I AM NOT THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

I am Catholic high school girl with thick raven tresses. My stiffly starched long sleeved cotton blouse is just a little too small in a particular area, and my plaid skirt flashes a sight of dimpled knees when I walk. My long white socks hug my calves - the effect is both very modest, very girlish, and incredibly revealing.
I smell alluringly of Alfred Sung perfume, despite that being far too mature a scent for a person of my youthfulness.
   ......
[Read all of it here: Noodles For Two.]


My name is John, I am thirty six years old and happily married, I want to be dominated by a big black woman wearing Nazi stormtrooper bra and panties in a vat of Jello. Wielding a purple velvet bullwhip.
I live in Baltimore. Lime Jello.
   ......
[Read that here: My Sensuous Side.]


I am a tall Black amazon, early twenties, with large nicely shaped breasts and a statuesque figure. Curves in all the right places, narrow waisted.
I just pretend to be a pudgy middle-aged white male pipe smoker so that my target audience (glandularly stressed fifteen year old boys) does not go into hormonal angst while reading my blog.
   ......
[Read this: Still Moist.]


It's true. All of it. I am not ashamed. I am also a lean middle-aged man taking a long bath while reading a murder mystery, smoking a pipe, and occasionally supping a hot beverage from a tea tray next to the tub.

What can I say? I'm kind of multi-faceted.

I am not a succubus, incubus, or shape-shifting lizard alien.

Though I have been a newt.

I got better.



CELLPHONES, COCKTAILS, CONSUMER GOODS

To my surprise, upon rereading those three passages, I realize that I am obsessed with the breast obsessions of other humans, but not in a sexual way. It's more like poking a sharp stick at members of my gender and hissing "you're neurotic, boy, quite queer".

Or wishing to advise someone that the implants will sag eventually.
And it was quite immature to get them in the first place.


"Actually, I didn't even notice the damned things until you brought them up. And what was the point of that, by the way? Did you fear that they were the only thing that made you stand out? 
You were probably right."


There are several parts of the female anatomy that can be extremely pleasing, but if there is too much evidence that she's an idiot who cannot think, it is advisable to not initiate conversation, not make eye-contact, and not express even the slightest amount of interest.
Don't worry, somebody else will.


One of my fondest fantasies is that a sports-obsessed former fratboy with a degree in marketing should link up with a boobalicious anti-vaxxer, and that the two of them then provide everyone they know with lots of entertainment over several years, as their various stupidities, lapses of judgment, and neuroses mix, mingle, clash, and come ferociously bubbling to the surface.

[The chance of a nasty lime jello event is, with those two, frighteningly large. Either they will send selfies of themselves together in the bathtub sliding around in lime jello, or his and hers pictures of huge parts of the other person covered in lime jello, or, oh horrors, record a disgusting amateur porn-video of all the things they can do to each other while romping naked in lime jello.
None of this is stuff which one wants to see. Ever.
Do not become Facebook friends with them.
Don't share cellphone numbers.
Or pudding recipes.]


They will struggle over handbags, home decoration, peculiarities of diet, raising kids, naturopathy, and the yearly championships in their favourite sporting events (home shopping versus basketball). They will eat organic pizza and have expensive psychotherapy habits.

They and their offspring will be special.
And heavily medicated.

There are a few candidates for either role of whom I am aware, but none whom I will claim to know socially. Nor is it likely that I will be seen with any of them, because I prefer to avoid either type.
But I have a lively vicarious interest.

It is because of my schadenfreudige sensibilities that I like people.

That, and breasts.



Somewhere tonight the dingbats are howling in the city, preened and alert, and searching for their soulmates. Or a one night stand that might turn into something lasting. Or not. It does not matter. The amount of hormones being excreted is enormous, Trumpesque. Watering holes up and down Polk Street are full of people with marketing degrees and breasts, and I'm sure there's a ball game on teevee.


Boobs are in play.


Perhaps I should have some noodle soup for dinner tonight, as well as tea, followed by a pipe. No, no lime jello; that was just used for effect.
Although it IS slithery and delicious.

And ... sensual.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================