Buttons, Toggles, and Switches

She has many outstanding features. Her figure. Her smile. All her physical attributes.

But right now the feature that is setting me off is her nipples. Not mere buttons, they more resemble toggles. Long, dark, and hard. Like on the dashboard of an MG TD.  The difference being that they turn me on, not that I use them to turn something on.

Oh wait, yes I can! And I will.

I’m getting impatient.

A River

I grew up near a small river. Though small, the current was swift and its embankments were high and steep. There were far mightier rivers not far away, wider, a stronger current, and more history. But this was our river. It, too, had a history. Since the early 19th century, mills and factories had borrowed the power of its flow to give thrust to their machines. In return, the mills had heavily polluted the river’s waters.

Way upstream were mighty cataracts. Further downstream it was calm where it emptied into the lake. But through our neighborhood the river took an in-between way … too fast and caustic to swim in, but in many places clear enough to see the bottom.

I loved to study the river, follow its current, watch the swirling eddies. I knew the bank on our side of the river well. The secret trails, the good copse of bushes where a 10-year old could hide, smoke and not be caught or seen. I knew the river’s course, every turn, each narrowing and widening of the banks, driving the river’s flow. The river’s course and flow never changed.  But every drop of water flowing by me was completely different than the moment before. Nothing, and everything changed. What was real? Was it  real? Did the river change before my eyes, or was it a constant?

I don’t think I ever came to a satisfactory answer.

Should I see her as a river? Accept that as she flows, everything changes? Or should I believe that the course, level, and flow are constants?

I don’t think I’ll ever come to a satisfactory answer.

Paris Nostalgia

Based on some conversations over the past couple of days, some memories of Paris have come back in a huge deluge. This was during the time of my travels as I was leaving my teens.

The cars on the old Metro lines still had wooden touches. When the doors closed, thin, metallic bars would somersault over to latch the doors, snapping to with a bold clic that could be heard across the carriage. It was practically Edwardian they were so old.

metro21

I was on my way, hopefully to see her again. I was staying at the Auberge de la Jeunesse. We slept in dormitories of 6 or 8 beds and paid 5 francs a night if I remember correctly. It was there I had my first café au lait. In the youth hostel they served it from bowls, along with your croissant. I remember my first taste of the café as if it were yesterday. The smoothness, the richness, which contrasted sharply with the chicory-infused coffee I had been exposed to in England at my last job. This was so delicious.

I had seen her, met her, talked to her the day before. I had caught her eye. She had grasped my fluttering heart. At the first glance she reminded me of Amy, her long, dark hair and relatively short stature served to bring my angst to the fore perhaps. She worked in a record store on the Left Bank. Her name was Françoise.

There is something I need to explain here. About Marty and Gallic women. They have this “thing” … apparently. An affinity for each other. That can turn into an attraction. And then a craving. It is often a full on irresistible force. So it started with Françoise. I’ve named her Françoise because she was a virtual clone of my then favorite French chanteuse, Françoise Hardy. That’s Françoise Hardy at around this time at the top of the post. Now, I’m sure you all can get a good feel for why Marty is drawn to these femmes fatales, but exactly what pulls them Marty’s way remains one big mystery. Perhaps it was the crooked smile or the flashing soft blues, possibly the fractured way he attacked the French language. Who’s to know? Certainly this recipe was much less successful with Teutonic women during my wanderings. They were probably put off by the lack of direction and purpose. Success with them required much greater diligence. But never French-speaking women.

But back to our story. I had entered the record shop the day before and was checking out the available LPs of French artists with whom I was familiar when Françoise approached, asking if I needed some help. One look at her and she was immediately subject to full-on crooked smiles and my best possible version of fractured French.

We hit it off and now I was on my way to visit her near the end of her work shift. We would get a glass of wine, perhaps later dinner … and then who knows?

In short, the wine was good. Dinner was fabulous. I learned that she would soon have her 22nd birthday. She lived at home with her parents.

But the following day she would have off from work. And we would meet at the nearby garret shared by her older sister and boyfriend. I learned more of French music and Françoise became much more knowledgeable about the American music scene than she had been.

And I would learn to make love to a vital, nubile young French woman. Without hesitation, with no prospects of a future.  I would understand that what was offered was but of that moment. Yet it would be timeless and unforgettable.

Françoise was the first French woman I had ever bedded. Fortunately and grâce à Dieu, she would not be the last. When I left Paris 2 days later, I was on a roll.

 

Hearts Don’t Get Umbrellas … Redux

I have decided to revisit certain posts from time to time. Call them a Marty-Replay.  Posts I like. Or I’m happy with how they were written and catch the moment just right. Or are particularly relevant even now. But mostly that I like. Here’s the 3rd.

The rain was beyond noisy. I could hear it beating against the windows and thudding heavily on the roof.  There was no lightening, and but a modest wind. No rage to the tempest, no rancor, only an incredible downpour. The sky had decided it was time to release the great weight it had been carrying. As I lay awake in the early morning hours, the sounds from the pounding rainstorm mixed with the reverberations going through my head. I listened to the sounds. Outside and inside my mind.

It was done. A few hours earlier, while texting with Cassandra, I called it … over.

I had learned many things from her. The most important perhaps, how to listen and feel. As a born and bred analyst, this was incredibly hard to do and accept.  I had ditched that concept a long, long time and many relationships ago. I had been like a stroke victim relearning to walk. But now the words came out. I felt it was time.

“You’re a bit lost these days. At least to me.” I typed.

“No I’m not feeling lost. Just very settled. Happily so.” she said.

Us really hasn’t had a future for a long time,” I wrote.

“Not as you want it,” came her reply.

“Nope,” I said. “It’s probably time to push the pause button,” I added.

Though the words came out suddenly, they had been hovering in the background for some time. For months. Our relationship was not headed anywhere. For much too long it had been static.

The closeness connection that had bound us so tightly to one another had been fraying. The great physical distance between us had turned into an evil cancer-like organism, cloning and replicating itself into the attachments that were us, our 2-person unique DNA.

For a year I had tried to give her whatever it was she wanted. Mysteriously, she had known what and how to give me what I needed. But both those things were done. She no longer wants anything from me. She now can’t provide what I need.

“Thank you for letting me go” she wrote.

My heart turned …  and then exited into the pelting rain.

I Can Remember Istanbul … Conclusion

Turkey (and Istanbul) have been often in the news of late. Each mention brings back some strong memories for me. Memories that had been, if not forgotten, deeply archived. This is the conclusion to part 1 which you can find here.

After 15 or 20 minutes we began to stir. We were hungry. And we wanted to explore a little while there was still light.

We exited our dump of a hotel into the the cacophony of the busy street. Automobiles, taxis, trucks, motorcycles, vendors and hawkers with bicycle carts, and dolmuses  everywhere. And pedestrians overcrowding the narrow sidewalks onto the streets.

We had an idea of our direction … we wanted to experience the famous Puddin’ Shop and so meandered through roundabout streets to wend our way there. It was a bit of a disappointment if I remember correctly. Mostly filled with Western wanderers like ourselves, it was hot and overcrowded. The famous bulletin board was difficult to approach. We ate … the soup we had and the honeyed dessert we gobbled were delicious I recall.

Curiosity and hunger sated we began our stroll back to the hotel with a bit of light sightseeing on the way. It was mid afternoon as we walked into the cramped, dusty hotel entrance. We nodded to the desk clerk as we headed up the two flights of stairs to our floor.

As we approached our hotel room door we knew something wasn’t right. The door was slightly ajar! I pushed it fully open … the flimsy lock had been smashed … clothes were strewn about, kits opened, the room trashed.

We looked at each other aghast. Who the hell would want to rob us? There certainly was nothing of value to steal from us, apart from our down sleeping bags. Travel experienced, we, of course, had left no valuables in the room. We carried our passports, cash, and traveller’s cheques, and small camera on us. Unquestionably, our would be robbers had come to the same conclusion.

But I was enraged! This dump of a hotel was small, and nothing like this could happen without notice being taken. I flung myself down the stairway to the front desk. The clerk looked up at me, nonchalantly.

“Yes?” he asked.

I ranted on about the break-in … how it could not happen without someone hearing … what had he seen or heard … who was responsible for this …

He looked at me blankly, nodding his head slowly very occasionally. My fury deepened at the lack of response. Further infuriating was the fact that my rage coupled with my size didn’t faze him in the least. I didn’t intimidate him at all. Clearly he was experienced with this sort of thing. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. My angry, frustrated lizard-brain wanted to grab him and shake him out of his inertia. Fortunately, my intelligent side restrained me. I stepped back from the counter and calmed myself.

I hurriedly flew back up the stairs to our room. By this time she had repacked much of our gear into our packs.

“We’re leaving” I said.

“What happened down there? What did the clerk say?”

“Absolutely nothing!” I stammered. “He just shrugged it off.”

“Yes, lets go” she said. “The door’s lock is broken and there’s no way I’m ever going to sleep here.”

After scooping up the last few items remaining, we shouldered our packs and marched out. Across the small square and a few narrow streets over, we checked into another hotel we had previously seen. Though 50% more expensive than the “dump”, it was miles above in class and we hoped, safety.

In the room we put down our packs. Then I hugged her. Tightly. This woman meant more to me at that point in time than any other person in the world.

I undressed her. I guided her to the bed, on all fours. Then I undressed. Her pussy was sopping wet. My cock was rock hard. Fear and tension, excitement and celebration … all had always made us crave each other’s bodies like ravenous fiends. This was no exception.

Wild, connected, deep.

It was probably the final time we ever were so close.

 

 

Midweek Fantasizing … It’s An Uber Thing

I was day dreaming again the other day. It happens. I’m a bit fixated. Call me shallow, but these days I’m avoiding deep waters.

We were headed out from the flat in London to that event we were talking about. It was fairly early in the morning. You had used your phone to hail an Uber, and I admired your loveliness while we waited. The frenetic sex earlier in the morning was even better than I had imagined.

As we climbed into the backseat of the car, I noticed the driver, in his late 20s I’d say, raise an eyebrow as you scrambled through the door. Your hotness did not escape his attention. Nor I suspect our significant age difference as he took a quick glance at me.

I smiled to myself. I had an idea. You know the kind, the way my mind works.

As the ride progressed, I got into a bit of a chit chat with the driver. Even though he was responding to me, I could tell all his glances in the rearview mirror were of you.  You were a little sleepy and were resting your pretty locks on my shoulder.

“Oh, this will be so much fun”, I thought to myself.

As the driver and I carried on our conversation, he was a little surprised at where we were going and what we would be doing. Well, in truth, he was surprised that I would be going and doing that. But it happens a lot … I surprise people with what I can do.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” I asked as I caught him once again eyeing you.

“Umm … why yes she is, Mate. Quite.”

“Yes, I think so, too.” I answered. I turned to you as I said it, and you smiled up at me with those big dark eyes of yours.

“Say, can I ask you a favor, then?” I queried.

“Why sure, Mate … what would you like?”

“Well, it’s probably against the rules and everything, but we’ve just seen each other for the first time in a very long time … and well … you know how it is … ”

“Sir?” he asked.

I think he had an inkling, but the age thing was confusing him.

“Well, I wondered if you’d be ok if this beautiful flower pleasured me for a bit?”

“Oh! Dunno ’bout that. Despite whot you may pfink, that dudn’t really happen that often, duz it! And not in the mornings … evah”

“Well, maybe you could just look the other way. Just this once,” I said. “And if you really want, as long as you promise not to get into a crash, you can look, too.”

“Oh! That duz it then, Mate! Be my guest. Enjoy my hospitality.”

I could hear you snicker just before you released your safety belt and bent your head over my lap. You were going to enjoy this, too.

You slid my pants and shorts down to my knees. I was, of course, already erect. It doesn’t take long with you. As your tongue followed the path of my vein up and down I couldn’t help but gasp, then let out a contented sigh. Already the driver was taking stolen glimpses.

Your tongue next circled my head, then you took me quite deep right away. My loins were already on fire as I pushed my hips up towards your face.  Ever the lady, you licked the drools of saliva rolling down my cock. Looking up at me, you gave me your naughty wink.

I wouldn’t be long, especially when you began to murmur as your pace up and down was being ratcheted up.  I had one hand on your head and the other grasping the safety handle above the window.

From up front I heard a whispered “Bloody ‘ell.” All three of us were having a good time.

I cried out. I bucked. I came.

Looking up I could see the driver’s smile in the reflection of the rearview mirror.  You looked up at me again and swallowed hard.

You squeezed yourself back into your seat and smiled … “There, feel better, now?” you asked. Your seatbelt clicked into place.

“Alright then, we’re here!” the driver said as the car slowed. “Now that was a fun trip, wodn’t it!”

You slid out of the car first, to tap your phone.

Smiling at the driver with your patented sexy grin I heard you say “Yes, thank-you, it was! I certainly needed that.”

As I walked past you two, I caught his look at me. Surprised? Jealous? Amazed? Puzzled and bewildered? Yep, I think so.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August … Die She Must

A comment I made on another blog earlier today got my small brain working.  September has arrived. And soon, Autumn. I capitalize it, because Autumn is very prevalent in my mind.

September always adds a subtle seasonal shade to the calendar. It can be a new beginning.  In many places, schools restart after the summer break, new programs recommence everywhere.  But it’s not a hard date like January 1st. Nor does it suggest rebirth and youth like Spring connotes. Autumn’s initial gentle focus is very different.

Here in the northern climes it reminds us that the seasons do change. Time and life move on. And there is an ending. Perhaps yes, on the distant horizon, but there, nonetheless. And if you do not move as well, you will be left behind. September is a gentle prodding with its chilly evenings, that becomes more intense as we move into Indian Summer, then into October. It is a reminder that the warm halcyon days of summer have moved on, and so must we. Latter September is, of course, halfway between the June and December solstices, the autumn equinox, and prime harvest time. When things need to be accomplished.

For the ultimate procrastinator such as yours truly Autumn is the final warning to stop the squander of that most precious of commodities, time.

Pardon me won’t you, while I finally get my ass in gear? I hate being left behind.

 Hard too believe, but this concert took place 35 years ago this month

 

Lament For A Friend – Red Sky In The Morning

Video

large_lament1I didn’t sleep well last night. My aches and pains kept me tossing and turning. Pushing too hard again. And for some reason, Matt, I couldn’t stop thinking of you. All those times we have shared.

Wisdom is not the result of losing something you had. That is but simple regret. Rather wisdom derives from the knowledge and appreciation of what you do have and know someday you will lose.

I have my health. Yours creeps away from you every day, a silent seepage you do not know or realize. How foreign that would be for you if you knew … you, who never did things in increments. You always charged in a massive frontal assault.

The interesting thing I understood is I can isolate when you were at your very prime. No, not those high school days, nor even when you were king of the hill in college. We were what?, in our late 20s when I visited you on the Island Paradise? There you were on top of the world, too. More than the world was your oyster; you were the biggest rooster in the henyard. How you juggled the women!

I marveled how you kept your two not only from cutting each other’s throat, but you actually made them happy. It couldn’t have been easy. But you were always the master politician, playing bravado off of guilt and feigned humility.

How you owned that town. The bars we graced in our light, slim suits and Panama hats! Every night until 5am. There still is no one I’ve met who can out drink you. And then you’d go to work for 9. I at least could sleep until noon before heading to the beach.

And oh, every evening in the bar where you were “Honorary Owner”!  Do you remember how the Entertainer and I were the only ones who had even heard of Jimmy Buffet back then? That was when I knew stuff.  But I was good in that Jimmy set I did with the Entertainer, wasn’t I? At least Maggie thought so …

Maggie.  Yep, I’m sighing. A more perfect goddess I have never ever encountered. How her athletic figure fit so comfortably around my engorged erection as she sat on my lap in the bar all those nights! Her soft kisses smothered me in sensuality as my hands groped wherever the temptation led. And you know, Matt, how Temptation and I have always been the best and fastest friends. We never go anywhere without each other. Even today. Such a pity that her live-in was around that much and managed to interrupt and discover us at so many inopportune times.

That was a magic time for you. I only hope you will always remember it. And I wish I were able to bring back some of that magic. I so wish Robert were still here. He could always make you laugh and took good care of you. He’d be there for you now; he would know how to handle everything. Unlike me. Who feels helpless, useless. Another of my miserable fatal failings come to the fore.

Yes, of course, life was simpler then. But were our castles really made out of such baseless sand? God, I wish I knew

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCyQCNojpQI

Mid Week Fantasizing … Is It Any Wonder?

I awoke this morning with a smile. It struck me that I had been dreaming. About you. About us.

One of those explicit dreams I have from time to time. I guess you are on my mind. But time, distance, and circumstance keeps us apart. I suppose in my mind is the only place we will meet in the near future.

You were kneeling in front of me … what else is new? I unzipped my jeans and let you have me. You licked slowly and deliberately, across every inch of surface.  While watching the reaction in my face with those wide eyes of yours.

My hands were in your hair. But I was not directing your head. My hands were only along for the ride. This was your show. You most definitely were in charge.  You were doing what you wanted. What you craved. What you needed. What we needed.

You took all of me. Slowly and deliberately. Prolonging our pleasure. Feasting at your own pace. I know you liked having the control.  I voiced no complaint.

Is it any wonder?

Remembering How To Count – FIVE

This is another in a series of quick snapshots of some very unique, sexy women. You can read the first here about ONE.

It was approximately 5 years since he had last seen ONE. And his relationship with FIVE lasted … well, about 5, too. And that first time, they fucked continuously for almost 5 days

It started out in the usual way for him.  Her looks just stopped him dead in his tracks.  It was probably not a good thing, not a good thing at all actually, that her looks reminded him so much of ONE. She was certainly shorter than ONE, and FIVE’s eyes were a medium brown, not ONE’s hazel. The round face, and the dark, short hair that he had come to love clearly did him in. But she verbally waved off all his advances … was not shy at all in letting him know how uninterested she was. Though that turned out to be mostly bravada.

He sweet talked himself into her bed that first Thursday night. The fucking was incredible. It had been almost 3 months since he had jettisoned his Blow Job Queen, and he had had very little sex since. FIVE’s perfect and firm 36Cs (one of the most perfect set of tits he had ever come across) just added to the sensations he was experiencing. Speaking about her 36Cs reminds him of the picture of her he took the next day, braless in a tight red t-shirt, with her nipples prominent. He must dig around and find that picture!

All during those first days and nights he could see, he could feel, the hunger, the hurt, the need, the sadness, the relief, and then the joy. She absorbed all the physicality he could muster and all the passion he gave. Her need was insatiable, to be touched, to be stroked, to be fucked, for him to be a salve for her to release her inner turmoil. Her need was desperate … she clutched him incredibly closely.

Yet despite what he thought he saw happening with her, FIVE, in the beginning, was like you perhaps might imagine a Gay Nineties courtesan to be. Although they fucked in every imaginable position, FIVE was always … calm and relaxed. The fucking up to that point never seemed animalistic in any sense. It was not until a few weeks later that this dimension was added to the sexual repertoire.  She sucked his cock repeatedly, but he never had an orgasm while she did. She needed desperately to have him cum in her pussy.

That Tuesday towards noon it was time for him to pack up his things and head home. There was one last fucking … missionary …  hard yet controlled. FIVE came multiple times. He was uncertain if this was going to develop as a relationship, but one thing he was sure of, in case it didn’t. He was not leaving without having a major orgasm into her mouth. This was a very hot woman that he dearly wanted to have taste him. It was all he could think of at that moment.

He lay quietly on top of her, still plugged in, gently kissing her periodically as their breathing began to return to normal. He was still hard and he eased himself out of her pussy, then quickly moved up to straddle her face.

FIVE eagerly opened her mouth and took him in. He grasped her outstretched arms with his own hands holding them immobile, and simultaneously began to thrust. The thrusting became faster. Fiercer. FIVE kept her eyes tightly shut. Despite having cum not even 10 minutes before, he knew he was close again. It had been an amazing five days and this is how it/he would finish. The sounds were minimal, the bed mildly creaking to the motion and his breathing becoming heavier again. Then he cried out as he climaxed hard one final time. He grasped the headboard as his release filled FIVE’s mouth. She held it there as he began to relax.

He watched as a trickle of his semen seeped from the corner of her mouth. FIVE sighed in contentment. That made two of them. Then she swallowed. Twice.

He finished packing and headed out the door for the 8-hour drive home. He would see FIVE the very next weekend.