Jiminy Crickets! Stopped into Ty's as I had to drop off a check to pay for playing softball this season. Stayed to watch tonight's episode of Will & Grace with a guest appearance by Madonna. M. did a great job, and the writing was really, really good. I laughed out loud several times. Anyway, whilst there, I said hello to a fellow player who works there, and he introduced me to a new member of our team I haven't met yet. The guy was a total knockout. Here's the good news: he's not very good, so I don't have to worry about not having a chance with him when he sees me miss a fly ball coming right at me. I felt that certain energy between us, so he's definitely going on my To Do list.

I'm feeling more and more like Bucks County would be a good move in so many ways. Softball might be tricky, only in that some of our games start at 10 a.m., so we meet at 8:30. (Like this Saturday.) I do not know that I'd be up for setting off for NYC at 7 in the morning as that would require getting up at 6 a.m. There's only one 6 o'clock in my Saturday, and it's not that one. However, I could possibly bring a sleeping bag and spend the night with a team mate.

So I would like to make something happen in the getting laid department sometime soon. I'll see about making some booty calls tomorrow night, see if I can't scare something up for the weekend.

Oh, and I may not have a lot of confidence in my prowess between the sheets, but here's one area where I'm fairly secure: I'm a good kisser. In high school, we used to play spin-the-bottle. (Relax! Of course we recognized the irony!) Anyway, I was once talking to a group of the girls I used to hang out with. One told me, and all agreed, that I was by far the best kisser. I've heard it from several men I've kissed, too. I love kissing. Kissing a man is pretty wonderful. Feeling his stubble, sending my tongue as deep as it will go, sucking on his tongue, tasting his spit... Love that. Perhaps liking it so much is what makes me good at it. I'll take that insight to bed with me the next time I'm sharing my bed.

Had a brief on-line exchange with Roman Cool tonight. He's hot to play. Same here. Alas, both of us are really busy, so timing is an issue. (Although in my case, that could change in the not too distant future.) I'd like to make that happen.

Here's the poem. It's a nice one. I haven't read it in years. I thought it was by Elizabeth Bishop, but it's by Anne Sexton.

The Fury of Cocks
By Anne Sexton
 
There they are
drooping over the breakfast plates,
angel like,
folding in their sad wing,
animal sad,
and only the night before
there they were
playing the banjo.
Once more the day's light comes
with its immense sun,
its mother trucks,
its engines of amputation.
Whereas last night
the cock knew its way home,
as stiff as a hammer,
battering in with all
its awful power.
That theatre.
Today it is tender,
a small bird,
as soft as a baby's hand.
She is the house.
He is the steeple.
When they fuck they are God.
When they break away they are God.
When they snore they are God.
In the morning they butter the toast.
They don't say much.
They are still God.
All the cocks of the world are God,
blooming, blooming, blooming,
into the sweet blood of woman.

---