Buying her fund-raising cookies, joining her after school clubs, and hanging out with her friends just isn't working. I wish I wasn't so chubby, cowardly, and weak. She doesn't notice me at all. I think she likes Brock Dillinger. I tried to show her the drawing I did for the art show the other day, but she said vampire hunters are stupid.
I hope I don't get knocked down in gym today. I hate this school. I guess there was no point in my making a mixed tape and writing her a letter. I feel sick. I want to go home.
There she goes, laughing and talking with Carson Clark. They sure look like they're having a great time. I guess it's off to math for me. I don't have my homework done, so I'll probably be flunking yet another assignment.
At least I won't need math in arts school. Everything will be better when I'm in college. After I graduate, I'll probably be some big shot novelist/comic book artist/movie director. I'll get to date whoever I want! I'll have tons of hot girls! Just you wait and see, you "Brock Dillingers" and "Carson Clarks" of the world.
Oh. Ha ha. That guy knocked my books to the ground. Funny. I'm late to class.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
Broken Glass, Bad For Love
The kitchen is no place to end a weekend fuckfest, but I wasn't judging things too clearly at the time. Natalie had come over Friday night with "Evita" from Netflix. We started the movie at eleven, but never made it to the end. After a couple fiery songs from Banderas, Natalie slipped her tongue in my mouth. When she pulled it out again, she asked if I had any vodka.
"Yeah, in my room."
I left her and returned a minute later with a bottle of Popov. We did shots while Antonio strutted angrily on the screen. It wasn't long before the movie was background noise. The main event was trying to work buttons loose as fast as we could. From the corner of my eye, I saw Madonna pleading with the people of Argentina.
We left the movie on and brought Comrade Popov to the bedroom with us. My vote was for keeping up the pace we'd set while watching all that Latin passion, but Natalie wanted to make a game of things. She insisted we each do a shot before removing each piece of clothing.
I must've been dressed in layers, because things were already pretty fuzzy by the time I made it to my boxers. She fumbled around on the nightstand and found the play button on my MP3 player. The music blared, drowning out Madonna's political maneuvering in the next room. Natalie giggled and told me I looked like Robert Downey Jr. I said something about how her orange nails were freaking me out. I don't think it was an actual conversation. One of us spilled vodka on the sheets.
The rest, you can imagine. (Because I don't even remember).
The next morning, I woke to Everclear singing about a "Heroin Girl." Even with all the booze in our systems, I was amazed we slept through the raucous music all night. My sense of balance was completely screwed when I stumbled from the bed. Natalie wasn't there, but the smell of food drifted in from the kitchen. I put on my boxers and a shirt (buttoning only two buttons because it makes me feel like Thomas Magnum). I weaved to the kitchen where Natalie stood in my National Guard t-shirt and her delicate, white panties.
The sight of her over the stove was a beautiful reminder of how important it is for those of us with good genes to continue the species.
I watched her squirt ketchup on the eggs in the pan. A half-empty glass of milk was sitting beside the stove. I walked up and put my arms around her hips. She turned and kissed me. It was a nice way to say "good morning," but she wasn't finished. She pulled my mouth to hers again and started working her panties down with her back to the stove.
A moment later, Natalie's eyes went wide.
"Oh shit!"
The eggs and milk went crashing to the floor.
She had leaned against the hot burner for just a second. Life went from a sultry telenovella to a "Tom and Jerry" cartoon in the blink of an eye. I got a tiny piece of glass in my foot, and--needless to say--lost my erection. She pulled her panties up and found a broom. I scrubbed ketchup off the cabinets while she swept up the glass. Then we went to the bathroom where she helped me dig the glass out.
After we patched ourselves up and had some pop-tarts, we retreated to the living room to find where we'd left off in the movie. It wasn't long before Banderas was spinning toward the camera, shooting off rays of ferocious lust from his dark and daring eyes. Natalie snuggled closer. I looked back at Antonio. His power of suggestion might be the death of me, but I have to admit I admire his gifts.
"Yeah, in my room."
I left her and returned a minute later with a bottle of Popov. We did shots while Antonio strutted angrily on the screen. It wasn't long before the movie was background noise. The main event was trying to work buttons loose as fast as we could. From the corner of my eye, I saw Madonna pleading with the people of Argentina.
We left the movie on and brought Comrade Popov to the bedroom with us. My vote was for keeping up the pace we'd set while watching all that Latin passion, but Natalie wanted to make a game of things. She insisted we each do a shot before removing each piece of clothing.
I must've been dressed in layers, because things were already pretty fuzzy by the time I made it to my boxers. She fumbled around on the nightstand and found the play button on my MP3 player. The music blared, drowning out Madonna's political maneuvering in the next room. Natalie giggled and told me I looked like Robert Downey Jr. I said something about how her orange nails were freaking me out. I don't think it was an actual conversation. One of us spilled vodka on the sheets.
The rest, you can imagine. (Because I don't even remember).
The next morning, I woke to Everclear singing about a "Heroin Girl." Even with all the booze in our systems, I was amazed we slept through the raucous music all night. My sense of balance was completely screwed when I stumbled from the bed. Natalie wasn't there, but the smell of food drifted in from the kitchen. I put on my boxers and a shirt (buttoning only two buttons because it makes me feel like Thomas Magnum). I weaved to the kitchen where Natalie stood in my National Guard t-shirt and her delicate, white panties.
The sight of her over the stove was a beautiful reminder of how important it is for those of us with good genes to continue the species.
I watched her squirt ketchup on the eggs in the pan. A half-empty glass of milk was sitting beside the stove. I walked up and put my arms around her hips. She turned and kissed me. It was a nice way to say "good morning," but she wasn't finished. She pulled my mouth to hers again and started working her panties down with her back to the stove.
A moment later, Natalie's eyes went wide.
"Oh shit!"
The eggs and milk went crashing to the floor.
She had leaned against the hot burner for just a second. Life went from a sultry telenovella to a "Tom and Jerry" cartoon in the blink of an eye. I got a tiny piece of glass in my foot, and--needless to say--lost my erection. She pulled her panties up and found a broom. I scrubbed ketchup off the cabinets while she swept up the glass. Then we went to the bathroom where she helped me dig the glass out.
After we patched ourselves up and had some pop-tarts, we retreated to the living room to find where we'd left off in the movie. It wasn't long before Banderas was spinning toward the camera, shooting off rays of ferocious lust from his dark and daring eyes. Natalie snuggled closer. I looked back at Antonio. His power of suggestion might be the death of me, but I have to admit I admire his gifts.
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