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I've never had any real need for "big fun". I don't understand people who must pursue elaborate parties and soirees and outings and events every weekend. People who feel the need to stand outside, awaiting the appraisal of some anvil-headed doorman to determine whether or not they're allowed entry to some special, exclusive world beyond the velvet ropes. What a fucking revolting mess you must be if you willingly allow that kind of judgment into your life. You can have a much better time in some dingy shithole with people who don't give a fuck. Or just stay at home.
You leaned across me for the computer mouse, and for several minutes your forearm was but six inches from my face. I sat transfixed, tasting each soft hair with my eyes, daring my lips to lean down and graze. You said something, I'm sure, and we exchanged words the way people do in conversation, but I don't remember what was said. All I could hear were the words inside my head and heart, hiding behind the lips that wanted so much to rest themselves gently on your forearm. I will never tell you what the words were. You'd only laugh.
Last Saturday, I tried to do the thing where you "live for the moment", but the whole time I tried, while eating lunch at a really nice place where the food was beyond delicious, my mind kept wandering to the closets at home, and the drawers, and how behind the doors and in the drawers laid masses of messes that were beyond ridiculous and needed my attention desperately. So I wound up not savoring the food the way it deserved, but feasting on the notions of clutter, dust, jumbles of socks, and jangles of hangers instead. Not so very tasty.
Whenever it rains heavily, a puddle the size of Lake Erie forms at the southeast corner of 23rd Street and Sixth Avenue. Like part of the landscape. Those of us who live in the neighborhood or who are familiar with the area know what to expect. I get a huge kick out of seeing people try to negotiate the mini-lake in their ordinary shoes. My favorites are fashion victims in their pointy-toed pumps who don't realize how deep the puddle is but who find out very quickly and get extremely mad. I could warn them, but really, why should I?
Girls, would you please mind telling me just who you think you're fooling by pretending you're cool with calling yourselves "curvy" and "womanly" and "shapely" – the new vernacular to describe a less than slender form ... insisting, red-faced, that you won't be a slave to the media, and you're proud of your size, damn it, when really, at home, under cover of your flannel pajama bottoms and baggy sweatshirts, gorging yourselves teary-eyed on a pint of your favorite ice cream, you examine every perfect inch of Jennifer Aniston's body on "Friends" and wish oh wish so desperately that it was yours.
Oh sure, I'd like to be so "deep" as to say that the best sex I've ever had was with a guy who wasn't handsome and whose body wasn't that great and whose brain was the biggest turn-on, and my oh my, it didn't matter that his cock was barely four inches completely hard. But it's not the truth. The truth is, the best I ever had was with a gorgeous man (the best-looking one I've ever been with) with a perfect body of marble, a grand-sized cock even more solid, and imagination and ability like I've never had since.
Did you have to literally crawl up my ass today, Shop Boy, as I browsed through the racks of clothing in the somewhat trendy store of your employer? How was it for you in there? Was it warm enough? I would apologize for the cramped quarters, but my ass has not seen nearly as much action as I'm sure yours has. I must say I was amused to find you'd made your way through my intestines (large and small), back up into my stomach, my throat, and finally into my mouth. I must say, it was delightful, spitting you out!
I saw a man at the gym this morning with quite a set of tits! What a rack this fellow had! He displayed it in a tight orange shirt that accentuated each tit's outer edge and perky pointy peak that indicated that the gym was a little colder than it should've been. It was quite spectacular, really. And I must say that I was just as shocked by the sight as I was jealous of his knockers. So to compensate, I plan to do everything in my power to sprout the biggest pair of balls the gym has ever seen!
She has known him for 20 years and wanted him for almost as long. He, likewise. He has been married the entire time she has known him, but really, that wouldn't stop either of them from carrying on in some fashion. Still, they have never done anything about it. Today they spoke on the phone, and he told her that his wife was diagnosed a year ago with cancer.
"Oh, no!" she says, feigning a gasp. Then falls silent.
"You're shocked," he says.
"Fantastic! I hope she dies soon, so I can step in," she thinks.
"Yes, I am," she says.
Every day Anna checks behind the shower curtain to make sure her grandfather isn't lurking behind it -- waiting to ambush her, thus proving that he's either still alive and has been hiding out for the past ten years, or has risen from the dead and is here to scare her to death so he can take her with him and feed her knishes and bagels for all eternity. What she doesn't know is that he is there, cleverly disguised as the bottle of bubble bath he gave her a month before he died. The bottle she's vowed she'll save forever.
Oh, baby-faced West Virginian Jessica Lynch! You seem like a pleasant, thoughtful enough young lady, what with the unhurried, simple cadence of your speech, the demure bow of your head, and the sincere manner in which you converse with Diane Sawyer on
. Your shyness is even quite appealing and sweet. And believe it or not, I'm willing to forgive you for saying "ain't", "seen" instead of "saw", and pronouncing "trapeze" as "trampeze". But I just cannot forgive you for those horrible wheat-colored straight-cut bangs that rest on your forehead. Even those wacky Iraqis know that's a big fashion "don't"!
That's it. I've had it. It's been long enough. Today is the last day I am allowing myself to wallow in the misery of my self-diagnosed "flu". Fuck the scratchy bloody-tasting throat that has me sounding like Demi Moore. Screw the occasional blinding wincing that accompanies my eyes' exposure to glaring bright white light. Damn the intermittent headaches that force my eyebrows into the center of my face. I'm going out, I'm going shopping, and I may even spread my deadly illness around this town by licking everything I take into the dressing room. Ahh, I'm feeling much better already!
Several years ago I met a young guy who, within minutes of our introduction, told me, with the biggest, brightest grin this side of a starched-white-jacketed manservant tapdancing while serving clinky-iced drinks to society page doyennes on a luxury cruiseliner circa 1936, that he'd never had a bad day in his life. I hated him for it. Not because I was envious of someone whose every day was ripe with juicy rainbows, dancing unicorns, and orange juice sunshine, but because I knew it was nonsense. I got back at him by arranging to have his tires slashed that very night!
My mother seems somewhat displeased that my foray into comfortable footwear ended with the one pair of Skechers with which it started this summer. "Aren't they fantastic?" she'd gushed. "You'll never go back to the shoes you wore before."
This weekend when I wore my kicky boots in her presence, I demonstrated to her that I put as much stock in her predication as I did in the saying about not going back once you have black. I've had plenty of white since having black, Mom, and I assure you I'm back in the high heels too.
Sorry to disappoint!
I am living for that day. Living for it. Living for that afternoon next week when I will see this certain person. Is it a "date"? Who knows. We're getting together, and that's enough definition for me.
I'm living for that day next week. Wednesday. When I see his face at noon and get to see it for the next six or so hours and then, that evening and all that night, daydream about the kisses we may or may not have shared, and the way I gripped his thigh under the table and felt its pulse in my fingers.
The salesgirl said they were "booty pants", and by god, golly, gum, she was right! I tell you, they look so good on that I can't help but fondle my own ass through the sleek fabric, and admire the way it makes my little "booty" even perkier than it usually perks. Hoo girl, how I appreciate all the hard work that goes into keeping it this way! And oh, how I wish I were the boy for whom I'll be wearing those pants this week, so I could follow me up some stairs and watch my fine, fine ass! Yow!
Per the promise she made to the handful of friends with whom she had entrusted the luscious top secret secret, Melanie will not be blowing her hairdresser tomorrow afternoon after he works his magic on the hay bale atop her pretty head. It's true that the last two times she had her hair done by this sexy European, she's expressed her appreciation for his talents both vocally and orally. But this time she swears (vocally only) that it won't happen again. It won't. Not unless he promises to waive the fee for cutting her hair. After all, she's a lady!
Tomorrow when we meet, I'll be all hahaha and he'll be all hahahahaha, and there will be some heehaw and guffaw and all that jazz that goes on when two people who really want to devour each other have to pretend that it's too soon to be doing the sort of things that, for the past couple of months, they've been dreaming about doing to each other and will be fantasizing about doing to each other from the very first "hello" tomorrow afternoon. We'll eat our lunch, but really, we'll each be wondering what the other one tastes like. Right?
It's pouring. We're walking east on a numbered street toward Fifth Avenue. I'm nervous and decide to fill the tension with a routine question about his upcoming Christmas party. In response, he leans in toward me and kisses me. He kisses me perfectly. He kisses me the way I've daydreamed about someone (him!) kissing me. His kisses surpass the daydreamed kisses. We walk up Fifth Avenue, arms firmly around each other, steps in synch. From time to time we pause to kiss, under our umbrellas. I am finally a part of one of those couples I always pretend to hate.
In my veins instead of blood are Pop Rocks in a variety of flavors. I tell anyone who will listen, whenever the conversation turns even remotely to the circulatory system or candy. Occasionally a jokester tells me my story is "sweet" and winks so I get the joke.
Once at a dinner party, just for kicks, I stabbed myself in the thigh with a steak knife. My life wasn't saved by any of the adults, but by little Johnny Jameson, who had the smarts to apply his mouth to my wound. It's a good thing sour grape was his favorite!
Rather than sit by the phone and wring my hands in anticipation of a phone call from a boy, I sit in front of my computer and hold my breath as email comes in. But just as the phone mocked me with silence or with its Caller ID announcement that someone "not him" was calling, the email points its finger and brands me a freak way too old to care that "he" hasn't been in touch.
You'd think you'd leave it behind when you're old enough to have daughters who would be worrying about this shit. But you'd be wrong.
Words, on which I can always rely to comfort me or see me through anything I don't want to confront, to which I turn in anger or in disgust or in hate or love or any other emotion that I want to indulge in comfortably, privately, without having to turn it toward the situation or person deserving of it ... those words now fail me. Or maybe, really, I'm failing the words. Yes, I am letting them down. Disappointing them. They're there, they're waiting, but they're all a mess, a jangle, beads unstrung and rolling between floorboards with the dust. Disenchanted.
He will not understand the nuances, the subtleties, the uncountable variety of shades that lie on the long continuum leading from blackest black to whitest white. He will not comprehend even the middle-of-the-road gray, the one the easily recognizable color of a basic sweatshirt. He will only understand what he already knows, and will not even realize he must discover that there is something beyond his limited experience that will turn his head around so fast that the black and white, and the speeding blur, will no longer interest him. But first he has to be willing to be interested.
Usually only the teeth fall out. Sometimes as easily as seeds sliced from cucumber spears. Sometimes, though, they dangle from a tooth thread, flimsy as dental floss. Or they just bend and twist free from the gum. But what of the recent dream, where my entire face peeled off like a mask, with holes left for the eyes, but lips intact and protruding as if they'd been forming a word at the moment my flesh separated itself from my face? And behind those lips, a full set of capped teeth, which left behind in my head only tiny bloody stumps?
If I had my way right now, I'd clap your head between two gleaming brass cymbals. Yes, this would, of course, inhibit the clash of sound, but that's quite all right, as I would not be onstage in a formal black dress, punctuating the musical sentences laid out by the orchestra you have all paid oh so much money to listen to. No, I'd just be fumbling around someone's old attic, looking for something with which to smash your face, and as luck would have it, the cymbals would be there. And so, somehow, would you. What are the chances!
I want to introduce your face to a stucco wall. I want to scrub your face against it like a panicked teenager, who, faced with a ravage of skin mishaps the very day he is finally taking out Kirsten Hendricks (the girl he's had his eye on even before she went and sprouted that amazing body that all the other guys say disgusting things about in the locker room), rushes out to the garage in search of the heaviest sandpaper in his dad's toolbox so he can scrub his skin raw. Raw, bloody, and oozing, but at least without zits.
Damn you, Kurt Vonnegut, and your fluffy head of gray hair. Damn you for not writing back to me, when I spent so much time searching for the perfect stationary on which to write you a letter that I was sure you would appreciate. At the very least, I expected you to be so taken with my printing, which everyone always says looks like it was typewritten or typeset, that you'd want to meet the fascinating woman capable of creating it. I expected an invitation to tea, Mr. Vonnegut. At the very least, a leisurely walk on the East Side!
I saw a new product on TV that's supposed to give a girl the sassy cleavage that's all the rage among those desperate to draw attention to tits that are way larger than their brains. It's a set of two smooth, shiny pads the size and shape of boneless chicken breasts, which a chick inserts into her Teenform bra to give the illusion of fullness. So what happens at the moment of truth, when her ardent suitor finds himself with two fists full of Purdue? Does he run away, like a chicken with his head cut off? I say yes!
Just as annoying as listening to some actor drone on about "honing my craft", is listening to a writer plod on about his "approach". Perhaps some of the most loathesome of writers are those who insist they can only type on an old Royal typewriter. Please. I lump you poseur-writers with the poseur-actors who, as part of their "preparation", punch the air like boxers or flail like psychotics. Oh, look at me, I'm really free as I flail myself into character. Am I not so real? And listen to me, clacking away on my typewriter. Can't you hear my progress?
What a raging disappointment, Jolene thinks. She'd been on a diet for a year and a half, and only once or twice had she snuck a taste of something "forbidden". And now, when she's finally as slender as she's ever dreamed of being, she orders a huge slice of her favorite dessert ever, a triple-fudge upside-down cashew cheesecake. But when she slides a gooey bite of it past her quivering lips, it's not what she thought it would be. This was what she'd lusted after for so long? It wasn't even a treat! Oh god, she waited forever ... for this?
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