Bit by bit July 3rd 201 5

 

 

We should not speak of it out loud, to tell all we feel all at once, in a gush, love or lust, it breaks bones as it breaks silence, this confession of intimacy we ought to keep to ourselves, to bath in its beauty, it's tenderness, it's lush embrace, yet no declare it all, or rush, overwhelming the soul we seek to cherish, a wise man will dole out his admiration, a little drip st a time, soft drops into her open mouth, a taste of it, bit by bit, time letting it fill her up, but not drown her with too much too soon, or she might flee to a wiser soul, doing for her what we could not, seize her love from our grasp, we need to keep love closed mouth, or st beat, lips barely parted, giving her the flavor of what we feel, bit by bit

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Still holding on

 

Sometimes back then, I had to check my phone to see if I had called one of those area code 900 numbers, since she seem to have that routine down pat, a regular mistress of the night, who sent dirty pictures and expected them in return, whose soothing voice lit me up like a Christmas tree or Fourth of July fireworks. Even her texts sent me over the edge.

Where did she learn all this stuff, and did she do this to all the men in her life, making me one of her all male harem, all of us completely shocked about it, some of us aching to keep in going, to bring up those amazing dreams we have to clean the sheets from in the morning.

This 900 number lady, who somehow learned the craft and plies it, a master who has each of us hanging on every word, waiting for the next text or picture, and hold our manhood tightly for when she asks for a picture back.

All these years later, I’m still holding on

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What you needed June 1, 2024

  

I realize now

What I didn’t then,

How you needed more

Than I was

Willing to give,

A warm body beside you,

Powerful arms to hold you,

A tender kiss on your lips,

Your tits, your hips,

An embrace that is more

Than just a breeze passing

Through one window

And out the other,

You needed someone

Who could/would

Stay the night,

Arms that held you save

In those hours of vacacy

After I (and other men like me)

Had to move on,

A romance that would stay

Attached rather than

Peal away,

We always more a temporary

Reprieve, a Band Aide,

That causes as much pain

When removed

Than we foolishly believed

We could shield

You from.

I realize now

What didn’t know then,

What you needed

Was love.

 

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In the third floor men's room

 

“Go to the men’s room and do it there, thinking of me,” she told me, and like a submissive following a directive of a goddess, I do, climbing in the one stall on the third floor because I was scared to be seen going into the one near the owner’s office on the first.

But even as I stroked it, I kept waiting for someone else to come in, the stall door having gaps that allowed anyone to see me with it in my hand, worse, could hear the slap of flesh on flesh, and eventually the moan when it spurted in my hand, all this she wanted me to describe in detail when I got back to my desk.

Even back then, I knew just how much more experienced she was in these things, how to turn on a man like me like a light switch, and leaving me to sputter when not turned off.

She had asked other men to do these things, had them cradling their manhood in public space for her amusement, asking us to take a picture with our cell phones just to prove we had done what she told us to do, and even as old as I was, older than she, I felt like a kid, unable to fully grasp her intentions, or deal with the self-torture these things forced me to inflict upon myself, my imagination painting an even more vivid picture of what was possible and how far we might go, and how she might tell me to go there, in public, or in the dead of night.

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She is a slut May 28, 2026

 

She is a slut.

This is not a pejorative statement.

These days a slut is a liberated woman, who controlled who she has sex with, while continuing to have a much of it as she likes, sometimes with questionable characters, other times with men she thinking might provide her with opportunities in a world where men rule, often leaving a landscape strewn with cuckhold men, who mistook her attention for love., men like me, who watch her walk off with men I know, or others like husbands or boyfriends who mistakenly believed they could keep her corralled, when there is no attachment, a fashionable lady ahead of her time, doing what is a fact of life, a pretty woman who prowls night clubs and other dives like a shark looking for guppies to devour, while men like me continue to adore her.

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Lion Tamer May 29, 2026

 

I wake and it hits me, not hot or cold, just there, pressing on m chest and groin, I struggle to breathe.

How do we love this away, born each day bearing the same burden, the constant urge, the irresistible temptation, the struggle to overcome what we generate inside, love, an illusion we hang on to in order to decorate something we wish for rather than anything real, the roughness of it, rubbing against us each time we move until it rubs us raw. We stagger with it all day, sleep with it all night, waking again elevated, needing to appease it, stroke by stroke, a remedy that works for so brief a time we forget we had relief at all, until it overwhelms us again, we lion tamers without chair or whip to keep back the inevitable.

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Waking from the nightmare Nov. 11, 2012

 

Thinking back, it still haunts me, a double life in which we live day or night, as if we are different people, and I find I lost you in the day light and cling to the one I secretly crave by night, life once a romance amid paper clips, file folders and mistaken emails, divorced from when someone better came along, the man or men with that Midas touch, and the determination to keep you – as if you could be kept by any man, you keep yourself, while I became the cuckhold on the stairway between two floors, forced to bear witness from afar, imagining the worst, men doing what I wished I could still do, a secret life live behind the meetings and memos, while in the end, I tried to avoid the angry looks, the cold shoulder, while knowing the real view from her desk was of somebody’s bed, breeding nightmares in me that are still nightmares when I wake up, the illusion fading now that someone else has that desk, a strange face I see when I expect to see yours.

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