Well, Saturday night was lovely.
The evening ranged from culture to pleasure. For culture, early on I watched the video of "Chicken Run". Marvelous fun. The first thing I've seen Jane Horrocks in since "Little Voice" and wouldn't you know she's a claymation chicken?
And for pleasure? Kevin and I had intended to do a mummification scene, saran wrap him up and inflict electrical stuff upon his willing body. When I arrived, however, Kevin told me that the lovely lady who writes Coyote Beautiful had never been mummified and he suggested that we give her this turn.
This is one lovely lady, who all too often muses in her journal about the fact that she's not ectomorphic and her eyes aren't 20/20 and other such dithering nonsense. She's beautiful inside and out, and I do have to admit that having long red hair and the complexion to match does pretty well match some of my major tastes.
Kev and I saran wrapped her top to bottom - blindfolded, big comfie headphones playing trance music and her breathing focused via a snorkel - and then an ad hoc gathering of the Usual Suspects helped heft her up from a standing position up onto the massage table horizontal [and I must say that Mistress Matisse looked very buff jumping in to help heft]. We had to put her all the way up to one end of the table so that the snorkel sticking out of her mouth and around the back of her head stuck off the edge, and of course we then had to pallet-wrap her head and the entire table so her head and neck were supported... I'm just glad Kevin has solid engineering training. The next hour or so was consumed with various forms of sensory delights, nipple licking, breath control, toe sucking, and suchlike.
Some scenes go to an orgasm. Some scenes go until an argument. Some scenes go right up to a syncope. Some go until there is some sort of unexpected & unplanned, but generally eventually beneficial, cathartic breakthrough, and that's what happened here. I'd been watching closely and all of a sudden instead of gasps of pleasure I was seeing deep emotional sobs. We skinned her out of the saran wrap, covered her with towels and blankets, hugged and comforted her, fed her chocolate and water sips, and within about five minutes she was uttering the equivalent of "Damn, but I needed that". A happy thing.
Someday, sooner or later, I'm going to find a way to avoid that glutchy feeling. 'Glutch' is a sniglet, and is defined as 'a sudden rush of shit to the heart'. It's one of the crap shoots of WIITWD that often the road to ecstasy is riddled with ambiguous traffic signs that have multiple looks. I know I've had orgasms that appeared to my partner and I both to be a heart attack, a stroke, or a seizure. A few weeks ago Red going pale and starting to faint, the sobbing last night in the saran wrap, these things can all be a bit disquieting. Often I'm finding that the first manifestation of "that's enough, I'm there" is something that looks like the very sorts of things I've been trained to _treat_, ever since my earliest first aid class. Weird shit, huh?
Well, until this week I had thought that George W was the only man alive dumber than Dan Quayle. Then I heard that Robert Downey Jr got busted again.
So this morning I was woken up by a cheery phone call and I picked up Coyote to drive up and down the road looking for 'For Rent' signs on apartment buildings. We spent a pleasant hour creeping through Ballard and Greenwood copying down phone numbers and - more and more - websites or email addys. I encouraged her to call the ones in my neighborhood, of course, cuz I want more neighbors.
On from there we attended the volunteer training session at the Wet Spot all afternoon. Over 2000 members and quite a few new volunteers, and as well the internal organization has been getting more and more organized and professional. The training covered how to be a monitor facilitating play, how to be an ambassador welcoming new folks, how to manage the door, basic first aid, and so on.
I gave Coyote a ride on back home after the training session broke up, and nodded off in front of the computer for some hours. Later in the evening I made up a stir fry of garlic bulgogi chicken and steamed veggies - which really did taste good - but it didn't wake me up either so off to bed.
Is it just me or do these press conferences of George W look like he's sort of propped up stiffly in front of the microphone? At the very least they could increase his dietary fiber.
Life continues good.
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