Well…didn’t *that* just show up out of left field…

November 28, 2009

Let’s call her the Negotiator; a co-worker of mine who is often called upon to save the collective bacon of my immediate superiors. To be honest, she’s a 5 physically, but she’s has a razor-sharp mind and an inherent sexuality that beguiles me when I’m off my guard. Very seductive, very enticing when she wants to be. I respect her for her abilities and skill. Goddammit, she’s a friend.

We were shooting the shit over the phone, when this exchange happened:

Her: “What are you doing this weekend?”

Me: “Nothing planned; maybe I’ll get myself into some trouble.”

Her: “Well, let me know if you find interesting to do, alright?”


Did she just ask me to involve her in my weekend doings?

Edit: I think I’ve been unfair to the woman; I’m not really sure where she falls on the physical beauty spectrum, because she knows how to play up her sexuality. Plus I like her as a friend, so that interferes with my ability to make an objective judgment. She does have a slamming figure, but she’s letting herself go (the last time I saw her, she sported a muffin-top), and her face has some heaviness to it that detracts from her overall looks.


Never let them see you flinch.

November 16, 2009

Thursday, working late, and the Legal Secretary shows up at the backdoor. Not the exit she usually uses. She took me completely by surprise–and when I saw her, I felt a thrill of excitement (in my defense, she is very much a hottie–a 9, easily). I looked away, and when she passed me, there was a smile that said she could read my mind–and found it amusing.

Goddammit. She saw me flinch.

Calling a spade a spade.

November 8, 2009

We know what happened, and we know why.

But we can’t say why, which is why we’re doomed.

The worst terrorist incident since 9/11, and we can’t call it what it is: Islamic jihad. I can’t call it what it is, because in our politically correct climate here in the Kremlin-on-the-Charles, admission of the truth is punished.

We will all end up sitting in the dark, afraid to whisper the name of that which kills us, even as the monster eats us alive.

The Hellion returns.

November 7, 2009

Stop for a moment, and picture the following: a young Lindsay Lohan, her hair a more natural shade of blonde, slender as only a 21-year old could be, blue eyes unclouded (as yet) by drugs and alcohol yet shinning brightly with barely repressed libido. Now add a pair of white mesh see-through stretch pants and a red thong, with a blue tank top and a stainless-steel tongue stud (back before the general public realized what they were really for).

That, my dear reader, is my most vivid and enduring memory of the Hellion. I lost track of her about five years back, when I had the misfortune to lose my job, but I still remember that barely contained whirlwind of sexual energy with the fondness one feels for their first high-school crush. That nymphet was the stuff that naughty dreams were made of.

And now, she’s back. You cannot imagine my surprise when I saw her Friday–I was so shocked I nearly slammed into a parked car. There she was, looking no older than I remembered her, stretching out by the side of the road in preparation for a run. By the time I circled the block for another look, she was gone. But it was her–I’d wager my left nut on it.

If I’m right, she lives just a short distance from my condo.

Lord, lead me not into temptation–I can find it all too easily on my own.

Curiouser and curiouser…

November 5, 2009

Maybe the Legal Secretary reads this blog; she said “Good Morning” to me Tuesday morning. I wonder…

Parading her boy-toy about…

November 1, 2009

…the Journalist has been sending a number of signals my way–the first and foremost being: “I know that I’m attractive, and I can still land a young stud.” I’ve let my cards show, and she’s responding, mostly saying, “you’re not good enough”.

*sigh* It’s not easy divesting oneself of four decades of indoctrination. I should never have indicated my sexual interest, and I should have negged her hard when I had the chance. Live and learn.

The Legal Secretary continues her routine. I’ve learned that when a woman ignores a man, she does so in one of two ways: through invisibility, or through blatant avoidance.

Invisibility refers to an absolute lack of awareness as to a man’s presence; to her mind, the man in question only exists when there is a particular need to be met–all other occasions, the man is simply part of the landscape. Garbage men are the closest example I can think of–when we don’t need garbage disposed of, we don’t think of them, and they become invisible to us.

Blatant avoidance is when a woman makes a deliberate effort to avoid acknowledging that a man exists. In the Legal Secretary’s case, when she sees me behind the desk, she avoids eye contact at all costs–even to the point where she will turn her head to look in the opposite direction from me while passing by.

The thing that frustrates and intrigues me about this latter behavior (the former merely pisses me off) is that, were my presence so negative, why doesn’t she just avoid me altogether? Why not enter through the main entrance instead of the “back” of the building? And, what about the times I caught her checking to see if I was at my post? There have been mornings when I was far enough behind the desk that I was not visible to those who passed unless they made an effort to see if I was there; on at least one such occasion, I caught the Legal Secretary doing just that, only to have her snap her head around after the briefest moment of eye-contact. Was she checking for my presence out of fear, or some other emotion?

Add to the mix the fact that the Legal Secretary is 1) a solid 9 (and wouldn’t it piss off the Journalist to hear me say so) and 2) rather young, and it makes me wonder just what is it that is going on.

I am currently working my way through two books: The Myth of Male Power, and Practical Female Psychology for the Practical Man. To be honest, you need to read the latter first, because the former is 1) too pat in his analysis, and 2) his solutions are just too emasculating. Warren Farrell has done incredibly important work in illustrating the way men are getting the shaft in the West, but unless you read PFP first, you won’t understand why his solutions are disastrous. Would that I had had both books back in the ’80’s, before I left for college. The learning curve is a serious bitch.

Why is it that my “Good Morning” dreams…

November 1, 2009

…always end before climax, while my nightmares always end after some nocturnal beastie has made a meal out of my innards?

(–and if you need an explanation of what a “Good Morning” is, you ain’t thinking hard enough, or with the right head.)