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2005-01-14 @ 1:05 a.m.
warm weather delirium

I’m sure there are millions of teenage boys out there wishing they would see a naked woman...sometime....anytime (!!) and I get to see one every week at my art class. And its funny how after a while, nudity becomes kind of commonplace, like ho hum, there’s “S” taking off her sweatshirt. Meh. I’ve seen her boobs like 7 times now. Yeah, they’re nice. Her nipples are always erect. Our coloring is really similar. She actually kind of looks like me naked. We have really similar body types. Its true my boobs are several millimeters inches lower than hers (she’s probably only in her early 30’s though), but our boobs are basically about the same size, we have the same posture (not very good), and we have the same pouchy tummy. My legs are slimmer than hers because I walk alot. But she poses like I think I would pose. Very simply.

Not like some models who feel the need to strike what I call “cave woman” poses. Very dramatic stances... like with their arms raised skyward...fists clenched...liked they’re ready to punch a brontosaurus in the nose. I like “S” because she is very sensual without being sexual and very womanly without clenching her fist and acting like an ACLU lawyer. I enjoy drawing her.

Last night though, was also her last night. Damn. My favorite model. She’s getting married. Hrrrummmph! I guess even nude models get married. I had arrived a few minutes late because I had my usual art class dilemma...what do I wear? My tight jeans and the black techno-industrial turtleneck sent over from Central Casting for all people who play “artist” in movie roles or mini-series or my tight jeans and the black sweater which is slit so low that you can see my ever so faint cleavage if I turn a certain way and if all the planets are lined up correctly or my tight jeans and my very tight raspberry colored turtleneck which accentuates my womanly curves and rubs against my nipples in such a pleasing way, that they would be erect, even if I was testifying in front of Supreme Court Judge Sandra Day O’Connor about welfare reform.

My bed was littered with cast off clothes, as well as wrinkled sheets from an earlier roll in the hay. I’m such a mad woman these days. I should just rename my diary, “Sex in the Witty”. I’ve got to find a new vibrator though. These dead vibrators I’ve got lying around in boxes, are just making my job so much more labor intensive. Sheesh!

I did finally decide on the raspberry colored turtleneck. The tight jeans are a given, especially since they are the only pair of pants I own that fit me. And I like how they feel, especially on No-Panty Wednesday. (Incidentally, we also had a No Panty Tuesday during “A”s appointment and I’m thinking of just plain implementing a blanket No-Panty January, since they feel so damn good and it cuts down on my laundry).

When I got to my art class, Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy had laid claim to “MY” usual spot (he hasn’t been there in months, so finder’s keepers, ya know!). He got all territorial on my ass, when I dragged out a table and attempted to set up right on top of next to him. But since it was me, and I looked so damn ravishing in my raspberry colored nipple erectus turtleneck, he kind of grinned like a bashful 8 year old and said he’d share. (men are so easy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Of course then we had to live through, what is commonly known around class, as The Erection of Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy’s Art Table Super Structure. Because, unfortunately, he can’t just unfold the legs and set up the table like everyone else. Oh no. He has to open the art table, raise it up about 2 feet higher than anyone else (since he’s the King of Everything) and then grumble and demand tools from Home Depot during the process, so he can tighten the various nuts and bolts. AND be taller than everyone.

I have a bumpersticker on my art satchel which reads “Drama Queen” and I surreptitiously lifted it towards the model who was watching him do the Extreme Art Table Makeover and nodded my head towards him and she laughed. Fortunately he didn’t see me do that.

During the break, naturally he was hogging all the tortilla chips are the snack table and yacking as usual. He lurves hearing the sound of his own voice. So I thought I would try and weigh in on something. Of course trying to get into a conversation with Charlemagne, is like sticking your toe in a swift running stream. One false move, and you’ll be swept away into a torrent of water and then hopelessly swept downstream, not knowing where the hell you’ll e dumped out. Because when I finally did get a word in edgewise, he was talking about driving through the South, and when I asked him if he has eaten at any Stuckey Restaurants, because I had remembered them as a kid driving up from Florida to New York to visit my aunt. They were everywhere along the way.

Well, the mere mention of Stuckey’s (which he had never heard of), brought about revelations about him traveling with some vegan punk rocker chick and how they had once stopped at some southern dive restaurant run by a guy named Bubba where “C” had ordered a salad and his girlfriend had ordered scrambled eggs not knowing that everything cooked south of New Jersey was cooked in straight LARD (as in animal byparts), so they fled. And from there he went directly into his affection for the Piggly Wiggly food chain. He was especially tickled when he walked down one aisle marked with a sign that said “Foreign Foods” and found French fries. And then from Piggly Wiggly’s he went directly into a story about visiting a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in Paris, where there had been an epic poem painted up on the wall of the restaurant, mural style, about how lovely chicken is.

I tried to tell him I had once seen the real Colonial Sanders in the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco back in the 1970’s, but he didn’t seem to believe me. He then had to tell me that Colonial Sanders had started from nothing and shopped around his “secret recipe” to many people before he became a success.

I mean, how can I possibly compete with someone who knows so fucking much?

But I do have fun kibbutzing with him. We were both bragging about the fact that we had the best seats in the class and could easily influence which way the model faced and that it really sucked not to be us. Later when the model was talking to him and telling him that her fiance was a correctional officer, I told Charlemagne he probably knew (cough) him. He was totally aghast at any possible connection with criminal activity and said, “everyone is so mean to me.” The model laughed again. I guess I’m able to be so flirtatious with Charlemagne because I don’t take him seriously. And I also like pricking the male ego. It’s so massive its like shooting fish in a barrel.

This morning was my group with the ever fascinating “A”. A couple of us had arrived early, so we were standing around in the stairwell. I was trying to be as lively as humanly possible for someone awake before 9 a.m. I was doing fairly well for someone with only about 5 hours sleep, but I was mainly happy because old Mother Nature had seen her way clear, to giving us folks up near Canada a little reprieve from frost-bite-a-mongus. Our temperatures, which are usually only about 20 degrees this time of year, were headed to 60 degrees today. Plus we were scheduled for about 16.5 minutes of that great bright orb thing in the sky (i.e., the in something we literally haven’t seen in about three and a half weeks).

I’ve been also been trying to make a connection with the Mysterious Paul since the group started. He’s really the only male-type person I have ever met in any of “A”s groups who have ever interested me. “A” has already given me implicit directions....”No Mysterious Paul. He’s too young for you. Warning, warning.” (or something to that effect). Of course whenever anyone tells me no, that immediately means yes. I like his sense of humor. Its very dry and sarcastic. I like that. But I did get a reminder of the age thing today. He really doesn’t look that much younger than me because he has gray hair. I, of course, give thanks to that ever resourceful Clairol Corporation, for their contribution to my youthful look. So I had brought up the subject of movies, since he seems to have an interest in films, and I am a cinematic afficionado of the first degree. I asked him if he had seen “Spanglish” which I had finally just seen and really liked. He said no. And then we somehow segued into horror films. Not sure how, but I told him that my favorite horror film of all time, bar none, was “The Shining”. The first time I ever saw it was at a bargain matinee in California and I was the only person in the theatre and it was really scary watching the all time scariest film ever alone. And then came my first ego-crushing statement of 2005. He said, “Yeah, I saw “The Shining” when I was a kid. I used to think the twin girls were in my closet.

Like ouch. When you were a kid? Am I THAT much older than you? Shit, I had driven myself to that matinee in my car, when I saw it, and you were just a kid? Damn. I must be really old. Hey Paul, how would you feel about a Mrs. Robinson scenario?

“A” was his usual lively self today. It’s always, always hard to get our group started in the morning, because 1) We’re all still asleep 2) Who wants to be the center of attention and talk about their deepest, darkest secrets in front of virtual strangers 3). We still don’t really know each other very well. 4). Who wants to admit their shortcomings in front of, the aforementioned strangers?

I really enjoy being in groups and enjoy group dynamics, but I still haven’t really gotten comfortable in front of this particular group of people. Every person seems to be an island unto themselves and not really into the concept of supporting each other in any real concrete way, like say my Thursday afternoon group, which I have been with for 3 1/2 years. There are no emotional connections yet and I’m not really sure what “A” can do to change that.

I do enjoy listening to “A” though, once he gets started. In a way, he’s kind of like Charlemagne, in the respect, that he flits from subject to subject, like he’ll say something really deep about spirituality and then something offbeat, like quoting cartoon characters from “South Park” and then he’ll be eating cereal and then he’ll abrupytly tell somebody in the group they have to love themselves. Fortunately, because I’m creative and rather random myself, I can actually follow him. One girl was putting herself down today, saying she was a failure and I said something to the effect that everyone makes mistakes and that people with flaws are more interesting. And then “A” turns to me and said, “And that’s why you like me, right witty? The flaws? “

Me: Ehhh, ummm. Yes?

Absolutely. You are pretty flawed (read: unconventional), but that’s what makes you so compelling and interesting. I think you are pretty complicated emotionally too, but hey, aren’t we all. Who wants a Stepford Husband anyways?

He also was talking about attending his daughter’s concert and watching the pianist (who he thought was obviously gay), since the guy was melodramatically flipping through his music and then “A” turns to me and said, “He was really your type, witty!”

hey, hey, hey there. I’m not doing gay men anymore. I graduated onto married men. Dont’cha remember?

After group, I went out for a glorious 2 mile walk around the local village where I used to live. Its so much nicer than the neighborhood I live in now with its quaint New England style homes. And by time we got out of group, it was probably close to 60 degrees. What a treat! You just can’t imagine after almost two months of grays skies and cold temperatures to suddenly have a warm, windy, almost sunny morning stretching out before you. I walked around my old haunts, up and down hills and then around the duck pond. I saw a hawk making lazy circles up in the sky. After being stuck in the house so long, it was just nice to go outside and hear birds making noises and hearing the wind blowing through the trees.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty