Even Emma, who normally enjoys our sojourn in Garden City, had to admit that twenty days was a tad too long to be away from home. And although she dotes on Eva’s Tibetan terrier like the grandchild we will never have, she is determined it will not share our bed or interfere with our sex life next time - and there’s sure to be a next time. As well as walking the dog, and walking the dog, and walking the dog, Emma searched out every item in Eva’s house which could be washed and/or ironed. And the Dyson has never worked so hard. Boring or what? It might have been better it the weather had been kinder to us, but while daughter Eva and her husband baked in the Dordogne sunshine, Emma and I languished under threatening grey clouds. Only once did the sun shine brightly enough between the showers for Emma to give us all a quick flash with the garden as a backdrop.

I confessed yesterday that I’m a fan of RedTube. I didn’t claim to watch the vidoes “purely for medicinal purposes” - a claim the Queen Mother would have made for drinking gin - but it does help to keep the virile member virile, and Emma satisfied as a result. Which begs the question, Emma insists, why all men are so easily turned on by these visual images. My theory is that being turned on by watching others once conferred a distinct evolutionary advantage. If the adult male came across others engaged in sexual activity, he had better be up for it immediately, otherwise he might lose out on an opportunity to pass on his genes. The female, on the other hand, needed only to be receptive when she was ovulating. So men are hard-wired to be stimulated by the sight of others having sex. Women, not so. Although they can obviously be turned on, they appear to have the choice. (Emma tends to laugh nervously by the way.)

I was in the pharmacist yesterday when a casual acquaintance of ours was paying for a prescription. From the amount of money he handed over, I knew he was collecting his graVia. I didn’t want to cause him any embarrassment, but I could have told him he was paying thirty percent more than he needed to. Even at internet prices, it’s daylight robbery, and an expense I’m glad to avoid. Although I have a supply of the little blue tablets, I seldom think to take them. I do take a Ginkgo Biloba complex twice a day, but I can’t really judge how effective this is. Herbal remedies are not supposed to produce immediate results. From my experience, however, I know that to be sure of “rising to the occasion” it helps to have had at least one erection during the day. Once upon a time, this was no problem - they came more often than was always convenient. Nowadays, I get high with a little help from my friends. A video downloaded from RedTube is sure to do the trick.

(I’m playing for time here.) Before I download and publish the photographs I took of Emma during our exile, I thought I would post another picture of Emma as she was - more years ago than we care to remember. I can’t say exactly when I took the original, but Emma “guestimates” that she would have been twenty-three or -four at the time. If so, it is a period I remember very well. For a couple of years daughter Eva was cared for by my parents during the week, while Emma and I were saving hard for the deposit on our first house. We would rise early, take a shower and fuck before going off to work. Returning from work in the evening, we would fuck, before preparing an inexpensive meal. No wine. Then we would spend the evening petting in front of the television, before retiring early to … Well, it was cheaper than going out. Besides which, Emma was irresistible.

We are back from the flatlands of Garden City to our cottage home in the hills. And so glad to be back. Now, when we leave the house, we see trees and mountains, rather than a boring suburban landscape of asphalt, manicured lawns, gravel paths, and neatly trimmed hedges. It hasn’t been all bad, I try to convince myself. After all, I was with Emma almost all of the time. We visited several places of interest, enjoyed some meals out. And Emma bought some new stuff to wear. However, we had no more sex than we usually do when staying at Eva’s place, and Emma only got her kit off for the camera a couple of times. I won't describe what else we got up to during our incarceration - why should you be as bored as I have been for the last twenty days?

[Monday, 25th August, 1958] Went to Clarke’s Gardens yesterday to meet Kathy. We started kissing straight away and this time I got my hand on her tit. She said we should find somewhere more private - and had no trouble finding a place behind the hall. We were there till six o’clock, and I had my hand inside her blouse most of the time. She let me unclip her bra, and her tits were bigger than they looked. I couldn’t help thinking of Emma, and how much I really preferred her small tits to Kathy’s. When it was time to go, I asked her if she would be there next Sunday, but she is going on holiday with her mother and sister (her father left when Kathy was four). Ken C. called today and we went to the Allerton for a drink. He said everyone knows Kathy Grimes as Grimy Kate - everyone except me, obviously! I said I didn’t really fancy her anyway, so that was that. Had too much to drink and was sick.

This bra was a gift to myself last month, just to cheer me up. It’s more sheer than it looks - great to feel. Left to her own devices, Emma goes for comfort every time when choosing underwear. Consequently, I never buy her lingerie as birthday or Christmas presents - I don’t have Emma’s gift for choosing the mediocre. However, when we are out shopping, I often offer to buy her something that catches my eye. When she protests at its impracticality, I have to insist that she’s buying it for me, not for herself. I’ve never understood this reluctance. There are few items that cannot be made more desirable by being nicely packaged. And Emma herself always insists that we buy the prettiest wrapping-paper when giving presents, even to ourselves. Given that there are few things I appreciate more than her tits, why can’t I have them gift-wrapped every time? Everyone likes opening parcels.

For the record, they don’t have to be exposed to turn me on. They don’t even have to be immediately accessible. The swell of Emma’s tits in a tight sweater has always caused me, and can still cause me, exquisite discomfort. And boy, does she know it! She has a preference for what I believe are called “skinny-rib” jumpers. They provide the tightest fit and the greatest emphasis to her hidden assets. And the strangest thing is, when they’re packaged like this, I’m quite content simply to look at, admire, and lust after them. I guess it goes back to our courting days, when Emma Jane had a tight-fitting woollen dress which she often wore at family gatherings. It always gave me a throbbing erection, and devising strategies to hide my condition became my primary concern at tea-parties. I didn’t mention it at the time, but Emma has since confessed that she knew what she was doing, and took an evil delight in my discomfort.

Even as a flat-chested teenager Emma Jane claimed I was mainly in love with her tits, and took the rest of her as part of the package, or as an optional extra. Despite my protestations that small was beautiful, she remained self-conscious about her bust measurement. Her unplanned pregnancy at nineteen changed that for ever. When she was breastfeeding, her boobs became perfect hemispheres, full and firm. Unusually (so I’m told) and to Emma’s delight, they retained much of this new shape and size when she finished breastfeeding and her tits became all mine again. As a founder member of the Bluecoat School Tit-watching Society, I expressed my appreciation - but did so cautiously. Small was still beautiful, I assured her, and always would be. But I was sure I could get used to her bigger boobs, given time.

When Emma Jane started to unfasten her blouse herself as soon as we were alone, I knew that she enjoyed having her tits felt as much as I enjoyed feeing them. For some reason, that came as a complete and very pleasant surprise to me. I had always assumed that resistance was hard-wired into a virgin’s psyche. Another surprise was that Emma was unhappy with her breasts. How could she be? To me, they were the most beautiful things I could imagine. But no matter how often I told her this, insisting that anything more than a handful would be wasted, she would often look down at them wistfully and say, “I wish they were bigger for you.” And I would say the equivalent of, “Watch my lips. I love them just the way they are.” Only once do I remember getting annoyed, and saying that I would take her to the nearest garage and pump some air into them, if I could get the dust-caps off!

Tit-watching was a hobby I shared only with my fellow students in the junior common-room. It wasn’t an interest I felt able to share with my closest friends out of school (half of whom had tits of their own). We were all devout chapel-goers and boy- or girl-scouts - “pure in thought, word and deed”. Well, that was the theory of it. My hobby did not become an obsession until I finally got my hands on Emma’s budding breasts. One beautiful afternoon, we were lying in the park, kissing. One of her arms was trapped under me. With my arm round her, I took hold of her other wrist, and then placed my hand tentatively on her chest. There following an exchange which I carefully recorded in my diary:
- Please don’t.
- Why?
- It goes right through me.
- It’s supposed to.
- Okay. But let go of my hand.
And the rest is history.

For want of something better to write about, I’ve decided unilaterally to declare this Tit Week - at least as far as this Blog is concerned. Being male (by all accounts) I’ve always had more than a passing interest in tits. As an eight-year-old, I reportedly told my uncle Peter that I liked my teacher because she had “nice lungs”. Throughout my teens (and beyond) I enjoyed the view from the top deck of the bus as women, young and not so young, climbed aboard in their loose-fitting summer dresses. My school-friends - it was a boys’ school - shared my interest. It was better by far than train-spotting. On the bus to and from school, we squabbled to sit at the window above the doors. On the street, you might risk a sly glance at a young mother as she leaned over the pram. Oh, lucky baby to get to suck those breasts.

[Sunday, 17th August, 1958] Ken C. called yesterday and we went to Clarke’s Gardens ostensibly to watch the chapel youth club playing cricket. However, there were four girls playing rounders (sort of) and we went to watch them instead. Much more fun. One of them - the busty one - came over and asked sarcastically, “Do you want a photograph?” I said I wouldn’t mind, but I’d forgotten to bring my camera. She said she would be there at the same time tomorrow (i.e. Sunday). I went this afternoon on my own - Ken had gone to his sister‘s for the day - and she did come. We sat on the grass and were soon snogging, but when I tried to feel her up she pushed my hand away and said she wasn’t a slag. I was already stiff by then and had to lie on my stomach until I came without her knowing (hopefully). We stayed till it got dark, just necking, and she said she would be there next Sunday. Her name is Kathy Grimes.

I wanted it not knowing what it was
I really wanted like an urge to visit
a promised land I’d vaguely dreamed of
and only after so long dreaming
I wanted you to take me there
- take me now ! and take me there
across the Jordon of my fear
I didn’t feel the feared hurt just felt
a wave of pleasure that became
too much by far too much to take
and in the end sweet happy ending I was glad
to drown with you in the dark

like meeting someone you only think
you know from speaking to him
on the phone or like a pen-pal
contacted by letter and suddenly
there he stands as large as life
exceeding expectations is precisely
how it felt on first meeting and feeling
so solid in my hand I knew now why
I felt it press against me when we kissed
goodnight or when we lay
together on the grass all innocence
thy rod and thy staff to comfort me

I can’t explain how scared I was
how like a child for being scared
not of the shadows or the dark
though dusk was creeping in
it’ll be okay you said okay?
and once your hand was on my knee
and moving up my leg under my skirt
I wanted you to touch me
touch me where my pants were wet
(god how my pants were always wet)
and when it came - the touch I mean
it was more than just okay

when just mine they were just there
like knees and elbows only softer
something else to fret about
when getting changed for Games
comparing like with like or mostly not,
pretending yes I knew the thrill
of being felt (felt stiff they said)
not knowing what they meant
until you touched me there
to make my molehills yours
and mould them into something more
than mere appendages

my shoes squeaked as we walked
I hoped you wouldn’t notice then
to break our silence you reproached
it’s time your shoes were paid for
and by the way that’s not
my usual chat-up line
I could have died and hated you
until we reached the park and sat
down on the sun-parched grass
to talk of what I can’t remember
except more gentle than a butterfly
you kissed my lips

In case you were wondering, there was a point to yesterday’s posting (about teaching reluctant adolescents to write poetry). I had been talking to my next-door neighbour about my work with downtown teenagers, who are in the news again for all the wrong reasons. He was particularly interested in the poetry-teaching, because he was yet another of the countless millions who have been turned off poetry and literature in general by a succession of English teachers preaching that Shakespeare is Fun. (He can be, in small doses. Of Milton, the least said, soonest mended!) Emma, too had been listening in and commenting on her own experiences at school. Later, not entirely as a joke, I asked her to have a go, jotting down some thoughts on subjects I would suggest - obviously with the Blog in mind. I will post her efforts for the next day or so. It will be the first written contributions Emma has made to the Blog.

This is me as a (rather drunk) trendy young teacher. I used to love teaching poetry to downtown teenage kids who had been convinced (mainly by teachers) that they didn’t like poetry. I’ve yet to meet a poetry-hating adolescent who did not respond to poems like D.H. Lawrence’s The Snake if some of the vocabulary had been explained beforehand. An even greater delight was convincing so-called less-able kids that they could write poetry themselves. Anyone could, I told them. It was just a matter of choosing a subject, and writing down their thoughts as they came, without worrying about grammar, syntax or spelling. At least they appreciated that freedom from the constraints of their “normal” written work. Then, perhaps with a little help, they could ruthlessly weed out superfluities, and impose a little structure - by choosing line-breaks, changing the order of sentence, etc. They walked all the taller for seeing their work in print - even if it was only in the school Magazine.

There was a time when it was almost impossible to take an unacceptable photograph of Emma - which is why I have more of them than I could ever hope to publish on the Blog. Sadly, as I have mentioned before, negatives tend to deteriorate if not thoroughly washed after processing. I never had the patience to achieve archive standard and, as a result, most of my photographs lack the detail I would like. Those which can loosely be described as glamour haven’t suffered too much and still produce reasonable pictures. After all, soft-focus is never a problem with glamour photographs. But the same is not true of the soft-porn shots, where high definition is the thing. Once, you could distinguish every individual pubic hair, every intimate fold, every bead of Emma’s love-juice. Now it’s just a blur, and imagination has to fill in the details.

Tomorrow we are off to Garden City to cater to the whims of a Tibetan Terrier and a mongrel cat. I am determined to make the best of it. After all Emma will be constantly at my side (except when she is walking the dog). I will have my laptop and wireless broadband access to my favourite Blogs. I will have a memory-stick loaded with a fortnight’s postings to keep our own Blog ticking over. What more could a man want - apart from his own bed, a decent television, access to his books, a bath-tub that doesn’t take twenty minutes to fill, a pub within easy walking distance, and the freedom to fuck his wife without the fear of a mad dog jumping onto the bed. It really ought to have been better trained. Dogs do not belong in the bedroom! We haven’t yet worked out the logistics of photographing Emma (or Emma and me even) but I’m determined to work something out.

I know some people, including a certain person who visits this Blog from time to time, are not into feet. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I am a fetishist in that regard either. But Emma does like to have her feet touched, and I am always pleased to oblige. Touching and being touched has always been important in our relationship. When you are in love with someone, their lightest touch is enough to set the heart racing. You know the sort of thing - that old cinema cliché of hands touching across a table for two in a crowded restaurant. When Emma Jane and I were courting, walking hand in hand in the park, her virginal bosom might lightly graze my arm as she turned to say something. Kerpow! And with my hand deep in my trouser pocket, I would try to rearrange myself, hoping she hadn’t noticed. Did fifteen-year-old girls notice such things in those days, I wonder.

October? I have taken more inviting photographs of Emma’s buttocks and they deserve more careful treatment, but I was in a hurry to get a picture for the Blog. We bought the red gloves last week, in one of those shops that sell outfits for hen-parties and Halloween festivities. We were actually there to buy a new set of artificial eyelashes and some skin-art temporary tattoos, which Emma will be wearing as part of a future project. I have a fancy to highlight various parts of her body with colourful motifs. Whatever turns you on, she said, with a shake of the head. The gloves were in the sale, and Emma can resist anything except a bargain - just as Oscar Wilde could resist everything except temptation. She says they will come in handy when she puts on her devil’s outfit - complete with horns and tail. After all, October is only a couple of months away.

The punch line to many an urban myth and anecdote. (I have used it - on an occasion I would sooner not think about. Make up your own story.) I so seldom publish pictures of Emma fully dressed, you would be forgiven for thinking that she spends most of her time either naked or scantily dressed. I should be so lucky! Yesterday’s picture shows how I am more likely to see her during the day - apart from the false eyelashes, which she put on to entice me into doing something her mother wouldn’t have approved of. And, without wanting to set a trend on the Blog, here she is again fully covered. That is not exactly how it was supposed to be. The kaftan is delightfully sheer and, over Emma’s naked body, I had hoped it would be virtually see-through. A bitter disappointment to me, too. Perhaps with back-lighting? That’s one for future experiment.

This knitted garment came with its own, not so subtle invitation. I noticed the sticker when the sweater was hanging in the store - tempting customers to feel the quality of the merchandise, and I was pleased to observe that it was not removed when Emma made the purchase. I’m sure I wouldn’t have had the bottle to tell the sweet young thing behind the counter that we wanted the label as well as the knitwear. And yes, I know that there are t-shirts with far more suggestive slogans, but I would never persuade Emma to wear one in public. The nearest she ever got was a t-shirt that announced that she was The Boss - as if the question had ever been in doubt. I love the feel of Emma’s tits even through the thickest of sweaters. (This one is too long to get inside it, by the way.) The Feel Me label has been carefully preserved, to appear whenever Emma buys a new sweater.

August is going to be a difficult month Blogwise. For more than two weeks, Emma and I will be away from home. We will be staying in Garden City, while daughter Eva and her husband are holidaying in the Dordogne (France). Even staying at a luxury hotel, we get homesick after three or four days - and that’s without the bother of a hyperactive dog and a sullen cat to look after. We are not looking forward to this “nice break” (Eva’s description). But Emma has promised to get her kit off in front of the camera to relieve my monotony. And she will no doubt get to do some serious shopping to relieve hers. I am taking my laptop with the intention of maintaining contact, but I have also saved a few posts, just to be on the safe side. Meanwhile, here is a photo I took during a previous incarceration in Garden City.