Coming home from school on this sunny and warm Friday, lessons over and the weekend before me, I change from my business suit into casuals - the most casual being my naked skin. A little lunch, and then I will place my chair and my table close to the pool and mark some essays in a lovely holiday mood. If their papers could tell them what they have seen and touched while being marked, my students would certainly hear it with interest, if not more. I just make sure that no cheeky curly hair catches between the pages ...

In the evening Phillip will come for the weekend (except for Sunday morning when he has to go in again because of next day's edition). But the rest of the time we will spend together. (Let me not think of it to much right now, or else ...) I will have to do some more marking, but we will go shopping together so all will be ready for the party on Monday.

Next week, there will be a second one, on Friday evening, just a cheese and wine job in Phillip's flat. He has invited some people from his office - and I have promised to help hm with this. In a week our finals will begin, and then it's going to be busy. But this weekend I will enjoy, and relax, and be with - and on, and under - Phillip.

What a warm, mild evening, although it was already getting dark. We didn't just run to the Jacuzzi and hop into the warm liquid like in winter, but Joerg, Elsie and I walked through their garden naked and looked at all the fertility spring had produced. Their garden is not big, but a little paradise, they tend it carefully and spend a lot of time outside.

You may remember that some time ago Jacuzzi was not so enjoyable because they had some marital conflicts after Joerg's escapades with Tanja; strangely enough, yesterday it was very much the other way round - and this, too, made me feel rather uneasy. Already in the garden and later in the Jacuzzi, I noticed that my two friends were hornier than usual, they constantly touched and fondled and only had eyes for each other. In the pool Elsie was sitting in Joerg's lap, and soon there was some rhythmical movement, and it became faster and more intensive before long.

I am of course glad that they are having such a good time together, and that their sexual relationship is very much alive again. Still I must say I felt a little excluded last night. The consequence was that I arrived back home rather soon and left them to each other. I was not really frustrated, but I must admit there was a slight feeling of emptiness when I groped for my key and opened the frontdoor.

The theatre performance last night was ok, but not really inspiring: a fairly traditional interpretation of the wonderful play "Woyzeck" by Büchner, written in the 1840ies. The company which is on tour with it seemed a little tired and not so hot on acting for teenagers, and they may have their good reasons for that.

More interesting was my chat with Ruth in a local café after the show. And I thought it was so touching I almost had tears in my eyes. At first I must admit I thought I had not heard right, and I had to ask again just to make sure I understood what she meant so say.

After the usual Rudi News Flash she said she needed my advice, because Rudi had asked her to take his penis into her mouth and chew it. She had refused, of course, but Rudi had said women do it - and what I thought?

Oh Ruth - she is 75 years old and totally unspoiled by any pornography, which - as I found out - she has never ever consumed in her life. She had obviously had marital sex in darkened bedrooms, and she had even liked it, but until she was in her seventies she had always just been penetrated while lying on her back. With her lovers she had done it with some light on, and in other positions, and she said with a smile that before that time she had not even dared looking at her naked body in the mirror.

Do some women really chew penises? Yes, they do, Ruth, and yes, Ruth, I am doing it, too. And I do it until a man ejaculates and I taste and swallow what he gushes into my mouth. (Oh, Phillip ...) My friend looked at me very doubtfully indeed. She was not sure if I was just taking the mickey because her question had been so silly. But finally she believed me that some women really, really do it, and that it can be very sexy and pleasant for both. And so I guess Rudi is in for some nice surprise one of these days.

PS: I didn't mention it in order not to overtax her; I wonder how she will react when Rudi asks her for anal ...

There are some books which influence my life. After reading them, I am not the same person again, something in me has changed, though it's not easy to say what. Maybe there is a truth I have discovered, and I look at the world with different eyes.

Mario Vargas Llosa's "The Way to Paradise" I had to read lately for the final exam of one of my female students. It is about the life of Flora Tristan, a French woman who in the 1830ies escaped from her life as a human slave - that of a married woman - and did everything to become independent and free. She escaped and lived without her husband, although she had three children and no money, and started to fight for the liberation and equality of women in general.

In 1833 she traveled to Peru, and it was a six months' journey by ship, to see if she could get some money from her immensely rich uncle who had inherited her father's money, because the marriage of their parents had never been officially acknowledged. She got nothing. While travelling she wrote some kind of a diary (which I also read) which shows that she was a careful, keen observer of what people do to other people, and she did this in a very personal way, also observing and describing herself and her own emotional plights.

The whole later part of her life then was a constant fight to really become independent, to be heard and respected. She was, however, well aware of her own weaknesses, and she incessantly worked at them to improve herself. And there were times in her life she was happy. Finally she almost came to death because her disappointed husband shot and wounded her in the streets of Paris because what she had done had hurt his male pride.

Incidentally, it is interesting to know that Flora was to become the grandmother of the wonderful expressionist painter Paul Gauguin, who himself tried to find his freedom and spent some important time of his life in Tahiti.

Some more culture tonight: I will go to a play at our school, together with my friend Ruth.

I am sitting at my desk preparing tomorrow's lessons: about traditional and modern myths (yes, Oedipus, and king Midas, and Tantalos, the eternal sufferer), about Baroque Poetry, about popular West End Shows. It is all quiet. There is some continuous rain outside, and the wooden frame of my house creaks now and then.

And as always my mind starts wandering - from my duties to my pleasures: Phillip will visit me tonight. We will make love. We will copulate. We will fuck. And I wonder what it is that makes me lose control over my senses whenever he is about to be with me - like now. What makes me shake, and perspire, and breathe harder, and become totally wet hours before.

Which laws of nature give him power over my body, so that it outrageously slips out of my control and does what it wants: yearn, and lust, and get ready for penetration. However I plan what to tell when he comes, how to look at him, and how to keep cool - my body will betray me. It is ever so ready then to submit to Phillip's every wish and need, to open up completely, to feel him inside, and to respond with a series of tsunami -like orgasms.

And then also my mind complies: I can see nothing but him, and smell him, and feel him, and taste him - and there is nothing I need more desperately than his male scent in my nose, and his cum on my tongue. And my body shakes with pleasure, and fulfillment, and happiness. And I don't know anymore how far I would go for him, to please him, to make him proud of me, to be completely and utterly his.

No, I can't go on writing now: I must - I must masturbate ......

Oooooooh, Gio - it's so lovely that you call me a genius in your comment. Sometimes I really wish I was one - so let me believe you for some moments and imagine you were right. It feels so good, thanks.

It may appear that I have made a little fun of Ruth and Rudi and their oedipal relationship in my last blog, but I must honestly admit that I myself am none too far from similar emotions. So I am an Oedipussy myself in a way, at least a pychologically trained person once told me so.

I had a very strong relationship with my father, and I always looked up to him and admired him. He was a traditional family doctor, a person who could do more than just treat people - he could heal them. He had a lot of patients and still went to their homes when called, and some of the homes were quite far up the mountains. But never once did I have the impression that he had no time for me, and I usually went to him whenever I had something to ask, or to tell. After his sudden death by accident, I was devastated for a long time.

It was from then on that I was drawn towards men who were older than me. This does not mean that I didn't have sexual relationships with younger guys. But I always had mature men as friends and advisors, I loved them as teachers and intellectual guides. And I had wonderful sex with some of them who could have been my fathers or even my grandfathers. My oldest lover was 72 (Incidentally, he was Ruth's husband. So it goes ...). Therefore I am also familiar with the sad fact that aged bodies do not always obey their owners and may betray elderly lovers, and that responses sometimes take time and a little help, orally or manually. But I always felt close, loved and respected, and never ever taken advantage of.

This is what I think of when I notice that some of you, who write me private messages regularly and take an interest in my life, are of that maturer age group, too, and it may also explain why it's quite easy for you to reach my heart.

The beginning of another week, it's rainy and cool. I have no particular plans: Jacuzzi on Thursday of course, Phillip will spend some evenings with me, lots of texts need some looking into - so it's going to be a quietly busy time.

I met Ruth on Saturday after shopping, and she said how much she had liked the meal together with her lover Rudi, who had been very pleased to meet me, and he liked me a lot. I must say that I was still a little suspicious of what would drive a 50-year-old man to have a hot love affair with a 75-year-old woman. But now there is a chance that I have found out.

I asked her if Rudi was married, because nice men of that age usually are in a safe haven. But Ruth was sure he wasn't, he was not even divorced, but a bachelor with a good job at the tax office, a nice house he had just renovated, and a lot of energy to spend, she added with a smile. But what did he do all these years then? Well, he had lived together with his mother and looked after her in the last years when her health got worse. Now she was dead and he had more time and opportunities to enjoy his life.

Now I knew - and I guess Ruth knows, too. There is a big chance that Rudi is sporting a most wonderful Oedipus complex. This is what the psychoanalist Freud called a special attachment of a man to his own mother - after the mythological King Oedipus, who killed his father and married and impregnated his mother, though without knowing first. It seems that Rudi had had a strong bond with his mother, and now he was looking for some similar situation, this time of course with the opportunity to realize his subconscious desires.

So it seems Ruth and Rudi are having a perfect arrangement: he can live his sexual obsession with a woman who could be his mother, and she - well, she is his Oedipussy.

After 11 a.m. we arrived at the lake - which is only big when you regard our Central European dimensions, and so the yacht is not a Miami Beach or a Monte Carlo job, but just a nice, white vessel with a cabin lounge and a sundeck. The guy who drives the Editor's Mercedes Benz doubled as captain, and soon we were on board, the sun was looking out now and then, and everyone was in high spirits.

We had drinks and lovely snacks, and after the sweets the guys wanted to talk shop a little and sent us girls out onto the sundeck. So we put on our bikinis and lay down on spread towels. I was worried a little because I hate tan lines and never have any, but the sun was not so hot anyway.

Phillip's colleague's wife way lying next to me. It's not hard to imagine her: she is a fairly petite woman with chestnut hair, a slim and trim woman - everything with her is very efficient: her muscular body, her unobtrusive breasts, her thin red lips, her estimating eyes, her precise language. Next to her I felt like an undulating, sensuous lump of womanly flesh.

She told me what special tution her two beautiful, efficient daughters get, and how well they dance, and how the Editor likes her efficient husband, who did ever so well in Moscow, how she looks forward to living there with him, and how good this is for her daughters' language abilities, and how her own boss is ever so sorry to lose her, and how sad she is to leave her freshly furnished house, which some architect with a name pronounced to be one of the most beautiful. I am sure you know this kind of person just too well.

But I had my revenge: I told her of my theater project next year, of the last book I read (about Flora Tristan's journey to Peru in the 1850ies), about Truman Capote and his novel "In Cold Blood" and some other - in her efficient eyes - irrelvant cultural stuff which bored her to tears. Whenever I asked her opinion of a book, or a film, or a play she had no idea of what I was talking. Finally she pretended to be asleep.

The guys did not even put on their swimtrunks. But the Editor came out on deck now and then and asked how we were, and brought us some fancy drinks. And I swear, he only rested his eyes on me, your Womanly Lump, and never on her, and he only smiled at me, too, and she noticed and her efficient face contorted to a badly hidden sneer. And your voluptious Alpina - well, she was all smiles, and in her glee even winked at the Editor, who could not help chuckling about our pecking party.

When we left after three, I swear again he only told Phillip and me we were welcome anytime on his yacht again, he was out almost every weekend in sunny weather. And I just smiled and smiled.

Just a mini blog before I go to town. After shopping I will meet Ruth, she asked me. Later Phillip comes, and tomorrow we'll be on the yacht. So it's a busy weekend for me. Have a wonderful time, too, and we'll be meeting soon.

This is what wise, young Tilac Girl wrote to conclude her comment under my blog - and it made me think. Because in the light of what happened in my life lately - I am dishonesty personified. And yet ... how honest are people really? Do they answer questions honestly? Do they tell other people what they really think of them? Is there such a thing as truth, after all - because all we have of the past is memories anyway. So truth is usually what we rememeber - and therefore think to be true. I have met so many "honest" people in my life who were very proud of themselves, but just told everybody what they thought was true - and often is was just a personal opinion. There is so much to be said about this topic .... and this makes it so hard to decide what to do.

In order not to allow my blog entries to become too long, I didn't mention many things which also happened in this week. Last night's Jacuzzi, for example. It was lovely, though not unusual; Elsie and particularly Joerg seem to have a very good spell together, they appear all cheerful and happy. I should have taken some strawberries along - there weren't any, like last time.

I had a pleasant phonecall with Tanja (some of you asked how she was doing). She said she was having a lovely time and she sounded very cheerful, too. She still doesn't tell me about guys, but she said she was doing some extra training at the hospital - for her to work in the emergency ward - which was pretty fascinating.

Ambitious Annette I met in my class. She was quiet and observant as usual and didn't seem to wish any special contact. She looks neither hurt nor depressed in any way, so I did not particularly address her. But I will carefully watch her and tell her I missed her letters as soon as there is a chance.

For Sunday Phillip and I are invited by the Editor. Planned is a welcome back drink together with one of Phillip's colleagues and his wife, and it is supposed to take place on a yacht on the Bodensee, which is a pretty big lake near here. There was a written invitation, and the information that particularly the girls were encouraged to take along their swimsuits sounded more like an order than an invitation ...