This is continued from Report 25 from last night (On a thread below).

I’d better not describe the party too graphically because there’s bound to be at least one hobbyist in the large number and if he/she was a TER member the chain of events might somehow reveal “Cadillac Margarita” as an escort.  But one detail to describe the kind of Rock and Rollers, Lost Boys and Nouveau Bohemians in the group would be the Kandinsky on the wall.  It was a lovely recreation, hand painted, but it was in a thick wooden frame of the style that you normally see around Dogs Playing Poker fuzzy tapestries in Fargo.  It was class and kitsch all rolled into one and it worked.  I don’t know how, but it worked.
I didn’t fit in with these folks.  That’s not unusual.  I read “Pride & Prejudice” for fun because I got a kick out of “Northanger Abbey”.  (Who the hell reads “Northanger Abbey” BEFORE “Pride and Prejudice”?  I’m a cretin.)
This could’ve been a difficult night but the music connected us and we sang together for hours.  These were great folks and I felt welcome.

I was asked five times how I knew “Cadillac Margarita” and I was dying to say:
“I met her at a hooker party and we talked of the sea.”
But I didn’t.  Our pre-arranged answer to that question was:
“We met through a mutual friend at a party.”
The first to ask was a sexy stoner woman.  I told her the “mutual friend” line and she almost immediately turned and walked away.
So when the second person asked, I said:
“It was during an intense mud wrestling convention in Vegas.  We really hit it off.”
To the third I said:
“We’re both coaches for the Special Olympics”
To the fourth I said:
“We met at Over Eater’s Anonymous.  She’s not an Over Eater but she likes to hit on fat guys.”
And to the fifth I said:
“We met at Neverland Ranch.”

I was on fire, I tell ya.

I was singing at the party next to a very pretty woman.  She was clever and knew all the words to the same songs I did.  Margarita whispered in my ear that she saw a guy she liked and was going on the prowl for him.  She returned a few minutes later.  It turns out the pretty woman and the guy Margarita had the urge for were a couple.

At 4:30am we went to bed at my place and as I was drifting off I thought of the pretty woman’s lips.  Then I thought of Margarita’s lips.  I like Margarita’s lips.  They’ve got character.  The fact they were suddenly around my cock was also a factor.  She slowly inched her body around with Little Sampson working in and out of her mouth and threw her leg over my face.  Sixty-Nine at the crack of dawn is a nice way to end an evening.  I was rock hard and woke up and needed to tinkle.
Oh.  Was that a dream?  That didn’t happen?  Shit.  It was so life-like!  Margarita’s in the other room and I went to sleep alone thinking of sex and woke up with one of those “urine boners”.  That little dream was the closest I’ve ever come with sex with Cadillac Margarita because we’ve never had a “date”.
“We’re just friends”, as we used to say in High School,  “We met at Neverland Ranch and talked of the sea.”

When we woke up in the afternoon I made what seems to be her favorite breakfast:
Egg Whites, Salad, Grilled Tomatoes and Turkey Kielbasa.  She’s on some ongoing low-carb diet where she won’t eat cheese in her eggs but the fat in the sausage doesn’t seem to matter.  I always counted cheese as a fat, not a carb, but I adore the little contradictions in Margarita’s eating philosophy.  As a cook I am challanged.
But what I love about cooking for Margarita is no matter what I make for her it’s gonna become some sort of hodge podged, sliced and diced, tossed together, one pot meal.  The salad gets cut up and mixed in with the eggs, as does the sausage and potatoes.
“They taste great together!”
For her birthday dinner I made her lamb, tabouli, cous cous, feta, tomatoes and basil and orzo with cheese and her favorite thing:  Cranberry sauce.  Sure enough, it became one big recipe on her plate.  Same thing at Thanksgiving when she met my civilian friends.
I swear I’m gonna find the combination that she wants to eat one side dish at a time.

KK eats pretty normally.  As long as there’s cheese involved she’s a happy camper.
PM eats one thing at a time.  He seems to completely finish his Mac and Cheese before he eats the next item. PM is KK’s slave so he is forced to do the dishes and my midwestern sensibilities want him to sit and relax while he’s in my home and let me take care of everything.  So I try to have all the cooking dishes done before they arrive.  I put on a DVD of a burning fireplace so he can relax afterwards.

DD seems to appreciate being cooked for more than the actual meal.  And she seems to love what I cook for her.  The one time she cooked for me it was biscuits and sausage gravy and it was kick ass.  But we ate too much of it and made ourselves into bloated piles of grease on the bed.

DD’s kids seem to treat her with such respect.  It makes me want to call my own Mother and apologize.  She’s really captured my heart and wants to protect me and I’m all frizzy about her.

You want the point of all this personal information?  Well, I’ll tell you:
It’s something to do with the nature of friendship.  
We all have masks on various levels.  We use them for varying things.  Close friends of many years can thrive on artifice.  
Complete frankness isn’t always welcome.  Especially in America.  Especially sexual frankness.

If you walk too many miles carrying a heavy shield you’re gonna end up as lopsided as Abe Lincoln.

I’m less concerned about the protective façade that an escort puts up, cause we all know there’s some element of that.  I love a GFE fantasy the same as the next hobbyist.  So there’s a difference between playacting and the real life of the woman.  A difference between the late night fantasy and the woman sleeping next to you with such passion.  (And if it’s DD, with such aggression!  I’ve never seen such an aggressive sleeper!)

Half the reason I choose to explore my sexuality in this hobby is because I feel so bashful when I first meet a woman and a social misfit the rest of the time.  And that’s me being completely honest with her.
I stuck to myself most years and so myself is all I got.
But to be trusted, empowered and occasionally needed by someone is quite a unique thing.  At least to me it is.
And in the whole spinning world you are gonna be lucky to come up with one or two people who you can call “blood”.  I’m awfully glad these women have come along.  Awfully glad to cook for them or pick glass out of their feet.  Roll some paint on a wall or be the designated driver.

I guess it’s unconventional because so far I’ve chosen not to have an insane wife or even be a Republican.  It’s just that I find it easier, for some reason, to keep my micro-shield down and embrace these people who have somehow become my friends and lovers.

The heart is a lonely hunter.  And you never know where you’re gonna find blood.

That’s the Report From the Field.
Jockeypants.