Friends in sight

This is a trip in the making from 9 months ago. We gather at another couple’s place, enjoying a kids-free, work-free vacation for a few days.

Instead of the cool-moist North West, it is hot humidity this time around.

“Dress like you are back home.” The hosts warned us, the ones from cooler climates.

Yeah, the weather does feel like back home, but our bodies are no longer those of 20-something. Some of our kids are in their 30’s! We are out of the weather that we were born in. The hospitality of our hosts is palatable. The itinerary is great and the companions are something you cannot buy.

At the end, five days feels like five hours. Before we realize it, the Ubers are taking us to our separate flights home. Messages fly into the group chat, promising ourselves another reunion, really soon.

The returning flight is delayed. We sit on the tarmac, waiting for the airline to make last-minute adjustment to bring the plane full of people to our destination.

Like many times during the trip, I stare at the private chat messages on the phone that Wife does not, i hope, know about.

There is so much I want to share with my once-concubine. Visits to various tourist spots. The items in museums that caught my attention. The conversation I had with the six-year-old boy sitting next to me on the Tram. The mass-shootings, one happened two states away, the other close to her hometown. The impending Supreme Court ruling on Roe. She knows what story I try to tell. She understands where my thinking is from even when she doesn’t agree with me. In many ways, she reads me almost as well as Wife does, by only having spent one percent as much time with me.

I can’t type any of these to the message box. She is not mine anymore. Well, she never was but now that point has got through my thick skull. So a blowfish it is.

This trip has been a memorable one. The only complaint is that such nice arrangement from our host has spoiled us. Making it a hard act to follow when we arrange our other travel plans later.

The same is true with women. Once you tasted the best.

I know I shouldn’t compare, but other girls can’t compete. And no. Nobody likes me now so I will go.

What to do?

It has been three months since she broke up with me. And more than two months when she said she couldn’t even chat with me any longer. On surface, I have returned to the self of a year ago. The therapy sessions surely helps.

My observations about myself:

1) Wife is still not enough for me, either as my sex partner or my confidant. I might have found partial replacement on the sex front in Dollie. Although she is not _inky (at least yet, certainly curious). Dollie is NOT nearly as astute (even compared to Wife for that matter). So she is unli_ely to be a full replacement of any time soon.

2) I li_e to prove myself is still attractive to females (and can deliver sexual pleasure to them).

3) When I am busy with wor_, I don’t have much anxiety to find sexual release. So maybe _eeping myself more involved in some meaningless wor_ is a partial solution?

The Smell of Snow

We strapped on our snow shoes and trekked onto the trail leading to the little hill. It is close to home and an easy 45-minute out-and-back stroll, if the surface is not covered by powdery snow. A popular destination even in this briskly cold January afternoon.

I stop to take a few pictures of the tree with blue sky as backdrop. Wife veers right to shoot the field covered by untrampled snow. Snow flakes swirl as breeze blows. Sounds are muffled by the thick, white blanket but I can make out children laughing, sliding down the other side of the knoll which the tree stands.

Lowering the camera, I close my eyes and feel the cold air whooshing past my face. It is the smell of fresh snow.

Grew up in tropic climate but lived in the northern country for the past thirty years, I am getting used to the sensation of near-freezing air brushing my face. But until this winter, it has never registered as nostalgia. Unlike the warm, salty, fishy air of my childhood village.

Now I know, one can acquire objects of nostalgia in the later half of his sixth decade.

Dreams, sweet dreams.

I had a few dreams, or rather fantasies, about her. All surround the idea of me being her savior.

In this one, I was transported back to a few years ago, when she just got married with her college sweet-heart and moved into the apartment that would serve as their home for the next three years. The weather is cool and dry. The colors of the leaves have not turned yet. It is a little past five in the afternoon. I stand on the sidewalk next to the driveway, watching the college kids walk past me.

She comes down the street from the direction of downtown, carrying a backpack on her shoulders. Very much like the rest of the crowd. She is barely out of college herself, I remind myself. I prepare myself with the most harmless smile on my face and call out her name.

She slows down but does not stop, approaching me with guarded confidence. She knows karate and can probably take out a middle-aged man in seconds. And this is right outside of her home. Her territory.

“Yes?” She stops, keeps a distance of a few steps between us.

“Do I know you?” Searching her memory, she is sure we never met.

I swallow once more.

“You don’t.”

She waits for my punch line.

I quickly add: “But you did!”

She decides to ignore me and resumes her walk.

“Can we talk?” I am desperate.

Her eyes narrow. Before I can say anything else, she has her phone out. Her eyesight never left my hands as she speaks on the phone.

“Hi, I am almost home now. Just stop to talk to someone for a minute.”

She hangs up, but still holding the phone with one thumb over a speed-dial button. Another stalker, for sure. And she is right about that.

“About what?” Her voice is tense but still sexy.

I clear my throat and open my mouth. But there is no sound coming out of my mouth, I don’t know what to say.

I want to tell her that, in three years, her sweetheart is gonna abandon her for another woman. And she will be without a place to live and no health insurance. And she will be going through the separation without much help.

But I can’t tell her that, can I?

In another dream, She had moved to my town, renting a small apartment. We still met secretly but more often.

What should I do with her job? Her friends? I don’t know.

And there was Kelly, a 25-yo girl that I created for her, in my fantasies. She stayed in the background, but would always be there for her. They would make a lovely couple. I am not sure how they were going to afford to live the life they want to but, hey, it is a fantasy and I can arrange things the way I want.

But no matter what I dreamed about, there’s never a satisfactory ending. Just like the life out of the dreams.

For Entertainment Purposes Only

Sitting opposite, across the small table from me, she sips hot tea from the paper cup. We start the small talk.

“I haven’t been to Panera for ages!”

The burst of laughter from the group of teenagers congregating several tables over halts my response.

“Yeah, They were hit hard during the pandemic.”

I study her face as I put down my mug. She is cute. Her profile pictures do not lie. I have watched her walking across the parking lot to the door of the cafe. She is about 5ft 6. Slender build. Exactly as stated. Her reddish brown hair is straight, down past her shoulders.

She is relaxed and attentive, does not check her phone excessively, appropriate for a 28- year old, with a biology degree, and a few years of research lab experience. This girl is not a stranger in this dating arena, I know it without having to ask. I lay the envelope on the table, push it past my mug towards her. She picks it up and stuffs it in her purse. All without either of us breaking a sentence.

After weather, working-from-home good & bad, we dance around the issues of family, living situations. the topic zeros in our dating experiences, and expectation. We try to feel each other’s comfort zones by telling stories and watch the responses.

“There is this guy, Tony, who I met in like 2018 briefly. And to this date he still sends me texts. On Christmas, New Year, Valentines Day, whatever the occasion, he would send a “Hey, how are you dong?” type of message. It’s amusing to look at the pages upon pages of messages from him, all unanswered.”

“Why not just block his number?”

“Oh, at this time it becomes sorta entertainment. I am curious to know how many years he keeps at it.”

She waves her phone at me, with a grin on her face. Doesn’t look a bit bothered.

We chat for another 20, 25 Minutes before she informs me she is leaving. I wave her good-bye then sit back in the chair to see her strutting to her car.

Pulling my phone out, I look at the blowfish. It is just after 5pm. She is most likely still at work. He won’t see my profile picture flashing on her screen to get upset. And I want to tell her that I just M&G a girl. A 28-y.o. biology major redhead.

I knew she does not welcome my messages any more. For what they are worth, my unsolicited wits bring too much trouble for too little gain. Now I just got another perspective. Yeah, I can probably send messages for years, if not decades, without the expectation of getting a reply. And how many days until this becomes entertainment for her, if she doesn’t block me like she blocks Artisan Man.

So many times I think I have had my closure with her. yet I never really shut her out of me. Just like so many before me that were fortunate but not fortunate enough?

Would the blowfish do the job?

Blowfish

Blowfish have great eyesight and are highly maneuverable, but move slowly.

A blowfish can defend itself filling its stomach with water, thus makes itself look much larger. This also keeps all the spines point outward. If a predator is lucky(?) enough to swallow it without being choked, one blowfish contain enough tetrodotoxin to kill 30 human adults.

For the Sake of Love

For the sake of love, she adored her first man. It didn’t matter that he broke up with her, repeatedly. She waited and took him in when he circled back. Still, he blamed her for his insecurity. She didn’t know any better. It was just a teenager’s crush on a strong boyfriend.

For the sake of love. When her fiancee beckoned, she uprooted to a town hundreds of miles away. To start an open, homosexual, multi-racial, multi-religious marriage. They were darlings of the local newspapers, if not the police department. She kept the household and finance in order, did the laundry, scrubbed the toilet and watched the spending, so the nest might one day be ready for their offspring.

For the sake of love, she embraced the sexual partners imposed on her, waited until her wife was ready to go polygamous. Because open is suppose to be fair.

For the sake of love, she used birth-control so the male partner could roam her without restrictions. The love-within-love was all-consuming.

For the sake of love, she bared herself to a demanding man thousands of miles away. She pinched, lashed herself, scalded herself with burning candle wax, just to please this unappreciative figure so the climax may come to her.

For the sake of love, she allowed a married man twice her age to fondle her. She wore slutty dresses and uncomfortable heels for his kinks. She let him shave her, first time in a decade. She let him tie her up, cane her until she bruised. Even the throat fucks seemed all right!

For the sake of love, she took the sweet, innocent boy under her wings, taught him the in and out of love-making, just to have him dump her, more than once.

Ultimately her love was not enough to save her marriage. The depths of their skins were too much a barrier. A full day of fasting was not enough to repent her sins.

For the sake of love, she picked her self up from the wreckage of her marriage, turned herself into a monogamous, heterosexual wife. She knowingly went down the path that she knew she will hate. Just to keep the father of her future children, the mature co-parent that is not mature enough to face his own parents.

Would she one day find ways to do things for herself? Just for the sake of love.

I miss you, too!

She says she misses me. And she says that once a couple of days, if not everyday.

I believe she means it, just like I meant it when I said: “I miss you, too!”

She misses me differently from how I miss her.

I want to make love with her, again.

I want to kiss her, again.

I want to hold her hands, again.

Or look at her in the eyes. again.

Just like we did for the past year.

But she misses me like she misses the baby, who she cared for but now a grown-up.

The days of pure trust and happiness were dearly missed. But she does not want those days to come back.

Even if it was possible to turn the clock and calendar back, to make the grown man an adorable toddler again, she does not want it.

She wants the man to move on.

She wants him to never need her hug or comfort again.

It is so hard when a grown man that just got used to her hug and comfort.

A football game night

A rare occasion for the night. Wife is watching a ball game that I am not watching.

It is a lousy game. Home team is playing catching-up all night long.

Worse than the game is she is out, on a not-a-date date.

She lets her not-a-lover-anymore friend take her out for dinner because she needs to eat.

A meal she washed down with just one sangria. 

A friendly meal lasted for only three hours.

Of course he means nothing to her now.

He is only a not-a-lover-anymore friend that pays for the meal.

And maybe to have a few hours of conversation with.

She takes a shower at ten o’clock. Not to call it a night and get ready for bed.

The shower is for a date with her not-a-lover-yet friend.

It is a lousy game I am watching. Destined to lose.

I sit in front of the TV, not intend to watch the game.

There is laundry need to fold so I might as well get started.

“What’s wrong?” Wife asks.

Pulling my head out of my hands, I say: “Oh, just a bit tired. Eleven o’clock now.”

The final quarter has just started. The score is still not looking good.

Well, says who the home team must win at the end of the game?

Says who I must have the satisfaction of smiling down the rivals at the end of the day?

She will let me know when the dating halts for tonight and she is ready for bed.

And she will let me tuck her in.

Not the not-a-lover-anymore friend, nor the not-a-lover-yet friend.

Not even the soon-to-be-ex lover!

That is good enough for me.

Sports commentators say there is no quality loss but I take it to another level.

I forfeit the night games, the sleep-over games, and the weekend games.

Well, just about all-except-Thursday games.

Surely there will be no play-off games for me, let alone the championship game. 

I am just in the not-so-serious practice squad.

It is good enough for me to be just in her league.

The Night I Am Not Camping

I wake up to the sound of heavy rain.

It is the camping night. Not mine, hers, with him.

Almost two o’clock now.

Retrieving my phone, I check the current weather up north.

It is clear, cool, and dry.

A perfect night, for making love in the tent, or under the starry sky.

Getting out of the bed. I go to the bathroom, shutting off the fan on my way.

“Is it raining?” Wife’s sleepy voice.

“Sounds like it.”

Would she look up and see Vega, Altair now?

Would she still remember Weaver-girl and Ox-boy?

His cock is a familiar one. He used to cum inside her as a routine!

Does not need much coaching, so she can relax and just enjoy!

Most likely she is not paying attention to the remote bodies.

She gives her lover one hundred percent.

Her passion is so intense it gets scary at times.

At least this boy is comforting her when the true love of her life is away, pampering another woman.

Lying still, I don’t want to wake wife up in the middle of the night.

There will be just another four hours before I can get up for a new day, anyway.

And lying still, my churning stomach does not make me throw up.