Mistress Mary quite contrary / How does my hard-on grow?
Quite, handily thank you / as your smile does show.
~
And she is indeed, quite contrary. But then again, aren’t we all?
Sunday, April 13, 2008
My Sexless 1960s...
Not exactly a love-in, my 1960s. But, being born in 1956, I guess that was acceptable since I was just a fledgling pervert gradually sniffing around the perversion tree. Didn’t know much about anything sexy as a kid. It just wasn’t around in the culture. Too young. Too sheltered.
Remember, we were still ensconced in the days of TV couples in separate beds.
I do recall my Mom, making Dad draw a “dickie” of sorts, no, not a penis, but a turtleneck shirtfront to cover the cleavage of a model pictured on the front of a Dukes of Dixieland or a Firehouse Five +2 LP. I remember seeing it before she made him censor it and being completely enthralled. Probably a good move, Mom.
The model was wearing a straw hat and a striped man’s dress shirt opened to the waist and tight Capris. No nipples showing, only cleavage, but WOW, it was something. I also recall that my Dad, who had been a vice cop, had a stack of four or five LPs in the hall closet that they had confiscated. They were up on a high shelf with the old Deanna Durbin albums of 78s that he didn’t play anymore. They were “Stag Party” records (not only the genre but the label, I believe). Off-color humor that I really didn't get when I snuck them down and listened to them...nothing you don’t hear on the Comedy Channel these days or even on network TV for that matter. Somebody named Bert Henry and I think there was even one by Redd Foxx and this was years before "Sanford & Son".
I remember going with Mom, my grandma, my six-year-old brother, and my two cousins who were my age (nine years old) to see the movie “The Great Race” at the El Rey Theater in Alhambra and there is a scene when Natalie Wood comes out of the water soaking wet in her clingy, white, Victorian bloomers thing and a kid yelled out “A-HA, look at de booozums”. That cracked us up and of course to this day when the four of us are around each other we crack up when someone says this.
Also when I was ten and we went to see “Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid” and my brother created a fuss because he didn’t want to go. “You and Dad just want to see it because it’s dirty.”
What the hell was he talking about? I found out, when Katherine Ross opened her nightgown for Redford, all backlit and whatnot. Though we didn’t really see anything, my, how I wanted to. The funny thing was that after all of his complaining, it was the other picture on the bill was the "dirty" one (ah, remember when ALL movies were double bills?). The first feature was “Marlowe” with James Garner and when the scene with a stripper twirling her pasty tassels came on, my brother high-tailed it up the aisle “to the bathroom”. Mom told me to follow him, which pissed me off so I walked backwards up the aisle to not miss the scene. I’m no fool. And who was at the top of the aisle peeping through the curtains but my seven-year-old little brother. Always a step ahead of the rest of us, even then.
Other titillating childhood memories that pop up are the distinct memory of the first breasts I ever saw…my older cousin Michelle, who I just loved – “My Michelle” I used to call her.
She was babysitting us once and we were all bouncing and wrestling on my folks' bed and I remember she was wearing a yellow, gauzy nightgown. At one point, she bent over to tickle me (oh, how I loved her wild laugh) and I could see down her neckline at her bare breasts. Small handfuls, pink tipped in the soft light filtering through the fabric. I wasn't sure why, but I had to try to catch another fleeting glimpse. I’ll never forget it though I wasn’t even sure why that was interesting to me at the time. It was probably because I didn’t have any myself.
My family didn't run around naked so the one time I remember seeing my mom's boobs stands out. She was taking a bath and my Dad brought me in to say goodnight. Also I remember seeing my Dad's penis just once. He was standing shaving his face and I walked in accidentally. I remember thinking it was huge and I realize now that it was soft and average and looked pretty much like mine does now. At the time, I was completely amazed and jealous. I was ten. I'm sure I took showers with him when I was really little but I don't have any recollection of that.
I also remember walking in Hollywood with my family somewhere near Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the greatest of the Hollywood movie palaces, and I recall seeing a “pretty woman” with what looked like a mustache. Ah, the joys of growing up in Southern California; if it’s not Ricky Nelson and his pregnant wife Chris at Denny’s, it’s cross-dressers on Sunset Blvd.
I’d had big crushes in grade school on Sage N. in 3rd grade, Mrs. Weinholdt’s class – that girl could play a flutophone...until she miraculously developed a foreign accent overnight, which spooked me. She eventually married a good childhood friend of ours.
In the 4th and 5th grade, it was Alise P. who was a doll, thin, sporty and blond and I was way too shy to ever approach her (she eventually married a wild neighbor of mine three years older than us and had about a million kids – whew, dodged that bullet).
Out of my reach at this time was Liz McF who was wild, always had boys after her and a bit too aggressive (i.e. advanced) for me. One of the first “smokers” then “stoners” a few years later, she hung with a wilder crowd earlier than most of us. But, she had dimples. The first in my long line of attraction to dimpled girls. I wonder if that’s what drew me to Charlene, my ex-wife…yes, I've had a long proclivity for dimples. Unrequited dimple fixation that needed to be quenched.
So, these are the pre-pubescent, roots of my teen angst. I was a bit too young for the swingin’ ‘60s. Missed all of that free love and most of that open lifestyle experimentation…okay, so I made up for lost time a bit in the late 70s and in my late 40s but those are two other bags of worms…I sure absorbed the concept and influence of the freedom ethos through the media and culture though…the music and even advertising became more sexy and women and teens had more freedom than ever before…we thought we could actually speak our minds…anyway, I’m sidetracked, back to the sex stuff….
In 7th grade, I remember being on the lawn in the quad at lunch and hearing Franny tell us that a girl's privates were called "Virginia". He later spent some time in prison, coincidence?...I think not. He was immediately corrected by one of the jocks who had older sisters and brother, "No, you idiot, it's "virGIna (sic)." The female mystery organ had come up in a conversation about Lucy H, who it was rumored had been caught in the girls’ bathroom counting her pubic hair. She wasn't in there very long.
I also recall missing classes while I waited for my uncontrollable hard-on to die down as I sat in the library, praying that no one would notice. Oh, the glory days of hourly spontaneous erections. I like to say now that I was constantly infatuated with a breeze. Didn't take much.
We spent a whole lot of time trying to “catch a beaver”, i.e. see girls' panties as they sat with their legs open. Gary P. was such a hawk-eye that he claimed to have x-ray vision and could tell what color panties a girl was wearing before he caught a real glimpse. He even named everyone’s dick a funny nickname. Somehow I don’t remember mine, though I think I was Rod. I recall there was a Mortimer (Lenny R, I think) and Garry C’s was Flip because he has a different turn on the end from his circumcision scar. Now, Gary P's real claim to fame was that he claimed to have seen our hot (or at least fairly young) Social Studies teacher’s beaver. He claimed Miss Garrett sported, “a puffer”. As did Cathy R. For you, with little experience on the beaver trail, this refers to girls with MAJOR hair down there. Remember, these were the days before bikini waxing and landing strips and the like. So to be "a puffer" you had to have some intense forestation going on.
The thing about going to our particular Junior High was that it brought together kids from, not only the three elementary schools in the district, but the Catholic school as well. So there was a huge influx of cute girls who you somehow felt you might have a chance with since they didn’t know you like the girls you’d spent the last six years being ignored by. There were kids whose names you had heard over the years from students who transferred into your school or through their delinquency legends. There were also kids who you had played Little League with or gone to church with. It was a time of budding friendships and suddenly new cliques and alliances were heating up. Somehow, many of the kids who just 3 months before had been your good friends would be off in their own new worlds and just a passing glance for the rest of your days in school.
Then there was the trauma of not only having lots of new and exciting girls to drool over but they were freshly bursting at the seams. Where had all the skinny, flat-chested girls gone? You know, those silly, frivolous, foursquare and jacks playing girls who we'd pick on in class and ignore the rest of the time?
Someone had injected them with curves and height and funny smiles that didn’t mean what they used to. And they dressed better. The light shone through their hair much more enticingly. They seemed to walk in slow motion across the schoolyard with their books pressed against them where you somehow instantly realized that you wanted your hands to be. They giggled incessantly, their heads swirling around to look over their shoulders at…no, not us, but the older 8th grade boys.
These boys were the bane of my existence. All tough and smiling and confident, knowing something we were sure we needed to know. We hadn’t the vaguest idea of what they knew but we were ready to find out. My biggest trauma is that I was completely infatuated with Donna B., one of these girls from outside my particular grade school, i.e. my previous world.
Donna was beautiful, with wavy, long, blond hair and she wore neckbands, and vests (I remember distinctly a navy blue sweater-vest and a long sleeve yellow dress shirt underneath with hip-hugger jeans)...a very cool, stylish not hippie but hip-type thing at the time. She never gave me the time of day. Oh, the occasional smile and a couple of brief fleeting conversations. But I always tried to sit a the lunch table with her friends and sit across from her so I could be just one or two people away from her.
I remember that the day we were having our class photos taken, I was wearing a ludicrous outfit that my good-hearted Mom had put together for me to wear. I was a 7th grader; a nobody and in my yellow shirt, sweater vest, yellow socks and pants, I DID look like a banana. What was my mother thinking? Donna's older brother Dick (appropriately), decided that he'd point that fact out as I stood next to the goddess that was his sister. Nice.
They had dances at school but I never went to one. No reason to. There was no one I deemed approachable and what did I know about dancing? All the girls I was friends with (a couple who would speak to me for more than a sentence or two, had boyfriends). I did go to my first party and drank my first (half of a) beer, which I walked around with all night not wanting to get drunk but wanting to be seen with a beer. It was in a house on Emperor by the school and I walked there with my friend Gus. There was a band set up in the kitchen that played “Aqualung” by Jethro Tull and Allman Brothers tunes.
Thus began a harrowing year that would repeat this same sickening pattern when we arrived as freshman to high school two years later.
But, in between, there was the New World: 8th grade - 1970-71.
Remember, we were still ensconced in the days of TV couples in separate beds.
I do recall my Mom, making Dad draw a “dickie” of sorts, no, not a penis, but a turtleneck shirtfront to cover the cleavage of a model pictured on the front of a Dukes of Dixieland or a Firehouse Five +2 LP. I remember seeing it before she made him censor it and being completely enthralled. Probably a good move, Mom.
The model was wearing a straw hat and a striped man’s dress shirt opened to the waist and tight Capris. No nipples showing, only cleavage, but WOW, it was something. I also recall that my Dad, who had been a vice cop, had a stack of four or five LPs in the hall closet that they had confiscated. They were up on a high shelf with the old Deanna Durbin albums of 78s that he didn’t play anymore. They were “Stag Party” records (not only the genre but the label, I believe). Off-color humor that I really didn't get when I snuck them down and listened to them...nothing you don’t hear on the Comedy Channel these days or even on network TV for that matter. Somebody named Bert Henry and I think there was even one by Redd Foxx and this was years before "Sanford & Son".
I remember going with Mom, my grandma, my six-year-old brother, and my two cousins who were my age (nine years old) to see the movie “The Great Race” at the El Rey Theater in Alhambra and there is a scene when Natalie Wood comes out of the water soaking wet in her clingy, white, Victorian bloomers thing and a kid yelled out “A-HA, look at de booozums”. That cracked us up and of course to this day when the four of us are around each other we crack up when someone says this.
Also when I was ten and we went to see “Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid” and my brother created a fuss because he didn’t want to go. “You and Dad just want to see it because it’s dirty.”
What the hell was he talking about? I found out, when Katherine Ross opened her nightgown for Redford, all backlit and whatnot. Though we didn’t really see anything, my, how I wanted to. The funny thing was that after all of his complaining, it was the other picture on the bill was the "dirty" one (ah, remember when ALL movies were double bills?). The first feature was “Marlowe” with James Garner and when the scene with a stripper twirling her pasty tassels came on, my brother high-tailed it up the aisle “to the bathroom”. Mom told me to follow him, which pissed me off so I walked backwards up the aisle to not miss the scene. I’m no fool. And who was at the top of the aisle peeping through the curtains but my seven-year-old little brother. Always a step ahead of the rest of us, even then.
Other titillating childhood memories that pop up are the distinct memory of the first breasts I ever saw…my older cousin Michelle, who I just loved – “My Michelle” I used to call her.
She was babysitting us once and we were all bouncing and wrestling on my folks' bed and I remember she was wearing a yellow, gauzy nightgown. At one point, she bent over to tickle me (oh, how I loved her wild laugh) and I could see down her neckline at her bare breasts. Small handfuls, pink tipped in the soft light filtering through the fabric. I wasn't sure why, but I had to try to catch another fleeting glimpse. I’ll never forget it though I wasn’t even sure why that was interesting to me at the time. It was probably because I didn’t have any myself.
My family didn't run around naked so the one time I remember seeing my mom's boobs stands out. She was taking a bath and my Dad brought me in to say goodnight. Also I remember seeing my Dad's penis just once. He was standing shaving his face and I walked in accidentally. I remember thinking it was huge and I realize now that it was soft and average and looked pretty much like mine does now. At the time, I was completely amazed and jealous. I was ten. I'm sure I took showers with him when I was really little but I don't have any recollection of that.
I also remember walking in Hollywood with my family somewhere near Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the greatest of the Hollywood movie palaces, and I recall seeing a “pretty woman” with what looked like a mustache. Ah, the joys of growing up in Southern California; if it’s not Ricky Nelson and his pregnant wife Chris at Denny’s, it’s cross-dressers on Sunset Blvd.
I’d had big crushes in grade school on Sage N. in 3rd grade, Mrs. Weinholdt’s class – that girl could play a flutophone...until she miraculously developed a foreign accent overnight, which spooked me. She eventually married a good childhood friend of ours.
In the 4th and 5th grade, it was Alise P. who was a doll, thin, sporty and blond and I was way too shy to ever approach her (she eventually married a wild neighbor of mine three years older than us and had about a million kids – whew, dodged that bullet).
Out of my reach at this time was Liz McF who was wild, always had boys after her and a bit too aggressive (i.e. advanced) for me. One of the first “smokers” then “stoners” a few years later, she hung with a wilder crowd earlier than most of us. But, she had dimples. The first in my long line of attraction to dimpled girls. I wonder if that’s what drew me to Charlene, my ex-wife…yes, I've had a long proclivity for dimples. Unrequited dimple fixation that needed to be quenched.
So, these are the pre-pubescent, roots of my teen angst. I was a bit too young for the swingin’ ‘60s. Missed all of that free love and most of that open lifestyle experimentation…okay, so I made up for lost time a bit in the late 70s and in my late 40s but those are two other bags of worms…I sure absorbed the concept and influence of the freedom ethos through the media and culture though…the music and even advertising became more sexy and women and teens had more freedom than ever before…we thought we could actually speak our minds…anyway, I’m sidetracked, back to the sex stuff….
In 7th grade, I remember being on the lawn in the quad at lunch and hearing Franny tell us that a girl's privates were called "Virginia". He later spent some time in prison, coincidence?...I think not. He was immediately corrected by one of the jocks who had older sisters and brother, "No, you idiot, it's "virGIna (sic)." The female mystery organ had come up in a conversation about Lucy H, who it was rumored had been caught in the girls’ bathroom counting her pubic hair. She wasn't in there very long.
I also recall missing classes while I waited for my uncontrollable hard-on to die down as I sat in the library, praying that no one would notice. Oh, the glory days of hourly spontaneous erections. I like to say now that I was constantly infatuated with a breeze. Didn't take much.
We spent a whole lot of time trying to “catch a beaver”, i.e. see girls' panties as they sat with their legs open. Gary P. was such a hawk-eye that he claimed to have x-ray vision and could tell what color panties a girl was wearing before he caught a real glimpse. He even named everyone’s dick a funny nickname. Somehow I don’t remember mine, though I think I was Rod. I recall there was a Mortimer (Lenny R, I think) and Garry C’s was Flip because he has a different turn on the end from his circumcision scar. Now, Gary P's real claim to fame was that he claimed to have seen our hot (or at least fairly young) Social Studies teacher’s beaver. He claimed Miss Garrett sported, “a puffer”. As did Cathy R. For you, with little experience on the beaver trail, this refers to girls with MAJOR hair down there. Remember, these were the days before bikini waxing and landing strips and the like. So to be "a puffer" you had to have some intense forestation going on.
The thing about going to our particular Junior High was that it brought together kids from, not only the three elementary schools in the district, but the Catholic school as well. So there was a huge influx of cute girls who you somehow felt you might have a chance with since they didn’t know you like the girls you’d spent the last six years being ignored by. There were kids whose names you had heard over the years from students who transferred into your school or through their delinquency legends. There were also kids who you had played Little League with or gone to church with. It was a time of budding friendships and suddenly new cliques and alliances were heating up. Somehow, many of the kids who just 3 months before had been your good friends would be off in their own new worlds and just a passing glance for the rest of your days in school.
Then there was the trauma of not only having lots of new and exciting girls to drool over but they were freshly bursting at the seams. Where had all the skinny, flat-chested girls gone? You know, those silly, frivolous, foursquare and jacks playing girls who we'd pick on in class and ignore the rest of the time?
Someone had injected them with curves and height and funny smiles that didn’t mean what they used to. And they dressed better. The light shone through their hair much more enticingly. They seemed to walk in slow motion across the schoolyard with their books pressed against them where you somehow instantly realized that you wanted your hands to be. They giggled incessantly, their heads swirling around to look over their shoulders at…no, not us, but the older 8th grade boys.
These boys were the bane of my existence. All tough and smiling and confident, knowing something we were sure we needed to know. We hadn’t the vaguest idea of what they knew but we were ready to find out. My biggest trauma is that I was completely infatuated with Donna B., one of these girls from outside my particular grade school, i.e. my previous world.
Donna was beautiful, with wavy, long, blond hair and she wore neckbands, and vests (I remember distinctly a navy blue sweater-vest and a long sleeve yellow dress shirt underneath with hip-hugger jeans)...a very cool, stylish not hippie but hip-type thing at the time. She never gave me the time of day. Oh, the occasional smile and a couple of brief fleeting conversations. But I always tried to sit a the lunch table with her friends and sit across from her so I could be just one or two people away from her.
I remember that the day we were having our class photos taken, I was wearing a ludicrous outfit that my good-hearted Mom had put together for me to wear. I was a 7th grader; a nobody and in my yellow shirt, sweater vest, yellow socks and pants, I DID look like a banana. What was my mother thinking? Donna's older brother Dick (appropriately), decided that he'd point that fact out as I stood next to the goddess that was his sister. Nice.
They had dances at school but I never went to one. No reason to. There was no one I deemed approachable and what did I know about dancing? All the girls I was friends with (a couple who would speak to me for more than a sentence or two, had boyfriends). I did go to my first party and drank my first (half of a) beer, which I walked around with all night not wanting to get drunk but wanting to be seen with a beer. It was in a house on Emperor by the school and I walked there with my friend Gus. There was a band set up in the kitchen that played “Aqualung” by Jethro Tull and Allman Brothers tunes.
Thus began a harrowing year that would repeat this same sickening pattern when we arrived as freshman to high school two years later.
But, in between, there was the New World: 8th grade - 1970-71.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
RUMI, I AIN’T (HERE I AM)
Multiple times
Every day
Since I’ve met you
More so of late
I picture
Imagine
Visualize
Feel my cock
The cock I’ve spent a lifetime running from
Obsessing over
Clinging to
Afraid of
The cock you’ve gripped
Tightly in your small hands
Fitting, like no other
The cock you have stroked and caressed
Smiled at lovingly,
I have pictured it
Up to the hilt
Balls deep
Stopping
Diving into that moment between thrusting movement
Inside you
Your tightness
Enveloping
Blood of your passion
Engorged around my tumescence
As I flex over
And over
Again
Your entire body
Wrapped up
Engaged
Focused
Gripping my towering
Vulnerability
The rooted flesh
Of my manhood
Stopped, as far as I can fathom
Into your body
As your squeeze
Tightly around me
My mind zeroed in on the infinitesimal space
Between our beings
As close as humans get
To being someone else
To truly embracing the us in we
The I in you
The me in be.
Until I do
You must break me
Break me like a wild horse
Whip the fight out of me
Slap the smile from my arrogance
Lick the tears from my fear
Squeeze the pain from my psyche
And I from you
Until the hesitance of our humanity
Shatters
In the bliss
Of our flesh entwined
Our hearts breathing
Timeless
Unfathomable
Floating
Now,
Wrapped
Into
Around
Beginning and ending
Where all begins and ends.
-- S.F. 3/28/08 – for MMMM
Every day
Since I’ve met you
More so of late
I picture
Imagine
Visualize
Feel my cock
The cock I’ve spent a lifetime running from
Obsessing over
Clinging to
Afraid of
The cock you’ve gripped
Tightly in your small hands
Fitting, like no other
The cock you have stroked and caressed
Smiled at lovingly,
I have pictured it
Up to the hilt
Balls deep
Stopping
Diving into that moment between thrusting movement
Inside you
Your tightness
Enveloping
Blood of your passion
Engorged around my tumescence
As I flex over
And over
Again
Your entire body
Wrapped up
Engaged
Focused
Gripping my towering
Vulnerability
The rooted flesh
Of my manhood
Stopped, as far as I can fathom
Into your body
As your squeeze
Tightly around me
My mind zeroed in on the infinitesimal space
Between our beings
As close as humans get
To being someone else
To truly embracing the us in we
The I in you
The me in be.
Until I do
You must break me
Break me like a wild horse
Whip the fight out of me
Slap the smile from my arrogance
Lick the tears from my fear
Squeeze the pain from my psyche
And I from you
Until the hesitance of our humanity
Shatters
In the bliss
Of our flesh entwined
Our hearts breathing
Timeless
Unfathomable
Floating
Now,
Wrapped
Into
Around
Beginning and ending
Where all begins and ends.
-- S.F. 3/28/08 – for MMMM
Friday, November 23, 2007
PHILOSOPHIZE ON THIS BABY
So I've joined some sexy adult dating sites and am having fun meeting some wonderfully open, twisted, free, loving, horny, odd, sultry and fascinatingly titillating folks...
I'm sure I'll post more about some of them here...but tonight I wanted to share with you a fun little comment I added to one of their blog postings. Not that it is oh so brilliant but I had fun writing it and figured I'd share here...
She is a blogger who has been told she is sexiest when she gets all philosophical...sounds like Miss Mary to me...though I've never felt the sting of this girl's hand...I somehow feel you are peas from a similarly twisted pod...so I introduced myself to her by way of the following...
"Stumbled on your profile and adore it. What I wouldn't give to sidle up to you and Hegel you up and down. I'd slowly slip my Sartre into your glistening Schopenhauer. You'd be all Ayn Rand-y by the time I tied you with your own Lyotard, pressing your voluptuous Hobbes down tight, until you practically Deleuzed all over yourself. I'd John Locke your ankles to the bedposts, you little Husserl, so you couldn't resist my throbbing Spinoza. 'Heidegger, Heidegger' you'd scream as I had taken sexy pictures with my hidden Camus. Perhaps, my friends would drop by and watch me de Beauvoir you repeatedly and even Chomsky you themselves with their mammoth Aquinas before we'd Descartes you across the room, to the big bed and Derrida you like you deserve. It wouldn't take much G.E. Moore before you'd uncontrollably scream 'Foucault me, NOW!'"
Aristotle, my ass...
(please)
I'm sure I'll post more about some of them here...but tonight I wanted to share with you a fun little comment I added to one of their blog postings. Not that it is oh so brilliant but I had fun writing it and figured I'd share here...
She is a blogger who has been told she is sexiest when she gets all philosophical...sounds like Miss Mary to me...though I've never felt the sting of this girl's hand...I somehow feel you are peas from a similarly twisted pod...so I introduced myself to her by way of the following...
"Stumbled on your profile and adore it. What I wouldn't give to sidle up to you and Hegel you up and down. I'd slowly slip my Sartre into your glistening Schopenhauer. You'd be all Ayn Rand-y by the time I tied you with your own Lyotard, pressing your voluptuous Hobbes down tight, until you practically Deleuzed all over yourself. I'd John Locke your ankles to the bedposts, you little Husserl, so you couldn't resist my throbbing Spinoza. 'Heidegger, Heidegger' you'd scream as I had taken sexy pictures with my hidden Camus. Perhaps, my friends would drop by and watch me de Beauvoir you repeatedly and even Chomsky you themselves with their mammoth Aquinas before we'd Descartes you across the room, to the big bed and Derrida you like you deserve. It wouldn't take much G.E. Moore before you'd uncontrollably scream 'Foucault me, NOW!'"
Aristotle, my ass...
(please)
Monday, October 29, 2007
C'MON LET'S GO
If I made love the way I dance, I’d never get laid. But I love dancing so much. OK, well, I must give myself the benefit of the doubt I’ve only been dancing for a year or so and I’ve been fucking for over 30 years. Last night I was dancing with a girl who wasn’t born when I started fucking. Why bring that up? Because it makes me feel good. Now, if I could only say some day down the road, “Last night I fucked a girl who wasn’t even born when I started dancing.” Well, maybe not. That would either make me a fetus-o-phile or have me in closing in on my 70s and her nearing 20…
Bottom line is, like sex, when you find a dancing partner with whom you have found a groove, the right music, the right moment. All time falls away and it is just pure unadulterated sexy fun.
My ex and I used to dance. Maybe one dance per wedding or once or twice a year if we were out in a bar and the band was happening. She had one particular “bounce” she did and it only worked with certain music so we were limited. Sure we could slow dance but neither of us were particularly adept at that. We’d just go in little circles. But I’ll tell you I sure loved those little circles with her.
And being a Deadhead and a musician, I never really did the whole dancin’-twirling-gyrating Dead-dance thing at shows. Not because the music didn’t move me but because the movement of my head impeded the absorption of every little musical nuance and my relationship with their music was very much one of study and detail oriented observation. So I missed a ton of a certain kind of fun at those shows. Granted, my wife didn’t attend either so twirling with my other “detail oriented buds” wasn’t something that came up. I loved watching hippie chicks go off though, spinning in all their see-through muslin freedom.
So why start dancing now? Well, I’d finally broken free of the depression of divorce and the angst of the first hellacious new post-divorce relationship (although on our last night together, she and I danced slowly in the hallway to the first song we'd ever sung onstage together years before and it was a beautiful moment, but I digress) and for the first time in my life I felt free. I felt loose and open and ready for whatever life had for me. I’d found myself at a gig by a friend’s Western Swing band and though I’d never attempt to actually “swing dance” I was discovered sort of cutting the rug near stage-side. Nothing too expansive but a bit more than my standard swaying of shoulders and never moving the feet concert/listening stance. Within a week or so, in fact, it was a year ago this month, I was at a friend’s wedding reception and the same swing band was playing. This time they had my favorite local drummer guesting and he really rocked them a bit. His date also was standing around looking ready to party and so she and I became dance partners by osmosis.
She’s a cool woman but always seemed one of the boys. A partier. Always dressed down in basic jeans and flannel hippie garb or some such thing. Not what someone would call a real femme chick. In fact, this was the first time in 20+ years I’d ever seen her wear a dress. At any rate, I’d never had so much fun dancing in my life. She and I were very responsive to each other. When I’d spin one way, she’d follow. When she’d dip a shoulder down, I’d dip the opposite up. I kept thinking, “Shit, so this is what this is all about.” We were like mirrors at times and just had a blast. Even the drummer commented, “You’re not bad out there. I’ve never seen you move so much before.”
In fact, I got a lot of nice compliments from people and in the next few months, I danced whenever the music moved me. I met a woman, Louisa, on Match.com who, while bumming me out by immediately stating that I wasn’t her type before ever meeting me, she also said we should meet for coffee and talk music since our tastes were very similar. We wound up at some concerts and bars together and found ourselves dancing and having a ball doing it. Now, that is our primary motivation for going out on the weekend.
So I’d spent my whole life not dancing. My excuse being that I didn’t want to look like an idiot. Now, who the fuck cares. I'm old enough to not be concerned in the slightest. Another factor has always been that, as at the Grateful Dead shows, I always listen intently to live music. As a musician whenever people are dancing you are either onstage playing or in the audience watching some other band and trying to pick up just what's going on. Are they any good? Any riffs I can steal? Are they making any mistakes or have any interesting ideas that might motivate my musicianship? So who had the time to dance the night away? Plus I hate being sweaty and what girl would look twice at a drenched dude? Well, now I see that girls who like to dance will...and there are lots of them out there waiting.
And recently when Louisa and I were among the first on the dance floor at a concert by a great Cajun guitarist, an old friend of mine came up and said, “I wish I could do that…I don’t have the balls to get out there and dance especially since I could never move like you guys.” Huh? Life is funny.
Then again there is always the big plus of being able to touch and hold women close without being bitch-slapped.
Bottom line is, like sex, when you find a dancing partner with whom you have found a groove, the right music, the right moment. All time falls away and it is just pure unadulterated sexy fun.
My ex and I used to dance. Maybe one dance per wedding or once or twice a year if we were out in a bar and the band was happening. She had one particular “bounce” she did and it only worked with certain music so we were limited. Sure we could slow dance but neither of us were particularly adept at that. We’d just go in little circles. But I’ll tell you I sure loved those little circles with her.
And being a Deadhead and a musician, I never really did the whole dancin’-twirling-gyrating Dead-dance thing at shows. Not because the music didn’t move me but because the movement of my head impeded the absorption of every little musical nuance and my relationship with their music was very much one of study and detail oriented observation. So I missed a ton of a certain kind of fun at those shows. Granted, my wife didn’t attend either so twirling with my other “detail oriented buds” wasn’t something that came up. I loved watching hippie chicks go off though, spinning in all their see-through muslin freedom.
So why start dancing now? Well, I’d finally broken free of the depression of divorce and the angst of the first hellacious new post-divorce relationship (although on our last night together, she and I danced slowly in the hallway to the first song we'd ever sung onstage together years before and it was a beautiful moment, but I digress) and for the first time in my life I felt free. I felt loose and open and ready for whatever life had for me. I’d found myself at a gig by a friend’s Western Swing band and though I’d never attempt to actually “swing dance” I was discovered sort of cutting the rug near stage-side. Nothing too expansive but a bit more than my standard swaying of shoulders and never moving the feet concert/listening stance. Within a week or so, in fact, it was a year ago this month, I was at a friend’s wedding reception and the same swing band was playing. This time they had my favorite local drummer guesting and he really rocked them a bit. His date also was standing around looking ready to party and so she and I became dance partners by osmosis.
She’s a cool woman but always seemed one of the boys. A partier. Always dressed down in basic jeans and flannel hippie garb or some such thing. Not what someone would call a real femme chick. In fact, this was the first time in 20+ years I’d ever seen her wear a dress. At any rate, I’d never had so much fun dancing in my life. She and I were very responsive to each other. When I’d spin one way, she’d follow. When she’d dip a shoulder down, I’d dip the opposite up. I kept thinking, “Shit, so this is what this is all about.” We were like mirrors at times and just had a blast. Even the drummer commented, “You’re not bad out there. I’ve never seen you move so much before.”
In fact, I got a lot of nice compliments from people and in the next few months, I danced whenever the music moved me. I met a woman, Louisa, on Match.com who, while bumming me out by immediately stating that I wasn’t her type before ever meeting me, she also said we should meet for coffee and talk music since our tastes were very similar. We wound up at some concerts and bars together and found ourselves dancing and having a ball doing it. Now, that is our primary motivation for going out on the weekend.
So I’d spent my whole life not dancing. My excuse being that I didn’t want to look like an idiot. Now, who the fuck cares. I'm old enough to not be concerned in the slightest. Another factor has always been that, as at the Grateful Dead shows, I always listen intently to live music. As a musician whenever people are dancing you are either onstage playing or in the audience watching some other band and trying to pick up just what's going on. Are they any good? Any riffs I can steal? Are they making any mistakes or have any interesting ideas that might motivate my musicianship? So who had the time to dance the night away? Plus I hate being sweaty and what girl would look twice at a drenched dude? Well, now I see that girls who like to dance will...and there are lots of them out there waiting.
And recently when Louisa and I were among the first on the dance floor at a concert by a great Cajun guitarist, an old friend of mine came up and said, “I wish I could do that…I don’t have the balls to get out there and dance especially since I could never move like you guys.” Huh? Life is funny.
Then again there is always the big plus of being able to touch and hold women close without being bitch-slapped.
FLIP THE SWITCH LETTERS #1: SISSY PIG/MISTRESS/SLUT/MASTER/BITCH/SLAVE
So you figure it out. All I can tell you is that my xxxploratory partner (EXP) and I are two flexible motherfuckers. We both like to switch roles. She is more experienced in the submissive role, me in the dominant in our previous relationships but we both feel like our real essence resides somewhere on the opposite side of our experiences. As “EXPs” one of our main focuses seems to have been to play on both sides to try and figure out where our preferences lie. So far, I think we both seem pretty happy getting the best (and worst-ouch) of both worlds.
Here is a sampling of some long distance correspondence. Seems I wrote some birthday emails for her which got sucked into cyberspace and she didn’t wind up getting them until later (I re-sent just them as the originals finally got through so she got double attention...mmm) So as in any good loving sub/dom relationship, we can find silly reasons for “punishment” anywhere…I’ll make her pay for doubting me…
Pierce:
OK so pretend you didn't get all of those birthday greetings (or were they emails that went missing?) I'd tried so hard to be the first to wish you HBD but of course I was a day early because I'M A FUCKIN' IDIOT.
But you know that and idiots can be more easily dominated, more easily convinced to do your bidding...I plead wondrous idiocy in the name of carnal pleasure....yee-yum-fuckin'-haw.
Happy B'day, baby.
XO---===>>>B
Miss Mary:
…But perhaps if you go into the bathroom right now and wash your hands clean of this horrendous sin…and then get down on your knees, freak..because that's where freaks should be…on their knees...and bend way over…because you are going to get a nice, hard (ok, telepathic) spanking from Miss Mary. One shiny red heel balanced on your spine to keep you still lest you flinch. Bad, baby, bad.
Swat.
Bad, Pierce, bad. Swat. What have we? You're wiggling your ass at me? Bad, Piercely, bad…what am I going to do with you? Swat. Swat. Swat. You know it didn't have to be this way…Miss Mary would have very much liked to have admired your cock tonight...yep, liked to have had it plump and ready for her tongue to roll it strong. She would have been happy to be the one on her knees backed up against the bathroom wall while you held her head strong and fucked her red, tired but still accommodating mouth, she would have loved to look up at you all innocent and coy while reaching for the your favorite latex penis (which I'm sure you packed for your trip) just in time for you to lube it with your drenching come and then Miss Mary would have liked to slide it oh so slowly into your pulsing ass ...
But no, ...no such rewards for bad boys who forget their Mistress.
Oh, well.. you did make quite an effort in your cover-up of the "missing missives" though. I almost believe you :)
You’re off the hook.
xoxo,
~M
Pierce:
I would never forget you Miss Mary. Please. Fuck me slowly Miss Mary. I’m sorry I sinned Miss Mary.
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
YAAAAAAAAAAAAOW
OH
WAIT
OW
HARDER PLEASE
YAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
STOP NO STOP IT
NO
MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE
MORE
FUCK
YOU BITCH that HURTS
ENOUGH
WATERMELON, FUCKER! WATERMELON...UH, SISSY PIG!
OK, UH THAT’S FUNNY TO YOU?
COME here, YES I’m pulling your hair, you mean little slut. Get over here. Let me see those tits. Take that off NOW. Pierce is in charge now. You have a problem with that? No? Good. I think you like being bad.
So you doubted my attention? You thought I forgot about you? Now you will pay for doubting me!
Good. Good. Now get down on your knees. Is that floor too cold? Too fucking bad, baby.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT?
OPEN YOUR MOUTH...
Yes. That’s right. You are being pierced yes, baby. Suck that big head, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to make me pay for being such a bad boy but sometimes you have to take a bit of your own medicine. Swallow that hard dick baby, now rub that wet cock all over your face. Yeah, that’s it.
Mmmm. Before I come baby, I’m going to pull your head back with a fistful of your hair and piss all over you. I want to see your face and soft neck and shoulders and those beautiful breasts that I dream about, all soaking wet baby. Ahhhhhhhh. Warm splashing all over your body. You’re such a little slut baby. Now grip that cock baby, slip it deep in your mouth and stroke me off...I want to shoot my hot paste in your mouth baby...yeah, suck it down Mary...mmmm. You’re such a nasty little girl.
Ahhhh. Yes. Mmmm. Here baby, let me lay down on the wet floor. Come on, lay on top of me. Yes. I’m still hard baby, yes. Kiss me. I want to taste all of that come. You feel so good all wet against me. I want to hold that ass in my hands. Let me squeeze that fucking ass, baby. Let me slip a finger up your wet snatch for a second....Soak it. Mmmm. Slippery. Now, I’m gonna slide it up that tight ass of yours...feel that?...yeah baby, fuck that finger with your asshole...let me kiss your neck... you taste like piss baby. Mmmm, feel that finger up you baby?...feel my cock poking up between your legs? Push those legs together. Squeeze him between your legs baby...yeah, I want you to pee on that hard cock baby...soak me baby...yeah, you kinky little bitch doing what your master says. Good girl. Rub up against that cock baby; I want to feel you come against that drenched cock. Feel those fingers inside your ass; pushing you towards that wet, hot cock...I love being your little whore Mary. Shiver on that hard cock baby...yes, that’s it...Kiss me, before I have to spank that ass...yes, I’ve missed you baby...hold me tight. Kiss me, baby.... kiss me.
------->>>>B
Here is a sampling of some long distance correspondence. Seems I wrote some birthday emails for her which got sucked into cyberspace and she didn’t wind up getting them until later (I re-sent just them as the originals finally got through so she got double attention...mmm) So as in any good loving sub/dom relationship, we can find silly reasons for “punishment” anywhere…I’ll make her pay for doubting me…
Pierce:
OK so pretend you didn't get all of those birthday greetings (or were they emails that went missing?) I'd tried so hard to be the first to wish you HBD but of course I was a day early because I'M A FUCKIN' IDIOT.
But you know that and idiots can be more easily dominated, more easily convinced to do your bidding...I plead wondrous idiocy in the name of carnal pleasure....yee-yum-fuckin'-haw.
Happy B'day, baby.
XO---===>>>B
Miss Mary:
…But perhaps if you go into the bathroom right now and wash your hands clean of this horrendous sin…and then get down on your knees, freak..because that's where freaks should be…on their knees...and bend way over…because you are going to get a nice, hard (ok, telepathic) spanking from Miss Mary. One shiny red heel balanced on your spine to keep you still lest you flinch. Bad, baby, bad.
Swat.
Bad, Pierce, bad. Swat. What have we? You're wiggling your ass at me? Bad, Piercely, bad…what am I going to do with you? Swat. Swat. Swat. You know it didn't have to be this way…Miss Mary would have very much liked to have admired your cock tonight...yep, liked to have had it plump and ready for her tongue to roll it strong. She would have been happy to be the one on her knees backed up against the bathroom wall while you held her head strong and fucked her red, tired but still accommodating mouth, she would have loved to look up at you all innocent and coy while reaching for the your favorite latex penis (which I'm sure you packed for your trip) just in time for you to lube it with your drenching come and then Miss Mary would have liked to slide it oh so slowly into your pulsing ass ...
But no, ...no such rewards for bad boys who forget their Mistress.
Oh, well.. you did make quite an effort in your cover-up of the "missing missives" though. I almost believe you :)
You’re off the hook.
xoxo,
~M
Pierce:
I would never forget you Miss Mary. Please. Fuck me slowly Miss Mary. I’m sorry I sinned Miss Mary.
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
OW
YAAAAAAAAAAAAOW
OH
WAIT
OW
HARDER PLEASE
YAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
STOP NO STOP IT
NO
MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE
MORE
FUCK
YOU BITCH that HURTS
ENOUGH
WATERMELON, FUCKER! WATERMELON...UH, SISSY PIG!
OK, UH THAT’S FUNNY TO YOU?
COME here, YES I’m pulling your hair, you mean little slut. Get over here. Let me see those tits. Take that off NOW. Pierce is in charge now. You have a problem with that? No? Good. I think you like being bad.
So you doubted my attention? You thought I forgot about you? Now you will pay for doubting me!
Good. Good. Now get down on your knees. Is that floor too cold? Too fucking bad, baby.
WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT?
OPEN YOUR MOUTH...
Yes. That’s right. You are being pierced yes, baby. Suck that big head, baby. I’ve been waiting for you to make me pay for being such a bad boy but sometimes you have to take a bit of your own medicine. Swallow that hard dick baby, now rub that wet cock all over your face. Yeah, that’s it.
Mmmm. Before I come baby, I’m going to pull your head back with a fistful of your hair and piss all over you. I want to see your face and soft neck and shoulders and those beautiful breasts that I dream about, all soaking wet baby. Ahhhhhhhh. Warm splashing all over your body. You’re such a little slut baby. Now grip that cock baby, slip it deep in your mouth and stroke me off...I want to shoot my hot paste in your mouth baby...yeah, suck it down Mary...mmmm. You’re such a nasty little girl.
Ahhhh. Yes. Mmmm. Here baby, let me lay down on the wet floor. Come on, lay on top of me. Yes. I’m still hard baby, yes. Kiss me. I want to taste all of that come. You feel so good all wet against me. I want to hold that ass in my hands. Let me squeeze that fucking ass, baby. Let me slip a finger up your wet snatch for a second....Soak it. Mmmm. Slippery. Now, I’m gonna slide it up that tight ass of yours...feel that?...yeah baby, fuck that finger with your asshole...let me kiss your neck... you taste like piss baby. Mmmm, feel that finger up you baby?...feel my cock poking up between your legs? Push those legs together. Squeeze him between your legs baby...yeah, I want you to pee on that hard cock baby...soak me baby...yeah, you kinky little bitch doing what your master says. Good girl. Rub up against that cock baby; I want to feel you come against that drenched cock. Feel those fingers inside your ass; pushing you towards that wet, hot cock...I love being your little whore Mary. Shiver on that hard cock baby...yes, that’s it...Kiss me, before I have to spank that ass...yes, I’ve missed you baby...hold me tight. Kiss me, baby.... kiss me.
------->>>>B
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
"IT'S LIKE DISCOVERING PLUTONIUM...BY ACCIDENT."
I've had a difficult time blogging about my first real, non-imaginary, threesome...Instead, I have been luxuriating in the memory, reliving the details in rich, vibrant, Technicolor r.e.m. sleep as well as in conversation with all of my jealous male friends, thoroughly impressed and beautifully skeptical female friends...but sit down and put the details down on "paper" has been a bit more difficult. It's almost as if I take the time to actually write about it, I may realize that it really was just some kind of twisted Twilight Zone moment where I slipped through the cracks between 50 years of fantasizing and some truly blessed event...would I be able to discern reality from fantasy?
So tonight while perusing online Swingers dating sites--and just wondering, "Is this really me? Do I have it in me to jump in dick first to a whole new lifestyle? Will my loving and willing girlfriend Randi be as willing as she has seemed to be in considering all of these other radically less dramatic 'suggestions' I've thrown at her way this past year?"--I hear from the TV across the room an old rerun of SEINFELD which held the answers to at least one of the aforementioned quandaries...YES, here is my way through the writer's block...through the invisible wall of indecision which has held back my confessional needs...so I give you…the prologue, catalyst, cattle prod that will hopefully bear blog fruit as I begin to tell you about the wonders of triplicate sex...
Read on from the SEINFELD episode called “The Switch”...It starts with Jerry & George planning Jerry’s attempt to do the impossible, trying to switch from dating one girl (Sandy) to her hotter roommate (Laura)...
GEORGE: All right. Let's go over it again, one more time.
JERRY: All right. So I tell Sandy that I want to have a ménage a trois with her and her roommate.
GEORGE: That's right.
JERRY: And you believe this course of action will have a two-pronged effect. Firstly, the very mention of the idea will cause Sandy to recoil in disgust, whereupon she will insist that I remove myself from the premises.
GEORGE: Keep going.
JERRY: At this point, it is inevitable that she will seek out the roommate to apprise her of this abhorrent turn of events.
GEORGE: Continue.
JERRY: The roommate will then offer her friend the requisite sympathy even as part of her cannot help but feel somewhat flattered by her inclusion in the unusual request.
{George takes over.}
GEORGE: A few days go by and a call is placed at a time when Sandy is known to be busy at work. Once the initial awkwardness is relieved with a little playful humor, which she [Laura] of course cannot resist, an invitation to a friendly dinner is proffered.
JERRY: Huh. Well, it all sounds pretty good. There's only one flaw in it: They're roommates. She'd have to go out with me behind Sandy's back. She's not gonna do that.
{Another pregnant pause. George?}
GEORGE: You disappoint me, my friend. Sandy wants nothing to do with you. She tells Laura, "If you want to waste your time with that pervert, that's your problem."
{Final pause. Jerry?}
JERRY: It's a perfect plan. So inspired. So devious. Yet so simple.
GEORGE: {George, finger in the peanut butter jar}: This is what I do.
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
Sandy's apartment
SANDY: What:
JERRY: You know, I don't know the exact pronunciation but I believe its Ménage A Trois.
SANDY: Oooo, that is a wild idea
JERRY: Uh?
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
GEORGE: Hey, what happened with Sandy. I forgot all about it. Did you call her?
JERRY: Yeah, I did. In fact I went over there.
GEORGE: So what happened? She throw you out? Eh?
JERRY: No actually, she took it pretty well.
GEORGE: So what happened?
JERRY: She's into it.
GEORGE: Into what?
JERRY: The ménage. And not only that. She just called me and said she talked to the roommate and the roommate’s into the ménage too.
GEORGE: That's unbelievable.
JERRY: Oh, it's a scene man.
GEORGE: Do you ever just get down on your knees and thank god that you know me and have access to my dementia?
JERRY: What are you talking about? I'm not goin' to do it.
GEORGE: You're not goin’ to do it? What do you mean, you're not goin’ to do it?
JERRY: I can't. I'm not an orgy guy.
GEORGE: Are you crazy? This is like discovering Plutonium ... by accident.
JERRY: Don't you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I'd have to dress different. I'd have to act different. I'd have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I'd need a new bedspread and new curtains I'd have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting. I'd have to get new friends. I'd have to get orgy friends. ... Naw, I'm not ready for it.
GEORGE: If only something like that could happen to me.
JERRY: Oh, shut up you couldn't do it either.
GEORGE: I know.
***
....FOOLISH BOYS...OF COURSE THEY COULD...AND SHOULD....
So tonight while perusing online Swingers dating sites--and just wondering, "Is this really me? Do I have it in me to jump in dick first to a whole new lifestyle? Will my loving and willing girlfriend Randi be as willing as she has seemed to be in considering all of these other radically less dramatic 'suggestions' I've thrown at her way this past year?"--I hear from the TV across the room an old rerun of SEINFELD which held the answers to at least one of the aforementioned quandaries...YES, here is my way through the writer's block...through the invisible wall of indecision which has held back my confessional needs...so I give you…the prologue, catalyst, cattle prod that will hopefully bear blog fruit as I begin to tell you about the wonders of triplicate sex...
Read on from the SEINFELD episode called “The Switch”...It starts with Jerry & George planning Jerry’s attempt to do the impossible, trying to switch from dating one girl (Sandy) to her hotter roommate (Laura)...
GEORGE: All right. Let's go over it again, one more time.
JERRY: All right. So I tell Sandy that I want to have a ménage a trois with her and her roommate.
GEORGE: That's right.
JERRY: And you believe this course of action will have a two-pronged effect. Firstly, the very mention of the idea will cause Sandy to recoil in disgust, whereupon she will insist that I remove myself from the premises.
GEORGE: Keep going.
JERRY: At this point, it is inevitable that she will seek out the roommate to apprise her of this abhorrent turn of events.
GEORGE: Continue.
JERRY: The roommate will then offer her friend the requisite sympathy even as part of her cannot help but feel somewhat flattered by her inclusion in the unusual request.
{George takes over.}
GEORGE: A few days go by and a call is placed at a time when Sandy is known to be busy at work. Once the initial awkwardness is relieved with a little playful humor, which she [Laura] of course cannot resist, an invitation to a friendly dinner is proffered.
JERRY: Huh. Well, it all sounds pretty good. There's only one flaw in it: They're roommates. She'd have to go out with me behind Sandy's back. She's not gonna do that.
{Another pregnant pause. George?}
GEORGE: You disappoint me, my friend. Sandy wants nothing to do with you. She tells Laura, "If you want to waste your time with that pervert, that's your problem."
{Final pause. Jerry?}
JERRY: It's a perfect plan. So inspired. So devious. Yet so simple.
GEORGE: {George, finger in the peanut butter jar}: This is what I do.
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
Sandy's apartment
SANDY: What:
JERRY: You know, I don't know the exact pronunciation but I believe its Ménage A Trois.
SANDY: Oooo, that is a wild idea
JERRY: Uh?
>>>>
LATER IN THE SHOW...
>>>>
GEORGE: Hey, what happened with Sandy. I forgot all about it. Did you call her?
JERRY: Yeah, I did. In fact I went over there.
GEORGE: So what happened? She throw you out? Eh?
JERRY: No actually, she took it pretty well.
GEORGE: So what happened?
JERRY: She's into it.
GEORGE: Into what?
JERRY: The ménage. And not only that. She just called me and said she talked to the roommate and the roommate’s into the ménage too.
GEORGE: That's unbelievable.
JERRY: Oh, it's a scene man.
GEORGE: Do you ever just get down on your knees and thank god that you know me and have access to my dementia?
JERRY: What are you talking about? I'm not goin' to do it.
GEORGE: You're not goin’ to do it? What do you mean, you're not goin’ to do it?
JERRY: I can't. I'm not an orgy guy.
GEORGE: Are you crazy? This is like discovering Plutonium ... by accident.
JERRY: Don't you know what it means to become an orgy guy? It changes everything. I'd have to dress different. I'd have to act different. I'd have to grow a mustache and get all kinds of robes and lotions and I'd need a new bedspread and new curtains I'd have to get thick carpeting and weirdo lighting. I'd have to get new friends. I'd have to get orgy friends. ... Naw, I'm not ready for it.
GEORGE: If only something like that could happen to me.
JERRY: Oh, shut up you couldn't do it either.
GEORGE: I know.
***
....FOOLISH BOYS...OF COURSE THEY COULD...AND SHOULD....
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