creepyolderguy.com Blog

     I love this blog entry title! It is me, mired in guilt as I look back on the complete wreckage of my recovery recently. I have reacquired way too many “friends” and although I adore them all, I must take the proverbial hiatus.

     My plan that came through the vibrating, foggy mist of a party weekend shakes out as follows. I am taking a sexual sabbatical for the summer. My fictional life goes away. (Wait..if it’s fictional already?) Besides if my story arc doesn’t have the drama of our hero heading out on a quest towards sexual sobriety, what meaning does this waystation on the web have?

     So unless I get an e-mail from Tatum Reed, the fascinating Pop Whore hereself, that she is sitting at the end of my block and wants to party, I am Audi 500 from this life, sorry, fictional life, for the summer.

      Think of the wit of entries on cleaning the cat box, starting to paint our new/old house, whether or not my ad agency makes budget in June!!!! I’m getting really excited!

      The truth of early recovery when you’ve slipped is…it’s disheartening, excruciatingly dull and slow and makes your eyes roll back in your head with an admixture of boredom and hope. Part of me thinks recovery just sucks. Always has, always will. It’s like daily pulling on the emergency brake while you humble and humiliate yourself in front of a higher power who lays aside his/her/its bong, emerges from his/her/its pansexual orgy, looks down (or up) and smirks at you, mumbling in some long lost archaic tongue, “what a dumbass…just live, dopey.”

     But that’s just me on day one…ODAAT. Peace to us all.

     Back from a business trip that slid off the road into horror and hell. Truth be told, it was fun and reminds me how the bad recovery part of this blog may have to be renamed “no recovery.”

     The majestic Stacy (as we shall call her), my little Huguenot hottie, is out of college for the summer and was ensconced at one of the strip clubs in the town where I found myself. We’d done the text thing and I knew I had to see her. I hoped it would end at that. As she led me back for a lap dance and I saw that Aphrodite-kissed bubble butt moving majestically in front of me, I gulped, seeped and knew I was doomed to perdition.

     After a little manhandling and a knee on my member, I knew this little domme-in-a-thong had my undivided attention. She sweetly told me about a lawyer who was courting her and I felt a detached jealousy arise that was mingled with drifting indifference and lust. Cuckolding is a passion of mine but that’s for another entry.

     Racing ahead, my hotel room several hours later. This lady is a joy to talk to. Witty, urbane and perkily predatory. I was roped, hogtied and pushed over on my back and she started brandishing a Q-tip. That will focus a lad, especially when it’s swirled around the tip of your cock, soaking up pre-cum and getting ready for a voyage to the bottom of your sea, via the urethra. It’s a tad unsafe since the cotton swabs could come loose and end up lodged down the tunnel of insane-intensity-please-stop-no-go-a-little-deeper-oh-my-God! Autoclaved sounds are better and safer but that’s yet another entry.

     It was hot and overwhelming and I am in her thrall again. The minx.

     The preceding is merely fictional and does not actually represent the adventures of a man who honestly needs his recovery, loves his wife and forges ahead daily. And is amazed how fucked up and fascinating real life actually is.

     I’ve come to realize that I’m falling down a tad in my creepy older guy bona fides. I should make people go …ewwww…from time to time.

     However, I’ll probably be so low key with this it’ll just seem kinda charming albeit hopefully vaguely creepy. There is a model out there who flat makes my eyes cross with something that slides over from lust to hot damn to the kind of sigh I uttered when I fell in love with Audrey Hepburn.

      Her name is Melissa Troutt and I’m too lazy to post pictures so you’ll just have to go seek her out on the web. She does fashion and a lot of nudes but not really pornographic. If she ever did do something hardcore it would destroy the space time continuum(did I spell that right?) because men could not handle it and we would all burst simultaneously. And also, I don’t think I want her to…where she is now is just …ahhh…

      There’s a little Ashley Judd in her look and I think it’s also in the eyes…she has a look that’s riveting, tummy fluttering and goddess next door who smiles while she slips on her latex glove to probe you into delirium and insanity. But that’s a personal fantasy of mine as I digress here…

      The ultimate Melissa Troutt photo is not all that revealing. She’s laying on what should be her holy shrine of a tummy, head resting on one manacled hand and she’s gazing into your eyes. She also has one foot chained and dangling seductively in the background. I lost the power of speech for a half hour the first time I saw it. Personal thang…she’s delicious. Was I just a little creepy? Hope so..

     For the love of God I don’t know why I can’t go with simpler titles. Actually this refers to toiling in my front yard today. It is practically all flowers, shrubs and trees and a little metal palm tree that I try to keep lit year round to annoy/and or make my neighbors smile.

     I had a wonderful talk with my wonderful wife yesterday. I just unloaded. Her cancer scare, my father’s death, her job change and our house change. It led 2006 to be a Marshal Ney like thunder of cavalry charge that left me so completely spent. I am now on the other side of that and I feel very different. Some of my old “nothin’ up my sleeve” bullshit, doesn’t seem to work. The veil has been lifted, rent asunder and pissed on. I’m seeing things a little more clearly. In fact I’m sitting in a pooh pile of reality and I’m only partially tickled about the alleged enlightenment of it all.

     I honor my addictions and my efforts to overcome. I am down the road by a “fur piece” as my hillbilly, psycho ancestors would have said.

     Still, I am peering into the vortex of looming evil and temptation. A beautiful, highly intelligent little stripper, natural born domme type who may be in a certain town when I head there on business. Her mind is alluring and her body is so ripe, so enticing, so precum-inducing I’m going to have to end.

     I’ll call her Stacy. Exotic, environmentally attuned and the most sexually thrilling lady I’ve encountered in years. She is my candy crack, my Huguenot heroin, my from time to time downfall. God bless her…woo fucking hoo…

      We don’t hook up often and thank God. I could get lost in all that…she mesmerizes me..

     I am in the grips of downward darkness. Guilt from the violations from the leggy, latex clad faux police hottie? 4 Chardonnays plus 2 “My Coronas”….da da da da dah da…the wretched state of my financial affairs when I completely embrace my oh so 21st centrury dance with the devil of consumer debt? Middle aged hopelessness?

     God, I disgust myself. This is pathetic. Although fellow toad suck afficionados, I do feel better. I did a zone out on the tube…Did break for a little literary departure with ”April 1865.” Just so as not to completely become  and descend into stupid, moronic fellow American citizen boy. And I wept a little at the end of “Gilmore Girls”. The series had been somewhat denutted with the departure of its original creative team, the Palamino-Palladino whatevers. But there was a gentle charm there at its best.

      I am crushingly productive and charming at work and so I require misanthropic rants such as this to go to bed, fart twice and start the magic again on the morrow. This ain’t quite living. It’s I guess less destructive than the old days but Jesus on a vibrating bed with an 18 year old hooker and an eight ball, I’m not quite sure what kind of existence this is…

     Glad I could lift your spirits…peace to us all.

     We’re dog and cat people. We’ve adopted this little stray of a kitten(The Raisuli) who’s now an inside and outside cat. She came with us from our old house to our new, 1920s tri-level work in progress.

      For the longest time we weren’t even sure of The Raisuli’s sex. I think it’s intrusive to turn animals over and examine them. It just seems impolite. Bottom line, eventuallly, she’s a she and we had procedures done when she was old enough. The day before the vet said we could let her back outside, she Steve Mcqueened and tunneled out through a storm window and was gone…

     Vanished for weeks. I eventually got a call from folks who’d taken her in way to hell and back on the other side of town. I went to get her and she was bedraggled. She’d lost a tooth, was dehydrated and looked as if she’s been in a real life cat smackdown “Raging Bull”. She’s back, she’s growing and her health is restored…. she comes and goes like the princess she is becoming, much to the chagrin of our 3 inside cats.

     And now as I look back on my first few posts and see how fucking pedestrian I’ve become…..I smile and shrug. I have issues, God I have issues but I also have the brave Raisuli and the end of a good warm weekend. This will do just fine. Peace to us all.

     I compose under the watchful eye of the red Che, who’s adorned walls everywhere for years. It keeps me striving for some form of truth from within.

     Post-binge end of the weekend. My wonderful wife is back after a few days away and I am sodden with two days after the fact of a Chardonnay and Corona blast and the realization that my actually heartfelt attempts at recovery are shattered like the once proud writing of “The Sopranos” as it lurches to a pitiful death. Although the peyote was a cool touch.

     Like Tony, I really don’t feel too bad about what I do. I have a code. It’s Pike Bishop’s code…..but it’s a code. I do bring a soupcon of honor to my life and  real love to my beautiful wife. I love her. I’m a schmuck and I’m better than I used to be. A fact gleaned Satruday morning as I ran at an area track, smelling the wine seep out of my pores. If they move, kill ‘em.

     Road trip and a slide from bad recovery to recovery placed in a blender and set to puree! Well hell. The policeperson in question goes by Jill when she’s working. And the uniform is a bright blue, latex number, with stripes and a little tiny, mini-dress and black, skimpy panties. Shiny black boots coming up to just below the knee and big clodhopper heels that were made for stomping on parts screaming extreme sensitivity.

      Okay so the police brutality was negotiated…and it comes in the package of a little mom of 3 who I’ve known for neary 7 or 8 years…Ultimately she may become a producer/promoter of heavy metal bands in the area…she has the piercings that seem to prove her street cred. Including her “hood” as she so sweetly said.

And actually when all was said and done, my nose and ears were still sacrosanct…Otherwise ….(the narrator’s eyes widened in remembrance).