Tzeporah 9

By the second weekend, I've spotted Karen's pattern. She's now got me totally hooked on the adrenalin and endorphins. The paddle is no longer for punishment, as in missing a spot cleaning; it's now a reward for being good. Punishment is simply not getting.
Now combine that with the horniness and I'm learning lots fast, about what she prefers. Yet I love every minute.

Tzeporah 8

My big chance comes a lot sooner than expected. Tzeporah, a federal employee, is sent to Ottawa on a four month acting assignment, where she'll be lodged in an apartment hotel. We agree that each is free to wander in the interim, but we'll hook up again after her return.
I go to the airport to see her off. Not five minutes after she enters the secured area, my cell rings. It's Karen, enquiring if I'm free this weekend. I agree to show at six on Friday.
Once I've assumed the position, hands and knees, she recites her list of rules, punctuating it with paddle strokes. With a wicked smile, she attaches a device, then puts the key on a chain around her neck. "Let's just say horniness elevates the educational level." She proceeds to deliver a paddling more vigorous than before, as I feel as if I've arrived in heaven.
After, she puts me to work cleaning, and being very fussy about it.

Tzeporah 7

The weekend is unseasonably hot, there is no air conditioning. First we run Tzeporah's curtains (polyester) through the coin laundry downstairs and wash the inside of panes and frames.
Once the curtains are back up, we remove clothes, to work in more comfort.
Yes there is clowning, how would there not be? But we work hard, though nominally the boss I pitch in.
In the kitchen Karen picks up a heavy plastic spatula, swings it several times producing whistling sounds. She sees right through my fascination while pretending to be nonchalant. Joking tone, "like to try?"
"Sure."
"On your hands and knees."
It's a good acting job. For Tzeporah's benefit, it appears to be clowning swings. In reality, it's 24 smoking hot strokes, the secret being in the wrist action.
Tzeporah buys the illusion completely rolling around convulsed in laughter.
Karen's hard pinch and knowing look conveys a promise of more in the future.
Lest she mistake me for lack of interest, I wiggle my butt defiantly, which draws two more pinches, considerably harder.
Less mature people might have spent the rest of the weekend in games of brinksmanship and got caught. An unspoken message passes between Karen and me. Acting as if it was no more than a clown show, we return to cleaning.
Every now and again, when she's sure the coast is clear, she pinches me again, just so I won't forget her. As if I would!

Tzeporah 6

Proceedings have just finished at Tzeporah's.
Overly casual tone, Karen says, "ok, seen with my own eyes, I'll pay the bet. I come around here this weekend, help clean up. You'll have to be here."
"Why me?" I ask.
"Why without you, nothing would likely get done. We'd sit around, drink wine, talk. But an officerial type like you, give us a sense of direction. Tell us what to do." Tongue between her teeth, "and of course spank if you deem it necessary."
Now on one level, simply a request to turn a weekend of drudgery into a weekend of fun. I would look like one prize horse's patoot if I don't play along. On another level, a potential S&M relationship, from which I would run like the plague. Why? In most such, it turns into a one sided transfer of life energy from S to M.
Now if I actually had any, and in surplus, I might not mind sharing. However, I find myself in deficit position.
With a brave front, hoping this is a one time event, I reply casually, "ok, I'll be here."

Tzeporah 5

As month follows month, Tzeporah soon becomes the least favorite time of my week. Why? Lotta reasons.
She smokes, too much, she, her clothes, drapes, furniture and carpet reeks. Too many overflowing ashtrays.
I prefer flat surfaces such as desk top, kitchen counter or table to be free of debris, so they can be used for stated purpose. Clutter makes my skin crawl, especially when covered with dust.
The kitchen is so filthy I would not trust a glass of water in that place.
She plays music, too loud; whereas I prefer silence.
But underlying it all, she is the enemy and my prejudices simply do not vanish.
So, why do I keep going, it being so pointless? Is not all of life?
It happened the first real spring day. I walked out after buying a $10 phone card, decided to visit the sidewalk cafe area. Just my bad luck, I ran into Tzeporah and her friend, a face vaguely familiar, whose name is given as Karen.
Smart ass look, Karen says, "I was really surprised to hear you are still alive. Lotta people around who would like to change that."
Bor-ring, how many times have I been obliquely threatened by these people? She continues with the by now familiar, "that of course is only for the truly ignorant. I'm smart enough to know the consequences."
I nod vaguely, regret my sidewalk cafe impulse.
Karen continues, "even more surprising, imagine you and Tzeporah screwing! Of course I bet it wasn't so."
What an idiot!
"Of course to pay my bet, I'll have to watch."
"Go to hell," I reply, "only way you watch is tied to a chair." (no kinky intent meant, purely I didn't want her to use her cell as camera and splash my face all over You Tube.)
She laughs, "you old devil, what a way you have. Be there with bells on my feet."
I groan inwardly, but what can you do?

Tzeporah 4

The blog owner tells me my story must be kept suitable for children, so I decline comment on activity in her apartment.
After leaving, I ponder. She and I come from opposing groups, with a long and unfriendly history. As well, I tend to be a bit too paranoid for my own good, but not to extremes.
Even after discounting for these two known prejudices, my read is she is up to something.
But then, I shrug, what of it? I've already been walking the planet for a whole lot longer than you'd believe and I am overcome by the sheer tedium of it all. If she has a plot to hasten my demise, hey bring it on.
At this point, my cell rings. She purrs, "that was nice, when are you coming back?"
"As we agreed, next week."
"If you come back early, I promise to (censored)."
I gasp, near swallowing the phone, then, "you would?"
"Absolutely and I'd love every minute of it."
Now it sure is a good thing this cell isn't transmitting my face as I digest this. With what she just promised, there is a mathematical chance I will depart this lamentable planet sooner and not later - with a heart attack. And if not, well hey it'll still be fun.
Hoping my voice does not give away the duality of my emotions, I reply, "ok, let's coordinate our social schedules."
(So ends Part One; the blog could be inactive for several months as Part Two is prepared.)

Table of Contents

was last published April 2007. For ease of finding, please scroll down at right and click on "April 2007."

Tzeporah 3

I return home to find Fred in the lobby holding a clipboard. He's a retired farmer, rendered bankrupt by the depradations of Revenue Canada, that's why he's in a low budget seniors building. He still is president of the local chapter of the National Farmers Union, a position I suspect he keeps simply because no one else wants it.
Now normally Fred and his coterie of bankrupt ex-farmers view me with condescension, as your typical city slicker. So, when he addresses me in friendly tone, I know he wants something, "bad time of the year for all this, I tell you. All the farmers with any money are off playing snowbird in Arizona. We gotta put together a bus load of people for the demonstration at the Canadian Wheat Board office (in a neighboring city). So, Saturday, how bout a free ride and nice picnic lunch?"
"Fred, these are seniors, that bus better have a bathroom."
"It does, so, we leave at 8. Dress warm, never know."
Well here we are. It's cold enough to freeze the you know what off a brass monkey. We're light on the ground. Sixty demonstrators doesn't look all that good when you consider the province has that many thousand farmers.
A CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corp) truck rolls up and out hop a cameraman and reporter. Instantly they head towards me. Logical that they should. I'm a little better dressed than most, definitely look much more fit and trim and have that sort of take charge air.
"Sir, could you grant me a short interview?"
"Actually not, I understand we have an official spokesman for speaking with media."
Fred chimes in, "he couldn't make it, illness. You're on."
The reporter smiles, "sir, how do you see this problem?"
I know little or nothing about it, but all he needs is a short sound bite. So, "for a way too many decades the Canadian Wheat Board has walked all over farmers with a sheer stunning arrogance of which even the Sun King would have approved. Ghengis Khan would be thrilled seeing the ruination and scorched earth left behind by CWB policies."
"Ok sir, what exactly are your demands?"
Of course I haven't the foggiest, so I improv, "that the national president and vice president of the NFU be allowed to meet with the Agriculture Minister and Prime Minister. All are people of common sense and goodwill, and a favorable compromise could be reached."
"That certainly is a reasonable demand, sir, thank you for your time."
As they leave, the guys congratulate me for a good quote and wander back into their small groups. And then it hits, getting my photo on national TV isn't so wonderful. Yeah, I know almost no one watches CBC for anything but sports, but still.
I feel the panic rising, will it away with a few deep breaths.
Calm now, I reflect that to 99.999% of people out in TV Land, I'm just another anonymous farmer trash talking big bureaucracy. But what of the others?
Ok now, wool hat pulled as low as possible, scarf around much of the bottom of my face, the exposed part unnaturally red from all the cold wind. Not too likely I'd be recognized. Don't worry about it.
Monday morning, as I am exiting I see Fred. Huge grin, "guess what, it worked."
"What worked?"
"They agreed to our demands. Meeting will take place after New Years."
We both laugh.
"Headed for the breakfast special?" he asks.
I nod.
"I'll come too, and I'm buying, victory celebration."
It opens at 8, so naturally it doesn't draw too many working people. It's fairly dead at this hour, as we walk through the cafeteria line, make our orders, then pay and find a booth.
Not two minutes after we sit, guess who else walks through the line, orders, then sits with a nonchalant air, in a tone like we've known each other for ages, says to me, "so, introduce me to your friend."
"Tzeporah, this is Fred. Fred, Tzeporah."
Our order numbers are called and we get up to pick them up. As we talk, Tzeporah asks Fred small talk questions about the NFU, but with the obvious tone of get lost quick. Soon as he's done eating, he takes his leave.
She grins, "you looked lousy on CBC, but still recognizable."
I nod.
Sarcastic tone, "imagine that, they've been after that for years. You come along, one quote and hit the target dead center."
I nod.
She asks, "you do recognize me, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Look, I'm not a person who likes pi**ing around and neither do you. So, what exactly should I do about you? I could of course report you to the authorities. That would likely be counter productive, I'd end up in a rubber room, being observed by shrinks."
We both laugh.
"I could of course kill you, and easily too as I happen to have a pistol with silencer. Ah, I see you're completely unworried. You know for a fact that I understand enough to know how drastic the consequences of that would be. So, just guess what I decided to do."
It hits with the force of a freight train, surely not.
"Come on, quit stalling, give your guess."
"You ah well that is decided I am now your boyfriend."
"Very good, you are quite intelligent and rather intuitive. Now, take a moment and guess why."
"I don't know."
"You aren't all that good at seeing things through another's eyes, but just take a few moments to think. Ah I see it's coming."
I blush, "well that is, you need a boyfriend anyhow. You dislike men who are overly curious and overly controlling, which narrows the field."
"Go on, don't stop."
"In fact, the reason you choose me is very simple. I ask you no questions; you ask me none."
"Ok, say once a week, let's go."
Whoa! She is one big trouble maker. Best to seek an excuse. "it was my understanding that flings don't happen in the mathematical sense, there has to be some sort of well energy."
With that she reaches out, takes one of my hands in both of hers as if to read my palm. No question, there is an electric current there and strong too.
With not a word, but a clear facial expression, she conveys, "any more silly questions?"

Tzeporah 2

The 4 to 6 pm shift arrives and we pass over the clipboard. They'll be the last as the drop in centre closes at 6.
At this point, it would be nice to vanish. However, it being a bad area, common sense if not chivalry dictates I offer to accompany my count partner to her car or bus stop.
The silence is glacial as we walk to her car. As it pulls away, I get two simultaneous feelings. One, relief I'm rid of her; two, a chill of foreboding that yes indeed we will meet again.
A woman walking towards me says in tone half sarcastic and half humorous, "so, lemme guess, in the doghouse bigtime."
Taking in the provincial government issue briefcase and the dowdy clothes, what else could she be but a social worker on a home visit?
In the same tone I reply, "it was my understanding you people reserved your condescension for those unfortunate enough to be on your case load. Branching out?"
"In fact, I'm guessing you pi**ed off the princess so much that your social calendar will be free for a while."
"So, tell me, do they actually give you people a course on how to be smart asses when you start? Or just only hire smart asses?"
She laughs, "if you can fit it into your schedule, free Christmas dinner tomorrow evening?"
She doesn't fool me one instant. If she had a real genuine husband or long term boyfriend, one the other social workers knew, she could simply show up alone in case of sudden illness or trip out of town. Fairly obvious she's a closet lesbian and her gay guy friend for cover stood her up.
But then, who cares? Not like I have any talent or interest in a kitchen.
So, I ask, "how to dress?"
"Same as you are or a bit more casual."
We agree on a time and place to meet, as we'll have to arrive together.
The guy sitting across from me smiles wickedly, asks quietly, "I'm ah guessing now, your first fling with a social worker?"
"That obvious huh?"
Waves his arm to take in the crowd, "listen to all that stupidity. Take my advice, run for your life, before it's too late. Find someone sensible or failing that, go off and be a monk; anything is preferable to this crowd."
As we fence around for a topic of mutual interest, we hit on politics. Now on the surface of it, he's a Tory (Conservative) and me, a Rhino (spoof party). As we discuss the long and colorful history of the Rhino Party, I soon begin to suspect he actually votes Rhino; Toryism only being a front he shows his friends.
Now my agreement with the social worker was she'd get us to leave as soon as decently possible; less chance for me to slip and reveal I don't know stuff I should as her "boyfriend". However, he and I are having such a wonderful conversation that she has to pry me away.
Of course we have to leave together, for show. As the car door shuts, she's already berating me, in tone you'd use if you were ten years married, for socializing with the evil slumlord.
Now I could protest that this is a free country, I can socialize with whomever I like. Or say I didn't know that was his line of business (true). Or even point out that since I'm not her boyfriend, she has no right to tell me what to do.
But I don't. Experience and observation has taught me the true futility of arguing with dogmatic zealots.
As she drops me off, I ask myself a question. Given that every woman I run into is a time waster or trouble maker or nut case, does that mean (a) all are so; or (b) that I simply have lousy luck of the draw?
It may sound like a facetious question, but it's not. If (a) is true, that's life, live with it. If (b), well by now I know there is no such thing as perpetual bad luck of the draw. If this happens to you, the Universe is trying to send you a message. And that, I have not yet figured out.

Tzeporah 1

My barber Jose feels it necessary to listen to the rants of most of his customers. After all, he is a struggling small businessman. With me, that's reversed, I listen to his. Sometimes he's funny, the odd time I actually learn something; but the main purpose is simply so I don't have to talk about myself. I've found it best over time to operate on a zero disclosure basis, for reasons I won't bore you.
He gives a wicked smile as he tucks me into the cape, "I tell you the world is a totally unfair place."
"No fooling?" I say as a way of egging him on.
"You my friend constitute the height of injustice."
"Go on."
"You happen to be the only customer who both gets a seniors' discount and yet needs his hair thinned every single time."
We both laugh.
He continues, "yeah, and with that much younger looking face, bet you get swarms of women after you."
"Jose, I can assure you size is everything."
He gasps, then laughs.
"Sure is, and once they guess the size of my pension they are oh so gone."
We both laugh.
This sets him going on the theme of the unfairness of the whole man-woman thing; as if he could of course be impartial about it.
And then I'm out the door, once again glad that the person waiting behind me in line heard nothing useful.
Given my budget, I don't bother with a wireless hookup, just adjourn to the coffee house three or four times a week, use theirs.
I buy French Roast at the counter, choose a seat with my back to the wall. No, this ain't as in an old western movie, not afraid of being shot. And no I ain't looking at porn. It's just well, I happen to be looking at stuff which would raise eyebrows among any who vaguely know me.
She sits at the table next to me and instinct says trouble. With an overly casual tone, "could I ask you something?"
"I'm kind of busy here."
This doesn't deter her, "well you see, I'm taking this course on palm reading. I could give you a reading, for free of course, as a way of gaining experience."
"No thank you."
"Ah one of those who doesn't believe in all that hoohaw?"
Whether I believe in that hoohaw or not is immaterial. I avoid those New Agers like the bubonic plague. See lots tend to be fairly intuitive, get their messages from the Universe in more ways than just the one they parade around. And as I said before, I prefer privacy.
I turn to face her, "what part of No don't you understand?"
And there was my mistake, a full frontal view. I see her eyes go wide, she gasps, almost inaudibly. I see the recognition in her eyes, but not full 100%.
At this, she picks up her (cardboard) coffee cup and proceeds to leave.
I shrug, decide the best course of action is simply avoid this particular coffee house for a while and go to the others I haunt.
And then I dismiss it, it is a biggish city, and back to my surfing.
Returning home to the seniors' apartment building, I am accosted by that loudmouth Mrs Thatcher. Used to be a teacher in a small town, still in that power groove, loves to push everyone around. She explains that the biannual homeless count is coming up. As a matter of prestige our building must again beat all others in percentage turnout. (Where do they get that competitive thing from?) By now I know what's coming. She expects everyone mobile, that is not in a wheelchair or walker to show. Failure to do so will invite harrassment. It would be the height of pointless to protest I don't have a car. Maybe a third of people here do and she'd just find a ride for me with someone else. Given that something like this only happens two or three times a year, I find the best course of action is simply surrender, part of the price of living in a seniors' building.
The briefing is a huge crowd, in the theatre of the public library. They have pizza and coffee first, then everyone goes inside the theatre as various speakers address the crowd.
My assignment is a two hour shift, 2 to 4 pm on that particular day, at a drop in centre for indigent seniors. I will be partnered with a "T Auerbach", seems harmless enough.
I arrive about five minutes early, to take over from the previous shift. Their view is I probably won't have much business. It's later in the day, most have been counted. The lunch crowd is gone, most everyone here is the all day hang around sort.
They leave and two minutes later, guess who arrives. The woman from the coffee house. I groan inwardly, this is gonna be a long afternoon.
Fortunately, we don't have to talk. That is, we're right at the front door, on chairs and the crowd of smokers is endlessly going outside and coming back in.