The photo is a peignoir set. It's part of the following story.
Now that I’ve been doing this for so long, I’m beginning to have to think about what to write. Yesterday, while I was being stood up for lunch (that’s another story), I had the time to write down (with a pen and paper, a novelty) stories I needed to do. I reread all my stuff today and found at least one story I had already written. Good thing I looked. When you start repeating yourself in life, it’s a sign of age or how boring you really are, however, when you do it for a larger audience, you begin to erode that audience.
What I realized was that I had innumerable stories I can not tell. Those that are about me are not things I’d be willing to put out there for the ages, especially ones I do not want my younger kids or my wife (who never read this, they say) to see. However, some of them could cause law suits and involve people looking to hire hit men and it all would focus back on me.
This leads me to stories about others who can not be named but I could sort of disguise their identities and maybe I have a good one or two suitable for publication.
I was at a banquet many years ago (there I go with one about me!) in a big restaurant in Kansas City. The table was very long with tons of people and the company was lovely and everyone was drinking. It was much like a lot of my time in Kansas City.
I was seated with my wife (at the time) across from me and a visiting artist (whose name is lost in time) sitting on my left. All other characters have faded from memory but the ones mentioned. The visiting artist next to me was rubbing her hand on my inside left thigh while I was having conversations with others, including my wife. We were quite crowded together and I couldn’t move, nor did I want to I guess. The only part of me that moved was quite involuntarily.
The story of the parking lot at experience at Forbidden City was already explained in a previous post. If you haven’t read it, it’s a must see. It’s called Forbidden City memories and it was done on May 7.
My friend’s first or second wife was a hair dresser and worked in a shop. She made lots of money at this business, not because she was a great hair dresser, but because she had a secondary business in the basement working on pubic hair for women.
Now this was in the late 60.s and not at all like today. There was no effort to improve nature for most people. She had a studio in the basement of the shop where she did special treatments for those who were interested which included, but was not limited to bleaching, coloring and shaping pubic hair.
I have no other comment here.
I remember having a friend (a girl) and being at her house. This would have been in the 50’s. I was never there by myself, it was always with a small group, as she was going out with a high school friend. The unusual thing about this was her parents.
I know, like all parents, we have some impact on our kids’ friends. I look fondly back on my memories of some of my friends’ parents, and not so fondly on others. However, this girl had a unique family.
Her mother (we were always there at night) would always appear in a peignoir set. In those days, this was a night gown and robe, sort of a sheer thing, usually reserved for sexy fashion shots and late night trysts. It’s what young women wore on their honeymoon night. Her father, as the evening wore on, would calmly remove his pants and prance about in his shorts and an undershirt or t-shirt for a while and they would say they were going off to bed, and they would.
We were always startled!
The depth of my stories not to be told continues to vex me, so I have included some of those I can think I can tell. I am sure there will be more to come.
What I realized was that I had innumerable stories I can not tell. Those that are about me are not things I’d be willing to put out there for the ages, especially ones I do not want my younger kids or my wife (who never read this, they say) to see. However, some of them could cause law suits and involve people looking to hire hit men and it all would focus back on me.
This leads me to stories about others who can not be named but I could sort of disguise their identities and maybe I have a good one or two suitable for publication.
I was at a banquet many years ago (there I go with one about me!) in a big restaurant in Kansas City. The table was very long with tons of people and the company was lovely and everyone was drinking. It was much like a lot of my time in Kansas City.
I was seated with my wife (at the time) across from me and a visiting artist (whose name is lost in time) sitting on my left. All other characters have faded from memory but the ones mentioned. The visiting artist next to me was rubbing her hand on my inside left thigh while I was having conversations with others, including my wife. We were quite crowded together and I couldn’t move, nor did I want to I guess. The only part of me that moved was quite involuntarily.
The story of the parking lot at experience at Forbidden City was already explained in a previous post. If you haven’t read it, it’s a must see. It’s called Forbidden City memories and it was done on May 7.
My friend’s first or second wife was a hair dresser and worked in a shop. She made lots of money at this business, not because she was a great hair dresser, but because she had a secondary business in the basement working on pubic hair for women.
Now this was in the late 60.s and not at all like today. There was no effort to improve nature for most people. She had a studio in the basement of the shop where she did special treatments for those who were interested which included, but was not limited to bleaching, coloring and shaping pubic hair.
I have no other comment here.
I remember having a friend (a girl) and being at her house. This would have been in the 50’s. I was never there by myself, it was always with a small group, as she was going out with a high school friend. The unusual thing about this was her parents.
I know, like all parents, we have some impact on our kids’ friends. I look fondly back on my memories of some of my friends’ parents, and not so fondly on others. However, this girl had a unique family.
Her mother (we were always there at night) would always appear in a peignoir set. In those days, this was a night gown and robe, sort of a sheer thing, usually reserved for sexy fashion shots and late night trysts. It’s what young women wore on their honeymoon night. Her father, as the evening wore on, would calmly remove his pants and prance about in his shorts and an undershirt or t-shirt for a while and they would say they were going off to bed, and they would.
We were always startled!
The depth of my stories not to be told continues to vex me, so I have included some of those I can think I can tell. I am sure there will be more to come.
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