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Faking It

February 25, 2018 Leave a comment

Some people take on the preferences of the person or people they want to attract. This is reckless. If the person you wish to attract is not aligned with your ideas of what life should be like, and how it is enjoyed, it is unwise to fake, or pretend that you fit in with their preferred style and activities.

I know a woman in her fifties who is uncomfortable about her body. She encountered a man she with whom she hoped to spend time. She succeeded in having him invite her for a weekend away in a country setting. She accepted eagerly, although she is not a fan of the great outdoors, and usually avoids situations in forest settings or cottage country.

When they arrived in a remote, secluded area, the gentleman set up his camping equipment beside a gently flowing river. The setting was beautiful, but the beauty of the environment was lost on the woman. She did manage, however, to accept the basics of sleeping in a tent in a sleeping bag. Even watching him cook dinner on an open fire was not too difficult for her to endure. The night passed uneventfully, as the zipped-up sleeping bags kept them isolated from each other.

Morning came warm, dry and sunny. The woman crawled painfully out of her insulating sleeping bag as she noticed the gentleman was already gone from his bag. She heard the fire crackling and smelled bacon frying cheerfully in a pan on the open fire. She emerged from the tent well covered by her loose-fitting garment that hid the shape within that was an embarrassment to her.

She did her best to enjoy the bacon and eggs on her tin plate, and the cream free coffee in the tin mug. Their conversation was cordial as the gentleman was patiently aware of the woman’s misgivings. All went well as the meal was enjoyed as much as possible in the surroundings that were very unfamiliar and awkward to the woman. When the meal was completed and utensils were washed by the host in the adjacent flowing river, the woman was overwhelmed by his next suggestion.

He said he was eager to enjoy the cool, clear water, and with barely a pause he stripped down to be completely naked. He stood in the morning sun by the river’s edge and enjoyed the feeling of unfettered freedom. The woman, although somewhat aghast, couldn’t help but notice that he had a very attractive body for a man in his fifties.

He strode into the river carefully on the slippery stones on the bottom and dove into the current. He emerged with his longish hair slicked back and urged emphatically that she should join him. After some rather insistent urging, she humiliated herself by finally stripping down, doing her best to keep hidden by the surrounding foliage. Ashamed as she was of her drooping breasts, heavy thighs, and sagging backside, she dashed from behind a bush into the water.

Unfamiliar as she was with the country life, she stepped on the slippery rocks in the water and fell heavily on her very white, bulbous backside in the shallows. Her flabby breasts swayed loosely as the gentleman hurried carefully to help her up. The water was cold, and her large nipples grew erect as she moved desperately to deeper water. She sank to her knees and immersed herself up to her neck in the flowing current.

The gentleman chose to overlook the woman’s physical imperfections, and implored her to join him in a swim. She dared not move, and the man indulged himself until he was satisfied with the activity. Standing straight, tall, and unashamed, he strode out of the water and lay back on a folding chair to let the sun warm and dry him.

While he relaxed, eyes closed against the brilliant sunshine, the woman crawled over the rocks and out of the water. She moved swiftly behind the foliage and found a towel in the tent. She dried and dressed herself and joined the gentleman in the warming sun. They spoke little, and she was wishing she knew what he was thinking of her.

The weekend was cut short, as the relationship potential was properly gone. The gentleman went about closing down his campsite and stashing it all in the car trunk. On the drive home the pair was almost silent, with few words exchanged. While she berated herself in her mind for having been so hasty, the gentleman did the same to himself.

When he dropped her at her apartment house, he stepped around the car as she exited it. They shook hands, and he said he’d call her. She knew he never would, and she was glad of that.

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    Sight; Sound; Scent; Touch

January 31, 2018 Leave a comment

(SESTINA) A form in which the last word of each verse must be the last word of the first line in the next verse.  Also, all the other lines must end in the same words as the ends of lines in all the verses, in a predetermined sequence.

 

Beauty can be found in a million forms

Throughout nature, in all things seen and heard.

A lazy lagoon, still water, sun’s warmth

On tan sand is inviting to the eye.

Forest surrounds the lagoon, deep and lush,

Filling the day with fragrance and bird songs.

 

Anchor the boat and be still.  Hear the songs

Of the forest dwellers, sung in all forms:

Call of cricket, twitter of finch add warmth

To the day.  Strip down – I’ll avert my eye –

Dive in, swim to shore.  Cool water feels lush

As you pass through it.  Another splash is heard.

 

I, too, dive from the deck.  My splash is heard

In the quiet cove, arresting the songs

For but a moment, ‘till they well up lush

Again in the fragrant air.  Supple forms

Glide through the clear water beneath us.  Warmth

Awaits us on the sandy beach we eye.

 

You slip into shallows and stand.  My eye

Feasts on your glistening flesh, wet and lush

As you dance, dripping, up the beach.  While songs

Of birds and bugs celebrate, they are heard

From every side as you lay down on sand’s warmth

To dry.  The beach displays our footprint forms.

 

While you lay on the soft sand, your shape forms

A fitted nest in the beach.  The sand’s warmth

Comforts you until you open an eye

To watch me approach, dripping, while the lush

Foliage emits bird and insect songs

To envelop us, the only sounds heard.

 

Alone here, now, our breathing can be heard

Rising and falling, while affection forms

Between us.  Oblivious to the songs

Now, we are lost together in the warmth

Of the place and time.  I don’t see the lush

Surroundings now.  Only you fill my eye.

 

Beauty is born in the beholder’s eye,

While in the ear, great beauty can be heard.

Share these moments and life becomes more lush.

                                       ~o~

The Immature Octogenarian

January 29, 2018 Leave a comment

double green

Me at 18 and at 80

Some minds do not age within aging bodies. Some geezers grasp at youthful pursuits with arthritic fingers. While some old guys settle into so called golden years comfortably, others find the pensioner situation abhorrent. I think that most of the men and women that retire comfortably have perhaps always been old in their way. Perhaps they never got up to shenanigans and mischief. What of those who were always naughty and testing the boundaries of behavior? Do they all become sedate before they’re eighty? I think not.

In my mind, I still want to race sports cars as I’ve done in the past. I still want to do stunts on water skis, as I’ve done in the past. I still want to pleasure my wife, as I’ve done in the past. I’d like to have another Doberman pup to raise and walk and teach, as I’ve done in the past. I want my former life, and I’m living my old life – my old man life. It’s a new adventure as have been all the many adventures of my life.

It’s a sad realization for me that attractive women no longer view me as a virile man. I’m just another old guy. I have to intellectually remind myself of that, before I make a fool of myself and flirt with a waitress or a shop girl. I still want to flirt with her, but I have the wisdom to not do it. I imagine what a fool I would appear to be. A woman would have no idea that I was an adventurer and sometimes a dare devil.

My dearest friend is in his mid-seventies. He has been a devoted athlete all his life, and he still races open-wheeled, single seat vintage race cars and is a fervent tennis player in season. He also is a competitive snow boarder during the winter season. He might be still doing it when he’s 80 as well.

Throughout my life I’ve pursued adventure. I’ve enjoyed risks like shooting the rapids in a canoe, handling skittish horses, cross-country skiing in northern forests and riding a motorcycle down country roads. I still have the desire, but don’t have the physical structure to continue. I have no choice but to limit myself to intellectual pursuits, such as this blog.

SUMMER DAYS

January 9, 2018 Leave a comment

Poetry form: (PROSE 1)

[1]

NOT A BEACH DAY

Round stones and dark, loose dirt forced several inches of backslide after each step upward. The struggle was an essential part of the adventure for the pubescent girl, and she laboured up the long abandoned trail almost every day of every summer at Sanctuary Bay. Her thin legs, seeming too long for her tiny torso, carried her upward in a staggering rhythm as she picked spots to place her feet.

[2]

SURRENDER IN THE FOREST

The higher up she struggled, the darker and cooler the forest became. The trees closed in close around the narrow trail, and the thrill began to permeate every cell and sentiment within the child. Her heart pounded in her narrow chest, the blood rushed in her ears, and she almost trembled with ecstasy as she gave herself up to the comforting security of aloneness. Minute sounds and scents were clear and rich to her in this aroused state. She let the familiar feelings fill her, thrill her in that peculiar way that she was certain no other person ever felt. She tingled somewhere down inside. She felt the heat flush in her pale cheeks; felt the burning of her ears.

[3]

SANCTUARY WITHIN

She lay down on the warm, dry carpet of golden brown leaves. It was thick and springy after centuries of accumulated autumns. The rich, pungent fragrance of ancient forest filled her little lungs, enriched her coursing blood. Thirty meters above, the leafy canopy swayed in the high lake breeze. Flashes of sunlight flickered over her slight, prone figure. She closed her eyes and felt the peace of sanctuary descend upon her.

An Unknown Son

November 27, 2017 Leave a comment

Edith was in a bit of an awkward position in our teenaged group of boys and girls. All of us except Edith lived in luxurious center-hall homes with broad lawns and gardens that were mowed and tended by professional gardeners. We were all more or less on the same level in socio-economic terms.

Edith lived in the center of the neighbourhoods in which our group circulated, but lived a very different way of life. Rather than the large brick homes in which the rest of us lived, Edith lived with her family on the main street in a flat above a small appliance store. I don’t know where she went to high school and I never saw her at our school.

We knew her from around the neighbourhood, I suppose. I don’t remember how I met her, but I do remember chatting with her on the street sometimes when we met. She was not like the rest of us, who were living a very desirable style of life. Edith was as pretty as any of the other girls, and had a beautiful figure.

As I think back now, I believe she had a rough life, and I suspect she was violated by her father. It’s just a feeling I have. Edith lived very much within herself, and I would not know what might be going on in her life. I rarely saw her, and the last time I had seen her was 21 months before the phone call.

I answered in the den. Edith announced herself and told me she was calling to tell me that my son was one year old. She said she was not after anything, but she wanted me to go with her to an interview at the Catholic Children’s Aid Society. They wanted to know if there are any inheritable weaknesses in my family line.

The lady at the institution was smiling and courteous. I was a 19 year old kid, Edith was 18, and she had to give up the kid. Before we got to the office she told me that she was sure it was my baby, because I was the only white lover she’d had. I was shocked. She said that her black babies were yellow at birth, but white babies are pink, so she knows it’s mine.

The society would not let me see him, nor support him in any way. I am required to leave it behind for the rest of my life. I argued with myself about that, and realized that as a kid of 19, there was not much I could do against this large, respected organization.

I thought back to the night of conception. I had a beloved British sports car. On hot summer nights, when the rest of my family was at the country house, I was at home alone. On July nights, I liked to stay late in the garage, messing with the car. Tuning the carbs or polishing the finish to a high shine was as much pleasure as driving.

Edith appeared in the open garage doorway. She was out walking in the hot summer night. She chatted and made the best of her body in the way she moved and sat. I told her I was going for a drive, having finished the polishing of the car. She asked to go with me. It was about 1:00am when we climbed into the car and went for a drive.

We went to High Park and left the car to walk around. Before I really thought about it, Edith had me on the grass behind a hedge, and we had sex there, as other strollers passed by on the other side of the hedge.

About 40 years later, a cousin of mine called me. He had apparently seen Edith, and she gave him her number and asked him to give it to me. I think I should have called her, but my wife at the time objected, so I didn’t call. It might be just as well. The authorities denied me any opportunity to know him, so I don’t know him.

I wonder, if I’d have called her, would she tell me that he was a successful person with a fine family, or would she say he needs a kidney, or that he’s a convicted murderer. I’m 80 now, and have much to look back upon. The son I’ll ever know would be about 62 years old now, and I can only hope that life has been interesting and comfortable for him.

CONFESSIONS OF A TRANSITION MAN

November 22, 2017 Leave a comment

I didn’t intend to be a transition man.  In fact, I didn’t even realize I am one until one woman called me that.

“You’re a terrific transition man,” she said.

“What do you mean,” I said. I was getting dressed.  “What’s a transition man?”

“He’s the guy who helps a woman make the transition from her unsatisfactory life to a better existence.  It might be to change jobs, or change homes, but most often it’s to change relationships.  It could be from a marriage, boyfriend, roommate, even lesbian lovers. In view of your skill with your tongue, I’m sure a lesbian would find you satisfying.”

“So your transition has been your split from the truck-loving Ralphy Boy to what? To me?” I said.

“No, definitely not to you,” she said.  “Your destiny is to be the wonderful, gentle, safe bridge from frustrated sedentariness to life and light, and I will be grateful throughout my life for what you’ve done for me.  Thank you forever. Stay safe, be happy, and carry on your good deeds.”

And she left me like that, sprawled on my bed, where we had been lovers for weeks.  I watched her go, her behind and legs disappeared through the door, and I was left to contemplate her words.  I felt slightly hurt, but not much because our agreement had always been that we were not to pursue any long-term relationship.  It would have to be that way, because I was 64 and she was 39.

I thought about our initial contact.  I was doing something on my computer when the ICQ called for my attention. Someone named Judith wanted to say hello, so I typed back ‘hello’.

We conversed from time to time over the next few weeks. We became lovers. Judy went on to a semi-permanent relationship, had kids and built a career.

I went on to be a Transition Man for several other unsatisfied ladies aged from forty to sixty-five.

On one occasion one of the ladies showed up at my office2 years later. She must have done some research to learn where I was working. She’d been a plain, shy spinster about 40 years old, and I had liberated her. She swept into my office looking unbelievably happy and pretty. She wore a long leather coat with fur trim. She took my hands in hers and looked into my eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, and turned on her heel and swept out of the office. I love to imagine what a happy life she moved into. She’s a good person, and deserves the best. She had been a low level office worker in her father’s department until she took me home with her that day.

Symbiotic Sex

November 21, 2017 Leave a comment

We have seen videos of sharks swimming along with a gaggle of smaller fish eagerly eating bits left in the shark’s teeth. The shark keeps its mouth is open so the tooth-pickers can do the job it needs done. It’s symbiotic: the shark gets its teeth cleaned, the smaller fish get fed and not eaten. They are parasites that are welcomed by the ones that need their help.

I believe symbiotic sex happens regularly in human society. Imagine Eileen, an attractive office manager enters a quiet pub at the end of a punishing Friday at work. The whole week was a misery, not only because of the office problems, but Charles had dumped her six weeks ago. She was badly hurt by the breakup. The apartment now felt dark and empty. Charles’ closet was empty, his chess set was gone, and Eileen is painfully lonely and longing to be held closely and gently.

Eileen expects to meet some of her co-workers for an end-of-week winding down. She looked around over the tables and along the bar stools. Her friends were not yet there. As she searched, her eyes met the eyes of a man who sat at the bar. He started to smile but she turned away too quickly to see it. It was one of those situations when there is a strong emotion in an instant, with no logical reason why.

Eileen strode through the busy tables to an unoccupied table near the back of the room. She sat with her back to the wall so she could see the entrance when her friends arrived. The man with the eyes was no longer at the bar, and Eileen shook off the uncomfortable feeling he’d given her. She checked her phone for messages and learned that her friends decided they were too tired to join her and headed home.

Suddenly, the man with the eyes stood at her side, looking down at her. He appeared to be seven feet tall in a crisp, conservative suit.

“May I join you?” he said. The words rolled out smoothly and deeply.

“I-I’m expecting friends,” she lied. He sat down opposite her.

“I’ll leave when they get here. My name is Roland O’Donnell.” He extended his hand. Eileen hesitated, and then put her hand in his. His was warm, dry, and steady; Eileen feared that hers might be limp and damp. Roland made Eileen feel vulnerable.

“Do you work around here?” said Roland.

“Yes. Just around the corner.”

“I work upstairs in this building. Are you hungry? Would you like to get something to eat?” said Roland.

They went together in Roland’s car to a small, obscure Chinese restaurant on a narrow lane off a wide thoroughfare. They shared their sad stories of lonesomeness and heartbreak.

Their meal complete, their stories shared, Roland drove Eileen home. She invited him in for a nightcap.

In the morning, she made breakfast for Roland and herself. They chatted amiably, and when Roland left, they thanked each other for satisfying their mutual needs.