Birdboy

In years past, I used to occasionally post a special story right around Christmastime. They're only vaguely seasonal, but the one thing that they've all had in common is that they particularly reflect the warmth of the season, despite the cold weather. It's been a while since my last story and I've written a new one, just in time to resurrect my old custom. Enjoy, my dear readers. --bb -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Spooning afterwards is the best. We're warm and sweaty but we're basking in the afterglow. Our bodies fit together so perfectly, my arms wrapped around her, my nose nuzzling her fragrant hair. Her breathing has become heavy and deep. I think she's fallen asleep. That's okay. She's had some late nights recently. I know she doesn't have to go anywhere after this, and neither do I. So I'll let her doze on for just a little while. I looked at the room around me. She's decorated it with a gentle touch. She'd painted it a delicate pink, all by herself. Every detail is perfect, every knick-knack just so. I've spent a lot of time here with her. She's made this room feel like my home away from home. Here, my problems just fall away. In this room, my terrible boss and my dead-end job are just distant memories. In this room, my parents are still in good health, still in possession of all their faculties. In this room, only good things happen and time stands still. I'm not the only one who feels this way. Oh, I know there are other men. I just don't think about that. What I mean is that when we're together, the world falls away for her too. She forgets about all the grief her ex gives her. In this room, her children are angels and she never gets calls to come in because her daughter is acting out. In this room, her credit card balance is always in the black, her checks are never overdrawn. In this room, our world is just the two of us on this bed. It reduces to my lips on hers, my fingers tracing the soft skin in the small of her back, the taut skin between her shoulder blades, the delicate skin on the nape of her neck. I kiss her neck, her perfect breasts, her flat belly and I just keep going right on. When I reach my goal, her eyes close and a fragile smile settles on her face. She is truly home now. She has an impish grin afterwards. "My turn." She rolls me onto my back, and takes me into her mouth, looking up at me the whole time. She's oh... so... diligent. I always mean to let her finish me off this way but it always seems like I end up inside her, in any one of a number of our favorite positions. I could say I'm in my happy place here. But honestly, I was in my happy place as soon as I walked through her door. It's hard not to think about a life lived a little differently. About that happy place expanding outside of these four walls and filling the whole world. I let myself dream that dream when I'm here. But I know that if we were together, truly together, life would be different and not quite so rosy. My trials and tribulations would still be there. They would enter this world too. And as for her, she doesn't even need to say it. I know she dreams about my taking her away from all this. Having my strong arms around her, protecting her from the world around us. And we both have that tiny flicker in the deepest recesses of our hearts, that we would be forever together. That I would be hers and her alone, that she would be mine and mine alone. But I think we both know that these are just fantasies. My world comes flooding back the moment I cross her threshold to the street outside, and I look at my phone. And as for her, the world doesn't wait that long. It only takes as long as it does for her to pick up her phone, sometimes before she's even left my embrace. Sometimes I think to tell her to wait a moment, to savor our time together full measure. That text will still be there. The world will still loom out there, whether we want it or not. But I don't say anything. Some lessons can only be learned, not taught. As for me, I'm happy to let my fantasy linger a little longer. My problems will still be there, as soon as I walk away. I look at the snow falling gently out her window. I reach down to gently kiss the back of her neck and pull her closer. And then I doze off too.

There's this old song that's been running through my mind lately. It's one that I first heard as a very young man, so many years ago, on the crackly push-button AM radio in my first old beat-up car. Does he love me I want to know How can I tell if he loves me so Is it in his eyes? Oh no! You'll be deceived Is it in his sighs? Oh no! He'll make believe If you want to know if he loves you so It's in his kiss That's where it is I smile a wry smile when I hear it. I can sing all the verses by memory, though it's just not cool in my peer group to sing Arethra. At least out loud, in public. So I hum it under my breath, tap my toes just a tiny bit, not so anyone can notice. It's not just nostalgia for my misspent youth that's made me think of this song these days. It's something I read, about my favorite lady. He wrote that he had a grand old time, and he went on and on about what a wonderful kisser she was. Reading that halted me in my virtual tracks. I've never been one to be jealous about something someone else has gotten that I hadn't. There's no point, you know. Because I have been that guy too every once in a long while, getting something that I know others don't usually get. So no harm, no foul. He's a lucky man. It was nostalgia of another kind that tweaked this particular earworm. It was remembering that she was a great kisser once, at least for me. We'd spend what seemed like hours in these kisses, and I loved every single second of them. That feels like a long time ago. The last time I saw her, she pulled away from my kiss, and I just stopped trying. The first time it happened, I wondered if I hadn't brushed my teeth properly, or perhaps had a little reminder of something I'd eaten. She did it again the next time, after I took pains to make myself fresh. It happened again and again, and I was finally left with the inescapable conclusion that it was just me. I don't think that her kiss means she doesn't love me. I smile to type that. I know of the man she loves, and I'm definitely not him. But it was a reasonable facsimile for a time. I saw her eyes widen when we would meet. I saw her smile broaden, as we embraced and our tongues danced delicately. It was a sublime delight. But hasn't been like that in a while. Perhaps that's the lifeblood of this hobby. To sample the best that these ladies have to offer, to leave starstruck. But more importantly, to move on, to sample the sweet nectar of the next flower. I have been a longtime client, but only very rarely. More often these things so often too soon fade away to a pale shadow of the excitement that we once felt. Because to be otherwise, means that the fantasy that I've purchased and that she's worked so hard to create has become something else. Something more real, something more ethereal. And definitely something much more rare, in this business of ours. I know it's time to move on. I'll only let myself have this moment of that sense of loss before I find that next object of my anticipation and excitement. I'll search for that kiss that stops time, makes me forget that there's anything except the two of us. It's what I yearn for. Because that's where it is.

Thanks, guys. It was a very good birthday this year.

I closed my eyes in reverie. I remember that twinkle in her eyes, that impish grin. I remember her smooth skin, so soft to the touch. I remember her straddling my hips, a blissful look on her face as she panted, and I drew ragged breaths as we rode on into the night. And I remembered her laughing afterwards, the most natural laughter as I said something witty. Our meeting was only mere days ago. Yet my memories of her are so vivid. But I'm not the type to live in the past. I yearn to make new memories, memories as powerful as the night we met. So I contacted her. I looked down at my phone. It's been two days now since I texted her last. She hadn't responded to my last text, or the one before that. Perhaps she'll get back to me soon. Perhaps she won't. Perhaps I'll never see her again. It used to really bother me when I would meet someone, have a wonderful time, then never get to see her again. Was it me? Did I do something wrong? But that's silly. It's not all about me. Sure, I suppose that she might have had to force a smile at the touch of my homely carcass. Maybe she thought I was boorish, perhaps I was too rough. But maybe she decided that doing this just wasn't for her. Perhaps she got a better offer than mine. Perhaps her real life got in the way. In any case, there might be so many reasons. One thing's for certain, I might never know why. What I do know, though, is that we had that one wonderful night. One time, one meeting. Never to be repeated again, because the stars would be aligned differently. Hey, you never know. Maybe on another day, our meeting might well have been... ordinary. But knowing her, probably not. No, I'm not the type to live in the past. But I'm trying to strive to live in the present, to savor every moment as I live it. To suck the marrow out of every feast, because life is the most sumptuous repast, if you choose to see it. And I try to cultivate sweet hope, for the future. Because I have those memories. And I always hope to make more.

I've been nominated a few times for the 'Topic of the Fortnight' before, but this is the first time I've ever won. Many thanks to my nominators for making this possible!

I'm delighted that this tale has sparked a lively discussion here. I think that there is no contradiction between the apparent extremes in view as presented by Summer and Stevemcqueen. Because I've experienced both sides at different times, with different ladies, and at times even at different times with the same lady. Perhaps you're new to me and my tales, Summer. But I definitely don't see the ladies I meet in person as a commodity, as you seem to have read into my use of the word hobby. I have had the pleasure of having the kind of relationship that you have described in your first post, many times. It doesn't happen with every lady and not even most ladies, as I'm sure you don't make that connection with every client. But it has happened, and frequently. In particular, since I've started to participated in boards with national coverage, I've virtually met many ladies that by dint of geography I'm unlikely to ever meet in person. This still has not prevented us from corresponding and forming friendships. These friendships are blissfully uncomplicated, as there are no expectations on either side, save intellectual stimulation and perhaps a few laughs. It's a little more complicated in person. I'm quite aware these relationships have their boundaries. Sure, we text, we message, we keep in touch in between my trysts and this contact definitely enhances our experiences. Still, it's hard not to feel the subtle weight of expectations, that I should be coming back, that we should be continuing our business relationship. And as well, Stevemcqueen, there have been ladies with whom I suspect that we would never have developed and kept up that correspondence, had there not been a business component in the first place. To be fair, I'm sure that there have been ladies who have wondered whether our correspondence would never have developed had there not been an offer of physical intimacy.

My, all these birthday greetings! Thank you, everyone.

I have a friend, who is really into cars. It's so much more than just a passing avocation for him. His life is wrapped around them. It's his escape from the dry tedium of his day job, his world of spreadsheets, forecasts, and endless emails. I can always count on him to have something new that's he's either driving or fixing up. His tastes run to German sports coupes and every once in a while he's kind enough to let me drive one of his cars. He's a good person to know. But I've noticed a change in my friend, lately. He doesn't seem to talk about his cars as much as he used to. That's okay, we've always talked about our other shared interests too. I razz him about the Jays, in a long running ritual for us. We endlessly debate the merits of craft beers. He helps me when I struggle with my phone, and I help him with his renovations. I asked him about his cars one day. He said he hadn't driven or worked on one of them in weeks. I did notice he was driving his Toyota today, the truck that he used to haul his parts around in. The one that was always running and could be counted on to be reliable, no matter how much abuse he piled on to it. I asked him what was the matter. He just shook his head, took a sip of his pale ale. They just weren't interesting him right now. He was tired of coming home to a dark house, with greasy parts soaking in a black pool of parts cleaner. He was tired of his needy 'children', who always seemed to be needing something, and in some cases, many things. Baby always needs new shoes, don't you know. He said that he was getting tired of spending more money to go a little faster, to go around corners a little quicker. I listened as he talked on and I soon realized why he felt this ennui. The cars filled a hole in his life. But it was a bottomless hole that could never be filled by them, no matter how rare, how powerful, how exotic they were. They were great fun and a marvelous distraction, but there was one huge shortcoming to even the best of them. They could never love him back. He and I are great friends, and have been for years. But I've never told him about this one particular hobby of mine. One that ranged to collecting experiences with the beautiful, the witty, the utterly charming. I enjoy those sorties greatly. But like him, I too had stepped back a little bit. He lived for the ripping-silk snarl of the exhaust, the shove in the small of his back as the cars launched themselves from a standing start. I long for a skilled tongue in my mouth, a gentle touch, smooth taut skin under my fingers as we pant, eyes closed. But if there's one thing our hobbies have in common, it's that once he steps out of the car, once I leave her bed to get dressed, our times are over. All we're left with is the memories. One last look back, and we're out the door. The garage door for him, the bed room door for me. At one time, too, I tried to fill a hole in my life with my hobby. And like he will come to discover, I found that that hole couldn't be filled that way. I came to learn that you can buy someone's attention, you can pay someone to do things with you and to you. But you can't buy someone's respect. You can't pay anyone to truly love you, and for that reason, those things are truly priceless. I've found that the emptiness was best filled with friends, with family. With new experiences. With travel. Because the life that is lived best is the one that is lived well. I listened as he talked about his car fatigue. I changed the subject, or so he thought. The Vikings were going to be playing the Bears in Minneapolis. Why don't we take a road trip? We could pay too much for scalped tickets. We could eat some wonderful, awful greasy food. And afterwards, we could either celebrate or drown our sorrows at our favorite bar on Nicollet Mall. His eyes lit up. He thought he could take the time off of work. We made plans. The road waits for us, sinuously, black, stretching off to the horizon. The road, like life, is best traveled when you're on it, fence posts whizzing past. It's such a cliche, but it's so true. Life is most enjoyed when it's seen as journey, not a destination.

Thanks, everyone. I had a very very nice day, with lots of time with my favorite lady. It was a very good birthday indeed.

Thanks, guys. It felt good to write this story. It felt like home.

My, I see what passes for acceptable comportment has changed around here.

It's been a really long time. I wasn't really sure that I had any more of these left in me, for it seemed like I'd already said everything that I could say over the years. But recently I found new inspiration and the rest was history. I hope you enjoy it. bb --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The hotel doors open with a whoosh, and I step outside. The air is crisp, this late summer evening. It's going to be dark soon. But in the twilight I can still see the leaves, starting to turn yellow. It'll be winter all too soon, I'm afraid. But the thought of another frigid Winnipeg winter is the last thing on my mind this evening. For you see, I've just left her hotel room. I have a spring in my step and a smile on my face. I'm almost about to bust out and whistle a tune. Maybe it's a dark cool almost fall evening all around me, but in my mind it's a sunny and warm spring day, full of promise. She makes me happy. Really, really happy. Sometimes it feels like my heart is going to burst. But I know feeling this wonderful is a little bit wrong, in this crazy hobby I have. I have to rein my feelings in. I have to keep my perspective. I have to not obsess over her. I need to keep things light when I'm with her. Or, at least I tell myself that every time I go see her. But as soon as I enter her door, she always draws me close enough for me to smell her faint perfume. She kisses me as if I haven't seen her in months, although it's never been long. She asks how I've been and listens carefully. I know she remembers our talks and it seems like she remembers everything we say. She acts like an old friend, a dear friend, which I guess is what she's become to me. But wait. There's more, as they say in the commercials. She then brings me even closer. Finally we're skin to skin, and our tongues do their familiar slow tango. She brings me inside her. Words fall away then for both of us. Her eyes are half closed and unseeing. Her breath becomes shallow and rapid. Her face flushes, her pulse quickens. She's enjoying this as much as I am. I've always hated it when the ladies fake those last frenzied few minutes. I wish that they all could be honest about this. My ego is not so fragile that it would be shattered by knowing that I didn't make the lady cum. But I know why they do this. It's just another little stroke of the ego, another little part of the business, a little flourish to make your time a little more enjoyable. She never fakes it with me. I can tell. Or perhaps I'm a willing participant in my delusion. But I don't think so. Still, I might well be the second, or third, or more man to cross her doorstep today. I don't really want to know. But it seems so hard to believe that this happens with all of them. Well, perhaps not quite all, but you know what I mean. Afterwards, we curl up together. We catch our breath. Our skin cools and we whisper our little secrets to each other, as we punctuate our words with little kisses and touches. I know she's well loved, in every sense of the word. The merest mention of her name on the review boards always draws an enthusiastic response. So many of them say the things that I could, and have, said about her. How truly wonderful she is. How she has so much love to give. I truly don't know how she does it. Because this is a business transaction. This is a service, albeit a very personal one. Yet it is much more than that with her, for me. She truly cares. I bask in her warmth every time I see her, which is not nearly as much as I would like to. She gives so much more than she has to. It's not just her body, but her attention, her compassion, her kindness. It seems like she has limitless amounts of love, for me and for all the others. It would be way too easy to fall, and fall hard. But I'm sure that so many others have felt the same way about her that I do. I have to presume she's done many of the same things with them. And knowing that I'm not so special that way helps keep me on the side of the angels. Still, feeling loved is addictive. I completely get that from her. I can get luv any old place, or so it seems. She offers so much more. And knowing that I'm not the only one, not by a long shot, doesn't diminish the feelings I have when I'm with her. She's truly special to me. I get to my car, unlock it and get in. I turn to look up at her room window, and see the light dim. She's back at work already. I grin, and start the car.

Thanks again for the birthday wishes, everyone. It was a quiet birthday this year, but I'm sure I'll make up for it soon.

Thanks for the birthday wishes!

I know her secrets. Oh, not all of them, to be sure. But I know some of her little ones. I know what book she's reading right now, because I saw it on her night table. I know what size clothes she wears and the brands she prefers, because I've glimpsed the labels on her clothes as I've softly, slowly undressed her. I know a few of her bigger secrets. I know where she grew up. I know about the tomboy parts of her life and also the girly girl parts. I know who her idols are. I know about some of the moments that have given her the greatest joy in her life, and I know what are her greatest achievements. But I also know a very few secrets that are bigger yet. I also know about her lowest moments. I know about the most horrible, terrible things in her life. The mistakes that she has made, that will haunt her until her last breath. I know about the horrors she has faced, not only from the evil that she has come across in her life but also from the carelessness and thoughtlessness of others. I know of the things that are never far from her mind, though they she only very rarely speaks of them. She has told her deepest secrets to me, of her own free will. She's whispered them to me as we lay in her bed, in each others' arms. She's told them to me without my even asking. I like that when she's with me, she gives me her all. And I know she likes that I give back, and that I give as good as I get. For you see, she knows my secrets too. And I love that in telling her my greatest triumphs and my deepest secrets, far from driving her to a distance, it's made her want to bring me nearer. I'm not going to tell you what her secrets are. You see, I tell you this, and it's not because I want to tell you that I know something that you probably don't. It's because I want to tell you about my own secret joy that she has trusted me as much as she has. I love that she has treated me as a true lover, and not just as a business acquaintance. Although I know all too well that I'm neither, but I'm at a place in that shadowy no-man's land somewhere in between. You see, even though I know all these secrets, I don't know the most public thing of all about her. I don't even know her name. Her real name. And she doesn't know mine. But I do know that there's truly only room for one man in her life. And I've tasted the bitter-sweetness of knowing that I'm not him. He's a lucky man, although perhaps he doesn't truly realize it. Or so I've gathered. Or perhaps I'd just hoped. The world outside is lost to us, when we're together. But the world comes flooding back, and then some, once I step out her door. So we'll go on, she and I. We'll go on in this hopeless semi-romance. Our hearts blossom when we're with each other. We're lovers, truly, for an all too short time. And that is our one shared secret. And it's the only one I'll tell you today, my friends. Additional Comments: Well, that was quick. Thanks, Midnite!