Comprehending the Beauty Is In the Detail

Don’t get me wrong. The overall impression is very important. Critical.

But I can’t get past the need to fully grasp all the fine detail in any piece of work. Or art.

I so dislike carelessness. And lack of thought or foresight. Appreciating Michelangelo is observing and trying to comprehend everything.

What brings this up? Issues with a woman, of course.

Let me backtrack a bit. The “issue” with this woman reminded me of a post I had written some time ago. I thought its ending was quite appropriate for my mindset at this moment. And as I reread it, I was struck by the various details written in the post I had somehow managed to remember from so many years before. Those details served to reinforce the experience in my mind. As minuscule as each might be, collectively they were important. They keep “it” all together. And in perspective.

And with this woman, I do need to keep the overall and details in proper perspective.

If you have the chance (or inclination), here is the post. Brickworks. I

It’s Nice When They Appreciate (III) The Green Couch

Marcie and I were seeing each other most nights. While we would generally hang out at my house on weekends, during the week we tended to alternate between my house and her large apartment in an older section of town. Though older, the building was well maintained, and super clean. And the rooms were quite large. Following the night described here we decided the next evening would be at Marcie’s. The attention she had paid to my cock was really intoxicating, and I knew I’d be ready for a lot more the next night. And I suspected so was Marcie.

This upcoming night was my midweek basketball night, though, and it was an important game. With a beer after the game, it would be near 11:30 – midnight before I would get to her place, so she should be prepared for that.

I gave her some instructions for the preparation.

I promised to phone her when I was leaving the bar. But she was to prep herself for my arrival. I wanted her to be waiting for me in my favorite room in her apartment … the living room. This room was quite large, with original dark oak floors, covered by an enormous oriental rug. There were 4 original iron radiators.

When I arrived she was to be naked, on the room’s couch … memorably green in color … perched on forearms and knees, her ass lifted and facing my direction. And two of her “smelly” candles were to be lit … no other lighting.

She was also to be mentally prepared for me to be ravenous with her. She was to be a total “good girl”, knowing that I potentially would be using “all” of her. Especially if we won the basketball game. Her upturned ass was to be adequately lubed, and the tube to be available nearby, just in case. I was a little more “direct” with her than normal. Marcie reacted well. I could almost see her smiling on the other end of the phone.

I wasn’t certain what would happen … nor in which order … but I was expecting it was going to be memorable.

… to be continued.

Winter in the Labyrinth

I haven’t known what to do. The maze has held me captive for so long. Much longer than I care to admit to. She built it, and I came. Willingly. In our early spring I wandered happily, following the lavender scented expressions she gave.. Then came our summer, a goddess’ golden gift. Secrets shared, desires confessed, and life issues addressed. She was never really mine; I knew that. But we pretended she was, and for a time, that was all that mattered. I felt she gave me all of what she was capable. Though sharp and painful, the thorns of her shut downs were all so easy to sustain  among the sultry fragrance of her petals.

The summer zephyrs gave way to the chill of a northern autumn’s approach. The flowers withered before my eyes from the icy blasts. I cried as the petals blew from the bush, disappearing into the wind swept distance I knew I would never walk. Vague words and images of incredible beauty come, then swirl out of reach.

Now it’s winter.

I am cold.

I am ill. .

A willing prisoner before, I know now I must escape. The labyrinth holds no more allure. The maze is tiresome. The warren of all its secrets is a burden I no longer care to lift nor search.  It is but a prison. No exit. No longer any entrance visible. No finale. Escape I know I must.

I will.


Despite its being but late March, the sun’s brilliant rays bounced off the short harbor waves in shocking directions.  Without sunglasses, sometimes it was painful.

Nonetheless I reveled in the morning. The pension where I had slept last night was clean, the hostess friendly, and it was near the beach. Moreover it was fairly cheap, the number one priority on my list for an accomodation.

The past 2 weeks had been terribly exciting. I thought of Françoise and her delights. Then I smugly smiled to myself as I relished the long ride down the highway with the two female teachers, which ended with a debauched night with Nicole in Bordeaux.

Twenty years old. Almost penniless. And near total freedom.

Wishing not for anything more … only encores of the same. I imagine that must be the definition of happiness. Extreme contentment at the very least.

I saw her in the distance. Slowly, ever so slowly, she neared, steadily walking along the beach towards me. As the distance declined, I could see she was wearing white … some kind of peasant dress, and a big, floppy hat, too. Sandals, and a donkey bag slung from a shoulder. She stopped. Looked in my direction. Then continued approaching.

I was hypnotized. As she got closer, I wondered if she would stop. Would she speak to me? My Spanish was almost non-existent, but I was up for trying. Maybe she would want to practise English. I hadn’t heard a word of English in over a week I suddenly realized.

She did stop. “Hello”, she said.

I couldn’t put my finger on the accent. It was ever so slight. And not Spanish.

Her baby blues were breathtaking.

And Life Goes On

I texted her to ask about a city she recently visited. I will be there shortly.

Almost immediately she texted back. I was surprised. It usually is not so quick.

She answered my questions, and we had a brief chat about my upcoming trip. And then about some other relatively unimportant things. A chat just like any other chat “friends” would have.

It hurt.

“You ok?” I asked. It had been some time since we have communicated.

“Yes. I’m good. Just busy. It was so nice to hear from you today” she wrote.

“I miss you, Marty. xx”

I could only stare at the words. Wistfully. Heart in throat. Bleeding.

“I miss you every day” I typed.

There was no need for her to know about the tears that were suddenly welling in my eyes.

The Feist

She is tall. Her hair is dark, just above shoulder length. Blue-gray eyes.

Lithe and leggy. Small breasted.

Very firm ass. I’ve watched it move around closely. She has a highly understated sensuality. The way she grabs her hair to make a pony tail …

She’s also used to being in charge. I can tell. But for some reason, she is quick to back off that with me. Needless to say, I’m hooked. Well not yet, actually. More like the bait is out and I’m circling it.

And she has an uncanny resemblance to the singer Feist.

I wonder if she can sing …



Helen’s Intrigue

I am beginning the process of getting to know Helen. Just the beginning.

She’s cute. And younger than me, of course. That’s the way things tend to go.

I’m much more interested in chemistry than age“, she says.

Her submissiveness intrigues me.

Let’s be honest  … it draws me like a magnet.

I send her instructions for tasks to amuse me. She diligently complies.

Helen lives about 2 hours from my village.

We need to arrange a meeting.

Let’s Meet Helen

A new woman is meandering her way through the back alleys of my world. And I do mean meandering. Not a head-long rush which is so typical of my life … but popping in, and popping out.

I won’t go into how I came upon her. She’s not exactly my usual type. But she is interesting. A bit of a free spirit. Smart and a tantalizing figure. And very submissive.

There might be something here.

A La Prochaine

We run you and I.

We run to stay ahead.

Something is always chasing us.

Our past.

Our shadows.

We think we have it all under control, because this is what we do; we’re professional runners-from-our-past after all.

And then, when we’re comfortably way out ahead, we’re ambushed from out of nowhere.

We’re caught!

Adieu my Lovely. I’ll miss you. Focus on the important.

I know you will.

I know your will.

A la prochaine

A Closet Reordering

Over the past couple of days I have been cleaning out my closet. That would be the one between my ears.

It’s difficult to believe that it was almost a year ago that I wrote about Amy, a girlfriend from my high school days. You can find the background on Amy and our meeting last year here, 2nd here, 3rd here, 4th here, and 5th here .

I had a meal and drink with her last week as she was in town again for a conference. We have kept in touch since her last visit, emailing and texting on a regular basis. We are getting to know each other again.

I had very mixed emotions after we met last year. This is a woman I had not seen nor heard from in many decades. A woman I had fantasized about all that time … though admittedly not so much in the past several years. Nonetheless I had had a tender spot in my heart that was always activated even at the mention of her name.

I sort of confused myself. I suspect I could have gone up to her room last year after our drink and something would have happened. I didn’t. I begged off to be sure it didn’t or wouldn’t happen. Why was that? I didn’t want anything to happen, and that definitely bewildered me.

Was I afraid that she would reject me?

No, I don’t think so. The vibes were positive.

Was it because I had this deeply imagined fantasy and didn’t want to risk the chance of reality ruining it?


Had I and/or my thoughts of Amy changed?


And so we met again.

Dare I say, it felt like old times. In the sense that there were no nerves, I felt no pressure. We caught up a bit and chatted about recent dealings with common friends, and what she had on her plate profession-wise. I mostly listened. It was still easy for me to get caught up in the magic of her flashing, deep green eyes. The lilt in her voice.

But that was all. There was no lust for her. Not last year. Not now. The wont had disappeared. And won’t be resurrected.

That long-gripping ghost has finally ceased to haunt me. The mental closet holding my deepest emotional treasures and memories has released one long resident spirit. I have one less obsession.

And let’s be honest. It was an obsession. I can be obsessive. I need to wrap my head around this.

And yes, Amy and I will stay in touch.