There she was again, on the train, as pretty as I am allowed to remember. Officially I know not what her face looks like. Officially I know not what she looks like naked. Officially I know not her intellect and talents. Officially I know nothing.
But through kismet and a bit of hobbyist sleuthing I know as much about her as she lets on through her public presences. I’m a natural at figuring out who people are, and my intentions in doing so are never untoward nor would they lead to unwanted advances or intrusions. I mean, that sounds like it could be classic stalker-speak but how would I know…. My designs in these pursuits are to fill in the blanks of innocuous encounters between/among strangers. Thought balloons appear over their heads as I use what I know about them to fill in what they might be thinking, or planning.
I had not seen her for at least a couple of months, probably longer. Always masked and looking different compared to her online photos I was not even certain, though who else could it be? Only when I saw the fancy backpack and a certain tennis shoe logo was I certain. Like old friends, but strangers just the same. We used to make eye contact. We did today but I don’t know why. There is no element of romance here. She’s half my age, not that that’s been any show-stopper for me the past few years. But somehow here it just seems icky, the prospect of romance with this one.
Her presence distracted me from the presences of two other women I’ve flittingly flirted with. One woman I think really does look twice at me. She’s probably early 30s, I’ve never seen her wear a mask, and she has that little bit of outlaw look about her that suggests she would have played pinball in New York in the 1970s, or lifted a few extra bananas from the college cafeteriæ.
Next to her was an Asian woman I don’t think has acknowledge me in any way, but she dresses splendidly.
I ended up focused more on the outlaw, whose glances toward me were not concocted or made up in my mind. Not a beauty queen and I’m fine with that. Beauty is a pain in the ass. Nice look about her, though, in terms of comfort and confidence.
Why do I speak of these things? Idle morning mishmash. The train went local, which usually only costs a few minutes but this time it cost more, I think. I didn’t get to flirt with the Fort Totten woman, but tomorrow should be different. I don’t want to look too eager. I still don’t know what she looks like behind that mask.
Today I should, for the first time in I don’t know how many years, resume use of the bathroom sink. It’s been clogged solid for years, but the kitchen sink has served well for brushing of the teeth, about the only use I had for the bathroom sink. I briefly brushed teeth in the tub, while showering, but that proved too busy. Too much equipment got into the morning ablution, and keeping the two toothbrushes properly sorted was more of a bother than I might have expected. One toothbrush is for scrubbing milkdew* from the tiles. The other was, I thought, for brushing teeth.
*That’s supposed to be mildew but milkdew, well, who could let that slip away…
But in the non-glasses fog of the shower and the morning grog as well it seemed far too easy to mix up the two. It never happened but it too easily could have.
The shower equipment now includes a water flosser, giant bottle of shampoo, can of shaving cream, and sometimes a coffee mug. That’s the gear that sits on the floor of the tub along with my butt and semi-sprawled legs.
The latest fixture has been like a shrine of sorts. I prop the phone on the shower caddy and watch live video of professional masturbators, women around the world whose guilelessness and fun I have, in the past several, found to be contagious. One of them lured me into masturbating publicly for about a month. I have nothing to lose from this but still, I do it in a way that none could ever identify me, save for a few very limited and at that very obscure possibilities. There are plenty of women who might remember what I look like down there only a few possess an interest in pornography that could even initiate the remotest possibility of discovering my relatively paltry quantity of output.
I’ve done that kind of thing across the epoch of the modern internet, always with a relative innocence and a spirit of all-natural fun. Sometimes it got serious, with a few real-life encounters of mixed success and failure.
But I’ve remained friends with some of those women.
Anyway, the women I watch now are like the priestesses for what I’ve come (huh huh) to call my Morning Mas. It’s prefect in its way, visually. The screen is far enough away that, through the blurry vision of my no-glasses, it’s like I’m seeing the women as I do for real, their feet a blur as I see them kick around while she plays with me in her mouth. The face itself is only somewhat clear during fellatio but truth is I really can’t see anything without the glasses. When I do have them on it’s a quiet revelation, not just in what she looks like in those moments but what my particular body part has to say. It’s not subtle or obscure at all to say there is communication going on between that mouth and that cock. The way tree roots communicate, the ways ocean floor creatures, send signals… that is the primal level of language being spoken during cunnilingus and fellatio.
My last flesh encounter was about a month ago, when I posted that Staten Island Stramble. We did everything on the first round and I felt really charged, and I know she did too.
I guess it was lightning in a bottle. It felt like nothing on the second round, and the morning after revealed we had absolutely nothing to talk about. Who’da thunk a retired NYPD investigator could be so boring… to me, at least. I’m sure she lights up all kinds of other sorts. I cannot say that I “got her drunk” because her intake was entirely her initiative and decision. But she had too much and just got stupid. Many men would love to have their way with a woman flopped half-conscious and drunk on their bed but I can’t do it like that.
