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09. THE LAND OF MILT AND HONEY

May 17, 2017 Leave a comment

Chapter 9

Milton Korn listened while he ate the meal that Mitch, the albino friend/butler prepared and served. It was a good meal of roast beef, roasted potatoes, and bean sprouts. Across the table, Honey Freed talked slowly, with enthusiasm, about her plans and possibilities for the farm property.

While she spoke, Milt half-listened while he watched her face. It was a beautiful face, oval, tanned, and framed by a tumble of blond hair, streaked with darker shades. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue under neatly arched brows. While she spoke, excited by the visions in her head, her face was fully animated. Milt thought she behaved as if she didn’t know she was gorgeous. Of course she had to know, because people, mostly men, had been telling her she was beautiful since she was a little girl.

Watching the woman’s expressive face, Milt decided that she might be the most interesting woman he’d ever met. They knew nothing much about each other, and he knew that was a setup for problems. He decided it was time to talk about something other than the property and its potential.

“I’m 28 years old,” said Milt. It startled Honey, who was pouring out her heartfelt ideas for the farm, including animals.

“Wha… oh, uh?” said Honey.

“I think we have to know each other, before we go into details of the partnership,” said Milt.

“Oh. Well, what do you want to know?” said Honey.

Milton Korn began to tell his own story. His wealthy family in the legal, medical marijuana industry. His uphill battle to just be an artist, win or lose. Finally, his talent and concepts developed to the point where he can earn a very good living by doing the one thing he really wants to do – paint pictures.

Honey Freed unfolded her own story. Her grandfather developed a magical medical treatment that made him tremendously wealthy. He had only meant to do good for society, and surprised himself by succeeding in the rather high goal he’d set for himself. There was no reason for Honey to seek a career, but she did so because she wanted to be a producer/director. She began by studying broadcasting at Seneca, then acquired a job as a weather girl at a local station. She knew it was her looks that got her the job, and she used her brain and energy to rise to the position of producer/director. Her next goal, after acquiring the farm, was to put together a feature film deal, from script to Hollywood premier.

While they talked, they moved to the living room. They sat together, jotting notes about details agreed upon, and sharing a plump joint. The discussion began to get a bit silly as the drug took its effect. They giggled together about things that were not funny, while they passed the joint back and forth between them.

“I will have a couple of horses,” said Honey, “and some goats, some Scottish Highland Longhorn cattle, many dogs…”

“Hang on,” said Milt, drowsily. “I tol’ you I don’ want to aminals… animals.” He laughed.

Honey turned to face Milton. She put her hand on his thigh, and slid it up until it touched his scrotum in his jeans crotch. She leaned in and kissed him with a wide open mouth. Milton’s inhibitions had also been removed by the smoke. He cupped her breast and responded to the kiss. Honey felt the stiffness in his pants, and moved her hand over it.

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04. THE LAND OF MILT AND HONEY

April 28, 2017 Leave a comment

Chapter Four

Goldstein’s was a very popular delicatessen. He arrived a few minutes late and found himself in a line of a dozen people, waiting for tables. A few women were seated in the few chairs available. The rest of the people were either conversing, or were impatiently rocking from foot to foot, looking anxiously for a table that might be vacated. A waiter in a green apron reached through the crowd and asked Milton Korn to follow him.

Others in the waiting area looked at Milton suspiciously, some angrily. In a back corner of the restaurant, the waiter waved Milton toward a table where Honey Freed was sitting. The waiter left them with a pitcher of water, glasses, and menus before he departed.

“I was afraid you might not come,” Honey said. She slid out of the booth to greet Milton with a furtive, cheek-to-cheek semi-kiss. They sat down, facing each other across the table.

“Sorry,” Milton said. “I was waiting in line.”

“I thought you might, so I send Walter to fetch you in.” Walter the waiter approached the table with a carafe of coffee and two mugs. “I thought you’d like to start with coffee. I hope you do,” said Honey.

“Yes, coffee is fine. Thank you, Walter,” Milton said.

“You thank the waiter?” Honey said.

“He brought coffee. He brought me in to your table. I appreciate it,” said Milton.

“So, my interesting artist, where do you get the visions, the subjects that you paint so beautifully,” Honey said.

“Every person is programmed by the flow of their life,” said Milton. “I lived in a town as a privileged person. I didn’t like it. I want to be ‘regular’, and let my work be known ahead of me. My work is important, at least to me, and outside of my work, I am unimportant.”

“Do you live the life you desire?” said Honey.

“Does anyone?” said Milton. “If I had my choice, I’d live in a comfortable farmhouse in the middle of 100 acres. Green fencing around the perimeter, with a solid gate, locked against visitors. I’d have a remote camera and gate opener.

“Are you antisocial?” said Honey.

“People always disappoint me,” said Milton.

“Why are you here, then,” she said.

“I was restless at home. You’re good to look at, and you like my paintings,” Milton said.

“Is that all it takes?” said Honey.

“That’s all it takes to get me to share a table,” he said. “I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

“I grew up on a farm,” she said. “I’ve found a place I’d like to buy, but I just can’t manage the mortgage without a bigger down payment.”

“Where is it,” said Milton.

“It’s about an hour out of town, on a small, dirt, farm road near Vantage Bay,” Honey said. “Do you want to see it?”

“What? Now?” Milton said.

“Why not?” said Honey. “Do you have something that you have to do this afternoon?”

“Okay, let’s go,” said Milton. Honey led him to her car, an Alpha Romeo Spyder.

03. THE LAND OF MILT AND HONEY

April 24, 2017 Leave a comment

Chapter Three

Milton Korn wandered down to the gallery the day after his show was launched with a traditional vernissage. It wasn’t the gallery he wanted to visit, it was Honey Freed. He saw her a half a block past the gallery. She was producing a commercial for a shampoo product, and they were taping the final scene. A woman with gorgeous hair blowing in the wind was to stride happily past a hair salon. The wind was produced by a six-foot tall fan.

Milton stood quietly at the side and watched the busy crew. They pushed the camera around, they hoisted lights and deflectors, and they pulled a large number of heavy cables back and forth. In the midst of the controlled chaos, Honey Freed stood tall and looked beautiful and exciting. She was tall and slender, in tight blue jeans and a white shirt tucked in at her tiny waist.

There were some uniformed police around the location, to control traffic and people. One of them went over to Milton and asked what was his business there. Milton just wanted to watch the crew work, without getting in the way. That’s why he stayed back there. The cop told Milton to move on, which pissed Milton off. He told the cop he was a friend of Honey Freed, the boss of this crew. The cop said he’d ask her.

Milton watched the cop thread his way between boxes and light stands, over cables and sand bags, up to Honey’s side. He spoke to Honey and pointed at Milton. Honey shaded her eyes from the midday sun. When she saw it was Milton, she broke into a broad smile and waved him to come close. He picked his way through the same obstacle course as the cop, who scowled at Milton as he passed, on his way out.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, and put her hand on Milton’s shoulder. He felt the heat. It’s strange, he thought, that a casual connection can generate such physical responses. He believed it was olfactory at work. An unscented fragrance, if that’s possible, that arouses otherwise dormant feelings in two people. Not any two people, but two people whose fragrances attract each other.

Of course, Honey’s physical beauty was certainly magnetic. She was accustomed to men approaching her, dating her, and sometimes proposing to her. Honey was not a lonely woman, but she was not living the life she hoped to live. When Milton felt the warmth of her touch, Honey also felt the heat.

Honey also felt something unique when she studied Milton’s artworks. She sometimes collected art, and was knowledgeable on the subject. She apologized to Milton that she had to work for the next couple of hours, to capture the final shot they needed.

“Can we meet for breakfast one day?” Honey said.

“Tomorrow?” said Milton. “I have nothing scheduled.”

“Tomorrow morning, 8:00am, at Goldstein’s on Walsh Avenue,” she said, decisively.

“See you there,” Milton said, and went home.

(To Be Continued)

The Woman With Her Kite

April 24, 2017 Leave a comment

Sunday morning dawned sunny and warm. I went out to the porch with my coffee and sat to look at the old park across the road. Huge, ancient maple trees dotted the broad, grassy clearing in the centre. Further along, there were the high fences of the tennis courts, and a children’s play area.

I finished my coffee and took the empty mug into the small kitchen. When I went back to my chair on the porch, a woman had appeared in the park. She had a large kite, and she was trying to get it up into the morning breeze. She was too far away for me to see just what she looked like, but I could see that she was very tall and slim. She moved like she was an athlete or a dancer. I went down to the street and across to the park

I sat in the sun on a bench that faced the clear area where the woman was working with her big, red kite. She was getting frustrated. Frankly, so was I, watching her try repeatedly to get the kite to fly. It just flopped along on the grass, while the woman ran across the clearing in vain. I stood up and took a step toward the kite.

“Perhaps I can help,” I said.

“I don’t want no help,” she said, in what was almost a snarl. I stepped back and sat down again. I’m an average sized man, about five-foot-eight, and the woman was considerably taller than I am. I didn’t want to antagonize her. She looked tough and sounded tougher. I watched for a while longer as she helplessly laboured with her kite. After another half hour, she was clearly dejected as she walked over and sat on the other end of the bench.

“Would you like a cold drink, or coffee or something,” I said. She was sweating and breathing heavily. She looked at me with hard eyes. I could see, now that she was close, that she was perhaps in her thirties, and had suffered some hard times. Her face was attractive, although somewhat lined and stern.

“Coffee would be great,” she said, perking up a bit. He voice was softer, but still tough.

“I live just over there,” I said. “Bring your kite. You can sit and relax on the porch while I start up a fresh pot of coffee.” I strode briskly away to my place without looking back. Once on my porch, I glanced back to see that she had rolled up her kite string and was following me, with her large, red kite carried like a warrior’s shield in front of her. I decided to think of her as a warrior

I was setting up the coffee maker when I heard her behind me. She stood in the kitchen doorway and leaned on the door frame.

“Why did you offer to help me?” she said.

“Because you were trying so hard, and failing,” I said. “You were trying to do alone what is really a two person job.”

“Nobody has ever offered to help me before,” she said.

“What, to fly a kite?” I said. “How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” she said. She went back to the porch. I followed soon after, with two mugs of black coffee. We sat together in silence for a while, until she turned to me.

“May I stay with you tonight?” she said. I didn’t expect that, and I was wary of the situation. The woman was a stranger; she was bigger than me, and in much better physical condition.

“Why?” I said.

“You might not believe this,” she said, “but your offer of help was something I’ve almost never heard before.”

“That’s difficult to believe,” I said.

“I’m not often around people like you,” she said. She looked into my eyes. “I want to see what it’s like to be held, gently.”

“You’re bigger than I am,” I said. “Do you think I can give you what you seek?”

She stayed the night. I taught her gentleness, with caresses and kisses in special places. I made us Eggs Benedict in the morning. We kissed goodbye, although I was uncomfortable that a woman had to bend down to kiss me. She left, and I’ve never seen her again. I don’t know her name, and she doesn’t know my name. However, the big, red kite is still here. Perhaps she’ll return for it someday.

Five Genders

April 20, 2017 Leave a comment

Since the 1930s, evolving roles among the various sexual preferences have taken place. I certainly believe that each individual should be free to love, or covet, or even lust after any other individual that attracts them. The idea is, of course, to seduce your intended lover. A partner should never be held by force, but should always be retained by continuous honesty, gentleness, confidence, and warmth. The successful seduction is one in which the desired lover, in response, comes to desire the seducer.

When I was a teenager in the Rock ‘n’ Roll 1950s, you might not know how important a reputation was. Most girls avoided going ‘all the way’, for fear of being thought of as ‘easy’. Boys would press them to let them ‘get lucky’, but none would accept her as exclusive, as in marriage. Boys did not suffer the same fear. It was the opposite with boys; if he ‘got lucky’; he was a hero, a master. Many lies were told.

I can only assume that some young people of today are able to comfortably assimilate the advent of openly gay, lesbian, and transgender society. When I was young, it was rarely spoken of. I think back to one of the guys in our group. Michael was always popular with the girls, he dressed impeccably at all times, and was a terrific dancer.

One night when sharing a room with another of the guys in our group, Mike made a move on his buddy. The word got out, and we never saw Mike again. Don’t know where or how he went. I also remember a cousin, Sheldon, who was much like Mike in how he presented himself. He lived and worked in the artsy part of the city, and never mixed with the rest of the family. The girls said he was a wonderful dancer, too.

The contemporary liberty must be a great relief to many people. People had to live secret lives, always hiding a heavy secret. Pretending to be straight for the sake of appearances must have been very distasteful. I have found my own way to deal with the social changes. I realize what others do in their lives and bedrooms is none of my business, and mine are none of their business. Live and let live.

Lights beneath Bushels

April 17, 2017 Leave a comment

Sometimes, one encounters a person with some extraordinary characteristics. She might have a talent for singing, he might be a gifted artist, but neither will ever be seen nor appreciated. Therefore, I see them as lights, hidden beneath bushels – they go through life unrecognized.

When I was eighteen, I met a girl named Ann Small. The name was a great fit because she was tiny. She was very pretty, about five feet tall and ninety pounds, and very nicely dressed at all times. I met her at a dance in a community centre in a very conservative neighbourhood. She was radiant in the dance floor lights, with a sweeping tumble of rich, blond hair down to her shoulders.

My friends dared me to ask her to dance, so I did. No problem, she rose into my arms. We talked and danced for a while. She was obviously shy, although I don’t understand why, being that she was very pretty in her tight-fitting, knit, periwinkle blue dress. Perhaps it was that she was so slight. It’s all the more surprising, because I later learned that she was two years older than I was.

I was on another date with Ann, I was parked with her in my MG, down by the lake. A police cruiser came by and stopped to annoy us. He towered over us, looking down into the open cockpit. He looked over at her and asked how old she was. She said twenty-one, and that’s how I learned that she was a couple of years older than I was. The cop looked at my license and saw that I was only eighteen, grinned, handed back my license and told me to move on. It was nice of him not to mention my age in front of Ann.

The light beneath a bushel was revealed one night when I took her out for a cruise in my father’s boat. Out in the middle of the harbour, I cut the engines and just floated gently, looking back at the brilliantly lit city skyline. In the glow from the city, I could see other personal boats also floating and enjoying the summer night. Ann was sitting in a wicker chair on the rear deck, sipping lemonade she’d made in the boat’s galley. Suddenly, she stood up and began to sing.

A wonderful, warm voice, somewhat husky, filled the night air. She sang an old Sinatra favourite; “Fly Me to the Moon, and let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars”. It was like magic. Almost as if the orchestration was there. She was a gifted singer. She worked as a receptionist in an automobile showroom. She was a light beneath a bushel that should have been released and revealed.

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.