You know, if those supposedly right-around-the-corner self-driving cars ever show up, won't it eventually mean there's no such thing as a back seat? I mean, at first they'll still have steering controls in case you have to take over driving, or in case you get outside the range of whatever brainiac computer controls city traffic. But eventually, they'll all be totally self-driving, and they might as well have the rows of seats facing each other, right?
Will there soon be whole generations of people who won't understand the concept of losing your virginity in the back seat of a car?
Thursday, February 12, 2015
I'm Number One!
Woohoo! If I'm allowed to pat my back a bit, my most recent Literotica.com serial, Contrast, has landed the all-time highest-rated spot in its category, Interracial Romance.
These things shift and change over time, and who knows how long it will stay there. But at least it seems like I'm doing something right.
These things shift and change over time, and who knows how long it will stay there. But at least it seems like I'm doing something right.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Here's What a Big Softie I Am
On the second night of our recent vacation to Disneyland, my wife and I went in the hotel's concierge lounge, where the TV on the wall was showing "Toy Story 3." I assumed it was just somewhere in the middle of the film, and that I was safe. We got our snacks and sat down, my wife to one side of the table and her purse in the chair opposite the screen, which meant I had to sit with my back to the TV if I wanted to sit next to her. Which made me think I was even safer.
As we nibbled on cheese and crackers and chips and salsa and tiny pastries, I could hear enough of the dialogue to make me turn my head a couple of times, and I realized we'd come in at the very end of the show. I snacked some more and chatted with my wife and tried to play it cool, but I kept looking more and more often, and when I found I'd emptied my plate, I went for seconds and moved my wife's bag instead of returning to my original seat.
My wife laughed at me for not being able to avoid watching, then said a couple of things about it being such a good scene. By the time it got to the part where the toys are holding hands, I was sniffling and rubbing the corner of my eye, and my wife said, "Awww, do you need a tissue, honey?"
But instead of embarrassing me in front of the handful of other adults in the room (no children), the comment brought a spontaneous shared blubbering from everyone present about what a wonderful and sad and perfect scene it was, and we all laughed and (some of us) cried our way through the rest of the movie, turning in the snap of a finger from three or four separately conversing clusters into a single whole, united in a state of silly, weepy joy at our inability to stop watching this cartoon. I was the only man there, and I have to admit I took a certain bizarre pride in being the one whose tears turned the switch that brought us so instantly together.
There's something about allowing yourself to feel, and especially to feel alongside others, that is its own special reward.
Isn't it bizarre how often we hold ourselves back from that?
As we nibbled on cheese and crackers and chips and salsa and tiny pastries, I could hear enough of the dialogue to make me turn my head a couple of times, and I realized we'd come in at the very end of the show. I snacked some more and chatted with my wife and tried to play it cool, but I kept looking more and more often, and when I found I'd emptied my plate, I went for seconds and moved my wife's bag instead of returning to my original seat.
My wife laughed at me for not being able to avoid watching, then said a couple of things about it being such a good scene. By the time it got to the part where the toys are holding hands, I was sniffling and rubbing the corner of my eye, and my wife said, "Awww, do you need a tissue, honey?"
But instead of embarrassing me in front of the handful of other adults in the room (no children), the comment brought a spontaneous shared blubbering from everyone present about what a wonderful and sad and perfect scene it was, and we all laughed and (some of us) cried our way through the rest of the movie, turning in the snap of a finger from three or four separately conversing clusters into a single whole, united in a state of silly, weepy joy at our inability to stop watching this cartoon. I was the only man there, and I have to admit I took a certain bizarre pride in being the one whose tears turned the switch that brought us so instantly together.
There's something about allowing yourself to feel, and especially to feel alongside others, that is its own special reward.
Isn't it bizarre how often we hold ourselves back from that?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)