On Whining Well

You already know a little bit about what Robert looks like and perceived a little bit about his character, too. But before I take you through the front door of that gentleman's club and start spending money, it's only fair you should know a little more about my smiling, happy bud. I know his family is well connected but we never discussed family or money or anything like that. Before he was 30, Robert, following in his father's footsteps as a general contractor, landed one national contract - the biggest and to date the ONLY contract I'm aware of. What a windfall. This was before we met. It was to build all the buildings for a certain fast-growing chain which I won't name. He built 90 of them in 40 states before it all ended. He hasn't worked since.

His wife is an airline attendent. He fell in love, dazzled her by sometimes grabbing a Learjet and flying off to meet her at the end of her destination and then romping off to Canada or some other where. He had THAT kind of money. They lived together for the first few years and then she got pregnant and he married her. At the time of these stories, there were two babies and one on the way. He never dragged her or the babies into this other life.

Me, Robert, and a guy I'll call Sammy, somehow wound up hanging together after I split with Mary. (They all knew Mary and loved her to death.) Sammy used to call it "running with the big dogs." (Sammy had money too and is another story entirely.) I called it a pure waste of time, but fun. When sammy left for almost two months, I was left to housesit the apartment. Robert would come by just about every night and we'd go from there. Sometimes, we'd just wind up staying there and people would come over.

Robert and I became tight about a year back from this point - prior to the Mary breakup - one night after I got this call saying he'd been arrested. Me and Mary were at Sammy's visiting and the cop told me where he was. He put the phone to Robert's ear and Robert quickly gives me a number, which I repeated out loud so M. could write it down. "That's my Dad." "Ok, I got it. You OK? We're coming down there. I'll take care of the car."

So here we were about to drive right into a hornet's nest of cops to get Robert's 'Cedes so it wouldn't be towed. I had told the cop we'd be showing up in a black, GTP Grand Prix and to alert the others ... M. would be driving. We got there quick.

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The thing I like about these journals is that you can confess just about anything and get it off your chest. You know? Even some of the most secret things you've done, you can tell in here and it kinda feels good. Like, for example, I'm a sensible guy. I know that you're not supposed to put fresh tomatoes in the refrigerator. Even some of the little tiny labels on them say it: Do not refrigerate. But the truth is, when no one is around, sometimes I have put tomatoes in there. And I don't even feel guilty about it. Oh, I know all about the flavor thing. But I like 'em cold and so if I've sliced a tomato, in it goes. Yeah, it's a little dark. But hey, now I feel better. See what I mean?

One time I confessed about liking to play with my spigot, which I still do. And it just felt so good telling people. It squirts so neat, I can't help playing with it sometimes, when I'm in the kitchen. I feel better now when I'm in the kitchen twirling my spigot around on the faucet because at least I've confessed it. Besides, it's mine. One person confessed she liked sponges and I didn't even go there to ask about her sponge thing. I mean, I guess the common household sponge needs love too. [Warning: If you play with your spigot too much, you could break it.]

I'm feeling open now. All kinds of things are pouring out of me. So, that's why I started to write about going out my bud Robert and some of the fun things we did. Like how we'd sometimes change clothes in the dark back parking lot when we did spur-of-the-moment things. He always carried around a trunk full of new pants and shirts and we're about the same size and like the same loose styles, too. So, if we happened to be wearing shorts and then at night decided to do one of those escapes, we just stood out by the trunk changing. Hey, we had boxer shorts on so it wasn't like public exposure or anything. Then we could strut in wearing clean sneakers, light Docker pants, a neat shirt, smiling and saying hello to the girls and start playing. This is Florida. And it was fun.

The confessional part: We probably should have felt really, really guilty about skipping the performing arts theater or something like that - but we didn't. I love plays. We just had our own play going on.

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Monday

I don't know what is going to happen. This stuff will not leave me alone. Thank you all for your concern. I just don't know what is wrong with me any more. In a moment of strength, I was telling a friend by phone that if I had some small royality coming in each month, I'd be tempted at this point to give up work and just write. I would write these journals which I love and I would finish the book.

But that's just a dream. The reality is, this thing has so set me back that I'm not sure what is going to happen. I sit here for awhile trying to write something and the first thing I want to do is get back to bed rest. I feel weak. I'm ashamed to say it. I feel somewhat helpless too. This whole thing has pulled the rug from under me, unexpectedly. Every time I feel like I'm better, here comes this feeling that I can't quite describe. I'm sorry. But thank you all. 

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Food Poisoning

I am recovering right here, right on the Blue Couch, from the most horrible physical ordeal that I've ever experienced in my life. Food poisoning. I can't sit here at this chair long because I'm weak. It's Friday and I've survived it all without seeing a doctor. It began last weekend, when Sunday afternoon my insides began inflating as if there were one of those aliens from the movie, growing inside me. My stomach distended, and above it, a different kind of distention. The pain was unbearable and it spread throughout my central chest, then throughout my chest. There was sharp pain behind my left shoulder. Blunt constant pain under my left arm, my left elbow. My fingers on that hand were cold from no circulation. I was scared to death.

Nothing I did would make the pain go away. It lasted for about 14 straight hours. I had already been sleep deprived beforehand from writing and all I wanted was to get some sleep. It wouldn't let me. My body emptied itself many times. I watched the clock. When does it stop? Oh god, why are you doing this to me? How can I stop it? My sides were hurting from dry heaving. Yet, it was only for those short times after the heaving that there was a tiny bit of relief, so I forced myself some more. It just came back. And grew and grew and grew again and the pain was just unbearable. I wanted a doctor to stick a knife in me to relieve the pressure. I passed out sometime early Monday morning. When I awoke, the distention and pain seemed to gone. Then the fever set in.

I didn't eat for the next three days out of fear. The most enlightened piece of email I received during lulls in the fever was from songbird, a mother of three - so I immediately trusted her. It turns out that the reason you're supposed to get medical attention is because of the lingering microbes. I've survived to today, with Tylenol. Songbird is right. I needed antibiotics. I've relied on my own body to fight it. The fever is recurring. I suppose as long as it is around, so are those microbes. I hate it. But that's where I am.

BTW, I did have a Thanksgiving dinner of my own. I actually began eating something. And nothing has recurred. So, I'm eating again, tiny small doses of food. I'm starving to frigging death. And I'm so behind in work.

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So here's the thing. I don't really like "gentlemen's clubs" - you know, the kind that most men call "titty bars." And most of my friends know it, including Robert, that friend I mentioned briefly in the Salads Are Rabbit Food entry. I just don't get the point, that's all. I'm not a prud by any means. In fact, when it comes to that, I'm very much a devil like all my devil buddies.

What I mean is, you can't touch in those places. They are not your friends in there. You stand no chance of forming any kind of relationship. And, sure, if you spread enough money around, you could get laid later that night. But, that's just not for me either and my friends know it. I don't do bar pick-ups either.

So, that's just me. I need some kind of feeling, and truthfully, there are millions of guys who feel like I do. But I still go with my friends because I can make fun stuff out of nothing, and they know that, too. And once the girls know that I'm just treating them as if they are just working (I always tip generously) but am not interested in "lap dances" or any of those other things - and that I am straight, not gay - it always turns out as close to "ok" as possible. Even the gorilla bouncers soon figure it out.

In fact, it almost always winds up that I make friends with a bouncer or the bartender or the valet in the bathroom, while my friends are partying, or, I take breaks with any of the girls I've met and this whole other behind-the-scenes story evolves, which of course, as a writer, I love.  

So, Robert, who is married (good looking, tanned, big smile, happy-go-lucky, smart), liked it when just he and I could sneak away sometimes. And the truth is, it was ALWAYS fun. He understood that even though he had so much money, no way could I throw away $800 to $1,500 for a night of spur of the moment fun. I mean, he was just lavish with it. And of course, anytime you throw money around like that, you get all kinds of attention. Which of course, we did.

I mean, the Dom Perignon alone could wind up costing $500 to $600 as many bottles as he ordered. In a place like that, they mark up everything, but the girls really like the strawberries and whipped cream that is served with every bottle. And ...

[I forgot about these darn limits. Just getting started, too. Oh well, maybe it isn't worth telling...]

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Blue, I love you and Buster too. It's you who has the gift, the gift of love. (Buster went with me. call mom.)

A day without Hempen. Oh Hempen, hempen, you have come out so well, dancing in your underwear. Oh, look, that red face. But, you let me see you, one day, and I liked it. We all did. Dance again, one day like that.

Onward and Ondine cause my Monet is back! Yes!  Diane - BABY! Now look who is making a GUY feel good! Love you. And Shasta, yes, fun can be good. Muse: Why do you care if I ever come back? You got your pick-ups, don't you? And your KFC? Ha! Steven: No peek-tures to show, but got some mightly fine tales to tell. (Later, dude.)

I got your tic right here, Mary! Gimme back my red thongs! You make me smile just seeing your Wacky name. You make everyone smile. don't ever change. please.

And you will be missed, hapy, if you don't come back. Ceea, "what?" is right. When? is better. Babyshark, love your new place. Oh yeah, and being my "first". Was it good for you? (grin) Starlite: you miss me? I miss you and your happy life with hubby. You guys carry that flag for us, make us know it can happen.

Gregg-o, dude! How I love you man. (No, not that way!) You and your wonderful eye for graphics and layout. Aims: You're never too late. How's he doing with those steaks? Pamela, aw, you are so sweet sometimes, a wonderful mom. Jules: work sucks big time! Songbird, songbird, this song's for you...

Chica, baby! You are just too cool for words. My words, anyway. Because you are indeed our Poet Laureate. Our chosen one. One of the REAL ones.

Slomo: What? What more to life is there? I like it down here, down on Earth. I love it down here. I love getting dirty and being clean.

Do you think I missed any of you who left those comments below? What a silly notion. Warm, wholesome, loving, who needs any of that?

I could jump in the middle of all of you right now. But I detest touching, you know.

Somebody asked me by email about that Purple Graphic way down there. Yeah, well, her name is Phoebe. Have you seen the show?

"Phoebe Bares All On AOL" at On Whining Well. "Sure, I was a cyber slut ... until I met HIM," she says. "No more. I've changed my slutty ways."  

15 Hours of Fame

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Oh I wish I was an Oscar Mayer wiener
That is what I'd truly like to beeeee
Cause if I was an Oscar Mayer weiner
Everyone would be in love with meeeee
                     -From an On Whining Well reader.

Back like Jack and sleeping like a baby. New stories to tell, old ones to finish.

chill-axin today. Up all night. Gotta sleep. Got that whole Stevie Nicks, Tom Petty (Florida boy), Dire Straits, 3 Doors Down, thing going on the sterry-eo. Dreaming 'bout a street angel ...  I'm Trapt in an "Enigma"

Looking for some poetry? Petty got some for you:

"You know sometimes, I don't know why,
But this old town just seems so hopeless.
Yeah, I ain't really sure, but it seems I remember
the good times Were just a little bit more in focus.

But when she puts her arms around me
I can somehow rise above it.
Yeah, man when I got that little girl standin'
right by my side,
You know, I can tell the whole wide world to shove it."

God I miss this place. Here, take my cable TV, take my car, take my sh-t, take it all, just don't take this place away from me.  

Why do I miss you all so much? Don't ever let me go. Forgive my sins. Let me love you.

That punk, Blondie:
"Oh oh, he speaks the language of love Oh oh oh oh 
Any time any place any where any way (woo!)
... roll me in designer sheets, cover me with kisses...colour me your colour, baby! call me, call me, any time." (woo!)

What do you say Tom? close it...

"Every now and then I come down to the end of the day And I have to stop and ask myself why I've done it. It just seems so useless to have to work so hard And nothin' ever really seems to come from it."

"Every time it seems like there ain't nothin' left no more, I find myself having to reach out and grab hold of something. Yeah, I just catch myself waiting, wondering, worrying About some silly little things that don't add up to nothin'
 ... Here comes my girl. She looks so right, she is all I need tonight."

Love that Petty.

"Oh my, my, oh hell yes - Honey put on that party dress. Buy me a drink, sing me a song, Take me as I come. cause I can't stay long." 

sweet nectar! 

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I'm leaving on a necessary trip first thing Monday morning. I will miss this. Can't be helped. I'm disarming nuclear weapons in Iraq. Well, not really. But I'm going to work. I don't relish it. But I have to.

Bye.
Frank

PS: I will truly miss this.

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Don't get me wrong. I didn't know it then, but what Liz was doing to me was special because, as I was later to learn right after this night, she just had avoided doing that in the three previous times she had slept with men - that included her boyfriend, who she told me later had wanted her to but she never finished. So, yes, for her to be doing that with her mouth to me that night, was to turn out to be more exploration for her.

I could see her. She stopped and asked me things. "Like that?" She asked a lot more, that doesn't fit here. The talk was almost as good as what was happening. Where should she do this? And where did it feel good? To me, that meant a great deal more than what she was doing, just then. Don't forget that both of us were by then just languid, exhausted, feeling very good. It meant she wanted to please me as I had wanted first and foremost to please her. During those moments, I wrapped her hand just right and moved it for her to show her. She was oh so comfortable with it now. And I knew then that I was not going to let her finish that way. There would be more times later for the real thing.

I put a pillow down at her end, so she could lay her head. I turned myself toward her. She took my cues well, when I moved her own body toward me. She shifted, knowing that I too, wanted to explore and touch and feel. I wanted to play with her little hair and admire everything. I wanted to see all of the moles, where they were. I wanted to pull apart her little lips down there and kiss inside and nibble with my lips, at hers.

She too would stop and watch me doing that and she said things - things I'd never before heard from my normally harsh friend. Of course, by then I had to go on with her, yet again. I loved the taste of her. I loved when I could feel the liquid there become more. And most of all I loved it when her thighs jerked and flinched from the sensation of being loved that way.

It was a memorable first night. There would be more. But there would also be something else, too. Feelings, decisions. I still don't know why I didn't say something to her that night. I was obvious we both cared. Liz had a really tight grip on her heart and wouldn't say anything either, until the end.

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We began talking about something that had happened regarding the SARS epidemic. It went from there, more talk about news. But after work, it was private emails that started things between Liz and I. I guess she was extremely shy about emotions. I just know it was emails, and later the phone, where she was most comfortable. Around me, in front of me - when she finally took the first step and came over and then regularly after that until that first night of intimacy - she actually became fairly normal.

All of her emails were short. As I said before, they were more like messages, 10 to 20 in a barrage in one night wasn't unusual.

Some very early emails:

Subject: Profile
Went to prep school.
Went to college.
Materialistic.
Bitter.

Subject: Eat this
You are such a weirdo.
Chicken. Fish. Steak.
Graham crackers.
Crack.

Subject: Meany
You are mean.
Write back, dammit.

Subject: PS
Why do you write Mary's papers?

Subject: Going, going
That's why I ask to come in on weekends when he's writing proposals with Brian. I need to learn. However, he belittles me in the process, so I get discouraged. They can be real assholes.

Subject: Potter
You wouldn't happen to have any street connections that could help me get the latest Harry Potter book... would you? I'm like #2886 on the list right now.

Subject:Thank you
We'll talk tomorrow morning. I usually leave about 8:15. I'll call you.

Subject: Meet me
I don't want to pick it up by myself. I'd be embarrassed. Can you meet me there?

Subject: Ok
Am not a scaredy cat. Will call tomorrow morning at 8:15. Set your alarm clock.

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