Hatshepsut

 

Three years ago, I happened to be in Luxor, Egypt on the winter solstice shooting a promotional video for a major tour company. The local guide was a brilliant, energetic Egyptian woman from Luxor who had earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology. She was professional, personable, and possessed a calm demeanor and beauty that was breathtaking. We clicked immediately because we were two spirited women in our 30’s traveling with tourists who were all 65 years old or older. They were a nice group to be sure, but age does matter when finding a travel companion. The guide, named Ain, which means “priceless” in Egyptian, and I bonded at once.

Ain joined the group in Cairo and continued with us to Luxor, her hometown. The tour was a whirlwind in Luxor. We were to visit the Temple of Karnak and the Valley of the Kings, then participate in some shopping and eating activities before going on to Jordan. I had done some research on the area I wanted to see other archeological sites, specifically The Temple of Hatshepsut and The Temple of Ramesses III at Medinet Habu. I told Ain that I would much, much rather visit these sites than go shopping. She was delighted that I wanted to explore outside of the tour’s staid itinerary. She arranged a car, a driver, and a young female guide named Nenet to take me to the alternate temples while the main group went shopping. Nenet wore pants, a galabia, and a taqiyah, a cap normally worn by boys. She told me, “… easier to guide if men think I am a boy.”

Both temples were as magnificent as I had hoped. At the Temple of Hatshepsut, Nenet led me away from the throngs of tourists at the “must take” photo spots, to the very rear of the temple to the Sanctuary of Amun. It was a longish walk, but I was thrilled to discover Ain waiting for us there. She had left the tour to spend a few minutes with me in the Sanctuary and tell me the amazing story of Hatshepsut and her relationship to Amun. It seems Hatshepsut, one of the very few female pharaohs of Egypt, was considered a god and was married to Amun, one of the major mythical Egyptian gods, as well as her earthly brother. I was fascinated, completely enthralled with the story. Nenet listened to the story too but it was clear she knew it already as she smiled knowingly at each detail. As Ain began to describe ceremonies involving Amun, she paused and gave Nenet a questioning look. The young one nodded her head almost imperceptively to whatever Ain seemed to ask. Taking a deep breath, Ain asked if I wanted to discover a secret of Hatshepsut that was known only to a handful of women in the modern world. Of course, I did!

Ain then told me to meet her at a dock on the Nile in Luxor at 9 PM sharp that night. Further, she said I must not bring a camera, iPhone, flashlight, radios, or any kind of technology with me. Also, I was to wear no jewelry or any adornments, not even a hairpin. Finally, Ain asked me to wear a colorfully decorated ankle-length caftan I had purchased in Cairo, flat sandals, and nothing else. She meant it, nothing else, nothing underneath. She had to dash back to the tour group so she left me in the Sanctuary with the young guide full of questions. I tried to coax what was going to happen out of Nenet, but she would only offer me her lovely smile and say, “you will see.”

I was shaking with excitement and anticipation when I met Ain at the river’s edge in Luxor at the appointed time. We boarded a felucca along with four young Egyptian women to cross the Nile. All were dressed like Ain and me – cotton full-length caftans or galabias with pretty feminine designs on them. None of the women were of the Muslim faith – no one covered their heads. Their long, dark hair perfectly adorned pretty faces of soft, brown skin.

On the other side of the Nile, we all climbed into two cars, driven by women. This was unusual as I had only seen men driving cars in Luxor. By now I was brimming with questions but Ain revealed little and urging me to, “… as you Americans say, to just go with the flow.”

We arrived at the Temple of Hatshepsut under a bright, nearly full moon. We walked briskly, silently to the Sanctuary of Amun where I had met Ain earlier. Entering the smallish room, three women carrying ancient style oil lamps met us and led us through a small opening at the rear and down two steep ramps to a much larger room illuminated by similar lamps and candles. At one end of the room was a life-size, black marble statue of Amun. It looked like other statues of Amun I had seen except for one thing: a large, straight erection.

Six women were already in the room surrounding a young, nude woman wearing only a wide, ornate, jeweled collar, the type you see gods and pharaohs wearing in wall paintings in temples and tombs. She was a slim, stunning beauty, with waist-length dark hair, a small round tummy, and a pussy as smooth as a baby (I learned later that ancient Egyptians shaved to prevent lice). As she turned to see our group of eight, I recognized her – Nenet. She recognized me and smiled gently offering the subtle nod she had given to Ain earlier. I couldn’t think of how to respond, so I simply put my hand on my heart and nodded back.

In all, we were eighteen women of varying ages, including Nenet. Soon, all but Nenet rested on large brocade cushions on the stone floor. Candles and a flame were passed around until the room was bright with golden light. No one spoke. Nenet stood silently alone in front of the statue of Amun while the six women who had been attending her began to sing, or more closely, chant rhythmically in a harmony I can only describe as a cross between a south sea island hymn and a Bavarian folk tune.

As the tempo of the chanting increased, Nenet approached the statue, making graceful movements in sync with the chant, she danced, performing as if Amun were present before her. One of the attending women stood and produced an urn of scented oil, so fragrant, that I could smell hints of cinnamon, saffron, juniper, and mint from several feet away. Another woman applied this oil to the statue’s – Amun’s – erection.  Two other women began to apply this oil to Nenet’s body, her shoulders, breasts, abdomen, thighs, and, finally, her vulva, labia, and clitoris. Only Nenet’s hands and feet were left without the fragrant oil.

At some unheard cue, the chanting stopped, all the women were seated leaving Nenet sleek and shining before Amun. The silence stunned me. I had anticipated the chanting would accompany whatever I was about to witness like a Hollywood movie. The silence in the room was absolute as Nenet mounted the statue. Amun’s knees were carved to accommodate her feet and his collar was designed to provide handholds.  Nenet recited something, a prayer of sorts, in Egyptian and took the marble erection inside of her. Rhythmically, she impaled herself repeatedly on the statue’s stone erection, as if she could please the marble god. Nenet was performing a ritual, yet all present could tell she was pleasing herself too, using the hard stone cock to excite and stimulate herself. Her breathing, moaning, and finally, her gasps and little screams were contagious, spiritual, and flowed through all of the women in the room, including me. I was soaking wet myself when she quaked and convulsed in a massive orgasm and slumped against the statue of Amun. I knew then why Ain insisted on being naked under my caftan. The nakedness under the cotton fabric was exquisite as I shared the Nenet’s ecstasy.

When the young woman finally pulled her body off of the statue and turned to the women in the room, they all jumped to their feet, erupted in a song, and clapped and sang at the top of their lungs. I had no idea what to sing, but I joined in anyway celebrating and understanding the communal high. 

On the way back to the Nile and ultimately our hotel, Ain explained to me that Hatshepsut periodically copulated with the statue of the god, her husband, in the presence of her courtesans, to worship him and fulfill her wifely duties. In the late 19th century when The Temple of Hatshepsut was rediscovered and excavated, some Egyptian women in Thebes (the old name for Luxor), for reasons still unknown, began to celebrate Hatshepsut’s sex ceremony with Amun on rare occasions, but never the same dates to avoid discovery. 

I thanked Ain profusely for taking me to the mind-bending event, falling all over myself with gratitude. I promised never to tell anyone about it.

She laughed at me. “Tell anyone you like. I have told people and two things happen. First, no one believes me. Second, minutes later, they don’t remember I’ve told them. Only those who have participated in the ceremony ever remember it. Isn’t that odd?”

Staying Calm

Wednesday, Nov. 4, 2020

Staying calm.

Waiting for the count.

Taking A Break

 

I'm taking a break from blogging for a while to devote time to other writing projects. This blog has been fun and therapeutic for me, but the readership is dismally low. That's on me, no one else, but it is discouraging.

Friends have inspired me to write longer-form narratives so I'll be devoting time to that once the election is done and Biden is on his way to White House (#VoteBlue).

Of course, I'll still post snippets on Facebook, despite my disdain for that platform. I don't dare do Instagram or TikTok as I would undoubtedly end up posting inappropriate pictures of myself. That would sink any hope I have of a career.

Thanks to those dear friends who have been encouraging. It was fun while it lasted.

As long as Zuckerberg doesn't ban me or Ellen or Star, I'll see you over on FaceFuck, uh ... er, Facebook.

Be safe, be well.

Love, 

Sparks

Kona Days

 

April and I zoomed away from the Sheraton Kona Resort in a Jeep she had rented, top-down, with a rack of two colorful sit-on-top kayaks for our adventure in Kealakekua Bay. Stopping only for bowls of acai berries, yogurt, and granola at a food truck for our breakfast, we were at the bay less than an hour after sunrise. The air was warm and wonderfully humid, fresh, as only the sea seasoned air of Hawaii can be. We unloaded the kayaks near Napo'o'opo Park and were on the water well ahead of the hoard of people who would be launching later in the morning.

Our lunches, bottles of water and juice, towels, and sunscreen were stashed in waterproof sacks the kayak rental shop had loaned to us. Hoping to impress April, I wore the most revealing bikini I owned. As skinny and flat-chested as I was at 15, I got a thrill out of showing off, wearing as little as I could at the beach. April wore a high cut one piece that emphasized the muscles in her thighs, exposed her sculpted pelvis, and displayed a little of her abdomen. She said she was 40, but her body wasn't a day over 30. I was envious. Someday I thought, I want to look like April. But for that exciting morning, I was happy with my Kate Hudson boobs and no hips to speak of.

Crossing the bay, paddling side by side, we talked as if we had been besties for years. April had the knack of speaking my language, that of a Hollywood teen brat, without seeming condescending or phony. I think I tried to behave older than I was at times, but April would spot that instantly and say something that brought me back, kept me honest. What did we talk about? Hawaii, spa products, clothes, my school, cars, music, boys, the conversation flowed easily like water around rocks, naturally, running a course that needed no specific destination.

Before we knew it, we had arrived at the Captain Cook Monument. A few snorkelers who had arrived by motorboat tours were already exploring the water near it. We stopped briefly to see the monument, hopped back in our kayaks, then April led us towards the north to Cook Point where she had discovered days before a sheltered patch of sand among the lava that afforded a shady picnic spot. It was a perfect, private, and personal place where I would come to know April. And she would know me.

It seemed a natural progression of events. The privacy of our little piece of sand allowed us to sunbathe nude, something I did in California with girlfriends, so it wasn't new except for the fact I was doing so now with a beautiful goddess with a perfect tan on a perfect body. It's a clichè, but applying sunscreen was inevitable. I tentatively applied some lotion to her back before laying on my tummy for her to return the favor. She leaned over me, adding the warm lotion to my shoulders, and whispered, "You need to tell me if this in any way makes you uncomfortable." With that, she began massaging the sunscreen into my skin. When I think of that moment, I think of The Beatles song, "Here, There and Everywhere."

As she touched me, and I tentatively began touching her, we talked about our age difference, how what we were beginning might be considered perverse, would be unlawful. I told April I had been with girls at school, that I had, deliberately, given up my virginity three years before, that I felt like I was far ahead of my girlfriends at school.

She looked wistful and a little sad as she said, "No one can ever know."

To say April opened my mind and body to a vast and verdant universe of physical love would be a hopeless understatement. That day, and the two that followed, were, like another Beatles tune, "Magical Mystery Tour." I have never felt guilty about nor regretted the forbidden tryst we shared. I hope she doesn't.

I never saw nor heard from April again. We agreed that the perfection of our Kona days should stand alone, apart from our days, nights, and years ahead.

And if anyone ever seriously asked me about this? It never happened.

Kona Night

 

I had just finished the last of my three songs I sang with my father's jazz quartet at the Sheraton Kona Resort on the big island of Hawaii when I saw her. I was aware of a woman at a table not far from the bandstand but didn't really see her completely until my spotlight dissolved to the general club lighting. She was applauding and wearing the big smile that adults usually gave me after my set that said, "Aw, isn't she just adorable?" It was difficult to tell how old the woman was but she oozed elegance, had perfect hair, and the slit in her skit, that went all the way to "there," revealed muscled tan legs.

I was 15 years old. My father, who was a fine jazz keyboard man, often took me on his gigs because, I think, he felt guilty about being away from home so much. He always had me sing at least three songs with the quartet so he could deduct my plane tickets and hotel rooms from his taxes. Daddy was smart that way. I didn't mind. I got to see a lot of the world as a teen and I enjoyed performing. I liked the spotlight and the costumes.

Judy Garland's "Get Happy" was my third song that night. The setup was I'd sing two songs, then come back for an "encore" of the Garland tuner. It was up, flashy and it gave me an opportunity to dance happily off of the bandstand at the end. So, I did, making my exit through the club to the huge open patio of the Sheraton Resort.

It was about 10:00 pm as my bit was near the end of the quartet's first set. Daddy would be playing for another 2-3 hours depending on the crowd so I was on my own for the rest of the evening. I was walking back to my room to change out of the little sequined party dress that was my costume when I heard a silky, smokey voice behind me say, "I enjoyed your singing tonight." Without turning, somehow, I knew it was the woman with the slit skirt and perfect hair.

And so it began. I didn't get back to the room until just before I knew my daddy would be there. The woman talked to me, not like how adults, as a rule, talk to 15-year-olds, but she engaged me, drew me out, listened to me, and showed interest in everything about me. We walked and walked around the resort. There is no beach at the resort, but there are patios and walkways across the lava to the golf course. We took our shoes off and bare-footed a couple of fairways ending up on a green that overlooked the ocean.

Her name was April. She was single (just divorced) and a representative for a company that provided the specialty spa products that were sold under the Sheraton Spa label. She had just completed landing a new contract and was taking a brief holiday. She was 40, but like Demi Moore or Elizabeth Banks, she was timeless. With her beauty and fitness, I could easily have mistaken her for a model.

I was a bit in awe of her and confused and flattered that she would take an interest in me. I was kind of cute in my party dress, true, but was still mostly flat-chested, my curves were non-existent and I had unruly curly red hair. We talked and listened to the sea, gazed at the stars until I told her I had to get back to the room.

As she walked me back to the main patio area, she took my hand in hers. I remember looking at our hands, fingers entwined, and wondering what that meant. We stopped at the main patio, as our rooms were in opposite directions. Still holding my hand, she asked, "Would you like to go kayaking tomorrow?"

Daddy had to go to the Hilton Waikoloa for a lunch thing the next day, so I knew I had the day off to play. "Sure," I blurted! We agreed to meet early and find breakfast at food trucks along the way to Kealakekua Bay to kayak to the Captain Cook Monument there. I asked how we would get there and she smiled mischievously, saying only it would be a surprise. As she let go of my hand she leaned in close to me and kissed me on the cheek, a soft but lingering peck. Then she whispered, "sleep tight" and glided away.

A few long seconds later I remembered to breathe.

I Miss Kissing

A Simple Favor / Kiss Scene (Blake Lively and Anna Kendrick)

I miss kissing. Spontaneous kissing. Polite kissing. Tentative kissing. Hand kissing. Passionate kissing. Kissing both women and men, all over, tasting and teasing them. Lips to lips or lips to wherever. Soft, wet, warm, gentle, hard, and with generous tongues. 

Of all the things I miss during this pandemic, I miss the joy of kissing.

The days go on. I walk in the early morning or ride my bike. I teach my classes. I tutor my teen girls. I go to the market. I cook meals. I watch the news (ugh) and, thankfully, some fairly decent films on my streaming services. I sleep. I pad around my casita mostly naked or play dress up in clothes I haven't worn in what seems like years. Throughout the day, before, during, and after all these activities, I miss kissing.

Don't get me wrong, I do kiss still, occasionally. Jeep Girl, sometimes. My friends with benefits, sometimes, but that was last month and, before that, July.

Here is what gets me. I used to kiss a whole lot more. I needed very little reason to kiss, often and unpredictably. I got a kick out of giving unexpected lip to lip kisses -- the looks on people's faces! I think of the times when, for whatever reason, just making out for an evening could be just as much fun as "going all the way."

No more. I'm careful. Respectful. Socially distanced.

This fall I need to figure out how to spend more time with friends, with or without benefits, and lovers who are in my extended shelter-at-home bubble and kiss them often, repeatedly, lovingly.

Young Adult Literature 101

 

Tutoring Tuesday went analog today. Because one of my "tutorettes" is grounded from her phone or any social media use until this weekend, we did not use computers, pads, or phones in the session today. Instead, I pulled a few real bound books from my remaining analog library. Today's lesson: young adult (YA) books and their adaptations to film.

I learned there are tons of YA books published every year and frankly I had not heard of many of the current titles. Neither had my girls. But they did know the Twilight series, Harry Potter, and The Hunger Games. We talked all morning about these books, the stories, and what they had learned from them. Then we talked about what they thought of the movie adaptations. It was a lively morning.

After lunch, I brought my laptop out to the patio. We jointly did a search for YA books that are considered "must-reads" for high school students. Google that, the variety of choices and opinions about what teens should read is considerable and contentious. From these lists, we selected three YA "classics" they would read this month, one per week, until Halloween. I know, that is a lot of reading for 15-year-olds, but with the pandemic, what else to they have to do?

I'll post this on Facebook and see what friends think I should have assigned. Feel free to guess in the comments here.

After the girls left to go home, I started thinking about my junior high years as well as my introduction to literature and film adaptations. Yes, I read the Harper Lee classic, but I also read a book from my dad's bookshelf by Vladimir Nabokov. As luck would have it, the remaining video store in our neighborhood had DVD copies of both film adaptations. I read the book and viewed the films even though I had just turned 14 years old, two years older than the girl in the book. I can't say I understood it all. But the prurience of the story stuck with me.

Shortly after my foray into the novel and the films, it happened that my art teacher at school became ill. For two weeks we had a substitute teacher, a handsome young graduate of UCLA who had just graduated but had not landed a full-time job yet. He was a "long term sub." He was cute, painfully cute, 23, so my teen hormones, inflamed by my recent reading/viewing, went completely off the rails.

The poor guy, for those two weeks he couldn't get rid of me. I was already more promiscuous than most girls five years older, so I threw myself at him unabashedly. I turned my sexual advances on him up to an 11 dressing the naughty schoolgirl, teen slut, and Britney Spears or Paris Hilton wannabe. I spent all the school time I had in the "art room." I went there before and after school too.

I flirted, teased, flashed, and even tried talking dirty, ardently trying to seduce him. Over the days, I could tell there were times when he was tempted. He would glance at my body, peek up my skirt, or his breathing would quicken and break a bit of a sweat. Once or twice, he bulged under his Dockers.

But he was Gibraltar. He tolerated it with patience I have yet to see matched in my lifetime. Toward the end of the second week, I came to the art room after school wearing a pair of ultra low-rise jeans I had modified by cutting the waistline down, below the belt loops, to make them even lower.  I hadn't started going "Hollywood" down there yet, so a bit red fur peeked out and my midriff was bare below a tiny cropped top.

He stared at me and said, "Miss Bravin, why are you playing the slut with me?"

I blurted, "I want to be your Lolita!"

He thought about that for a while, then, said, in a matter of fact tone, "You do realize the Humbert Humbert was a very sick man, an abuser, and that Lolita was his victim?"

Gulp. Nope. I had missed that. I totally misunderstood the book. I suddenly felt utterly stupid and ridiculous. I don't think I said anything, but ran home and had a good cry. I did re-read Lolita (confession: and The Cliff Notes). In time, I came to understand.

I never saw the "long term sub" again. In one minute though, he turned my bad behavior into a lesson about reading. And fortunately, in my sophomore year, I qualified for advanced English classes with the best teachers at Hollywood High.

My Dinner with Jeep Girl

 

Since I am once again in Facebook jail, I didn't get to post there about my Friday night dinner with Sally the Jeep Girl.

Sally and I flirted and teased quite a bit before I left on my two week trip at the end of September. We agreed that despite her attraction to women sometimes -- as in her current "girl crush" on me -- that our going beyond yearning or fantasizing about a sexual play date was not a good idea.

Besides, did I mention she is married? I don't normally, as a rule, play with married people. Well, usually.

Sally's husband went on a hunting trip this weekend, so I invited her over dinner and a streaming movie, The Glorias on Amazon Prime, which is excellent!

I heard her Jeep in my driveway, so I went to the front door and opened it to greet her. She stayed in the Jeep a moment, tussling her hair and adding lip gloss. I laughed, happy she cared enough to primp. But my jaw dropped and I think I gasped audibly when she stepped out of the 4x4 and walked to the door. She was wearing a denim mini skirt with a vest, open, that matched. What took my breath away was the full, black fishnet bodystocking she wore underneath.

At that moment, I wasn't sure what she was up to. "My God," was all I could say, "you look amazing!" She twirled for me, which caused the vest to reveal her bare breasts through the fishnet, and quipped with a devious look, "You did say come casual, right?"

All of a sudden I felt frumpy in cutoff shorts and a t-shirt. "Come in," I said ushering her into my kitchen and pouring her a glass of wine, "I was just about to change" and dashed into the bedroom. I slipped on my favorite little shirt dress, a Ralph Lauren number I paid way too much for because it is wonderfully sheer, hiding next to nothing.

We were both so used to social distancing, that cooking dinner became a sort of dance around the kitchen. We joked about being shy exhibitionists while cutting up vegetables, fruit, and preparing ginger-lime seared salmon filets. I probably should have offered her an apron, and worn one myself, but that would have spoiled the fun.

By the time we made it to the sofa to watch the movie, we had killed a bottle of wine. "Get comfy," I said, walking to my video setup, "for movies, I reset everything so I don't get caching loops." When I finished and turned back to the sofa, Sally had removed her vest and skirt and was curled up on the sofa in just her bodystocking.

"You said get comfy."

We both did. During the movie, my dress came off, but Sally kept the bodystocking on. That was a special kind of fun in so many ways. Thank goodness you can pause Amazon Prime movies.

She didn't stay the night because there was a chance her husband could come home early from his hunting trip (he didn't). Before she jumped back in her Jeep to leave, we agreed and promised with a kiss that we would not let being occasional sex buddies mess up our friendship. That's a promise I will keep.

My Ralph Lauren dress

Handy Work

 

There is so much going on right now my days are whirlwinds of activity, angst, and anger with politics, school work to catch up on, volunteer work for Democrats, tutoring my teen girls, and generally holding my life together doing simple things like laundry. And I still have to wash my car! It looks like an off-road vehicle since my Utah/California trip.

I've decided not to go nuts over Trump's COVID-19. He's ill, and, yeah, that sucks for him, but he's still a pig, and his campaign, along with the other GOP scum campaigns are as nasty and negative as ever. I'm tuning that out for now.

I mentioned on Facebook that I overheard that one of my "tutorettes," three teen girls I tutor two days a week, gave her first hand job to a boy last week. So much for social distancing. I mentioned to Trouble, the tutorette I am closest to, that I heard the comment. The girls, to their credit, decided to confide in the mother of the girl who jerked the boy off. They diplomatically related a "make out" session to her, but not the gooey details. I was relieved that I did not have to become involved and retained the girls' trust.

The result? The girls' mom was remarkably understanding. She contacted the boy's mother to verify that his family was practicing social distancing and did not have any COVID-related contacts or recent travels and such. Satisfied, she simply took her daughter's phone away and grounded her (including social media on her laptop) for a week. That sounds like getting off easily, but can you imagine a teen girl without a phone for a week right now? That's almost a life sentence for a 15-year-old.

It was difficult to keep my thoughts to myself about this. Trouble is a savvy teen and her military mother has been good about providing guidance regarding her sexuality. She doesn't know anything about my promiscuous sex life as a teen. If you read my blog, you know I lost my virginity when I was 12 and developed into a precocious teen slut. I sometimes think that passing on some of the lessons I learned in high school, and since, as a lose, bisexual, somewhat exhibitionist female might be of value to her. And then, I think, not.

I will keep the tutoring sessions limited to art and literature.

Footnote: I do remember, vividly, the first time I jerked a boy off. It was hilarious and a mess! Am not sure why, but somehow,  I didn't connect the jerking with cumming. I couldn't stop laughing when the boy squirted all over himself, me, and our clothes. Before I was accustomed to the term "cumming" I used to say, "I love it when stuff comes out." Still do.

Another Footnote: Facebook rejected the cropped version of the photo above and penalized me with Facebook jail (banned) for 30 days again. Copy of cropped photo below.

On the River Part 4 - End

 

The last day of any river is hectic.

Our group woke early to get on the river and try to be the first at the take-out boat ramp, a patch of sand about 20 feet wide leading up to where river runners leave their vehicles. No luck this morning. A large Utah college group of about 12 canoes was ahead of us, along with two commercial outfitters launching boats for a downriver trip. The air temperature was already in the 90's so men and women alike were down to their swimsuits.

I was, again, curious as to why conservative Mormon girls would wear tiny thong bikinis given the church's rule of modesty. I mentioned this to an outfitter I knew who was there and she quipped, "They're working on their Mrs. degrees."

De-rigging wasn't fun, but it wasn't bad. Everyone on the ramp was polite and tried to help each other. Of course, there was not a mask to found anywhere. We unloaded our gear to our vehicles and lashed the canoes on the roofs.

It was time to say good-byes and drive home or to wherever we were going next. A few of us stopped by a state park where there were hot showers. I had hoped for a frolicking group shower, but the showers were individual little rooms, clean and spacious, and there were enough that each of us could have our own. Darn. But the hot water was heavenly.

I started my drive to California that afternoon. As I drove out across the empty expanses of western Utah, through tiny towns decorated with signs supporting Trump, I cried.

On the River Part 3

 

The last night of a river trip I am perennially amazed at how quickly the days in my beloved canyons slip by. No matter the length of the trip, 3 days or 16, on the last night I gaze into the campfire or at the brilliant night sky and wonder at how river time seems different than the normal passing of days.

After a bath in the river and dinner, our small group gathered around what is known, inappropriately, as a "squaw fire" -- a small, unobtrusive, and spare campfire, not a bonfire like many novice river runners build. We warmed ourselves with the fire, whiskey, and wine, as well as our friendship before turning to our tents and bedrolls.

Steve was unusually quiet as he led me down the beach, away from our tent, and behind a large boulder where we would not be seen from camp. There, he had set up our sleep kits on a groundsheet in the soft sand. Our tent would be the canopy of stars overhead tonight.

He lifted the only piece of clothing I was wearing, an old, soft sweatshirt from my USC days, over my head. Holding my hands, he gently tied my wrists together with a length of nylon cord. Then, laying me down, he hooked my tied wrists to a large tent stake he had buried at the head of our sleeping bags.

I tried to speak a few times, but he shushed me with smiles and only whispered, "Be a good girl, Sparky."

And I was a good girl, very good. I obeyed him, his every order, opening up to him, spreading, rolling over, bending, kissing, licking, swallowing, all while tied to the stake.

And Steve loved every inch of me with his strong hands and fingers, his mouth, and his tongue. And he loved me with his cock in ways you only see in the high-quality videos made for women. Tied up, thrilled at playing helpless, I worshipped Steve's cock and he rewarded me with it joyfully.

Afterward, he untied me and we spooned, his arms around me, keeping, protecting, safe.

I woke later that night. The stars blazed overhead so brightly I swear there were star shadows on the canyon walls. And as warm and cuddly and satisfied as I felt with Steve, I found myself thinking of the women and girls in my life and longing to make love to them too.

On the River Part 2

On the second day of the trip, we passed the river "put in" that is the most popular for Labyrinth Canyon. It was here that at least six other groups joined us on the river, four of which were student groups from Utah universities. Up until that day, we had seen only two other canoes on the river.

I knew Utah universities had outdoor activities programs, I didn't think that they would be on the river during the pandemic. Yet, there they were, large groups young 18-22 year olds with no masks and no social distancing. Although the students were largely Mormon, they exhibited the uninhibited behavior of most university students on holiday. I am accustomed to wearing little, or nothing, on the river, but I was not prepared for the young Mormon girls in tiny thong and g-string bikinis that I'd expect to see in Huntington Beach. And it wasn't just a few of the young women exposing themselves so liberally. Most of the girls' tushes were uncovered, tanned, and tight and their breasts were equally exposed.

It took me a moment to appreciate this. It made me smile. The young women were celebrating their bodies, unashamed, flaunting what nature had provided. They were reveling in their skin for themselves and for each other. Steve laughed at me when I mentioned how much I enjoyed seeing the scantily clad girls. He knows I am predisposed to play for the other team more often than not.

On the fourth evening of the trip, I was chopping vegetables with one of the women in our group. We were topless wearing only panties as we often are after bathing and before dinner.  Looking up river, one of these student trips started to pull in on the beach right next to us, much too close. River etiquette requires space between groups for privacy, quiet. 

Without putting on a top, I donned a mask and walked over to where they were landing. Bare breasted, I greeted them and asked that they move further away down the sand bar and to the other side. It was their trip leader, a young stud with rippling abs, that gasped, hemmed, and hawed, his eyes locked on my nipples, who replied. "Oh, yeah, sure, yes ma'am ... we're figuring that out now ... of course." 

"Thanks," I said to him then turned to the group, brazenly arched my back to emphasize my small breasts and shouted to them, "Ya'll have a great trip, be safe!" I waved, which made my breasts jiggle ever so nicely and walked back to my camp.

The students paddled by our camp a few moments later moving to camp down stream. Watching them paddle by, I noticed an interesting change among the girls. Two of them were now topless. Both of them waved at me, grinning. I gave them a big "shaka" sign and they happily returned it.

On the River - Part 1

Paddling a canoe through Labyrinth Canyon on the Green River in Utah was a welcome and needed respite from staying-at-home and teaching online. The joy of being on the river discovering new, incredibly beautiful canyon walls and side canyons rejuvenated my spirt and recharged my senses. Six days paddling with a few friends, not having to worry about social distancing was a small joy, and camping, cooking, eating and sleeping under dark Utah skies helped me forget the turmoil of the politics in our country -- for a while at least.

My dear friend, Steve, (with benefits) since my days at USC and I shared a 16 ft. canoe and camping gear. We took six friends in three other canoes to pack our kitchen, food, water for six days, adult beverages, and a couple of guitars. The weather was perfect, 90 degree days, 60 degree nights, clear skies, no rain. We lived in swimsuits (or less) during the day and donned a warm top for nights and for campfire time. Each day we had a planned hike to a side canyon or to an historical site along the river, so the days were full of varied activities and, occasionally, an adventure.

Steve invited me on the river trip only about two weeks before launch. We tried to fall in love at university -- because the sex was otherworldly -- but liked each other too well in such a way that romance seemed superfluous. So over the years, we've become sort of besties and fuck buddies. It works for us.

But, I was surprised when Steve told me at the beginning of the trip that he didn't want to take advantage of our unique relationship and that he didn't invite me for sex, he invited his friend for the experience.  I wasn't sure what that meant, but agreed. So the first two days of the trip, we worked and played together, enjoying the river, keeping things non-sexual in the tent at night. On the third day, after arriving at our camp, we bathed, as usual, in the river. We found a great flat rock from which we could dunk in the river easily without sinking into muddy sands. Naked, clean and refreshed, we lay out on the sun warmed rock. Steve fell asleep, flat on his back, almost immediately as the warm afternoon sun dried his tanned skin.  I watched his breathing grow deep and steady and almost nodded off myself.

Then, his breathing changed, increased, and I saw the reason why. His penis was as erect as I had ever seen it. And yes, I had seen it quite a few times. It was almost magical, hard, straight up, catching the sunlight. Steve smelled of soap and the river and his skin still glistened wet from our bath. It was too much for me.

Placing my towel under my knees, I leaned over Steve, relaxed my jaw, dropped a load of spit on his cock, took it into my mouth and down my throat until my lips reached the hilt. I knew from experience Steve's shaft would fit down my throat without serious gagging. After about four of these oral strokes, Steve awoke and put his hand in my hair. I looked up at him as I came up for air. 

"Hi baby," I said, "is this okay?" Steve has always said I give the best blow jobs of any girl he has ever been with. "Would you rather fuck?" I said because I really wanted him inside me.

"Sparks," he replied, "I want your mouth, no one gives head .... " Yeah, I knew. So, I sucked him off, making sure I took all of him into my throat as often as my gagging reflex would allow. When he came minutes later, he gushed like a geyser and filled my mouth with as much jizz, I think, as I have ever had to swallow.

That night, and each night thereafter, we resumed our "friends with benefits" relationship.

I'll write more about the trip later.

Be safe, be well.

Tutoring Day - Writing and Citations

 

No, not the girls, but this is similar to my trio of students.

Today's lesson for my three high school students was "Writing and Citations."

We took our content from the headlines of the last few days. Their in-class assignment was to find an exemplary essay or opinion piece from the news and determine what kind of references, examples, or testimonies were used (or not used) to prove a point or identify a truth.

I asked the girls to use their laptops to look at several online newspapers, web sites, and, of course, Facebook, to find writing that met the criteria of backing up or illuminating a thesis to establish truth or fact. The landed on The Political Pundits of TickTok in The New York Times and proceeded to analyze the validity of the article.

I presented scholarly styles of citations but they much preferred the embedded hypertext links in the article. Indeed, they said they expect embedded links in all online documents. They followed the links in the article and decided that the sources were credible. Besides, they said, they know first hand that TikTok is where they and their get news, along with Instagram, Twitter. Facebook? Not so much. "My mom uses Facebook a lot," one of the girls said.

Their homework is to keep track of articles they read and determine if the writer properly uses references and citations to prove their point or illuminate their opinions. I know, it sounds dry, but I could tell from the girls' reactions, they had not thought a great deal about proving a point or establishing truth in writing with references. This is advanced for their age. I hope I am not expecting too much from 15-year-olds.

Playing in the Backyard

 

It's not nasty, it's nice. The naughty feelings and sensations are enticing, exotic, erotic. Thinking about it, the anticipation, the preparation, then finally, the penetration gives me an adrenaline rush and a kind of sexual arousal unlike anything else. Using it alone to augment a little self-love or with a partner for sex or spanking or whatever, it always adds a special something. With a partner, half the fun is letting them insert it along with some playful rimming.

One important thing though. Plan ahead, be safe, and be clean, even pristine. In the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall, a man on his honeymoon is repulsed by his new bride wanting to ass play. He says, "If God was a city planner he would not put a playground next to a sewage system." The lesson here is to get fresh and clean. If I know I am going to play in the backyard, I watch my diet a few days before, treat myself to an enema, and, just before, a final anal douche. Nothing can spoil ass play like stink.

As it turns out I'm home alone this Labor Day. And that's okay. I'm getting some personal quiet time and grading student essays. I took a swim around noon, took a cool shower, then washed my hair. Afterward, I absorbed the better part of a bottle of Nivea skin moisturizer. Finally, I plopped a large glob of lube on my ass and my four-inch silicone butt plug, bent over my vanity, and slipped my little friend in my anus. My silicone plug is soft and wide so I can wear it for quite a while not worrying it will pop out.

Just for fun, I added a pair of OTK socks (like the photo), cause they make me look "cute and powerful." I'm waiting a while before I touch myself. Wearing the plug, the socks, create tension and anticipation that heightens the experience if I just wait for a while.

 It's inside me as I type this, my legs spread wide at my stand-up desk.

Happy Labor Day!

Dreams and Darkness

 

Thursday is one of two days of the week I tutor three teen-aged girls who are attending their high school fully online this fall. I like Thursdays because it is our "dress-up" day. The girls and I wear simple, pretty dresses that we might have worn in person before the pandemic. Yesterday was such a day.

It was also a deadline day. The girls turned in essays describing a "dream" they wish could have or want to have, a dream so real it would create a feeling that might stay with them for a long time after waking.

I did not expect what they read aloud, taking turns, sharing their dreams. It's not appropriate that I would share the individual dreams, but I can share a theme they all had in common: Darkness and overcoming it. They all had a terrible or evil obstacle to overcome, they all deeply involved their friends, social media was a centerpiece, two girls had bullies in their dreams, while one had a school shooter. All the girls defeated the darkness and emerged stronger women, facing a brighter day. There was no romance, no sex.

It seems to me their dreams were compilations of video games, movies, and dark young adult novels influenced by the pandemic and insane politics of today.

They had not shared their work with each other, hoping, I think, for surprises in the tutoring session. We talked at the length about their stories and why there were so many striking similarities in them. I honestly haven't heard a better discussion in college sophomore literature classes. They came away from the session thinking about current culture, media, political climate, fear, and originality in storytelling.

During our "bull session" and snacks after the session, I asked why none of them had included any romance in their dreams.

"We can't write about that!" they agreed. Trouble added, "It's too dangerous. No one is making out or having sex now." All the girls nodded.

I sensed from these girls, and my college students, that sex was far less interesting than a year ago. When I looked up some statistics, I discovered this short piece from the New York Times. Sex among high schoolers has been on the decline for some time. As well all know, it's fallen off drastically among adults too.

IDA OF THE DAY: SEX, DELAYED

The decline of high school sex continues.

In the early 1990s, slightly more than half of U.S. teenagers had sexual intercourse before graduating from high school. Last year, only 38 percent of high school graduates had done so, according to recently released government survey data. The decline spans demographic groups and has been sharpest among Black teenagers.

By The New York Times | Source: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

These trends are part of “a more general turn away from risky behavior among teens,” Charles Fain Lehman writes for the Institute for Family Studies. “As psychologist Jean Twenge has documented, contemporary teens not only have less sex but also drink alcohol less and drive less.” Those who do have sex are more likely to use contraception.

There is a worrisome side to the trend, though, as Kate Julian explained in a 2018 Atlantic article about the “sex recession”: It seems to be a part of a larger shift away from social activity and physical intimacy among young people, even before the pandemic.

 

 

Alien Biscuits

 

If you've read this blog, you know about Trouble, my 15-year-old neighbor and painfully adorable heartbreaker. She went with me on my morning walk today after I put out my recycle bin. Normally, I roll the bin to the curb on Mondays wearing next to nothing to get my weekly exhibitionist fix; but today, I was a very good girl and tossed on a short, white cotton dress, my new "walking outfit." Trouble walked in a long t-shirt that just hid her snug little volleyball shorts.

We talked about how her school was going -- totally online and sometimes virtual. I was flattered that she much prefers our Tuesday/Thursday face-to-face sessions on my patio. "Zoom isn't nearly as much fun as Tiktok or Instagram," she says. "My teachers are okay, they are trying very hard, I can tell," she continued, "but it's just so much homework." Trouble's mom and aunt have started going back to the Air Force base where they work, so Trouble is alone a lot of the day, on her laptop. She said, "I miss doing things with my friends, with other people."

Air temperatures are breaking now, finally, so the air was cool. The sun dodged behind clouds as we talked about life, the universe, and boys (her favorite topic). For some odd reason, we both suddenly realized we hadn't eaten breakfast, so our tummies started growling at the thought. Thinking again of what Trouble had said about "doing things with friends," I suggested, "Let's go make biscuits." She looked at me and said, "Make biscuits? Like, with flour and stuff?"

When we got back to my casita, I put out a mixing bowl, a box of Pioneer Biscuit Mix, flour, and milk. "Just follow the instructions," I said.

What followed was non-stop laughter, sticky, sticky (too sticky) dough, and some awkward kneading. When the dough was a ball, I said, "Roll it to about half an inch thick," and the phone rang. I took the call (pesky college administrators) and turned back to find Trouble had rolled the dough down to about 1/4 inch. We had already beat that poor dough to death, so we agreed to stack the thin biscuits in twos. We popped them into the oven and watched them rise.

I wish I had a recording of Trouble squealing with delight -- as only a 15-year-old girl can do -- as the biscuits started to rise and rise. The top layer of dough began to slide off of the bottoms in weird shapes. She had us both in stitches laughing so hard, "Oh my god, they're growing," she squealed, "they're ... mutating ... they're alien mutant biscuits!" And so they were. But, they baked just fine and were honestly, flakey and delicious. We added fried eggs and blueberries/watermelon to our breakfast and kept giggling as we enjoyed our feast.

After cleaning up the kitchen (no small chore, there was flour and dough everywhere), I walked Trouble to the door. Before leaving she turned, threw her arms around me, and hugged me for, I dunno, it felt like forever. "You're the best teacher ever," she said and scampered out the door.

Musings in a Little White Dress

 

My new friend Sally has embraced my practice of wearing loose, cotton dresses "sans culotte" during our early morning desert walks. Temperatures have been blazing in the desert southwest the last few weeks (August is the hottest month on record ever) so short, flimsy sundresses are ideal for walking. Nothing is tight, nothing rubs, and there is no chaffing on our nude skin underneath. And, of course, they are great fun for teasing and touching each other.

Two days a week, I now tutor my 15-year-old neighbor, who I call "Trouble," and two of her friends because their school is now fully online. Originally, her mom was going to home school her officially, but since Trouble's school went virtual, she was saved the hassle of the required homeschooling paperwork.

In any case, our tutoring sessions start early, on my patio while the air temperature is still tolerable when augmented with my water misting system. There is not much reason to change from my little white dresses to tutor the girls, so that is what I have been wearing. On Thursdays, we have "dress-up day" so the girls can, at least once a week, fix their hair, put on pretty clothes, and feel like they are "going to school." I join in by putting my hair up, adding a piece of jewelry or two, and wearing a pretty pair of shoes. And, yes, I put on panties when the girls are here.

Yesterday, Trouble and her friends poked a little fun at me, and had a hearty good giggle, by dressing alike for school. All three girls showed up in pretty white sundresses and cute, strappy sandals. I'd love to share the pictures we took of all us in our white dresses, but, of course, I can't do that. You'll just have to use your imagination.

The girls and I talked about how people are coping with the pandemic, staying at home, schooling at home, and working at home without normal social gatherings, interactions, and just plain having fun, unlimited by distancing and masks.

So their creative writing assignment this week (with proper spelling and grammar always) is to write a dream. They are to describe a dream they wish they could have, or want to have, now, that would seem so real that when they wake up, remembering it, they would feel it actually happened. I asked them to let their imagination soar and not feel limited by the reality of the day, time, or space. It's their dream to dream.

Next Thursday we will share their dreams.

Back to School

 

It's still crazy hot in Arizona, our air is dense and hazy from wildfire smoke from both here and California, our monsoon rains have fizzled out, and students are back in school, albeit, for the most part, online. All of the college classes I teach are online (thank goodness) and I help home-school three teenaged high school girls.

The smoky haze has curtailed my morning walks. It isn't much fun smelling and tasting the air in the open desert spaces I normally associate with sweet fresh air.

But I can't complain. The first weeks of a new semester getting to know my online students is challenging and interesting. Tutoring Trouble, my 15-year-old neighbor and her friends is rewarding and fun. Swimming is delicious when it's 111°, and it provides an opportunity to go nearly naked in public (always a plus). Then there's Zoom for class conferences, for chatting with colleagues, and, yuck, administrative meetings.

Zoom is okay for occasionally connecting with friends and family. If I want privacy with someone special, I use Facetime. Somehow, I don't trust Zoom for private moments that might involve a playful "webcam girl" call or "chatterbate" fun.

Facebook let me out of their "jail" this past weekend. Thanks to my alter ego Ellen Arroway for stepping in for me for a month. I miss her already.

I don't have any stories to tell today. I'll give that some thought tonight and maybe have something to share later in the week.

Short Hair - The Full Nudes

Over on Facebook, I participated in a Maya Monday by posting photos of girls with short hair. I cropped these images for Facebook, but think the full photos need to be seen to be appreciated. Short hair has context, after all, it's part of a certain look.

 

The Scottish Couple

 

The Scottish couple at the golf tournament was not as attractive as Jaime and Claire above, but they were both good looking and athletic. "Fit at Forty," was their motto, although they could have easily passed for much younger. For reference, they were the couple with the "kindest roaming hands" the first night of the tourney and the wife was the woman who bought me the lace blouse to wear with my kilt later in the week.

The last night of the tournament festivities seemed more subdued than earlier nights. Maybe people were exhausted. And some people were already leaving town, so there were fewer in the bars and restaurants. I made a point to move around that evening so I could engage as many people I had met that week as possible. Dragon Lady told us sometimes hostesses were given gifts or tips by guests on the last night. She was right, besides some cash, I was given earrings, a necklace, golf socks, and several polo shirts from other golf courses.

Just after 11 pm, my "employment" was over and I found myself having a "nightcap" with the Scottish couple, Glenn and Sorcha (not their real names, of course). The singer/guitarist finished his last set, so the bar became quiet for the first time all week. Glenn and Sorcha were seated on either side of me.

Sorcha spoke quietly, her Scottish accent not quite a whisper, so no one could overhear, "Sparks, you know we've become very fond of you." Glenn nodded.

"I like you guys too," I said.

"By fond, I mean more than liking dear. We are hoping you feel the same way and might be curious enough to join us in our room this evening.

I gulped. "I don't want to assume too much...."

"A threesome, yes," Sorcha said. "But not what Americans call a "threeway. Glenn would like to watch me make love with you, then I would watch him with you."

My mind went blank. I'd been in more than one threeway but had never been asked so utterly politely. I looked from one to the other. Their expressions were part amusement, part hopeful. I felt them, somehow, I felt they had a genuine desire for me. I thought about it and realized that the very idea of being with them made me wet.

"Okay," I heard my self say. "May I use your shower first?"

I spent most of the night with them doing exactly what Sorcha suggested.

Sorcha and I played on the king bed as Glenn watched. He would sit in an armchair he dragged over to the bed or walked around the bed for the best view of whatever interested him at the time.

When Glenn took me, Sorcha, crawled in bed with us, close. She'd whisper to me now and then, something funny about what Glenn was doing to me. And when Glenn rolled me into the doggie position, Sorcha held my hands and kissed me.

In about three hours it seemed like we had more sex than I had experienced in the previous six months. We did all the things couples do from the simple to the silly to the downright naughty.

At 2 am we ordered cheeseburgers and cold beers from room service. We sat together, mostly naked, munching away as if we had known each other for years and years.

They asked me to stay the night, but I wanted to get back to my bed and sleep for 10 hours. They had to be up early for a flight to Las Vegas. As I dressed, Glenn tried to give me five crisp $100 bills, "A gift, a token," he said.

"Thanks, but no, Glenn," I said. Our threesome was genuine fun, among friends. We all felt the honesty of it. It was never about money. Glenn really was just trying to be nice. 

I did get their phone numbers and email addresses. Three years later I saw them again in Scotland and stayed with them for a couple of days. We laughed and enjoyed the memory of our tryst, but didn't repeat it. We were just friends after all.

Tournament Week II

 

My first two days as a hostess for the golf tournament went about as expected. There were many exciting and engaging opportunities to meet celebrities as well as wealthy, seriously dedicated golf fans. Many knew each other well from attending all the major golf events around the country. Dragon Lady introduced me around as a hostess -- not be confused with escorts or the caddie babes -- which meant, supposedly, "here to be helpful, look pretty, friendly" but essentially, "hands-off." I started to blend in like all the wannabe MAWs (model, actress, whatever) at Hollywood parties.

I've never wanted to blend in. The shy exhibitionist side of me preferred to stand out if only just a little.

Before I reported for work on the third day, I stopped by a seamstress' shop that advertised "one day service" and asked the owner if she could hem my shorts so my bum would peek out just a tad more than slightly. She laughed at me. But, she had me put the shorts on, chalked and pinned them, and told me to come back that afternoon.

The woman was an artist. My tush never looked as good as it did in those shorts. Wearing them between 5 pm and 8 pm at the resort, my "blending in" ended. I got three invitations to dinner that night.

On the fourth day, I took my polo shirts to the seamstress/artist. "Can you crop these?" She did it on the spot, 30 minutes, two shirts. Why crop the polo shirts? Polos with shorts was the official uniform of hostesses. Dragon Lady never said we couldn't crop them.

Fourth day at the resort. My tips exceeded my salary. Dragon Lady says, "Cute, but dial it back. Try golfing attire if you want a change. That is a little too California." I had dinner that night with a group of Scottish couples who were crazy for a current young Scottish golfing sensation, Carly Booth. At 17 she was the youngest woman ever to qualify for the women's European tour. They showed me a picture of her (above). I remembered the words of Dragon Lady, "...golfing attire...."

On the fifth day, I bought a red plaid mini kilt, black tee shirt, and matching OTK socks at Pac Sun in the Tucson Mall. When I got to the to resort at 5 pm, I made a beeline for the bar where the Scots normally hung out. As the afternoon and evening progressed, I was made an honorary Scot, a member of their "links society," and received numerous invitations to visit Bonnie Scotland. When it came time to change into a dress, one of the Scottish women took me to a boutique in the resort. There, she bought me an exquisite, white lace blouse to wear with my kilt for the evening. It is still the finest blouse I own.

Dragon Lady pulled me aside just before 11 pm. "There are tournaments in Phoenix and Las Vegas soon if you want to expand your horizons. I can connect you." I had heard that term before, "expand your horizons" and knew what it meant. "Thanks, but no," I said, "this tournament was more than enough for me."

She stared at me for a moment and with a quizzical look said, "You know, I keep up with the hostesses, who they are with, what they do, how late they stay, and what is being said about them. And I've heard that each one of them, except you, has hooked up with at least one person here."

"Oh wow," I said, blinking innocently, as poker-faced as I could manage.

She burst out laughing, "Okay, okay. Be sure to wear that outfit again tomorrow. It's a hit"

The next day, the final day of the tournament, all of the hostesses wore mini skirts and OTKs.

With tips, I made nearly $4,000 that week (cash), ate at the best restaurants, drank the best in wines and liquor, and met some genuinely terrific people. All for just looking cute, being nice to people, and having fun.

And, although they offered to pay me, I couldn't take money from the lovely Scottish couple I did hook-up with the last night of the tournament. Dragon Lady was right. I hadn't hooked up with anyone when she talked to me. Yet.

Tournament Week

 

In 2008 I came to Tucson to work on a Johnny Depp gangster film and ended up staying longer than I thought into 2009. I didn't have another shoot lined up in La La Land but I did have free use of a friend's house in a cozy old neighborhood not far from the university.

This was the golf tournament season in the Old Pueblo. The resorts on the outside of the city were hosting their winter galas that attracted celebrities and golf's best. I was taken aback when the forty-ish, well-dressed woman sat down with me, uninvited, in my favorite coffee shop. I was accustomed to sharing my table in crowded cafes in Europe, but I was all but the only person in the shop this morning.

"Forgive my boldness, dear," she said, "but I've been looking for you."

"Huh, me?," I said, "do I know you?"

"No, not yet," she replied, "but our golf tournament needs you."

She was a "dragon lady," a recruiter and manager for "hostesses" that were hired to mingle with guests at her resort during a tournament. No, she wasn't hiring escorts or prostitutes, she said with a 1000 watt smile, she needed young, attractive girls to chat up the guests, have drinks, dinner with them, and generally dress the resort up. It paid $350.00 flat, cash, no paperwork, from 5 pm to 11 pm for the next week or so. Of course, any tips or "special considerations" after 11 pm would be mine to keep. The dress code was sportswear (shorts) early and cocktail attire after 8 pm. The "hostesses" would have a room available for changing.

"Interested?" she purred.

How could I turn down two grand in a week for teasing wealthy golf nuts? The exhibitionist in me thrilled at the possibilities -- show off, tease, drink, and eat for tax-free cash? No, it wasn't the same kind of deal I had turned down in the Venice Bars bars in California when I was a budding teen. This was above board, totally legal entertainment work.

In a very western, poker game kind of way, I said, "I'm in. Tell me where."

Around the university were several "clothing exchanges" where rich college girls would sell the designer clothes the were tired of so they could buy newer designer clothes. I grabbed some hip label short shorts, polo shirts, and, even by my standards, two radically short party dresses all for just over $100.00.

I reported for work that afternoon and was told, "have fun, be charming, don't compete for any one person's attention, be sure to be in proper attire after 8 pm, and touch base with "dragon lady" at 11 pm in person or by text to guarantee your cash the next day. I was one of six women all my age, all attractive, four blondes, one brunette, and me, the only redhead. They knew what their guests liked, I guess.

None of the girls had ever done anything like this before. Dragon Lady, I learned later, specifically recruited first-timers for hostesses. Being novices, instead of instantly bonding, we went our separate ways immediately as if to say, let's keep this secret, private, and never speak of it again. That was fine with me.

I was accustomed to Hollywood parties where everyone was devilishly desperate to make an impression, snag a deal, or get laid on a quality casting couch. The golf crowd was laid back, warm, friendly, they fawned easily over celebrities and generally were happy just to be where they were. They had money in their pockets and spread it around, lavishly. They knew about "hostesses" like me. They were mostly respectful and generous if I could "bring them a bourbon & seven" or just have a taco with them at the food truck on the seventh hole.

I tolerated a certain amount of ass pats, hair touching, and backs of hands accidentally brushing my breasts, but it was nothing I wouldn't expect in a club in LA. I was eye-candy, mostly. It worked for me. The real working girls were pros, "personal assistants" or "girlfriends" who were easily spotted. Christ, most were gorgeous. I steered clear of them. Courtesy, you know?

The Platinum Tees -- professional female caddies  -- do not work the tournaments officially. Their advertisement touts:  "... for a mere $200+ per Platinum Tee, your beautifully athletic babe will take care of your ball, clean your clubs, drive your cart, fix divots, tend the pin, and most importantly, keep you happy as you sink a hole in one." Honest, that is their pitch in local Tucson promotions.

Without a doubt, I was not in a league with the professional girlfriends or the Tees, but I did very well as a "girl next door" hostesses. I played the naive innocently flirting with both men and women. In the evenings, the second-hand party dresses were far more effective than I had anticipated. I couldn't wear a bra with them, so my girls were pretty much on high-beam display moving from air-conditioned bars to poolside and back. Barelegged wearing a pair of thin-strappy flat sandals, the dresses fell north of mid-thigh, so I opted to add white cotton bikini panties, the kind with a lacy waist and a tiny pink bow. I reveled in flashing these more often than not.

That first day and night was a tumbleweed journey driven by a wind that took me from laughter on the links with men who seemed to be compelled to explain the nuances of golf to me to slurping cold shrimp and sipping champagne with a couple that had the kindest roaming hands I've ever experienced.

I checked in with Dragon Lady at 11 pm. "I'm hearing delicious things about you," she said, "Are you staying longer?"

You bet I was staying. I was just getting started. "Yes," I said, "thank you for including me."

She touched my face and drew close. "You're a natural, darling. Have fun."

I'll share more about my tournament week in future blog posts.

Have a good weekend everyone.

Pool Time

 

The mornings have been so hot lately, I invited Sally (Jeep Girl) over for a swim in our complex pool after today's arroyo walk. We stopped at my casita to make ice coffees and change into our swimsuits.

I started the coffee while Sally changed in my bedroom. When she joined me in the kitchen and I saw her swimsuit, I think I audibly gasped, my eyes popping. Sally was wearing a bikini that would make a Huntington Beach girl blush. She took over making the coffee while I took my turn changing.

OMG! I thought which swimsuit should I wear? Go tiny like Sally, or demure, with more coverage? Was Sally sending a message or was that her usual swimwear? Why am I panicking? I decided on a string bikini that was, more or less, in the same "exposure" range as Sally's.

At 6:00 am no one is in the pool yet, unless they have "rat patrol" duty -- checking for mice that may have drowned in the pool overnight. Today was my duty day, so we had the pool all to ourselves. The air temperature was already 85° and the pool water was the same. Slipping into the water was like slipping into a cool bath.

We both swam a couple of laps then sat together, side-by-side on a bench in the wall of the pool where we had left our plastic cups of ice coffee.

Sally looked at me curiously and said, "Sparks, I need to ask you a very personal question, okay?"

My alarms always go off when someone asks that. "Sure, ask away," I said confidently, but not feeling it.

"Are you gay?" she asked, innocently, with blinking inquisitive eyes.

I almost dropped my coffee. I think I know now how a deer in car headlights must feel. Vulnerable, a little afraid, confused, and, excited. Staring into the water, considering my unvarnished toes I said, "I'm bisexual, depends on the person."

I looked at her, hoping she wouldn't run. "Good," she said, "I was beginning to wonder if my intuition was off.  Did you know you flirt when I don't think you realize you're doing it?"

Busted. Totally. I know. So I offered, "It's hard to control if I'm attracted to someone. I'm sorry, Sally, you're married so I've tried to pull back. I don't want to screw up our new friendship."

Sally sighed deeply. "Maybe it's the months of staying-at-home, feeling trapped in my own house, wanting to get out, wanting to send my husband back to his office," she looked to the sky and prayed, "please, God, send him back," and laughed.

"Sparks, I'm not looking for love or romance or anything like that, I'm just not good at monogamy."

We managed to navigate the next hour of conversation with intimate moments punctuated with bits of wonderful laughter. Back in my casita, we shared my shower to rinse the pool water from our hair.