You never forget how to ride


Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

For just one dollar, you may ride our fastest yellow bullet train.  Yes, we invite you to be a passenger on our pink submarine.  Ooh, damn, my knickers are in a twist, all twisted up, left under the bed, lost and dusty, as I watch the funeral donkey pass, widow in black, soul in white.  Or is that a blackened soul and a passing white ghost – a white witch under Dorothy’s bedroom.  Uncle Elmer left me with a dollar in my pocket, just in case.  Take her back to the North for a dollar, save her from Dot’s wrath, give her Dot’s rash, run time backwards – feet curled up in stripey stockings.  Mine under the bed with my knickers, discarded after my last bike ride; he ruined them again. He ruined it, me, forever and ever, one nation … am I allowed to say that?  What does Congress say, the right wing red necks banning my ruby slippers, grounding my balloon flights with that sham of a wizard.  I’d rather fly with the monkeys, fly to the moon, to the stars, as the gold sun declines on the autumn horizon.  Soul and body fresh in the failing light and clear sky, dancing to the funeral march.  Laughing at the silly witch who got mixed up with her stripey twin, as our black cousin cackles in her black leather knickers, whip, and flaming broom.  I led the cortege through the creaky gate, naked as the day I was born – no, created – no human could bear me, especially when I haven’t taken my medication, today’s white pills sold for a dollar, I’ve doubled my money, so I can buy a blue, pink and white bomb pop, and drop it on Dorothy’s crushed house, riding my bike backwards, we go both ways, he said I’m ambidextrous, foreplay, afterplay, time in two directions, making the corn taller as it wilts.  Green stalks from green shoots, bang!, killed the white witch before Dot’s house landed on her, tied her up in the coffin – witches don’t die – the black witch snickers- watch witchy dig herself out of this one, buried in the cornfield on the horizon.  Make her walk home in her dirty white dress hiding her tail between her legs, her mother will scold her as stripey witch jumps up and down with glee and blacky strokes her monkey.  I’m curled up in bed with my bike, having forgotten about my knickers and socks, playing submarine – up periscope!



Photo by Olga on

obsession, that’s what has taken hold of me for the past 24 hours, 24 frustrated hours at the end of many frustrated days of not writing at a time when I have time to write, but as I’ve mentioned in my blog, my rentboy muse is crumpled in the corner foaming at the mouth, poisoned by my cynicism, too dead to be revived by passion, especially in my passionless current state of affairs in spite of this obsession with lucidity, thanks to one of my new WordPress followers by that name, or shorter, just Lucid, who is an artist and stream of consciousness writer, like myself, but different, where hers is more circumspect, from the same inspiration as her art, whereas mine flows freely from my sex, with no periods to dampen the flow, just commas, when I surface for air, rarefied by exertion, real or imagined, yet (hopefully) wet and slippery just the same, but hopefully not the same as before, like my first Beckett stream, and not as repetitive as the miles I run, running from my writer’s block and trying to build up enough passion to revive my rentboy, musing about my devoted readers who haven’t heard any new utterances from me like this in a long time, and may not again for a while, since I am supposed to be doing other things, licking my fingers – I’ll say that again – licking my fingers, why, because of the chocolate on them, rather than something else you imagined in your smutty mind, yet knowing my mind to be of the same ilk, you were justified in thinking it, so I’ll say it again, that I’m licking my fingers, slowly, a single digit at a time, just for you, dear reader, so you can imagine whatever you wish or want or like, because I don’t pull your strings, rather I give them a little nudge in a certain direction for you to take over, do what you want, perhaps what you need, what I might need in this convoluted mind of mine, which is perhaps not unlike yours, as we may be one, coexisting in the same mental space, inhaling the smell of – you know – or you can guess, and in it we become lucid in a higher state of being, of consciousness, where the everyday anxieties can’t, or dare not touch, yes, I’m still obsessed, but I’m hungry, and the chocolate was just an aperitif

action carefree cropland daylight

Photo by Olga on



I wanted to be her.

I wanted to be twenty years younger, and I wanted to have what she had. Dying my hair blond (or whatever her latest color was) was the easy part, and I was fortunate to look vaguely like her … well, I didn’t quite have her breasts, and I was a couple of inches taller than she was. Implants were out of the question, but a little padding was easily obtained and served just as well … at least, until somebody tried to remove my dress.

That little black dress! She wore it on television – she looked fabulous in it. It looked very tiny on me, or maybe it felt tiny on me, like it was barely there – bare being the operative word.

I can sing, too. Unfortunately, I’m hopelessly an alto. I could never hit those high notes. I won’t be a tribute singer. Besides, I’m really much better playing my French Horn. That’s not to say I couldn’t sing, but that wouldn’t be my strength. Singing won’t get me where she is.

I sent her an email a few weeks ago. I didn’t hear anything back – wasn’t expecting to. She probably doesn’t tweet her tweets or post on her Facebook account. Some lackey probably does that for her. I don’t know why I did it. When it comes to her, I just lose all sense of reality.

I heard she was coming to town – a night that I wasn’t playing a gig myself. I could go, but I would look a little strange on my own – not quite a grandmother to the rest of her audience, but not far off. Some of my contemporaries are grandmothers. That’s something I’ll never be. No children, no husband, not even an ex- or two. She has an ex- already – and children. She will be a grandmother by the time she is my age. I was pregnant once, but nothing came of it. Yes, I’ve had a steady stream of ex-boyfriends, few of whom I’m still in contact with. That’s me; a breakup is irreparable. My ex-boyfriends are off limits, bad blood. I once tried to stay in touch, but that only strung him along. He didn’t want to break up, but I knew it was going nowhere. The second breakup was worse – for both of us. I can’t stand to be near him now – as much as I can’t stand to be apart from him.

I digress …

Well … maybe I’m not done digressing. I’ve had more boyfriends than she’s had. She’ll divorce hubby number two, and there will be a custody battle – and it will cost her a fortune – a fortune for me, pennies for her. I’ve probably slept with more men than she has, but I can’t know how many she’s slept with in her rise to the top. I do have more years of experience, though – more chances for discards. I can’t seem to stay with anyone for more than 18 months or so – then I have about 6 months off before I hit the fray again.

Ever since she hit the big time, I’ve followed her every move, in spite of the fact I wasn’t that fond of her first album. It was too poppy-country for me; more suitable for teenage girls just hitting puberty. She was little more than that herself at the time. There was just something about her that obsessed me – yes, I was obsessed with her even before I liked her music. It made me question my sexuality – for a few minutes, anyway. I’m definitely sapiosexual – that’s being attracted to smart people. I just heard the term used on the radio, and thought it described me up to a certain point. I’m attracted to smart people, especially if they are male. She’s definitely not that smart, so it doesn’t explain my instant obsession.

When her second album of sensually throbbing electronica was released, I was hooked. I heard the first single, Take Me Down (at the Old Ball Game), from it on American Idol with my beau of the time, and it instigated the most incredible night of sex of my life. I still get horny whenever I hear it.

Her third album debuted with short black hair and that little black dress. It was one of those unplugged albums, paring back everything to its rawest purest form (including her clothing). I had to have that dress, and I cut and dyed my hair. It wasn’t long before someone was removing what little there was of that dress and ravishing me. It’s still my lucky dress, even after I followed my obsession back to being blond. (I’m really a redhead – or probably a greyhead, if truth be told.)

My favorite album, her fourth, was universally panned. She returned to that sensual electonica that I so loved on her second album. I played it at least 3 times a day for months. I loved the beat, her cheeky lyrics, and the video to Love Me (with Bloodshot Eyes) was hypnotic. I used to watch it on repeat when I went to bed (alone) at night.

Her latest album is probably my least favorite, but it has put her back on the top of the charts. It’s a mix of the soupy country ballads that made her a star in the first place, mixed with a plethora of bubbly pop that’s almost palatable. Because it was her, I still bought it. There was one song that was never released as a single that made it worth my dime, Riding Bareback. The juxtaposition with the unplugged bonus track (Commando) from her second album, gave it additional resonance.

You’ve probably noticed that I have avoided mentioning her name, but you all know who it is. (You must!) Unfortunately, a restraining order prohibits me from naming her in my online posts.

Of course, there was one other attraction to the newest album – the artwork: short red hair, red dress. Hence, I’m back to my natural color, and wearing that minimalist red dress turns heads when I take it out for a spin in public. I usually just keep it for myself at home in the evenings, so I don’t have to worry how much of me I’m showing off. (It also keeps me from getting arrested for solicitation, which is definitely not what I’m doing!)

What do you think? Should I wear it to her concert? Or should I look retro in the little black dress? You didn’t think I was serious when I suggested I wouldn’t go? I wouldn’t miss it, even if I have to wear a wig and dark glasses.

Ooh, how time flies. Tickets go on sale in a few minutes.

That’ll be me in the front row.

Less is more, more or less

The last couple of months have been a nightmare, as far as work is concerned. I’ve had almost no “freelance” work, but my “part-time” teaching job has temporarily become more than full time. I seem to spend all my waking hours teaching or preparing to teach (for a fraction of a full-time salary), and my horn gets little attention.

Writing? That’s getting even less attention right now, but the end of term is on the horizon, and my creative juices are simmering. (I can feel it in my panties! … black today, if you were wondering.) I don’t know whether to work on my long term projects or finish putting together my anthology of “not-quite-erotica”… let’s just call it erotic fantasy, for now … or literary (erotic) fantasy. Most of it is available in some form on the, but not in the final edited versions.

I think Ezzie Dryar is having difficulty sleeping again, so maybe she will make a reappearance, too. Her tarot cards are feeling neglected, so it might involve another tarot theme.

I’m surprised how popular my last post was, considering it really was just one word. Maybe I should contemplate minimalist poetry.


my love


lilies bloom



rose garden


Dear Anne

Hello dearest,

I’ve been watching your profile for some time and think we should get to know one another better. Email me at {deleted, not important} and I will send you my (naked) photos. (I know you like naked, because I’ve read your stories.) I believe you are a real nice and loving person, and (though) I’m writing for your friendship, (it’s really the sex that I want. I think you are hot, seriously HOT, although I’ve never actually seen you, or even a picture of you). Please do be in touch, so we can (meet up for a drink or something like that, or just to) be friends (then I can abduct you and empty your bank accounts, while we have wild sex. Honestly, it is REALLY the sex that I want. Maybe you can tell me stories like Scheherezade, and that might put off the day that I kill you, as inevitably I must, since otherwise you could rat on me later. Don’t take it personally, but if you intrigue me enough with your stories, I will let you live longer – and we can have even more sex. If you are nice, I won’t even have to drug you. That would be more pleasant, for me at least. Your stories won’t be as good if you are comatose, and then you become expendable).

Your friend,

Patience (Vladimir)


A light rain dribbled from the sky, drenching my hair flat against my cheeks, but it didn’t touch hers. Her chocolate locks floated gracefully as she walked, dry as could be, like her clothes, the few that she wore, lacy like underwear, barely covering her. I was told it was a bikini, but I knew better. She was modelling Ann Summers or something. Only her skin betrayed moisture, like a cool sweat emanating from a heavy workout. Sexy. The snappers loved her. They ignored me. Why? Because, well maybe I don’t look like I’m gagging for it, maybe I am, but I put on a relaxed, detached facade, carefree (hardly), and well, I just don’t do cameras. She obviously does.

I didn’t even know what she was doing there, on a hot, sultry day by the lakeshore. I was running, but I finished just as she walked up. Even if it wasn’t drizzling, I would have been a pool of slick sweat and damp running-wear. I probably had less on than she did. (It was over 90°.) But I wasn’t modelling underwear.

“Excuse me,” she said, as I propped myself up next to a bench. “Would you mind holding this for me?”

She didn’t wait for my answer, thrusting a net wrap into my hands. Now she was certainly wearing less than I was! Snap, snap, snap, the photographers plied their trade. Some kind of photo shoot. They loved the sheen of her naked skin. Oops! I forgot to mention that she proceeded to hand me her bra (more snapping) and then her panties. The photographers crowded around her. Snap, Snap.

She was about my size, although perhaps more buxom. Why did I stay there?

I couldn’t leave, and the snappers conveniently left a corridor between us. Somehow, I was the focus of her attention. Jealous, I was, of her perfect skin, pouty lips, floating hair – not her legs. After years of putting on the mileage, mine still attracted admirers. Her abs? Mine were equally toned, with perhaps a little better muscle definition. What I really hated about her was that she was probably twenty years younger than me.

And then she said, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Who, me?”

“Of course.” Again she didn’t wait for me to act. Her hands were tugging at my vest, pulling it over my head, and one hand snaked into my pants. “Oops! Pardon me. I didn’t mean to be so forward.” That was her, touching me in an intimate place.

Soon she was pulling my pants down – shoes off.

Snap, snap, snap. Thirty cameras trained on me now. She was beautiful. She kissed me, and held me, and fondled my breasts.

What had I walked into? A risque nude, lesbian photo shoot?


Tripped on a branch and almost fell headfirst onto the path. Must pay more attention while I’m running.

Sex and Beckett

I thought I’d start a thread where I can jibber-jabber, blabber, anything I want to say at any time, I’m obsessed with sex, you know, especially at this time of day, before I go to bed, anytime really, but now mostly, ya know, it’s fun writing without periods, or caring about grammar (LET’S BAN PERIODS IN THIS THREAD) feel free to join me I don’t know where this is going either maybe we should ban all punctuation altogether maybeweshouldevengetridofspacestoo no that would be too hard to read but would anyone want to read this maybe we do need punctuation, but no periods, can’t stop the thought, can’t stop the war, can’t make the old younger, that’s Beckett, or a bastardized version at least, thank you Mr Bernstein, that’s Berio, who set the afore-mentioned Beckett, I like Berio, especially that piece, Sinfonia, it’s very sensual, sexual, everything comes back to love, to sex, to love and back again, cycle after cycle, a mixed bag, I’m obsessed with sex, I’ve said that before, so I say it again, more Beckett, I’m obsessed with sex, that’s why I like fantasy and erotica, you know, writing like this is like having sex, you go on and on, trying things a little differently back and forth waiting for the explosion, but not yet, you’ve got to keep going, the writing gets more urgent, intense, you repeat phrases you like again and again, over and over, but I’ve said that before, and I’m in a Beckett frame of mind no more punctuation it gets faster now moving faster faster moving like my Danish pancakes when I’m really hungry thank you Mr Berio Bernstein Boulez I like his performance better than Bernstein’s but we are talking about Beckett’s frame of mind no my mind not his but he’s in the frame of it along with Berio and fantasy I like fantasy I live in a fantasy world and am obsessed with sex didn’t I say that before so I say it again more Becket it’s really moving now rollercoaster ride that is not Beckett but he’s in the frame still and so is Berio almost typed a comma there can’t have them yet haven’t climaxed yet it’s coming soon almost now it’s all about Beckett yes and a lot like Joyce where did he come from they are both Irish aren’t they but Berio didn’t set any Joyce and besides his name doesn’t begin with B I’ve never said that before it’s not one of the rules Cage set Joyce Finegan’s Wake that’s a funeral party I like parties but not as much as sex and Beckett I’m still waiting for Godot he’s coming I’m not not yet at least soon have I said that before no say it again I’m obsessed with sex it’s time for what I’m talking to myself now there are two of me better for sex only if one of me is male maybe not maybe it’s time for Beckett instead I’ll send him to look for Godot he must know where he is he created him where was I so there is an audience more Beckett via Berio I love Beckett and Faulkner he’s not a B writer but he fits because he’s just as crazy as the rest of them like me crazy about sex words for sex sex in words sex in the production of words the sensual sound of sexy syllables sewn together like man and woman yes, that’s it, I can use commas again, it’s relaxing, easing, but still moving, still Berio with a little Beckett, hardly moving, Joyce and Cage have gone, Faulkner’s just a memory, like my Danish pancakes, like the tulips that grow in my garden, barely moving now, soft waves, hardly a ripple, I’m done with Beckett, only Berio remains and even he is going with my last words, thank you Mr Boulez