Well, after a year away from any type of writing or reading (except for work-related froth), I think I’ve lost any knack for story telling I may had had in the distant past. My weekdays have been hijacked by the banality of the fast-paced, panic-driven, supercilious and, above all, meaningless investment “management” world. No room for creativity, illusion, nor pleasure Monday to Friday. Nor Sunday given its proximity to Monday. There is only Friday night and Saturday to look forward to; and this will not change.
Deane has made us an agenda for this coming Saturday. February 7, 2009; remember the date. We’ll go to a spa somewhere in Westlake Village for a couples massage, then a romantic dinner I don’t know where in the valley, after dinner, we’ll visit a strip club and have a couple of lap dances (I love seeing her get excited touching and being touched by those girls), and finally back to her place for a good two or three hours of love making. She is not the typical girlfriend, I may say, and I love her for it.
This morning, I was picturing the sequence of events and I was stuck in the couples massage matter. I understood that this is a refined spa and nothing sexual is involved, however, it could be sensual, couldn’t it? I asked Deane if the masseuses would be wearing bikinis or underwear, and she said of course not, are you nuts? Then I asked how long would the session last. Fifty minutes. So, Deane will be lying next to me, she and I naked, and then the two masseuses (both female) wearing masseuse clothes, not lingerie nor bikinis. For some reason I feel pressured to talk and entertain them for the full fifty minutes.
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