Rainy Season

I've had an idea for a long time to write a book called "Winter Meetings." The title, and the setting, is the conference that happens every year in early December of all the owners and management of major league baseball teams. They all get together in some big hotel and make trades,vote on expansion teams, figure out ways to screw the players' union, and so forth. My book will be about a recently-retired player who has just started working the front office of his long-time team. A product of a slightly older generation, he has to deal with the new business realities of the game he loves, all the while having a guilty affair in some big airport hotel between sessions of the conference.

It's actually the third book in a planned triology. "How They Scored" is about the guy's second season in the big leagues, when he gets the sophomore jinx and is relegated to the bullpen. "Look Back at Second" is about the guy reaching his mid-30s and competing with younger players for slots on the team.

I don't know enough about baseball to write three books about it, though, or even one book. Or even a novella. But I'm great with titles.

So it's winter. Here in northern California, there's lots of rain, and the hills are turning green. (The California paradox is "Green in the winter, brown in the summer," a phenomenon that confounds midwesterners like me.) I started making out again with somebody I knew several years ago from Queer Nation. She used to be in the sex industry; she was an extremely successful lap dancer. She had the right combination of tenderness and ruthlessness to make lots of money at the job, not to mention the figure. Now she's only 27 and is a computer network programmer. She makes as much money doing computers as she did in the sex industry, to her amusement and relief.

My other friend in the sex industry, whom I wrote about last time (see the entry for 28 Dec 98), went on a weekend with that prospective sugardaddy. "Oh, didn't I tell you? Well, we went up to this resort in Napa, super deluxe. We ordered gobs of room service and he got so drunk on champagne that he went right to sleep before we even fucked. Then the next day all he wanted to do was watch the 49ers game, so I got a massage from room service while he watched the game and drank beer. Then I jacked him off and we left. And that's the last I heard of him."

So much for that meal ticket. She's still working at the massage parlor in Marin, doing reasonably well. A good night is five or six hundred dollars; she works two or three times a week.

And an update on my efforts to impregnate my transexual friend (see the entry for 10 Aug 98): The first couple times I went by, on ovulation day, I just jacked off into a cervical cup. As I was going into the bedroom the second time, Jess said, "Let us know if you ever need some help." Oh, okay. So the next time I went over there, I asked, "What kind of help did you have in mind?"

We all ended up in bed together having oral/manual sex. It was a trip to see Jess-the-boy strip off his clothes and, voilá, there's a cunt down there. "I want to see him fuck you," Bess muttered in the middle of it, but after all I just jacked off again into the cup. (But I was so excited that I missed a little. That was embarrassing!) Still no pregnancy. I'll keep you posted.