Duffie

In a few short years I’ll be turning 50. Fifty! Where has the time gone? Seems like just only the other day I was in my twenties—slim, full of energy, a thick-flowing mane, my mental faculties honed to a keen razor’s edge, waking up every morning with a boner. Not a single one of those things could be said of me now. Ah, the ravages of time. But there is one thing that hasn’t changed, which I had thought would: masturbation. This is the one constant that has remained with me lo these many years.

I can still remember when I first discovered the joys of self-gratification. I don’t know how old I was at the time, couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8. We had one of those cheap metal swing-sets in our backyard. One of the eye-bolts extended a few inches through the top, and I liked to hang my dad’s old duffle bag from when he was in the army on it. It was filled with rags, blankets, and what not, and and I would jump on it and swing back and forth.

One time, as I had my little legs wrapped around it, and it was pressing against just the right area, the friction caused a strange, new, wonderful sensation to shudder through me. I didn’t understand what had just happened, but I knew one thing: it felt good. Really good.

After that initial discovery, I couldn’t wait to get home from school to ride her, and I eventually wore that bitch out. After she finally started ripping and coming apart, I begged my mom to patch her up.

“Why can’t you just play on your swing the normal way, like other little boys?” she asked. She didn’t understand. I’m probably the only person in the world right now whose first love interest was a WWII U.S. Army issued duffle bag.

It wasn’t until much later, when I started pleasuring myself in a more traditional manner, when I figured out what had been happening with me and Duffie.

Those days are now long since gone, and Duffie is no more. I think the moths finally took her. But I still miss her, and think of her fondly. I can still see her, hanging from the bar, swaying gently, provocatively in the summer breeze. Beckoning me for another ride.

Pepper Play in Two Acts

ACT I

Pardon my Eruption

I love hot food. Always have. I remember when I first heard about habanero peppers, and how they were supposed to be about 50 times hotter than your average jalapeño. Obviously, I couldn’t wait to try some. I found a recipe for a habanero-based chili. But it only called for one measly little pepper. They’re so small and unassuming. So I used three.

That was almost 20 years ago. I can still taste that chili. I think I had a capsaicin-induced out-of-body experience at one point during the meal. I was in heaven. But little did I know I would pay a visit to hell the next day.

As I got to work the next morning, it hit me. First the dagger-like cramps, followed almost immediately by an uncontrollable need to take a dump. And I had about a six block walk to get to the building I worked in. Uphill. The cramping was something awful, and I was doubling over in pain. And it felt like a thousand tiny elephants were trying to stampede out my rear end. It took every ounce of will power, and all of my concentration focused on keeping my sphincter muscle contracted to keep the elephants from battering down the door.

So I’m gasping and wincing, doubled-over as I try to race walk to my building. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally made it--only to find the first floor bathroom closed for cleaning. I almost lost it right then and there. So I took the elevator to the second floor. I considered taking the stairs, but I didn’t think climbing a flight of stairs would be conducive to my situation. And the only reason I even considered the stairs was because the elevator in this building is the slowest elevator ever constructed. In the time it took an average elevator to get you ten floors up, this one would still be thinking about closing its doors. Eventually making it to the second floor, and thankfully finding the restroom available, I rushed inside, closed the stall door, and just as I’m dropping my pants and starting to sit down,

It felt as if hot, molten lava were shooting out of my ass, and I thought I heard hissing as it hit the water. Man, I would have given anything for an ice cube to shove up in there, it burnt so bad. Although I was very grateful to have made it, almost my entire day was spent in that bathroom. About every 15-20 minutes, the cramps would come and I’d have to dash in before Mt. Vesuvius erupted again.

ACT II

Fire in the Hole

Fast forward about 5 years. We’ll call her Jennifer. I’ll perhaps devote another post just for her. But for now, one little episode. We had just finished eating lunch. A lunch I had prepared for her. As we were sitting on the couch, and Jenn was feeling in the mood (and Jenn was always in the mood), we started to fool around. Jenn was fond of not wearing underwear. Many was the time when we would go out to a nice posh restaurant, and it wouldn’t be until we’d be seated at a table, and she would tell me to take a peek. I’d look under the table, and sure enough, that hungry snatch would be looking back at me.

Well, she was sans panties this time, too. Not that it really mattered. I would’ve had them off in no time anyway. But after a few minutes of playing around down there, all of a sudden she lets out a shriek, and starts hopping up and down, screaming, “It burns!! It burns!!!”

Apparently I hadn’t washed my hands well enough from preparing lunch, and of course I had used some peppers (luckily for her, not habaneros this time, just run of the mill jalapeños). I know it must’ve hurt something awful. I mean, I’ve absent-mindedly scratched myself after cooking with peppers before, and know what it’s like to have great balls of fire in my pants. But I'm sure a woman’s anatomy down there is much more sensitive. Especially on the inside.

She ran into the bathroom, got into the tub, turned on the water and stuck her burning bush under the flow as best as she could. I couldn’t help but laugh while she was doing her fire dance, and then the tub routine. What can I say, I’m an ass sometimes. But I couldn’t help it; it was pretty funny. Of course, the last laugh was on me, as I was cut off for about a week.

So, anybody got any "hot" stories they would like to share? I'm burning to hear them.

Take me out to the ballgame

I'm using the Blogger app on my phone to post this, so I'm not sure how it will look.

We just got back yesterday from our short (but as it turned out, expensive) vacation.  Saw a couple of baseball games at the ballpark in Arlington.  The Rangers were playing the Tigers.  Took this pic of Leyland hitting balls during batting practice:

I was surprised to see him doing that because, you know, the dude looks like he's pushing 80 (although he's really only 66.)

My daughter was bummed she didn't get any Rangers autographs, although she did get a couple of Tigers (no consolation to her, unfortunately.)

But we still had a great time, and are hoping to go back soon.