Before I Revert Back To Form

What happened to this America? I can only remember the refrain, the one line with the popular beat skillfully elongated unstressed to stressed syllable in Reynolds' long, illustrious fade away. It is far too simple to say this was my vision into masculine surety, but surely every girl at one time felt some part of this, wanted to believe in musically balanced scales:

Bowel Charts With Debbie Reynolds

"Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in love."-- Debbie Reynolds, before the Fisher shiv

The answer to my sexually stressed question of Tuesday morning is a probable no. We reigned it in, and as we are a bond, after a fashion, I am leaving him his space to the degree I can beyond his responsibilities, although he still uses the terminology of personal relationships. I doubt it is to mislead, just his way of being a happy minstrel doing his black machismo parody, and I am feeling let down because I’m chasing skank which doesn’t want to be fetched, or so I believe, I, who believes where abstinence is necessary then it’s possible, my own chuckle as scathing as a blade. That has certainly been put to the test, and Christ knows what effect my discovery of electricity is having on him, remembering whatever crest I feel now, I want to recover, he wants to get me there, at least one thing in common within our appropriation tolerance, our hearts absorbing too much without enough armor. I’m not angry with the game, for I lowered my guard, as always, and any man would feel sorry over admissions which lead to cactus fields. I’m simply too old to feel horny all the time over a decent welfare health care provider, and this is another monkey wrench. I keep moving too slowly to return to a prior point of self-reliance, and that to rectify it I may have to stay up in the chair to do business in the morning before he clocks in, which might slow his time, make him watch television further away. There is nothing wrong with “a little fun,” in the lingo of his sisters, but what goes for sustained erections in men is comparable to what happens when women arouse vaginally, not so easy to stand down in an endless pair of Depends, and the music serving as my balm is that of Reynolds. Andrew Sullivan has his definition of true conservativism, one which I vaguely remember. Mine might include the moral decision to put a stop to this by replacing him, but then I lose the better part of the bargain, given all these hard and incessant details about lesbian predation, thieves, and other niceties peppering my posts, and as you can see, as my cousin counsels me like chick talk would, better friend to me than my actual sister, yes, he’s softened me, the reducible nigger enlarged upon. If I actually attempt to tongue, and he responds, that is a change, a risk. I’m not ready for a full throttle, and know that would be a change too much, and it succumbs, of course, to what I’d swore to myself would never be, assuming he wouldn’t forcibly grip my wrists, preventing me. There is that. I don’t have Governor Greitens' physical strength to actually coercive a man twice my size to enter and satisfy me, with the building twittering that the dowager’s flushed face means some weight has been lifted. Although Greitens' problems aren't helping Republicans, whose loss of Ryan is an admission of tactical failure, I think we need to start viewing these scandals through a different lens, regardless of whether or not coercion is proven. (Why wasn't it rape?)  I have to think, on my own terms, about what true conservativism means, and Woods' public tweets may help me without the need of contact, wishing I knew what it was like to be the one pursued. It's too late for that.

Cosmopolitan Shag

I wrote a number of posts back that Patrick Stewart melts me, and although I have to take Yahoo's carnivalesque banners in limited doses, this because I lived on the site portal at one time, losing not a few dissertations I'll never publish, screaming to Jerry in an unpleasant inner falsetto, "I'm sorry, I cannot complete the terminal arc, the human animal has wasted me, I am sorry." What powers of absolution do I believe this teacher deity holds? I punish myself for the invisible incompletions; he is only a representation of my failure in those early years of cyber and telephone sexual fantasies. I was very popular, due to my imagination, and with much effort, I did hook up, and now the article has led me to the classical heart throb, but those days are finished. I know cougar is the descriptive term du jour for women my age, but I just do not have the will to keep getting stomped on by the men of intelligence I want who don't feel anything for me, and my ex, Frank, he was obedient as long as I was willing to engage on the fictions of his virility, but I did not see the love he said he felt, and had I married him, he'd be in his hospital bed, probably complaining that I make love to the laptop and the cats, but to him, never. It would have been the truth, and we never engaged in intercourse because it would have been physically impossible, and he was impotent due to three, five, underlying conditions that came with his stroke. Stewart is 72, a classical actor who seems to stay smartly in the confines of his range, an ex-wife, children. I am not sure if his Claudius  was subversive or too molded by conceptualizations of the television set. 72, but that projection he was as Jean Luc contained things I had always wanted in a partner: confidence, wry depreciation, a mature masculinity that held bravado within reason, a magnetic rather than pretty attraction. Jeremy Irons shares similar attributes. Could they possibly be cloned, raffled off in a lotto? Do they cope with erectile dysfunction? I am still not ready for prime time, but I have to get out tomorrow, maybe Thursday and Friday, so I have to take care not to push myself too hard.