in sight, as is the case in most smoking rooms.

The person I was hoping to meet was seated, smoking a Fuente Chateau Maduro, my favorite cigar. As it is, I have that exact cigar in my pocket, and retrieve two for Chandro and myself. Mr. Afterwood, a mutual friend of the hopeful client and myself, sidles up to me as I light my cigar and then Chandro's. We sit with Afterwood at a small French-style metal outdoor table and chat about events. Chandro is exactly what I thought he was: gay and obvious about it. He glances over to another young attractive man, and they make eye contact for a moment. Then he takes his leave of our makeshift group. Afterwood stands and invites the gentleman I told him about, who gets off of the leather lounge chair and takes Chandro's place.

Introductions are made. Hand-written contact cards are exchanged. "I've heard of your success in Shanghai." I raise an eyebrow at that. Few know it was my job, my success. "I keep a close eye and a closer ear to things. Afterwood here tells me you have some interesting skills I may admire." I might. We should meet at a later date. "I'll call for you back home in months to come." I appreciate that and look forward to discussing your needs. With that, he bows his head, puts his cigar out, and leaves the room.

My entire point of attendance and it was over before I knew it. 10 minutes, tops. I assume he will call on me to meet him "at home," which is insider-speak for a city that is definitely NOT his home town. "Coral Gables, I bet," says Afterwood. Ahh. Understood.

We finish our cigar, and I turn to check on Chandro, who is now gone. Along with pretty-gay-boy as well. Poor Angela, such flagrant rupturing of social grace by this one. For those who are paying attention, I lit his cigar second as a kiss-off to the fact that not just is he below me in social rank, but far below me. It is common to lit the cigar of even an employee first. Lighting someone second can be a guffaw, but he took no notice.

I exited the cigar room and retrieved my cell phone. Champagne flowed. I was presented to a few people of political clout, but did not spend much time with them. I met a billionaire who had dropped off the face of the earth just 5 years ago. I was introduced to a lady of old peerage, a marchioness whose husband had died 40 years ago, leaving her the royal name that would end with her passing.

I'm a fan of the peerage: the lineage of princes and princesses, of viscounts and barons and marchesses and dukes. Because of family heritage, I have a title, but I don't own it as my father became the black sheep of our family. He left a family of wealth to come to America with no money of his own, no status, no help. He built his own middle class life, and I did not learn of my own royal heritage until I was 18. That's probably for the best. Still, I cling to my own line of blood on these rare occasions, as it does open doors and alleviate the frustration of finding work through nebulous means. By presenting a title to some, I can take amorphous frustrations and guide them into coherent joys.

As the Champagne flowed, my brain became the cloudy item I was focused on. Others were obviously drunk, some taking their leave before they'd pass out on an 18th century chaise lounge (or worse). I called for the doorman to whistle a cab, and late in the evening (or early in the morning) I stumbled my last goodbyes and goodnights, and ventured to a cab for a $40 cab ride ahead.

The next morning, I discovered my jacket and clothes hung properly, my cat sleeping against my shoes (she loves them), and my note table covered in hand-written cards with various names, numbers and contact information. I filed it all away in order of prominence, with many being filed directly to the trash. So many people met, but so few worth my time.

It's like my real social life amongst friends, people who don't take offense if I hiccup or cough into my hand instead of into my handkerchief. It's good to carry oneself among those who truly do control the world, but it is not my world they control. For me, it is merely an evening enjoying myself among many who could afford a life of passionate means but refuse to because they have no real culture of passion, just a taught culture of fraudulent passions.

Still, it grounds me, remembering that politics and economies are untrue. Democracies are a vulture, picking what is left of the meat of a dead animal, long after the wealthy and powerful have had their way. There is no truth to hope or change in society when one is middle class or worse.

It is because of this society of people that I took my career on the path I did. I could thank them, or I could hate them, but overall I am just glad to have the contacts I do, the conversations I do, and the respect I receive from those who don't really care much for me as a person.

It pays the bills.