Traces…

Traces of Places

© 2007, All rights reserved.

Prologue: It was always the same with her, always with the initial passion, drive and excitement, and always ending with quotidian boredom. It was a fluke, she guessed, her inability to maintain, or to thrive, without a constant renewal, a constant need to shift, adjust. It was not an uneventful journey, nor in some circles would it have been considered a productive one, but it was her journey nonetheless. She sought the one who could make her think, make her weep, make her laugh, make her gnash her teeth, make her writhe in anguish and pleasure, and make her feel something. The process was painstaking and long having begun in early adolescence with the first awkward kiss, the first painful and woefully inadequate fuck. With each new experience, another lesson was learned, and it was at the altar of inadequacy that she prayed for wholeness and oneness. Thus began her final search.

The Amazing Internet and The Charming Scoundrel

Ahhh, but it seems that we lowly wenches are underestimated in our abilities to find out what we need to know/what we SHOULD know when it comes to face-to-face meetings with self-proclaimed (and rightly so) charming scoundrels. However, I am (pardon me if this sounds cocky, but I am) a little brighter than the average wench, a lot more driven to gather information if I have a “need to know” and so much more tenacious when I am driven to be so.

This particular charming scoundrel, while amazingly bright, was not so clever at hiding his tracks, and I, in my usual state of self-awareness, decided to do my own search based on tiny clues he provided (even though he lied both about his age and his marital status). Most of what he said was true. While I have little interest in “carrying on” with a man who lies about rather important things, it should be noted that I discovered his true identity by a dead-on Google search.

Of course, a scoundrel, being what he is, will vehemently deny the evidence even when confronted, and lay claim to a crazed female stalking him and causing him undue (???) pain and suffering so that he must disappear quickly. [ED: I was not the crazed female and doubt that one really exists.] Oh, the tragedy of it all (smirk).

You might have won the battle, Robert M., a/k/a charming scoundrel, but I won the war.

Pixels may lie. Voices usually don’t, deep New York voices, in particular. Don’t mess with a future bounty hunter, sugar.

http://www.smallbusinessadvocate.com/cgi-bin/archivesbybtsub.cgi?bt=702&sub=-1&mediatype=1

Wench: The Bounty Hunter

WW

Emergence From The Shadows

I took some time off from this blog for the purposes of rejuvenation and rekindling of my spirit and “fire.” The respite served me well. Along the way, I made a few friends from a new site I have been visiting and, I suspect, a few enemies. C’est la vie, as they say in France. Every experience, whether good or bad, is an experience just the same, and those are the molds that form us and, thus, should not be diminished.

I am working on a new “piece,” if you will, that will likely be posted here in chapters, printed, committed to diary status, and left for my many offspring to peruse at their leisure after I have gone on to meet my maker.

In any event, I have returned none the worse for wear. Stay tuned.

WW