Sally Blue Jeep

Finally, the blue Jeep Wrangler was back in its usual parking spot in the shade of an old mesquite tree at the desert park where I walk in the morning. My new acquaintance, Sally, was in the driver’s seat her attention focused on her smartphone.  I popped my mask on, walked up to the window, kept a respectable 6 ft. away, and greeted her. She looked up, smiled, and added a mask as well.

“How far do you normally, walk?” she said.

“About two miles in the park, then another mile back to my casita,” said I.

She hopped out her Jeep, locked it, and said as we began to walk, “You’re lucky, you live much closer than me.”

You know the small talk you engage in when you’re meeting a new person and hoping to make a friend? That lasted about 10 minutes. We opened up to each other remarkably fast, I believe, because we both work in higher education (at home right now), love the outdoors, the desert, and drinking wine under dark, starry skies. Sally is married (4 years), no kids, and, like me, has no desire to “push a bowling ball out of her vagina” anytime soon. Someday, maybe, just not right now.

After we had walked our first mile, she blurted, “I know you’re wondering why I was crying Sunday before last.” I was, seriously wondering but not quite ready to ask.  She explained, “Maybe you remember the 21^st was Father’s Day? My dad died last year, the “big C got him” so I was missing him, feeling sad.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, “I forgot what day it was.” And that’s true. I lost my dad a few years ago. During the months after he died, I felt as if I were drowning. Father’s Day doesn’t mean much to me because dad always said it was a Hallmark Card Day, not a real thing. But Sally was still in mourning.

I kept the silence of understanding for quite some time before Sally offered, “I drive to the park almost every morning for ‘Sally’ time. My husband works at home right now too so I get almost no time to myself. Our house is small – we’re tripping over each other.  He thinks I am just getting out to walk, but my hour or two here affords me some personal time to walk, to think, to text and talk privately with my friends.”

 Something in the way she said “… to text and talk privately…” triggered my imagination. I wanted to know more, but I instead of digging deeper, I shared my living situation – single, off for the summer but can’t travel, occasional guests, great neighbors, and cabin fever. She keyed on travel and I was embarrassed to share how much I have traveled. Sometimes people think that is pretentious. Sally didn’t. She was fascinated.

“I’ve seen you walking here,” she offered, “you always wear the cutest outfits. You look fit, confident.”  I was suddenly aware of my two sizes too small gym shorts.

“Thanks,” I said, and complimented her on how fit she seemed too. She was wearing a pair of Patagonia Barely Baggies shorts (I know because I have a pair) and a racerback tank.

We had walked our two miles in less than forty minutes. The time flashed by as it does when a conversation flows and is interesting. We agreed to walk again as Sally jumped back into her Jeep and I started for home. Sally started the Jeep but did not drive off. I think she spent some time on her phone before driving home.

I’m looking forward to getting to know my new walking friend. I hope this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Locked Up, C-Belt & "The Loophole"

What a strange week it's been. It's been full of so many highs and lows my emotional circuits are fried. I've felt assaulted by the daily dose of the presidential nightmare, appalled by the resurgence of the virus, incensed at the ignorant arrogance of people not wearing masks or social distancing and pissed at the gaggle of chicken shit governors (Trump cocksuckers) who insist on keeping their states open and not requiring masks.

Other than that, things are just dandy. I haven't seen Sally of the Blue Jeep again. But then, mornings have been excruciatingly hot this week. She may have been staying indoors, or visiting the park right at dawn, about 4:30 am. I'll check this week.

And our neighborhood "festival" is postponed until next weekend. Folks wanted more time to prepare. Everyone decided on a "Burning Man" theme, so god knows what kind of outfits we'll see. I understand the guys are talking about kilts. Who knew our group of mostly professional men were into skirts (just kidding, I think kilts are cute). I have to find something to burn.

I mentioned on Facebook I was feeling "Locked Up" and shared the poster of a movie of the same name. I've never seen it, and probably never will, but the art made me smile. The girl has my hair.

Did I mention I feel so celibate lately I may as well be wearing a chastity belt? That thought made me laugh because I find them weirdly fascinating. I did a search for images of women wearing them and was mostly disappointed. I did discover that these days they are primarily used in the BDSM community. No surprise there.

Oddly, some of the chastity belt articles addressed "purity rings" that some Christian high school girls wear now to profess their promise to refrain from having vaginal sex. And then I remembered the Garfunkel and Oates song, "The Loophole."

So here is my contribution today: "Locked In," a chastity belt, and "The Loophole" song. I told you cabin fever is getting to me.

Sally

Most mornings I try to walk 3-4 miles on the roads and trails in the mountain parks around my little neighborhood. My favorite little park, where my secret "arroyo" is, has a tiny parking lot, a covered meeting area, restrooms, and water. A few old, large mesquite trees line the parking lot and offer shade to any vehicle parked under them.

For the last few weeks, most mornings, a pretty, dark blue Jeep Wrangler has been parked under one of the mesquites. Usually, in the driver's seat, a cute little brunette is seated, hovering over her iPhone. I walk by on my way to the trailhead and if she happens to look up, I wave. She usually waves back but concentrates on her phone.

Once or twice, the jeep has been empty and I have caught a glimpse of her walking in the park but most always she has her head down, looking at her phone.

She appears to be just a tad younger than me, probably in her late twenties or at most early thirties. She's trim, seems fit in shorts and a tee, and wears her shoulder -length hair in a ponytail.

Yesterday morning, Sunday, I walked by her jeep, and what I saw made me stop. She was hunched over her phone, as usual, rock still. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her window was up, so I tapped on it gently. She jumped, startled, and looked at me through wet eyes. I stepped back a proper six feet as I wasn't wearing a mask and said, "Are you okay?"

She rolled down the window and wiped her face with her forearm. "Sorry," she said, sniffing, "I'm okay ... thank you. I'm fine, really. Thanks." As she wiped more tears away, I could see a small gold band on her left hand.

She didn't look "okay" to me. She was seriously unhappy. But what do you say to a stranger in tears? I managed to say, "Okay, if you're sure." In my head, my mind was screaming that I needed to try to help, say something, do something. She just looked at me, brilliant blue eyes and dark hair, seemingly at a loss for words.

I found myself babbling, "Hey, look, I walk in the park most days and I see you here too, so if you'd like to walk together sometime... ?" my voice trailed off. I saw surprise register on her face, like maybe, WTF?

"Oh, sorry," I fumbled, "I've just seen you in your jeep, you know, as I walk by  and..." I think I added something else equally lame.

"Yeah, I've seen you too." She waved her hand a little, a weak smile -- since shaking hands is no longer an option -- and said, "I'm Sally."

"I'm Sparks."

"Sure, I'd like to walk sometime," she said.

"Great!"

Then came the awkward silence that these kinds of moments bring forth.

"Okay, another time. See you," I said and walked to the trailhead. I didn't turn back to look, but I'm certain her eyes followed me until I was out of sight. Don't ask me how I know, but I do.

The jeep wasn't at the park today. I'm going tomorrow to see if Sally wants to walk together.

Awakening

5:11 am this morning. I woke up in the middle of dream. Anna Kendrick was eating me out, looking up at me with her huge eyes, smiling her perfect little smile. I desperately tried to go back to sleep, to beg her to finish me, but the dream was past and I was laying in bed, my pussy as wet as it has ever been. I finished with my fingers and got up to write this down.

I'm up now. Awake. I'll have a coffee, a long walk, and edit/finish this post when I get back.

Back. I needed that walk.

I may have mentioned Anna Kendrick is one of my celebrity girl crushes. I've been watching her new series "Dummy" on Quibi, which is so funny and strangely sexy, she is on my mind. Wet dreams are something I almost never experience because normally I'm promiscuous enough that I receive enough attention in that regard. With social distancing and staying-at-home it seems the lack of a sexual outlet created the erotic dream this morning. Okay, I'll take it. Hey, subconscious, can you conjure up Elizabeth Banks, Jennifer Lawrence, Blake Lively, Gal Gadot, and Kristen Stewart?

No Burning Man Blues

Before the pandemic, I had a contract with a major tour operator to shoot travel videos for a month in Italy. I also had invitations to Maine and Quebec in July to escape the Arizona heat. And, someone really nice was going to take me to Hawaii for a week. To top things off, this was the year I was finally going to Burning Man. All canceled, zero, zip, nada travel.

I was feeling sorry for myself this morning, disappointed, "woe is me" mode.

Then I remembered George Floyd. The protests, both the violent and the peaceful. And Trump, not coming forward with words of hope or unity or justice, but encouraging "domination," threatening cites and states, encouraging his racist base, fanning the flames of hate. Black Lives Matter has never been more serious. The virus is spiking, but opening the economy is more important than saving lives. The dull and ignorant refuse to wear masks or practice social distancing.

Remember the first line of Howard Beale's rant in the movie "Network?" (1976)

“I don’t have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It’s a depression. Everybody’s out of work or scared of losing their job."

 

And he ends the rant with:

 

"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this anymore!"

That's where I am -- fighting off depression, fighting off the "woe is me blues," fighting for something. We have to change the system that got us to this awful place in history. My weapons are: working for Democrats (#voteblue), and contributing what I can to organizations that support good works for Black Lives Matter, food banks, the homeless, and people out-of-work.

It's a way to cope with it all. I mean, we all have to do something positive right now, don't we? So far I still have my job this fall, so I'm not personally suffering the way so many are. It is incumbent on me to try to help make things better for my neighbor, my town, my state, and my country. Right?

And even though I can't go to Burning Man this year, I can still hike naked in the desert nearby, right?

 

White Dress Old Man Walking

Over on my Facebook page, I posted an image with a haiku describing what happened during a recent desert walk. It's been exceedingly hot lately, even during my early morning walks to an arroyo that affords me some shade, and more importantly, some privacy. Shorts and a tank top are my hiking outfit de rigueur, but often a thin, loose, and breezy white dress is better. A short open dress allows airflow, doesn't cling, and is easy to lift up over my head to get naked (or covered) quickly without taking my boots off.

Yesterday I wore such a dress on my morning trek to the special arroyo in a nearby desert park. Dropping into the arroyo, I carefully scanned the area for other hikers. I neither spied nor heard anyone. The desert was empty and silent except for the calls of a cactus wren and the creaks of a raven. In an instant, the flimsy dress was over my head, in my hand, and I was standing naked in my hiking boots in the cool shade.

The path I knew well. Navigating it was a matter of staying on flat areas, avoiding cacti, and not stumbling over a rock or a rattlesnake. When I walk here, I often find myself in an easy trance, pleasant thoughts flow easily or not at all. The outside world can't break into my head here. The desert draws that poison out me the way it also draws the water from my body. I stopped to drink from a large water bottle I always carry with me.

As I tipped my head back to drink the cool water, I saw something on the rim of the arroyo, right above me. I stepped back, looked up. A man with a walking staff in jeans, a long-sleeved work shirt, bandana over his face, and a cowboy hat was watching me. His skin and eyes were dark. Even with the bandana, I sensed he was Hispanic. I did not panic and did not madly try to put my dress on. I took another sip of water, smiled big, and said, "Buenos Dias, señor!"

The man pulled his bandana down, revealing an ancient face, cracked and deeply scored as desert dwellers' become. He smiled a gentle, but huge, smile and said in a booming, smooth baritone, that sounded like Tennessee, "Good morning to you, ma'am." Well, I thought he was Hispanic.

Now I could feel myself blushing -- all over -- suddenly splendidly aware of my nudity, the old man watching, and the heavenly thrill of it. "I'll just slip this on," I said, holding up my dress.

"Don't do that on my account, darlin'," he said (yes, he really said "darlin'"), "I'll be moving on." He tipped his hat and turned away from the rim. I stood there a moment, enthralled at the moment, thinking about putting my dress back on. Then, the old man was back at the rim.

"A thought, ma'am, he said, "You might consider carrying a phone and a sidearm hiking alone."

I pulled my iPhone from the wad that was my dress to show him. He grinned, saying, "Halfway there. Bye now," again tipping his hat and walking away.

I put my dress on and finished my hike climbing up the trail and out to the main park. The old man was nowhere to be seen. There were no cars in the parking lot.  I walked back over to the rim of the arroyo where he had been and found only footprints -- cowboy boots, not hiking boots. I followed the boot tracks away from the arroyo for about a quarter of a mile. They led out to the open desert and disappeared in the rocky sands.

The theme of "The Twilight Zone" played in my head. Thinking about what the old man said, although I have never felt in any danger hiking in the desert, it occurred to me how sweet a little derringer in a pretty leather holster, strapped to my thigh, would be.

Just a Towel Recycle Monday

On Facebook this morning I posted an edited version of the photo above for Recycle Monday. I moved the towel upwards in Photoshop to cover my nipples because it is sin against American and Facebook prudishness to let them show. #freethenipple

If you follow my blog, you know that on Mondays, I tend to roll the recycle bin to the curb wearing something sexy that exposes me in fun and exciting ways in hopes of having a giggle with friends, neighbors, or occasionally an unsuspecting stranger.

This morning the recycling truck came very early. The driver will do so all summer to beat the desert heat. I always sleep naked, so I when I heard the truck outside, I jumped out of bed thinking I'd just roll the bin to that way. I opened the garage door to head out and realized the truck was only seconds away. So, I thought better of being totally naked today and grabbed a towel.

My timing was perfect. I just got the bin to the curb as the truck pulled up.

I relaxed, took a deep breath and the towel slipped. Oops! I grabbed it lightning-fast, but not before the driver got a full-on look at my boobs. He grinned. I grinned. I covered my boobs with my arms and let the towel hang narrowly so it just covered my girl bits. The driver captured the bin with the truck's mechanical arm, dumped it, and waved as he drove away -- still with a happy smile. I threw the towel over my shoulder and strolled slowly back to my casita enjoying the cool morning air on my exposed skin and hoping a neighbor might be looking out their window.

The Birthday Party

(The girls actually did "social distance." This pic was just too cute not to include in this post)

Trouble and six of her "besties" celebrated her 15th birthday yesterday with a "socially distanced" pizza party on her mom's patio during an unexpected rainstorm that cooled our desert to a perfect temperature for the outdoor event. Trouble's mom, her aunt, and I were included, but we moved to the front porch of the casita to give the young women the privacy they need at that age.

Trouble decided to not invite any boys to the party, which surprised me because she likes boys, a lot, as in a great deal. But she and her friends told me boys probably couldn't keep the social distancing rules because they were, after all, boys, and it's not in their nature to stay away from them. This wisdom on their part cracked me up.

The lack of boys at the party did not keep the girls from wearing their cutest outfits, make-up, and doing their hair. All but one of the girls had not had a hair cut since April, a tribute to their parents. Trouble was radiant in a short, floral sundress and sandals. They were just what one would expect of a gaggle of young teen women, painfully cute, silly, full of giggles, and easy grins. I did hear some whispers of naked selfies though. I'll talk to Trouble about that later.

They were also, at times, serious, discussing Black Lives Matter, the demonstrations, the pandemic, going back to school. In three years these girls will be my students. I wonder how drastically different their lives, their experience, will be before they enter my classroom or crew their first film projects?

As the party ended, I walked back towards my casita as night crept across the desert and the clouds were clearing. The Strawberry Moon was beaming brightly. The neighborhood was strikingly quiet, everyone in their homes, safe, probably enjoying a snack and watching Netflix. I wandered for a while, marveling at the moonlight and reveling in the night air as it drifted through my flimsy coverup. Then, I heard the sound of footsteps, lightly running up behind me. I turned. It was Trouble. She stopped an appropriate six feet away.

"Sparks," she said, "I told my friends no gifts. When they left I opened yours. Oh my god, thank you, thank you!" With that, she said, "Screw it" and gave me a rambunctious and close hug. My knees almost buckled before I broke her embrace and told her how wonderful she was. As I walked her back to her casita we spoke softly of things that matter to her and things that frighten her. She's fifteen. In some cultures, she'd be considered a woman now. I'm glad, that here, in Tucson, she can still enjoy being a high school teenager.

Finally, I came home, poured a glass of wine, and sat on my patio musing on my teen years under the Strawberry Moon.

In the Arroyo

It was already 82° when I headed out the door of my casita for my morning walk at 6:30 am. The temperature was a bit warm, but the already high sun was a blazing ball of heat making it feel much warmer. I knew the neighbors would be out, so I bounded out the gate of my neighborhood into a nearby desert park where I could find some privacy on a myriad of little nature walk loops.

My destination was a little arroyo I knew that would afford me some shade. Happily, I surveyed the area for other people before I dropped off the ledge of the arroyo into its shade. The air felt cool again, out of the sun. Reasonably certain I was alone, I slipped out of my running shorts and sports top.

I feel so good when I am outdoors in the morning air walking naked, simply enjoying my body. Just "being" among the desert plants, the rocky cliffs, in a state of complete aliveness, with all of my skin exposed provides a sense of utter satisfaction. I work hard to keep my body fit and toned for moments like this when I can submit to the joy of being alive, confident in my nakedness. And if someone should spy me, so be it. I'd enjoy the thrill of being seen and keep moving.

The arroyo is not long, in less than half an hour I was at one of the park's ramadas. Surprisingly, no one was around, so I rested, gulped some water, and lingered before putting my shorts and top back on.

At Fifteen

My young friend, Trouble, turns fifteen this week. Her birthday reminds me of a night and an experience I had at her age.

At fifteen my high school life was sweet and easy. Good grades and advanced classes were what enabled my parents to give me a free rein. I knew that my personal freedom was dependent upon how well I did in school. So I did well, very well, spending hours on book reports, presentations, and preparing for California's rigid achievement testing.

Learning came easy to me, so I still had a great deal of time to play. It was good to be precocious and promiscuous Honor Society material. I was a genuine straight A slut at fifteen.

On a spring evening that year the performing arts magnet held a dance. Dances were becoming rare in schools then, so my girlfriends and I were thrilled for the chance to dress up and be as cute as we could in the shortest dresses our parents would tolerate.

The best dance partners were always older boys. Sophomore boys had not figured out yet that dancing can be a sure fire way to a girl's heart. My reputation was known, so a few boys were taking notice of me, asking me to dance. But, there was this one olive-skinned boy, a senior, Italian, who caught my eye. Holy moly he could dance! I didn't wait for him to ask me, I asked him to dance. When he moved, his entire body became fluid -- his butt in perfect motion with shoulders and arms that were graceful and oozed strength. God, I wanted him. He liked me too.

He had a car, so we went "parking" up on Mulholland Drive. We were at "third base," or at least I was, with my dress open, my panties down around one ankle, and his finger inside me. He was hesitant to let me open his trousers, but I finally got his cock out, stroking it happily. As I recall, I was kissing him and saying something like, "... love me, darling..." hoping he would mount me.

Then he stopped and looked at me with the most embarrassed look I have ever seen on a man. He quietly explained to me that he was a virgin, a devout Catholic and that he was so sorry, but he could not have intercourse (yes, he said intercourse, not sex or fuck) with me because he had taken a pledge with his priest. He said he loved kissing and touching me, but that is all he would do, although it would be great if  I jerked him off. He was so sincere, so honest. He got to me because I had not thought, until that moment, that a boy would ever not want to fuck me. And he was so sweet about it too! 

I told him I understood and respected him tremendously. Then I blew him.

Monday's GMST

Mondays are just like any other day now. The university is shut down until fall, so I’m not working, staying-at-home (mostly), catching up on casita chores, writing a little (like this blog), doing neighborhood work, and some political work. It feels like I’m busy but experiencing positive results is elusive without in-person social interaction. I helped clean up some of the damage in Tucson caused by the protesters. That felt good, but social distancing made it somewhat awkward.

Over on Facebook, I have fun posting about my Recycle Monday adventures (for those who don’t know, I roll the recycle bin to the curb in the early morning wearing next-to-nothing). And Maya Monday on Facebook challenges some of us to find photos centered around a theme like “women in uniform.” That can be interesting.

After my recycle run, in a silly swimsuit that is better for sex than swimming, I ate my summer breakfast of yogurt and fruit and thought, okay, it’s time to create a GMST list. One of my professors taught me that everyone should have a “Get My Shit Together” list each day. It can be a definitive list of things-to-do or work to be done, or simply ideas on what one must do to stay on track in life, to hold your heart and head intact.

Sparks’ GMST for Today:

1. Go nude at home today

2. Increase indoor exercise routine to 1.5 hours instead of only 1 hour

3. Just brush hair quickly after a shower (don’t stare at how awful it looks)

4. Do something with nails, paint toes

5. Dip in the pool twice, sun for 15 mins (generate vitamin D)

6. Write letters to Sinema, McSally, Grijalva, NPS, Dept. of Interior

7. Grocery store run (wear a cute dress, go commando)

8. Homedepot for home repair chore

9. Write blog post

10. Work on script project/conference producer

11. Find birthday gift for Trouble

12. Limit time on Facebook

13. Thaw pork chop for dinner

14. Remember Soda’s set at Smash tonight

Exciting stuff, right?

Off for the shopping part of the day. If I see a police officer, firefighter, or EMT while I'm out and I sense they may be in need of a smile, I might give them a peek. That is, if I don't think they'll arrest me!