Yes? No? Any ideas? Additions to the list?
Yes? No? Any ideas? Additions to the list?
There it was, on the blacktop in the parking space beside the Mercury, a Starbucks cup.
“What’s this doing here?”
” I don’t know. It was there when I got in the car. Somebody parked in the space, put the cup there, then drove off and left it.”
“Oh. Didn’t you leave a Starbucks cup in the car? I thought maybe you…”
“Why would I put a cup in that space? Besides, there is lipstick on the lid. I don’t even own lipstick, especially in that shade of red.”
“That’s right you don’t wear lipstick. What was I thinking?”
What was I hoping for, wishing for, dreaming of, that maybe, just maybe, you would embrace your femininity? Because it would give me just a bit of pleasure to see you dolled up just a little bit. Maybe I’d feel like a husband, better yet your lover,instead of your housemate.
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,
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.
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,
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.
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.
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.”
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.