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annaswirls
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oh no Maria! I hope it is not a conspiracy.... you know if we keep shushing our poems, they will certainly rebel. Tie us to the keyboard or something drastic.
Maria2394 said:
Tzara
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I went down to my favorite bookstore tonight, mainly to kill some time because my wife is taking an evening class. It's not the largest bookstore in Seattle but it is, I think, the best, because of its association with the university. They have a lot of books that aren't found in other stores.
For some reason that isn't clear, they have recently moved a number of sections willy-nilly around the store. It just so happens that one of the sections I was most interested in looking through tonight was among those that moved. When I finally found where they'd put it, a woman employee I'd not seen before was there shelving books. I shop at this store a lot and generally recognize the staff, so I assumed she was a new hire. What was odd was that she was wearing a floral print dress and seamed nylon stockings. I don't mean that the dress was odd, although perhaps it was a bit in retrospect, but the seamed stockings definitely were. I can't remember the last time I saw a woman wearing seamed stockings. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I've ever seen a woman in real life wearing seamed stockings, though my guess is that they were common when I was very young. If it was I don't remember it, though.
Anyway. I was kind of fascinated by this, and not entirely in a prurient way, though I would have to admit there was some of that. I do remember an old Playboy pictorial when I was, I don't know, 16 or so, that featured models wearing seamed stockings, garter belts, heels, and Veronica Lake hair. Not much else. A formative event in my then young life. But tonight I mainly was wondering why she was dressed that way.
Besides the stockings there was that floral print dress. In itself, it was nothing that would draw much notice, but it was a touch odd in its (to my now channeled sensibility) forties vein. The woman also wore a cardigan sweater and some rather clunky, chunky heeled shoes. (Am I obsessing here?) Her dark hair was cut in a short fingerwave 'do which, now that I look it up, kind of rules out the forties. Perhaps I had the decade wrong.
The main effect ended up being something like the prototypical "attractive youngish librarian in an Agatha Christie novel" kind of thing. You know, the character who is at least briefly under suspicion for murder (or, alternatively, a semi-minor character who is earnestly helpful to Poirot or Miss Marple) who is matched in the dénouement to the sad and handsome Group Captain still recovering from the Great War.
Yes. Kind of sexy.
But, still, why? Fashion statement? Theme costume for a promotion? Creepy obsession?
I don't know and won't, probably, ever know.
But I'm thinking, next time I shop there—should I maybe wear a tweed jacket and carry a pipe?
For some reason that isn't clear, they have recently moved a number of sections willy-nilly around the store. It just so happens that one of the sections I was most interested in looking through tonight was among those that moved. When I finally found where they'd put it, a woman employee I'd not seen before was there shelving books. I shop at this store a lot and generally recognize the staff, so I assumed she was a new hire. What was odd was that she was wearing a floral print dress and seamed nylon stockings. I don't mean that the dress was odd, although perhaps it was a bit in retrospect, but the seamed stockings definitely were. I can't remember the last time I saw a woman wearing seamed stockings. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I've ever seen a woman in real life wearing seamed stockings, though my guess is that they were common when I was very young. If it was I don't remember it, though.
Anyway. I was kind of fascinated by this, and not entirely in a prurient way, though I would have to admit there was some of that. I do remember an old Playboy pictorial when I was, I don't know, 16 or so, that featured models wearing seamed stockings, garter belts, heels, and Veronica Lake hair. Not much else. A formative event in my then young life. But tonight I mainly was wondering why she was dressed that way.
Besides the stockings there was that floral print dress. In itself, it was nothing that would draw much notice, but it was a touch odd in its (to my now channeled sensibility) forties vein. The woman also wore a cardigan sweater and some rather clunky, chunky heeled shoes. (Am I obsessing here?) Her dark hair was cut in a short fingerwave 'do which, now that I look it up, kind of rules out the forties. Perhaps I had the decade wrong.
The main effect ended up being something like the prototypical "attractive youngish librarian in an Agatha Christie novel" kind of thing. You know, the character who is at least briefly under suspicion for murder (or, alternatively, a semi-minor character who is earnestly helpful to Poirot or Miss Marple) who is matched in the dénouement to the sad and handsome Group Captain still recovering from the Great War.
Yes. Kind of sexy.
But, still, why? Fashion statement? Theme costume for a promotion? Creepy obsession?
I don't know and won't, probably, ever know.
But I'm thinking, next time I shop there—should I maybe wear a tweed jacket and carry a pipe?
Last edited:
Maria2394
Literotica Guru
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What has poetry come to? well, how bout sheeeeeeep poetry, and automatic sheeeeep poetry at that, LOL.
here is a nonsensical link that some of you might get a kick out of, I shear did
sheep poetry generator
baa baaa ya'll
sweet dreams
?
here is a nonsensical link that some of you might get a kick out of, I shear did
sheep poetry generator
baa baaa ya'll
sweet dreams
?
darkerdreamer
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My first blog ever, wow. Oh the levels I have stooped to.
My brother called today, I assumed it was just a Mother's Day reminder, but there was an alternate agenda to the conversation.
After some casual chatter about the state of my hometown, the old house, the family business, he springs it on me. I'm going to be an uncle.
I was happy, I still am happy. He will be a great father, no question about that. However, I can't avoid a deep-seeded feeling of loathing. Some bizarre impulse to explode on him for the simple fact that he hasn't fucked up his life, and he will be having a child he is allowed to see, while my little girl is halfway across the country from me.
It's not his fault, I know this is just some jealous reaction, but I can't swallow it down.
The worst part:
He told everyone else in the family days ago, but swore them all to secrecy and didn't tell me until our mom coerced him. He was worried about my reaction, and rightfully so, apparently.
I need to get over this self-pity, this bitterness. It's no one's fault but my own that my mother won't ever meet one of her grandchildren, I guess I just want somewhere else to place those angry feelings.
But, all petty emotions aside; here's to my brother, may he end up a better father than our own, and better than me.
My brother called today, I assumed it was just a Mother's Day reminder, but there was an alternate agenda to the conversation.
After some casual chatter about the state of my hometown, the old house, the family business, he springs it on me. I'm going to be an uncle.
I was happy, I still am happy. He will be a great father, no question about that. However, I can't avoid a deep-seeded feeling of loathing. Some bizarre impulse to explode on him for the simple fact that he hasn't fucked up his life, and he will be having a child he is allowed to see, while my little girl is halfway across the country from me.
It's not his fault, I know this is just some jealous reaction, but I can't swallow it down.
The worst part:
He told everyone else in the family days ago, but swore them all to secrecy and didn't tell me until our mom coerced him. He was worried about my reaction, and rightfully so, apparently.
I need to get over this self-pity, this bitterness. It's no one's fault but my own that my mother won't ever meet one of her grandchildren, I guess I just want somewhere else to place those angry feelings.
But, all petty emotions aside; here's to my brother, may he end up a better father than our own, and better than me.
Senna Jawa
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poor poor Litblog
I was hoping to find out here what is going on with you guys and with the board. Alas, my Litbaby is virtually dead, how sad!
Recently, I am, together with a few friends, working on a hobby project which is 50-50 mathematical and computational. We want to find new pluperfect (or multi-perfect) numbers. We use my terminology, we call them baroque numbers.
Best regards,
I was hoping to find out here what is going on with you guys and with the board. Alas, my Litbaby is virtually dead, how sad!
Recently, I am, together with a few friends, working on a hobby project which is 50-50 mathematical and computational. We want to find new pluperfect (or multi-perfect) numbers. We use my terminology, we call them baroque numbers.
Best regards,
Angeline
Poet Chick
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Senna Jawa said:
Not dead completely. Judo has been writing a few poems here again.
Your pet project reminded me of a study I worked on many years ago where we correlated students' performance in various subject areas. The highest (and significant at lower than the .05 level--less than .05 possibility that the relationship occurred by chance) correlation between subject matters was algebra and writing. I wonder what you think of that. The study wasn't the best designed, but I found the comparison of algebra and writing very interesting.
Baroque makes me think of Bach.
Tzara
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So we’re being driven back to the airport from New York. “One of our cars,” the bellhop at the hotel said. A black SUV, leather upholstery, not new but not that old. Didn’t think anything about it. Kind of erratic driving, though. I was afraid at times we were going to scrape the Jersey barrier, flip the car, and pancake on the opposing lanes just briefly enough to realize we would be killed within, oh, ten to thirty seconds. Then there was how we’d pass signs like “Newark Airport, Right 1/2 Mile” and we would cruise and cruise in the extreme left lane until, at the last possible moment, we would swerve wildly right across innumerable lanes of traffic to make the exit.
Thank God we were mostly there when M. said to me “none of the gauges work.”
I said, “What?”
She said, “None of his gauges work. Speedometer, tachometer, not even the gas gauge. They’re all pegged on zero.”
We were passing some rather forlorn and deserted grasslands at the time and I suddenly had a vision of myself kneeling on a dirt road, being shot in the head for the price of my pokey middle-of-the-road laptop computer, destined to lie in an unmarked grave someplace in goddamn New Jersey.
Then with one last wild swerve, we swooped up to the Alaska gate at Liberty International.
I tipped him fifty bucks for the ride.
What the hell. I was still alive.
Thank God we were mostly there when M. said to me “none of the gauges work.”
I said, “What?”
She said, “None of his gauges work. Speedometer, tachometer, not even the gas gauge. They’re all pegged on zero.”
We were passing some rather forlorn and deserted grasslands at the time and I suddenly had a vision of myself kneeling on a dirt road, being shot in the head for the price of my pokey middle-of-the-road laptop computer, destined to lie in an unmarked grave someplace in goddamn New Jersey.
Then with one last wild swerve, we swooped up to the Alaska gate at Liberty International.
I tipped him fifty bucks for the ride.
What the hell. I was still alive.
unpredictablebijou
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today's amusing moment
I just noticed the "whatcha wearing" thread and it made me feel like sharing this:
I live in the country, on 6 acres of wild buckbrush and osage orange. We don't have alarms or locks on our doors; instead, we have big noisy enthusiastic dogs. Often we don't even close the front door, or, as in this morning, we open it early so the cats can go in and out. Unfortunately, the dogs were over at the workshop building this morning with my beloved, so I wasn't aware that the county tax assessors (revenoo-ers! git mah gun, Bobby Lee!) arrived to do their every-six-years summary of the property. They're very nice, ask a couple of questions about the foundation, the roof and the outbuildings (which ones have burned down or fallen over since the last assessment), and measure round the outside of the main house, as if it might grow, or shrink, or something.
So I'm washing dishes naked - cause there's no point in getting dressed until after I'm coffeed and showered - and waiting for the coffee to brew when I hear rapping on the screen door. omigod! To get to the clothes in the bedroom, I'd have to walk right past that open door. I ran to the back of the house, praying, "Dear Jesus, please let me have been a slob and left some clothes in the bathroom yesterday..."
Jesus is just alright with me, and sure enough, my jeans and a reasonable tank top were piled on the floor. I whipped them on, headed for the door, and said casually, oh, I THOUGHT I heard someone out here. Sorry, I was running water...
The thing is, the kitchen has a window that looks right out on the porch. I didn't have the kitchen light on, and it was pretty sunny outside, so it's at least POSSIBLE that I was not visible through the window, the one they'd have walked right past to get to the front door... But I just don't know.
If they DID see me, they were very good at acting like nothing had happened. They asked their questions, were very nice and went away.
Have to wonder if it would raise the value of my land...
bijou
I just noticed the "whatcha wearing" thread and it made me feel like sharing this:
I live in the country, on 6 acres of wild buckbrush and osage orange. We don't have alarms or locks on our doors; instead, we have big noisy enthusiastic dogs. Often we don't even close the front door, or, as in this morning, we open it early so the cats can go in and out. Unfortunately, the dogs were over at the workshop building this morning with my beloved, so I wasn't aware that the county tax assessors (revenoo-ers! git mah gun, Bobby Lee!) arrived to do their every-six-years summary of the property. They're very nice, ask a couple of questions about the foundation, the roof and the outbuildings (which ones have burned down or fallen over since the last assessment), and measure round the outside of the main house, as if it might grow, or shrink, or something.
So I'm washing dishes naked - cause there's no point in getting dressed until after I'm coffeed and showered - and waiting for the coffee to brew when I hear rapping on the screen door. omigod! To get to the clothes in the bedroom, I'd have to walk right past that open door. I ran to the back of the house, praying, "Dear Jesus, please let me have been a slob and left some clothes in the bathroom yesterday..."
Jesus is just alright with me, and sure enough, my jeans and a reasonable tank top were piled on the floor. I whipped them on, headed for the door, and said casually, oh, I THOUGHT I heard someone out here. Sorry, I was running water...
The thing is, the kitchen has a window that looks right out on the porch. I didn't have the kitchen light on, and it was pretty sunny outside, so it's at least POSSIBLE that I was not visible through the window, the one they'd have walked right past to get to the front door... But I just don't know.
If they DID see me, they were very good at acting like nothing had happened. They asked their questions, were very nice and went away.
Have to wonder if it would raise the value of my land...
bijou
DeepAsleep
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Jackie, Jacquelyn, Jackiepants, Pants, Hotpants, Shortpants, Panties,
Jack.
Oh, Jack, you came back, and more the fool, me.
It's fucking stupid how much I dote on this girl. (Doesn't it always seem to be a different one?) But for once, this one doesn't want anything more than to see me do something. She brings me dinner and sexes me and then goes to work, catches me looking at her across overfull bars and blushes and looks at her toes and she lets no one but me brush her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck and
i won't run from this i won't run from this not this time not this girl not again.
Fuck.
I'm going to screw up.
~d.a.
Jack.
Oh, Jack, you came back, and more the fool, me.
It's fucking stupid how much I dote on this girl. (Doesn't it always seem to be a different one?) But for once, this one doesn't want anything more than to see me do something. She brings me dinner and sexes me and then goes to work, catches me looking at her across overfull bars and blushes and looks at her toes and she lets no one but me brush her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck and
i won't run from this i won't run from this not this time not this girl not again.
Fuck.
I'm going to screw up.
~d.a.
Senna Jawa
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Great!Angeline said:Not dead completely. Judo has been writing a few poems here again.
But I meant "Lit blog", not the Board.
You mean, the positive correlation, right? But of course.
Sure. A lot of music. But also paintings, especially from Dutch. Baroque is underestimated. It was a movement somewhat similar to Internet.
Best regards,
Senna Jawa
PS. Your Polish in the other thread was outstanding!
Senna Jawa
Literotica Guru
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invitation
Sorry, my poor, little, unattended "Lit blog", I don't mean to neglect you, but I have started another one:
You're welcome to visit and to leave comments. That new blog is conveniently connected to gmail, which somehow makes a difference.
Sorry, my poor, little, unattended "Lit blog", I don't mean to neglect you, but I have started another one:
You're welcome to visit and to leave comments. That new blog is conveniently connected to gmail, which somehow makes a difference.
Tzara
Continental
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I was shooting photographs the other day at a decommissioned nuclear plant. There were scrub jays, which I had never seen before, and what I think were white egrets.
The cooling tower is down. Stupid, I know, but I missed it. It was really really tall and had, therefore, some certain charm.
The reactor building is still there. No tours, though.
Besides the reactor building, there are three quite large office buildings. Abandoned, now, of course. I looked through the door of one and saw rat traps and document boxes. A linoleum floor.
There are ponds, like mini-lakes, covered with scum. The old parking lot for school buses leads up to an overlook: Benches (now upholstered in moss) looking over the water to the Future of Energy in the Northwest.
Ha ha.
Well, never no mind. There are scrub jays and egrets. And, probably, rats. I saw a rabbit, as well.
There are spent fuel rods, too.
When I was 17 years old, I wanted to be a nuclear engineer.
Yeah. That was dumb.
The cooling tower is down. Stupid, I know, but I missed it. It was really really tall and had, therefore, some certain charm.
The reactor building is still there. No tours, though.
Besides the reactor building, there are three quite large office buildings. Abandoned, now, of course. I looked through the door of one and saw rat traps and document boxes. A linoleum floor.
There are ponds, like mini-lakes, covered with scum. The old parking lot for school buses leads up to an overlook: Benches (now upholstered in moss) looking over the water to the Future of Energy in the Northwest.
Ha ha.
Well, never no mind. There are scrub jays and egrets. And, probably, rats. I saw a rabbit, as well.
There are spent fuel rods, too.
When I was 17 years old, I wanted to be a nuclear engineer.
Yeah. That was dumb.
annaswirls
Pointy?
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Hello, I am back from my long journey East (nothing exotic, just PA and NJ) and glad to be back.
Last night we celebrated 15 years of marriage whoohoo! but the problem is, I still do not understand men, or maybe it is just my man? I love him dearly and appreciate all he does for our family. I do. But I need some advice, some wisdom, some something to help me understand. When I bring it up with him, no matter how, it feels like nagging, and I do not want to nag..... eh hem.
It was not the dead plants on the front porch (I begged him, please don't let them die) because I understand, it is a lot of work, requires remembering often and flowers are not his thing.
It was not the sink full of wine glasses, cereal bowls and other drinking vessels. I get it. Not enough to fill the dishwasher, leave them in the sink. It was not the mud in the shower from the bottom of his shoes (don't ask) or the shop vac in the living room.
What really perplexed me was this: instead of doing a load of laundry, he bought new underware.
Instead of doing a load of laundry, he bought new underware.
I just don't get it. Help me understand!
Last night we celebrated 15 years of marriage whoohoo! but the problem is, I still do not understand men, or maybe it is just my man? I love him dearly and appreciate all he does for our family. I do. But I need some advice, some wisdom, some something to help me understand. When I bring it up with him, no matter how, it feels like nagging, and I do not want to nag..... eh hem.
It was not the dead plants on the front porch (I begged him, please don't let them die) because I understand, it is a lot of work, requires remembering often and flowers are not his thing.
It was not the sink full of wine glasses, cereal bowls and other drinking vessels. I get it. Not enough to fill the dishwasher, leave them in the sink. It was not the mud in the shower from the bottom of his shoes (don't ask) or the shop vac in the living room.
What really perplexed me was this: instead of doing a load of laundry, he bought new underware.
Instead of doing a load of laundry, he bought new underware.
I just don't get it. Help me understand!
unpredictablebijou
Peril!
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annaswirls said:
You are a kind, tolerant and reasonable woman. I know several chix who would not have been so patient.
I too am a 15 year veteran of married life with the male species. They are bears with furniture. They are adorable and incomprehensible, and in my experience will live much like packs of wild dogs unless threatened with dire consequences. There is nothing to understand; the mindset is really never going to make sense to females. Better to ask why monarchs migrate, or why raccoons wash their food. It's just what that species does.
Lest I be accused of overgeneralization or sexism, I will qualify this: not all men of my acquaintance are like that. Just the large majority. And more to the point, they're worth it.
Tzara
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I think, though I was not an economics major and may have the concept skewed, this is an example of opportunity cost.annaswirls said:
Based on his personal hedonics, your husband obviously rates the cost of doing a load of laundry higher than the cost of buying more underwear. You, obviously, rate these things the other way around.
But consider what's involved in doing a load of laundry. In my house, it means hauling the dirty clothes down two flights of stairs, sorting them, throwing them in the washer, going back upstairs, clumping back downstairs when the washer finishes its cycle, removing the wet clothes from the washer and placing them in the dryer, remembering to add fabric softener and to clean the lint trap, turning the dryer on, clumping back upstairs while the dry cycle runs, then back again downstairs when it finishes, taking the dried clothes out, hauling them up two flights of stairs, folding them all, and putting them away. And that assumes you don't have to go down and rebalance the washer so that the spin cycle works right.
All that versus just buying clean new stuff. You go to the mall, pick up some undies, and then wander around Best Buy looking at big-screen TV sets.
Hmmm.
Of course, I have been married for twenty-five years. So I do the laundry.
annaswirls
Pointy?
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ah thank you but trust me, he is the patient one of the two of us, my bad behavior deserves a good spanking his just makes me curious! I complain sometimes but I know I don't deserve him, dead plants and all.
unpredictablebijou said:
annaswirls
Pointy?
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ah you are so smart! Thank you! Of COURSE it makes more sense to buy new undies! Especially when he knew laundry was what I will do (unlike caulking the windows, for example)
Of course, I spoke too quickly, he did not actually have to go out and buy them, he must have bought some before and the unopened bag was in his closet.....making the decision even easier!
Okay, I am off to hang the towels on the line and throw in a load of darks. I will try to remember to count my blessings on the way....
Of course, I spoke too quickly, he did not actually have to go out and buy them, he must have bought some before and the unopened bag was in his closet.....making the decision even easier!
Okay, I am off to hang the towels on the line and throw in a load of darks. I will try to remember to count my blessings on the way....
Tzara said:I think, though I was not an economics major and may have the concept skewed, this is an example of opportunity cost.
Based on his personal hedonics, your husband obviously rates the cost of doing a load of laundry higher than the cost of buying more underwear. You, obviously, rate these things the other way around.
But consider what's involved in doing a load of laundry. In my house, it means hauling the dirty clothes down two flights of stairs, sorting them, throwing them in the washer, going back upstairs, clumping back downstairs when the washer finishes its cycle, removing the wet clothes from the washer and placing them in the dryer, remembering to add fabric softener and to clean the lint trap, turning the dryer on, clumping back upstairs while the dry cycle runs, then back again downstairs when it finishes, taking the dried clothes out, hauling them up two flights of stairs, folding them all, and putting them away. And that assumes you don't have to go down and rebalance the washer so that the spin cycle works right.
All that versus just buying clean new stuff. You go to the mall, pick up some undies, and then wander around Best Buy looking at big-screen TV sets.
Hmmm.
Of course, I have been married for twenty-five years. So I do the laundry.
Tzara
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This is kind of a long story, so either settle down or go away.
I went to a baseball game the other night, in part because I was depressed. Baseball, because of its usually relaxed pace and homey/dopey fan promotions is good for taking one's mind off of one's problems. Plus you eat food that is bad for you and drink beer. All of this is good, unless you are my cardiologist.
Well, my GP would probably frown as well.
Anyway.
The game was going well for us until the ninth inning. Up three runs, we brought in our closer—best in the game—and bad things happened. A squib through the infield. Some weak fly falls in.
Shit.
In short, he blew a three run lead (two of those with two out in the ninth) and we fans were left stretched on the Procrustean rack of teamweloveicity. We was hurtin', folks.
So. The game is not the story. Let me be brief. We won in twelve. Long game, but hey! You win, all's OK.
So. The story. There's this girl sitting in front of me. Directly in front of me. Yes, yes. Woman, I suppose. Very young though. Slender. Sheep-faced. I've thought about it and I mean that. Best description I can come up with. Cheviot, actually. Long nose, dull eyes, even two little almost vestigial pigtails.
Didn't think much about her during the game. She seemed to drink a lot of beer, but then so do I.
So. Bottom of the ninth. Everyone is standing. She is not. She is running her hands up and down the butt, the arm, the belly of the guy sitting next to her. Friendly-like, if friendly means something like I want to suck your cock. She's been sitting with this older woman (well, like my age), who I thought was her companion, probably mother. I am now thinking this guy is her husband, or at least, boyfriend. Serious boyfriend. Like serious serious.
Arm. Arm. Arm. Butt. Belly. Crotch.
Finally, the guy says something to his friend (on the other side), picks up his stuff and leaves.
Weird, I think.
The bases are loaded. Weird girl stretches her arm over three seats to some kid who's maybe twenty or so, sitting with his mom (who is, in my troubled estimation, kind of hot) and begs him to take her hand. Says something and he does.
The Angels score three runs, tying the game. Kid drops the hand.
And still she reaches, reaches. I shrink back and grab my wife's hand. It's either me next or the guy in the row in front of her.
She blinks placidly. Then rises, leaves.
Like I said, we won in the twelfth. Tough game.
I went to a baseball game the other night, in part because I was depressed. Baseball, because of its usually relaxed pace and homey/dopey fan promotions is good for taking one's mind off of one's problems. Plus you eat food that is bad for you and drink beer. All of this is good, unless you are my cardiologist.
Well, my GP would probably frown as well.
Anyway.
The game was going well for us until the ninth inning. Up three runs, we brought in our closer—best in the game—and bad things happened. A squib through the infield. Some weak fly falls in.
Shit.
In short, he blew a three run lead (two of those with two out in the ninth) and we fans were left stretched on the Procrustean rack of teamweloveicity. We was hurtin', folks.
So. The game is not the story. Let me be brief. We won in twelve. Long game, but hey! You win, all's OK.
So. The story. There's this girl sitting in front of me. Directly in front of me. Yes, yes. Woman, I suppose. Very young though. Slender. Sheep-faced. I've thought about it and I mean that. Best description I can come up with. Cheviot, actually. Long nose, dull eyes, even two little almost vestigial pigtails.
Didn't think much about her during the game. She seemed to drink a lot of beer, but then so do I.
So. Bottom of the ninth. Everyone is standing. She is not. She is running her hands up and down the butt, the arm, the belly of the guy sitting next to her. Friendly-like, if friendly means something like I want to suck your cock. She's been sitting with this older woman (well, like my age), who I thought was her companion, probably mother. I am now thinking this guy is her husband, or at least, boyfriend. Serious boyfriend. Like serious serious.
Arm. Arm. Arm. Butt. Belly. Crotch.
Finally, the guy says something to his friend (on the other side), picks up his stuff and leaves.
Weird, I think.
The bases are loaded. Weird girl stretches her arm over three seats to some kid who's maybe twenty or so, sitting with his mom (who is, in my troubled estimation, kind of hot) and begs him to take her hand. Says something and he does.
The Angels score three runs, tying the game. Kid drops the hand.
And still she reaches, reaches. I shrink back and grab my wife's hand. It's either me next or the guy in the row in front of her.
She blinks placidly. Then rises, leaves.
Like I said, we won in the twelfth. Tough game.
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
Tzara said:
really y'all settle down and stay, good story Taz.
Senna Jawa
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- May 13, 2002
- Posts
- 3,272
just hello
I am not too active on the forum, and on the top of it I was cut off of the Internet for about 4 days.. I'll be back (especially that now I have a DSL connection!). Take care, guys,
I am not too active on the forum, and on the top of it I was cut off of the Internet for about 4 days.. I'll be back (especially that now I have a DSL connection!
). Take care, guys,
wildsweetone
i am what i am
- Joined
- Feb 1, 2002
- Posts
- 6,809
hook, line and sunk
i am about as immune to improving poetry as i am to avoiding grey hairs. yesterday i received via Amazon 'the poetry dictionary' by John Drury. why on earth i should want yet another poetry book to add to the pile beside my bed, i'll never know. there's only so much poetry reading i can do, only so much learning of technique and word play, only so much writing and reading able to be done in a week, and yet Amazon keep sending me MUST BUY emails and i haven't the heart to turn them all down. i am such a pushover.
the nice part about this book is that it not only gives explanations about different key terms in poetry, but it also contains a great amount of poems as examples. now i know 250 poems is not really a great amount, but it'll tide me over for a week or two. at least until i can get a friend to recommend a specific Archie book that will be my next MUST BUY.
i wonder when Amazon will try to sell me something different.
back to page 2... A Lowercase Alphabet by David Young... oh yes, a definite MUST READ. i've never seen an Abecedarium used like this.
i am about as immune to improving poetry as i am to avoiding grey hairs. yesterday i received via Amazon 'the poetry dictionary' by John Drury. why on earth i should want yet another poetry book to add to the pile beside my bed, i'll never know. there's only so much poetry reading i can do, only so much learning of technique and word play, only so much writing and reading able to be done in a week, and yet Amazon keep sending me MUST BUY emails and i haven't the heart to turn them all down. i am such a pushover.
the nice part about this book is that it not only gives explanations about different key terms in poetry, but it also contains a great amount of poems as examples. now i know 250 poems is not really a great amount, but it'll tide me over for a week or two. at least until i can get a friend to recommend a specific Archie book that will be my next MUST BUY.
i wonder when Amazon will try to sell me something different.
back to page 2... A Lowercase Alphabet by David Young... oh yes, a definite MUST READ. i've never seen an Abecedarium used like this.
unpredictablebijou
Peril!
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2007
- Posts
- 5,507
Tzara said:
I will neither settle down nor go away. And what are you going to do about it?
Sounds like a baseball fetish to me. Lotsa girls have 'em.
ghost_girl
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- May 20, 2006
- Posts
- 322
what IS family...really
In my most recent dream, I dreamt I was writing a letter..in the most beautiful cursive style. Like when I was in the sixth grade and we had to write a letter to the president.
I have had only limited internet access for the last 2 months and could not access Lit in any way at all. I come back and find a note from a precious friend I have not answered yet because I feel sort of ugly and non responsive because of my absence. To You,precious friend, I hope there is a little strawberry blonde GIRL in your future
I hope you know I love love love you!!!
back to that letter...it was to that particular friend. I can still feel the curve of the S as the pen touched the paper, in my drea, and I was thinking how very blessed I am to be able to write, considering I havent written, on paper, ( well, very little ) since I got a keyboard, and my typing consistently laughs back at me because I am so inept.
Shara, I saw your Prez illustrated poem on Anna's site, its wonderful. Im so sorry I didnt get back to you, but it was impossible. I hope you forgive me, but all your work is great, you couldnt have picked wrong.
And WE... praise be, woman!! Your spread on ME is wonderful. Some of my favorite poems by Double D keep up the excellent work!! ( ps, I know this ownt surprise you, but I had a serial killer scrap book when I was a kid, I wanted to be an FBI agent, had no idea it was called profiling back then, lol. ) I might share it with you someday if my kids didnt steal it years ago, its in my hope chest)
My youngest is back off to college this weekend, and I have no more out of town work till the end of September. Hope to see what I have been missing
xoxox
g_g
In my most recent dream, I dreamt I was writing a letter..in the most beautiful cursive style. Like when I was in the sixth grade and we had to write a letter to the president.
I have had only limited internet access for the last 2 months and could not access Lit in any way at all. I come back and find a note from a precious friend I have not answered yet because I feel sort of ugly and non responsive because of my absence. To You,precious friend, I hope there is a little strawberry blonde GIRL in your future
I hope you know I love love love you!!!back to that letter...it was to that particular friend. I can still feel the curve of the S as the pen touched the paper, in my drea, and I was thinking how very blessed I am to be able to write, considering I havent written, on paper, ( well, very little ) since I got a keyboard, and my typing consistently laughs back at me because I am so inept.
Shara, I saw your Prez illustrated poem on Anna's site, its wonderful. Im so sorry I didnt get back to you, but it was impossible. I hope you forgive me, but all your work is great, you couldnt have picked wrong.
And WE...
praise be, woman!! Your spread on ME is wonderful. Some of my favorite poems by Double D keep up the excellent work!! ( ps, I know this ownt surprise you, but I had a serial killer scrap book when I was a kid, I wanted to be an FBI agent, had no idea it was called profiling back then, lol. ) I might share it with you someday if my kids didnt steal it years ago, its in my hope chest) My youngest is back off to college this weekend, and I have no more out of town work till the end of September. Hope to see what I have been missing
xoxox
g_g
Tzara
Continental
- Joined
- Aug 2, 2005
- Posts
- 7,668
File under: Breakfast, Unappealing
So I am in SFO this morning, ready to fly back home. I’m wandering around trying to find some sanitary facilities (Hello, SF Airport people! Your restrooms suck!) and happen to pass by some guy eating breakfast at one of the many sad excuses for restaurants found in the terminal.
Ordinary looking guy, probably a bit younger than me. He’s reading the paper and sopping up some yolk from his over medium egg with what looks like a triangle of classic white buttered toast. All well and good. But (and this is 9:00 AM) he ain’t washing all of this down with coffee or milk or OJ or even (shudder) a Coke. He’s washing it down with a pint of ale.
Now, understand. I like my beer. I might even like it pretty damn early in the marnin’, under certain circumstances.
I do not, however, frickin’ want it with my eggs and toast.
Why we is all differential, I guess.
OK. Rant over. Carry on.
So I am in SFO this morning, ready to fly back home. I’m wandering around trying to find some sanitary facilities (Hello, SF Airport people! Your restrooms suck!) and happen to pass by some guy eating breakfast at one of the many sad excuses for restaurants found in the terminal.
Ordinary looking guy, probably a bit younger than me. He’s reading the paper and sopping up some yolk from his over medium egg with what looks like a triangle of classic white buttered toast. All well and good. But (and this is 9:00 AM) he ain’t washing all of this down with coffee or milk or OJ or even (shudder) a Coke. He’s washing it down with a pint of ale.
Now, understand. I like my beer. I might even like it pretty damn early in the marnin’, under certain circumstances.
I do not, however, frickin’ want it with my eggs and toast.
Why we is all differential, I guess.
OK. Rant over. Carry on.
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