Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: Sex (page 1 of 4)

A Proof of the Existence of God

Many of you ask me about my religion, wondering if I truly adhere to the belief in an all powerful, all-knowing God.

Here’s what I think: None of us can truly know if God exists, but anyone who admires nature, must see that there is a Grand Organizer serving as the CEO of the Universe. Season come and go, babies are born; life is a perfect cycle, the ultimate musical symphony. Even the parts of life that make no rational sense at first do HAVE MEANING, once we devote ourselves to examining the mysteries. All you need to do is OPEN YOUR EYES.

Let’s take the idea behind aging. We get old and die. It is rather dumb idea. If you were going to create a MAN in your image, would you really go out of the way to make him start out as young and strong, and then, as then as he gets older and wiser, have his body and mind fall apart until he is just plain dead, lying in a hospital bed.

Makes no sense, right? This God should be fired, or at sued, like Toyota is being sued with their faulty accelerators on the Prius.

But hold on. Let’s approach it from another angle — a philosophical method — one operating under the assumption that God carefully and methodically plans life out with an organizer on his heavenly iPad.

This morning I took a walk outside. Summer is approaching in Los Angeles. The flowers are blooming. Women are walking around in tight t-shirts and shorts. I found myself attracted to several of these women. Some were young, some were older.

And what type of thoughts were flying through my head? Yes, the existence of God.

Here’s why —

When you are a man in your early twenties, you spend most of your time trying to get into the pants of a woman your age. All other women seem too old, unless you are a Mrs. Robinson type perv.

As you move into your latter twenties, you notice that your female friends are ALSO in their late twenties. It shocks you to realize that they are actually SEXIER now than women in their early twenties. What happened? They have more confidence, more life experience. Of course, you wouldn’t refuse to hop in the sack with a twenty-two year old, but your age range has expanded, creating more opportunities.

I know every man remembers the moment he turned thirty and opened his eyes, and said, “Holy shit, women in their thirties are f**king hot!” Ten years ago, these would seem like old women. Now they are in their prime. These women have lose their shyness, and it is not uncommon to hear a thirty-five year old woman telling a man on a first date, “How about after dinner we go back to my place, watch the last episode of Lost, and I’ll give you a blowjob you will never forget.” No woman in her twenties would ever say that. Of course, as a man, you are still attracted to women in their twenties. But now, in most cases, you are attracted to women in their twenties AND THIRTIES.

You see where this is going. This natural selection continues as the man ages, so by the time a man is in his eighties, he is interested in fucking every woman from 21-89. Without God lower his libido, can you imagine how difficult it would be for a 90 year old man to go outside without tripping over his erection and breaking his hip?

Luckily, God is merciful. Even with the lessening of the libido, there is a point in a man’s life when he is attracted to women his own age, his daughter’s age, his granddaughter’s age, AND HIS great-granddaughter’s age. The pain is just too much for anyone, and God, in his wisdom, allows him to die.

God exists.

How Social Media is Ruining My Plans

For four years, I have been writing jokes about BlogHer, fantasizing about my dream to go to the conference and finally use my blogging popularity for some legitimate purpose — getting some hot action from some starry-eyed female fan.  For twelve months a year, I work hard on my writing, and I deserve to be compensated somehow. Unfortunately, every year something happens that screws up my chance to attend the conference.  Last year, was an infamous case involving a free ticket from JCPenney/Dockers which went sour.

This year, I have a ticket to BlogHer.  I have a new haircut.  I have bought new shoes.  I have flirted with all sorts of attractive women online.  I have made lists of women in my google reader categorized by DEFINITELY WILL DO ME, POSSIBLY WILL DO ME, and DO NOT READ OR COMMENT.  Today, I was goofing around on Twitter, trying to ease some of the excitment building inside of me with only a month left to go, when I came face to face with the enemy. And it was Twitter itself, Facebook — social media in general.

Let me explain.  Pundits and marketers are wild over social media. President Obama was able to rally large groups of supporters by using social media.   A movie on YouTube can get a million hits within days.  When a tragedy hits, online citizens worldwide can come together in support and organization.

But do we really want information spread so quickly ALL THE TIME?  Do we want our lives to go viral, even the bad things?  The very thought of being in the middle of 1000 gossipy female bloggers has given me pause over my plans of “getting it on” with some hot babe in her hotel room.

For years, I have been writing about my amazing sexual prowess, I have written about giving women orgasms by merely looking their way.  In post after post, I give oral sex for three hours straight and entertain woman with a penis that sings, dances, and tells borscht belt Yiddish jokes.

The truth is, I have been with one woman, Sophia, for over a decade, and even that has had its ups and downs in the bedroom.  If opportunity would arise, it might take a few tries before I get back into the groove, much like the Tin Man needs Dorothy to squirt some oil onto his joints before he could tap dance again.

But now I worry more about my reputation than actually getting laid.  If I did get lucky, and I wasn’t very good, how long would it take before this information would spread across the blogosphere?  Can you imagine how this would hurt my street cred?

“Hey, isn’t that Neilochka, the blogger/premature ejaculator?”

Let’s do a little social media experiment here. 

Ms. Sizzle and V-grrrl are long time blogging friends of mine who don’t read each other’s blogs.  As a trial run for BlogHer, I want to see how long it will take for news about my performance in the sack to go from blogger to blogger, from Ms. Sizzle to V-grrrl.

Remember, just to be scientific about this — Ms. Sizzle is attending BlogHer in Chicago.  V-grrrl is not.  Ms. Sizzle lives in Seattle.  V-grrl lives in Virginia.  They do not know each other.

Here is the scenario.  It is July, 2009.  Chicago.  BlogHer.  Ms. Sizzle and I are at a party Saturday night, both of us drinking too much.  I “accidentally” spill some wine on her skirt, and then accompany her to her hotel room to “change” while her roommates are downstairs.  I compliment her beautiful glasses, and before we know it, we are in bed together, throwing the Harry met Sally “friends shouldn’t do this” rule to the wind.

Three seconds later, it is over.

“Oops, sorry it was so quick,” I say, sheepishly.  “It must be the jetlag — you know, being in a different time zone.”

“Sure, sure, I understand,” she says with a warm smile, lying through her teeth, like most women do. “It was great.  You were wonderful!”

“Really?” I say, my ego stoked.  “I knew it!  I really know how to please a woman sexually!  I tell myself that all the time.”

I look down at my penis.

“You hear that buddy?!  We rawk!”

“Excuse me,” she says politely, as she heads for the bathroom.

Once in the bathroom, Ms. Sizzle, quickly takes out her blackberry out from inside her pocketbook and sends a text message to Kris from Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino, who is her roommate in the hotel.  She is partying downstairs.

MsSizzle:  I just slept with Neilochka!

theWino:  Oh my god!  How was it?

MsSizzle:  Awful.  They’re gonna have to change Superman’s motto from “faster than a shooting bullet to Neilochka f**king style!”  It’s taking me longer to write this text message than for him to finish.

theWino:  Holy shit!  Who knew?  I always fancied him a total stud.

MsSizzle:  I know.  Me too!  But he’s still a friend.  So, please don’t tell anyone downstairs or Twitter about this to anyone or put this on Facebook or IM with anyone about it.  OK?

theWino:  Of course not.  I’m a woman.  Women don’t gossip!

OK, now here is the experimental part —

Remember the game, “Telephone?”

Who would theWino immediately tell about Ms. Sizzle and me, and how many degrees of separation would it be before V-grrrl received the information that I sucked in the sack via a DM on Twitter by someone else?

I say, it would take one hour.

The Power of Social Media.  Screwing Up Sex Plans since 2008.

Anxiety Friday #2


The Sexy Email Exchange

Hi, this is Neil’s Talking Penis.  Remember when I used to post ALL the time on “Citizen of the Month?”  You haven’t heard from me in quite a while.   Why?   Well, frankly, there has been nothing to report.  Unlike Neilochka, who likes to hear himself talk, I only speak when I have something to say.

Another reason is that Neilochka has been infringing on my free speech.  He hated all the attention I got back in the good ol’ blogging days, when he was mostly known as “the guy who wrote the Talking Penis blog.”  Now he wants to be more “sophisticated,” like the classy bloggers who get book deals.  He doesn’t realize that the only freakin’ book deal that he’s ever gonna get is a book about ME!

Neurotic Jewish guy from New York — BORING! Seen it, done it, read it — snore!   But — Opinionated hard-on with a knowledge of the Kama Sutra, fine wines, and 80’s music? Now that is a best-seller!

Today, I have returned to the Blogosphere to complain about Neilochka.  He does not deserve to have me.  It is like serving the finest steak to an anorexic vegetarian.  It is like buying shoes for someone with no legs.  It is like writing a comment on Dooce’s blog, expecting one in return.

So, sit back, grab a Diet Coke, and let me tell my tale of how pathetic Neilochka can be:

Last week, Neilochka received an email from a nice, very attractive, intelligent, single girl in her thirties who lived in another part of the country.  She was a blogger who he had only read infrequently.  She knew about his frustrations living away from Sophia.  She also had her own frustrations.  She had recently broken up with her boyfriend.  In a polite manner, she suggested a remedy —

“…how would you like to send “sexy” emails to each other? Believe me, I have never done this before. I hope you are not offended. It would be fine if you said no. I just thought it would both do us some good… and it might be fun.”

Neilochka stared at the monitor for a long, long time.  He had never received an email like this, other than spam trying to sell him Viagra.  Neilochka has emailed and IM-ed with many female bloggers, but usually it about them complaining about their boyfriends and husbands, not wanting virtual sex talk.

Neilochka went to this girl’s blog and read a few posts. She seemed totally normal.

I screamed to Neilochka from inside his pants.

“Do it! Do it! For god’s sake, do it!  It is better than me sitting around her doing nothing but playing Sudoko with myself!”

Neilochka, as expected from a man who never takes action without mulling over it for ever, took forever to take a baby step.  He emailed the girl back.

“Hi, there!  Thanks for the email.  I am very flattered.  And it is very brave of you to be so assertive, especially for a woman.  I think it is really cool…”

And then he blabbed on some more, ass-kissing her and comparing her to what he loved so much about Sophia, exactly the wrong thing to be saying to a horny babe who obviously wants some sex talk.

She emailed back, saying that she loved his blog.  That was very clever on her part, as every guy loves to have his ego stroked.

But Neilochka, still with his head in his ass, emailed back, saying that he’s not sure he is the “right person to be doing this with.”

“I mean even though I’m separated, I’m still technically married, even though I am living apart, but I still…oh, I don’t know…”

After I bit Neilochka on the leg, he quickly changed his mind —

“Why not — let’s give it a shot!”

I did a little happy dance in his pants.

Now from my experience, women like a confident man in the bedroom.  It is like ballroom dancing — there are times where the man should lead.  Every romance novel has a man carrying his woman into the bedroom, sometimes even against her will.

“You brute!”

But then he kisses her, and she changes her mind, as quickly as Joe Lieberman changes political parties.

“Take me now, you hunk of manhood!”

Sadly, Neilochka is not that kind of man.  Ask Sophia.  Wait, forget that. Do NOT ask her.

Neilochka worries too much.  About making everyone happy.  If he was smart he would just worry about satisfying one person — me!

So, instead of Neilochka writing back —

“I am so hot thinking about you, I can’t wait any longer.  I want you.  I am ripping open your blouse – I don’t care how much it cost at Nordstrom — my hands NEED to explore your every curve…”

He wrote back a lame, flaccid message —

“So, what do we do now? Are there some… like… rules?”

You ever hear a Penis sigh like Charlie Brown.  Good Grief.

Neilochka waited for the return email.  She finally wrote back:

“Rules? Well, I am reading over the rulebook now, peering over the top of the book with my librarian glasses.”

Neilochka was impressed.  She used the word “peering” which is a cool word.  And he always had a thing for those sexy librarian types, who pull down their hair.  Neilochka decided he should show the girl that they were relating well —

“We have a lot in common! I wear glasses too!”

WTF?! A minute later, there was an email response.  The mood had changed.

“I just wanted to tell you, so you’re not disappointed later, but I really don’t wear glasses.”

Neilochka appreciated her honesty.

“That’s OK.  You have virtual glasses!  Cheaper that way.  Glasses are so expensive nowadays. Guess how much my glasses cost?”

Her response —


Neilochka’s response — (It was turning into a game show)

“No, almost $600. I have astigmatism so I had to get these superlight lenses from Germany.”

Neilochka and the girl exchanged a few more emails about the eyeglasses.

I was going crazy.

“Forget the optometry talk!  Talk about her tits.  Say you want to stick your face in her p***y!  She wants to get virtually f**ked, not talk about Lenscrafters!”

I tried to remind Neilochka to keep his eye on the prize, and not to let this unique opportunity fall off a loser’s cliff.

And then, IT HAPPENED.

It was 6PM. Neilochka’s mother called from the kitchen.

“Neil? You want dinner?”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, at this point Neilochka sent this hot and horny girl the ultimate sex-killing email — a statement that should be written on his tombstone as a warning to future generations of men —

“My mother is calling me for dinner. Gotta go!”

“OK. Later!”

Three days passed until Neilochka remembered about the emails.  Three days!  Let me just repeat it to you to show you how pathetic this is — Some intelligent, hot babe WANTS to send horny emails back and forth with a man — even initiates it — and praises his lame-ass blog — and she tells him that HE TURNS HER ON — and he actually FORGETS about it for three days?!

You would think after this utter disaster that Neilochka would say “I’m sorry” TO ME?!  But no!

He thinks about the girl.

“Should I apologize to her?” he asks himself.  “It wasn’t that I wasn’t attracted to her.  Well, actually that WAS the problem.  I wasn’t really attracted to some person I hardly know. Maybe if we IM-ed for a couple of months –”

Oh yeah.  Cool Hand Neilochka.  Maybe if they IM-ed for a couple of months, and then exchanged photos, and then spoke on the phone, and then sent Christmas-Hanukkah cards, and then went to the movies a couple of times, and then watched “Dancing with the Stars” at night, laughing at Susan Lucci, and then kissed under the stars during a fireworks display–


Yesterday, Neilochka emailed the girl.  They both laughed about the sexy email exchange.  They both thought it was their fault that it was so short-lived.  He did ask if she was wearing a bra, but that was as far as the sex-talk went.  She wasn’t.

And then, of course, Neil asked the most important question of all:

“If I don’t use your name, can I, uh… blog about this?”

This Time, It’s For the Women

The big question on my mind after yesterday’s post was “What type of pornography do women like?”  After doing extensive research and interviewing several female bloggers on Facebook chat while offering unsuccessfully to show them my new “web-cam,” I now can present the results. 

The methology used was completely scientific, and included questions such as, “What do you fantasize about when you make love to your husband?” and “What visual stimuli gives you the most intense orgasm?”

A Five Minute Long Wild Sex Comedy

— starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.



Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”



Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”


Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”


Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”


to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”


Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.



Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

Therapy 03/04/08

I just came out of therapy. This is how it went with my therapist, Brenda.

Therapist: Hi, Neil.

Neil: Hello, Brenda.

Therapist: How are you doing?

Neil: I want to show you something on the computer. My blog post today. I wrote it last night.

We both sit by her desktop.

Neil: Friday is my birthday.

Therapist: Happy early birthday.

Neil: This is sort of embarrassing, but I asked readers to send in photos of their bras.

Therapist: I’m reading that.

Neil: Now, I’m thinking the whole thing is just crazy. Why would I ask for women’s bras?

Therapist: Why do you think?

Neil: Maybe I’m just feeling horny and lonely now that I’m moving out soon.

Therapist: Then you wouldn’t just ask for bras hanging on towel racks, would you? It probably is deeper than that.

Neil: Well, what else could it be?

Therapist: Maybe the bra represents… women… blah blah… nurturing… we all… blah blah… need love… you are a man… blah blah… sexuality important… need comfort… mother… and breasts… blah blah…

Neil: Hmmm… if I asked you to show me your bra, would you do it?

Therapist: Sure.

Brenda lifts up her blouse to show me her frilly pink bra.

Neil: Thanks, Brenda.

Therapist: Anytime, Neil. But time’s up!


6) Books by Charles Dickens

7) Cool Men’s Belts

Happiness Project, Day 2: Developing a Facebook Application


Sophia’s Dream


Sophia and I had the worst flight back to Los Angeles. Sophia had a cold. The obnoxious couple in front of us had a crying baby. The airplane was cramped. When we arrived in Los Angeles, LAX was backed up because of the RAIN! We waited in the airplane for two and half hours!

This morning, back at Redondo Beach, Sophia is sick in bed, drugged up on cold medicine. She turned to me as she woke up from an unrestful sleep.

Sophia: “I had a weird dream. But it was so vivid. Like it was real.”

Neil: “About what?”

Sophia: “About the laptop. It was broken.”

Neil: “A virus?”

Sophia: “No, it was physically broken. And I really wanted to use the laptop, but every time I would lift up the top, it would just fall down and do nothing. Like it was weak. It was totally frustrating.”

Neil: “Could you turn it on?”

Sophia: “Of course I can turn it on, that’s not the problem. I kept working on it, over and over again, trying to keep it up. It was as if my life was depending on it. I kept on trying to prop it up. But the top would just fall down, useless. Up, down, up, down. And then I got tired of trying to make it go up, because it would just stay up for a second, then flop down again.”

Neil: “That’s a weird dream to have about your laptop.”

Sophia: “Yeah, it was especially weird because I was actually trying to use YOUR laptop.”

Neil: “My laptop?”

Sophia: “Isn’t that weird? Why would I have this dream?”

Neil: “Hmmm… You know, maybe you should take another Contac, go back to sleep, and hopefully you’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

P.S. — Hey, what do you want? I can’t write heartfelt pieces about Kissena Boulevard forever!

Feeling a Little Blue

Sophia, Flushing

I enjoy getting comments which read “Oh, Neil, that was so funny. You made me morning.” I like them so much, I hate bringing up times when I’m feeling a little down. I’ve only been in New York for one day, and while I should be absolutely joyous, I’m feeling sort of blue. I’m not sure if it is the bleak sky, the cold, or just missing therapy this week. Even seeing my Mom and eating the perfect bagels hasn’t broken me out of the rut.

Bagels, Flushing

My screenplay pitch is still on the backburner while the writer’s strike continues. It is hard convincing yourself that you have the “greatest comedy story ever written” for more than a month before you start having doubts. There are a couple of big expense concerns coming up, and thinking about money makes me anxious.

On Monday, at LAX, we had a hour to kill before our flight, so I watched travelers running around, catching fights. It is big world out there, with so many countries and cities I want to see. Will I get to visit everywhere I want? Will I have the time? The money? Today, I found my old stamp collection in my closet. I had organized all of my international stamps into little envelopes titled France, India, Madagascar, etc. I must have been around ten years old. Some of the countries on the list, mostly African ones, don’t even exist anymore! I’m sure I dreamed of traveling to all of these places one day. Now, I’m less sure of myself. Maybe I won’t ever get to Madagascar after all! And that would be sad. Time is moving too fast.

Time also plays games with the mind. Although my mother had done a great job in redecorating the apartment in the last year, the memory of my father is still strong. Everywhere you look, there is a part of him, from his collection of slides he took in the army or massive collection of ties. His essence is here. While it is nice that his presence is felt, it is sad that he is not here in person.

A familiar view from my old room while lying on the bed

I’m glad Sophia came along to New York. She’s always fun (except for the traveling by plane part where she brings too much luggage). Still, we are theoretically moving closer to the date when I will move out of the house. We both think it would be good to take a break and have some alone time. My therapist didn’t even think it was a good idea to travel to New York together, but what fun would it be without her? Sophia is sleeping right now, and I’m feeling all sorts of emotional ups and downs about our future.


The confusion over our relationship has created problems for my sex life and my dreams are becoming more anxiety-ridden by the day. Last night, I combined all my fears about writing, Hollywood, and sex in to one big stew of bizarre dreaming:

In the dream, I had just spoken to this movie producer on the phone. The writer’s guild strike was still going on, so my pitch was postponed again. I needed to quickly make more money, so I looked in the newspaper. I ended up getting a job with a CSI crime unit. I was hired to be a special “closer.” My daily assignment: I would go down on a female suspect, and from her taste, I would learn all these facts about her. “She’s 32, runs two miles a day, and loves Cheerios,” I would say to the police captain as I lifted my head up from between her thighs. “She’s a graduate of Princeton with a B.A. in Religion and she is lying about hitting her husband over the head with that baseball bat.” My authority was never questioned and this Princeton religious studies graduate was thrown in jail for committing murder. Rather than feeling good about myself, I fretted about my “interrogation.” I had the nagging feeling that I tasted her incorrectly and put the wrong woman behind bars.

After this dream, I woke up with a terrible headache. And now there’s two more weeks without therapy! God help us all.

Tomorrow, we’re going to MOCA, and maybe meeting Tamar of Mining Nuggets for coffee (that is if she’s not afraid of me after hearing about my dream). Email me if you live in New York and know of some cool things going on or restaurants that you love.

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