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The plan was... delete, once and for all.

I came here (today of all days) to do just that.

But then I started reading and it all came back, so fresh and alive.

The last time I was alive.

Hot damn, it was good. We were so good.
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new year, new you, new me

It's hard to believe PT is almost twelve years old,.

Admittedly, it's been limping along and looking increasingly moribund. I haven't been posting much beyond these little milestones for the past few years. I apologise for that, but the thing is, PT is still here. Partly that's because of you who still read it, who chance upon it and find something interesting or useful here. I do appreciate very deeply the kind words of encouragement from readers of the previous post. You have no idea how important your comments are to me. In a way, PT is still here because you're still there, believing in me when I have given up on myself over and over again.

But apart from that, it feels wrong to me, at this point in my life, to delete PT. It's not just a part of my life---a part that proved to be transformational---it's part of me. It's who I am now, who I find myself to be as I navigate my seventh decade. Yes, I'm that old, and I'm not wanting to disconnect myself from it for fear, frankly, of cutting myself adrift in other much more fundamental and fearsome ways. PT remains a kind of anchor for me: something I did, something that worked rather well and that changed my life. I can point to it and say, This. This is me. I could die happy if this were all I had ever done. So it stays.

In the meantime, I'm  wondering if I might use this vehicle I've created to explore a few new roads. Maybe the time has come to start writing again.
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Hit delete

I can't do it. Not yet. It's still too close, too raw, too real. Unreality hasn't set in yet. Memory still pulses under the skin here, visible and far too vulnerable.

Besides, these pages stlll have some usefulness.

So. Another reprieve from the axe, for now.

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What were the odds?

A million and more, and the numbers still climbing. Who knew?

Here's something: if you'd placed a bet on me ten years ago, you'd be doing a hell of a lot better than the stock market.

For anyone who's wondering: I'm reading Dante and Homer. It's a winter project, close and contemplative reading.

There are gaps to fill before time runs out.

If I come across any hot stuff, I'll let you know.
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Is that the time?

Well, look-a-here. PT is ten years old.

Ten years, and some.

Hard to believe. Over a million hits and counting. That's 100,000 a year on average and more per day than I care to do the math for.

Haven't posted for yonks, yeah, I know, but I do look in here more often than you think.

I wonder who's out there now? Any of the old crowd still around, or have you all drifted off to those social media thangs?

Leave a comment if you like.

If you're sensible and polite, I will answer.

If you sound like you're twelve, I won't. As usual.

DTG ;)
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There is something so open about a hotel bed, the duvet kicked away; it was like a plinth, or a padded stage, and the shapes we made there were more sweet and anguished for seeming abstract, as we fitted together our jigsaw love, one way, or another... When I think of those hotel rooms, I think of them after we left, and only the air knew what we had done. The door closed so simply behind us: the shape of our love in the room like some forgotten music, beautiful and gone.

---- Anne Enright, The Forgotten Waltz
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"It never ceases to puzzle me that, while men's and women's bodies fit jigsaw-tight in an altogether miraculous way, their minds remain wretchedly unaligned.”

---Taff Evans reflecting on his last night home before sailing into history on the Terra Nova.

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M asked for doggie and I complied, bracing myself both literally and figuratively, letting him pound away and pretending to clutch at the sheets in order to egg him on, to speed it up, to make it stop.

It was ordered, mechanical, just so. 

Not like you.

With you, it was organic, it was animal, not to say bestial. You'd brook no resistance. You'd be bulling me all the way up the bed and I'd be clawing at the mattress, striving to remain earthbound, trying to hold on and always failing, and you flinging me off into ecstasy in the dark rain of your sweat.



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The suspender belt

A suspender belt, sheer stockings, say 10 denier, and heels were required wear.

He made no bones about this: show up without it and you go home. The colour he left up to me, so of course I chose black: black for playboy-bunny playful,  black for provocation. Black for hot , fast, and dirty.  

He met me in the hotel lobby and led me by the wrist to the room. After a short but hard spanking for a previous disobedience, he instructed me to make myself presentable. 

The bathroom echoed with my every move as I undressed, unzipped my bag, fished the silky black nothings from their cellophane packaging, and coaxed them on, at one point bumping my head resoundingly on the towel rail. The stilettos, black peep-toes with an ankle strap, clattered on the tiles as I shoved my feet into them. One of the fasteners on the belt had been sewn on backwards, so I had to twist it to make it work. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. 

There’s this thing about suspender belts: you always see them advertised with panties---they have to be, I suppose---but surely the whole point of them is to get fucked in them. The black strips of  suspender and the lacy black tops of the stockings suggest, as bondage gear does, flesh contained, flesh outlined, flesh presented for enjoyment, for use even to the point of dissipation. A thong or panties gets in the way: you have to undo the belt to get them off or else fuck around them. I left them off.  

One last check: I stuck out my tits, sucked in my tummy, and dared to look in the mirror. You must understand that I am no longer either young or slim, and I had feared that I would look, well, silly in raunch. I didn't. I looked like a fucking babe.

As my lover said a little later, The belt frames the cunt so beautifully.

Not to mention the upraised arse.