Wealth is the number of things one can do without.
Fedor Dostoyevsky
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
A 60 Year Old Woman Get's A Rectal Exam And A Man In The Crowd
E
dgar Allen Poe wrote this tale called a ‘Man In The Crowd’ —if I’m right, it is about a story concerning a gentleman who watches and watches as life unfold outside his window. He spends his days taking in the hustle and bustle of people in this London town, turning his voyeurism into a political and social game using his eyes to settle on their clothing separating them based on their status and disposition. The glint of gold on one, the tatters on another, he watches as if he is omnipresent sailing above them not a part, but over and around them. Later he finds himself intrigued enough by one that he ventures out to follow this person, only to find that this person is no different from any one of the so called lost souls he’s imagined, and he the voyeur turns out himself to also be a man in the crowd.
Saturday night I found myself traveling the vessels of the internet unlocking its sweet and juicy secrets. I was feeling like chatting with a stranger of sorts. You know that feeling you feel like logging on and talking to someone who has no emotional connection with you, generally you talk about which way they grout their tile—ok so maybe you don’t. So here I am first with a decision on how I should attack this need for banter. I realize now with a little over ten years experience online that you have to be careful when you do anything that has direct contact with a human beings in any venue. People can have a very different idea about chatting than you do, you don’t want to find yourself in a room full of hermaphrodites who enjoy discussing the smell of latex paint, unless of course Ralph Lauren Orange does something for you. Plus today I didn’t want to be sitting naked in front of a low angle web cam. I was instead looking for a little more of a lighter appetizer. Once I had the gender down—woman, I would choose my room; no community one or special skills one. I settled on 40 or over women. I choose this decade ahead of me not because I was always attracted to women older than me, but thinking I would find at the most women who have strongly steered philosophical ships; women who have landed in all types macabe smelling potholes and navigated out it smelling like a rose. These women have earned the right deliver—and again at the most, sage advice (ok, this is my Santa Claus that I like to believe, occasionally). I was also of course willing and at the ready to type responses too mundane weather and property value monologues if need be. In the end this was still just an exercise in boredom.
Once in the room a 60 year old woman engaged me from some small European city. English was clearly her third language as she took her time typing and apologized as her sentences seem to come across a little choppy. I had no problem engaging her I saw her as different; a light breeze in the internet alleyway; a warm up act to the witching hour.
But our conversation would soon change like Chicago’s weather in September. Unlike my past appetites--in this case, I was an innocent bystander—honest, I was settling in the lull of silence of our instant messages and then she swung back explaining to me how her husband had two heart attacks and now was being attended by a nurse; she was lonely, ah lonely, here it comes. This is where the road would cross I would try to pull up on the reins; I would pull up the stakes and slowly closed down like down pours were coming. But yet she was still innocent(least in my mind); still rather polite and dissimilar from what my brain was use to as a flag. She never at anytime made any approaches towards me; she never dropped the skirt on her mind and laced me with counterfeit come on’s. She instead engages me with a tale of her 21 year old lover who played soccer in France. 21 years old who had met her in a restaurant as she sat with her friends. They would eye each other and he would later introduced himself. 21 years old. They went to dinner after that then a sexual…uh sexcapade began. She experience everything this young suitor could give, romps at her friends home when he was in town was the highlight of her month. 2 year years earlier she confessed to being just a housewife and now she was volunteering her exit for his circumcised entrance as if it was a tray of Christmas cookies her mother in law offered. She was just elated to deliver this to me; she was almost beside herself at this new found “turning out” was salvationly expressed, as if she was 19 years old and her best friend’s older brother asked her into the basement. Why at 61 must someone has to experience something that maybe a college girl 40 years younger than her chalks up as a good weekend, and why must I be a man in the crowd?
dgar Allen Poe wrote this tale called a ‘Man In The Crowd’ —if I’m right, it is about a story concerning a gentleman who watches and watches as life unfold outside his window. He spends his days taking in the hustle and bustle of people in this London town, turning his voyeurism into a political and social game using his eyes to settle on their clothing separating them based on their status and disposition. The glint of gold on one, the tatters on another, he watches as if he is omnipresent sailing above them not a part, but over and around them. Later he finds himself intrigued enough by one that he ventures out to follow this person, only to find that this person is no different from any one of the so called lost souls he’s imagined, and he the voyeur turns out himself to also be a man in the crowd.
Saturday night I found myself traveling the vessels of the internet unlocking its sweet and juicy secrets. I was feeling like chatting with a stranger of sorts. You know that feeling you feel like logging on and talking to someone who has no emotional connection with you, generally you talk about which way they grout their tile—ok so maybe you don’t. So here I am first with a decision on how I should attack this need for banter. I realize now with a little over ten years experience online that you have to be careful when you do anything that has direct contact with a human beings in any venue. People can have a very different idea about chatting than you do, you don’t want to find yourself in a room full of hermaphrodites who enjoy discussing the smell of latex paint, unless of course Ralph Lauren Orange does something for you. Plus today I didn’t want to be sitting naked in front of a low angle web cam. I was instead looking for a little more of a lighter appetizer. Once I had the gender down—woman, I would choose my room; no community one or special skills one. I settled on 40 or over women. I choose this decade ahead of me not because I was always attracted to women older than me, but thinking I would find at the most women who have strongly steered philosophical ships; women who have landed in all types macabe smelling potholes and navigated out it smelling like a rose. These women have earned the right deliver—and again at the most, sage advice (ok, this is my Santa Claus that I like to believe, occasionally). I was also of course willing and at the ready to type responses too mundane weather and property value monologues if need be. In the end this was still just an exercise in boredom.
Once in the room a 60 year old woman engaged me from some small European city. English was clearly her third language as she took her time typing and apologized as her sentences seem to come across a little choppy. I had no problem engaging her I saw her as different; a light breeze in the internet alleyway; a warm up act to the witching hour.
But our conversation would soon change like Chicago’s weather in September. Unlike my past appetites--in this case, I was an innocent bystander—honest, I was settling in the lull of silence of our instant messages and then she swung back explaining to me how her husband had two heart attacks and now was being attended by a nurse; she was lonely, ah lonely, here it comes. This is where the road would cross I would try to pull up on the reins; I would pull up the stakes and slowly closed down like down pours were coming. But yet she was still innocent(least in my mind); still rather polite and dissimilar from what my brain was use to as a flag. She never at anytime made any approaches towards me; she never dropped the skirt on her mind and laced me with counterfeit come on’s. She instead engages me with a tale of her 21 year old lover who played soccer in France. 21 years old who had met her in a restaurant as she sat with her friends. They would eye each other and he would later introduced himself. 21 years old. They went to dinner after that then a sexual…uh sexcapade began. She experience everything this young suitor could give, romps at her friends home when he was in town was the highlight of her month. 2 year years earlier she confessed to being just a housewife and now she was volunteering her exit for his circumcised entrance as if it was a tray of Christmas cookies her mother in law offered. She was just elated to deliver this to me; she was almost beside herself at this new found “turning out” was salvationly expressed, as if she was 19 years old and her best friend’s older brother asked her into the basement. Why at 61 must someone has to experience something that maybe a college girl 40 years younger than her chalks up as a good weekend, and why must I be a man in the crowd?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
