11.4.98
Warning....I'm up to my nipples in gin as I write. How did the election go? No surprises here. The same-sex marriage thingie was zapped (69% opposed,) we have continued the Democratic party's 38 year stronghold on this state, and insured its survival to the end of the century. (I voted Republican, thank you. Hell, what do you expect from a guy with a picture of RM Nixon on his page?) All of the expected people won, and that was...well...mildly disappointing. I'm one who likes political change. With the state of the economy in our state, god knows we could use some change. I'm almost ready to hack the whole thing and move to the mainland. (Gee, another cocktail, Bob?)
Let's discuss Rachmaninoff. The great Russian composer (1873-1943) just wrote the BEST sex music ever. His second symphony (3rd. Movement) simply rolls with passion. I think the idea is ocean -- that's the visual I get, at least. Rocking, gentle, and mellow. Popular music enthusiasts will remember the tune as "Never gonna fall in love again" by someone (did I mention the nutritive value of martini olives equals that of tofu?) Soooo romantic. I had this chat with an old high school chum of mine. Quite a long chat last night, in fact, and since that time, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind.
Nor have I been able to erase the lyrics to Oh Canada! (Oh, Fuck!) we stand on guard for thee! Saaaad..I'm not even Canadian.
Back to Rachmaninoff, though. Every time I hear it, I'm transported to a place where wind blows through gauze curtains on a rainy grey morning. Surf pounding on the rocks below, (it's not here, though....possibly Washington or Oregon) I'm in bed, getting mighty passionate with the guy of my dreams (!!!) It involves an inordinate amount of kissing, rolling, and sweat. Its passionate, and not the things that porn movies are made of. In fact, there is remarkably little genital contact, only that which is necessary to the embrace.
Hmmm. That's a different idea, isn't it?
You know, I'm in the mood to write this now....I guess we can blame it on Eugene Ormandy and the really good job he's doing with Rach's #2. This started back on my October 27th entry (Yeah, Robb....I see what you mean now.) and it is an essay describing myself. Previously, I described the exterior package; now we'll take a look at the rest of the picture. I was going to continue this the next day, but I was sidetracked by sobriety....
Come closer, take a deep breath. From my broad expanse of chest, (Nothing impressive, I assure you. This kid has better things to do with his life than toe-touchies) you'll notice Christian Dior's "Eau Sauvage," Cerruti's "1881," or in the right mood, Chanel's "Pour Monsieur." Radical days, these. In the evening, I prefer something more earthy, mossy and cuddly. Away go these scents of citrus, and out comes the always sophisticated and heady "Pasha" by Cartier. My opinion of Aramis? Fairy juice. It also stimulates RR's bowel.
Come even closer, you'll smell Bonbons a la Menthe pour apres le cafe. from Starbucks or more recently "The Mint" from Neiman Marcus. If I'm driving, you'll find Altoids (RR likes the wintergreen ones; I prefer peppermint) I'm obviously not one for a sweet mint, yet greatly in favour of kissably sweet breath at all times, and I expect nothing less of passionate partners. Always have loved the taste of mint on the tongue of another. You will also find my tongue minty fresh....should you be so lucky.
Want to come even closer? The scent turns to being most likely a fine sandalwood soap that I buy in Chinatown (corner of Maunakea and King...Imperial Tailor) Bee and Flower brand from Shanghai. Extravagant? Sure, if you would like it to be. I happen to think rather highly of hygiene. A clean perineum is a happy perineum. If you really must know, "it" has no name. I refer to it as "my cock." It is large enough to fuck without much difficulty, yet short enough to be taken in its entirety orally without much gagging. remarkably average in size, I'd have to say. I haven't measured it, and why should I? It's the right size! Testicles-2, pretty big; scrotum-shaved.
There, dear ones, is your daily dose of smut, brought to you by the fine folks at Gordon's Gin Ltd. I now fear that Ken Starr will prevent me from holding any public office. That's okay...who the hell would want to hold his life up to such public scrutiny?
Let's discuss Rachmaninoff. The great Russian composer (1873-1943) just wrote the BEST sex music ever. His second symphony (3rd. Movement) simply rolls with passion. I think the idea is ocean -- that's the visual I get, at least. Rocking, gentle, and mellow. Popular music enthusiasts will remember the tune as "Never gonna fall in love again" by someone (did I mention the nutritive value of martini olives equals that of tofu?) Soooo romantic. I had this chat with an old high school chum of mine. Quite a long chat last night, in fact, and since that time, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind.
Nor have I been able to erase the lyrics to Oh Canada! (Oh, Fuck!) we stand on guard for thee! Saaaad..I'm not even Canadian.
Back to Rachmaninoff, though. Every time I hear it, I'm transported to a place where wind blows through gauze curtains on a rainy grey morning. Surf pounding on the rocks below, (it's not here, though....possibly Washington or Oregon) I'm in bed, getting mighty passionate with the guy of my dreams (!!!) It involves an inordinate amount of kissing, rolling, and sweat. Its passionate, and not the things that porn movies are made of. In fact, there is remarkably little genital contact, only that which is necessary to the embrace.
Hmmm. That's a different idea, isn't it?
You know, I'm in the mood to write this now....I guess we can blame it on Eugene Ormandy and the really good job he's doing with Rach's #2. This started back on my October 27th entry (Yeah, Robb....I see what you mean now.) and it is an essay describing myself. Previously, I described the exterior package; now we'll take a look at the rest of the picture. I was going to continue this the next day, but I was sidetracked by sobriety....
Come closer, take a deep breath. From my broad expanse of chest, (Nothing impressive, I assure you. This kid has better things to do with his life than toe-touchies) you'll notice Christian Dior's "Eau Sauvage," Cerruti's "1881," or in the right mood, Chanel's "Pour Monsieur." Radical days, these. In the evening, I prefer something more earthy, mossy and cuddly. Away go these scents of citrus, and out comes the always sophisticated and heady "Pasha" by Cartier. My opinion of Aramis? Fairy juice. It also stimulates RR's bowel.
Come even closer, you'll smell Bonbons a la Menthe pour apres le cafe. from Starbucks or more recently "The Mint" from Neiman Marcus. If I'm driving, you'll find Altoids (RR likes the wintergreen ones; I prefer peppermint) I'm obviously not one for a sweet mint, yet greatly in favour of kissably sweet breath at all times, and I expect nothing less of passionate partners. Always have loved the taste of mint on the tongue of another. You will also find my tongue minty fresh....should you be so lucky.
Want to come even closer? The scent turns to being most likely a fine sandalwood soap that I buy in Chinatown (corner of Maunakea and King...Imperial Tailor) Bee and Flower brand from Shanghai. Extravagant? Sure, if you would like it to be. I happen to think rather highly of hygiene. A clean perineum is a happy perineum. If you really must know, "it" has no name. I refer to it as "my cock." It is large enough to fuck without much difficulty, yet short enough to be taken in its entirety orally without much gagging. remarkably average in size, I'd have to say. I haven't measured it, and why should I? It's the right size! Testicles-2, pretty big; scrotum-shaved.
There, dear ones, is your daily dose of smut, brought to you by the fine folks at Gordon's Gin Ltd. I now fear that Ken Starr will prevent me from holding any public office. That's okay...who the hell would want to hold his life up to such public scrutiny?
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