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This is a quote from St Edith Stein who took the name Theresa Benedicta upon entering the Carmelite Order. A convert from Judaism, she died at Auschwitz 8 August, 1942.

“The world does not need what you have, but who you are.”


Facebook Go Home



I made the mistake of logging back on to Facebook, only to play in The Gun Control Opinion Circle Jerk. Big mistake.  So I deactivated yet again.  An AA friend of mine died last night, so I felt compelled to post a condolence.

The big news around Richmond is that Facebook is building a data center in the area so they can spy on the whole world more efficiently. Of course, the new overseers on the same Old Plantation think this is great. And politicians of both parties are beside themselves in self-congratulation.  I’m betting with the tax breaks FB gets, we’re paying for the privilege of them being here and will continue to do so for a long damn time. Liberal billionaire leeches will suck money  from the tax base too.

I’m angry, because I’m grieving. Roger, my AA buddy, is the third of the spiritual mentors in my life who died this year. These have been tough losses. Part of the lesson I’ve learned this year is that I am way more conservative than I am willing to admit.  Conservative in the sense that I believe in Absolute Truth. And Heaven And Hell. And Satan. There is evil in the world. Pure Evil. Two words people, Las. Vegas.

I’m not a fan of moral relativism.  Sorry. People are going to stop following me because I wrote that. Chances are good, they pride themselves on being tolerant as long as they don’t have to tolerate any idea that makes them uncomfortable.  Yeah. That’s tolerance for you. Not.

My hunch is that most people who claim to be tolerant have never really had to accept people exactly the way are, because their lives aren’t contingent upon acceptance.

Enough Think about that.. I dare you.

What To Do


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Sometimes the choices we have aren’t life-altering. They’re just options, like “regular”or “decaf”. Tonight I just can’t force myself to watch another baseball game, even if it is my beloved Yankees playing the wild card play-in game. So I’m watching a Russian language World War II movie. I studied Russian in high school fifty years ago. I can still, sorta, kinda read the Cyrillic alphabet. There are no subtitles and the acting and the visual images have to get the story across. But I’ve watched dumber stuff with keener  interest, e.g. porn. 

Russia is a fascinating place.  The art, architecture, the music, the Russian Orthodox practice of Christianity, I would love to go there.  

#2 Son texted about a deep fat fryer to make donuts the next time we get together. I am all in for that. Maybe I can talk him into beignets.  I don’t have a deep fat fryer, but I would buy one if it means I get to see my son. 

 Back at the movie, It’s 22 June 1941 and, unbeknownst to the characters, the Germans are about to attack. As Gomer Pyle used to say, “Surprise! Surprise!”

This particular film centers around women soldiers serving as antiaircraft gunners, a job many female troops had in the Red Army.  It is a visually interesting film, particularly with the nude scene in the Russian bath, and the accompanying striking with the birch branches. If this movie is to be believed, there were NO ugly women in the Red Army. Who knew? 

Meanwhile, I now own a Kindle©. The challenge is to get it registered since it was a gift and I need my Amazon password to register it, a password I have, of course, forgotten. So Jeff Beezos’s minions are getting back to me on that.

Whilst writing this entry, #2 son called. He further elaborated on his food plans. They are as amorphous over the phone as they were in the text. He has this idea to fix deep-fried sushi, the preferred sushi of Sumo wrestlers? Somebody out there makes it. ” Here in America, we call that fish sticks, Son.” I felt like saying.



Here we are. I woke up hurting. And longing. I have little desire to watch a football or baseball game. I have swum 41 miles this month on 23 of the 30 days. I still might swim today.

I want to retreat into Fantasy Land and a swim might help. My brain can fantasize while my body moves. I can imagine myself swimming nude. As I swim, Mistress looks on. Her other dominatrix friends are there with their boys. They naturally bet on which of the subs is fastest.  And the winner is rewarded. He will be pegged by his Mistress, then the Dommes. 

I’m excited now. Time for that swim.

End Of Third Quarter


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Yes Sirree, Boy!  Where did the time go?  It seems like only last week I was hip deep in the muck of a Presidential Election, but that was 11 months ago.  Now…  

It seems like I was just buying Hallowe’en candy to give away to the urchins pounding on my door, (or, most likely, eat myself).

It seems like only just the other day, I was wondering if I would ever see my abdominal muscles again or weigh under 200 lbs, much less 185.  Had you told me six months ago, I would swim two miles, without stopping, and think nothing of it, I would have laughed. Since April, I have shredded a lot of notions I held about what a 66 year old retiree is supposed to look like and what his capabilities are.

I have also become quite comfortable living with conflicting ideas about politics, relationships, the very nature of love itself.  Try truly not caring about what somebody else thinks, but just love them, not in a superficial and/or a sentimental way. Love someone in the sense that you care about their welfare, that you want to see them live another day. Love someone, expecting nothing out of it for yourself.

Right now the  figurative elephant in my cranium I’m avoiding writing about is sex.  My sexual imagination is rich, deeply influenced by ideas of domination and submission and their accompanying ritual acts.  Yet my sex life is chaste.  I wrote a little story House Boy , detailing a fantasy I had.  There are more up there.

Would I like to act out?  Hell yes, in the worst way, but I know how the real world operates.  I also love the woman I am married to.  That Love and that vow of love I made controls taking any action that contradicts that vow.

And you wonderful people who stop and read what I write, thank you. I read what you share. I am in awe of your courage and willingness to sit at a key board, pound the letters, and sweat blood. 

I am on my way to becoming a writer of online erotica, the least likely job/avocation I thought I would have.  It will be fiction.

“Don’t try this at home, kids!”  will be my motto. But sometimes it just needs to be written.


It is after midnight. I am tired. Yet there is no desire to go to bed.  There is a psychic hurt. I do not wish to sleep beside my wife. 

I am watching an old travelogue about Buenos Aires from the late Forties or Fifties on YouTube. It is public relations produced for the Peron Regime. 

There are worse things to do.

House Boy



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 

Sometimes You Eat The Bear…


Sometimes the bear eats you.

I had my six-month check-up today. Weight at the Doctor’s office 186.8 lbs. BP is 120/80. We are waiting to hear about the blood work. Maybe there are no more statin drugs in my future. The cost for the generic is not great, but it sure would be nice to have one less pill to take.  Weight Watchers meeting is today. I weigh 183.6 lbs on their scale. Even better. Goal weight 179 lbs is only 4.6 lbs away. We have a great meeting, very positive.


I go swimming, a little tired, but I go. And it feels like I’m crawling through concrete about ready to set. I finish.  And I’m hurting, sore and aching. I go home.  And I want the pain to go away. So I’m resting with ice. And Advil.

Life is good. On balance. 

Waiting For The Fog To Lift


Actually, it is a lovely late summer day, only a few days away from the Autumnal Equinox.  There is no real fog. But in my head, it’s another matter. I’m engaged in the mental wrestling match, pitting Desire against Inhibition.  I realize that my fear of rejection has me keep silent in the agonizing climate of sexual negativity inside my marriage. If I state my needs, her issues will be expressed and they will override what my desires are.  This sucks.

And my usual outlets, based on a rich fantasy life and the accompanying auto-erotic self-stimulation, don’t work any more.  Those outlets are about self-centeredness and only exacerbate the loneliness.

 There are only so many games to watch on TV, laps to swim, and cold showers to take.  I’m giving Anne Rice’s Beautys Kingdom another read-through, seeking some respite in the sumptuous, but implausible, decadence. 

Would I walk away from my world and my values, just to feel better or different right now? Stay tuned.