The Weekend That Was, Part 2

Thursday, Apr. 8, 2004 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

(The Weekend That Was, Part 1)

Two weeks ago:

We were going away for the weekend, but then we didn't. We had been trying to firm our plans all week, without any definite ideas about what we wanted to do. Just a shared general notion to get out from under the urban brume, onto the highway going north until we found a clear sky, an empty beach and uncluttered hills. The Fiend, engrossed with a new project, would have been just as happy (but not happier) to stay home. He was working on a door that will be the first in a series of four. Can you imagine doors for a post-apocalyptic chapel as designed by a mutated Louise Nevelson? Um, neither can I, but that's the best I can do for a description. Jer, poor boy, came home to work for his spring break, first for me, then for Josie. He said he didn't mind, he needed the money. We took Wednesday off to celebrate our second-year anniversary. Since we have a handful of anniversaries that occur in the spring and fall, we have decided to celebrate them at the equinoxes. The Spring Equinox was on Monday�we decided to get a tattoo, and joined the ACLU, but we were all too busy to really do anything celebratory. Ditto Tuesday. On Wednesday, our celebration developed into an exhausting day-long excursion. First we looked at velvet paintings and furniture, then we had a marathon crawl (Diane Arbus, Jasper Johns, Kamisaka Sekka, Ert�, the Ardabil Carpet) through the LACMA (I can't help it, everytime I see the acronym for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, I think of lactating breasts), refreshed only by raspados, a bag of Jelly Belly Sours, and six bottles of Smart Water.

Our simple dinner�pan-grilled steaks, arugula salad, and for desert, slices of cranberry nutbread slathered with mascarpone cheese�was late and we ate without much conversation, quiet under the weight of our absorption of all we had seen. The Fiend and I, lapsed Catholics both, had given up our television cable service for Lent, so we watched an old tape, a wonderful documentary, "Buster Keaton: A Hard Act to Follow". I once had several of Buster Keaton's silent movies on tape, but I recorded over them with later enthusiasms. I regret that. Jer and I went to bed tired and satiated, the Fiend tried to do some work in the studio, but gave up after a half-hour and came to us while we were still on the daydreaming edge of sleep. It wasn't his fault that he disturbed our tranquil configuration�it's not a simple matter, sleeping three in a bed. Sometimes the geometry falls easily into place with just a bit of wriggling, other times the angles are all wrong and it takes 20-40 minutes of cumbrous maneuvers to attain perfect congruence. And you would think sex would help, wouldn't you? We're men, right? We're supposed to become instantly comatose after orgasm, right?

Right.

After I've given Jer an orgasm, after the afterglow has faded, he starts bouncing all over the bed: "Please, sir, may I have some more, sir?" The Fiend, after his climax, gets outa bed, goes to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and looks for something to eat. If there are strawberries or grapes, he'll eat a handful. Or a plum. Comes back to the bedroom, swigging a bottle of water. This doesn't happen every time, or even half the time, but it has happened often enough that I don't expect a soporific aftermath to our lovemaking.

We didn't make love that night, but in the morning I woke up with a slippery finger up my ass and someone lapping at my balls. Startled, I jerked my leg up and gave the ball-licker a punch in the shoulder with my knee, dislodging the finger. I realized it had to be Jer's finger and Jer's tongue, because the Fiend's nose was less than an inch from mine.

"Is this okay?" he asked. I made an affirmative noise and relaxed. His nose touched mine, his tongue tip touched my lips, and I closed my eyes 'cause I was cross-eyed from trying to bring his face into focus. Jer wriggled his finger back into me bum and I opened my mouth so the Fiend could fill it with his tongue. Eventually we worked ourselves to a place where Jer had his cock where his finger had been, and the Fiend had his cock where his tongue had been. But I'm afraid the Fiend got the short end of that configuration�I just can't multitask when I'm being fucked.

Don't worry. We made it good for him after Jer and I had finished our abutment.

~

Today's featured recipe:

Cranberry Nutbread (It's not really a bread, it's a tea cake.)

1 cup boiling water
1 package dried cranberries (6 to 8 oz., depending on how much you've eaten outa the bag.)
1/4 cup butter
1 1/2 tablespoons grated orange peel
1 cup freshly-squeezed orange juice (Best if you grow your own oranges.)
2 eggs, lightly beaten
2 cups all-purpose flour (I know, boring and not particularly healthy, at least use the unbleached stuff.)
2 cups "Old Fashioned" oatmeal (Good for you, very healthy!)
2/3 cups sugar (Bad for you! oh, well. . ..)
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup chopped walnuts

Pour boiling water over cranberries and butter. Stir until butter has melted; set aside. When mixture has cooled to room temperature, stir in orange peel, juice, and eggs. In a large bowl, stir together flour, oats, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and nuts until thoroughly blended. Add cranberry mixture to dry ingredients and stir just until moistened. Pour batter into two greased and flour-dusted 4" by 8" loaf pans. Bake in preheated 350 oven for about 1 hour or until bread begins to pull away from sides of pan and a wooden pick inserted in center comes out clean. Let cool in pan for 10 minutes; then turn out onto a rack to cool completely.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

last eleven: