Monday, September 26, 2011

Prodigal Bloggers

Hmmm. I have had many adventures since I have last spoken with y'all. I have missed every one of you. To bring you all up to date, I am now widowed, still working and have re-introduced myself to the, ahem, world of dating. I see I need to fix things up around here, and get back on track! My brain is brimming with tales old and new and many half written. So here we go, with hugs all around.
I kinda sorta have a boyfriend. He is 19 years younger than I. This is how we met...
I decided 6 months after my husband died it was time to go out, socialize and come what may, so I posted my profile on an adult site. (Let's be honest here, I'm almost 60, have been unwillingly chaste for way too long and time is drawing short). I am not easy to meet on these websites as I ignore most of the emails I receive, too young, don't wanna see what your Johnson looks like, and manners are glaring absent. So I didn't respond to the pictures of massive erections with come ons of "can last all night". What generally would happend is I would eventually begin a conversation with someone after they unfailingly wrote me several emails asking to meet me. I began a discourse with several men that lasted over a month.
Being bluntly honest, I described my self as a large woman who smoked like a chimney, posted a picture of me sans make up! When the time came to fish or cut bait I made dates with 3 men over one week-end. You know, just meet and eat. My first date was with an athletic marathon runner who is a business professional. We had lunch together. Was he a cutie! Dark, handsome and muscled and ready to play. He was not interested in anything but social entertainment, as was I. We had a nice lunch, flirted outrageously, frankly discussing what we liked about each other. We agreed we would like to connect, but as I had to go back to work as well as he, we left the restaurant, but not before he grabbed my hand and led me to a private corner on a very public street and kissed me like I have never been kissed in my life! Yes, I wobbled back to work and tried to work the rest of the day.
To be continued...

Monday, April 14, 2008

Troubled Waters

Pirate sheepishly walked around the living room picking up the buttons from his shirt the next morning.

"I can't believe I ripped my shirt off like that," he laughed.

I just nodded my head in agreement and began collecting clothes as well. As I dressed he began planning the rest of the weekend by asking and making suggestions for places to go and things to do. That's what I liked most about Pirate. He took me out. We went to the hottest night spots in Savannah; Gay bars, after hours clubs, nice restaurants. We also did homey things like visit his folks, take all day and scoot about the intercoastal island in his Boston Whaler. Each day and night was different and exciting. The more time we spent together, the more his story became clear.

His father retired in South Carolina while he was still in school. Fishing and the sea sparked a desire in his blood, so after school he bought a shrimp boat and went out on his own. Being a capricious man during the height of the social revolution of the 60's and early 70's, importing certain herbs from Caribbean Islands seemed like such a little thing, plus it provided that extra surge of adrenalin needed to make his life exciting.

Pirate was not a very complex man. He was smart, kind, strong, but restless. His desire for constant excitement drove his existence to the point of bad decisions. While he had more of the qualities within his personality that I was attracted to, I was just a neophyte to him. His sexual appetite was jaded. He wanted more than he could ask me for and told me as much one night when we were lying in bed.

"I'm used to being with older women you know that don't you?" I nodded and wondered where this comment was leading. "I don't think I have been with anyone as young as you are." He continued.

"Ok..." I responded, thinking that I didn't usually go out with men younger than myself. He was younger by a year but his soul was as old as Methuselah.

"You see, I need more than you can give me. You need more experience."

I started to get that uneasy creepy crawly feeling, while a gnawing grew in the pit of my stomach.

"I'm used to doing more." He explained.

"Like what?" I asked.

Continuing he explained to me in detail the various sexual games and positions he enjoyed. He explained that my innocence in this regard compelled him to restrain himself from attempting to explore our sexual relationship further. He told me that my technique needed more work, which would come with time, something he did not have. I expressed a willingness to learn and do more, but his preference was for someone he did not have to tell or teach.

He explained all this in such a way, that I thought he was expanding his "dating" gallery and that I would not have the exclusivity I had enjoyed the past few months. Sadly, I never heard from him after that.

In the back of my mind I always knew that there would be no permanence with this relationship. The excitement of being with him and being a part of his life was a heady aphrodisiac. Coming to like him and his gentle way and studious mind was difficult to give up.

The abruptness of this breakup put me into a deep depression. The contrast of having my life peopled, back to the bleak loneliness I experienced prior, was difficult for me. I tried to adapt and adjust with out success. I decided to move. Move to Florida and become a sexually savvy woman so I would have a better chance of 'keeping a man'.

The sea can romance a person with her power, strength and beauty. She has been the mistress of many men and the bane of many women. No one ever tames her, she allows one to sail her waters until such time as one may lose a little respect. Pirate understood this, having been slapped by his mistress many times. I was just beginning to understand.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Buried Treasure

I could barely contain my excitement. I nodded my head in the affirmative as I struggled to maintain my composure. We agreed on a time and I returned to work.

Thankfully, during this era of the 70's, jeans were the new formal wear. A sexy top, platform sandals and I was set.

Pirate was unlike anyone I had been out with. His abundant confidence and easy manner was infectious. His conversation was interesting and intellectual. His knowledge of cuisine and wines surpassed my Boone's Farm Concord experiences. He owned a Victorian House, which was unusual for a man his age.

He put me at ease with his conversation. We talked about his family, his recent adventure and our philosophies on life. It occurred to me during our dinner, that it was possible he was only taking me to dinner as a thank you. This thought relaxed me making it easier to enjoy his company. The wine helped with that as well. I took this opportunity to look at him fully in the face and enjoy his masculinity.

Pirate had dark chestnut tanned skin that accentuated his crystal blue eyes and flashing white smile. His exaggerated canines gave him the feral appearance of a lion guarding his pride. His whole manner oozed the slinky sexuality of a pride king on the Serengeti. The closer we got to the end of our meal the more engaging he became. He began to look at me in a way that confirmed we were on a date. His dangerous smile and cool blue eyes spoke of things to come.

We decided to go for drinks after dinner, maybe to a club, but he needed to swing by his house and get some cash. Once we got to his home, he invited me in so he could roll some doobies and maybe smoke one? He didn't have to twist my arm with that request.

He put Jackson Browne on, poured us a drink and rolled a pin joint. Smiling, he lit it up and sunk back on his black leather couch. We smoked while listening to the heartbreaking realities of Jackson Browne's lost loves. He reached out and touched my arm.

"Hey, let's not go any where. Honestly, I would rather stay in."

I hesitated. I had my car, so I had a way to maintain my respectability. His request was reasonable to me since he had only been out of jail a few hours.

"Sure, it's nice listening to music and smoking this joint." Thereupon I sunk back on the couch.

"Why don't you lie down, put your head in my lap." He suggested.

"Ok." I agreed.

We remained that way for about an hour, talking, listening to music, smoking. I decided that it was time to go home and got up. He looked at me and said, "I thought you were going to stay."

I looked at him and said nothing, thinking. I wanted to do a lot of things with him for longer than just one night. Experience told me to go home, play the game. He told me,

"Look, it's up to you. Stay. I don't want to be alone. We can have sex or not. Wait, that doesn't sound right. I want to have sex with you. But if we don't, it won't affect my feelings for you. Just stay." His request was matter-of-fact and believeable.

No one had ever been so frank with me. He would always be this way. He wasn't a fawning affectionate type. He was direct with out being crude.

He patted the couch and I lay back down, my head in his lap, continuing our conversation.

Yes, he kissed me. His kiss was soft and warm. Slow and lingering. He explored my neck and deftly unbuttoned my blouse driving me insane when his hot breath and moist lips teased my breasts. I was loosing control! I tensed to control my quivering. His lips found my stomach and his hands my zipper. I had never been stripped so expertly in my life. I began fumbling with his shirt buttons, he helped me by ripping it open. I ran my fingers through the thick and silken hair on his chest. He kissed me again, this time the texture of our flesh mingling added sensuality to our rhythm. Smoothly and quickly he removed his jeans and gently lowered himself on me, cradling me in this arms, kissing my lips. I closed my eyes to allow his slow deliberate kisses, his warm strong body and the cool gripping leather of the couch to envelope me.

His hot kisses began to roam, travelling down my neck, over the rise of my breast, burning down the valley of my abdomen. I wove my fingers in his hair as he lifted my hips gently to softly nuzzle and explore my special pearl. Soon, all too soon, I pleaded for his treasure and was quickly rewarded as he buried the most sensational jewel I had known.


Friday, March 07, 2008

Smuggler's Cove

I lived in a cinder block apartment with black linoleum floors and an oil burning furnace. It was furnished in Early American Orangecrate. Outside of my king size water bed, which saw little to no action, I had a cable spool as a coffee table, earthquake pillows for seating and stained tea crates as end tables. My only source of entertainment was my stereo/radio and books.

Most of my days consisted of my going to work and coming home. When the loneliness became overpowering, I would surprise visit people! I spent most weekends at one Grandmother's house or another. Since Pirate was in town fishing, I spent that time at my Grandmother's in the fishing village. Waiting. Of course, this was getting me no where fast. I would see him. He would wave. I would wave. My excitement for the day had come and gone.

One morning, while dressing for work and listening to the radio, I heard that Pirate and his boat had been arrested. For drug smuggling! Selfishly I thought, "Well that's it now. I will never get an inside to him."

That morning when I arrived at work, the office was abuzz with the news. Come to find out, the attorneys I worked for were representing Pirate! Maybe I can still catch a glimpse of him now and then. I began work while the lawyers busily worked on bail procedures. That afternoon, the head partner came to me and told me to drive him to the Federal Courthouse. He needed me to wait for him while get got Pirate out of holding.

Trying not to appear anxious, I asked why he needed me. "Because you will need to drive Pirate to hospital after I get him out. I will be elsewhere."

My brain and stomach began churning. I will be face to face with Pirate. Oh my God! Okay, settle down. Be cool. What will I say? What are you worried about? Did I shave my legs? How do I look? Partner knows. I know he knows.

When we arrived at the courthouse, Partner told me to wait for him on the steps. Barely maintaining a cool and calm exterior I rehearsed what I would say to Pirate on the ride to the hospital. It would be important that he not think I was all gooey over him. A few minutes later he hopped out on one foot with Partner.

"Help him down the stairs", Partner instructed. Bare-footed in raggedy cut-offs and a Cable Guy shirt, I nervously put my arm around Pirate's waist and his arm over my shoulder. I looked up into his dreamy blue eyes and gushed, "Ready?"

Wincing, while balancing on one foot, he asked me to help him to the stair rail. He then descended the stairs gingerly and hopped to the car. He maintained his independence by opening the door and getting into the car.

"Well, which hospital do you want to go to." I asked.

"Take me home, I'm not going anywhere like this," he asked.

"Are you sure? That foot looks pretty bad." I responded.

He nodded his head in the affirmative.

I strained to find something clever and interesting to say, but no words came out. He silently looked out of the window during the drive to his house. I felt opportunity pulling away and was beginning to accept it when...

"Listen, I really appreciate you driving me home." I turned to see Pirate looking directly at me.

"Your welcome." I said, fighting the urge to look away from him. Smiling into my eyes he continued, "Let's go to dinner tonight. It will be a couple of days before I get a car, would you mind driving?"


Friday, February 29, 2008

Pirate of the Carribbean

His blue bedroom eyes lazily caressed my face causing me to blush furiously and look away. He nodded and smiled as my cousin J introduced us. Pirate was a shrimp boat captain, my cousin his striker. They had just come in from a trip, both men, swarthy and muscled from working the nets on the sunny seas looked better than Johnny Depp ever had a right to.

My grandmother and I were sitting on her front porch when the boat docked. We waved, knowing that J would come over, as custom and culture deemed it so. My Grandmother was very popular among her nieces and nephews. After they walked away, my Grandmother nudged me, hissing,"That's the one who is smuggling dope!"

"Noo!" I exclaimed, in mock horror.

"He sure is cute, but not as cute as J!" She went on to say.

Yes, the early 70's was a time when many a fisherman augmented their income with a side trip or two. As a matter of fact, they used the old pirate hideouts along the intercoastal islands to "trade" their wares. Yarrr!

Pirate was a Marine brat whose parents retired in the Paris Island area. My cousin had been around shrimping all his life, as it is a huge business down here. When the two met up they began their adventures at sea. I knew I would never be involved with the Pirate, but one wink would have made me his wench!

Since Pirate docked his boat in front of my Grandmother's house, I had plenty of time to passively stalk him. My Grandmother chastised me often as I waited for the boat to dock. "You're waiting to see that drug smuggler," she would hiss. "Well he has a girlfriend. I saw her get on the boat with him!"

"It doesn't hurt to look!" I snapped back at her. "Anyway" I thought to myself, "he would never go out with a goof like me." Sure enough, as his boat docked one day, there she sat on top of the pilot house. Sunning herself in a leopard print bikini. I knew she was older than he. I also knew she was a headlining stripper at an old and established 'Gentlemen's Club' in town. She was definitely more sophisticated than I.

My Grandmother started up when she saw her. "Look at her, dyed hair! Oh! She has got to be older than him. That bikini is too small. Well, I told you he had a girlfriend! Besides, he's no good. You stay away from him!"

I just nodded my head fantasizing being at sea swashbuckling with my blued-eyed pirate.


Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Promises Promises

I know. I know. I promised a saga of epic proportions. Work has been a rat's nest of drama clouding my creative juices. I have so much emotion swirling around inside of me that I have become preoccupied with this situation which is just too raw to write about at this moment. So, I will treat you to a horror story of Employment Past.

I believe I have experienced most of what a person can experience in a work environment. You name it, it has more than likely happened to me. Maybe the funniest in retrospect is, a boyfriend of mine snuck into the back of the house to my office at the hotel. Drunk on his ass. As I escorted him toward the public area of the hotel, he stopped by the freight elevator and said, "I have to show you something." Pulling out his penis from his pants he asked me to polish his knob. I was mortified and he did not remain my boyfriend.

I do have an incident that wins the Boss Asshole Coward of the Year Award.

Many times people produce social events that entail donations of food and beverage. In essence, the hotel gets the product, charges a slight fee known as "corkage" to serve the product. If the event is a charity event, the venue is flexible on corkage fees, but if it is someone trying to save a few bucks on the alcohol or food costs, corkage fees are assessed. The venue will chill, prepare and serve the product, which is why a corkage fee is charged.

On one occasion we had a very formal VIP reception/dinner/dance put on by a local society club. All the wine for dinner was donated. As was the practice at the hotel, dinner wine was opened up by the banquet servers. In this case, since the wine was donated, it was definitely to be opened by the banquet servers-all decided and agreed to in our menu review.

Keep in mind that not only was I responsible for banquet bars, but the public bar, private bar, service bar, etc. I always had several things going on at one time. When time came for my bartenders to pick up the liquor for their bars, we met at my office/storeroom with flatbeds and loaded them up. In walks my F&B Director, dressed in his tux. He was agitated in his mid-western Uriah Heap way. Eyes darting back and forth with soto voce he spoke,"They are having trouble with the wine upstairs and we need your help."

I responded, "Sure, we are finishing up here. We will be up in about 15 minutes."

He spun around with a snap and stomped out, kicking the door open as he left. Yes, he did that in front of me and 5 bartenders. On of my senior bartenders exclaimed, "Oh no he didn't!" I said, "Yes he did!" She said, "I'll go up there and help while y'all finish here."

When we got upstairs, Mr. Milquetoast had become a fire-breathing dragoon. "This event is very important and you need to understand that this wine needs to be opened!"

I told him that the banquet servers had plenty of time, that we would help, but that the bars for the reception for that very event, were the priority at the moment and we only had 45 minutes left for set up. With no doors to kick, he marched off into the ballroom.

I went to my bars to check the progress and was told by the bartenders that the wine bottles were impossible to open and that 'he' was going to have to do something about it.

"Hmm, strange." I thought to myself. I went back to the abandoned banquet set up area, where the wine was. Oh what the Grapes of Wrath have wrought! It looked like a gang war of reds vs whites. Broken cork screws of every style lay in silent testimony to the stubborn corks. Even, oh no it can't be, the table anchored heavy duty banquet corker was broken! Three wine bottles had their corks removed. Several had been drilled with cork dust the only result. Hundreds remained, mutely mocking me to just try and open them.

Whipping out my trusty, unfailing cork screw I tackled the first bottle. No luck. This lever was not going to move that cork out of the bottle. I tried bottle after bottle until my personal corkscrew broke. I grabbed a houseman and had him hold the bottle and pull while I pulled. So what if a little wine spilled? That did not work either. I was sorely tempted to break the neck off against the sink.

The generous purveyor who had donated this particular Pino Grigio had not stored the wine properly and had allowed the corks to dry, but they did not shrink. Thereby making them unsellable and donatable.

Taking a deep breath I muslced up my nerve and found my boss. "I have tried to open the wine, and I am physically unable to open it." I left before he could say anything more to me.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Delicate Matters

I was blessed to have dark, almost black, luxuriant hair with twinkling red highlights. As a young girl, my friends liked to brush and 'fix' it. As a pubescent youth nature maintained that pattern of luxuriant growth in other places. As this was the correct and natural process of growing I put little thought into the improvements my body was going through, excepting the desire to have big boobs!

Until the advent of the bikini, hair in secret places was not a concern to many women. All we had to worry about was keeping our behinds and breasts within the confines of the elastic of our suits. But, the tinier the bathing suit became, inspections for errant hairs increased and discreet tucking became an art form.

Again, I was lucky to have cabiles growing EXACTLY where they should be, never venturing past the treasure it was protecting. As early as high school, I had friends who had to exfoliate the delicate areas connecting torso to thigh. The aesthetic correction often rashed up and itched making discrete scratching in public another behavorial art form. Not for me, I would think!

I am assuming that up until the 70's shaving the nether regions was was for medicinal or aesthetics. My first exposure to barbering and decoratively styling 'bunny' hair was found in the Woman's Feminine Bible of Fantasy-'Cosmopolitan'. They suggested shaving our precious asset in a heart shape to start a fire in our man. After mentally imagining how I could perform this tricky procedure, I decided that it would be too much of a risk on such an important area.

My thoughts were how would one do this exactly? One-handed, using a mirror and razor? What about symmetry? Anyone who has performed complex cosmetic maneuvers in front of a mirror knows that right and left are a matter of trial and error! What, Cosmo didn't provide a template and in depth instructions? Bah. They're nuts, reaching for readership I say. What healthy read-blooded male wants a bald woman. Down there.

Never thought much about it after that. Surgery did not endear me to braziling my privates either. First time I had a stent put in, the nurse, armed with a cheap disposable razor and nothing else scraped my entire right side. The optical effect was a source of constant amusement for my husband. My second surgery, a hysterectomy, the shaving nurse came out with the same disposable razor and scraped off the top half. Talk about cute. This drove my husband into wild fits of simile. "I say darlin', looks like ye have a little goatee there!" "Hey darlin', looks like the Doctor missed a spot, wouldn't you say?"

Ha ha!

I am all for people doing what they want to their bodies. I am. Really. We decorate our bodies everyday. Personal grooming is pretty basic with clean being the number one factor in my book. We all have our preferences. After much thought and deliberation I decided that I did not want the most important part of my sexual body to look the same way my legs did at 50. Skin that has been waxed continually over many years looks, well, shall we say old, scaly, wrinkled and stretched out.

Today, the unisex hairless look is in. Me, I prefer hair, in the right places, after all a man with all his body hair can't run as fast as a hairless one, right? Gives me a head start.