Mat Twassel: Blog

Recently I read Chris Bohjalian's new novel Hour of the Witch. It's set in Boston around 1660 and concerns a young woman who is battered by her well-to-do husband but is unable to get a divorce. The mentality of that society disturbed me. I'm glad I didn't live back then. But I have to wonder if people living 400 years from now (assuming there are people) will think the same thing about people living in 2021.

Yesterday I was thinking about colors. Perhaps like most people, I recognize appealing color combinations and unappealing color combinations. But except by trial and error I'm not able to "create" appealing color combinations. I have to see it to get it; I can't visualize it out of thin air. There are perhaps a few exceptions, and some of these relate to sex. I can picture (and with pleasure) the colors or a woman's nipple and areola, the delicate hues of her vulva, the shades of her anus. Shows where my mind's at, I guess.

This morning my illustrated story "Condom Capers" appears here on SOL. The story owes to some suggestions by ChewToyHuey. Thanks ChewToy!

In my two little stories today, rain interrupts picnics. The picnickers make the best of the situation.

I hope your Sunday is full of sunshine, but whether it is or not, have a great day!

I noticed yesterday that 100 people are following this blog. Years ago (for about two months) I did a blog of sorts on AOL (that's America On Line). It was more of a journal. I wrote something almost every day. I don't see myself doing that here. My thoughts and experiences aren't as interesting now as then. For instance, now I'm wondering about the real first names of my 100 followers. It would be fun (maybe) to have a list. In the old days I wrote about beer and boobs. For instance:

Journal: Boobs by Mat Twassel
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I have breasts on my mind at the moment. The train station has escalators down to the trains, and at the top just off to one side is the last-minute newspaper stand and next to the last-minute newspaper stand is the beer tub, which is always manned by a young lady. Today's young lady is attractive, as they usually are, and just as I walk by she bends down to plunge a can of beer further into the huge galvanized ice tub. She is wearing a scoop neck jersey sweater, and her bending presents her breasts most beautifully. Truly I feel almost faint. These are boobs. Modest breasts move me most as a rule, though I like all shapes and sizes. The beer woman's breasts are not actually hugely huge at all, but they have a lovely rounded-oblong animal-balloon sort of shape as they hang down, firm and full and beyond-belief creamy, swaying slightly in the snug but loose hold of her sweater shirt. I want them. Oh, how I want them. (They're on my Christmas list!)

As a teen I didn't like the word boobs; too vulgar it seemed. I also didn't care for tits or bosoms. But this woman's boobs have converted me. No, I didn't buy a beer. Even if I were one to buy train-ride-home beers, that woman's beauty is too scary, too much. But I wish I could let her know somehow how beautiful I think her breasts are. Maybe she knows; maybe she can tell from my stride. My brief glance to her eyes, devilishly bright brown full-breasted eyes, and quickly down... away. Sigh.

And what would I do with such breasts? Haven't really got that far yet.

--mat twassel 11/98

An SOL reader yelled at me yesterday for not providing sufficient warning about the contents of my story "E-Bike." The story was coded "caution." I believe that should have been warning enough that the story might not have a happy ending and that the contents might include something dire.

Today I have a story "Fraternity Life" coded "gay,bi,het,fict,anal,oral,caution." I have to trust that sensitive readers who prefer not to encounter material indicated by these codes will avoid this story.

What else can I do? I'm going to write and post darker themed stories from time to time.

Just to set the scene, I'm drinking Letterbox green tea from a mug someone gave me this last Christmas. I've reheated the tea in our ancient microwave, 66 seconds on high, and it's the perfect temperature. Sixty-six is my favorite number, and it's easy to punch in on the old microwave, whose leds haven't worked in decades. The mug itself features four animals marching around the outside. A polar bear leads the way. He, as do all these animals, walks upright. He's carrying a decorated Christmas tree in one hand and a sack labeled Fred's Fish Shop in the other. Trailing the bear is the cat, who is holding a candy cane as well as a bag from Fred's Fish Shop. Next comes the mouse, who is the only character carrying but one thing, in this case a smallish shopping bag with Cheese Shop printed on the side. Bringing up the rear is the dog, also carrying a decorated Christmas tree. His bag says Bob's Bone Shop, and poking up from the bag are two large white bones. The background is red, and a few white circular snowflakes fall. I left out an important part of the scene, one which I only noticed just now, which shows you how much attention I pay to theses things. You remember the polar bear and the cat each carry a sack from Fred's Fish Shop. Between the bear and the cat stands a fish. He's handing a pair of shears to another fish who is peaking from the cat's bag. We can see now that the first fish has cut away the rear of the bear's bag and escaped.

Do you remember those games you'd play at early grade school birthday parties in which everyone would look at a large tray upon which sat various items? The children look at the tray for about a minute, then the tray would be taken away, and all the kids would have to write down the items on the tray. I was really good at that sort of game. Often I could remember all the items.

In the SOL forum today I noticed a post having to do with descriptions. The post started out being about measurements, you know, ample breasts, perky breasts, cupcake breasts, but gradually evolved into a discussion about descriptions beyond breasts. I often find myself losing focus when reading a long descriptive passage in a story. And even if I pay attention, even if I can remember most of the elements in the description, I don't really form a picture. Likely many readers do form pictures. I wonder what's wrong with me.

In my own writing, rarely do I provide a lot of description. Quite a few of my stories are mostly dialogue. But lately I've been doing illustrations, so that's my excuse for skimping on the description. I forgot to tell you that all the animals on the Christmas mug other than the two fish wear heavy winter coats. None of them wears pants or shoes, but the bear has a cap and the cat has a scarf, and they all have mittens.

Just for fun I took a look at one of my most recently posted stories, "Chord Progression." It's 499 words excluding title, there's really not any dialogue, and I think only two sentences contain what can be thought of as traditional description.

He's slight but powerful, and boy does he have good fingering.

His cock was hanging down, soft but big, and I could see it lurch upward just a bit.

Slight but powerful. Soft but big.

The bear, the cat, and the dog are all soft but big. The bones are good sized, too. I doubt they were meant to be phallic emblems, but …