Yesterday was from the Guy Stagg book of walking for no reason. I could have stopped but chose not to. It felt cathartic, like a first masturbation in weeks, and it is a kind of masturbation, is it not? I joke with myself what a hot date I am, what a catch, going to waste on my solo payphone expeditions when all the wit and banter smattering through my head could entertain a lass for hours.

Hah… “lass”. Where the hell did that come from?

I woke up asking that same question but for very different reason from pulling a word from the archives of archaicness. Dreamed of a coming of age television series which, as far as I know, never existed. It was set in the college dorm room where I first performed cunnilingus, so that scenario pretty well certifies that this TV show never occurred.

The TV show was considered controversial for many reasons. I don’t remember most of them because I never watched the show except for this one scene, the season-ending climax in which the young girl performs fellatio on the boy’s incredibly huge cock, an instrument that increases in length and girth as the girl’s mouth further expands to fit the cock available.

The scene was controversial for its depiction of full-bore X-rated oral sex on network TV but the special effects were also criticized for giving young people the hope that their cocks could actually increase in size beyond genuine physical limitations. His cock became bigger than the rest of his body and the woman’s ability to ingest its entirety never reached a limit.

If I woke up asking where that dream came from I guess it could have come from some smut I’ve been appreciating of late. I don’t know. I had conversation with someone last week that may have crossed a line. In fact, the last conversation with this person also gave a sense that a line had been crossed, and I did not hear from her again for several years.

Last week I reached out in a bit of mildly drunken spew, whilst sorting 30 years of email and attempting to get it all in one place once and for all, as if posterity beckons. I found one of her very clever and funny emails from 2007 and thought it would be funny to reach out from across that little chasm of time. I didn’t do this in a spirit of rekindling anything, or embarking on another of our 20,000-words-each email exchanges.

I further made a mistake I guess a person of my sometimes-selfish stripe would think entirely appropriate. I offered a pretty detailed account of my sex life over the years in which we did not communicate. I went into most detail about the Japanese Waif but realized, as I typed these accounts, how much I loved E., the woman whose words flowed like sweetwater and whose voice left me shaking. No one ever made me feel the way she did. I don’t know if anyone ever will.

Getting back to the walking, it felt congratulatory, or anthemic. Unfortunately it was also extraordinarily windy, for which I was unprepared. I made several reports about LinkNYC’s failings, probably annoying the piss out of CityBridge and the City worker who got the Franchise Inspector job I wanted very badly. The problem I’ve recently encountered with the kiosks is that the visual relay chat for speech-imparied people often does not quite work. You connect with a live interpreter but the kiosk is, puzzlingly, set to privacy mode. Your only option for communication would be to use the on-screen keyboard to type text messages. There is no way to disable privacy mode as best as I could tell.

A reason these observations, reported to LinkNYC, could be irritants is that by my uninformed guesstimate the visual relay chat feature gets absolutely no legitimate usage. But it is there, people are getting paid fat salaries for it to be there, so the stuff should fucking work.