I’m wearing a sheer red caftan with nothing on underneath in photos featured previously here and on Instagram. There are hints of what lies beneath. But per social media guidelines, the photos are cropped, shot from a discreet angle, or fabric is gathered just so. Now imagine none of that. I’ve always responded best to suggestion rather than graphic depiction, hence my fascination with and love of pre-Code Hollywood, Hitchcock’s films and so on. Don’t spell out the gore for me, and only hint at the romantic encounter. Like they say, the brain is the best sex organ. Some folks, like me, prefer something left to the imagination for their own imaginative conjuring. I respect that, but for those who are perhaps too tired after a long day’s work to be bothered with imagining, there’s the alternative — Series III features me wearing the sheer red caftan but will leave little to the imagination. So what’s it gonna be?
As with previous series, each run is ten patrons or two weeks, whichever comes first. Series I lasted the two weeks, Series II lasted six days. Before I sell to anyone, they must be fully vetted and approved. There’s a link in my profile that explains this. Go to my blog, select French Postcards from the menu, and read. Then email me at the email listed. You can get vetted at any time. I recommend doing so before a series posts, as by the time I can get to confirmation it may be too late.
Oonagh’s off to the vet this morning for her first wellness checkup since we’ve had her — her last being a year ago right before we adopted her. We understand she freaks out when there — sounds like major motor city meltdown shakedown — so I am staying home and trusting the houseboy to get the job done right. To be honest, she and I have a rather symbiotic bond and if she’s feeding off any anxiety I may be feeling, and vice versa, it’s a blessing that I don’t go. We’ve been told that the kindest thing to do is have the vet put her under, otherwise muzzle her with a jar of Skippy peanut butter and hope for the best. We’ll see.
Last day of August and we are counting down the days until we can be back on the beach with Oonagh. The “no dogs on the beach” season used to be Memorial Day to Labor Day but many beaches have extended it from May 15 to September 15, our town included. Bet you can gue$$ why.
Photo: Vintage late 60’s/early 70’s Catalina Swimsuit
We only have one more episode left of “Brokenwood,” Season 7 and unless it gets renewed for another season, that’s it. I’ll miss that offbeat town with its memorable cast of characters — and the soundtrack, sort of folksy-country, and while I am not a fan of country music, I do enjoy the soundtrack to this series, as the country-music loving detective and his crew cruise wide open roads amidst the rolling green fields of New Zealand wine country. The music of one song is stuck in my head lately, but the lyrics set to that music are of my own making — because if I can’t remember the lyrics, I can at least remember the tune. And I rather like my own lyrics. They speak to the daydream always stuck on repeat in my head. So to kick off the week, hope you have your own good daydream to get you through to the weekend.
This is a rolling tune for wandering the dusty back roads of towns urban renewal thankfully overlooked. “I wanna live in a little country town, where the sky is big and the trees are tall, and no-body gets me down.” Haven’t figured out the rest of the story yet but sometimes I like not knowing where it’s going. How about you? Got your own ear worm?
Photo: Harvesting grapes yesterday.
Finally getting a break from the blistering heat and the lousy air quality this weekend, if the forecast is accurate — who knows anymore?
At any rate, the hops and the grapes need picking, and every year the abundance increases. People are impressed with growing these things here, but they’re not difficult really, the vines create beautiful shade, canopy, privacy and ingredients for lovely libations and more. The bounty becomes overwhelming for our little household and while I make what I can with it — tinctures, smoke blends, and grape juice, to name a few, there’s so much more that could be done — beer, wine, jelly, jam, natural dye, pillows, and stuffed grape leaves. Living in a transient community, it’s tough to find makers and takers to share the surplus with. Unless, it’s tomatoes.
Ooh, Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown
Oh, the line forms on the right, babe
Now that Macky’s back in town”
I used to work as a job coach in my early 40’s and in some instances, clients began work before stores opened for business. This was how I learned there was such a thing as mall walking — mostly among the “active older adult” and “retiree” communities. I used to joke with friends, “Shoot me if I ever turn into a mall walker.” Fast forward a handful of years and Snowmageddon hits, and what with Southern New Englanders having no clue how to properly drive in or plow snow, I was stir crazy from lack of exercise, and there I was — doing what else? Mall walking! Granted it was temporary due to weather and miserable walking conditions, and we used to do laps around the rest of the gang, and I despise malls and shopping but it served its purpose, and some of the regulars were really quite sweet, just trying to enjoy some camaraderie and beat the clock that is our aging bodies.
Just a quote from one of my latest reads. The book 300 Arguments, by Sarah Manguso, had several good ones, and while I’ll be returning it to the library, it’s one of those books that I may have to purchase, her musings are that good, as far as I’m concerned. So today I leave you with one:
“Talking with someone who reveals nothing, I hear myself madly filling the emptiness with information about myself.” Can totally relate to that, how about you?
Once I recovered from my initial indignation after I realized my memory lapse regarding Shakespearean sexual slang and repartee, I started thinking about how my error inspired some rather sweet erotic writing. Like all writing there’s good and bad, but Shakespeare’s sauciness really does lend itself rather well to the genre, and I may have to reconsider. I’ve always wanted to have a radio show and with the advent and ease of podcasts, it could be rather fun to offer an erotic story hour subscription, reading contributions sent in by listeners. Just a little Monday morning brainstorming.