I woke up in the guest suite of Jules Verne’s parents’ house.  I was in the bed alone.  I looked around to orient myself.  The French doors to the balcony, which overlooked the back yard and a view of San Francisco Bay, were open.  It was sunny.  I had no clue what time it was.  I had no clue when I went to sleep (some would say “passed out,” but those people are overly concerned with semantics) or what time it was, though the light gave me a clue that it was some time in the AM.

On the bedside table a digital clock flashed “12:00.”  I guessed the Vernes let their guests decide what time it was.  My phone was also on the bedside table, as was a bottle of silicone lube.  Sans lid and obviously well-used because the hardwood floor next to the bed was, well, lubed.  My phone, which I had not recalled bringing to the bedroom, let me know it was just past 7:00 AM.

Ok.  I wanted to get home.  I always feel bad when I leave the Viking home alone.  Not that he can’t take care of himself, or find ways to occupy his time; the night before, when I was with Jules Verne, he had drinks with a lady.  But we’ve determined that neither of us sleeps as well alone than when sharing a bed with each other.  Silly but true.

I looked around for Jules Verne.  The last time I had spent the night, I found him in his parents’ room with multiple fans blowing on him.  He, like many men, sleeps very hot and likes to have a well-ventilated sleep.  He wasn’t in his parents’ bed; the bed was made and the 80s-era furniture was undisturbed.  Jules Verne’s house is a huge, gorgeous, Spanish-style house in Piedmont – there is nothing even remotely tacky about it – but his parents’ room has some lacquered furniture that is, well, out of date.  Jules Vern himself has admitted it.

I found Mr. Verne asleep in his bed in his bedroom, which was probably originally quarters for the help since it has access to a back stairway.  He and Rusty, his very cute dog (that’s him between my thighs).  Rusty seemed happy to see me.  My experience with dogs (and it’s pretty extensive, as I’ve had my own for 18 years, as well as some when I was a kid) is that they have to go to the bathroom early in the mornings after sleeping, so I let Rusty out of the bedroom and took him downstairs.  A few doors to the back yard had been left open.  The doors from the breakfast nook to the back patio were open; the doors from the formal dining room to the back patio were open.  Rusty was a very lucky dog who could come and go as he pleased.  Isis must have been so happy when she stayed there.

Rusty followed me around, which I thought was silly considering he could go out whenever he wanted.  Apparently, a dog that can go out whenever he wants doesn’t want for much.  I walked outside, Rusty followed.  I still hadn’t found my shoes, but the backyard had lovely Spanish tile and nice soft grass, both surfaces that feel nice under bare feet.

I hadn’t found my shoes, but I had found my clothes on a chair next to the bed in the guest suite.  Before getting dressed I took the time to take a couple of naked photos of myself in the mirror of the guest suite’s bathroom.  I sent ‘em to the Viking, who seems to appreciate me naked.  (No, they will not be posted here, or anywhere else.)

Thereafter, Rusty and I did our own thing.  His included going back to sleep, only this time on the guest bed, where I had been sleeping earlier; mine included looking at looking at a Jean-George cookbook and having some beverages.  Yes, alcoholic beverages.  I know it was 8AM.  I also know that the bar, including a fully-stocked wine fridge, was available to me.  So who was I to not take advantage?

Jules Verne eventually joined me and showed off the new waffle iron about which he had been bragging the night before.  He made chocolate chip waffles.  Yum!  I had chocolate chip waffles when I was a kid.  One of my mother’s ex-lovers (her names for ‘em), Peggy, used to make chocolate chip waffles.  They were fucking good, with a glass of milk.  I requested a glass of milk from Jules Verne.

His chocolate chip waffles, with butter, of course, were fucking tasty.  And they went very nicely with the milk.  I feel guilty for drinking milk, but a love it.  I prefer non-fat, not for reasons of caloric guilt, but for reasons of taste.  Also, I can feel relatively guilt-free for drinking it.  Except for the subjugation of dairy cows ….

After breakfast Jules Verne drove me to the BART station.  I took the train, where I saw this chick.  I utilized NinjaCam to take a couple of photos.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t look completely up her skirt.  But it’s obvious from the various lady patrons on the train that it was a warm day for which minimal clothing needed to be worn.  The Bay Area tends to have a temperate climate that doesn’t vary much from around 60ºF, and San Franciscians are especially prone to taking advantage of climatic advantages.

I took the train home ….

I swear.  True story.

[To e continued ….]

  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •  
  •