I reconnected with some friends last night, first time since pandemic. These are bar buddies, where conversations start articulate but invariably go down the syphon hole of disappearance. Much of what we discuss is forgotten.

These are married people. I hate to call them “kids” but what the hell, they are half my age, old enough to be my kids. In passing the thought of age raises my own scruples and perhaps insecurities knowing that half the woman I’ve been with these past years have been half my age.

I am working toward a woman who is a year older than me,  but it’s going slowly She’s very friendly to all.

Reconnecting with these two reminded me that while they are basically perfect for each other I never fail to detect little nuances of bitterness and dismissal. He says something in a way that suggests she wouldn’t know much about a certain subject, she responds with pronounced evidence that she knows all she needs to know… It goes round and round like a game, he taunts her with teases and torments that stoke her into bitchface.

I think of other loves, other lovers, and detect the same sort of give and take. Smears of unhappiness justifying the whole sorry mess of love.

I’ve heard accounts, as well, of exchanges between married people. The landscape seems to be that anything goes, and one friend spoke of comments he made to his wife that left me thinking “Wow, you really are an asshole.”

I ventured out to Queens Village yesterday. I’ve been there. It’s there. The goal, which I thought I had failed to reach, was to document the whole trip, from Queens Place to Queens Village. In fact I did, after being certain I had failed.

I had thoughts of the woman I liked who had also taken the Q88 bus. It was a pitiful bonding point but I worked it to the nub. Yesterday I briefly fantasized this woman was next to me, in the back seat, stroking my cock through my pants before letting it free and into her mouth, all while I steadily held the camera to record this important time capsule.

The fantasy evaporated as the bus filled up. We couldn’t do this with people around. And what of the omniscient security cameras now, waiting to catch people engaged in lewd acts?

I once stroked a woman’s cunt while riding on a bus. On a Q101 crossing the Ed Koch/Queensboro upper level when the incident occurred. She had casually lifted her bag away from her lap, and I instinctively reacted by slipping my hand onto her leg. The look of want in her face, the gasping mouth and puffed lips, it made me want more, made her want more. So I went up, and in, slipping the panties aside and making her go “Ooooh!” and then smile. It was a starter for another night of debauchery. It was fun. That girl never got over sexed.

I was watching a new-to-me pornographer yesterday. She knelt on a plain white floor, naked, boobs hanging pendulously, sucking what looked like an 8″ dildo and drooling down its shaft to where a squall of spit accumulated at the balls. She stroked the cock vigorously but the main attraction to her show seemed to be taking all of the 8 inches into her seemingly small mouth.

I was drawn to her feet. They looked familiar. As I watch porn these days I find myself seeing where one woman’s body part reminds me of the body part of a woman I once knew. Yesterday it was her feet, which looked so much like those of a certain ex that I had to remind myself that was impossible. The toes were identically long, the second one chubbier than the rest, they flexed and bent in exactly the same way as the woman whose body I knew so well.

This woman’s boobs, while bigger and heavier, nevertheless reminded me of this same woman and her insecurity over how her boobs just kinda hung there when she rode cowgirl or when she sucked my cock. Mostly she did that lying down, kicking her feet up in my favorite pose ever. But sometimes she blew me sitting cross-legged, the boobs dangling in the way that made her slightly insecure. I assured her they were lovely breasts hanging there like that.

But the pornographers, it’s interesting how the body parts are recognizable to me as resembling those of women I’ve known. A recent discovery, her face and smile are so close to that of an ex I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Are we all interchangeable like this, our body parts?

I talked about this job with the old friends last night. How much I needed structure in my life. I even start to feel lost when I’m not here, on days off. Yesterday was out of control, a reversion back to days of yore, days of nore.