Sex, Love, and Lies at Sixty

It's like this. I've been writing, feeling good; my nipples are islands with clear water surrounding, separate from adjacent land; thoughts about a writer/photographer who says I have a sweet soul. "Hey man, you haven't read my words," I write, and he says he has; he's read my work online. "Oh no," I write, "I was just a baby then, hadn't learned the art of deep throat. I can now tickle myself to death with the tip of a cock." Actually I never wrote those words. The man is a librarian, requests commentators on his blog to refrain from writing profanities --- you mean muf, fuck, cunt, vagi burger and side dishes like ass fucking or political shit --- Bush, Cheney, Lenny Kay, Randy Best, and the rest of those hoodlums?

The photographer says my past comes with me, informs my present, and motivates me to pursue my future. Which is fine with me because I want to share sex and life at sixty and beyond, sort of a head's up, although I'm not the one with the cock and I can say I've seen a few, closing my eyes to summon up images of favorites. Skinny cocks have no heart; it's the thicker ones whose hearts beat out uncommon tunes. And balls, well, balls will give your truth away every time: snug walnut balls held tightly up, refusing to leave home, or those wondrous spreading ones, rambling with lives of their own.

Anyhow, one morning (or did I say night?), I was chatting with my daughter Lisa who has been my muse since her birth and probably before. "Lisa, honey," I said. "I have an idea for a new blog."

She turned in her teak chair that is part of an outdoor set I use indoors so I can imagine sitting en famille somewhere in Southern France, while I'm washing dishes upstairs in this ancient downtown Toronto house. "And what about your other one? You shoving that one?"

"I knew you were going to say that" I said. "It's a blog, exercise, like warming up at the gym before hardcore training. You see?"

Lisa wasn't convinced.