House Boy

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Note: As far as my writing goes, this little piece is not suitable for work. 

This is absolutely pure fantasy. 

Being a house boy isn’t the worst job i’ve had. i mean, compared to working alone at a 7-Eleven in the middle of the night, easy prey for a junkie willing to kill for a fix, it ain’t half-bad.   Sure, i’m naked, except for my collar, or the latex gloves i sometimes wear to keep my hands clean.

Each day, Mistress has a list of chores for me.  i thank her for the work and the opportunity to serve.  It’s pretty no-nonsense work. There’s no ironing her panties or scrubbing the toilet with my toothbrush.  i’m expected to do my work, without mistakes, and i usually perform them flawlessly. Usually.  However the other day, i was tasked with filling Mistress’s fountain pens.  The protocol demands i not spill any ink or leave ink stains on my fingers or the counters or the furniture.  

i got down to work. Instead of my clear disposable gloves, i put on the black disposable ones. They were within reach. For most things, they work just as well.  The filling went well, No spills. i was finishing up, cleaned them, put the pens where mistress directs them to be available for her use. 

i was ready for her to return home.  i fixed her hibiscus tea. The tea bags were in the pot, the water just shy of the rolling boil she prefers.  I heard her car in the driveway, her key in the lock. i was clean, beard trimmed, nails groomed. i waited for her, kneeling.   She greeted me with her customary pat on my lowered head, as if i were her pet, which i am.

She went to the downstairs powder room and i heard a shout. “you lazy little pig!  What is this?!”  Rushing to the bathroom i see the blue ink smudge on the counter. How could i have missed it?

“This is unsatisfactory. What gloves did you use when you filled my pens?”

“The black ones Mistress.”

“Do you see what has happened?  The ink got on the black gloves and there was no way you could  have noticed.  And you neglected to check any surfaces you touched.” 

 i was ashamed at this lapse of impeccable servitude.

” i shall clean it immediately.”

“Of course, you will. First however, bring me my tea.  I will consider a punishment while I enjoy my tea.”

The counter was clean. She had finished her tea.

boy, come here. Bring the brown strap. “

i crawled into her office, the strap in my teeth. i prostrated myself at her feet. Silent.

“Give me the strap. Bend over the ottoman. you know why you are to be punished?” 

“Sloppiness, Mistress.”

“I believe ten should make the desired point.”

As was her custom she immediately began, with full force, i could feel my buttocks being marked with every stinging strike.  As abruptly as she started she stopped. And left me there to “think things over.”

i was ashamed at my failure. And yet, my erection showed how much i savored this attention.  Since self-pleasuring is forbidden for me, I remained there, marked buttocks exposed, my erection pressed against the leather of the ottoman.

“Enough contemplation,.” she declared. “Fix me dinner. you will eat from The Doggy Dish at my feet.”

Another Day in Service 

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Characters And Cockfights

I’m sitting in my chair on a Saturday afternoon, waiting for trains to pass through Ashland, Whereas the trains pass in and out of the camera’s eye somewhat infrequently, the gender-ambiguous Ashland Bicycle Crossdresser (ABC) regularly moves in and out of the camera’s view.

Ze (is that right?) is what we would once have called a “character“. Ze has a unique style of dressing, wearing tops of various pastels, today pale pink, a micro-miniskirt, pantyhose and a very low-heeled strappy sandal with a bit of a heel. ABC is wearing a helmet, a major concession to safety.

ABC may very well be happier than I am. ABC’s wife is really OK with their lifestyle choice, a newspaper article once revealed.  ABC does get plenty of exercise, we can safely say. Ze is living out hir dream.

Ashland has always had an eccentric or two. There was a chap who raised game cocks, for, uh, cock fighting. The legality of cock fighting once existed in ambiguity and still may questionable here in Virginia. Betting on an encounter between two roosters is illegal, but if two roosters find themselves in a cockpit, wearing sharpened spurs and a bit of a donnybrook ensues, that can’t be helped. It’s only natural that such testosterone-fuelled shenanigans take place. Is it surprising that the legal minds who made this distinction around cock fighting also came up with Jim Crow segregation? We learn not to be surprised at anything around here,

Rebound

Today was better than yesterday.  I went swimming. 2500 meters. I am now tired, a little light-headed, as if I could fall asleep.  It is a nice feeling. A caress, a naked, skin to skin caress would feel good. 

I fixed a slow cooker chicken dish, with onion, mushrooms, garlic, diced tomatoes, and chicken. Boneless skinless. I seasoned it with Herbes du Provence. I  added a 2lb bag of frozen French-cut green beans, after it had cooked a couple of hours. It turned out pretty good,

MrsCorC? had her medical coding and billing class tonight. I had several hours to entertain myself. When I’m feeling good, I’m pretty good company with myself,

OK. I give up Going to bed. 

Help.

I need to get out of the house. To further that goal, I went to AA, saw lots of familiar faces, shared how I felt, and they were very nice. Then this afternoon I ordered a pizza for dinner, drove to the pizza shop, brought it home. My wife is home, studying.  I am watching trains on the Ashland, VA webcam. The town has put Christmas lights on the street lampposts. This is Ashland. They are and always have been Christmas lights. Thank you very much.

Having that baseline of despair make its presence felt just plain sucks. This is my day off from swimming. Tomorrow I go back. It is one week before Thanksgiving, five weeks before Christmas, six weeks before the New Year.

The sun will come up tomorrow. Yada, Yada. Yada,

Sick Of It All

I won’t gloss this over. I feel an enormous sense of shame for being a man, for having sexual feeling toward women. Just to want a physical relationship with a female puts one at risk. That feeling of mutual sexual attraction can lose that mutuality in a matter of minutes. And then? Acting on that attraction becomes a criminal act. It is not worth the trouble or the risk,

I will readily exclude  the predators from possessing any healthy sexual desires, men like  Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Bill Clinton to name three. Pick your own. Each generation gives us a new Tartuffe. Anybody remember Jimmy Swaggert? 

Celibacy is a defensive necessity. Chastity, to disengage from the sexual rat race, to escape the sexual maelstrom, is appealing as a liberation from this hollow intimacy.

So it is farewell. Erotic love is dead. It is an illusion. It demands vulnerability and vulnerability begets betrayal. No thank you. 

Meanwhile, Back In The Recliner

Do you ever just get tired?  Guilty here. I feel tired and discouraged.  Seems like the drudgery is kicking me to the curb. I did video a train passing through Ashland. This is #92, The Silver Star Northbound. Sadly it was involved in a fatal accident at a grade crossing yesterday at a site close to the North Carolina line. Obviously major delays were caused.

Why Is This Night Different?

This is one of my favorite nights. I get an extra hour’s sleep, the one taken away when we “sprang forward”. My grandfather would say it was as if someone wanted a longer blanket, so he cut 12 inches off one end of the blanket and sewed it to the opposite end of the same blanket. Wisdom from Mountain City, Tennessee.

The weight loss has stabilized where it needs to be. The swimming goes well. I was exhausted today. I did some sleeping on a damp and chilly day. 

Mrs CorC? is working tonight. As she is  leaving, she asks, “Are you going to be a good boy tonight?”, as if I were a randy sixteen year old, picking up his date at the door. That is her code for, “Are you going to look at porn and masturbate while I’m at work?” 

To her, I make no response. Mentally I answer to myself “Uh, no. That doesn’t work any more.” 

Saturday night.

3:00 AM

It is 3:00 AM. I have been awake about forty minutes. I have YOUTube on and I just saw the opening scene of Apocalypse Now, featuring the haunting song of The Doors, The End.  I am in that kind of mood,

Now I’m watching a stripper from one of those campy revival troupes like Cin City Burlesque.  There is a great deal of fun and silliness, and  naive naughtiness to these routines. The antics displayed lighten my mood. 

Upstairs she sleeps.  And my side of the bed is pain. From my back. The sore muscles that never seem to stop aching.  Downstairs is my chair, my cup of decaf, and my imagination fueled by my loneliness.  I actually have the germ of a poem in my head about Christmas and the little things that make it what it is. Maybe tomorrow.

Unplugged. Off Line

Obviously I’m not because I am writing this from my Smartphone. Still. I realized today how this compilation of nanochips and nanocircuits facilitates my day. And it’s nice mostly, but kinda creepy.

I remember when my family didn’t have a television set. We would go over to my Uncle Ed’s house to watch Milton Berle on Your Show Of Shows. Uncle Miltie. I’m 66. So the incursion of electronic media into all aspects of our lives is relatively new, as human history goes. 

Consider it took a couple of generations for somebody to rig a steam engine to a set of wheels in order that the railroads came about. Then people could travel in hours the distance it formerly took days to cover. People could travel by train from London to Brighton and have a holiday by the sea. Suddenly the diversions of the middle class, the wealthy, and the aristocracy were all becoming commingled. And the wealthy were now richer than the aristocrats.

But what money could not buy, and still cannot buy, is time. Sure affluence buys leisure, but it does not purchase reflection or introspection. What is worth doing? How do we know?

So I have time on my hands in a house whose silence is shredded by the dishwasher,  working its rhythmic cleaning magic. And I’m going swimming in a few minutes.

I will come home and avoid talking with my wife, in any meaningful way, lest she bring home the painful truth that love is not a replacement for passion

Leisure. It’s what you make of it.

Muscles And Sinews And Joints, Oh My!

I woke up hurting where I usually hurt. There seem to be regular places, e.g. my left hip, left shoulder, right triceps. The pain is mostly from use of the muscles related to swimming. Add in loss of flexibility in my back. I think that loss is minimal. I’m very grateful to be as active as I am.  My buddy, Mike The Swim Coach, told me yesterday that the body needs recovery days. I need to pay attention, but I’m vain. Sometimes I think I’m planning on having the healthiest body in the cemetery. Perspective. Dammit.

I’m sitting in my chair trainspotting. Trains are running late on some lines because of track repair. The lateness spills over into the section of track between Washington and Richmond.  That includes the spot in Ashland that I watch.

Mrs CorC? just texted me apologizing for being angry with me. I had no idea she was angry. She forgot she was dealing with a Male,  an individual incapable of reading subtle nuance. We understand angry when we come home and the locks have been changed. Other signals are murkier.

That’s all for now.
 

Imagination Destinations

I can take the Amtrak app on my smart phone and plot journeys to places I’ve never been to meet women I’ve never met. I can imagine what my new found ladies would be like. Do they like the prospect of meeting me at the railroad station, wondering which stranger I am as they leave the train?

Are they wondering why they are doing this, having an adventure with someone they’ve never met.?