Listen, my pathetic band of followers, i'm doing all this gut-wrenching, personally-revealing, and in some ways really quite brilliant and entertaining writing for you, and i get nothing back. I hear nothing. It's a fucking one way street. I break my back writing, you sit on your fat asses reading -- i get no feedback.

As you've probably discovered, or maybe you've been too stupid to discover, the last 26 entries have been short stories that weave the lives of five separate couples into a time in their middle years when they meet, interface, and die. It has, in fact, become a novel, which has been rejected by 20 prestigious New York publishers. My books have sold 4 to 5 million copies around the world, but what do they know? So now I'm finished with OUTLIVING EMILY, which is the title of the novel, and moving on to a series of shorter short stories.

I'll keep writing whether I hear from you cocksuckers or not. But for christ sake, stop being such a free-loader. One does all this work, one would like to know what the people who read it think of it.

Alright, whining's over. My new story.


Sunday afternoon. September 27th. Pozinick has just got home from golf in his usual state of extreme sleepiness. His wife Anna, a pretty slender blond, unusually young-looking for her 58 years, is just about to leave to take the grandkids to the Central Park Zoo.

“I’ll be back at around 6,” she says. “We’re having dinner at the club with the Jeffreys.”

“Kiss,” says Pozinick as she heads for the door. She stops and proffers her still plump, soft lips. Pozinick puts his hand behind her head and pulls her to him firmly. He keeps her there 3, 5, 17 seconds till, yanking her head away, she says, “Stop it, I’m late.”

Pozinick heads into the bedroom for his traditional post golf nap. He fishes in the hamper for his wife’s pink cotton thong, which he first saw her slip into Friday morning, when last she showered, and then wear around the house Saturday as well. Anna has taken to showering every other day, the better to protect her maturing skin from dryness. Pozinick has discovered that two full days of wear leave a pair of panties far more than twice as redolent as one day.

After locking the door and pulling down the blinds, he lies on his back, positioning the thong over his nose. It takes a bit of maneuvering so that the bit of fabric most intensely infused with Anna’s meager emissions – for a woman deep into her fifties it is 95% urine drops, 5% girlie goo -- so that its crotch lies directly above his nostrils. He thinks for a moment what a fine bloodhound he would make, able to pick up the merest suggestion of an odor.

Jerking off with the thong delicately balanced across his face can no longer be the frenzied almost athletic feat it was in earlier years, for the slightest jostle can shift the thong. Even a millimeter or two can mean the complete loss of the precious scent that drew him to Anna and has kept him there going on 31 years and upon which his libido is so pitiably dependent. Thus, Pozinick’s stroke is long and slow and even. He imagines there is a gyroscope in his wrist, brilliantly anticipating and adjusting to any shift in rhythm or speed.

Gone are the days when Pozinick would prolong the pleasure by bringing himself, in mere seconds, to the edge of orgasm, let the feeling subside, begin again. Jerking off these days is an uncertain pursuit, and a good half the time Pozinick gives up short of the goal, turning over and pulling the duvet across his shoulder as he waits for exhaustion to carry him away for an hour or so.

But this afternoon he expects things to be different, for it has been nearly a week since he and Anna last screwed and today Anna’s thong is unusually ripe. Sure enough, it is only two to three minutes before he is ready to come; but when he does, it is a tepid little dribble devoid of almost all feeling, intensity of sensation, as if a dentist had somehow slipped under the covers and given him a shot of novacaine. How disappointing. Pozinick wipes himself with a Kleenex and rolls onto his stomach.

Though he has meticulously lowered the blinds, and closed the drapes over them, the room suddenly seems too light. The delicious sense of sleepiness, which he had expected instantly to sweep over him, does not materialize.

He thinks of the cock-strangling intensity of Anna’s orgasms, which come three, four, sometimes even six times during intercourse, and he feels suddenly, shockingly, impotent in comparison. This is a new feeling, for at 32 Anna was late to experiencing orgasms. And even though these were unusually powerful and plentiful, and Anna gratified at long last that she was now a part of the legion of women who come, this did not unleash in her a corresponding surge of interest in sex. For the longest time afterward, Pozinick remained the initiator of conjugal relations.

But he has come to realize that over the last decade or so there has been a gradual but substantive shift, for Anna now often comes to bed toting her vibrator with her instead of waiting for Pozinick’s urging that she return, mid-screw, to her closet to retrieve it.

Lying there in bed, he pictures a graph in which two ascending axes represent both his and his wife’s number of orgasms. His x axis rises steeply during his thirties and forties, then begins to plateau, while Anna’s y, starting from the absolute bottom of the graph at age 32, rises slowly in comparison to Pozinick’s, and then in her mid-forties, just as Pozinick’s flattens, starts to soar, on track now to overtake his axis in her 71st and his 74th year. If things continue at their present rate and they live, say, into their mid-eighties, Anna will wind up with just about double Poninick's. And what will happen if he were to predecease her and she would go on fucking a few more years? The differential would be staggering.

Not fair. Who would have thought. Wacking off two and sometimes three times a week, a sport toward which Anna had not the slightest inclination, plus all of their many fucks in which Anna did not come at all – Pozinick has always assumed that he’d been accumulating an insurmountable lead. And now today, this very Sunday autumn afternoon, he realizes his lead is in peril.

As he has learned to do during those times when his darkest feelings begin to overwhelm him, Pozinick looks for a way to reframe things. What, really, is so bad about the situation, real or imagined, that’s begun to haunt him? Will it kill him? No. Bankrupt him? Hurt his children? Leave him homeless. No, no, and no.

Will it impact his self-esteem? Possibly. Yes. But, then, there are a thousand slights a day to his self-esteem: The Roland’s Bentley sitting across the street in their grandiose circular white pebbled driveway; his woeful lack of height, dwarfed by the rest of his foursome, all over six feet, the shortest of them at least a half a foot taller than the stout little Pozinick. And on and on.

Okay, next part of the reframing. Is there anything good about Anna’s pulling ahead in the great orgasm race? Aside, of course, from the extraordinary pleasure Pozinick takes in the escalating frequency of her labia majorca tightening around the base of his cock with such intensity there are times he has worried about her dislocating it.

What about, what about, thinks Pozinick, the concept of being over powered by a woman of such sexual appetite and prowess that you are left a washrag, a limp shadow of a man, tossed aside, good for nothing? How many middle-aged Jewish, or even Gentile, men can say that their wives are sexual power houses? How many even are still having sex more than several times a year?

It is taking some getting used to, but Pozinick is beginning to like the idea of a sexually dominant wife -– it’s different, bohemian, one might almost say arty. Pozinick begins to feel a delicious wave of fatigue suffuse his body and passes into sleep to a vision of an 8 foot Anna advancing menacingly toward the bed, her hair in tangles, her pupils burning, her breath coming rapidly, her mammoth vibrator roaring like a 6000 cc Harley.


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At 2:19 AM, Anonymous jlthalken said...

I really liked it! I have been trying and trying to provide input but this blog makes it really hard to respond. What's with the weirdos that are using your blog to sell their e-products like its a smaller cable channel on late-nite tv?
and I love the haikus. Now I'm back to finish the story. You should have an easier way to respond or a link or something?

At 2:21 AM, Anonymous jlthalken at Yahoo said...

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well say, once upon a time

really like this blog

At 4:46 PM, Blogger T-mack said...

Honestly It Just Doesn't Grab me to read past a few sentences. but I love your other work!


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