Thursday’s Man


Thursday’s man is made of planful decadence.

He’s busy but has his lover on his daily schedule.

He’s from out of town, travels well, packs light; in his leather satchel the bare minimum, all quality.

When he arrives his long coat flaps behind him down the hallway, his shoes hit heel first on the tiles muffled only by the cuff of his jeans slouching over the worn leather to the floor.  With casual grace, his hand reaches back to take hers. But she’s not his companion this trip. He’s accompanied instead by spreadsheets and laptops and morning meetings with clients who know what solutions he’s bringing to the table.

He uses the key, settles in, throws the duvet back and closes the drapes. He unclasps and slides the heavy metal over his left wrist and leaves his Rolex sitting on its side on the nightstand.

The late news is tuned in. He untucks his starched blue dress shirt and makes his way, piece by piece, button by button down his person. Pulling, unzipping, shedding the fibres of his deal-making day from his body until he is once again his own man, standing as his natural self, his body just a mans, his priorities of his own choosing- for a few more hours.

His desires are of his own design.

He works late hours and endless leads, pulls his weight and makes things happen most can’t or wont.

He’ll retire early, has the second place in Chicago, his city, and over the years has smoothed the rough edges on mistakes he made in the past, prays with gratitude for his tomorrows and makes peace with those he once let go.

The rest- the fantasy brought to life, the powerful raw of his need for connection with a wild adventurous heart- is of his own making.

He has her.

He is enthralled with her devotion to letting his imagination fuel each rendezvous.  He believes finding her is fate, believes her muscled thigh was created for his hand to caress, her mind his to unfurl and open and expose to his raging heart.

He has meticulously cultivated her want for him over tumultuous liaisons during conferences and business travel. Her intense missing of his cologne, his touch on the low of her back, his way with words feeds her mind via electronic devices they rely upon for connection. He locks in her greed for his mouth with brief interludes via skype, in passionate kisses at airports and then culminates the long lapses in union with loving on her as he moves his hips with hers in draped fourposter beds rented on holiday.

His tender attention to her most vulnerable flaws is endearing. He secures her desire with his unwavering assurances, telling her he can handle her giving him, in equal measure, the kind of love he offers her in the moments they are together.

She is free to feel and let herself fall into his arms with no threat of promises to be collected in the daylight. He asks only for what she can share in that moment.

He whispers her name and her beautiful face finds him behind his heavy eyelids.

He leans back into the pillows, imagines a day when the schedules permit him to wake her in the night, maybe twice.


His body was just a mans, made the same as all the others more or less, until he called out her name in shuddering syllables and put his hand to her jaw, turning her face so she had to look into his eyes as he found her deepest sweetness and then she let herself helplessly transform into his woman.

#for Reticent Mental Property

Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014

Love the tones of Lana Del Ray….

A Stairway To Fashion Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014 Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014 Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014 Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014 Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014 Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014 Lana Del Rey by Chris Nicholls for Fashion Magazine September 2014

Star Lana Del Rey;

Photographed by Chris Nicholls;

Stylist George Antonopoulos;

Hair Marc Romos;

Makeup Pamela Cochrane.

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[PHOTO] Henry Miller with Anaïs Nin

Ahh, Nin. Read her diaries, the gerbil-wheel of thoughts…yet, she took risks and created space for her style and met her needs… And in this effort, the reward great, hers and, gratefully, ours.

pundit from another planet

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Feel me


Feel me, soak me in.


I am on the other side of your tomorrows where I’ve been all along.  Each life you live brings me back to you again.


I arrive on a new dawn’s mist and dangle the memory of  us in the dewdrops you scatter as you take your morning walk through your woods.


I am present in your poetic musings,  my image camouflaged in the leafy boughs overhead, only visible to your naked eye when the smell of earth rises from your heels and grapevine ropes tie your fantasies to altars in open fields of wildflowers.


The laughter of my smile escapes across the years.  It tweaks the tip of your nose with my playful breath, communicating with you through your nature- language.


I am the colours of touch and taste and taking.


I have been there in the melting of your winter into springtime’s muddied muse.


I have been there in the unfolding of the blossoms and the fragrant heaving of nature’s breast as she exhales spring, then summer, then fall.

I have been there in the prisms of the ice biting your face as you taste the fresh snow fall on your tongue.


When you finally turn to the rise of the sun-  having given up waiting until the evening’s end to take in the patient beauty of the settling in, the created comfortable cozy of the life you live- you recognize my scent.   Then you truly see me,  suspended there,  where I am,  have always been,  a gentle reflection of your pain and your pride and your duty.  I am your playful passion, one who survives in the mirrored water of your wanderings through lucid dreams;  my reflection somehow the same as your own.


 I am hearing your every want, have always been listening. 

#for Reticent Mental Property.


The Exchange

RMPfrench2011I know a man who photographs his wife in various stages of undress.  His eye is kind to her, though admittedly, she is lovely and lean and in love.  Perhaps with him, yes.

She is his muse and the only woman he allows to model for him.

She clearly has his attentions and feels beautiful in his gaze and trusts he sees her in the most positive way. Together, stretched across the bed with ankles intertwined and sheets wet with her scent,  they select photos and alter them and share with hopes to elicit responses and commentary.

Exhibitionists of the most loving kind, he feeds her mind with positives and she feeds his by modeling what he wishes to see her wear…or not wear.

It’s all about the exchange… whatever the gift is, it is given with openness, uninhibited because of trust and a willingness to give pleasure in whatever way pleases the other.

And with the incoming breathy responses her confidence continues to grow and his boldness and desire increases, and together, they  find such peace and reward in the joining.


How trusting she was to model the French lingerie he bought for her.  She willingly snapped the photo, sent it along to distract him during meetings or early in the dawn when she texted her daily good morning to him.   He was the type to tell her which panties to wear each day- maybe the thong or the red silk,  often the lovely white sheer ones with gold embroidery.  And sometimes, none.

#for Reticent Mental Property, with image credit to TheVancouverSun, 2011.