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.

For a Friend

 A very good friend uses one of the photos below for her Facebook banner, cropped, unfortunately, to avoid Zuckerburg's police censors. I searched for all of the images in this photoshoot by Kelly Segre (https://ksegre.com/), but could only find these three. Posting them just for fun, for my friend.

Everything Old Is New Again

 

Returning to Venice Beach after working on a feature film in Vancouver for six months, I had just enough money to keep up my portion of rent in a shared apartment, make my car payment, pay my insurance, and buy groceries. I was making it, sort of, as a wannabe cinematographer in an industry where men mostly worked behind the camera.

In 2009 Hollywood, if you were "breaking in" to the industry and you were lucky, you waited tables. The tips alone were vastly more than a paycheck working in a retail shop or as a receptionist in a production office.

And if you got lucky enough to work in one of the upscale places that required a uniform consisting of a black leather mini skirt, fishnets, a push-up bra, and an unbuttoned white shirt, you could get by financially. I was doing okay, but the economy was just recovering from the great recession (bank bailouts) and everything in southern California was expensive. I wasn't getting any production work either. So, like everyone else I was looking for additional work and income. 

Having been on a sound stage for six months in Vancouver, I was as pasty white as I had ever been. It felt strange to not have any tan lines. In my black and white outfit at the restaurant, I looked like a porcelain doll with a messy, very European looking shock of unruly red hair. At least, that is what the young photographer told me as he tipped me generously and included his business card in the folded cash.

I called him. He and his wife were starting up a web site to feature amateur, first time models. Nudity was required, but there was no sex save some teasing shots with other girls. Only models without representation (an agent) would be hired and pay would be fair, but not at professional rates. We agreed on two full days of six hours each for $350 a day. That turned into three days ($1050, woot!) yielding five sets of "girl next door" photos and one glamour set.

The photographer's wife was a make-up artist with an indie production company. Her work was exceptional. Before the shoot, she talked me into going blonde. I hesitated, but she split the cost of the bleach and dye job with me. She was right. My look changed completely with a relaxed, slightly strawberry blonde color. The hairdresser, one of the gayest and sweetest guys I've ever met, tossed in a free cut and style "because I can't send you away unfinished!" This deal was working out well.

I've never been shy about being naked in front of others, so I thought the shoots were going to be a "cakewalk," not that I've ever seen a cakewalk. I figured I would just strike some poses as I had seen on softcore porn sites.

The couple explained this was exactly what they did not want. They envisioned me in various stages of undress in simple outfits -- skirt/top, shorts/tee, a swimsuit -- acting a little shy. It was supposed to be me my first time, so I should "smile and be coy." It was harder than I thought. But as time went on we kept shooting, talking, and enjoying how to have fun with the setups. The only time I was a tad uncomfortable was shooting the full-frontal shots and low angle shots that captured my pussy in loving detail. Otherwise, we spent a lot of time making up my "story," the phony bio that would accompany my photos.

The last afternoon the final shoot, the "glamour shoot," took place. I brought a black corset and some pretty lingerie and the photographer's wife provided a few gowns and such. She directed the shoot. I must share that I have never felt prettier than I did that afternoon with her directing me, making me feel glamorous, desirable. Those photos are my favorites for those three days. One or two of them I have even shared on Facebook and other places.

At the end of the last day, they paid me -- in cash. There were no contracts, no photo releases, no receipts, no social security numbers, no nothing.  We had been shooting in a model home in one of the Hollywood canyons, so the address of where we shot was only a real estate listing. They promised to send me a flash drive of the photos they would use and the URL of the site when it was online. They lived up to their promise. I liked the final results, but, at the same time, was grateful that because of the new hair color, style, and exquisite make-up, that the photos were of a super cute girl next door who, remarkably, looked a lot like me.

A year later the web site disappeared. The photographer's phone number never worked again. I found his wife at her production company and asked what was up. "Honey, forget that episode." she said, "he's moved on."

Over the years I occasionally searched to see if the photos had resurfaced. Occasionally, one or two turned up on obscure sites. I was never concerned.

But this week, I was messing around the dark web, for educational purposes only, of course, and stumbled upon a Russian search engine that could find every single photo of me. I could search by image or text description based on the "story" we had imagined for me. The engine found the photos time-after-time. As a test, I performed some searches for other things, people, that should have been buried and hidden on the web long ago. The results were scary: accurate, voluminous, with additional references and similar items.

I'm not worried about the photos getting around the net. My hair and make-up then, and, now, my increased age (yes, I have wrinkle or two) give me more than adequate deniability. And if I ever get a new pixie cut, I'll be completely unrecognizable.

What scares me is the incredible power and accuracy of that Russian search engine. It creeps me out enough that I will not be going on the dark web again anytime soon. And, I've already done a complete sweep of my system for issues. I have two firewalls and a rock-solid VPN. I hope that was enough to keep the Russian engine from cataloging my hard drives!

Be safe out there on the web.

I Was Going to Try It!

If you've read any of my blog posts you know sometimes my exhibitionist side gets the better of me. With COVID-19 the opportunities to show off are limited.

I was going to try an adventure Ellen Arroway suggested on Facebook this week.

When Ellen posted the GIF, I thought about where I might try this given that most venues are closed. I'm extremely careful about where I show off. The place is all-important for safety as well as finding an audience that can appreciate a well-planned flash.

So I decided on a little pizza place that is owned by a family and is run exclusively by the sons and one daughter. They have a setup now where only two people are allowed in the restaurant at a time to pick up pizzas. The family works behind the counter and plexiglass together, all wearing masks. They require customers to wear them too. They all know me and greet me by name. I may have worn a skimpy outfit or two there before the virus, teasing the sons a little.

I popped over for a pizza wearing a dress and a cute little red thong that would have made a perfect mask. My plan was to enter, then make a scene about forgetting my mask, then do the panty trick.

As soon as I got in the door I said "Oh no, I forgot my mask," the owner, a barrel-chested teddy bear of a man, shouted to me, "Free ones by the door, Sparks!" I looked and sure enough, there was a box of masks on a small table. Blushing, I put one of the masks on and picked up my pizza. So much for that adventure.

Still feeling the itch to show off, I wore a very old pair of Wicked Weasel shorts to walk with Sally (Jeep Girl) this morning. She noticed the skimpy shorts immediately but didn't say a word about them for the entire walk.

She did, however, tie a knot in her t-shirt exposing her midriff and rolled the waist of her running shorts down two folds when we got to the arroyo.

I couldn't help but think, "Small moves, Ellie, small moves."

But no, not to worry, we're becoming fast friends. I won't be stupid and go further than that with a married woman. It occurred to me, of course, but women can be "cute and powerful" together without being lovers. Right?

Finally Cooling Down

Finally, the temperatures are coming down! It will only be a balmy 100° today.

It was cool enough to walk with Sally (Jeep Girl) today, so we met at 6:00 a.m. She didn't show up in a white dress, nor did I. It's probably wise to wait and see if she brings that up again.

We decided to walk to another area of the mountain park today that affords a nice bit of shade in the early morning. Our walk was mostly a quiet one. It was nice to enjoy even the slightest cool air and the companionship of my new friend with no obligation to force the conversation. She did mention that she still arrives about an hour before our walks for her "alone time," listening to music, surfing, the 'net, or reading. She said her husband is still sleeping when she leaves, so she gets over an hour of quiet just before we meet. But, she also said, she looks forward to our walks and hopes we can keep them up after school starts. I simply agreed.

<dear diary moment>
Forgive this, but I'm having a "dear diary' moment. I was tickled when Sally expressed an interest in a "white dress" moment -- slipping off thin excuses for dresses so we could walk nude together in the arroyo. I'm not sure if this is only an expression of desiring the joy of being naked outside or a hint that she is interested in being naked with me. She's married, and, as far as I know, straight as an arrow. I haven't told her I'm bi and that she makes me shiver. Further, in no way, no how, do I want to jeopardize our friendship.
</dear diary moment>

Yesterday, I splurged and bought a misting system for my patio. It's a series of tiny misting jets on a thin hose that hangs over your patio to provide some cooling on the hottest of days. I have a feeling it will come in handy for the home-schooling class I'll be doing with Trouble and her friends. With the mist and an electric fan, we should be able to survive the outdoor class until the weather cools in late September. I've been working on the class schedule with Trouble's mom. We think we have a plan.

Trouble and her friends seem genuinely excited about home-schooling as they have no interest in the miserable face-to-face plans the public schools have in mind. They miss boys though and that concerns me. Moms are trying to find a way to let the girls have a safe social life and practice social distancing at the same time. I shake my head and can offer no earthly idea of how that might work. How do you keep high school teens from, well, being high school teens? I've written about how easy I was in high school, so I have no experience with abstinence what-so-ever.

I've rambled too long today. Thanks for reading. I do like to get feedback though, so please don't be shy.