Pining for Spooning

They stumbled into his room, carefully avoiding contact. each was unsure of the other, and at this stage of inebriation, the slightest unintentional brush of skin on skin would be akin to striking a match on a powder keg. He pulled his shirt off over his head, managing the manuever with, if not sexy suavity, at least without tangling it around his neck. He scratched his flat stomach and yawned like a tranquilized bear.
"There're pajama bottoms, uh, if you like," he offered, waving an unsteady hand at the large stainless steel shelf which served as his bureau.
"Oh, I would like," she said, sounding genuinely pleased.
"Um, flannel, or scrubs." He held out two pair, one thick and checkered, the other sheer, turquiose, medical.
"I want the scrubs."
He handed them to her. He'd had them for years -- taken from the hospital where he was born, the pair his father had worn in the delivery room -- and nodded approvingly at her judgement; they were indeed comfortable. He slurred an attempted joke about how she was unlike the women in the song by TLC, who, as was common knowledge, didn't want no scrubs, but was well past the point of making it funny, or, indeed, even comprehensible. Though, in his defense, the joke wouldn't have worked sober, either.
He turned around to offer her privacy while she changed -- this was something he often read of gentlemen doing in books, and was secretly thrilled at every chance to do so in real life.
After a few moments had passed, he turned, sure she was decent, and saw her bending to gather her clothes from the floor. The scrubs, large on him and thus clownishly oversized on her, had slid down somewhat over her small, taut behind, revealing a tantalizing black thong. The undergarment was at once provocative and functional -- a perfect balance of business and pleasure. He tore his eyes away and gestured to the bed.
"Yeah, I hope you don't mind that we share . . .." he let the statement trail off.
"No, no problem. But I'm just going to go to bed."
"Oh, of course. No funny business. I'm about to pass out."
They lay together under the covers. Her thoughts were a mystery to him. If she had spoken for more than five minutes to a non-blood-related male at any time in her life, his thoughts were not so much of a mystery to her.
Perhaps.
he looked at her as she lay there, on her side, her back to him, and thought how appealing she was: Strong, independent, yet fragile, as are we all. Just enough crazy mixed in with her solid, intelligent worldview to make her irresistible. She was like a bright summer dress that was the slightest bit frayed and mud-splattered at the hem.
He thought of how good she smelled -- of perfume and floral, girly shampoo, and the slightest peppery, bold hint of sweat.
He thought of how she was the first girl to share this bed, even if it was in a strictly platonic sense. He hoped there would be others to occupy it as well, sometime soon.
He thought of edging closer to her, pushing his face into her auburn hair, kissing the downy nape of her neck. He imagined curling his arms around her, letting his hands roam across her body -- the left up to her pert breasts, the right down between her legs, fingers stroking with gentle insistence at the soft folds barely concealed by her sheer panties, while he thrust his hard cock against her ass.
"My feet are cold," she said, appropos of nothing. Of course, anything uttered between two people sharing a bed needn't be neatly segued into; this is the advantage of pillow talk. It is free-form.
He inched a leg out, his calf connecting with her soles. They were indeed on the chilly side. He briefly considered curling up at the foot of the bed like a cat and warming them during the night.
"No, they're fine. Fine." He gave them a reassuring brush and then retreated to a respectable distance.
She giggled.
At this point he realized what he wanted more than anything, and it unnerved him.
He just wanted to cuddle.
The day's exertions and night's excesses had left him more or less a spent force. To approach the matter of sex from a pragmatist's lofty height, he was sorely out of practice and apt to be reach the crescndo well ahead of the rest of the orchestra. Also, he was far to weary to perform at anything other than an amatuer level.
But beyond the practicalities, he found that what he really desired was not aggressive intercourse, but simply soft and silent snuggling. He wanted to press his bare chest against her back, wrap his arms around her until their hands entwined, and match their slow breathing until they drifted off to sleep.
Christ, he thought, have I been so long without affectionate contact that I am reduced to fantasizing about cuddling?
He sighed and rolled onto his back.
"You know I will spread the most perverted rumors about you to the fellas at work, right?"
"That's fine," she replied drowsily, "I was planning on gossiping to the ladies about how small your dick is."
They were silent for a spell.
"It appears the state of detante holds strong, then," he reflected.
"Mmm. Sweet dreams."


And so there you are, dear readers. Further evidence of how I am woefully inept at taking advantage of drunk chicks.

I recently enjoyed a lovely evening out with a spritey female co-worker. I made the mistake of attempting, in my miasma of machismo, to match her drink for drink. A poor strategy I found, to my chagrin. The lady has the stamina of Marion Ravenwood from Raiders. She did not drink any sherpas under the table during the evening's festivities, this may be attributed to there not actually being any sherpas present.
I was tempted, upon waking the morning after to her evacuation claxon of an phone alarm, to blame my condition on my advanced age. But I gave myself a sharp mental reprimand. I despise individual of my -- or, to make a generalization about my readership, such as it is, our -- age bracket, moaning about being over-the-hill.
"Oh, I can't party like I used to in college."
"Man, I wish I could run like I did at 18."
Belay that talk!
We are in the prime of our lives. I am the most physically fit I have ever been! Tragically ironic that I have no willing nubile bodies to demonstrate my stamina to . . . but nevertheless!
Our generation's deep-rooted problems are many and varied, but I believe they are defined by two factors. These causes bookend our crippled psyche. The first is a prolonged childhood. What with parental guidance, a letigious society, a struggling economy, and a hypnotizing plethora of electronic nonsense to distract us and hem us in, we are stunted into a seemingly endless pre-teen mindset, never growing up. Ha! I was just about to begin my next sentence with "Adults," meaning our parents and grandparents. That is how deep this goes. We're adults now! Our parents would urge us to get out, do things, be creative. All well and good. But the problem of our advanced, post-modern society is that everything has already been done, several times. Creativity becomes exponentially harder as the decades progress. All the ideas get used up.
There is less structure, fewer pivotal moments now, I feel. There is no bell that rings when adulthood begins, we merely shuffle bleary-eyed into it.
Simultaneously we are offered a constant stylized view of what our lives should be, through sitcoms and films, music, and advertising. We are given glimpses of an ideal life in the pursuit of which we are hamstrung by those aforementioned limitations.
Like a crowd of ironic, self-absored Tantaluses . . . Tantali? Has anyone ever pluralized his name before? We reached for the fruit dangling above us only to see it drawn away, and try and drink the water we are nearly drowning in, and have it recede beyond our grasp.
Limbo I calls it!

Whew.
I ain't had a rant in a while. It feels gewd.

I might have wasted my time, however, on frivolous rants about youth culture (look at me, complaining about how young people gripe like the elderly before launching into a tirade against the young like a crotchety old man on his porch).

I sit here in my study. My delightful study. The one room in my house that feels like my own. (Perhaps after I spend a few sweaty nights and lazy mornings frolicking with someone in my bedroom, that, too, will feel like my own.) For now, though, I tinkle the ice in my glass in a good-natured salute to my immediate surroundings. I love this old desk, chipped and scarred as it is, procured for a mere twenty-five clams from a local thrift-shop and hauled up here in an effort equal to that of the Romans re-locating an obelisk to the Hippodrome. I love the soft Persian carpet beneath my bare feet. I love the antigue map of my new city, Holyoke. I love the ancient fan, perched on the desk -- a GE model from my great aunt. Its four razor-sharp blades are covered by about three scant rings of thin metal. I am amazed there are not more fingerless octogenerians running around. I love The Senorita. She is a black velvet painting of a dusky-hued woman, swathed in a crimson blanket which obscures none of her assets. She was rescued from an old and empty house belonging to a former employer of mine.
I love this room.
I want to perch on the edge of my huge desk with three fingers of Macallan and a warm smile and beckon guests to enter. I want to pace the perimeter, brooding, and explain the assortment of books, weaponry, trinkets, and treasure each in turn to a fascinated visitor. I want to kneel under the desk and lap voraciously at some girl's pussy while she reads my latest blog post. I want to bend said girl over the desk and spank her ass until she begs me to fuck her.
More than anything, I want to write!\

And yes, I have had two glasses of wine and a Scotch, but this is not a maudlin, passing urge.

Perhaps more fiction will follow.

As for now, I have but one more section with which to close this post.

An offer.
I have long languished whilst working this blog, not knowing to whom I am writing. So I have an incentive to comment: The ol' Reverse Quiz.
That's right. I'm dusting off that chestnut and cracking it open. For the uninitiated, a reverse quiz work thus ways: You comment, post your name.
In return I will devout an entire post to you. I haven't decided exactly what it will entail. there are the old standards: what song/movie/book reminds me of you, what is my favorite memory of you, what animal you are most like, yadda yadda. It's basically you as seen through my eyes. Most people love it, desperate as we all are for definition. For examples, please see: http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2005/05/this-is-test-of-blog-reader-list.html

I was re-reading some of those old, old posts and I gotta say, I forgot how awesome I was. Please do comment to give some material.

So let's do this, eh?

'Night-night,

Heavy Topics

Well it appears I rather overestimated my stamina.

I set out three days ago to begin a daily publishing regimen, and the effort immediately fell flat.
I am writing this now completely sober.
I hadn't realized until right this instant how much I rely on alcohol to limber my fingers and loosen my tongue.
I am not dependent on it, per se, but a glass of wine certainly serves as a reassuring prop. I feel contempt for people who can only exercise or run with music. This past St. Patrick's Day Road Race a healthy percentage of the runners were pumping along with iPod earbuds in place, oblivious to their surroundings. I appreciate the advantage the right music can give you, increasing, as it does, heart rate and thus blood flow. Still, one of the appeals of racing is the crowd. One wishes -- at least this one wishes -- to interact with one's fellow racers on a tangible, primal level. One wants to hear their ragged breath, see the sweat glistening on their shoulders and foreheads. One wished to be aware of the event as it happens. Music detracts from this. I have an advantage, as a trail runner. Music is discouraged and occasionally forbidden on the trail runs. The terrain is so treacherous and the tracks so narrow that any distractions are hazardous for oneself and others. As such, I am well used to trotting along with only the sounds of the forest and of my own blood pounding in my ears.
Anyway, I express disdain for those who use music as a crutch while running, and yet stumble myself at writing when the security blanket of booze is taken away. the ol' focusing on the mote in mine neighbor's eye and ignoring the beam in mine own chesnut.

Nevertheless, wine-less, I proceed.

I have a curious view of human weakness. I recognize, as a humanist, that it is a necessary part of existence, but that it must be fought with diligence and ferocity -- the fight is of course another part of human existence. And, in a less abstract, more pragmatic way, I feel human weakness -- and I mean intellectual, physical, and emotional, must be overcome in order for us to move ahead as a species.
Still, a significant part of me rejoices at stupidity or obesity, because it means I am smarter and stronger by comparison. I realize this is near-sighted and selfish to the point of insanity, but it is quantifiably true.

Now, sequing rather roughly, I have no real problem with most fat people. I was fat for most of my life. I still have weight issues. I appreciate more than most just how hard it is to get into shape and stay that way. And the more full-figured look is appropriate for some people. My employer is overweight -- has been, if high school yearbook photos are to be trusted, for his whole adult life. But he carries it well. His body type accomodates the poundage gracefully and his personality matches his physicality.
Women, in my opinion, look good fuller figures. I, as an active individual, am most attracted in a joint sexual/emotional way to women who are fit, toned, and tight as steel cables. But I find the Rubenesque ladies appealing in a general way. The female form is designed to be soft and curvy.
But! I despise fat people who should not be fat, who are overweight in an awkward, unbalanced way. And I especially hate people who are fat and don't care. I'm not sure why this should be. If a person is happy, or at least unconcerned, with who they are, why should that bother me? I feel it is two-fold. Recalling the above musings, I am angered that human being would not want to better him- or herself, for the good of humanity. But, deeper and more insidious than that, I am angered that a person could be happy being overweight when I spend so much of my time and energy struggling to be sleek and sexy. I am in decent physical condition, in terms of pure capability. I have known individuals with bulging gym-toned muscles unable to finish a day of manual labor or complete a short hike. Likewise I have known people of average, even chubby or seemingly frail physiques to possess hidden depths of physical strength. And, apart from being physically capable, my body is not unpleasant to look upon. But I still worry over it. I stand in front of the mirror every day scrutinizing my body, thinking about how it could be improved upon. I am careful with my diet. I hit the gym as often as I can.
Now, don't fret about my sanity. I don't have an eating disorder. I do not obsess about my body. I am aware of it, though, as we all are of our bodies. It upsets me to think that some people can be at home with slovenly, pudgy bodies. I feel like I might be wasting my time exercising.


Not a terrible day, all things considered.
I ate a tasty breakfast, visited the health club, and made my way to work, where I assembled the patio. I did much of the heavy lifting m'self, as is my wont, and then performed the busy work with erstwhile restaurant manager Ed. He and I agreed the patio set-up gets worse every year. We feel as though we're trapped in some weird existentialist play. Two characters, a tedious task, actions with amount to nothing in pursuit of ill-defined goals, as subject to the whim of a capricious off-stage presence. My afternoon from one until three seemed to have been written by Samuel Beckett.


Afterwards I rode my bike to Open Square and engaged in some Restorative Yoga, or, as I call it, "Napping in awkward positions with props."

Now I'm watching vintage X-Files, digesting steak and salad, and plodding away on this blog.

I believe I'll call it a night for now, though. As Estragon would say, there's nothing to be done.

So first of all, a message to my audience:

Suck a bag of dicks.


I humbly appeal to your humanity and ask that you comment just to let me know who you are, and not only are there no comments, there are clearly more viewers of these posts.
This means that people read the request and gleefully ignored it.
I suppose that the viewer tally on my blogger page might be a glitch on the site, and no one is reading this, and I'm railing against the ether.


Anyway . . . I plan to update every day.

Starting today.

I was going to skip it, as I feel tired. And not the "I-had-a-good-day-and-am-worn-out" tired. Just the lethargic, unproductive, drunken tired I usually experience.

But here I am.

Also difficult: there is but one subject on my mind. More or less constantly. Every day.
And she might be one of the silent followers of this journal.

So I sit here sipping wine by candlelight, watching Louis C.K. stand-up with half-lidded eyes, waiting for my deviant porn to load so I can go into my bedroom and masturbate,

I do appreciate how enticing my skin appears in the flickering glow of the candle. I wish someone were here to share the ambiance with me.
I have never made love in total darkness. I actually prefer it rather bright. But the amber radiance of candlelight is undeniably romantic.

Ouch

I have begun attempting to correct my running stride. When walking I tend to plod about rather duck-footed. This no doubt detracts from my posture while galloping. I am also in the habit of clomping down heel-toe. Such movement results in shin-splints and negligible development of my gastrocneimus, tibalis anterior, and soleus (the calf muscles, or so an anatomy-savvy aquaintance would have me believe.)
And thus, during two consecutive nights of running I have worked on longer, lighter strides, landing, as the Tarahumara advocate, on the balls of my feet.
I must admit I feel the potential power such a shift in ergonomics promises. Still, my legs feel as though they've been punctured by blunt knives. I stumbled and nearly fell whilst mounting my front steps -- no foolin'. And I cursed myself on the choice of second-story unit as I ascended the fifteen stairs to my apartment.
I anticipate spending the next few days hobbling about like Tiny Tim (the Dickens character, not the tip-toeing through the tulips ukulele virtuoso, if there was any ambiguity.)

Also, OUCH because I was under the impression that no one visits this any more. I return from my five-month hiatus with some deeply emotional introspection, assuming that it would go unnoticed. Much to my chagrin the post has garnered fifteen views! That's a lot for me. And all in one day! Is there some vast audience of which I was unaware? Or is one person just re-reading this? You know who you are. Call me later.
Anyway, how about a heads-up, people?
Who's out there?

It's not your fault

Tonight I exhausted myself with a lengthy, wild, sweat-soaked work-out. My limbs are now sore and heavy, my eyelids droop. (The tequila I've imbibed does not help stir me out of lethargy.)
I began with a feverish run -- a short distance, only three and a half miles, at a minor incline.
I've read novels in which characters remedy their angst or sorrow through exercise. They bury their emotional pain beneath pain more physical. I've never been able to do that, myself. So much of my ability to exert myself physically lies in my psychological state that I've always been more or less hamstrung by emotional distress.
Not tonight, though.
As I ran, the raucous music blaring insistently in my ears, I focused on the center of my emotional distress; I focused on her. I did not work through the problem, trying to reach some zen-like acceptance of my fate or see my way to a solution. Instead, I ran into my distress. I let it surround me, infuse me, body and soul. I am reminded now, looking back, of a comic book. In it, Superman, needing to heal, to recharge, to increase his powers, flies straight through the sun itself. It is a ludicrous plot conceit, even for comic books, but an apt comparison, nonetheless.
I devoted my every feeling, every breath to thoughts of her -- her smile, her eyes, her scent. Her body, tight yet supple. The graceful lines of her clavicle and the flawless swoop of her lower back. I thought about resting a hand there as I drew her close, pressing myself against her.

 The music rang, Awolnation's Not Your Fault.
"And baby when I'm yellin' at you, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
I cranked the speed to eight miles an hour.
"'Cause baby I am crazy for you; it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
To nine miles an hour.
"And maybe I'm a little confused, it's not your fault, it's not your fault."
Ten.
"But baby that's some wonderful news. It's not your fault, it's not your fault.
And oh, it's not that you should care; I just wanted you to know."

Even in the delirious heat of the sprint I smiled. She can hardly be held accountable for being perfect, can she?