Thursday, August 24, 2017


I can see it. Can see 53. I walked around the corner in the house I've now been in for 10 years and I can see 53.

I can see it.

I can see the aging cats, soft and even more tired.

I can see the floors, clean but needing attention of some sort.

I can see the room, the empty room. And across the hall, another empty room. One was always empty, the other held a life that by the time I'm 53 will be entering a new, exciting phase.

At 23 I couldn't see 53. I could barely see 30.

Now, I see 53. See the days, each essentially a repeat of the last. The years, moving ever faster toward an end.

I see 53. The same home for 20 years. Paid for, by then.

I see 53. I hear the alarm clock, take the shower, brew the coffee. Just like today. And yesterday. And last year.

At 33 I couldn't see 53. I was mainly thinking about 30. Sometimes, at 33, I thought of being 23. Of all the new starts and fresh experiences. I dreamed then of going back to a college campus, far away. Of being a student again.

Those dreams are gone. Silly, I think. When you can see 53, you don't want to go back to 23. Not really. Not in the sense of no money and all the anxiety.

I see 53. I see the stairs. In the evening, I'll take them up, watch a show.

I also know that between now and 53, much will happen. Much of it will seem significant. And that's if everything goes according to plan. Of course, there could be a major disturbance of some kind. Still, I see 53. Hot coffee by morning, an early dinner on the deck.

I see 53. I know I'll not go to Seattle -- the place where I experienced an awakening at 30. Too much time has passed. At 30, I wasn't ready to act on what I knew then. Now, too many entanglements prevent a return.

I see 53.

I see what 53 might have been. See the culmination of other paths, those not taken or those I know I won't take now. I see that decision at 23 made things change. Opened some paths, closed others. I see clearly where one path would have me now. Even then, on that path, perhaps I'd be seeing 53. Wondering about THIS path, the one I foreclosed.

I remember the conversation. I remember thinking about how interesting the opportunity was. But also thinking: I know where I'm going.

Of course, I didn't.

Still, I casually and quickly decided the opportunity wasn't for me. Looking back, it's amazing how in a matter of moments, 30 years of your life can be decided. The path to 53 would have been different. But also the same. Energy, excitement, opportunity and fun -- possibly well past 30. Then, one day, I would have looked up and thought: I see 53. I see the next 10, 11, 12 years and more.

I see 53.

I see what's next.

And what's after that.

I see what might have been and I see what will be.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Next to you

The sunlight barely peeks in as the buzzing of my alarm clock sounds. I'm next to you in our bed, but you barely move. Your breathing is deep, measured, comfortable. I can feel your contentment, can see your smile even as you sleep. Your hair is dark and vibrant and alive. You are facing me, you are covered but have one leg on top of the comforter.

I look at you in wonder. My eyes taking you in, admiring your beautiful face. I smile as I glance at the curve of your ass over the covers, follow your leg down to your ankle, take in the arch of your foot, the tenderness of your toes.

You've taught me to proudly sleep naked, as you do. To embrace the glorious sensations of our bodies. Sleeping naked, being naked around our home, as we often are, has inspired me to pay more attention to my own body. To take my body seriously. To learn, even as I sneak past 40, that my body responds to me and I can control much of what it does and how it looks.

I've learned a lot about control through our time together.

Now, though, I am next to you. I'm in awe. Of your beauty, yes. But also of how we came to be. Of how that post on that site caused you to respond. How you showed up just as promised. How I desired your kiss more than anything almost upon seeing you. How I restrained myself, then regretted it. How I prided my self on control, but couldn't take exactly what I wanted then.

Time works wonders. Our paths would continue to cross. I'd often imagine you as my lover. I'd even say those words: "I love you" during the many times I pleasured myself while thinking of you. Silly, perhaps. But I couldn't deny the response you created inside me.

Next to you, I notice our differences. Your body is long and marked with ink that tells a story. Standing naked, side by side, we are roughly the same height. Though in the heels I enjoy seeing you wear, you are often taller.

I'm thinner now, more fit than when we first met. And of course, always 15 years more experienced than you. My daily routine means a suit, a crisp shirt, cuff links.

Your work is hands-on, dirty, necessary. You love what you do and you've built a business doing it.

When I come back to our home from my days in meetings, or writing, or traveling - you greet me. Always in the way I desire. No matter what has gone on or what's happening that day, we make time for this.

You wear high black heels and thigh-high stockings with a garter belt, black lace panties, and a matching bra. The black leather collar complements your olive skin.

Your hand on my neck, we kiss. Then, you kneel and unzip my suit pants. I'm always aroused in your presence, and you reach in and pull my hard cock out of those pants. Your eyes look into mine as you stroke me, then tease me with your tongue. Almost instantly, we are both lost, both giving in to our desire.

Standing over you, my cock in your mouth, I cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, zip me up, and smile. As you stand, we kiss again. And then I'm off to shower. This one thing -- this routine -- is but one piece in the puzzle of our bliss.

Over dinner, we share our stories of the day. Go over what's happening the rest of the week. We laugh and smile and celebrate each other. I wear only a robe and you remain in your lingerie.

Sometimes, we can't wait until we are in our bedroom, and we make love in the kitchen, even right at the table. Often, after we've eaten and before the dishes have been cleaned, you're in my lap and our bodies are seemingly inseparable. There have been days I've pushed you against the refrigerator and placed my mouth on your aching pussy, licking, sucking, devouring you as if the meal had not been enough, as if your essence is all I need to survive. Even on those nights, we meet again in bed, completely naked, and make love. Quiet, calm, simply together.

This morning, as I'm next to you, I think of those things. Of the path we've been on together. Of our bodies together mere hours before.

I know I must go.

But I know I must have you, too. Seeing that black collar on your neck only serves to heighten my arousal. My hand grabs your exposed ass and you move a bit in response, but remain in foggy sleep.

I'm behind you now, my lips on your ass, my hand pulling the covers down, and you are waking. As my tongue dances on your ass, teases and flicks and pushes against your anus, you squirm in response.

I reach up with my hand and grab your ample breast, hold it. Your body has always amazed me and I'm still in awe that you are mine. You move up onto all fours and I taste the sweetness of your pussy, the mixture of your cum and mine from last night. I can't stop, I must have you. In your sleepy, relaxed state, you cum rather quickly. And now, now I'm inside you. Pumping hard and fast and thinking only of you. I bend over you, cock buried deep, and bite your neck, kiss your ear. I can't get close enough to you and I can't stop. Our lips meet and now my hand is around your neck.

You feel my cock pulsing, bursting, exploding inside you. My breath on your neck, your ear. And I say to you: "I'm glad you're mine."

Showered, shaved, dressed and at the door. You stand there, naked. Kiss me on the cheek. As you wave bye, I see the trickle of my semen on your leg, see the evidence that just moments ago, our bodies were intertwined.

I smile -- a smile happier and brighter than ever.

This is our life. This me. Next to you.

Monday, August 21, 2017

Take the Stairs

There was a time when life was sometimes smooth, gliding forward. Then, the escalator was down for repair. And up again. And back down.

He wondered if he'd be permanently down. Wondered if once the escalator went down, it ever worked again.

Now, he had an answer.

The escalator that sometimes worked, but most often did not, was gone. For about six months, there was nothing. A big, empty hole. A void where his dreams and hopes and future had once been. With each day the escalator had been down, he moved further and further from a bright future.

He settled in. The hole became the norm. The black spot in his heart meant he rarely cried and rarely smiled. True happiness was not the same. Not as it had been at 17 or 23. Or even for a moment at 37, just before the first crash of the escalator.

The thing is, after six months of a hole in your heart, your life is never the same. The hole never gets completely refilled. Or, maybe at some point, at 75 or 90, you reach a stage of contentment. But the possibilities that once were, that had been so clear and so possible, drifted away.

After six months, he walked into the library on his way to where he'd once had an office.

The escalator was completely gone. So was the hole. The blackness lifted.

He had settled in to a new pattern. He'd assembled two part-time jobs that gave him a full-time salary. He worked side projects. He was making more money than he ever had. Sure, some of that money was paying off the debt he'd incurred during the darkest time, but he had cash now. He could buy a coffee once a week at Starbucks. He could go on trips and order a nice shirt from his favorite store.

The thing is, he was never done. On a vacation, he worked three to five hours a day. On the weekends, he tended to the quiet, lonely work that ensured the money kept coming in. And he worried. A lot. So much that he lost five pounds, then five more.

He looked much better in the slim fit shirts he preferred. He had his suits taken in and people told him he looked strong, fierce.

Mainly he was just hungry and tired.

At night, his last thoughts before bed were about how he would make money the next day. In the morning, as the hot steam of a shower poured over his head, he thought of what that day would bring. What can he do to make five more dollars today? Could he get $100? If he got the extra money, which debt should get priority?

He'd leave from the steamy escape and go to his phone. Then his computer. News and projects and a plan.

He'd take a call. Send some emails. A long, slow slog.

Because of the nature of his work, some type of money came in at least once a week. On those days, he'd be calm. Maybe eat lunch at a restaurant, even order a cocktail. He kept bourbon at home so he could have a glass before bed. Just one drink coaxed him to sleep, kept the thoughts of the next days trials away.

Each day was like the one before. He longed for the security of one job, of one employer. Of going home at 5:30 or 6 and having time on the weekends to tend to a garden or just watch a ballgame.

Instead, the days ran into each other. Nevertheless, he kept moving forward. Coffee. Shirts. Bourbon. The tiny bright spots in what once had seemed an endlessly glittering future. And he saw that in 10 years, 20 -- it would be the same.

In place of the escalator, in place of the hopeless hole, stairs had been installed. Steady, sure, safe. Much more difficult when you started from the bottom. But taking the stairs meant moving forward, even if more effort had to be applied. There was now no illusion of a potential smooth escalator ride. No hope of a few days of relaxation. But there was the security of the stairs. Of the promise that with effort, you will move forward, upward, one day, you'll move out.

Take the stairs.

Always take the stairs.

Friday, August 11, 2017

Go-To Bourbon

Here's a great article on what bartenders like to drink -- you know, the people who are professionals at crafting drinks for your pleasure. What do they like in a bourbon? Because, they know what they're talking about -- so, it's worth a try.

Of the seven mentioned, here's my favorite:

Gene Samuel, bartender at Gordon Ramsay Pub & Grill
“I truly enjoy Old Forester Birthday Bourbon. It has the viscosity I look for in a combo pot-stilled whiskey balanced with the crisp finish you tend to get from a column still. The price point (about $80) is phenomenal—depending on vintage. And with it being 100 proof, you just can’t go wrong: traditional vanilla-cream notes, warming sugar aromatics, orange blossom on the finish.”

I have to say I'm a fan of Old Forester. It's a good staple bourbon, and the Birthday expression is ... well, fabulous.

READ MORE about the bourbons bartenders drink.
What do you like?

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

My Bourbon Cabinet

I'm a fan of a good bourbon. I know, I know. It's "trending" now. But, I've always enjoyed a bourbon.

I was probably first exposed to bourbon as a cough remedy as a kid. YUCK! But, as I got older, I enjoyed it as a beverage. I first had a proper bourbon drink in a cocktail -- an Old Fashioned. YUM!

Now, I keep my cabinet stocked with several bourbon choices I enjoy or enjoy sharing with friends.

Here's what's in my cabinet now and a little more about each from some reviewers I trust:

The Special

There are a few bourbons which run into the "special" category. These are typically on the higher end of the price range and for good reason. To me, these are the bourbons I like best, but wouldn't necessarily drink every day. Cost being one reason and another being I like to have that something special to enjoy - maybe on a very special occasion or when a good friend I haven't seen in a while drops by.

My current "special" is Woodford Reserve Double Oaked.

Almost anyone who has had more than a couple bourbon drinks has had Woodford Reserve. It's fairly ubiquitous and a good entry bourbon. I like it straight and it is great for mixing in a cocktail.

The Double Oaked expression is on a whole different (higher) level.

The pour is dark, the nose is rich vanilla and caramel, and the taste is both smooth and memorable.

Here's more from Breaking Bourbon:

Woodford Reserve Double Oaked ends up delivering the flavor profile that is missing from their standard expression. While it’s not breaking any new boundaries in the bourbon world, it also doesn’t deliver a drastically different flavor profile like so many other barrel finished whiskeys tend to do. However unlike Distillers Select, it is quite enjoyable and complex enough for me to actively reach for a glass to appreciate the flavors it contains. If Distiller’s Select is what you grab to make a cocktail, there is no doubt this is what you’ll want to grab to enjoy a glass of bourbon neat. For everyone else who may ignore this line from Brown-Forman, Woodford Reserve Double Oaked is worth a try for its surprisingly easy-to-enjoy flavor profile.


While traditional Woodford Reserve is a normal everyday bourbon for me, the last time I was at my favorite liquor store, I saw a rather large bottle of Larceny and quickly searched for a few reviews. Basically, they told this story: A solid bourbon at a great price.

That's what I found. I have a nice size bottle of Larceny -- it's a decent pour, I've enjoyed it neat and over ice, and find it to be pleasant, relatively smooth, and good for cocktails.

Here's more from The Whiskey Jug:

Larceny Bourbon is a decent sipping bourbon. It’s full of flavor and has a bit of an oaky kick to it that pairs well with the sweetness. It’s a robust whiskey that pulls off the wheated softness without becoming weak and spineless. It’s a whisky I could drink any time and not get bored with and the 92 proof makes it a prime candidate for cocktails. If you’re looking for a good bourbon at a decent price then you should definitely give Larceny Bourbon a try.


I enjoy trying new bourbons and whiskeys and discovering what I like -- even some surprises. So, I always have a bottle of something "surprising" around.

This time, it's Slow and Low Rock and Rye.

It's styled as America's first cocktail in a bottle. And it is delicious.

Basically, it's Rye whiskey, oranges, and sugar. An old fashioned, kind of.

Poured neat, it's sweet, orange-forward, and delicious. Over ice, it's easy to drink, but not quite as tasty/sweet.

Warning: This is 84 proof, so not a light whiskey -- but, because of the orange and honey flavors, it's super smooth and easy to drink -- so, be careful. This is great for a Friday night on the porch when you aren't going anywhere.

Here's more from Serious Eats:

Served neat, the sweet scent of honey mingles well with the bitter citrus and rye spices, and the horehound gives it a touch of earthiness. The sugar and honey dominate the citrus and rye spices a bit, but the heat of the whiskey helps it to finish clean and dry.

So, there you have it. My bourbon cabinet. These are all worth a try. I've seen the price of Double Oaked creep up a bit lately, but it's certainly worth it as a special bourbon. The other two are both very reasonably priced and can be tried out without putting forth too much cash. I predict you'll want them in your rotation. 

Monday, July 10, 2017


She felt the warm, thick liquid against the heat of her dark flesh. Her ample breasts covered in streams of his pleasure. She had been stroking him beneath his khakis as they kissed. She couldn't resist unzipping, taking him out, watching him grow in her hand.

Her kiss was the best he'd ever tasted. Hot, intense, hungry. With his pants off, she had full access to his pulsing cock. She cupped his balls, stroked his shaft, teased the large head. Traced the bulging veins from top to bottom.

As their kissing grew more intense, he knew what he wanted. He told her to get on her knees and remove her shirt. She willingly complied. He grabbed his cock and stroked it as she watched, looking up at him with deep brown eyes.

Her mouth tasted the tip of him, but he moved her head back. Not yet.

He stroked as she watched, breasts free of her shirt and lace bra.

He could barely contain himself, and he squeezed with a bit more pressure, stroked quickly, and his eyes closed. He felt the heat of semen releasing from him in burst after burst after burst. He couldn't remember cumming that much at once before. Thick ropes of cum were on her chest and shoulders. Hot, white, glistening against her dark skin.

She placed her fingers on her left breast, rubbed them in his fluid, and licked his taste.

The sight of her there caused his cock to tingle, even as it was recovering from the explosive pleasure.

He joined her on the floor and kissed her mouth. Then, eagerly, hungrily, began licking and tasting his cum on her flesh. She was moaning in delight as he teased her nipples with his tongue and teeth and consumed his semen aggressively.

His mouth back on hers, the salty-sour taste of him on her lips.

He pushed her down, and she reached for him... feeling a stiffening cock and smiling.

His fingers penetrated her wet pussy, opening her for his ready member.

As the head of his cock rubbed against her clit, she placed her legs around his waist.

She'd wanted this for years now. And he needed it. Badly.

He thrust all the way inside and their lips embraced as their bodies were joined.

There was no stopping, no going back. Only a giving in... a response to pent up desire.

She fucked him back, begged him to go deeper, fuck harder. He complied, marveling at the incredible wetness and tight feel of her pussy.

She gripped his cock tightly and worked her body around him.

His lips and mouth found her still cum-stained breasts and devoured her.

She looked right into his eyes and the clear evidence of her desire caused him to cum again, pulsing hard inside her as her own sweet orgasm began.

He held her close and she looked at him: "Round three?"

Tuesday, September 13, 2016


The PR firm was Wesley's first job after grad school. Well, the first job he had properly earned, anyway. He'd been handed a job as grad school ended and stayed there nine months. But this job, this was his. It was in a new town, not where he'd grown up and not where he'd gone to college.

He'd made the connections, done the work, aced the interviews. He found an apartment not far from downtown, he'd mapped the routes to and from work. He loved the work. Lots of research and writing and a chance to explore his creative side.

Andrea worked for a large real-estate development firm. The newest project there was a high-end, gated community. The project was her project, or at least she was in charge of managing vendors and handling marketing. The firm had hired a PR outfit to assist in the messaging. After a presentation about the next year's plan, Wesley's boss had turned the real estate operation over to him to see how he'd handle it.

This meant Wesley and Andrea were in a lot of meetings together. And on conference calls. And sending emails. He was two years older and seemed very, very serious.

In addition to meetings with the team, about once very two weeks, Andrea would call Wesley's office and see if he could go to lunch to talk about the project.

He always agreed. Always. First of all, he wanted his boss to know he was doing good client maintenance. Second, Andrea.

She was short and bronze-skinned with blond-ish hair and large blue eyes. She always smiled. And her firm always paid for their "business" lunch.

At the first few of these meetings, he'd bring some notes from the project or a new ad idea.

After their meals, she'd smoke a cigarette. She carried her cigarettes in a gold case. He sometimes commented on it and on her habit. Asked her when she planned to quit. She always told him when the right boy came along and asked, she would.

One morning, Andrea called to see what Wesley was doing for lunch. He was open and where did she want to meet?

She would just come by, pick him up. This was new. They'd always just met somewhere, maybe walked and talked after, then back to separate cars and jobs.

She asked the receptionist for Wesley, was shown back to his office. She was wearing a black pencil skirt, black heels, and a white shirt. Even in the heels, she was shorter than Wesley, and that wasn't because he was a giant.

After an especially long lunch, they got into Andrea's car. The day was warm and she rolled the windows down as they began the drive. She said she wanted to go over to the project site, and they left the main road for a winding two-lane road lined with trees.

As "Your Body is a Wonderland" began to play, Andrea commented that this was the sexist song she knew.

Wesley agreed. She turned it up.

He placed his hand on her thigh, and she floored the gas. His fingers inched up beneath her skirt and she expertly handled the car around curves.

As her speeds approached 90 miles an hour going downhill, he rubbed a finger against the wetness beneath the lace of her panties. "Your body is a wonderland...."

He felt the car slow as his finger darted beneath her panties, parting her wet lips, rubbing her clit.

Gravel against rubber. A stop.

She was in his lap, straddling him, his hands on her firm ass, her lips on his. The taste of the cigarette on her tongue, on his tongue now.

He unbuttoned her shirt, tasted the warm flesh of her neck, teased her collarbone with his teeth. She reached down and felt the heat of his cock, felt him growing, stroked him through his pants.

As they kissed, he worked his belt loose, eased his pants down..

He pushed her panties to one side with his fingers, and let her body rest above his throbbing cock. He held her waist, eased her down, teased her with his excitement.

When he couldn't stand it anymore, he pushed into her, further. She let out a soft moan as his body claimed hers, as his kisses became eager bites.

They were fucking in their clothes, half-dressed, eager, hungry. Nearly a year of meetings had led to this.

He was not letting up, he was letting go. Lost in his desire to claim her. She bit his ear and felt his cock grow even harder. He dipped a finger into her pussy, felt the warmth of his cock. That finger was now at her anus, pushing in, her moan growing more intense.

He pulled her down, held her. Thrusting with his cock, rocking her body hard. He looked into her eyes, told her to kiss him. As their lips met, he felt his orgasm approaching. He held her tight, pushed her down, and grinding into her, he let out a grunt, a scream. His cum streaming inside her as she kissed him.

They held each other for a moment, and then he told her to get out of the car.

As the door closed, he told her to take her skirt and panties off, and he pressed her against the hot metal.

His kisses landed everywhere... her neck, her c-cup breasts, her stomach. He kissed her thighs, then buried his head between her legs, tasting his cum mixed with her pussy juices.

The sight of him between her legs was heavenly. His thick, dark hair and strong shoulders. She lifted one leg, placed it on his back, leaned back, and let go. He was hungry, devouring her. As she responded, he licked more quickly. His fingers joined his mouth and she was nearing the edge.

The heat of the car on her ass only heightened the pleasure. He would not stop, even as she pulled his hair, and she came hard as he continued lapping up her essence.

He stood, turned her around, and she heard the clink of his belt buckle on the ground, felt his hard again cock against her ass. Felt him inside her as he pressed her hands to the car's body. One hand on her waist, the other on her breasts... he was fucking her again and it was divine.

He bit her neck, then grabbed her hair, pulling her to him. He licked the sweat from her back as he continued his assault on her senses.

One year of lunches. One year of desire. One year of maybe one day. Today was the day. Her body was a wonderland. She'd come to pick him up, and she'd gotten exactly what she'd wanted. Only she hadn't imagined it like this. Maybe they'd kiss, makeout, agree to date. Wesley clearly had other plans. His response took her just where she needed to go.

Their bodies were a wonderland.

From then on, when the phone rang at the office, he hope it was Andrea... looking for lunch.