Archive for the ‘cuckold’ Category

Destruction By Complaint

August 17, 2017 Leave a comment

It’s a gorgeous day. As we roll along, the highway is lined on both sides with curtains of colour.Late September in Canada, and the raw forests of maple, poplar, and birch blast one’s eyes with a spectacular colours; elegant gold, loud yellow, and the dominant colour, blazing red.

We’re going to our country place for a weekend of riding our horses and playing in our swimming pool. Out of nowhere she says,

“I bet the sump pump has died. You’ll have to go down to the cellar to see if there’s flood damage.”

I have to tell you that’s ridiculous, we know the sump pump is in great shape. She had to inject a bummer into a splendid moment. It’s a need she has, to keep the atmosphere forever tenuous.

As we drove up the dirt road to our farmhouse, she continued her thoughts aloud.

“The roof might have to be replaced before winter,” she says, whining. I clenched my teeth and said nothing, although I knew that the nearly new metal roof was perfect.

“Don’t forget,” she said, “you have a dentist appointment on Wednesday.” I stifled the urge to tell her how stupid it was to magnify unpleasantness with unnecessary comments.

As you can imagine, such a woman is also frigid, and in her case, totally ignorant of the niceties of making love. A mature woman, she was awkward as a first time teen. I was shocked the first time. I wondered why she was so bland, when in all other ways she was bright and energetic – which attracted me.

We pulled into the broad driveway at last.

“You have to put a new lock on the front door,” she said, for no reason at all. At that moment, I asked myself a question I’d been avoiding. What am I doing here? She turned the happy, colourful weekend into a dreaded period of relentless whining.

She got out of the car and walked up the path to the front door. I got out from behind the wheel and walked over to the old Jeep I kept at the country place. She went into the farmhouse and I pulled out of the driveway.

I was thinking of how she had ground the lovely weekend into shit with her complaints. I was thinking of her overall coldness, and generally, nasty disposition. And I thought of the girl at the bank, who asked me out for coffee. I thought about the girl at the donut shop, who told me the time she got off work and asked me to meet her.

Fuck this, I thought. My life is being ground into crap by this woman who is supposed to love and care for me. To hell with her.

I returned to the city and drove to the donut shop. She was to be off work at nine. I met her outside the shop and took her to my place. We showered; we made love… good love, and listened to music while we cooked up a late snack. She asked if I was worried that his wife would walk in. I told her I hoped she would, because I’ve had it.


Locked Eyes with a Stranger

June 3, 2017 Leave a comment

I’m sure every mature person has experienced it. You’re walking up a busy downtown street after work. You’re satisfied with how your day went, you’re in no hurry to get home, so you’re enjoying a summer day in the city, as the sun gravitates to the west. A black person (male or female, depending on your preference) comes around the corner in front of you.

Your eyes lock, and in less than a second, the minds of both people scan through a list of familiar analyses. “That’s interesting; good looking; kind of sexy; nice body; moves well; I would have sex with that person.” You pass shoulder to shoulder in silence. The moment has passed.

A man walks into a large store. He seeks some parts for plumbing repairs, but can’t find the plumbing department. He sees a woman, and on her back she’s wearing the store’s logo, so she might help. He touches her shoulder.

“Excuse me,” he says. She turns and their eyes lock. In that instant, flames seemed to fill both chests. It’s amazing, immediate passion for both parties. The woman tries to turn her eyes away from his eyes, but they spring back for a second look. At the same time, the man is trying to ignore the sexual impulse and speak. At last the woman looks away, and the man asks her for directions to plumbing supplies.

The woman is tongue tied, and can barely say “Come.” She moves past him and leaves her department to escort him to plumbing supplies. Following her, he sees that her shape and movements are as enticing as her face and eyes.

She is wondering, “what am I feeling? I could get into trouble with this man”. He is wondering, “this is incredible. Should I make a move on her? I think she feels the same. What if it’s only me, and she just sees me as another schmuck customer”.

She arrives at the plumbing department, waves her hand in the direction of the aisle and takes off back to her department. He gets his plumbing parts and leaves the store without seeing that woman again. He never forgets her, and wonders if she also remembers the moment. She does, and both individuals regret that they let the magic moment pass.

A woman is standing at the vegetable display in a large supermarket. She is opening the small plastic bag that the store makes available in fruit and vegetable departments. From behind her, a man’s voice says, “how does one open these things?” The woman turns, holding her own bag, to demonstrate. She sees his face, their eyes lock, and in an instant, each is aware that they would accept the other as a lover. But not in a vegetable department of a supermarket.

She licks her fingertips and deftly slides the thin plastic bag open. The man copies her actions and opens his bag. He wants to carry on with her, but fears rejection. He goes to the fruit department, and doesn’t see the woman again.

The Top Whores

April 19, 2017 4 comments

We’ll list eight presumptive whores. The eighth example will be the least whorish. We’ll work our way down to the number one whore in our survey.

  1. Jacqueline Siegel is no spring chicken at 46, but she happily married David Siegel, who is 77. In this case of least whorish of the eight whores might have real feelings for her husband. He’s a nice looking man, and a billionaire. Would she have married him if he was of average worth? It’s possible in the Siegel’s case.
  1. Joan Dangerfield is a gorgeous woman of 59, not a youngster, to be sure. However, she gladly married the fine looking gentleman of 95, Kirk Kerkorian. Might she have married him if he did not own sixteen billion dollars?
  1. Kristy Hinze is like a ray of sunshine. She’s married to a Silicon Valley billionaire named Jim Clark. Does she love only Jim, or Jim plus his billions?
  1. Tamiko Bolton is a yoga instructor, age of 40. She has a lovely Asian look to her, and is married to a man named George Soros. You have probably heard of him. He’s 82 years old, and possesses several billion dollars. Love and money is a rich mix.
  1. Wendi Deng was a Chinese American successful businessperson when she married Rupert Murdoch. She was 48, he was 87. She didn’t need the money, so why was she a whore anyway?
  1. Kristen Georgi, a 23 year old manicurist married morbidly obese oil billionaire Joe Hardy. He was 85, and he married another youngster not long after this one walked. Are they whores, or do they just like old, fat men?
  1. Ricki Schenk withholds her age, although one can see she’s no youngster. All the same, she’s marrying Karl Wlaschek. Karl is 94, and I’m sure Ricki is much younger than half that age. It seems whorish to me.
  1. Milania Trump is the number one whore. She’s married to one of the shittiest people on earth, and her regret is etched on her lovely face, in repose. He’s not even as rich as he claims, but is getting richer every day. It’s YOUR money he’s stealing, Americans!

I Received Two Proposals

April 11, 2017 1 comment

When I was a sixty-five-year-old retired man, two very diverse women asked me for marriage. They were unlikely marriage prospects for me. Both were successful business people, and both were very pretty and slender. I was grateful that I would never have to choose between the two desirable, mature women.

The more physically attractive woman was tall for a female, about 5 feet 7 inches. She kept herself lean and trim by frequent workouts at her health club. Her face and hair are strikingly similar to that of Demi Moore. Her work is managing her late father’s business. They manufacture and distribute unique fridge magnets, jacket patches, and various other small items in large quantities. She’s a Jewish suburban Mom with two teenage children, the girl a bit older than the boy.

The other marriage proposal came from a single Mom with two teenage children. The boy is older than the girl is, in this case. The woman is shorter and a touch heavier than the other woman, and attractive in the Irish way. She was your typical Irish lass, with red hair and green eyes. She created a company that does follow-up calls for car dealers. After a vehicle has been in for service and returned, her people make courtesy calls to the customer, checking that the service was properly done and the customer was satisfied.

I was sixty-five, as I’ve said. The Jewish suburban woman was forty-five. The Irish woman was forty. They were 20 and 25 years younger than I was. I was not wealthy. I was sufficiently good looking that some women found me attractive. Each woman approached me on line, I did not approach them first.

Of course I asked each why they responded to a man so much older. Both responses were similar: they were seeking a gentle, knowledgeable lover. Apparently, they were not attracting thoughtful men, but were approached by immature boys. One woman said that she had a boyfriend who was more affectionate to his pickup truck than to her.

I’m 80 now, and grateful that I wasn’t tempted into a marriage with those splendid young women. They would be 55 and 60 now, and an 80 year old husband would be no fun. I have the most wonderful wife now. She is just nine years younger than I am, and she is the most fabulous woman I’ve ever known. I love her deeply, as she does for me.

I’ve Ruined Lives

April 4, 2017 Leave a comment

I don’t really believe I’ve ruined lives, although I’ve been accused of it. I do admit that I am a person who makes atypical choices, but I never suggested that anybody do as I do. More than anything else, I believe in individual liberty. I recall a tall, good-looking copywriter with whom I worked. I knew he had psychological weaknesses, because his car was a canary yellow Corvette coupe. There’s nothing wrong with driving a Corvette, if that’s the image you want to project, but there is no excuse for a canary yellow car.

I was separated from my wife, and was staying with a lovely college girl from the west coast. She shared her loft with a roommate, who was also lovely. She was from another city, and had been adopted as an infant, by a wealthy family. One day after work, Manny wanted to come with me, to meet my girlfriend and her roommate. Manny was married to a lovely young woman who also was from a wealthy family. He just wanted to look, so he said.

When Manny asked me if he should try to date Casey, the roommate, I told him it was none of my business. We’re all free to do as we choose. He decided to take up with Casey, and he soon split from his wife. Obviously, he was hasty, and the relationship with Casey also wilted. So Manny was out, on his own. No lovely, wealthy wife who’d always taken good care of him. No sexy girlfriend with an apartment. This had to be somebody’s fault, so he stuck it on me, for ruining his life. See what I mean? It wasn’t my responsibility to make his decisions for him.

Eddy was somewhat the same as Manny. He was a good, entertaining friend. You know, those short guys who build up their bodies to compensate. I always knew that Eddy was hanging around with me because I had the sports car and the speedboat and that sort of life, and he didn’t. Now, I never did anything bad to Eddy, I just became friends with other people where Eddy didn’t fit in. I was a writer with television credits and he was a booze salesman. I wasn’t available for Eddy to enjoy my stuff for a while, and in that way, ruined his life.

Ella was a pretty, blue-eyed blonde that applied to me for a job. She didn’t get the job because her qualifications weren’t adequate. I did date her, however. For about six months, we enjoyed dinners together, and weekend drives in the country, and some evenings at home. There was never any talk of it being more than a dating situation. She had her own apartment, about a block away. When I stopped dating her, she said, “You gave me a lot, but you took a lot from me, too.” I took nothing from her, ever. But I somehow ruined her young life.

I’m Up To Here With Sociopaths

March 20, 2017 Leave a comment

I’ve had an epiphany. I know what makes life so inconvenient or worse for most of us. It’s all those fucking sociopaths. I take as my definition of a sociopath as a person who lacks any perception of what his or her actions do to other people. It is obvious to me that they are the source of our troubles.

You have a neighbour who plays bagpipe music loudly every night ‘til eleven o’clock. You explain how upsetting it is and ask if it could be not so loud and not so late. He responds that what he’s doing is not illegal. You point out that although he is allowed to do it, doesn’t mean he should do it. It disturbs sleep, makes the dog throw up, and invades all the surrounding homes with a sound that only he likes. A sociopath reminds you that he’s allowed to and walks away.

In the above case, should you live in Canada, you can apply “The Nuisance Law”. If you read it, you will see that there ARE restrictions beyond what a local bylaw might say.


You’re in love with your boyfriend and are happily sitting with him on a blanket on a beach. Nearby there’s a few well-built and tanned young women. They are enjoying cold beer in the hot sun. Your sociopath boyfriend gets up, walks over to them in their bikinis, and asks if he could have a beer. They give him an icy bottle from their cooler and he drinks it with them, chatting, joking and flirting. Afterwards, he saunters back to your blanket. He hasn’t a thought of what it might mean to you that he did that. Drop him as soon as possible.

The terrifying thing is that sociopaths can rise in the ranks of society and business. It is obvious that sociopaths bring about the economic disasters that abound in recent years. They feel nothing about the damage they do to innocent shareholders or the pensions of working people. They go by the rule that if they are able to do it they have a right to do it. Sociopaths are the scourge of society, and recently I feel they number more than fifty percent of society.

I still feel sick when I think of a piece of closed circuit street footage I saw some years ago. A couple of black kids are fooling around with a handgun, in the open, on a city street. In front of them is a park bench with its back to them and an old lady is seated on the bench, also with her back to them. The kid with the gun, he appeared to be about twelve to fourteen, walked up behind the old lady close enough to touch her, pointed the gun at the back of her head and blew her brains out.

His response to the result of his actions was exuberance. He squealed with delight and did a little dance, waving the gun around. He must be a psychopath. He had not one moment’s thought of what he might have done to dozens of other people who loved her. She might have been awaiting a bus to take her to see her first grandchild. To the sociopath, it doesn’t matter. If you are associating with one and you know it, move away. You think you’re exempt because of your relationship. You’re not. You will be hurt when your turn comes.

The Black Lion – act 3

June 28, 2015 Leave a comment

It seems strange even to me that my favourite time is when I’m at home alone in my tidy little apartment making preparations. My legitimate press certification enables me to search in some exclusive websites that civilians can’t access. On this occasion, I learned of a man who had a wife and a mistress. He beat the wife and treated the mistress like a princess so I did some research. He was a bigshot music producer that usually worked on movie soundtracks.

I dug into Arturo Miodotti’s personal life. He lived with his beaten wife on a palm tree shaded street in Beverley Hills. The home on Malibu Beach is enjoyed by his mistress. She’s a married airline pilot who’s enjoying two lives. She has the luxury of Miodotti’s Malibu Beach House at one end of her travels and a lovely town house on City Island in New York at the other end. That home was shared with her husband of five years, Chad Thornton, a financial journalist.

I’ve always wondered why, when a man or a woman is a cuckold he or she goes after the other man or woman. That seems weird to me, because the other person, the lover, has made no covenant with the cuckold. The spouse or mate or significant other might have made a vow of exclusivity but the external lover made no such agreement. In fact, the lover might be unaware of the other’s commitment. Even if he or she is aware that the other party is in a committed relationship, it shouldn’t have any power over the lover’s actions. If a wife wants him, if a husband wants her and it’s reciprocal, why not?

I once had a boyfriend who believed it was right for a man or woman to simply enjoy sex anywhere, anytime with anyone. This dork couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t marry him.

The best information for me in Arturo Miodotti’s personal life is that he takes walks on the beach alone, from sunset until darkness falls. I descended to the water’s edge to wait in the darkness. I saw him in the glow from the windows of surrounding homes when he was returning to his own place. He was unable to see me in my black lion costume. I wanted to be seen as a man so my boobs were strapped down. I’m almost six feet tall, so my size would be believable as male. With the hood over my head the black wool shag hung like a male lion’s mane.

I followed silently and when he ascended the stairs to the entrance I bounded up behind him. As he slid the glass doors open he heard me and turned. When he saw me, like a black lion reared up to strike, he shrieked and turned to run inside. I jammed the Taser into his lower back. He straightened up, got rigid and fell on his face just inside the door, vibrating like a tuning fork. I closed and locked the door and dragged Arturo into a bedroom. I assumed it was his because the walls and ceiling were all mirrored. I took off my hood and stripped all the clothes off of him. When he was stark naked I tied his hands to the headboard and his feet to the footboard. He was beginning to stir so I drew a chair up beside the bed and watched him wake up.

“Who are you,” he croaked. He tried to rise and discovered his bindings. Then he discovered he was stark naked. He looked at me. “What’s going on?” he said.

“Do you hit your wife?” I said.

“What’s it to you?” he said, and tugged at his bindings. “I’ll get you for this. I recognize you now. I’ve seen you on that crappy news show.”

“Well, you’re quite a dramatist,” I said. “What might it mean that I don’t care if you know who I am, but I take care that no one else knows who I am?” He thought about that for a moment. He began to thrash and tug to break his bonds.

“It means you’re going to kill me,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. I brandished the Black Lion branding iron before him. “But first…”

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