The Atlantic Puffin, formerly known as the Common Puffin until it was almost wiped out by man, was a strange bird that never really interested Margaret until last week. All these people were so excited about a pigeon with a funky beak. She didn’t get it.
She found herself in one of the reading rooms of her Bread and Breakfast and noticed a bird book published by the Audubon Society. She flipped to the P’s and found the entry she was looking for.
Margaret read about the plight of the Puffin (Fratercula artica) and its decline. She read about how just off shore was one of it's last habitats.
Whoopty Poop, the damned bird still had a home in Nova Scotia. Let the damn Canucks deal with it. She liked the business, but there was a lot to be done around here. Not like she was going to do it, but Mike expected her to. She normally was on her way to warmer climes just as Mike cracked open that first can of paint. Now, she had to stay because of some bird.
This would not do.
Her skin was losing its golden brown and she had previously arranged engagements in the Grand Caymans. Not to mention her nephew, that ugly toothed bastard. She shuddered at the thought of actually seeing him. She hated the fact that just because her sister squeezed out some illegitimate demon from her birth hole, she had to associate with it.
God, could this get any more inconvenient?
Maybe she could fake an illness related to the cold?
Maybe she could just leave Mike?
Nix on that. She had found the one man that finally got her, even if he was once a woman. He really got her.
That man was hard to find and she was ready to put up with about anything to keep him. Dating was messy. It seems like a lot of fun when you don't care about the end results, when it's for a purpose it becomes a chore. Blind dates and one night stands aren't so exciting when they become and endless monument to your failure to connect with anyone else on a level beyond sharing food and bodily fluids. All that phoniness and disappointment was something she was glad to leave behind her. No way was she letting herself fall back into that grind.
She had managed to find several where she liked the sex but hated the person. They could rock the boat but couldn’t captain a ship. She had found some that knew how thrill her with their wit and intellect but she hated the sex.
She found both in Mike. So, she wasn’t going to fuck this up, at least not yet.
Maggie, as everyone called her, was going to stick this one out.
For a little while.
The place was filling up and money was always a good thing.
All these bigwigs from Washington with expense accounts were annoying but they were just dollar signs to Maggie.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Escape From the Second Grade
Escape From the Second Grade
The rain trickled into my daydream. It was barely noticeable at first, and then the rivulets swelled into engorged rivers splashing down on the dancing panda and drowning the bagpipe playing midgets. The exploding thunder of a nearby lightning strike slammed me back into reality. I choked noisily on a chunk of air and slurped the spaghetti stream of drool back into my mouth. Twenty three third graders spun their heads in my direction and glared at me for a two second eternity. I slid the back of my wrist across my face trying to mop up any stray saliva. My heart pounded loud enough to mute the world into a muffled roar. I began to panic under the deafening silence, then someone snorted a chuckle and the whole class erupted into laughter.
Mrs. Evans stopped scratching at the blackboard with her tiny piece of chalk and turned to the class. Twenty three years of teaching elementary school had honed her eyes into precision equipment and she zeroed in on the cause of the disturbance. Her robotic teacher’s mind analyzed the sounds from her peripheral and replayed the surveillance tape recorded by the eyes in the back of her head. She processed all the info in a fraction of a second.
“Welcome back to our world Mr. Ferguson.” She growled. Her voice was gravel coated from three decades of sucking on menthol cigarettes, her hatred of youth sharpened by a thousand lonely nights snuggling up to a bottle of Jim Beam. Her stubby teeth looked like nibblets of frozen corn, haphazardly stuck into her brown gums by a blind man. Her drab copper hair spun around her head in a stringy oily mess, cropped short with self inflicted hair cuts. She barely straightened out from her hunch to reach five feet but she stretched out her polyester pant suits to the point of structural failure. She was more round than tall, sort of like an angry beach ball that nobody wants to play with. She even smelled bad. I don’t mean B.O. bad, I mean she smelled horrid. She just gave off this odor of pickled clams packed in mothballs.
Oh yeah, she was mean as hell too.
She was just plain nasty. Junk yard dog nasty. The kind of nasty that dissolves anything nice around it and putrefies everyone that it touches.
She had fifty years of hate and despair churning around inside of her, boiling up uncontrollably until it fulminated like acid over the world that she could control, the young lives she was supposed to be enriching. Instead, she suffocated them in the bile of her own self-pity and twisted their days into nightmares.
The six chalk dusted hours I spent in her hellish universe everyday were pure torture. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. Up to that point, school was my refuge, my sanctuary. It was my reprieve from the chaotic alcohol induced torment I had to tiptoe through at home. Now school was worse than home. At least at home I sometimes knew when my dad was itching to make someone as miserable as he was and I could make myself invisible. I had the best hiding places, places where he wouldn’t think a person could be. I squeeze my body into the tightest of spaces and held my breath until the angry footsteps stopped and he passed out, snoring out the all clear.
In Mrs. Evans class, I was trapped, a prisoner with no chance for parole or hope of escape.
She always kept the shades down. The one door was locked shut and the small square window in it was smeared with red paint. All glances from outside eyes were blocked. This was her world. She wanted no interference disrupting her total control. I remember only one time that another adult entered the classroom. A timid knock barely made it’s through the door. It was scarcely audible, but the sheer shock of it stunned us all and we all sat up straight in our desk in silence. Mrs. Evans quickly shifted into fake mode and cracked open the door filling the gap with her corn nibblet smile. It was just Ms. Falco and she wanted to borrow some paper. Mrs. Evans pushed the door open and retreated behind her desk. Ms. Falco took a couple of steps in then stood there nervously. We just sat quietly, staring straight ahead. Nobody turned to look at the intruder. I’m sure some of the kids rotated their eyes as far as they could twist them, trying to catch a crossed eyed glimpse. Everyone held their breath until the door closed and sealed us back in. We waited for the reprisal that was coming. The air went squalid and congealed around us in a putrid haze. Dozens of half grown feet shuffled nervously under their desks and sparked our fears into life with static electricity. A collective whimper rolled around the room.
Mrs. Egan spread her lips and flashed her rancid chicklet smile. Fumes of anger spewed from her nostrils and fire spouted out from her mouth as she screamed at the top of her lungs. The sheer volume of her tirade shattered her words into meaningless gibberish as they slammed against our eardrums. I watched the girl in front of me explode pink with fear. Kent Chesney cried loudly in the desk next to me and I smelled his pants filling with urine.
I just stared at blackboard until the white scratches of chalk swirled into a kaleidoscope. I knew where to go when grownups made the world too scary. I made myself as small as I could and squeezed myself into the tiny parcel of my mind where the real world couldn’t find me and I hid behind a daydream.
There was no more yelling.
I wasn’t small and scared anymore.
I was far away from all that.
The rain trickled into my daydream. It was barely noticeable at first, and then the rivulets swelled into engorged rivers splashing down on the dancing panda and drowning the bagpipe playing midgets. The exploding thunder of a nearby lightning strike slammed me back into reality. I choked noisily on a chunk of air and slurped the spaghetti stream of drool back into my mouth. Twenty three third graders spun their heads in my direction and glared at me for a two second eternity. I slid the back of my wrist across my face trying to mop up any stray saliva. My heart pounded loud enough to mute the world into a muffled roar. I began to panic under the deafening silence, then someone snorted a chuckle and the whole class erupted into laughter.
Mrs. Evans stopped scratching at the blackboard with her tiny piece of chalk and turned to the class. Twenty three years of teaching elementary school had honed her eyes into precision equipment and she zeroed in on the cause of the disturbance. Her robotic teacher’s mind analyzed the sounds from her peripheral and replayed the surveillance tape recorded by the eyes in the back of her head. She processed all the info in a fraction of a second.
“Welcome back to our world Mr. Ferguson.” She growled. Her voice was gravel coated from three decades of sucking on menthol cigarettes, her hatred of youth sharpened by a thousand lonely nights snuggling up to a bottle of Jim Beam. Her stubby teeth looked like nibblets of frozen corn, haphazardly stuck into her brown gums by a blind man. Her drab copper hair spun around her head in a stringy oily mess, cropped short with self inflicted hair cuts. She barely straightened out from her hunch to reach five feet but she stretched out her polyester pant suits to the point of structural failure. She was more round than tall, sort of like an angry beach ball that nobody wants to play with. She even smelled bad. I don’t mean B.O. bad, I mean she smelled horrid. She just gave off this odor of pickled clams packed in mothballs.
Oh yeah, she was mean as hell too.
She was just plain nasty. Junk yard dog nasty. The kind of nasty that dissolves anything nice around it and putrefies everyone that it touches.
She had fifty years of hate and despair churning around inside of her, boiling up uncontrollably until it fulminated like acid over the world that she could control, the young lives she was supposed to be enriching. Instead, she suffocated them in the bile of her own self-pity and twisted their days into nightmares.
The six chalk dusted hours I spent in her hellish universe everyday were pure torture. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. Up to that point, school was my refuge, my sanctuary. It was my reprieve from the chaotic alcohol induced torment I had to tiptoe through at home. Now school was worse than home. At least at home I sometimes knew when my dad was itching to make someone as miserable as he was and I could make myself invisible. I had the best hiding places, places where he wouldn’t think a person could be. I squeeze my body into the tightest of spaces and held my breath until the angry footsteps stopped and he passed out, snoring out the all clear.
In Mrs. Evans class, I was trapped, a prisoner with no chance for parole or hope of escape.
She always kept the shades down. The one door was locked shut and the small square window in it was smeared with red paint. All glances from outside eyes were blocked. This was her world. She wanted no interference disrupting her total control. I remember only one time that another adult entered the classroom. A timid knock barely made it’s through the door. It was scarcely audible, but the sheer shock of it stunned us all and we all sat up straight in our desk in silence. Mrs. Evans quickly shifted into fake mode and cracked open the door filling the gap with her corn nibblet smile. It was just Ms. Falco and she wanted to borrow some paper. Mrs. Evans pushed the door open and retreated behind her desk. Ms. Falco took a couple of steps in then stood there nervously. We just sat quietly, staring straight ahead. Nobody turned to look at the intruder. I’m sure some of the kids rotated their eyes as far as they could twist them, trying to catch a crossed eyed glimpse. Everyone held their breath until the door closed and sealed us back in. We waited for the reprisal that was coming. The air went squalid and congealed around us in a putrid haze. Dozens of half grown feet shuffled nervously under their desks and sparked our fears into life with static electricity. A collective whimper rolled around the room.
Mrs. Egan spread her lips and flashed her rancid chicklet smile. Fumes of anger spewed from her nostrils and fire spouted out from her mouth as she screamed at the top of her lungs. The sheer volume of her tirade shattered her words into meaningless gibberish as they slammed against our eardrums. I watched the girl in front of me explode pink with fear. Kent Chesney cried loudly in the desk next to me and I smelled his pants filling with urine.
I just stared at blackboard until the white scratches of chalk swirled into a kaleidoscope. I knew where to go when grownups made the world too scary. I made myself as small as I could and squeezed myself into the tiny parcel of my mind where the real world couldn’t find me and I hid behind a daydream.
There was no more yelling.
I wasn’t small and scared anymore.
I was far away from all that.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Can You Hear Us
Can You Hear Us
It’s impossible to dream
When you’re caught in between
All the things that you wanted
And where they say you belong
Move along, Move along
There must be more to this life
Than struggle and strife
There must be more for you and me
More than just words to a song
Move along move along
Move along move along
Now brave sons and brave daughters
It’s time to unite
Stand up and be heard
Stand up for what is right
We’re here and we’re now
And we are screaming out loud
We will march down the boulevards
And we’ll run down the streets
Telling everyone we know
Telling everyone we meet
That we’re here
And we’re now
When something becomes nothing
And your nothing is less
Then they come and collect interest
On the nothing you have left
Move along, move along
Come next November
They’ll say vote for a change
But change is just the other side
Of more of the same
Move along move along
Move along move along
Now brave sons and brave daughters
It’s time to unite
Stand up and be heard
Stand up for what is right
We’re here and we’re now
And we are screaming out loud
We will march down the boulevards
And we’ll run down the streets
Telling everyone we know
Telling everyone we meet
That we’re here
And we’re now
We owe it to ourselves
And we owe to our sons
Not to pay for the mistakes
Our fathers have done
We’ve got to be strong
And keep pushing on
Yes we’ve got to be strong
We’ve got to push on
Now brave sons and brave daughters
It’s time to unite
Stand up and be heard
Stand up for what is right
We’re here and we’re now
And we are screaming out loud
We will march down the boulevards
And we’ll run down the streets
Telling everyone we know
Telling everyone we meet
That we’re here
And we’re now
Yes
We will march down the boulevards
And we’ll run down the streets
Telling everyone know
Telling everyone we meet
That we’re here
And we’re now
We’re here
And we’re now
We’re here
And we’re now
8
Marmalade is just jelly with chunks. Not even good chunks at that, sort of bitter and strange like they don’t belong. It’s a Grandma Conspiracy. It’s a global blue haired cover-up to make everybody nostalgic for The Great Depression. A time, that pretty much everyone agrees sucked and anything they ate or drank during that time sucked. Yet, somehow the octogenarians can wax nostalgic about condensed milk and canned beans, dust bowls and unemployment.
Marmalade just plain sucks.
Sapphire spread the lie with a white plastic knife across her toast.
“How much longer till we get there?”
“About three and a half hours.”
The sleepy bags of skin pulled on Johnny’s bloodshot eyes and dragged them down as if they were sad. He sort of grinned as he yawned and flashed the tooth. All that deformed vulgarity showcased between tired lips grabbed hold of Sapphire. She wondered if Massachusetts had a law against road side sex. Maybe it was against full penetration, but maybe she could get away with a lean over blow job? Maybe she could…
“I gotta take a shit. I’ll be right back.” Johnny said, snapping her back from her fantasy. Nothing like a guy opening his mouth and fucking up all the good stuff you were thinking about them. If they only knew how easy it could be if they just tried a little.
Sapphire watched Johnny as he slid out of the booth. She poked her lie covered toast with a fork in contempt.
She was tired.
Everything put her flight response on full alert, but she had more than enough left in her tank to make it. She couldn’t wait to get to Torbins Shore. Torbin’s Shore was where she knew she had to be .When she got there she could paddle out and hug all the puffins on Easter Egg Rock, congratulating them on their comeback attempt and stop anyone from hurting them ever again.
She wouldn’t mention that it was futile because Wal-Mart and all those other huge heartless corporations had no use for them and if Wal-Mart had no use for you, you had no chance of being protected by the Senate. Wal-Mart and Big Oil had just about every Senator and Congressman tied up with a giant string of dollar bills. When ever all those big companies pulled on that string of dollar bills, all those fine politicians redefined their campaign lies and screwed everyone that didn’t have a hand in their pocket. What ever it was that Big Business wanted, it would make enough campaign donations to make sure our elected officials could convince the general public that it was exactly what they needed all along.
That didn’t matter.
America deserved the scum it elected. Sapphire no longer believes that her vote mattered. The Government was just a machine that chugged along, driven by corporate greed. The single crusaders of hope, voted in by small communities scattered about the country, all flashed brightly then vanished like moths hitting the zapper. Change was just the other side of the same as far as politicians were concerned.
Puffins didn’t know about politics. That was most definitely for the best. But politics had its sights on the puffin and Sapphire knew she had to help them. She didn’t know what she would do, but she knew she had to do something.
Maybe, she would just hug them all.
Then she thought, “Do puffins like to be hugged?
Marmalade just plain sucks.
Sapphire spread the lie with a white plastic knife across her toast.
“How much longer till we get there?”
“About three and a half hours.”
The sleepy bags of skin pulled on Johnny’s bloodshot eyes and dragged them down as if they were sad. He sort of grinned as he yawned and flashed the tooth. All that deformed vulgarity showcased between tired lips grabbed hold of Sapphire. She wondered if Massachusetts had a law against road side sex. Maybe it was against full penetration, but maybe she could get away with a lean over blow job? Maybe she could…
“I gotta take a shit. I’ll be right back.” Johnny said, snapping her back from her fantasy. Nothing like a guy opening his mouth and fucking up all the good stuff you were thinking about them. If they only knew how easy it could be if they just tried a little.
Sapphire watched Johnny as he slid out of the booth. She poked her lie covered toast with a fork in contempt.
She was tired.
Everything put her flight response on full alert, but she had more than enough left in her tank to make it. She couldn’t wait to get to Torbins Shore. Torbin’s Shore was where she knew she had to be .When she got there she could paddle out and hug all the puffins on Easter Egg Rock, congratulating them on their comeback attempt and stop anyone from hurting them ever again.
She wouldn’t mention that it was futile because Wal-Mart and all those other huge heartless corporations had no use for them and if Wal-Mart had no use for you, you had no chance of being protected by the Senate. Wal-Mart and Big Oil had just about every Senator and Congressman tied up with a giant string of dollar bills. When ever all those big companies pulled on that string of dollar bills, all those fine politicians redefined their campaign lies and screwed everyone that didn’t have a hand in their pocket. What ever it was that Big Business wanted, it would make enough campaign donations to make sure our elected officials could convince the general public that it was exactly what they needed all along.
That didn’t matter.
America deserved the scum it elected. Sapphire no longer believes that her vote mattered. The Government was just a machine that chugged along, driven by corporate greed. The single crusaders of hope, voted in by small communities scattered about the country, all flashed brightly then vanished like moths hitting the zapper. Change was just the other side of the same as far as politicians were concerned.
Puffins didn’t know about politics. That was most definitely for the best. But politics had its sights on the puffin and Sapphire knew she had to help them. She didn’t know what she would do, but she knew she had to do something.
Maybe, she would just hug them all.
Then she thought, “Do puffins like to be hugged?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Wonder
Molly woke me up with kisses
And made the morning so delicious
She makes living in this city
like a pocket full of dreams
And she shows me all that life brings
Every Sunday we walk to breakfast
They all know us down at the Brickway
She gets a menu but orders the same thing
every single time
I’m so happy that she’s mine
Oh the wonder
She’s like lightning to my thunder
Make love to me in the morning
And again in the afternoon
Maybe twice if you’d like to
Maybe three times if I can
She cracks a smile and completes me
Sky blue eyes that enchant me
She’s so witty and flower pretty, the wonder never ends
She’s my lover and my best friend
Oh the wonder
She’s like lightning to my thunder
Make love to me in the morning
And again in the afternoon
Maybe twice if you’d like to
Maybe three times if I can
Sunlight painted red by curtains
Every moment I’m more certain
She is the meaning and the reason I have searched for all my life
I’m so happy that she’s my wife
Oh the wonder
She’s like lightning to my thunder
Make love to me in the morning
And again in the afternoon
Maybe twice if you’d like to
Maybe three times if I can
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
7
Mike Honey never regretted the change.
It made him free.
Personal liberation gets devalued in this age of reality TV and American irresponsibility.
The mouth breathers soak up the spin fed diatribe that shits out of the Idiot Box every night, lapping it up like suckling pigs.
They all validate themselves around the water cooler the next day and everyone regurgitates what they were spoon fed last night from the broadcast. Then, they take a sip of coffee, stand around in an awkward pause, realizing that all the people they hang around with for more than half the time they are awake are not people they particularly like. Suddenly, they have something to do and they slide a few short sentences that are too short and too vague to ever expose what they really think out and then slink back in their cubicles.
Fuck them.
Mike got his. Four and a half inches of flesh that validated what he was born to be.
He was a man.
He was real.
Modern Science fixed Natures hiccup. The mind and the body finally matched in philosophy. Jeans looked good low slung off his hips and his soul patch rocked.
Not to mention he owned the best Bed and Breakfast in Maine. Torbins Shore had eight rooms and four bathrooms. It overlooked a rocky beach that was saddled between two large outcroppings and it had the best chef this side of everywhere. Its rooms were filled from April till November.
Usually Mike spent the winter cleaning and repainting the empty rooms. Not this winter, the rooms were filled with rich Liberals. Not the Liberals he identified with, but the Money Liberals that were really Conservatives with a conscious. They were taking a break from their $900-a-plate dinners for the homeless and drove their SUV’s up to Easter Egg Rock to save the puffin.
Mike didn’t mind the business, but these jerk offs irritated him. Snooty mother fuckers always kick started his bad side. Silver haired fifty somethings honeymooning on their Do-Over Weddings always made better clientele. He didn’t even mind the young Affected Artist couples, even though they tipped lousy.
These people just sucked.
His life partner agreed late night in whispers, but during the day she never let her smile fade. No want went overlooked and no need wasn’t anticipated. She always knew how to make everybody comfortable.
Mike had never seen her falter.
He was surprised to see her body almost slump after the phone call from her nephew.
Mike guessed that he was coming to visit.
It made him free.
Personal liberation gets devalued in this age of reality TV and American irresponsibility.
The mouth breathers soak up the spin fed diatribe that shits out of the Idiot Box every night, lapping it up like suckling pigs.
They all validate themselves around the water cooler the next day and everyone regurgitates what they were spoon fed last night from the broadcast. Then, they take a sip of coffee, stand around in an awkward pause, realizing that all the people they hang around with for more than half the time they are awake are not people they particularly like. Suddenly, they have something to do and they slide a few short sentences that are too short and too vague to ever expose what they really think out and then slink back in their cubicles.
Fuck them.
Mike got his. Four and a half inches of flesh that validated what he was born to be.
He was a man.
He was real.
Modern Science fixed Natures hiccup. The mind and the body finally matched in philosophy. Jeans looked good low slung off his hips and his soul patch rocked.
Not to mention he owned the best Bed and Breakfast in Maine. Torbins Shore had eight rooms and four bathrooms. It overlooked a rocky beach that was saddled between two large outcroppings and it had the best chef this side of everywhere. Its rooms were filled from April till November.
Usually Mike spent the winter cleaning and repainting the empty rooms. Not this winter, the rooms were filled with rich Liberals. Not the Liberals he identified with, but the Money Liberals that were really Conservatives with a conscious. They were taking a break from their $900-a-plate dinners for the homeless and drove their SUV’s up to Easter Egg Rock to save the puffin.
Mike didn’t mind the business, but these jerk offs irritated him. Snooty mother fuckers always kick started his bad side. Silver haired fifty somethings honeymooning on their Do-Over Weddings always made better clientele. He didn’t even mind the young Affected Artist couples, even though they tipped lousy.
These people just sucked.
His life partner agreed late night in whispers, but during the day she never let her smile fade. No want went overlooked and no need wasn’t anticipated. She always knew how to make everybody comfortable.
Mike had never seen her falter.
He was surprised to see her body almost slump after the phone call from her nephew.
Mike guessed that he was coming to visit.
6
Butt Doilies rock!
They create the security blanket between you and what ever disease or disgusting funkiness that resides on that plastic public horseshoe of a toilet seat. No need to balance your hovering ass on high heeled feet and right angled legs, just sit down on the paper and let the warm nuisance sprinkle out.
Jasmine pulled out a doily and placed it down around the seat, framing her target with a safety seal. She pushed her pants down to her knees, making sure her thumbs caught her panties, dragging them down too.
Gravity did the rest.
Her ass pressed against the paper and split open her undercarriage over the watery basin.
Sapphire looked around. She felt awkward being alone with herself. She started reading the scratched poetry on the walls of the stall.
“Here I sit, broken hearted. Tried to shit, but only farted.”
“I lived and learned, then got stoned and forgot.”
“MANNY SUCKS COCK!!!!!!!”
Not quite Pulitzer prize material, but it distracted her eyes and occupied her mind. Her focus deflected, she felt safe and relaxed, listening to the echoing splash of her piss stream.
She emptied out, kind of surprised she had that much in her.
She balled up some tissue and wiped from front to back, just like her mother taught her when she was 3. Pulling up her pants, she thought about the trifecta of fast food outlets that filled the lobby.
“I hope he’s hungry.” She said out loud.
She waved her hands under the faucet and forced its automatic flow. No soap, just a casual rinse off and a damp fingered splash to her bangs. She almost body kissed a middle aged soccer mom as she turned to leave. For a brief second Sapphire glanced into her eyes and slid down their mind funnel. She saw three kids, a Doberman and a lean chiseled Pilates instructor that filled the gaps her inattentive husband left on his career path. Sapphire shuddered with cold contempt.
“Fuck that,” she thought, “Why pretend to settle on one dick?”
She was going to taste a bunch of them, in all their throbbing saltiness, but when she found the right one, there would be no pretending. She wasn’t going to fuck it up. It wasn’t like she needed a man. She just knew that somewhere out there, a man existed that was more than a life support system for a cock. There had to be at least one man that would unlock the jaded cell of her heart. Her mother had to be wrong. She had to be. Sapphire had tried to be a lesbian. She really did. Women were so beautiful and soft. She even adored the firm shapeliness of breasts, but it just wasn’t there. She wanted a man, with all his imperfections. Strong shouldered, he would wrap her firmly as they made love and make her feel embraced. He would cuddle and laugh at her jokes but leave abruptly to conquer the world, not forgetting to kiss her passionately before he did.
Yeah right.
A girl can dream can’t she?
Right now all she had was Five Hairs. He had potential. After all, he had convinced her to double back towards home and he had such passion for the puffin. A man with passion is a good thing.
Maybe he had passion for other things, like tongue circling her clitoris till she came.
Maybe for cuddling and pillow talk.
Maybe for buying two cheeseburgers so he could share.
Maybe it was just a passion for the puffin and that would have to suffice
They create the security blanket between you and what ever disease or disgusting funkiness that resides on that plastic public horseshoe of a toilet seat. No need to balance your hovering ass on high heeled feet and right angled legs, just sit down on the paper and let the warm nuisance sprinkle out.
Jasmine pulled out a doily and placed it down around the seat, framing her target with a safety seal. She pushed her pants down to her knees, making sure her thumbs caught her panties, dragging them down too.
Gravity did the rest.
Her ass pressed against the paper and split open her undercarriage over the watery basin.
Sapphire looked around. She felt awkward being alone with herself. She started reading the scratched poetry on the walls of the stall.
“Here I sit, broken hearted. Tried to shit, but only farted.”
“I lived and learned, then got stoned and forgot.”
“MANNY SUCKS COCK!!!!!!!”
Not quite Pulitzer prize material, but it distracted her eyes and occupied her mind. Her focus deflected, she felt safe and relaxed, listening to the echoing splash of her piss stream.
She emptied out, kind of surprised she had that much in her.
She balled up some tissue and wiped from front to back, just like her mother taught her when she was 3. Pulling up her pants, she thought about the trifecta of fast food outlets that filled the lobby.
“I hope he’s hungry.” She said out loud.
She waved her hands under the faucet and forced its automatic flow. No soap, just a casual rinse off and a damp fingered splash to her bangs. She almost body kissed a middle aged soccer mom as she turned to leave. For a brief second Sapphire glanced into her eyes and slid down their mind funnel. She saw three kids, a Doberman and a lean chiseled Pilates instructor that filled the gaps her inattentive husband left on his career path. Sapphire shuddered with cold contempt.
“Fuck that,” she thought, “Why pretend to settle on one dick?”
She was going to taste a bunch of them, in all their throbbing saltiness, but when she found the right one, there would be no pretending. She wasn’t going to fuck it up. It wasn’t like she needed a man. She just knew that somewhere out there, a man existed that was more than a life support system for a cock. There had to be at least one man that would unlock the jaded cell of her heart. Her mother had to be wrong. She had to be. Sapphire had tried to be a lesbian. She really did. Women were so beautiful and soft. She even adored the firm shapeliness of breasts, but it just wasn’t there. She wanted a man, with all his imperfections. Strong shouldered, he would wrap her firmly as they made love and make her feel embraced. He would cuddle and laugh at her jokes but leave abruptly to conquer the world, not forgetting to kiss her passionately before he did.
Yeah right.
A girl can dream can’t she?
Right now all she had was Five Hairs. He had potential. After all, he had convinced her to double back towards home and he had such passion for the puffin. A man with passion is a good thing.
Maybe he had passion for other things, like tongue circling her clitoris till she came.
Maybe for cuddling and pillow talk.
Maybe for buying two cheeseburgers so he could share.
Maybe it was just a passion for the puffin and that would have to suffice
Saturday, April 3, 2010
You Are My Song
You Are My Song
The night is over
And the band has left the stage
The bartender cracks a smile
At the money she has made
They’re loading up the truck
And turning on the lights
But something here is missing
Something is just not right
Because my head is humming now
And I’m too drunk to see
But I feel it
Taste it
Deep down in me
It’s a symphony
Playing in my soul
And I’ve got to find a way
To let it show
But I think it’s fading fast and now
Oh no it’s gone
Doesn’t matter anyway
Because there is no one left in here
To hear me play
Then you walk up to me
And lead me to my car
I open up my eyes and stumbling I see
It’s right there where you are
It’s coming back to me
My private masterpiece
It’s all around me
It’s you…
You are my song
You are my song
I love you
You are my song
The night is over
And the band has left the stage
The bartender cracks a smile
At the money she has made
They’re loading up the truck
And turning on the lights
But something here is missing
Something is just not right
Because my head is humming now
And I’m too drunk to see
But I feel it
Taste it
Deep down in me
It’s a symphony
Playing in my soul
And I’ve got to find a way
To let it show
But I think it’s fading fast and now
Oh no it’s gone
Doesn’t matter anyway
Because there is no one left in here
To hear me play
Then you walk up to me
And lead me to my car
I open up my eyes and stumbling I see
It’s right there where you are
It’s coming back to me
My private masterpiece
It’s all around me
It’s you…
You are my song
You are my song
I love you
You are my song
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