Archive

Archive for the ‘strangers’ Category

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.

Advertisements

Why I Started Smoking

November 4, 2017 Leave a comment

In the summer, we had a little cave-like hollow in a ravine across the street. Our little hollow was deeply hidden by thick bushes. We tried to smoke cigars of dried oak leaves that we rolled. They were foul, and wouldn’t burn.

One year in shop, I made a bow and bought some arrows. Down in the ravine, in the dry summer grass, Dave and I tried to figure out how to shoot an arrow properly. On one of my shots, I pulled the string as far as I could and let go. I stumbled as I let it fly, and wasn’t sure where it went.

An old garage stood on the edge of the ravine. Some earth had crumbled and slid down from the garage and left a corner jutting out in the air. While looking for my arrow, we wandered around in the grass near the exposed corner. I glanced into the open hole at the bottom of the garage and saw a printed box. I pulled it out.

It was a carton of 20 packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes. I looked up through the opening and saw that the garage was full from wall to wall with thousands of cartons of cigarettes. Smuggled cigarettes, I realized when I noticed that the tax stamp on the top of each pack was American. They were cigarettes from the USA about which Canada customs and excise knew nothing.

We took a few cartons of Luckies and a few cartons of Camels. We hid them in a variety of places, and fetched them, a pack at a time, when we wanted them. We smoked them, and enjoyed them. Non-filtered, strong burley tobacco typical of USA brands of that era had us hooked in no time. I continued to smoke the American brands until I quit. I had been a smoker for 40 years. I haven’t touched tobacco since that day in July, 1992.

I was sitting in my car at a red light in the heart of the city. While waiting, I was enjoying looking at a tall, beautiful woman standing on the corner, waiting for the green light as was I. As I admired her, her hand that I had not seen came up and put a lit cigarette to her lips.

She sucked at it eagerly, and then frenetically flicked her fingers on the smoldering cigarette to drop the ash. She became completely unattractive at that moment. I thought perhaps that I looked like that kind of weak fool. At that moment, the car radio announcer said, “It’s quit smoking week, folks, so let’s do it!”

I had three Camels in the pack in my shirt pocket. I wrapped the pack tightly closed with an elastic band and threw it into my briefcase. I never smoked tobacco again.

The Dealer’s Place

October 31, 2017 Leave a comment

The only interesting thing about the dealer’s place was the people who gathered there most evenings. The time I saw them, they had gathered to enjoy “Star Trek” together. I am uninterested in Star Trek, but I lingered to observe the group. I admit that in my case, I was there to buy some grass from the dealer. The dealer was a very nice, shy guy, about 6 feet tall, 30ish, and considerably overweight. His name was Gregory.

Greg also had a small travel agency, where he struggled to make a living. He didn’t like dealing grass, but the travel agency was barely getting by. I later learned that he’d been orphaned while in his teens, and had been making his way in life as well as he could. His disadvantage was that he was not cool… not smooth. Greg was awkward, and that was probably why his apartment was ground zero for a group of socially awkward people.

The most visible person was David. He was noticeable because he talked a lot, always  with unnecessary urgency. One could almost see him vibrating, so tense was he. I later learned that his mother was severely depressed, and drove him crazy. I’m thinking, he’s about 30, why is he with Mom? He expressed shame that he worked at selling ‘diamond futures’, knowing full well that it’s a worthless product and he’s bilking people. His weirdness kept him from getting a regular job, so telephone hustling is the best he could do.

There were two females, as different from each other as possible. They were not together in any way. Sitting on a black bean-bag chair was a very pretty girl in her 20s. She was dressed in Goth style, all black, some veils, thigh-high boots of black leather and a black shawl. She smoked a joint, did not pass it around, and shrunk back into an obscure corner at the back of the room.

Every person in the room was facing the television set. I sat on a straight chair to the side. On the sofa, Greg joined the two that were already there. Next to Greg was a young woman midget. She appeared to be tiny, seated by large Greg. On her other side was Nick, a rather good looking man in his twenties. He planned to be a rock star singer with a band. He was in the process of auditioning bands. Good luck with that.

Awkward people gathered together, perhaps for safety in numbers. The midget asked me to fetch her a coke. Why me, I thought? I rose and stepped toward the kitchen and turned at the apartment entrance hall and left the apartment.

Microcosm Of Canada-USA Character

October 26, 2017 Leave a comment

I received an incorrect bill from The New Yorker magazine. I telephoned PayPal about it. After a few minutes of terrible, croaking music, a very cheerful young man came on. He asked what I needed, I told him, and he cheerfully asked permission to ask me security questions. We went through the routine, and when he was sure I was me, he asked permission to connect me with The New Yorker.

I wondered how this young man could stay so bright and cheerful, when his job is to deal with the problems of unhappy people. After a few moments, he came on and cheerfully asked permission to connect me with the USA office of The New Yorker.

The New Yorker guy sounded like he was hung over and pissed off that he had to deal with peoples’ problems. “Yah” he said. I told him the problem. “It says you gotta cancel before the sample end.” I reminded him that nobody reads the fine print, and he should cancel the charge and the subscription.

“Yah. It’ll be returned to your account. Depends on how long PayPal takes, it’s got nuthin’ t’do wit’ me.” All the time sounding like he resented me and my problem.

The late Robin Williams once said, “Canada is like a church group upstairs from a Crack House.” The contrasting behavior of the Canadian person and the USA person is typical.

The Guard Rabbit Caper

October 13, 2017 Leave a comment

A simple apartment above a dry-cleaning & laundry shop was home to several young people that appeared to be involved in the marijuana trade. The shop downstairs stood on a corner where a rich residential street met a wide, busy, commercial street.

The entrance to the flat was a long wooden staircase that went up from a small parking area at the back of the dry-cleaner. I was only there a few times, but I was an old friend of one of the tenants in the flat so I was one of a few trusted visitors.

On the afternoon of the guard rabbit caper, I parked my car at the back of the building and mounted the long staircase. At the top step, I was admitted by a beautiful young woman wearing a sheet. She was taller than I am, and slender. I stepped into the room, which was a kitchen, but was never used as such. On this occasion, it was cramped for space because there were several large, black garbage bags there, each filled to capacity with loose marijuana.

I followed the tall girl in the sheet into the living room. Another girl and two guys were slouched on a couch or squatting on large pillows on the floor. All were staring silently at flames that were dancing in a fireplace at the end of the room. Windows that faced the busy commercial street were covered by a large Canadian flag, and a psychedelic poster from concerts at the Fillmore in San Francisco.

My friend came in from another room, carrying a cage with a black and white rabbit in it. I asked him what that was about. It seems there had been a party a few days before, and some stoned people left the rabbit behind when they departed. They claimed it would keep watch, and be a reliable guard rabbit. My friend had no interest in that protection, and was pondering what to do with the fluffy rodent.

I suggested we take it down to Riverdale Zoo. It’s not there anymore, but it was THE zoo for the city at that time. Late in the dark of night, we took the caged animal down to my car, and we drove to the zoo. I parked on a residential street near the zoo entrance. We took the cage and walked quietly toward the entrance gates, feeling nervous under the ancient street lights.

Closer to the zoo grounds, there was less light. We crept up to the gate and peered in, just as a guard on patrol walked by between us and the rabbit warren. We hadn’t figured on guards in a closed zoo in an urban location. We took the rabbit and went back to the car.

I drove to a suburban area, where there is a natural, treed ravine. We released the guard rabbit into the forest, and hoped he’d learn the ropes in time to survive.

THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – part 12 of 30

September 7, 2017 Leave a comment

“So I am to be your other lover, to balance your relationship with her,” I said.  I could have slapped myself.  It was a cruel, stupid thing to say and I knew it.  Who was I to judge Attila Nagy?  He had no obligation to me.  We had just met, and I would be lucky to have him just touch me, let alone ravish me.

The hurt was etched on his face.  He looked squarely into my eyes, and I knew in an instant that I had been mistaken.  He had no desire to use me as a pawn in any game he might be playing with another lover.  I could see clearly that he wanted me for no reason other than his inner animal felt desire for me.

“I’m sorry, Attila,” I said.  I went to him and put my arms around his thick, strong neck and his fragrance made my blood rush in my veins.  I pulled his face down to mine and kissed him full on the mouth.  His tongue darted into my mouth and his hands ran down my back and cupped my ass.  I became wobbly on my legs, it had been so long since I’d felt the caress of a man’s hands, and this man was extraordinary.  He was strong and handsome, young and sensitive, and best of all, he might want to be my lover.

“Am I forgiven?” I said.  I stepped back from his arms.

“As long as you are clear about my intentions,” he said.

“I promised you goulash and bread,” I reminded him.  “Please make yourself comfortable while I change.

I sent him to the living room where he sat while I went to the kitchen.  I took the pot of goulash I’d made on Wednesday from the refrigerator and put it on the stove to warm and went upstairs to my room where I chose very tight jeans and a very loose white jersey top, and of course, no brassier.  My legs were quite long for my height, and my boobs were big and beautiful and I knew it.

When I returned to the living room, Attila jumped to his feet and just stared at me.  He had turned my CD player on, and a Charles Aznavour song was playing softly.

“You really must let me draw you,” he said.  “And paint you and sculpt you.  You really are remarkable to my eye.”

THE SZENTENDRE TRAIN – part 8 of 30

August 30, 2017 Leave a comment

“I wasn’t… it’s nothing, really,” I stammered like an idiot.  “I’m Piroska Szabo.  I admit I have seen you before.  Your red jacket… I noticed you are a student at the University of Fine Arts, but… you are not wearing your red school jacket.”

“Yes,” he smiled.  “I have something special to do this evening.  I know that you are an assistant professor of anatomy at Semmelweis.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“My older brother is in your class.  That’s where I first saw you.  I was outside you classroom to meet him before a football game and I saw you,” he said.  His eyes were glued to mine.  There was an easy, comfortable way he had of simply looking into my eyes while he spoke to me.  He sat beside me and the wonderful fragrance of Guerlain Vetiver reached my nose and sent a renewed rush of desire through me.

“Your brother,” I said, forcing myself to appear indifferent.  “Yes, I see it now, the resemblance.  Your brother is Sandor Nagy.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“How is it that Sandor doesn’t commute with you to Szentendre?”

“He stays with our parents in Budapest,” he said.  “I prefer the quiet of Szentendre, where I have my studio.”

“How wonderful,” I said, sincerely impressed.  “I have a small studio also, behind my house.”

“I’m not surprised that we have so many things in common,” he said.  “We like our weekends in Szentendre, we are forced to spend our weeknights in Budapest, we both have studios in which to do our true work.”

“What do you mean, you’re ‘not surprised’ that we have things in common?” I said.  “And what do you mean, ‘to do our true work?”

The train had begun to move, and we were rolling out of the station into the descending darkness.  I did not stare blindly out the window this time.  I was more and more intrigued by this young man, and was gradually letting myself desire him.  Sitting and talking, hearing his mellow voice while his fragrance engulfed me, I began to convince myself that the age difference should be eradicated.  If he found me attractive… if by some miracle he found me desirable, I would plunge headlong into any and every sexual adventure I could imagine.

“I’m not surprised because some kind of fate, or scentless fragrance, or the miraculous features of your face, or the elegant way you move made me notice you,” he said.  “The first time I noticed you on the platform in Szentendre I was compelled to watch you whenever I could.”

“That is curious to me,” I said, “but first I’d like to know what you meant by ‘our true work?”

“I don’t know you, I admit,” he said, “but I’m very sensitive to people, and I can tell that you are brilliant in your profession, a leader in your field, but it is not where your passion lies.”  I held my breath for a moment, wondering what he meant by passion, and where he thought it lay.