Archive for memoir

She Made Me Strangely Dizzy…

Posted in FLICKR, history, memoir, photographers, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 13, 2013 by cliffmichaels

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There are lots of sour things about getting old. One of the worst is watching people who were young when I came of age in the late fifties and early sixties reach old age and die.

When I was experiencing the early spring of adolescence, I became enraptured with Annette  Funicello, one of the original mouseketeers. To be more precise, I was enraptured by her precocious breasts that so nicely filled out her white sweater.  When I would see her swelling chest I would become a little dizzy and excited (why I felt those emotions I had no idea). As time passed and Annette and I both matured my fascination grew as her bosom grew more prominent.

My interest waned as I reached my mid teens. By then I understood what my reaction to her  comely tits meant. I knew enough about sex to know what I yearned for. Other, sexier women, Marilyn Monroe and Hugh Hefner’s luscious big-titted Playments, for example, fueled my surging erotic fantasies.

Still, Funicello retained a near mythical place in my heart. She was the first to stir the sap, becoming the avatar of my boyish sexual desire.

Now, at seventy, she is gone. Another bright, alluring light of my youth extinguished. Only in sweet memory do her girlish face and figure burn bright.

Photo from Marxchivist , subject to this creative commons license

Songs She Never Sang…

Posted in erotic, FLICKR, memoir, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, Sexy, tennessee, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 30, 2013 by cliffmichaels

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Let’s call her Sally (I do remember her real name, however…) She transferred to Tennessee from Northwestern. She was a petite brunette, originally from Jersey. She said she had been a nightclub singer in Chicago. We met, if my memory has not failed, when she wandered into the shabby headquarters of the Gene McCarthy campaign  in the old Farragut Hotel on Gay Street in downtown Knoxville.

Sally’s mother was Baptist, her father Catholic; she was an intelligent neurotic. I found that alluring. In those days there was nothing I liked more than a half crazy, sexy girl to light me up. With her I burned at about 500 watts.

Terry was carrying a torch for a guy named Bill back in Chicago. She talked about him a lot in a melancholy way. I listened patiently, doing my supportive guy thing. She had large, beautiful brown eyes and they grew moist when she talked about him and her voice filled with slow sadness. He was the Love of her Live, she said. She would always love him, she said.

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What was I to her?

Whatever I was, it only lasted about three months. The sex was OK, although I suspected then, and am more certain of it today, that she was non-orgasmic. I did my good guy, supportive, gonna make you come thing and did my heroic best to bring it off. I still remember the massive ache in my jaw and tongue as I spent what seemed like a week going down on her one day. One night, both of us half-blind drunk, we ended up in a dilapidated motel screwing in a small, shabby bed in a  shabbier room. Half way through our awkward carnal dance she spilled a large glass of iced bourbon on my naked back. The sudden burst if ice cold liquid half sobered me up and put me out of the mood. I later wrote a fairly awful poem about that night.

The trouble with my good guy supportive shtick was it never lasted all that long. Sooner or later my resentment at having to be forgiving, understanding and supportive gave way to resentment and anger. So it was with Terry. One night, near the end, we were sitting in my car in her grandmother’s driveway when all my anger boiled over. I had been drinking Tequila. At one point I think I told her that if she tried to leave the car I would kill her. I said it calmly. I like to think I didn’t really mean it. The truth is I just might have…

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Not long afterwards, I told her as we drove away from a university dorm – she’d been staying with a friend -I was going to screw her hard, then dump her. Of course that was a product of my still simmering anger. Amazingly my cruelty turned her on. True to my word, after fucking her as selfishly as I could manage I drove back to the dorm and told her to get out, that  we were through.

Somehow, and I can’t quite remember how, later that day we bumped into each in a university parking lot (was she looking for her car?) A drenching, cold rain forced her into my Triumph TR-3.  She was in tears and professed strong feelings for me. We sat huddled in my car. She insisted on going down on me. Her obvious enthusiasm pleased me. Maybe, I hoped, I could replace Bill. I  wanted her back and told her so.

That was a mistake. Of course you can guess the rest: she dumped me a few days later. I realized much later she was masochistic. My abandonment of  my good guy persona, my sudden burst of cruel dominance, turned her on. When she groveled for me and stuffed my cock in her mouth, that  good guy came back, wanting again to take care of her. When that happened the bubble burst and she was on her way.

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One night, perhaps relatively early in our misguided affair, she looked at me and sweetly declared, “tonight I almost love you.” How that pierced my famished heart. I wanted so badly to erase that almost. I wanted to replace Bill. I couldn’t. His place in her melancholy heart and dreams remained secure.

She went back to Chicago at the first of the year. We wrote for a time. Ine of her first letters she gleefully narrated, in her elegant handwriting on pink note paper, the story for me of how she finally manageed to orgasm on her new boyfriend’s more  patient and talented tongue.

One last thing. Sally never sang for me – not once. Even today I like to imagine her voice was softly intimate, a little husky and could just melt your good guy heart…

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Photo by Orchidee, click each photo for details and license

FEMALE SINGERS BEAUTIFUL BRUNETTES

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The Worst Guy She Ever Met was… Me!!

Posted in erotic, FLICKR, memoir, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 3, 2013 by cliffmichaels

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We all like to think of ourselves as being good, kind, caring people. Well, at least I do. Very good. Very kind. Very caring. Even if we do anything that is less than good, or kind, or caring, we justify our conduct with what, to us, seems a valid excuse (I know I should have stopped to see if he was OK, but I was running late for my nail appointment…)

When it comes to my history with women I like to see myself as a consistently caring man. I have treated women as a human beings and not just as a sexual conquests. I listened to them, considered their needs, and went out of my way to accommodate those needs.  Yes, what a paragon of good, kind and caring masculinity I was!

Well, not always…

It was early spring of 1984. Her name was Norma (no it wasn’t, but I don’t remember  her real name). I answered her personal ad in a Knoxville newspaper. We met for drinks and neither of us were creeped out by the other. She was passably attractive, well educated and bright. We ended up dating two or three times. I was my usual good, kind & caring self. We passed the sex barrier successfully and continued seeing each other.

She was a third year law student, recently divorced, and in her late thirties or early forties. I believe she had one teenage child and worked at least part time. In other words she had a lot on her plate and I’m sure there was a lot of stress in her life. I was good, kind, caring and understanding. I was there for her. She could count on me. I was a rock.

At least for a while…

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She invited me to her home the last night I saw her. She had an indoor, heated pool. We ended up, after her kid was safely asleep,  up to our necks in the relatively warm water, naked and horny. We’d had a fair amount of wine and I was only semi-hard. It was a nicely erotic interlude. I took delight in stroking her large buoyant breasts and her warm, wet cunt (and enjoyed the way her fingers teased my bobbling dick and balls).

In between french kisses and submarine fondling, she said, “You don’t know how much you’ve come to mean to me.” She put her hands around my waist and her head on my shoulder. Her damp, tangled hair cooled my bare neck and shoulder. “It’s been really, really rough for me the last month trying to handle school, my job and all.”  So looked up at me, smiled and caressed my cheek. Her other hand drifting down to my cock. “I don’t I could have made it without you – thanks,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. She hugged me tightly, her lips pressing into mine. A few minutes later, dripping water, we staggered to her bedroom,  then awkwardly fucked on rumpled, damp sheets.

I didn’t see her again. I didn’t even call. My conduct was pretty shitty. I knew it – I was being a worthless, cruel jerk. I still didn’t call. As the next few days, then weeks, went by I knew there was utterly no excuse for my conduct. While I wasn’t in love with Norma, I liked her well enough and she had done nothing to merit my callousness. Ordinarily I would have continued seeing her. Even if I had decided not to see her again at least I think I would have called with an explanation: some good & kind & caring brushoff (its me, not you – you’re too good for me…)

Yes, of course, I had my good excuse: Lea, another woman I had been dating casually for several months. Lea was in her thirties, childless, and a redheaded yankee from Pittsburgh with piercing, smoky eyes. For quite awhile I had tried not think my growing feelings for her meant anything serious. This is just fun, I told myself, a hot dalliance, nothing more.

Yes, I was playing the field in an understanding way. I was honest about it. I didn’t lie to any of the women I was seeing about the others.

The same week I was being so alluringly good, etc. in Norma’s pool – and bed –  I realized I was madly, deeply – hopelessly – in love with Lea. I was a little shocked by the realization. What had started as what I thought would be but a brief affair had suddenly turned into much, much more. I loved her.   For the first time in years I had no interest in other women (what was wrong with me?)

The next year we married. Twenty-seven years later we are still together. Of course I have been a good and kind and caring husband.

I have a recurrent nightmare that goes like this: I have a new, promising case, the other side hires a female lawyer who looks faintly familiar to me when I meet her the morning of the initial hearing. Just before court she’ll look at me, her hands crossed over her ample breasts,then sneer, “You don’t remember, do you, you shit bastard?”  My mouth will drop open, I’ll stutter something stupid, then look at the ground. The hearing doesn’t go well. She beats me into the ground.

At least, to my credit, I feel like a bad, callous, unfeeling son of a bitch – for the rest of the day…

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swo81’s set Best of 2012

Flickr Group: WATER HAIR

All photos by swo81. Originals and my derivatives subject to this creative commons license

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Pornlandia

Posted in fetish, FLICKR, memoir, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 27, 2013 by cliffmichaels

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Once upon a time, before the Internet, hotel porn, blue movies on CD’s or DVD’s, if you wanted to see hardcore porn on film the only option was a visit to your friendly neighborhood, singleplex porn theater.The neighborhood wasn’t yours, of course, and it certainly wasn’t friendly.After you paid an outrageous sum to a man in a stained shirt, with a weak chin, three day stubble, dirty finger nails and dull eyes straight out of Deliverance, you could spend a couple of hours in the sour smelling, darkened interior nervously watching halfway attractive women doing wicked things with tattooed unattractive men.

I never masturbated in the fetid darkness – I never brought my raincoat. Nor did I want to do anything to draw the attention of the dozen or so other men: rumpled silhouettes against the under lit screen.Those might be queers or homos. I didn’t exactly know what queers and homos did to each other but I knew it was a disgusting abomination and would damn you to endless hellfire if you did it. I’d just sit in my broken down seat in the back row, furtive and still, and gaze intently at the semi-silver screen, half aroused, half repelled by what I saw.

At least in Knoxville’s porn palace the variety of porn was pretty tame (at least compared to today’s cornucopia of digital BDSM, T-girls, Bukkaki, MILF banging, scat, golden showers, anal fisting, bestiality, and other similarly wholesome activities). In those days the action consisted of fucking and sucking interspersed with laughingly bad dialog and acting. Some films had no sound, or horrible lighting; others only flirted with crisp focus.

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Of course, once porn went legit with the advent of the VCR, sex films started being made with big budgets, passable acting, and an actual plot. The industry even developed its own convention and award show (and the winner for the best actress in a lesbian threesome fisting scene is…)

When porn moved out of the shadows is became much easier for its patrons, especially women. Instead of taking chances in a big dark spooky room full of potential perverts, you could slip through the curtain and into the clean, well lit adult section of your friendly neighborhood video rental store (which was really friendly and maybe even in your neighborhood). The choice was much wider; you could porn4find almost legitimate movies with professional lighting and cinematography, and real plots about pretty, promiscuous women giving themselves – with articulated, proper motivation – joyfully to handsome men, or other women, in pretty places and sporting a title evoking a popular book or film (Thunder Balls, Big, Whore and Piece, Catch 69, or Beverly Hills Cock). If on the other hand, you just wanted pure, unadulterated sex with no pretensions of plot, dialog or locale, there were tapes for you like Best Brazilian Blowjobs of 1985 , Stuffing Slick Snatches #41, or John Holmes Cumshot Compilation (four hours!)

Now the Internet has killed the porn business as it existed from the late seventies through the early oughts. Porn now wants to be free – and mostly is. My porn budget was always modest: a Penthouse Forum or hardcore magazine every other month or so, and maybe three or four DVD’s (at fifty to sixty bucks each) a year (tip: never go to the porn store drunk).

I haven’t paid for porn in years. When the net was new the early porn sites made tons of money, particularly those catering to men enthralled by one or more of the more popular kinks.Popular web sites insisted you sign up for a year or more, and pay upfront, demanding your credit card information. I was too cheap – and too parenoid – to indulge my own particular kinks. I stuck to brick and mortar erotica.porn2 Now sex sites beg for a dollar a month and put out free porn hoping to entice you to part with some money. The more porn sites go online, and the more freebies they offer, the less anyone has a reason to pay.There are, for instance, about a million lesbian porn flics on Porn Hub.Their quality might not be high def – even medium def – but every one is free, gloriously free! Just Google your dong’s desire and in less than a second your screen will fill with a list of hundred of links.

Today, if I feel the need, I can enjoy all the free Internet porn I want – text, photos or video – of any kind, of any length, featuring any fetish or outrageous sexual activity (straight, gay or bi). Thanks to the rather puritanical Steve Jobs, I can now watch, or read, porn on my iPad 2 in the privacy of my bedroom while snacking on a roll of Ritz crackers and a pint of skim milk (and with a small box of Kleenex on the bedside table for my after show sanitary needs). How, I ask, could life be better?

Best of all? Most days I don’t even mind anymore that I’m alone…

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Lady Chatterly’s Gift

Posted in fetish, memoir, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, pinup, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 19, 2013 by cliffmichaels

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When I was fourteen, the summer before my freshman year in high school, my family rented a modest house in Oak Ridge after we had moved to east Tennessee from my personal Shangri-La, Del Mar, California. The house had a single small bathroom, a family bottleneck, particularly in the morning.

For a week or so sometime that summer, my parents’ friend Susan Green, a buxom women the same general age as my parents (early forties). Ms. Green, like most every woman with a large bust, caught and held my testosterone juiced attention. Janet Pilgrim’s bountiful milky white breasts – I’d discovered them in an old Playboy I’d found in one of the houses our family rented in Del Mar – still fueled my embarrassing wet dreams.

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I have no real memory of the brief time Susan stayed with us. Except for five to ten shockingly vivid seconds. It must have been fairly early in the morning, but that’s really just a guess. Anyway, whenever it was, needing to pee, I went to the bathroom door and unthinkingly jerked it wide open. Standing at the sink, just three feet in front of me, in just her white panties and oversized white brassiere, Ms. Green was leaning over the diminutive white sink and peering into the small mirror as she  carefully applied her lipstick.

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I  instantly froze at the bathroom threshold. I felt faint, my face  was burning, and my dick sprang up amazingly quickly.  I’m sure my jaw was nestled somewhere at the level of my bare feet. Before any thought could push aside the steaming lump of lust filling my fourteen year old boy’s brain, Ms. Green whirled around and yelled at me to close the door. Paralyzed by the view of her now revealed ample cleavage, and the pinkness of her still damp midriff and upper thighs,  it took my a second or so to regain any ability to comply.

As best as I can remember neither Ms. Green, or either of my parents, mentioned my embarrassing voyeurism. I spent the rest of her visit conciously  keeping my eyes off her delicious chest. At night, when I was alone in my room, however, the memory of my brief glimpse of those breasts, and particularly that deep pink cleavage, kept me a little bit dizzy and my left hand busy.

I was, that summer, still relatively new to the forbidden joys of masturbation. While my younger brothers and I spent a month or so at my maternal grandparents’ home in southwest Virginia waiting for our parents to fetch us down to Oak Ridge, I’d found a dog eared paperback copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover half hidden in the den.  As I lay in bed reading a particularly racy passage of the book one night, I began fondling my cock. Not really knowing what I was doing, but encouraged by the magnificent sensation, I kept at it as I continued to read.

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Suddenly, and without any warning, the first orgasm of my life washed over me like some horrifying Tsunami. The feeling, which surged from my groin over most of my body,  was so intense and so prolonged my vision dimmed and I came close to fainting.  My semen, as if overjoyed to at last be freed, spurted out again and again, arched high over my stomach, then splattered down onto my chest and neck, leaving sticky white dime sized puddles on my skin. For a a terrifying  moment I feared  I might actually die or that I had at least done  some grievous damage to myself. I could hardly breathe; my body trembled like a small bird. When my passion at last drained away I felt weak and drowsy. I was so petrified by the experience  I quickly vowed I’d never ever touch myself that way again no matter what.

My fervent vow lasted not quite twenty-four hours. The second time, braving my anxiety, I brought myself  to an orgasm not quite as intense as the first. It was still magnificent and I savored the spread of joy radiating out from my cock. By the end of that week my fear had vanished and I was addicted. My grandparents became concerned as I went to bed earlier and earlier. The copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover grew a little bit more dog eared each night with a few more of its yellowed pages marked by fingertip sized stains along their outer edges.

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TRADING PLACES – A Twisted Tale of Fat Fried Love

Posted in erotic, fetish, memoir, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 27, 2012 by cliffmichaels

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I’ve posted several accounts of my youthful sexual encounters to this blog. Those stories are admittedly somewhat fictionalized (partly because of the amnesia of age and partly out of my shameless efforts to make a better narrative).  I believe these tales still matter to who I am today. While some facts may be smudged – or prettyfied – the essence of each tale, as best I can make it, remains true and a crucial part of me.

I admit being shockingly proud of my written accounts of these episodes of sex and loves: Gail, and my instant soaring lust for her followed by the worst breakup in all of recorded history of the entire known world.  Barbara, and my shocking answer to a simple question and the sordid hilarity that ensued.  Janet, the brilliant, tall redhead I stubbornly insisted on keeping as an ethereal fantasy, even in the face of her implied offer of sweet carnality. Janet Pilgrim (real name Charlaine Edith Karalus), the 1952 platinum blonde Playboy Playmate whose  airbrushed nudity dazzled the eleven year old boy I once was and made his underwear bulge for the very first time. The construction worker who, the first Christmas I was divorced, made a present to me of her body wrapped in a concentrated cloud of marijuana smoke, then passed out under me. The petite brunette who claimed to be a student at Hunter College then leased me her very handsome tits for a not unsizable contribution to her tuition fund one afternoon in a New York gentleman’s club (I left with a lightened step – much of my cash had fled my wallet).  Lorrie, who paid me three hundred dollars so I’d let her blow me. Elizabeth, the nine year old who triggered my first sexual awakening when I was the same age while we played innocently in her front yard. Terry, the tormented torch singer – and Star Trek fanatic – with dark brownhair and anguished eyes from Chicago who once told me, “tonight, I almost love you”.

All of those stories, and more, I’ve carefully preserved, like faded photos pasted onto heavy black pages in a gilt edged, oversized album entitled My Most Very Important Memories – Volume One: Sex & Love.

Not every sexual encounter I had in my younger days has been inshrined in that sacred scrapbook; Most of those not canonized have so faded from memory or exist only as a small handful of scattered shards I  cannot  reassemble nor encumbered them with any meaning.

But there is a category of memories which, while possibly meaningful, I choose not dwell on. Frankly, I fear these stories’ meanings might be too dark. I resist writing about them, not wanting to face a revelation too likely to puncture my pumped up sense of self. No. Better to leave those memories safely unjudged in the comforting recesses of mind than spread them out in unalterable script spread neatly across the digital pages of this blog. I tremble, too, in cold, black fear of how you, dear reader, might judge me should these memories I now keep under lock ever escape to the light of day.

But hey, to hell with all that crap – I just wanna write smut!  (Click to continue)
You’ll find more photos of sexy BBW Naughty Jessica, too!

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Law & Sausage

Posted in erotic, FLICKR, memoir, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, politics, religion, Sexy, tennessee, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 8, 2012 by cliffmichaels

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Thousands Hundreds Dozens Two of my ardent fans have written in concern, fearing my absence from Visions for the past two weeks  may mean I am unwell. I can happily report those concerns are unfounded. While not perhaps fit as a fiddle, I remain as zestful as a Zampogna.

A major media outlet, Mother Jones, has named the Tennessee legislature the worst in the nation. That’s quite an accomplishment, given we were competing with Oklahoma, Mississippi, and South Carolina. I feel so proud…!

I traveled to Nashville this week to attend a two day continuing legal education seminar. There is nothing quite as soul deadening as being stuck in a cavernous conference room for eight hours a day with hundreds of other lawyers and listening to droning lectures on such fascinating subjects as bankruptcy, insurance and estate law. Thank God they have legal liquor in Davidson county. I’ve been attending this same seminar for about thirty-five years and have watched the presenters age from semi-youth to late middle age before my eyes.

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Listening a recitation of the new laws the legislature has churned out over the past year was disheartening. There was a decidedly conservative bent in much of the legislation. Individual rights have been weakened and corporate and business interests strengthened. Since they won legislative majorities in both houses, Republicans have been busy imposing their radical agenda on the state.

We (liberals) are of course pleased Obama and Senate Democrats won. On the state level, however, Republicans maintained their death grip on too many state legislatures and state houses. The result will be more idiot laws (like mandatory vaginal ultrasound for women seeking an abortion). The flood of really sour sausage will continue unabated for at least another four years.

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