Meteors and Poetry

August 11, 2012 Uncategorized  No comments

slave drew and I are going to go out in a bit to watch the meteor shower that we’ve been told we do not want to miss.  We’ll get home in a bit, then go to bed, but I feel certain that I’ll have some pithy observation the meteors have brought to mind, but that will wait for tomorrow.

I went to some yard sales this morning, found nothing overtly kinky, but I did find a bag that I think will work nicely to transport toys that are not long and cane-like.

I will tell a funny story, then leave you with a piece of poetry.

The story is, slave drew and I went by a Starbucks near our house on Friday because I wanted the ads for the garage sales and I hate to spend $1 on the paper when I literally only want that single page.

We looked, but there’s no ad section, so we walk out.  I notice a youngish girl, cute enough, probably 21, 22, and she’s at an outside table, with a smallish notebook holding down the very section I’d been looking for.

I debated asking for it, then thought, oh, what the hell, she might be looking for a car or an apartment.  I said, “Do you want the garage sale section of the ads?”

She looked at me a little oddly, but not unpleasantly and said, smiling, “I could probably be persuaded to part with it.”

I thanked her and picked up the paper, found the page I wanted, tore out that single page.  We were chatting and I honestly don’t remember about what, but a subject came up and we chatted for a moment, then it turned out that her mother needed some information I had, a lead for something she was looking for.  Not a big deal, but it was odd we even got to that point, that there was a reason to give her my email.

I picked up the notebook, and a pen, and said, “I’ll leave you my email, just send me a note and I’ll get you that information.”

I opened the notebook but the first few pages all were filled and I didn’t want her to lose it, so I turned to the back, and the back page was used, too, so I wrote my email on the next page.

As I was doing it, I couldn’t help but notice what was on the facing page.

It said, and I’m altering it slightly because I don’t know who it is, “,” and underneath it were a couple or three words, one of which was also “Kinky.”

I set the notebook down and said, “I’m sorry, I really wasn’t snooping but the word kink always catches my attention.  Have you ever heard of the munch?”

Her face went from puzzlement and a bit of suspicion to a breaking understanding.  “Oh,” says she, “I’ve heard of that, they meet somewhere around here but I’ve never known where…”

I said, “I founded the munch.  I can get you the info.”

“Oh, wow, really, wow?  Wow.  Well, I was just up in Chicago and we went to a” – she lowered her voice noticeably – “dungeon.”

I said, “Oh, the Leather Rose?”

Her already large eyes got larger, and she nodded.

I said, “Oh, yeah, I know them.  Min, the President, is a long standing friend.  His girl, Pony, used to live in Louisville.  Riley the Bootblack was at my wedding.”

In any case, I gave her info.  I’ve not heard from her yet, so who knows, but you can’t tell me I wasn’t supposed to give her that bit of info, given the utter randomness of the encounter.
And on that note, I am going to close with the single most romantic poem I know of, written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, who wrote much that was, alas, maudlin and mawkish, but when she was good, she was very very good.


I Love You

I love your lips when they’re wet with wine
And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
Your kisses against my face.

Not for me the cold calm kiss
Of a virgin’s bloodless love;
Not for me the saint’s white bliss,
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
And laughs at the whole world’s blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
It sets my poor heart aflame.

So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
Still fragrant with ruby wine,
And say with a fervor born of the South
That your body and soul are mine.
Clasp me close in your warm young arms,
While the pale stars shine above,
And we’ll live our whole young lives away
In the joys of a living love.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox



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