When you board a busy plane and find the seat next to yours still empty, anything could happen. As you watch the line of passengers struggling down the aisle your way, you wonder what card you will draw. It could stay empty. Not likely. It could be filled by a bad-smelling, obnoxious, unattractive, uninteresting, overflowing boor. Highly likely. Or you could spend the next six hours in the company of a Goddess. Very, very rare.
This time around, I drew the lucky card. She was a petite brunette in jeans and a gray hoodie. A college coed, perhaps. I stood up and stepped into the aisle so as to politely deny myself the exquisite pleasure of having her soft, perfect rump glide past my face.
She dozed most of the flight, this being an overnight journey, so we only talked briefly. I just let her sleep although for a few minutes, the heat of her body pressed against me as she slumbered. But I daydreamed about other possibilities.
She took a final drink of her soda bottle as the plane landed, and shoved it into the pocket before me. In my less-cautious days, I would have grabbed that bottle the moment her cute backside vanished down the aisle towards the exit. I would have savored the moistness upon the cap where her womanly lips had just pressed, and I would have drunk down the remainder of the sweet liquid, thrilling to the thought that at least some of it had washed against her lips and perhaps had even ventured as far as her pretty tongue.
Sigh. Perhaps I am getting too old. Too restrained. Too cautious. Flying free only in daydreams. Daydreams of a never-to-be world where a beautiful young stranger sits beside me and rubs her tired feet and comments on the long walk between concourses and I dare to slip off her shoes and caress her toes and heels and she groans softly with the pleasure and whispers a thank you.
Daydreams where they still serve dinner and she has pork and I have chicken and she spears a piece of pork upon her fork and takes a bite and says with surprise, "Hey, not bad." And offers me a taste, from her fork, of the remainder of the piece from which her sharp teeth have just sheared off a morsel, and so I bite where she has bitten, without hesitation. And we share back and forth until finally she emits a cute little burp and says she is stuffed and offers me her leftovers, all of them nibbled upon by her to some degree. And so I do, knowing that the slight sniffle that she exhibits every now and then, will make the jump to me within a few days, but I do not care.
She stands up and murmurs, "I need to pee. No, don't get up, I can fit past."
So I stay seated as her blue-jeaned bottom slides past my face, hot as summer sunshine as the soft curves go by.
To be continued
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Smoky daydream
In my daydreams, I drift back a decade or two, and picture a warm day in late spring, early afternoon. I sit upon a bench, enjoying the perfume of the flowers and the chirping of the birds.
She drifts into my view, lovely in Jordache jeans and golden hair sparkling in the sunshine. She sits upon my bench.
Nobody has cell phones in this bygone age, so instead, she just joins me in enjoying the sounds of the park – kids laughing in the distance, the barking of a dog.
Then from her purse, she extracts a little box – her cigarettes. She shakes one loose with her lips against the pack.
She is not going to ask my permission. No more than she would if she were taking out a piece of gum to chew. This is 1983. Few people care.
With a cheap pink plastic lighter, she sparks a flame to the tip of her cigarette and inhales deeply. I contemplate her craving and the relief that spills through her as nicotine floods her body. The cigarette arches upward in her lips as they squeeze the filter. The narrow ember glows like a blacksmith’s coal and grows into a pretty little cherry of fire.
I hear the soft pop as she pulls the cigarette from her lips and seals them shut with a ball of smoke snuggled inside. I imagine it dancing around her teeth and tickling her tongue before her hungry lungs drag it down.
She holds it inside her as long as she can for maximum effect, then parts her lips and expels a cloud of smoke thicker than London fog. I inhale as a bit of breeze blows it fully into my face – sweet, rich, intoxicating, a moment ago inside her, pleasuring her, now mine to savor. I inhale fiercely until she finishes exhaling and I hold her secondhand smoke inside me until I begin to see stars, not wanting to let it go, ever.
She is watching some kid off to the left of us, now, out on the swingset, maybe her little brother, and so her pretty lips face me and her next exhale is so close and so perfectly, if absently, directed, that I can feel it hitting my face, as if she were a child and I were a dandelion from which she wanted to blow the seeds. The smoke couldn’t be any thicker, any richer, any more potent, if I had her cigarette to my own lips.
She is so beautiful, from the curve of her face to the curves of her womanly body. I feel a positive hatred for the college clods that she must be wasting her time dating – clueless, overgrown adolescents with no realization that they are in the presence of a goddess.
She flicks off a bit of ash and it lands upon my knuckle gripping the edge of the bench. It stings for a moment as it cools. But she does not seem to notice. She is becoming agitated.
“He’s gonna hurt himself,” she says. She suddenly seems to notice me for the first time. She takes a quick but deep drag from her cigarette and blows it in my face as she asks,
“Sir, can you please hold my cigarette a second?”
Of course I agree and our hands touch briefly as I take from her the precious little half-smoked cylinder.
She leaps up and runs towards the swings, giving me a delightful view of her curving hips shifting up and down.
“Peter, you stop fooling around like that! Stay seated in your swing, dammit.”
Ah, such a naughty word for such a pretty mouth!
She leaves the boy brat and returns to the bench. I meekly stretch out my hand and give her back her cigarette.
“Do you smoke?” she asks.
“No,” I say, hastening to add, “But it doesn’t bother me.”
“Bad habit,” she says. “My boyfriend hates it.”
I feel the urge to find this boyfriend and squeeze his throat.
She is sitting back down now. We talk. She grinds her cigarette out beneath her Jelly shoes and immediately extracts another one.
“Mind if I light this one for you?” I ask. “I need the practice for the social scene.”
She laughs and the unlit cigarette dances in her lips.
“Like in the movies? Why the hell not?”
So I will my hands not to shake as she drops her lighter into my palm. I lean close. Her eyes are big and blue and beautiful. I flick the lighter into flame and pray all the gods in heaven to make my damn hands stay still as I hold the glow to the tip of her cigarette. She narrows her eyes and inhales, hungrily, as if the cigarette that she just smoked never existed.
I let up on the flame. She parts her lips. She is close enough to kiss but it is her stream of smoke that hits my lips – this time purposefully and fully directed my way, a daring gesture as flirty and come-hither as a sultry wink. I inhale, pulling her breathed-out smoke into the depths of my own lungs and manage a smile though my eyes are tearing up from the fumes and my body is buzzing, completely unused to the power of nicotine.
“Maybe you should smoke,” she says, teasingly. “You seem to enjoy it.”
She leans back. Her breasts push against the thin fabric of her top and her nipples, pointed and aroused, are quite visible beneath it.
Damn, I want her. I want to bury my face in those breasts and kiss them in moist and wide circles. I want to unwrap those Jordache jeans and kiss her silky panties and then slip them off and plant a kiss upon the soft golden hair of her womanly mound. Want to caress her firm, ripe bottom, run my hands over its curves and then bury my face in her sweet, hot, wet vagina and nibble it until she explodes. Want to explore the succulent puckered star beneath her hips and bury my tongue deep within it.
But of course I restrain myself.
“I seem to have a good teacher,” is all I say.
She laughs.
She shapes an exhale into a wiggling ring of smoke blown my way. I snap it up like a silly dog being tossed a treat. She blows another and another and we play this game until she can’t hold back the laughter and she blows the remainder of her smoke out in a gusty mess and laughs until she is practically gasping.
One more drag – this time she keeps her mouth closed, eyes me mischievously and leans close and before I know it, two thick jets of smoke are streaming from her nostrils. I draw them in, pulling them greedily down into my tortured lungs, inhaling until the last wisps of smoke have escaped her nose.
She bursts out laughing again.
“That wasn’t disgusting? I didn’t look like some fricken horse?”
“Looked like a dragon. A gorgeous dragon, blasting out some fool knight come to slay thee,” I say.
She snorts.
The cigarette is practically burned down to the filter. She examines it sorrowfully. She takes one more drag, exhaling it away this time.
“You make me laugh,” she explains. “I can’t smoke and laugh at the same time.”
She flicks the burning butt away.
We are silent. Her eyes turn again to her little brother, again attempting to kill himself on the swing set. She stands up. This time, she grabs my hand, like an eager little girl, and pulls me up.
“C’mon, let’s take Peter the Pest home and then …”
She trails off, suddenly shy.
“Then I would love to invite you out for coffee,” I say.
And she is pulling me towards the swings and I am in love and I hope, I pray, that she is, too.
She drifts into my view, lovely in Jordache jeans and golden hair sparkling in the sunshine. She sits upon my bench.
Nobody has cell phones in this bygone age, so instead, she just joins me in enjoying the sounds of the park – kids laughing in the distance, the barking of a dog.
Then from her purse, she extracts a little box – her cigarettes. She shakes one loose with her lips against the pack.
She is not going to ask my permission. No more than she would if she were taking out a piece of gum to chew. This is 1983. Few people care.
With a cheap pink plastic lighter, she sparks a flame to the tip of her cigarette and inhales deeply. I contemplate her craving and the relief that spills through her as nicotine floods her body. The cigarette arches upward in her lips as they squeeze the filter. The narrow ember glows like a blacksmith’s coal and grows into a pretty little cherry of fire.
I hear the soft pop as she pulls the cigarette from her lips and seals them shut with a ball of smoke snuggled inside. I imagine it dancing around her teeth and tickling her tongue before her hungry lungs drag it down.
She holds it inside her as long as she can for maximum effect, then parts her lips and expels a cloud of smoke thicker than London fog. I inhale as a bit of breeze blows it fully into my face – sweet, rich, intoxicating, a moment ago inside her, pleasuring her, now mine to savor. I inhale fiercely until she finishes exhaling and I hold her secondhand smoke inside me until I begin to see stars, not wanting to let it go, ever.
She is watching some kid off to the left of us, now, out on the swingset, maybe her little brother, and so her pretty lips face me and her next exhale is so close and so perfectly, if absently, directed, that I can feel it hitting my face, as if she were a child and I were a dandelion from which she wanted to blow the seeds. The smoke couldn’t be any thicker, any richer, any more potent, if I had her cigarette to my own lips.
She is so beautiful, from the curve of her face to the curves of her womanly body. I feel a positive hatred for the college clods that she must be wasting her time dating – clueless, overgrown adolescents with no realization that they are in the presence of a goddess.
She flicks off a bit of ash and it lands upon my knuckle gripping the edge of the bench. It stings for a moment as it cools. But she does not seem to notice. She is becoming agitated.
“He’s gonna hurt himself,” she says. She suddenly seems to notice me for the first time. She takes a quick but deep drag from her cigarette and blows it in my face as she asks,
“Sir, can you please hold my cigarette a second?”
Of course I agree and our hands touch briefly as I take from her the precious little half-smoked cylinder.
She leaps up and runs towards the swings, giving me a delightful view of her curving hips shifting up and down.
“Peter, you stop fooling around like that! Stay seated in your swing, dammit.”
Ah, such a naughty word for such a pretty mouth!
She leaves the boy brat and returns to the bench. I meekly stretch out my hand and give her back her cigarette.
“Do you smoke?” she asks.
“No,” I say, hastening to add, “But it doesn’t bother me.”
“Bad habit,” she says. “My boyfriend hates it.”
I feel the urge to find this boyfriend and squeeze his throat.
She is sitting back down now. We talk. She grinds her cigarette out beneath her Jelly shoes and immediately extracts another one.
“Mind if I light this one for you?” I ask. “I need the practice for the social scene.”
She laughs and the unlit cigarette dances in her lips.
“Like in the movies? Why the hell not?”
So I will my hands not to shake as she drops her lighter into my palm. I lean close. Her eyes are big and blue and beautiful. I flick the lighter into flame and pray all the gods in heaven to make my damn hands stay still as I hold the glow to the tip of her cigarette. She narrows her eyes and inhales, hungrily, as if the cigarette that she just smoked never existed.
I let up on the flame. She parts her lips. She is close enough to kiss but it is her stream of smoke that hits my lips – this time purposefully and fully directed my way, a daring gesture as flirty and come-hither as a sultry wink. I inhale, pulling her breathed-out smoke into the depths of my own lungs and manage a smile though my eyes are tearing up from the fumes and my body is buzzing, completely unused to the power of nicotine.
“Maybe you should smoke,” she says, teasingly. “You seem to enjoy it.”
She leans back. Her breasts push against the thin fabric of her top and her nipples, pointed and aroused, are quite visible beneath it.
Damn, I want her. I want to bury my face in those breasts and kiss them in moist and wide circles. I want to unwrap those Jordache jeans and kiss her silky panties and then slip them off and plant a kiss upon the soft golden hair of her womanly mound. Want to caress her firm, ripe bottom, run my hands over its curves and then bury my face in her sweet, hot, wet vagina and nibble it until she explodes. Want to explore the succulent puckered star beneath her hips and bury my tongue deep within it.
But of course I restrain myself.
“I seem to have a good teacher,” is all I say.
She laughs.
She shapes an exhale into a wiggling ring of smoke blown my way. I snap it up like a silly dog being tossed a treat. She blows another and another and we play this game until she can’t hold back the laughter and she blows the remainder of her smoke out in a gusty mess and laughs until she is practically gasping.
One more drag – this time she keeps her mouth closed, eyes me mischievously and leans close and before I know it, two thick jets of smoke are streaming from her nostrils. I draw them in, pulling them greedily down into my tortured lungs, inhaling until the last wisps of smoke have escaped her nose.
She bursts out laughing again.
“That wasn’t disgusting? I didn’t look like some fricken horse?”
“Looked like a dragon. A gorgeous dragon, blasting out some fool knight come to slay thee,” I say.
She snorts.
The cigarette is practically burned down to the filter. She examines it sorrowfully. She takes one more drag, exhaling it away this time.
“You make me laugh,” she explains. “I can’t smoke and laugh at the same time.”
She flicks the burning butt away.
We are silent. Her eyes turn again to her little brother, again attempting to kill himself on the swing set. She stands up. This time, she grabs my hand, like an eager little girl, and pulls me up.
“C’mon, let’s take Peter the Pest home and then …”
She trails off, suddenly shy.
“Then I would love to invite you out for coffee,” I say.
And she is pulling me towards the swings and I am in love and I hope, I pray, that she is, too.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
To be beneath ...
Was in some store the other day, happy to see that the warm weather has encouraged shorts upon the majority of the lovely ladies in my town. Some long-legged goddess bent over to drop something in her cart, and her tight shorts immediately betrayed her panty-line, the whole lovely silhouette.
How I love a panty-line! A decade or so ago, some ad campaign came out for a brand of undies that supposedly concealed it. I despised that effort. In our dull days of errands and corporate meetings, what is wrong with a little unexpected reminder of better things? A panty-line is like a passerby's perfume or an unexpected smile -- it captures your mind and carries it away.
The luckiest little ounce or so of substance in the world is that which is made into a woman's panties. Imagine being the first thing to be slipped upon her body in the morning, fresh from the shower. Imagine being blessed to spend your day cradling her soft bottom and kissing her precious vagina!
How I love a panty-line! A decade or so ago, some ad campaign came out for a brand of undies that supposedly concealed it. I despised that effort. In our dull days of errands and corporate meetings, what is wrong with a little unexpected reminder of better things? A panty-line is like a passerby's perfume or an unexpected smile -- it captures your mind and carries it away.
The luckiest little ounce or so of substance in the world is that which is made into a woman's panties. Imagine being the first thing to be slipped upon her body in the morning, fresh from the shower. Imagine being blessed to spend your day cradling her soft bottom and kissing her precious vagina!
Friday, May 7, 2010
Before you hurt a woman ...
A message to every biped with delusions of masculinity:
If you must hurt a woman …
If you must lay hands upon her tender skin
If you must squeeze a tear from her eye
If you must spit out a foul name
Or speak some loathsome insult that her ears should never hear
Or grind down her soul …
… then please follow the instructions below before proceeding:
Fortify yourself chemically: Swallowing antifreeze, lye or other highly corrosive cleaning agents is strongly recommended. Be sure to chug down a manly portion, not a sissy sip.
If you own a lethal weapon, please test it upon yourself first to verify that it works. Aim for your vital organs, such as that space between your ears that contains methane gas and hydrogen sulfide. If you are lucky, maybe it will explode!
Ensure that no possible witnesses are in the habit of passing your residence, by lying quietly in the middle of the road for a good, long time. Do not move if a vehicle approaches – be a macho man and take the pain! Tractor trailer trucks are best for this exercise.
Proceed unarmed into the territory of the nearest vicious dog in your neighborhood and give it a gentle slap. You want to be sure that you can administer a blow without leaving bruises, after all. Bonus points if the beast is rabid.
Or better yet, just take a very long walk to anger management therapy and get yourself some help.
Women are for loving, cuddling, nurturing, indulging, adoring, worshipping, uplifting, celebrating.
Not hurting. Not ever.
If you must hurt a woman …
If you must lay hands upon her tender skin
If you must squeeze a tear from her eye
If you must spit out a foul name
Or speak some loathsome insult that her ears should never hear
Or grind down her soul …
… then please follow the instructions below before proceeding:
Fortify yourself chemically: Swallowing antifreeze, lye or other highly corrosive cleaning agents is strongly recommended. Be sure to chug down a manly portion, not a sissy sip.
If you own a lethal weapon, please test it upon yourself first to verify that it works. Aim for your vital organs, such as that space between your ears that contains methane gas and hydrogen sulfide. If you are lucky, maybe it will explode!
Ensure that no possible witnesses are in the habit of passing your residence, by lying quietly in the middle of the road for a good, long time. Do not move if a vehicle approaches – be a macho man and take the pain! Tractor trailer trucks are best for this exercise.
Proceed unarmed into the territory of the nearest vicious dog in your neighborhood and give it a gentle slap. You want to be sure that you can administer a blow without leaving bruises, after all. Bonus points if the beast is rabid.
Or better yet, just take a very long walk to anger management therapy and get yourself some help.
Women are for loving, cuddling, nurturing, indulging, adoring, worshipping, uplifting, celebrating.
Not hurting. Not ever.
Magic moment
She slid into the driver’s seat of the big SUV beside my parked car and in a moment, a slender white cylinder was balanced in her fingers.
A second later, it rested comfortably in the loving grip of her pretty lips.
She carried no fancy lighter, not even a matchbook – or if she did, she didn’t bother with them. The car lighter would do just fine. She held its red-hot circle to the tip of her cigarette and concentrated.
Such a delightful sight, always, such a delicious thing to contemplate.
When a girl first places a cigarette in her lips – maybe at some teenage slumber party or in the girls’ bathroom at school, or as late as some college study session, she doesn’t really need it. She has no idea how it will make her feel. She is satisfying only curiosity or the urgent desire to fit in.
But soon enough, she needs it. And she learns there is no pleasure like smoking. Nothing like the comfort of a cigarette in her fingers, stylish and slender, the accoutrement of a glamourous lady with disdain for the strictures of society. Nothing like warm, rich smoke filling her lungs. Nothing like answering her body’s hunger for nicotine.
And thus comes a magic moment such as I was privileged to see. Need calls, knocking on her acetycholine receptors. Urgent as the need for sleep at the end of an exhausting day, urgent as the call to scratch an itch, urgent as her daily need to release her cotinine-infused liquid gold, she wants a cigarette and she will have a cigarette.
The flame singes the tobacco, her lips close tight upon the filter tip, her diaphragm contracts and a breath of vital air – oh blessed molecules – is drawn into her lungs, saturated with sweet cigarette smoke.
In seven seconds, nicotine reaches her brain and her pleasure centers light up. She is rewarded. Again and again, she will kiss the cigarette to her lips and inhale, until her beautiful body has reached equilibrium.
If he is lucky, her lover will be close at hand, able to enjoy the sight and fragrance of her pleasure, bathed in her exhales of smoke – in their car with his window firmly closed or in the warm, intimate darkness of their bedroom. He will kiss her smoky lips and his desire for her will burn hotter than the cherry of her cigarette. He will caress her breasts and sweet soft bottom and luscious loins, and add to the pleasures that are surging through her nerves.
Being a woman should indeed be all about pleasure. Pure indulgence. I dream of a Utopia where a tax upon all men provides women smokers with their daily cigarettes for free, where cigarettes do not cause the long-term harm that does in fact trouble me, despite my capnolagniac passion, and where a woman is perfectly free to light up anywhere she pleases – in the office, in an elevator, a school, wherever she may be.
A second later, it rested comfortably in the loving grip of her pretty lips.
She carried no fancy lighter, not even a matchbook – or if she did, she didn’t bother with them. The car lighter would do just fine. She held its red-hot circle to the tip of her cigarette and concentrated.
Such a delightful sight, always, such a delicious thing to contemplate.
When a girl first places a cigarette in her lips – maybe at some teenage slumber party or in the girls’ bathroom at school, or as late as some college study session, she doesn’t really need it. She has no idea how it will make her feel. She is satisfying only curiosity or the urgent desire to fit in.
But soon enough, she needs it. And she learns there is no pleasure like smoking. Nothing like the comfort of a cigarette in her fingers, stylish and slender, the accoutrement of a glamourous lady with disdain for the strictures of society. Nothing like warm, rich smoke filling her lungs. Nothing like answering her body’s hunger for nicotine.
And thus comes a magic moment such as I was privileged to see. Need calls, knocking on her acetycholine receptors. Urgent as the need for sleep at the end of an exhausting day, urgent as the call to scratch an itch, urgent as her daily need to release her cotinine-infused liquid gold, she wants a cigarette and she will have a cigarette.
The flame singes the tobacco, her lips close tight upon the filter tip, her diaphragm contracts and a breath of vital air – oh blessed molecules – is drawn into her lungs, saturated with sweet cigarette smoke.
In seven seconds, nicotine reaches her brain and her pleasure centers light up. She is rewarded. Again and again, she will kiss the cigarette to her lips and inhale, until her beautiful body has reached equilibrium.
If he is lucky, her lover will be close at hand, able to enjoy the sight and fragrance of her pleasure, bathed in her exhales of smoke – in their car with his window firmly closed or in the warm, intimate darkness of their bedroom. He will kiss her smoky lips and his desire for her will burn hotter than the cherry of her cigarette. He will caress her breasts and sweet soft bottom and luscious loins, and add to the pleasures that are surging through her nerves.
Being a woman should indeed be all about pleasure. Pure indulgence. I dream of a Utopia where a tax upon all men provides women smokers with their daily cigarettes for free, where cigarettes do not cause the long-term harm that does in fact trouble me, despite my capnolagniac passion, and where a woman is perfectly free to light up anywhere she pleases – in the office, in an elevator, a school, wherever she may be.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Gold down the drain
Every morning, around the globe, a tragedy takes place.
From the apartments of Paris to mansions in California, from Budapest to Bangladesh, woman after woman open her eyes and wakens, and on softly padding feet, she slips into a certain little room.
And then she carries out a routine that she has followed since she was a tiny girl barely able to walk. She lowers the panties that veil her lovely hips and she sits – or in the Eastern world, she squats – and a glistening, gleaming golden stream shoots forth from deep within her body and hisses into the cool water of her toilet.
Relief sweeps through her as her swollen bladder empties. And when she is finished, she engages a flush lever and away her urine goes, out of sight, out of mind, into some municipal plumbing system.
The semi-scientific term for it is waste, and it is indeed a waste – a waste to simply discard it.
I was just a teen when I first scribbled in my journal in a moment of infatuation with some high school girl, of the indescribable taste of her urine.
Of course, it was schoolboy fantasy, wishful thinking. I had never had such a pleasure. I had no real idea what the taste would be like. I do know, without a doubt, that if by some miracle, she had passed a cup beneath her lovely loins and handed it to me, I would have drained every last drop without hesitation, no matter what it tasted like.
Years passed before such a privilege was mine. My Lady finally acquiesced, quite reluctantly, so reluctantly that I have not repeated the request. Her nectar was indeed indescribable, a little metallic, a lot salty – a flavor unlike any other beverage I have ever sampled. Without doubt, I would sample it again if she was less reluctant.
Why is it so bizarre to so many that in the thrall of love to a woman, a man would long to drink from her nether fountain? Why is it so weird that, having thrilled to the pleasure of probing her hot, wet mouth and sampling the sweet warmth of her skin and exploring her every female nook and cranny, he would desire to imbibe the waters that, heated almost to burning in her internal furnace, extracted from her every precious cell, so intimately a part of her, launch forth from the very fountain of her womanhood?
Unless your lady is afflicted with some contagious disease – something you should know before you engage in any deep intimacy – sipping occasionally from her loving cup will do you no harm at all, though you might balance your salt levels with fresh water when you have finished drinking her golden gift.
So I return to my original statement. That hundreds, thousands of gallons of precious womanly elixir swirl unappreciated each day into the dark, cold depths of drainpipes, is a tragedy. That so many boyfriends and husbands have never ever given such a thing a thought, or that their ladies recoil from the notion of providing it, is a tragedy.
In a better world than this, a coed might pay her way through college, if, certified with a clean bill of health and with her micturation miracle duly pasteurized to appease the FDA, she could actually plaster a picture of her pretty face on a bottle and sell the elixir. A fresh-faced teen might collect cash to indulge her mall cravings; a woman robust and mature might find a customer base that preferred her more seasoned product. Niche markets might spring up for Texas cowgirls, Latinas, Asian beauties or sun-kissed California surfer girls.
But alas, our world is no such place.
From the apartments of Paris to mansions in California, from Budapest to Bangladesh, woman after woman open her eyes and wakens, and on softly padding feet, she slips into a certain little room.
And then she carries out a routine that she has followed since she was a tiny girl barely able to walk. She lowers the panties that veil her lovely hips and she sits – or in the Eastern world, she squats – and a glistening, gleaming golden stream shoots forth from deep within her body and hisses into the cool water of her toilet.
Relief sweeps through her as her swollen bladder empties. And when she is finished, she engages a flush lever and away her urine goes, out of sight, out of mind, into some municipal plumbing system.
The semi-scientific term for it is waste, and it is indeed a waste – a waste to simply discard it.
I was just a teen when I first scribbled in my journal in a moment of infatuation with some high school girl, of the indescribable taste of her urine.
Of course, it was schoolboy fantasy, wishful thinking. I had never had such a pleasure. I had no real idea what the taste would be like. I do know, without a doubt, that if by some miracle, she had passed a cup beneath her lovely loins and handed it to me, I would have drained every last drop without hesitation, no matter what it tasted like.
Years passed before such a privilege was mine. My Lady finally acquiesced, quite reluctantly, so reluctantly that I have not repeated the request. Her nectar was indeed indescribable, a little metallic, a lot salty – a flavor unlike any other beverage I have ever sampled. Without doubt, I would sample it again if she was less reluctant.
Why is it so bizarre to so many that in the thrall of love to a woman, a man would long to drink from her nether fountain? Why is it so weird that, having thrilled to the pleasure of probing her hot, wet mouth and sampling the sweet warmth of her skin and exploring her every female nook and cranny, he would desire to imbibe the waters that, heated almost to burning in her internal furnace, extracted from her every precious cell, so intimately a part of her, launch forth from the very fountain of her womanhood?
Unless your lady is afflicted with some contagious disease – something you should know before you engage in any deep intimacy – sipping occasionally from her loving cup will do you no harm at all, though you might balance your salt levels with fresh water when you have finished drinking her golden gift.
So I return to my original statement. That hundreds, thousands of gallons of precious womanly elixir swirl unappreciated each day into the dark, cold depths of drainpipes, is a tragedy. That so many boyfriends and husbands have never ever given such a thing a thought, or that their ladies recoil from the notion of providing it, is a tragedy.
In a better world than this, a coed might pay her way through college, if, certified with a clean bill of health and with her micturation miracle duly pasteurized to appease the FDA, she could actually plaster a picture of her pretty face on a bottle and sell the elixir. A fresh-faced teen might collect cash to indulge her mall cravings; a woman robust and mature might find a customer base that preferred her more seasoned product. Niche markets might spring up for Texas cowgirls, Latinas, Asian beauties or sun-kissed California surfer girls.
But alas, our world is no such place.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Hope for smoke thwarted
For nearly two hours yesterday, while I waited for a work assignment to begin, I enjoyed the sunshine and a good book on a bench outside our local mall.
Three women and one man came outside to smoke. I fully ignored the man, as of course he did not interest me. But it is important to note that I was not rude to him. I believe that the capnolagniac's code, even if said capnolagniac is, like me, not a smoker himself, is to be as tolerant as possible of male smokers.
Long experience has taught me to be quiet, unobtrusive and to feign an oblivious state if I am to enjoy any secondhand smoke blowing my way from the lips of a lovely lady. In my younger years (I am still quite young!), I foolishly tried to tell smokers that their smoking didn't bother me, that they didn't have to turn away, etc. I succeeded only in scaring them off and coming across as a creep. I do not wish to be a creep.
One must carefully position oneself close enough to be able to capture some of her sweet smoke, but if you are too close, most likely her lifetime of dealing with anti-smokers will kick in and she will do her utmost to avoid any smoke blowing your way.
I was too close to the first woman, sitting down probably about eight feet away from her as she lit up. She did not take more than a few puffs before putting it out and returning to the mall. So for me, a mental slap in the face, a failure.
I stayed put for a while and eventually another woman came out and sat upwind of me. I had the advantage of already being in place this time, which is less creepy than a guy who moves into your vicinity. But the experience was unremarkable; she smoked some brand that barely gave off any smoke and was soon gone.
My last experience was also dissatisfying. A blonde woman in her early twenties. So concerned about not letting any smoke drift my way that she sat far downwind from me, half hidden by some bush. Only one cigarette for her break.
Altogether a dull afternoon.
It is always better to seek a place with a lot of people around, so that your presence does not disconcert her. Unfortunately, places with a lot of people around tend to be off-limits to smoking these days.
Three women and one man came outside to smoke. I fully ignored the man, as of course he did not interest me. But it is important to note that I was not rude to him. I believe that the capnolagniac's code, even if said capnolagniac is, like me, not a smoker himself, is to be as tolerant as possible of male smokers.
Long experience has taught me to be quiet, unobtrusive and to feign an oblivious state if I am to enjoy any secondhand smoke blowing my way from the lips of a lovely lady. In my younger years (I am still quite young!), I foolishly tried to tell smokers that their smoking didn't bother me, that they didn't have to turn away, etc. I succeeded only in scaring them off and coming across as a creep. I do not wish to be a creep.
One must carefully position oneself close enough to be able to capture some of her sweet smoke, but if you are too close, most likely her lifetime of dealing with anti-smokers will kick in and she will do her utmost to avoid any smoke blowing your way.
I was too close to the first woman, sitting down probably about eight feet away from her as she lit up. She did not take more than a few puffs before putting it out and returning to the mall. So for me, a mental slap in the face, a failure.
I stayed put for a while and eventually another woman came out and sat upwind of me. I had the advantage of already being in place this time, which is less creepy than a guy who moves into your vicinity. But the experience was unremarkable; she smoked some brand that barely gave off any smoke and was soon gone.
My last experience was also dissatisfying. A blonde woman in her early twenties. So concerned about not letting any smoke drift my way that she sat far downwind from me, half hidden by some bush. Only one cigarette for her break.
Altogether a dull afternoon.
It is always better to seek a place with a lot of people around, so that your presence does not disconcert her. Unfortunately, places with a lot of people around tend to be off-limits to smoking these days.
Free to be me!
This blog may offend some people. So be it. This is my place to express what I might not be able to do so elsewhere. In the real world, I'm a decent guy. I pay my taxes. I work hard. I've committed no crimes. I don't have a ponytail or live in my momma's basement.
Yet, deep in my soul are fervent passions -- passions that must be kept in check. Utter love of that miracle-being, womankind, that burns like a radioactive ember within me. Love of the sound of her voice, the perfume that radiates from her skin, the taste of her mouth, the pleasure of kissing her from head to toe and every inch in between -- and I do mean every inch. From suckling her wiggly toes to exploring her every secret orifice to simply inhaling the breath she exhales.
When she is mildly naughty, ah, it inflames! And here is where the offense may come. If I were to notice a woman slipping something into her purse in a store, I would shirk my civic duty, I would never tell. And indeed, I have noticed, and told not.
If a lovely lady hand reaches through her car window and tosses out litter, my heart races -- and again, I thrill to the sight. And indeed, I have seen, and reported it not. I cannot dare to drop so much as a gum wrapper, myself.
If a spider, or a wriggling worm, is negotiating passage of a sidewalk, and she sees it, and she crushes it underfoot needlessly, cruelly, oh, the power of that moment! And yet, I cannot bring myself to take a lowly life, except the occassional mosquito.
My deepest, most inexplicable torment has burned within me since I was a little boy. Officially, it is called capnolagnia. It is the intense arousal engendered when a woman flouts the conventions of society and lights a cigarette. Oh, how can you naysayers hate me for something that I distinctly remember smouldering in my soul when I was yet so young as to be unaware of long division and cursive writing?
So I go about my life, a normal guy, a nice guy, a harmless guy, never knowing when I will turn a corner and catch a glimpse of a lovely lady exhaling Marlboro mist and find myself trembling like a child and conjuring up excuses to break from whatever group I am with and immerse myself in her smoky presence for a few minutes until she puts out her cigarette and goes her way.
I stop short when I see a lady finishing off her can of Coke or unwrapping a candy bar, waiting with bated breath to see if she will stuff it in a trash can or just let it fall.
That's just me. Repressed but harmless.
Yet, deep in my soul are fervent passions -- passions that must be kept in check. Utter love of that miracle-being, womankind, that burns like a radioactive ember within me. Love of the sound of her voice, the perfume that radiates from her skin, the taste of her mouth, the pleasure of kissing her from head to toe and every inch in between -- and I do mean every inch. From suckling her wiggly toes to exploring her every secret orifice to simply inhaling the breath she exhales.
When she is mildly naughty, ah, it inflames! And here is where the offense may come. If I were to notice a woman slipping something into her purse in a store, I would shirk my civic duty, I would never tell. And indeed, I have noticed, and told not.
If a lovely lady hand reaches through her car window and tosses out litter, my heart races -- and again, I thrill to the sight. And indeed, I have seen, and reported it not. I cannot dare to drop so much as a gum wrapper, myself.
If a spider, or a wriggling worm, is negotiating passage of a sidewalk, and she sees it, and she crushes it underfoot needlessly, cruelly, oh, the power of that moment! And yet, I cannot bring myself to take a lowly life, except the occassional mosquito.
My deepest, most inexplicable torment has burned within me since I was a little boy. Officially, it is called capnolagnia. It is the intense arousal engendered when a woman flouts the conventions of society and lights a cigarette. Oh, how can you naysayers hate me for something that I distinctly remember smouldering in my soul when I was yet so young as to be unaware of long division and cursive writing?
So I go about my life, a normal guy, a nice guy, a harmless guy, never knowing when I will turn a corner and catch a glimpse of a lovely lady exhaling Marlboro mist and find myself trembling like a child and conjuring up excuses to break from whatever group I am with and immerse myself in her smoky presence for a few minutes until she puts out her cigarette and goes her way.
I stop short when I see a lady finishing off her can of Coke or unwrapping a candy bar, waiting with bated breath to see if she will stuff it in a trash can or just let it fall.
That's just me. Repressed but harmless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)