January 25, 1999 |
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Woe. I just found out from that email list that the guy, known only as Priest, wants to have a drink with me. Ouch. (Yeeeeessssssss.) But seriously folks, I would like to laugh at my sister here a bit. I am a bitch to her, you know. And likewise I'm sure. Sibling rivalry to the last, even if we sometimes daydream that we get along during Christmas. Our only common belief between us may be our passion for eachother's competition. Yeah Astrid, well? Here's one I don't even care if you believe me. I step powerfully into a hero's stance. I'm just gonna take the liberty
to shove my anyway (Christ, I shouldn't drink coffee and listen to Prodigy at the same time. Makes me so defensive.) So. My trophy story this evening. (Astrid, are you listening?) I just met a kindered spirit. Oh yeah. I do sound a bit like a hippy, but hippy or not, kindered would be the word that best describes J (shit, I forgot his name now) J..h. No not H. Juh. Jessssssus? What the fuck. I can't fucking remember Alabama's name now. But that's the point really. I met him, called him, and fucked him like other's offer their guests a beverage. They used to call it casual sex some bygone era. And he wasn't drop dead gorgeous or anything, but his Punky Color cherry red dye job and a cocosweet smile made up for anything else. And hell, a guy's gotta have his fat Tomcat side. The one that deliciously parks himself, sweats and a Tee, infront of the tube 2 in the morning. HIS beer, swank video and pride in his hard on. Hard ons, as all men must know at this point on, all hard ons should provoke some pride. Should. Control yourselves, boys. And to coy an Austin Power's kitch phrase......Beeehave. So I meet Alabama, J. Nope, don't have the name just yet. And I found his dogtags in my tent yesterday morning too. I know what you're thinking. This Alabama is a dog (for all of you people who know my beastiality side). I would be proud to rumorshock you with that little lie. But I swear to you Alabama Barry. Ooo. I got his last name now. Mr. Barry is a wellset gent. And quite human. I got that proof up close and personal like. And I call him Alabama because he told me the 4 box story one pennisula walk in the ferns. He and I were enjoying an afterfuck walk in a wooded park, when he tells me the story of how he made his migration from Alabama to Seattle. Yeah. One day he and some friends packed their cars and aimed their sights roughly at Montana. He and I both had an epiphany talking about Massula Montana. He took an odd boomerang shaped route straight up from Alabama to hook up on Interstate90 and then it would be straight westbound at that point. I think he and his friends wanted the long tour. But maybe that somehow was the quickest way, I don't know. So he said he stayed in some wayside hotel some dive town in Wisconsin on the way. I thought he was going to tell me how plain my homestate was, but rather, he seemed delighted by the experience. Every moment was fresh to him on that migration West. The prize detail he told me about was these 4 boxes he consolidated his life into. Only 4 boxes of nesting material. That is the bit that speaks straight to my wandering instinct. Man. I remember sailing that same interstate over the black hills with a wailing, overheated cat at her side all the way. Those roads were long and soul searching. You could stop anywhere. No ties. Untethered, riding with the wind. A proud stickshift in your palm and 4 boxes in your trunk. That is a fucking kindered spirit man. We walked that penninsula park comparing our wings the next morning. His Alabama wings compared to my fluffy Wisconsin ones. So, Astrid. Sister by blood. Tell me do you and your peewee milkfed boyfriend share some rooted instinct? For your sake, I hope you at least share that part. Because it was a rough road for me, as successful as I am otherwise, to find a guy who means me no harm and has pride in his hard ons. Jamison. Oh yeah. Jamison. Jamison (bama) Barry he wrote on the paperslip also baring his home number. Oh, and Astrid? I chose to seduce Jamison. My first offer made way for my date with Jamison Saturday night. Did I mention this first offer is a girl? Yeah. After a weekend to sleep on it (pun intended) I have come to decide I will take up Jasmine's offer after all. Experimenting sounds fun. But first cums first. And I borrowed a stripper's dress from my Swankmodel roommate to meet up with Jamison. He kisses me back. Calls me Blu in recognition of the blue velvet bra I flashed him at the bar. Velv. And I screamed fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmeover and over. Not even sheathed. (And if you're thinking of judging my impulsive prophelactic mistakes... save your sermon. I don't want to hear about it.) I had it coming. I MADE it come. And the elevator? How the hell did that elevator start moving again Jamison? I was squatting down too far on your leg to hit that shiny red Stop button. I think your arm hit it while you were groping for support. And the frostytipped peaks we snaked just to celebrate the rare sunny Seattle day the next morning. Did my Chicklette-sweet finger taste better than the pussy dipped one? "Mmm. Pussy's sway-ter." He says with his heavy southern drawl. And he admitted to his delight that I had skimmed my self molestation right under his nose. Never saw me dip my finger. But his woody showed me just how appreciated my snatchstuffed finger was nonetheless. |
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