Leaving Questions Unanswered

I don’t dream very often. At least not dreams I can remember. But the other night I did and it was very impactful.

I know what was the impetus. I was chatting with someone about thighs earlier in the evening. And you know I really love your thighs. But I’m jumping ahead here.

In the dream you got on all fours. Then turned to look back and gave me your smile to which I inevitably melt. But in the dream that’s not the way I want you. I want you closer. I need you closer. I crave you closer. I can’t live without you closer. I feel as if my existence depends on having you closer.

It’s the intimacy with you I lack. Intimacy is chemistry for me.

These days we have no communication. One by one you cut our channels. This is torture for me, as I am one who needs to communicate several times a day. Suddenly I am exiled to blankness. Nothingness.

Then mysteriously, you added one app with me. But with no warning, you cut that one, too. I am baffled. And hurt.

I kneel behind you. And pull you towards me. Your long, muscular thighs resting on my quads. Taut athletic muscle on taut athletic muscle. Your absolute perfect ass with its firm roundness rests above my crotch, my engorged erection climbing up the small of your back. I begin to feel you as I feel myself.

My hand reaches under and feels your slickness. My palm dampens your landing strip with your own moisture. Then three of my fingers slip inside you. I feel your sigh of pleasure and we begin to reconnect.

I have missed you terribly, the contact, being part of each other’s daily lives. You know I live for this daily rhythm. But my rhythm and routine have changed lately … saying goodbye to old friends and embarking on new challenges. And the progress has been mixed. And it’s been painful. Most everything is difficult these days.

As you rise slightly on your haunches I enter you. We gasp in unison at the sensation, you filled fully by my erection, our bodies finally attached. I move my hand along your firm belly, feeling the ropes of your hard abs. God I love your abs! My other hand reaches for your long, smooth throat and wraps it lovingly. At this moment you are again mine, totally.

Slowly, ever so slowly you inch up and down on me, barely any noticeable movement at all. But I feel you. I sense all your being through every cell in my body.

You just walked away. Convinced that it was the only way for you to carry on … to be a better you. A more devoted you. Even though you were going to surround yourself with all that gave you anguish and misery and brought you down to where I found you, broken. I had thought you were healing, that you would acknowledge it.  But perhaps that only refortified the strength of your convictions.

I know it’s only a dream, but I see you so clearly. Your beautiful mouth opens and your jaw juts just a fraction. Your visage in profile is stunning, a marble Michelangelo in flesh, the depth, the expression to your face mesmerizes. There is no sound … no, this dream is absolutely silent. Your orgasm comes in surging waves as I hold you tightly, passing through you to me, a crescendo that ignites the rocket I have sheathed in you . I, too, then silently climax into the mists of our engagement.

Then you are gone. I awake in a sweat. You have disappeared again.

Why this? Your leaving still unanswered.

 

 

 

Of Bond and Distance

The Cousin was early despite coming from far. He walked into the funeral home alone, but hoping to find his two cousins. He asked an attendant if the family were here.

“Yes”, he said, “but I think they are in a room gathering before we start.”

The Cousin nodded, and exited the building to get some more fresh air after his long drive.

His aunt had been very special for him, a tough as nails woman who knew so much pain and suffering as a child. The Depression was a very unkind era to grow up in, and it was not uncommon for poverty and death to split families apart.  Though that background made her strict and unflinching, it never clouded her ability to show great love and kindness. When the Cousin was a boy, she had always been there for him when he needed her.

As he walked in the gently warming sunlight he recalled how he had been there for her too when she had lost the middle cousin, more even then her husband and other children. The Cousin and his aunt had had a bond together formed in tragedies.

And now she was gone, too.

The Cousin walked back into the funeral home. There in the lobby was his baby cousin with her husband. Standing beside her was another man the Cousin did not recognize. He was well dressed and sported a gray goatee with a full head of hair. Goateed Man was silent. But he watched closely as the Cousin hugged and kissed his baby cousin.  They spoke tenderly for 3 or 4 minutes, Goateed Man never yielding them appropriate space.

Finally Goateed Man, his deep blue eyes blazing fiercely addressed the Cousin.

“You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?”

The unmistakable lilt in the voice along with its gentleness shook the Cousin to his core. Embarrassed him. Shamed him. His face flushed.

How could he not have recognized his own cousin? Impossible!

A  year apart in age , they had played as brothers when children, most times inseparable. Church picnics, Cub Scouts, sports teams. Running through the bush behind the cousins’ home, wild free spirits. They reveled in the other’s courage and daring, pushing limits, one always covering for the other when they inevitably got into trouble.

laughing-boys1It had been years since they had seen each other. Since the death of the cousin’s younger brother. And no communication in that long time interval.

Though best of friends as children, they had always been different, only the blue eyes the same. The Cousin with his mother’s, and cousin those of his father. Eyes than shone a warm and deep hue … until provoked when they turned an icy cobalt.

“Oh my God” gasped the Cousin as he grasped then hugged warmly Goateed Man.

“Where did the beard come from?”

His cousin just smiled back at him. “I’ve had it for a few years,” he said. “I look good with it don’t you think?”

“Yes you do!” the Cousin shot back

“You need to get one too,” said the cousin. “You were always the thinker in the family.”

The rest of the afternoon, as when they were 10, they were inseparable. They caught up on lives, laughed over their pasts and briefly became brothers again.

That evening on the drive home the Cousin couldn’t help but weep.

For his aunt.

And for his  lost cousin

A Promise Kept

As I was driving yesterday, the song on the radio flashed my mind back like the Enterprise going into warp drive. The song, the multi-octave range of the voice, its sweetness combined with its power. Theresa did the song even better than the original artist. It was one of her signature pieces.

I suppose the song hit me so hard and sent me reeling back because like then, I’m in a melancholic, reflective frame of mind these days. Then, it was a woman, too. She continued to reject my studied advances even though I knew she welcomed them. And she did eventually come around. If anything, when Marty knows what he wants, he is persistent.

I met Theresa in a European ski club.  She was definitely a torch singer. Her voice was magnetic, and the fact she had a stunning face didn’t hurt the attraction one bit either. She was English, very solidly built, shoulder length dark hair with eyes the color of Yorkshire coal.  I won’t bore you with the courting rituals, just know that they worked. Which was interesting because Theresa did not screw around on the road. She loved her husband deeply, and was devoted to her vocation, so wandering off the path so to speak was a very unusual experience for her. But for several days and nights that week she did.

Poor Robert! He had recently moved to the West Coast, and now we would see each other and play together but once per year. And here was I, abandoning our traditional pub crawling adventures to seduce and be seduced.  He was forced to come up with his own play activities. Robert, of course, well understood.

Each evening I would catch Theresa’s last set at the Club which would be followed by a wild night of sex and wine in her room. I so delivered on the promises she yearned for and couldn’t find at home. And her pillow breasts, sweet, thick lips, and hungry body provided the sexual respites I keenly wanted and needed. We craved what each could deliver, there, and at that time. All through the witching hours of the dark alpine night and through the morning we would have at each other.

Then I would finally arise, return to my room, get ready and meet Robert and the others on the mountain for lunch and a drink, before an afternoon of hard skiing. At the best of times I could barely keep up with him. His technique and finesse were far superior to mine. But I was fit and my legs were strong , so I  could stay with him and the lead group throughout the day. But not this year. My lack of sleep through the week hobbled me on the mountain. It made Robert’s hearty laugh all the more penetrating as he watched me struggle to keep up. I was the butt of his ribald jokes all through every dinner as he inquisitioned me on what happened through the prior night. My silence and knowing, Cheshire cat smile drove him crazy.

Finally the week was done. I was to leave and Theresa’s gig was up. We never delved into each other’s hearts. We dared not. The most hidden part of our lives and souls were not to be exposed. She made me promise to never try to contact her. It was just too dangerous she said. For reasons I’m not certain I fully appreciated at the time. But I was younger then.

And I’ve kept my promise.

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