“You going to wear that dress?”
“Yeah, why? Something wrong with it?”
Robin smiled and pushed the brim of his hat back with his index finger. “You going out?”
Lisa brushed her curls. “No. I’m staying in.”
Robin gave a grin. “Then why are you wearing that dress?”
“I like it. Don't you think it looks good on me?”
“I think it hides the real you. You look better without it,” Robin chuckled and tossed his hat in a chair.
“You’ve got a dirty mind.”
“And a dirty mouth, but it never stops you from kissing me.” Robin put his arms around her and studied her beautiful face. “You get it with the money I gave you?”
“What?”
“The dress. I want to see the one you bought.”
Lisa frowned and pulled away. “No. I didn’t get it. My brother was in trouble. He’s going to pay me back.”
Robin was annoyed, but tried to look bored. “That's what he told you? I hope you gave it straight to his bookie.”
“You don’t understand. He’s in a tight spot right now.”
“From what I hear, it's tight and getting tighter.”
Lisa looked up, her face filling with concern. “What have you heard? From who?”
Robin blew air through his lips, fluttering his fingers like a breeze. "Just whispers. I wouldn't get yourself worked up, though. He's too small a fry for anyone to do much about. Still, you shouldn't be covering his debts.”
Lisa frowned. “Ain't you ever been in trouble?”
“Sure. I'm probably in trouble right now. But a man’s debts are his own. Sooner or later, everybody's got to face that.”
“Like you're facing up to this?”
Robin looked down at her swollen belly. He shook his head. “I never meant for nothing like that to happen.”
“You haven’t asked me to marry. Sounds like you're passing the buck.”
Robin's face went hard. “You think I owe you something?”
Lisa's head dropped. “You don’t owe nobody. You write your own ticket and expect the world to let you get away with whatever you want to do because you’re so god damned honest.” She looked up again. "But you're not honest. You're smug. You're self-righteous. But you're not honest."
“Is that right?” Robin picked up his hat again. “I changed my mind. You look better in the dress." He started out the door in time to avoid a pair of heels aimed at the back of his head.
“Go to hell, you god damned...” Her voice trailed off as she slumped back onto her bed.
Robin lit a cigarette on the stairs. "Who could marry a girl like that?"
Friday, March 7, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
A Salt Miner's Walk
The skins over Umar's shoulders tapped lightly against his chest and back as he walked through the blowing sands. While riding, the wind never bothered him, but on this long walk, it's sound robbed the naked desert of it's tranquility. His sandals scratched at the ground and and each footstep was quickly erased behind him.
Rain had fallen the night before. The men set up camp when it started and in the morning, unwrapped the salt blocks to dry. The blocks would crumble if they weren't give time to dry. Unfortunately, the waiting meant there would not be enough water for the two days remaining in their journey. Karaji gathered the skins and a short-handled shovel before laughing and sending Umar off to chase his shadow.
After walking nearly a kilometer, Umar crested a tall dune and watched the sand slip away in front of him as he descended down the other side. Below, dry scrub and hard ground marked the location of the well. The wind swept by overhead, but left the hollow bottom untouched.
He stepped across the hard ground and slipped off the skins before untying the shovel from his waist. He poked around at the lowest point, the hard packed sand was still slightly damp from the night's rain. He bent over and scooped out for a little while witht he shovel, then dropped his knees and trading off between the shovel and his hands.
The earth broke apart in his hands, but as he went deeper, each scoop held together a little better than the last. As the sun moved slowly across the sky, he dug with regular precision, gradually excavating several feet down. The sand began to crumble again, but was wetter in his hands.
As the sun shone brightly into the well, he could feel the heat coming up from the earth. And then, he noticed in the bottom a tiny pool of mud. He worked faster, until his hands were splashing around, pulling out silt and broadening the pool.
He climbed back above the well, pulling the skins and a plastic cup back down with him. He scooped the water, filling each of the skins, digging a bit more when the water got too shallow. When the skins were filled, he tied a rope around them and climbed up again before hoisting them out of the well.
He sat for a while, eating the dried fruit Sonji had sent with him. He was tired, but the sooner he returned, the sooner they could ride again. Finally, he pushed himself up, tied off the shovel, and crouched to slide the skins over his shoulders. He stood slowly, adjusting his burden to balance the weight.
Taking the most gentle slope part of the dune, Umar trudged back up into the wind. It was beginning to pick up. The sand beat against the skins and his robes as he navigated back by position of the sun.
Umar frowned as the horizon blurred and sand began swirling higher into the air. To the north, he could see it pitching like waves on a violent sea. It began to sting his eyes when he squinted to find the sun. He kept on, worried the growing storm would get worse, but even more worried to stop.
He leaned into the wind and looked for the sun less and less. His shadow was swallowed up in the brown air. The bright day faded into a dark cloud until his only guide was his internal compass. He began to doubt his sense of direction.
He looked up again, but the sky was as dark above as the ground was below. Umar knelt, huddling against the heavy skins. He would wait a little while. The camp was not so far from the well, but he could no longer guess how much distance he'd covered. He shut his eyes and thought about Sonji.
He could see her soaking reeds and thought about the way she sat up, trying to stay awake until he came to bed. He could see her as she soaked salt from his clothes and the care she took in wrapping the sores on his hands and feet. He could almost hear her voice, like a whisper when she knelt to pray.
Umar's eyes opened, slightly. He really could hear a voice. He shouldered the skins again and stood up. The shrill wind drowned out the voice, but between it's furious gusts, he could make out the midday prayer.
He could barely trust his ears in the storm, but it was better to follow slim hope than be buried alive. He again leaned into the blowing sand and trudged toward the sound. The voice came in and faded out, over and over. The sun hid away in the darkened sky. Umar stumbled and scrambled, feeling his way over dunes that slid out from beneath his feet with every step.
And then, the voice was gone.
Umar stopped in his tracks and felt his stomach tighten. In the swarming sands, he might easily pass right by the camp and never know it. He knelt again, huddling against the skins.
Slipping off his sandals, he thought to himself it was a foolish thing to do. He said his midday prayer, honoring the Prophet and Allah. He surrendered himself.
Huddled there, his thoughts returned to Sonji. He thought about her hard, worn hands. Hands that looked so much older than her gentle, dark eyes. They had always talked about making the pilgrimage when the children were older. He thought of the way she laughed and then would stop herself, going quiet with a smile still on her face. She never wanted anything for herself among the list of things he was to bring back from the market. Every time, he wanted to bring something back to her, but never knew what to get.
He drove the thoughts from his head. No. He did know. He shouldered the skins again and marched against the unrelenting fury of the sandstorm.
All at once, the shrill wind changed. The grains began to fall like rain and the swirling cloud settled on the smooth desert like a thick fog. In another moment, the sky was bright and the air turned warm.
Umar squinted as the horizon began taking shape again. In another moment, the sun shone on his shoulders and the sands blew off to the south. He shook himself off and walked up a tall dune as wisps of sand scattered, like little children trying to catch up to their mother, the tempest who had left them behind.
He crested the dune and saw below him the other merchants huddled by the camels. Karaji waved and hurried up the slope. Karaji took the skins from his shoulders and laughed. "A good thing you took your shadow to lead the way."
The others had already wrapped up the salt blocks. They loaded the camels, each giving Umar a pat on his sore shoulders. His camel lifted him into the air and each of the merchants fell in line behind Karaji.
All Sonji ever hoped for was his safe return. He could do that much. And perhaps he'd pick her up some silk, too.
Rain had fallen the night before. The men set up camp when it started and in the morning, unwrapped the salt blocks to dry. The blocks would crumble if they weren't give time to dry. Unfortunately, the waiting meant there would not be enough water for the two days remaining in their journey. Karaji gathered the skins and a short-handled shovel before laughing and sending Umar off to chase his shadow.
After walking nearly a kilometer, Umar crested a tall dune and watched the sand slip away in front of him as he descended down the other side. Below, dry scrub and hard ground marked the location of the well. The wind swept by overhead, but left the hollow bottom untouched.
He stepped across the hard ground and slipped off the skins before untying the shovel from his waist. He poked around at the lowest point, the hard packed sand was still slightly damp from the night's rain. He bent over and scooped out for a little while witht he shovel, then dropped his knees and trading off between the shovel and his hands.
The earth broke apart in his hands, but as he went deeper, each scoop held together a little better than the last. As the sun moved slowly across the sky, he dug with regular precision, gradually excavating several feet down. The sand began to crumble again, but was wetter in his hands.
As the sun shone brightly into the well, he could feel the heat coming up from the earth. And then, he noticed in the bottom a tiny pool of mud. He worked faster, until his hands were splashing around, pulling out silt and broadening the pool.
He climbed back above the well, pulling the skins and a plastic cup back down with him. He scooped the water, filling each of the skins, digging a bit more when the water got too shallow. When the skins were filled, he tied a rope around them and climbed up again before hoisting them out of the well.
He sat for a while, eating the dried fruit Sonji had sent with him. He was tired, but the sooner he returned, the sooner they could ride again. Finally, he pushed himself up, tied off the shovel, and crouched to slide the skins over his shoulders. He stood slowly, adjusting his burden to balance the weight.
Taking the most gentle slope part of the dune, Umar trudged back up into the wind. It was beginning to pick up. The sand beat against the skins and his robes as he navigated back by position of the sun.
Umar frowned as the horizon blurred and sand began swirling higher into the air. To the north, he could see it pitching like waves on a violent sea. It began to sting his eyes when he squinted to find the sun. He kept on, worried the growing storm would get worse, but even more worried to stop.
He leaned into the wind and looked for the sun less and less. His shadow was swallowed up in the brown air. The bright day faded into a dark cloud until his only guide was his internal compass. He began to doubt his sense of direction.
He looked up again, but the sky was as dark above as the ground was below. Umar knelt, huddling against the heavy skins. He would wait a little while. The camp was not so far from the well, but he could no longer guess how much distance he'd covered. He shut his eyes and thought about Sonji.
He could see her soaking reeds and thought about the way she sat up, trying to stay awake until he came to bed. He could see her as she soaked salt from his clothes and the care she took in wrapping the sores on his hands and feet. He could almost hear her voice, like a whisper when she knelt to pray.
Umar's eyes opened, slightly. He really could hear a voice. He shouldered the skins again and stood up. The shrill wind drowned out the voice, but between it's furious gusts, he could make out the midday prayer.
He could barely trust his ears in the storm, but it was better to follow slim hope than be buried alive. He again leaned into the blowing sand and trudged toward the sound. The voice came in and faded out, over and over. The sun hid away in the darkened sky. Umar stumbled and scrambled, feeling his way over dunes that slid out from beneath his feet with every step.
And then, the voice was gone.
Umar stopped in his tracks and felt his stomach tighten. In the swarming sands, he might easily pass right by the camp and never know it. He knelt again, huddling against the skins.
Slipping off his sandals, he thought to himself it was a foolish thing to do. He said his midday prayer, honoring the Prophet and Allah. He surrendered himself.
Huddled there, his thoughts returned to Sonji. He thought about her hard, worn hands. Hands that looked so much older than her gentle, dark eyes. They had always talked about making the pilgrimage when the children were older. He thought of the way she laughed and then would stop herself, going quiet with a smile still on her face. She never wanted anything for herself among the list of things he was to bring back from the market. Every time, he wanted to bring something back to her, but never knew what to get.
He drove the thoughts from his head. No. He did know. He shouldered the skins again and marched against the unrelenting fury of the sandstorm.
All at once, the shrill wind changed. The grains began to fall like rain and the swirling cloud settled on the smooth desert like a thick fog. In another moment, the sky was bright and the air turned warm.
Umar squinted as the horizon began taking shape again. In another moment, the sun shone on his shoulders and the sands blew off to the south. He shook himself off and walked up a tall dune as wisps of sand scattered, like little children trying to catch up to their mother, the tempest who had left them behind.
He crested the dune and saw below him the other merchants huddled by the camels. Karaji waved and hurried up the slope. Karaji took the skins from his shoulders and laughed. "A good thing you took your shadow to lead the way."
The others had already wrapped up the salt blocks. They loaded the camels, each giving Umar a pat on his sore shoulders. His camel lifted him into the air and each of the merchants fell in line behind Karaji.
All Sonji ever hoped for was his safe return. He could do that much. And perhaps he'd pick her up some silk, too.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
The NEW Adventures of Led Zeppelin
Robert Plant scowled through his grizzly lion's whiskers as he rapped for a second time on the door with his walking staff. The door popped open, revealing the beaming face of John Paul Jones.
"Ah, here we are! 'ello, Robert."
"That's Mr. Plant, to you." Robert bustled into the house, brushing imaginary snow from his shoulder before shimmying from his coat and handing it to Jones.
"Come on, Percy. We're old mates."
Plant turned his narrow eyes to John Paul, frowning more deeply. "No." He reconsidered for a moment, then repeated himself, shaking his head emphatically. "No."
John Paul gave a sheepish shrug. "Well, all the same, I still consider you a mate, mate." Jones glanced down the long hallway. "Jimmy said for you to come on in. He's in the study."
Plant raised his eyebrows at Jones with amusement. "Are you his butler, now?"
Jones laughed nervously. "It's not like that, really."
"Houseboy, then?"
Jones's face melted into shame. He stared as he fumbled with Robert's coat, trying to avoid meeting the old lion's eyes. "I'll just take care of this. Jimmy's in the study. He's expecting you."
Jones shuffled off as Robert sauntered down the dark hallway and swung open massive doors of what had once been Alister Crowley's study--a room not much changed since it's former tenant had vacated the premises. Stacks of leather bibles, flickering candles, and ebony carvings of pagan gods littered every open inch of floor space. Across the room, a figure stepped from behind a black desk, his wrinkled face and silver hair coming into the light as though materializing from the shadows themselves.
Jimmy Page smiled at his old friend. "Ah, Percy!" Plant's face creased from a look of measured disappointment to somber weariness. He was happy to see his old friend. Plant crossed the room, but Page warned him, "Mind the pentagram."
Plant looked down, side-stepping the crude circle of sawdust, wax, and blood that had been dripped onto the rug. "Hello, James. What's this all about?"
"Well, to be honest, I was wondering if you'd thought any more about the possibility of touring? I mean, nothing extravagant, maybe just a few odd dates in New York and the UK."
Plant's frown returned. "I told you. I'm not sure if I want to rock and roll again with my country music career just beginning to take root."
Jimmy nodded sympathetically. "Yes. I understand all that. You see it's just..."
"What?"
Page glanced around, as though spirits of the damned might be listening to his every word. "The man at the morgue raised his delivery fee since we did the show. And you know I can't stave off arthritis without cutting up the bodies and draining them into the tub."
Plant searched his memory. "Which show?"
"The one a month and a half ago. The only one we've done in the past decade."
"I see." Plant stroked his beard. "Money trouble."
"Yes. At least Jonesy still helps around the house for free." Page looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Poor chap doesn't realize Ron Wood's called dibs if we go out for a world tour." Percy let a chuckle slip before quickly stifling it into a cough. Page started again, "I was wondering..."
"Oh?"
"The night of the show--the one a month and a half ago. Do you remember when we did 'Living Loving Maid'?"
"Yes."
"I mean, you know I can play it as well as ever. All I've done these past twenty some years--besides writing 'Come With Me' for that nice black fellow--the only thing I've done is go down to the dungeon and play our songs over and over and over again. But the night of the show, you insisted we bring out gypsy musicians and slow everything down to sound like a funeral dirge."
"Yes. It's accurate to say I do not enjoy the fast guitar music."
Page nodded. "Yes, yes. I understand all that. I was just wondering. Is it only that you don't enjoy rocking out, or is there something wrong with the pipes these days?"
Plant turned indignant. "I get my pipes worked on eight or nine times a day, minimum. In fact I've got a girl waiting in the car right now in case I should require--"
Page shook his head. "No, not those. I mean your diaphragm."
"Never used one in my life. A gentleman never does."
"Your voice, mate. Your lungs! Have you lost some of the old oomph with your instrument?"
"My instrument is capable of producing as much pleasure as ever."
Page nodded. "Yes. I suppose so. Quite right." He winced and stared at the pentagram, lost in a fog of regret. "Still, I do wish you felt up to having another go at some shows for old times' sake."
"Don't be so glum, James. Our master told us there would always be a hunger we could never satisfy. It was part of the bargain. For me, it's a sexual appetite. For you, it's something vaguely to do with music. We knew this would happen when we signed our names into the book of the damned."
Jimmy nodded. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't fret over it. Things aren't really so bad as I make them out to be. When it comes to good times, I know we've had our share." The lines around his face seemed to soften a little. He broke out from his brooding, into a smile again. "Dear me. What kind of host am I, anyhow? Can you stay for some marmalade muffins and a spot of tea? I can ring for Jonesy."
"No. I'm afraid I'm joining the Opry tonight, old man. I have to take the Starship to Nashville straight away."
Jimmy smiled. "Yes, of course. Of course. Well, give us a hug before you're off."
Plant shook his head. "No, James. Ours is not that kind of friendship."
"Oh. Quite right. I see."
"Ah, here we are! 'ello, Robert."
"That's Mr. Plant, to you." Robert bustled into the house, brushing imaginary snow from his shoulder before shimmying from his coat and handing it to Jones.
"Come on, Percy. We're old mates."
Plant turned his narrow eyes to John Paul, frowning more deeply. "No." He reconsidered for a moment, then repeated himself, shaking his head emphatically. "No."
John Paul gave a sheepish shrug. "Well, all the same, I still consider you a mate, mate." Jones glanced down the long hallway. "Jimmy said for you to come on in. He's in the study."
Plant raised his eyebrows at Jones with amusement. "Are you his butler, now?"
Jones laughed nervously. "It's not like that, really."
"Houseboy, then?"
Jones's face melted into shame. He stared as he fumbled with Robert's coat, trying to avoid meeting the old lion's eyes. "I'll just take care of this. Jimmy's in the study. He's expecting you."
Jones shuffled off as Robert sauntered down the dark hallway and swung open massive doors of what had once been Alister Crowley's study--a room not much changed since it's former tenant had vacated the premises. Stacks of leather bibles, flickering candles, and ebony carvings of pagan gods littered every open inch of floor space. Across the room, a figure stepped from behind a black desk, his wrinkled face and silver hair coming into the light as though materializing from the shadows themselves.
Jimmy Page smiled at his old friend. "Ah, Percy!" Plant's face creased from a look of measured disappointment to somber weariness. He was happy to see his old friend. Plant crossed the room, but Page warned him, "Mind the pentagram."
Plant looked down, side-stepping the crude circle of sawdust, wax, and blood that had been dripped onto the rug. "Hello, James. What's this all about?"
"Well, to be honest, I was wondering if you'd thought any more about the possibility of touring? I mean, nothing extravagant, maybe just a few odd dates in New York and the UK."
Plant's frown returned. "I told you. I'm not sure if I want to rock and roll again with my country music career just beginning to take root."
Jimmy nodded sympathetically. "Yes. I understand all that. You see it's just..."
"What?"
Page glanced around, as though spirits of the damned might be listening to his every word. "The man at the morgue raised his delivery fee since we did the show. And you know I can't stave off arthritis without cutting up the bodies and draining them into the tub."
Plant searched his memory. "Which show?"
"The one a month and a half ago. The only one we've done in the past decade."
"I see." Plant stroked his beard. "Money trouble."
"Yes. At least Jonesy still helps around the house for free." Page looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Poor chap doesn't realize Ron Wood's called dibs if we go out for a world tour." Percy let a chuckle slip before quickly stifling it into a cough. Page started again, "I was wondering..."
"Oh?"
"The night of the show--the one a month and a half ago. Do you remember when we did 'Living Loving Maid'?"
"Yes."
"I mean, you know I can play it as well as ever. All I've done these past twenty some years--besides writing 'Come With Me' for that nice black fellow--the only thing I've done is go down to the dungeon and play our songs over and over and over again. But the night of the show, you insisted we bring out gypsy musicians and slow everything down to sound like a funeral dirge."
"Yes. It's accurate to say I do not enjoy the fast guitar music."
Page nodded. "Yes, yes. I understand all that. I was just wondering. Is it only that you don't enjoy rocking out, or is there something wrong with the pipes these days?"
Plant turned indignant. "I get my pipes worked on eight or nine times a day, minimum. In fact I've got a girl waiting in the car right now in case I should require--"
Page shook his head. "No, not those. I mean your diaphragm."
"Never used one in my life. A gentleman never does."
"Your voice, mate. Your lungs! Have you lost some of the old oomph with your instrument?"
"My instrument is capable of producing as much pleasure as ever."
Page nodded. "Yes. I suppose so. Quite right." He winced and stared at the pentagram, lost in a fog of regret. "Still, I do wish you felt up to having another go at some shows for old times' sake."
"Don't be so glum, James. Our master told us there would always be a hunger we could never satisfy. It was part of the bargain. For me, it's a sexual appetite. For you, it's something vaguely to do with music. We knew this would happen when we signed our names into the book of the damned."
Jimmy nodded. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't fret over it. Things aren't really so bad as I make them out to be. When it comes to good times, I know we've had our share." The lines around his face seemed to soften a little. He broke out from his brooding, into a smile again. "Dear me. What kind of host am I, anyhow? Can you stay for some marmalade muffins and a spot of tea? I can ring for Jonesy."
"No. I'm afraid I'm joining the Opry tonight, old man. I have to take the Starship to Nashville straight away."
Jimmy smiled. "Yes, of course. Of course. Well, give us a hug before you're off."
Plant shook his head. "No, James. Ours is not that kind of friendship."
"Oh. Quite right. I see."
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Vampire hunters are cool.
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.
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.
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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