HOW WAS YOUR DAY?

Forgot to bring my pipetobacco, as well as an umbrella. No, I didn't bother checking the weather report beforehand, but I have since corrected that mistake. Tomorrow will again be cats and dogs. Wet. Miserably so.
And, as per schedule, I shall be in Marin.
No, I do not like Marin particularly.
People are uber-entitled there.


BLINDS DOWN, DRAPES DRAWN

Today would have been a perfect day to swan around a warm but deserted apartment in the nude. Whether the apartment belongs to an independent-minded auntie who left town for the holidays, OR is the family residence and everyone drove to a giant shopping mall in the East Bay is beside the point. Alone, fresh out of the shower, high pert breasts and rosy nipples glowing in the light from a reading lamp, while reading Marcel Proust, or dreaming of a zesty middle-aged daemon lover. Tomorrow will be perfect for that also.
There are delightful roundnesses. Fresh and innocently alluring.
The curve of the stomach looks velvety and elegant.
The toes are adorable and twiddly.
Charming knees.

Perfect, except for the fact that as a man I cannot do that, nor would it even be possible on my next day off (Tuesday). Not only because my apartment is an unholy mess, even when my apartment mate is at work and I shan't have to worry about being disturbed, but primarily due to an inescapable fact of biology: though men do swan naked, the vast majority of them thankfully do NOT possess high pert breasts.
Nor velvety adorableness of any kind.
We are a rather angular lot.
I am no different.


THE MOIST AND NOISY REAL WORLD

So no, I did not read Proust today. Nor will I likely do so on my days off. Day-dreaming of succubi or incubi -- any version of Dr. Frankfurter in The Rocky Horror Picture Show -- is not a process that I habitually pursue.
Yes, I do have prurient thoughts, but no, I shan't share the details.
Whichever gender you are you can already imagine them.

[You could ask privately if you are truly dying of curiosity. In which case, I might just string you along for a while if I doubt the advisability of divulging any details. It depends on you.
Suffice to say that I have a deliciously filthy mind.]

Instead, I spent most of the day listening to cigar-smoking wankers inanely yattering in front of the television, or occasionally screaming their damned fool heads off. Roughly equal amounts of both.

There were no warm comforting cups of milk-tea.
No pillows, and no fluffy throw-rug.
No volumes of Proust.


In all honesty, I would not mind being nude. Provided I were indoors during rainy weather. In a reasonably non-public place or capacity.
And I might not read Proust at those times.
Just so you know.



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