Scribbles

...to realize that I have not yet reached a stage in my life when I can no longer be surprised.
That in spite of (or perhaps due to?) vast intellect, well earned wisdom, finely honed wit, endless, unrelenting charm, and tireless self-aggrandizement, I can still be wowed.
Yes, there is comfort in the knowledge that I can still recognize thrill, humility, excitement, disappointment, pride, shock and contentment.That I will forever embody the hero, the fool, the father, the stranger, the healer, or some newly invented archetype. That I will always be warmly welcomed by these and all the faces and regulars that frequent my life
But more importantly, that I have not become so jaded as too have lost the capacity to feel them again.
I am well acquainted with all of these experiences and many others. The familiarity. The well-worn path leading not so much away from as back to. The impending u-turn that no longer needs a sign.
Then, suddenly, there are those wonderful things that sneak up behind you in that quick moment just after you started looking too far ahead. Those amazing new faces, needs, minds, fears, voices, frustrations, hearts. The ones that at the same time warmed and confused you. That so filled your life that when they departed it was as if all the oxygen had been taken out of the room along with them.
Thankful that, by their great value, I am made worth more.
Thankful that, in their company, I am made better.
Thankful that, at this stage of my life, I am still able to be surprised.

(orig post 6/24/19)

I never have because it's never occurred to me. It turns out it's a thing. As an adamant bachelor I never plan on long-term relationships with any woman - as awesome as she may be or how much I like and respect her! - only a fwb or a hookup or a short-term, or until the fucking fades.
Today was the very first time I ever considered a smooth sack. I feel a little foolish but in lieu of professional therapy, I choose to come clean; not just to myself but to the eyes and impressions of the world, at least our spunky, expanding kinky world.
Remember. I didn't do it but here goes (deep breath, ohmmmm) -
I would have done it and for what is surely one of the dumbest reasons thinkable: I needed a dick pic. Yep. It was that stupid.
As all good stories necessarily must, mine begins with the simple statement "So, there was this girl..."
She is mesmerizing, young, intelligent, beautiful, vulnerable in a way that makes me want to hold her and hug her and save her and send her a few wiener snaps. She is super duper cool and I like her a lot in a friendly, platonic, we should totally hang out sometime kinda way - but I so wanna tap that!
We had a couple casual conversations about how sometimes people kinda toss around the idea of maybe, under the right circumstances, not us but other weirdos, occasionally discuss exchanging naughty pics, and the next thing I knew there I was standing in my bathroom, considering my potential in the mirror, thinking, "Dab a little cream here, work a razor over there, and.. voila" my new pubics sparkling and shining with that new dick smell as if I had just driven them off the lot.
And with any luck, having somehow augmented my ego a whopping 1/8 inches, which of course it would not have. It would still be my cock, just as I remembered it, my little buddy, Gilligan to my Skipper, only a more razor rash-y, cock o'clock stubble-y, penis zero - unaltered by the experience in any appreciable, measurable, visible way. (Seriously though how cool would it be if it were just that simple!)
Remember, I didn't do it. I don't know with any certainty whether or not she would even give a shit about that elusive 1/8 inch, or even notice, or if she has any but a friendly interest in me or my cock. But it pleases me to think that she just might.
And in that moment is where I find an extra 1/8 inch. Possibly 3/16.

(orig. post 6/23/19)

Recently I had occasion to recall a conversation I once had with a longtime friend about the nature of relationships with women; of lust, desire, romance, passion, regret, frustration and sometimes even sadness. It was primarily an academic discussion, generally speaking and with no particular emphasis on current or former girlfriends/lovers/partners etc.
She has had many more girlfriends than I and over the years has imparted little tips, helpful hints, and bits of learned insight about "understanding women." I have on occasion sought her council, heeded her advice, or simply deferred to her experience as it frequently exceeded my own.
As we had exhausted the topic she offered this very general, oversimplified, psuedo-poetic summary:

Sometimes you really want her
Sometimes you even get her
Most times you just don't understand her
But you must never lose her before you've actually lost her

I'm not entirely sure what that means but I was reminded of it and thought to share it.

(orig post 6/19/19)

Not unlike days that so closely resemble one another that they could pass as the same, yesterday was much like every other. The day before as well was just such a day. Last month was entirely filled with days indistinguishable from one another; an endless parade, one at a time, then the next after that.
I had all but lost interest, looked away from the chase of sun and moon, forsaken reliance on the cycle of seasons to forewarn me of the impending change in climate. Almost.
Then the world changed: I met her.
So what? Little did she know I had already seen more of her than I had anyone else, that I am thinking of her now, how foolishly I imagine us treating each other, the face I see while I abuse myself. Never would I tell her of my urges. I couldn't. Much of the shine of them would rub off, the novelty fade along with the fantasy.
Caring not which of us was more naive she greeted me, asking the one question that should have been most easily answered; the one question I was most afraid she would ask.
There it lay, parched, thirsting for an answer. Any answer would do, the truth or some other.
Frightened but determined, bold if uncertain, I exposed myself to her and to my great pleasure, she to me for what I desperately hoped would not be the last time.
So far it has not been. We have become not two, but one. Not mirrored images but the same face and self. We rarely speak of the passage of days, the future near or distant, only moments one at a time, then the next.

(orig. post Jun 10, 2019)