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

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.

The Full Measure

A coach I had once called me his super mortal.  That was a long, long time ago, but strangely enough, my current coach called me the same thing the other day. I’m not, of course. Gawd, I am eminently mortal.   But it does serve to remind me of things.

Mostly it reminds me how intense I can be. When I focus, there are no limits. I am unstoppable. Over my business career, almost every job or posting I have had has taken two people to adequately replace me. I left one summer job when I was in college, and in fact, it took three people to do my job. I’m pretty proud of that. When I was in high school and working part-time, I remember the facility’s assistant manager talking to the manager, not knowing I was within earshot, saying I was the best part-timer he had ever seen.

In business, I was the go-to guy to get things done. I was always in charge of the impossible projects. They sent people from around the world to sit at my feet and learn how.

tumblr_mzj1bn5jmp1qlwx41o1_5001But no one said ever “Wow, look how he gets things done by doing it with half measures.”

But that strength is, wouldn’t you know it, one of my greatest weaknesses. I’m unstoppable. While I’m generally pretty casual and a laid back kind of guy, once I am focused, you definitely get the full measure. And my full measure can be just plain too much for many. It’s overwhelming. It scares them. They worry over my expectations.

Sometimes women fear they won’t measure up over the longer term. When that happens, I miss out. And I hate missing out!

There’s got to be a better way.

Elust #91 (Some GREAT reads!)

Silverdrops toy box header
Photo courtesy of Silverdrops Toybox

Welcome to Elust 91

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #92 Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Forcing Growth

In Stitches

The Instrument and the Ornament



~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Imagine? You Might Wish You Hadn’t!
she’s picture perfect


~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Morning Stretch

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Amber alert
Spanking: Chapter One
‘How To’ Femdom Series
Play it safe
Formative Kink: “The Happy Hooker”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Follow Your Heart
Humiliating Raylene: Kissing Lynette
THREESOME – prepared
Leaving Questions Unanswered

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Genital shame in the news
Cock and Balls Sling Demonstration


Chastity, No Boner: A Lusty Limerick
Roleplay (inna damp, dark alley)

Erotic Fiction

Portraits of You
Words of Fuck

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Nothing good can come from this
UNCLEAN: Dirty, Sweaty, Filthy, Messy Sex





Elust 88

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.

I Can Remember Istanbul

Turkey (and Istanbul) have been often seen in the news of late. Each mention brings back some strong memories for me. Memories that had been, if not forgotten, deeply archived.

The hitchhiking had been poor from Plovdiv toward the Bulgarian-Turkish border. Not a lot of non-commercial traffic back in those days. But finally, a Turkish couple with relatives in the Plovdiv area had given us a lift through to the border, and just to the other side. They turned for home near Edirne which is not far in from the Turkish frontier. It was late afternoon and for some reason the day had been tiring for us. We decided to pitch our pup tent in an empty field off the road.

It was quite chilly when in the morning we awoke. It was unseasonably cold for an early October morning, with frost on the ground all around us. A quick breakfast of boiled eggs and cups of Nescafé heated on our mini camping gaz stove warmed us quickly.

We expertly packed things up, and not long after beginning, a trucker picked us up and took us right into the beginnings of Istanbul. The trucker’s English was surprisingly good, and his truck a new Mack, so different from the usual Scanias, Mercedes, MANs and DAFs on the road. He explained to us what a dolmus was, how, and which one to take to get us into the heart of Istanbul on the European side.

The hustle and bustle of old Istanbul was, at first impression to our untrained eyes, a cross between Moroccan cities and older European centers. Dirty, noisy, chaotic, exotic, yet organized well enough to permit large crowds of traffic and people to get on with their business.

This was the time of Billy Hayes and Midnight Express, where hashish was everywhere, and Istanbul-Constantinople was, as it had always been, the crossroads between East and West.  It seemed that the majority of travelers were youth like ourselves, on the overland route to Nepal, perhaps India, or even Australia. In Istanbul North Americans and Europeans on their way East would meet up with Aussies and Kiwis coming overland from down under. Notes were shared, advice given, and road stories exchanged, often at The Pudding Shop with its infamous bulletin board. The overland route went through Turkey, Iran, and then through Afghanistan and Pakistan to India. While we primarily hitchhiked, the Magic Bus was a popular and easy way to travel, with a major stop in Istanbul, although it cost much more money than we had, plus we had no definitive destination in mind. We went where we thought the wind was taking us.

Soon enough we settled into a dirt cheap hotel, as at that time we were living on less than than $5 a day for both of us. Though cheap and far from cheerful, the hotel was close to all the action and we could see the Hagia Sophia from our window.  It was early afternoon and despite the gloomy surroundings of the room, we both heaved a sigh of relief as we dropped our gear and flopped onto the low rising bed. As I turned to her, I could see that familiar twinkle arise in her hauntingly beautiful hazel eyes.

“Stand up” I said. She rose to her feet beside the bed.

“Strip!” I lovingly commanded.

She bent over and unlaced her boots. Pried each one off with the opposite foot while she steadied herself with a hand on the nearby wall. Then removed her socks. I saw a wry smile come across her thin lips as she undid her belt and slowly lowered her jeans. She began to unbutton her blue denim work shirt …

“No … now the panties,” I said.

The smile grew wider as she slipped off her dingy-colored panties. I reached over and undid the bottom two buttons of her shirt so I could see the landing strip of her crotch. It was my turn to smile. I put one hand on her ass cheek and moved her toward me. As I raised myself on one elbow at the edge of the bed, her pussy was exactly at face level.  I eased my tongue along her slit and heard her sigh as her knees buckled just oh so slightly as I softly continued my leche.

“Now the rest.” I whispered as I raised my head back up.

She backed up a step and unbuttoned the rest of her shirt. She dropped it to the floor. Then she reached behind and unclasped her bra, releasing her 38Cs from their clothed prison. I took all of her in. In great gulps of soothing visual hydration. My heart stopped in awe.

I rose from the bed and kissed her tenderly. I moved behind her and gently pushed on her back to position her over the bed. As she stood, legs apart, slightly trembling, I removed my own boots and socks, unbuckled my belt and dropped my jeans and underwear to the floor. As I slowly began to fuck her I could hear myself beginning a growl. In tune, she began to moan as each stroke went in deeper, each thrust a little firmer.

“Shush” I breathed as I deliberately upped my pace. I wanted to make it as challenging as possible for her to keep quiet. But the walls were paper thin, and there had been movement in the hall just a few minutes before, so clearly others would hear unless we were careful.

While she continued to moan, her body began trembling and I knew she was oh so close. I reached around, and lifting her head I put my hand across her mouth to muffle her cries. Her eyes were wide as she sobbed into my hand and her torso shook with the impact of her orgasm. I gently eased her head back onto the bed and continued with my thrusting, so very close now myself. With gritted teeth in an attempt to hold down my own noise I emptied into her.

We stayed still for a moment … freed from the frenzy but forever caught in the connection.

Then we laid down above the covers of the bed, me with my shirt still on.

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


I Once Knew A Golden Girl

I once knew one. One of those women. Beautiful. Intelligent. Talented. The kind of woman easy to fall for. Built. Stunning to look at.

Like most of us, she had insecurities. But rather than controlling her insecurities, she let them control her.

She could never deal with her fears and insecurities. It was not in the cards for her to overcome them. All she could do was run. I could never do enough to help her change. I failed. Miserably.

One day she just disappeared. I guess she ran away.

I never saw her again.



We were the 7.

Wild, strong, talented, smart, gifted.

There were no limits apparently. Or so most of us believed. Were we wrong?

He wasn’t the smartest, the best looking, nor the most physically talented. But he still saw no limits. Because he never cared about limits. They were irrelevant. He just was. And did. No matter the outcome.

He has reached his limit.

Now we are the 6.

Between The Times (2)

The between times. Beginning to understand that when a one in 8 million chance occurs, there’s probably a reason. Learning that while heads might be coincidence, tails is likely fate. Absorbing that your moral compass might not be true and wise in different environments and changing times. You only learn when your mind is open to different views and perspectives.

This is a series on our young Marty. Some of the stories that laid the foundation for who he is … or perhaps more accurately, who he thinks he is.

Should you have missed the two introductory pieces, you can visit them here and here.

The loud drone throughout the passenger area made it hard to talk. Thinking wasn’t even that easy either.  But the plane was full. It was Loftleidir. Full with people like me.

It was the student airline. The cheapest way from America to Europe. Loftleidir (Icelandic Airlines) flew from JFK, stopping to refuel in Iceland, then continuing to Scotland, on to London, and finally terminating in Luxembourg. While the world’s airlines had all converted to jets, Loftleidir still employed turboprops and refueled to cross the Atlantic. Their slogan “We’re the slowest but the lowest” resonated with all who had more time than money. It wasn’t for nothing it was nicknamed Hippie Air.

But I wouldn’t be going all the way to Luxembourg (where was and what was Luxembourg anyway?), Scotland was as far as I could afford. And I had no plane ticket home. Money was a critical issue. I only had what I had been able to squirrel away from my summer job, working in a resort town. It sure wasn’t much, but I was not going to let that get in the way of what I was seeking … independence and adventure. But without a ticket home, I was worried British Immigration may not let me in. There were lots of stories of how strict they were with young, itinerant vagabonds. And nothing defined me better than those 3 words.

Sleep on that flight was negligible. The noise, the excitement, the bonding of youth. Early in the morning we touched down at Keflavik, the international airport for Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital. It was a NATO airbase too, and as we walked down the gangplank to the tarmac for the plane to refuel, I could see military jets parked in the distance. This was at the height of the Cold War, and a military presence was almost universal.  Never more so than in Germany which I would later witness.

Iceland wasn’t the darling of tourist destinations then, as it is now. The view from the tarmac was stark. Barren. Little vegetation even in the distance. The wind was blowing, and the temperature was cool. I was happy I had decided not to stay in Iceland, but to continue on directly to Scotland.

After a leisurely breakfast in the small terminal, once the turboprop was refueled, we reboarded. The flight to Scotland would not be long.

As we touched down at Prestwick International Airport the excitement was reaching a crescendo. I felt ready. Ready for anything. What would I do? What would I find?

I was soon to find out.