Well. Here I am again. The crossroads of ‘pull the plug’ on this blog or trudge ahead, alone—in the depths of my despair in the hope that some total stranger across the silent miles is gently nodding ‘I get it’ while reading my cray cray shit.
I am just now getting up and about today. Daylight Savings Time has kicked in and I am in no fucking mood to leap forward much less fix myself late lunch. What I have done is wanked three times since the early a.m. hours. I do this because of the two minutes of post-orgasmic bliss I get that—fool heartedly, gives me some bit of fortitude to carry on in this world. I should be buggy whipped for my addiction to internet porn.
But it’s so easy isn’t it? It’s just out there, waiting to be discovered and briefly enjoyed like chocolate covered cherries. Oh. So I watched this vid called “half his age/son & daddy” or some such relevant titillating title and my first thought when they both entered the bedroom was ‘look at that little 23-year old whore begging for daddy’s cock’ but had to check that judgement at the front reception desk of “oh mary” when I realized I was THAT 23-year old when I met my now EXbf who was exactly 44-years old at the time. It’s not like he had to hit me over the head with a club; I went willing and quite able.
Which now makes me think about the daddy role I find myself cast in nowadays. I did not ask to be anyone’s daddy but this salt-n-pepper hair and thick middle doesn’t exactly shout fountain of fucking youth either.
Friday night I sparkled at one of this town’s spring fundraising events. Actually my company hosted it as the premier sponsor so you better believe I was running around with my damn head cut off all the while looking smashing in my silvery gray shark skin suit, blinding white French cuff shirt, and tres expensive TOM FORD silk knit tie. Let’s just say the venue’s late 20-something event director was graciously accommodating and quite friendly. Or did I just imagine that taking place? He seemed a bit flirty. I don’t know; my ‘come fuck me’ meter is rusted. Anyway. Where was I? Oh! So near the end of the evening, around midnight, I flagged him down on the red carpet runner and grabbed our photographer for a quick shot. For some inexplicable reason the photographer’s flash went haywire and began rapid flashing like a disco strobe. It was blinding but, too—for a brief second I felt like Kim Kardashian stepping out of an Escalade minus panties.
“Well I guess our beauty broke his camera” I sort of laughingly joked to my embraced photo companion. “Well, YOUR beauty” was his smiling reply. So I sez’ to myself hours later while stripped and tipsy before my bathroom mirror: “What would a boy handsome enough to be a Ralph Lauren model want with these tits” as I pondered the soft roundness of my man boobs.
I’m wondering if I should follow-up tomorrow with a professional email of thanks post-event. I mean, he gave me his card for that very reason, I think. Naturally I’ve already stalked his Facebook page and have died a thousand deaths over his pics. I wish I had bigger balls to ask him out for a drink or something but with my ongoing despair vortex who would want to fly a rainbow kite of gay love with me in this hail storm?
He’s taller than me. Has an easy laugh, blonde hair, and beautiful blue eyes. German descent, I believe; he seems like someone who wouldn’t be a player. I have this ivory-colored knit afghan that my mother crocheted for me. It’s one of my favorite possessions even though it sprang from the hands of Hell’s gatekeeper. But I envision blonde boy and I cocooned in its familiar warmth post shag. It would be a good color next to his skin.