Things I Would Like to Try: Swinging and Nudism

My wife and I had a breakthrough yesterday. We are both tired of the same old thing, day in and day out. Well, actually, she said it. I’ve said it before and she got her feelings hurt by it, but when she says it….

In all honesty, I’m glad she admitted what I’ve known for a long time: she is bored and looking for something out of the ordinary in life.

You see, when you have autistic children, you have to build and wall-a cocoon, if you will-to guard their fragile state of mind. Routine gives them stability. But to any autism parent, it gives us nothing but Insanity!

It’s like watching Groundhog Day on a fucking loop!

Variety is the spice of life, is it not? In my life, there is no variety. Yesterday, I met a man in the liquor aisle of the grocery store. And we got to talking about the various brands of beers. He said that he was going to a draft party for NFL Fantasy. You know, I envied him just a little bit.

I don’t have many friends; certainly not ones that have invited me into a football fantasy league. If either my wife or myself take time for ourselves, we are like King David when he pleaded with God to stop striking him.

Now, I know that swinging or going to a nudist colony is a placebo for what ails you. But we are stuck in a rut with seemingly no way out! It’s hard to live a life when you have no hope for a brighter future.

My wife is wanting to move to another state next year come tax time. I am less optimistic about it. Either it won’t happen due to lack of funds, or we will and it’ll just be the same old guarded life; keeping people at a distance because we don’t want or need their judgment.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but when it comes to swinging, it requires a certain level of commitment, communication and trust for it to work. I’m not sure we can qualify for two out of the three. Or any of them. Besides that, again, correct me if I’m wrong, but swinging is a sport best left to the middle and upper classes.

We’re lower class. Dirt in the eyes of some.

I can’t think of anything else to write or a good departure line, so I’m going to stop here…



My New Tattoo

Tattoos can be addictive. I think people who have a lot of unresolved emotional pain are most likely to be covered from head to toe in ink. I have three of them. And I don’t regret a single one.

My tattoo when it first started out.

I’m letting it heal for now. I go back at the end of the month to get it finished.

The scripture is from Psalm 22:19. “But be thou not far from me, O Lord; My strength, haste thee to help me.”

If you like the NIV better, it says: “But you, Lord, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help me!”

Th finished product!

My tattoo represents a constant battle with depression and despair; a beating heart of a man still alive and an exploding clock of a man who fears he has lost time.


The Caretaker Has Been Away

I can tell the caretaker hasn’t been here in a while. The wrought iron gate is busted down, a few abandoned, derelict cars are sitting along side the road.

They came in, but they didn’t come out.

It’s quiet here, eerily quiet. I can hear the wind whistling through the bare tree branches, stretching up to heaven like skeletal fingers from beyond the grave. The sky is always overcast with ominous, gray clouds; constantly threatening a violent thunderstorm. The indelible smell of rot and decay is always present. It’s as if this land is perpetually stuck in the fall season around Halloween.

As I traipse about the graveyard, I find several long drag marks dug into the ground. It’s next to impossible in finding good help here. Young men stay away. And the ones that do come, are brash and stupid. So I’m left with the old ones; the ones that have lived their lives, seen victory and defeat, elation and sadness.

They come here because they have nothing else to live for. Whether they be caretaker or vandals, my hellhound always gets them in the end. This is a place where fantasy and nightmares collide. Once you set foot in my graveyard, your hands turn cold and clammy, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and your heart beats so that you could swear it was beating out your death march.

This is a place where my memories, painful in detail, are laid to rest. Some of them are too fresh to haunt these grounds. From where I am standing now, I can see the yellow eyes of a werewolf. The boogeyman of children’s dreams has left his mark on one of the headstones.

Even though I own this territory, my blood turns cold at the shrill cry of terror. Beyond these grounds is a forest, for which it has no name. Some say it is the gates of hell; others say it is the devil incarnated. Vampires, ghouls, witches and wayward spirits lie in wait for any arrogant fool that dare test their metal.

One thing’s for certain: those woods were not of my making.

Now if you will excuse me, I have several corpses to bury.

Graveyard Night

Premature Ejaculation

I had previously intended for this to be part of a bigger posting, but with time constraints and mental difficulties, I don’t write like I used to. I guess I could expound on the subject, of the what(s) and why(s) of premature ejaculation, but I digress.

No. Today, I want to tell you a story.

Last fall, I was afforded the opportunity to go share some drinks with one of my favorite uncles. It was a quiet pub and we sat at the bar. I saw them sitting in a booth off in the corner. A bunch of thirty-something women looking for a one-night-stand. It wasn’t long before a cute, petite blonde came up to the bar and started talking to me.

Even though my uncle is a Christian, I don’t think he would have begrudged me for partaking of this woman’s body. Conversation flowed easily, to my surprise, and it wasn’t long before I was sporting a woody under the bar.

Now, I could be just like any man and think that just because a woman smiles at them, she must be into them. I’ve embarrassed myself on more than one occasion. But after about thirty minutes of talking and her playfully slapping my arm, I said, “before this goes any further, I think you should know that I’m a premature ejaculator.”

Her smile disappeared and she looked shocked. Perhaps I had burst her bubble.

“Oh,” was all she could say.


“So, how bad are you?”

What? Was she that desperate?

“I last about five pumps. Maybe ten. I’m here with my uncle, actually. The night is still young and I didn’t want you to waste your time on me. Plus, I have a cold sore, so I won’t be able to lick your pussy!”

“Oh,” was all she could say again. I smiled gently at her and she went back to her friends. As I sat there, I saw them out of the corner of my eye, talking, giggling and looking over at me.

My uncle chuckled at me and shook his head. People often wonder why I put myself down. The way I look at it: it’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it!


Fast Forward

I wish that I had a special remote that allowed me to fast forward through periods of my life. Summer, in particular. Each and every year, I make myself a promise that I’m going to take my boys places, live it up, have fun, party-and it never happens. I have this weekend off and will spending my time at home, cleaning.

Joy! What fucking fun!


Afterthought: Last summer, my wife and I took a three-day cruise. I would have had more fun at a rattlesnake farm. I couldn’t get out of autism parent mode, couldn’t let lose, drink and have fun. In fact, I hardly drank on the cruise. I can’t dance either, so that went against me.

My wife had three months to lose weight, get in better shape and feel more confident in herself. Did she? No. What happened? She walked around the ship looking all frumpy.

I hated it!

We did, however, take in a comedy show. That’s the first and only time I’ve ever seen a stand-up comedian. A nice couple sat beside us. She was heavyset but dressed classy and carried herself with confidence. Her husband had a very outgoing, go-get-em attitude. I profile that he was either in a management position or sales. Probably real estate.

Anyway, they talked to us and bought us drinks. My wife later said she thought they were swingers. I said, “do we look like the swinging type? Do we look like the type of couple people swing with?” We are so introverted, we resemble an ass hole!

I can’t say it was all for nothing. At least, I can say I went on a cruise. Outside of a beautiful brunette (my wife swears up and down she was) flirting with me, it was pretty uneventful. I don’t know what that woman could have found so attractive; I shave my head, I wear glasses, I was wearing running shoes, jeans with holes in them and a tshirt.

It was the last night at sea and maybe she was looking to get laid. How a woman that good looking could strike out, I don’t know. Then again, maybe she was hoping I’d be dude No. 3. However it ended, the lady probably found a suitor, while my wife and I went to bed at nine o’clock and tried desperately to fall asleep against the boisterous music.