Part One: The Terrible Journey into the Desert (and back)

WARNING: I suggest you get comfortable. If you have read with any thoroughness up to this point in my blog, you will know that I love to tell a story and I nurse a hankering fetish for embellishing every detail with a single-bristled brush. Get comfortable, because what has happened to me over the past couple of months could be turned into a movie, or worse... I will never be the same person again after this.

My fingertips don't even know how to begin recounting this tale. The keyboard is an old friend, but we have a lot of catching up to do. In the days since my miraculous return we have been exchanging a lot of averted glances, awkward topics, changed subjects, and little white lies told between fond greetings of homecoming.

Lucid English: how I've yearned to hear thee and speak with thee for so long. A conversation from here to the end of the earth is what I would have if only I had a friend close enough to spill it with.

The Desert. I thought I loved it before. Now, I could die happy if I knew I would never see another grain of sand for as long as I lived. What a terrible place. And what fierce people it breeds. I think they eat weakness for breakfast. The desert is a place that can kill you without vicious animals or poison plants. But just for fun, they have those too. In the Jungle, life can hide amid the living tapestry all around. In the desert, life is an island under attack.

Minneapolis: a fine place. I have enjoyed it since moving here, and had no REAL intention of leaving it for good. It just kind of looked like I would never see it again.

Chicago: A town that seemed harmless enough. I underestimated how much of a CITY it is. It's the kind of place I see Minneapolis wanting to be more like, if only it would just listen to me - "PLEASE, for the love of God - remain as you are! Don't ever grow up! Stay this size, this population, this very low degree of criminality, of evil.

I KNOW! I can't tell a story this way. Not the "whole story" at least. This is a good warm up for me though. Just listing the major elements individually without putting them in close enough proximity to cause flashbacks.

THE STORY WILL BEGIN HOW MOST OF MY STORIES (big or small) WILL PROBABLY BEGIN...

So I was in a club one night. This one felt different, even though it was absolutely the same. People think that all the clubs in town have addresses and neon signs of their own - that simply isn't true. People think that those who go to clubs are going there to be seen - this also is a journey from the truth. Some clubs in town exist for people to hide from the light of day, and do what could be considered either the epitome of dancing or the total opposite of it. (forgive me for being so dramatically contrary. It just feels appropriate.)

A dance is a social exchange wherein two or more people interact physically with one another using meticulously studied and practiced repetitions to be performed and reacted to in harmony. A partner dance usually consists of two people; a leader and a follower. A man and a woman. To perform the dance, the leader must spend a considerable amount of time before hand, studying and coordinating ones actions to the movements of a partner to learn how to manipulate the steps and subsequent movement enacted by their union with grace and ease.

What I learned was that not all dances require feet and coordination. Some people dance with words. They simmer a cinnamon butter of sweet deceit across your lips and in your ears until they see you float from your chair. Till your eyes hang heavy with trust and lust and handfuls of fairy dust.

Have you ever handled clay? When you first remove it from the gross soggy bag, it's hard. It's like corpse skin. Rigid and unyielding. Yet, do we not have masterful urns, vases, and sculptures? Physical proof that there are people out there patient enough to sit there and knead every bit of hesitance out of that clay until it becomes exactly what they want it to be.

Where was I going with all this? Oh yes. Dance clubs. SECRET dance clubs. The kind you have to be invited to. And if you get there, you must be hosted by a member, or opt for your own membership, which they may or may not extend to you. And if they extend you this membership, you had better have a four digits in your pocket to drop without blinking an eye. But - as we of the 'fairer sex' are accustomed to, sometimes a seemingly valiant gentleman will step down from his white steed to offer to cover the brunt and hassle of a large expense for you for a chance at your good favor.

It was nighttime, and this fancy guy I had met at a wine bar in October had picked me up at my place in a towncar limousine and promised me a lovely night. I wasn't sure where we were going, because when I asked, he said it was a club I had never heard of before. I said something to the effect of "yeah? try me." thinking that I had a pretty healthy lush's knowledge of the city's bar and club scene. When the driver opened my door, I looked up upon a building I frankly didn't recognize, although it seemed to be pretty close to downtown or the warehouse district. We walked through a rather nondescript street level door down some elegant stairs to a sultry womb of red velvet, rich leather, and mirror glossed black marble everything. My jacket was taken and hanger'd before I could even say, "thanks." We were moments from being shown inside - when the maitre'd held things up and ungraciously handed a card back to my date (who I am referring to with intentional anonymity in hopes of un-writing him from this blog, because I think he was a sleaze to begin with.) and said something like "I'm sorry sir, there is a problem with your membership. Thank you for visiting us this evening."

He got embarrassed fast. Clearly he was bringing me to this place to show me a good time and spend some money on alcohol and maybe some food to try and impress me, but he had ended up making an absolute fool of himself on accident. (More on him later.) I turned to him and tried to show that all the pomp and expenditure really wasn't necessary and that it was cool if we just went somewhere else. There were a lot of other fancy places in town if he wanted to impress me, but honestly - he could have taken me to psycho suzi's and just picked up the tab at the end and I would have liked him all the same. But as I was trying my best to bandage his pride and be fine with everything, he pulled out his iphone and was calling a cab, and wouldn't even look at me or turn towards me or acknowledge me in any way! I touched his shoulder in hopes he would just turn around, but nope. He confirmed the address with the cabbie, and walked out the door with a curt little "Thank you" which I wasn't sure was directed towards me or the maitre'd in some pathetic attempt to save face. I was disgusted, and now rather embarrassed myself.

I turned back toward the coatroom man and shrugged my shoulders saying "I suppose I need my jacket back please."

That's when I first heard the voice. "Miss? Excuse me, Miss?" I turn around to see the source of those satin words. It was a gorgeous middle-eastern man, who was gorgeous in the way that only the ancient and mysterious east can produce. His suit must have cost as much as my home. Not that I'm entirely shallow, but I took him very seriously. He mentioned with utter humility that he had overheard the scene that had just gone down and asked very graciously if I would like to join him at his table. I was struck with that social pause that holds your tongue a moment or two before answering someone - even if you already know the answer will be "Yes."

I sat down at his table as he explained that he had just been at the club tonight to meet a business associate for drinks & business chat. I had found him, NO; he had found me at just the right moment. It seemed like fate. Coincidence. What's the difference. Opportunity is opportunity, and opportunists reach out and grab it when they see it.

God... this is going to be harder to write than I thought. I'm going to have to quit right here for the night and collect myself before trying to go further with this thing. I'm sorry. It's hard to type when your fingers keep forming fists and your teeth try to grind each other down.

Well tune in next time for a continuing tale of international first class flights, lies, champagne, Arabian oil palaces, human trafficking, sex slavery, and a daring escape that would put James Bond to shame. Shames Bond.

Erika Noise

Jeesus it's been a stressful week. Not stressful so much as just plain busy. Busy and fun. Too busy for blog, but that's a really good sign isn't it? I'll tell more later but I must first wax about something that happened a few months ago that I keep thinking about. I wrote about it in my paper journal, but here it is - fully fleshed out.

I really like going to the Walker Art Museum. I just discovered this recently. Haven’t really been in town too long either, so everything is pretty recent in the scheme of things. I love to walk around all the modernism. I love to walk around the big spoon and cherry – probably because I love to spoon, and I kind of miss my cherry. (that’s a joke – get it? Tsk tsk tsk – all you hipsters are all so serious. All the same. Don't worry, Anthem Heart isn't listening to your every thought.... merh, It’s okay, it wasn’t that funny. )

I go there to laugh mostly. Fine art is hilarious these days. Mainly because I understand artists too well. One of my brothers sells art for a living. He takes it seriously because it would be just an Art School flunk-out if he didn’t. I don’t have such an obligation. A majority of Californians don’t gravitate to “HIGH ART” or “FINE ART” the way that New Yorkers do. We like our entertainment cheap and chewy with plenty of boobs and bombs.

My idea of a great art museum would be all the same ideas and effort that’s put into existing art museums – just get rid of the little name cards and mission statements. All pretense just – gone. Artists at heart are a group of people who know how to think about thinking and kinda anticipate what the next Joe on the street would want to stare at and obsess over. Modern Art museums already have boobs and explosions in them – its just the people who put them there want to give their display of them some kind of overarching justification. As if saying they represent something else makes it “not weird” to put them there. There are only a few artists I have ever seen who truly have the balls to be “weird.” Just like the edge of town has moved about 20 miles away from the old suburbs since 1950, what is still considered avant garde is actually nestled deeply within the grid still and the yuppies are buying condos in it.

But don’t get me wrong – just because I think artists are predictable, doesn’t mean I still like to carouse in their bedrooms. They always have really fun decorations in their nests. They pretend like they’re pretty humble and don’t like to show it to many people – which is fine, I can play along. I just call their bluff – “Oh, sorry I didn’t realize this was so personal to you, I’ll look the other way if it would make you more comfortable.” After that I’m usually told that it’s okay just this once. I think artists like their inner dick sucked more than their real one. That’s where my preferences make a hasty departure. As soon as they start on with the Mission Statement is about the time that their genitalia goes in my mouth. Sometimes the wrong kind of pretense and foreplay make me see really unpleasant colors. Or else sometimes it howls terribly off key inside my head like a tone-deaf karaoke martyr.

“Let’s just save the talk for after sex – its usually much more honest and lucid then anyway.” Truthfully, I don’t plan on seeing you again ever. Well…

Here comes the title of today’s little rant. She was a docent at the Walker, and I saw her 3 whole times before we ever talked. 4, before I went to her apartment and fooled around with her. She wasn’t an artist but she worked around their offal all day so, at the end of the day she kind of brought all the stink home with her. A handsome faux-teak Ikea bookshelf by her couch held all the big illustrated fine-art books she bought with her employee discount from the Museum shop. Personally I found her photo album from high school and her awesome collection of really unique panties and bras the most interesting of all.

First we acted like coffee mates, then friends, then sisters. She had kind of thin, curly blonde hair that sat mostly on top of her head. Blue eyes, and when I say her face was Roman, I really fucking mean it. The arch in the nose, the cheekbones, the noble jaw. This woman was carved out of alabaster. And this lovely natural blush that looked so very sexual on her very pale skin. And her lips were full and soft and always appeared to be rosy and engorged - again probably because she was so pale. Now, moving down. She isn’t very tall. Average really. But I think that aids her curviness. These were Monroe proportions. Her boobs really knew how to give a tight t-shirt a run for its money. These boobs owned gravity like Texans own cattle. But they were well proportioned and round like grapefruits too, even when she didn’t wear a bra under her t-shirt that one sunny day at her house.

I don’t know what else to say. Her hands on the other hand – they were too small and delicate for a frame like hers. I would have liked it if they were a little more knobby and firm like mine. But that’s like criticizing the Mona Lisa for being too small. (See, I can talk high-art just like the rest of you.) Anyway, it was hard to still think of her like a sister when her head was between my legs. She wasn’t anything to me from then on except warm and soft and heaving, panting, shy at first, then really lusty and dramatic, followed finally by giddy and silent. I don’t think she had done anything with a girl before me. Her breathing was full of trembles and her fingers were ice cold when she put them inside me – I almost bit my tongue off from the shock of it, but then it just gave me goosebumps from head to toe.

She apologized SO sincerely when I gasped like I did. It was kind of cute, but I wanted to slap her. Erica, it’s not every day when someone can make me see electric purple tiger-stripes for a solid minute. “Bravo” I say.

I can’t really tell a story in the proper order. I get too excited. It was one of the free days at the museum, and she got off early that day since attendance was a little more sparse than usual. We chatted for a second as soon as I got there and then I walked off for a while. I just happened to run into her again when I was leaving. She was in her plain clothes and I could tell she was leaving too. She invited me to her apartment which was just down in Uptown a little ways. It was a short walk just because I was wired on coffee, and talking makes even long walks seem like nothing at all. It was especially fun because this was a totally sober encounter, in the middle of the week, in the middle of the afternoon. In the middle of town – Meaning, I didn’t even know if our impromptu girl-date was going to lead to anything more than coffee. Oh but it did.

I was probably just bleeding hormones because I knew I was going to be bleeding for real in a couple days. But it fortunately led to something really really different. I can honestly say that I didn’t make the first move in any way. Whatta change! Whatta nice surprise. All I did was shoot her nothing but “fuck me” eyes for an hour or two on the couch as we talked. Just like a boy she stretched and yawned and played all innocent and laid her head down in my lap an pretended to sleep for a second. We stopped talking all together, just as you do as you both realize you’re about to start fooling around with someone.

First she very playfully put her face under my shirt, and could probably see my boobs since I wasn’t wearing a bra that day either. She started kissing my stomach and tonguing my belly-button, and as soon as she realized what she was doing I could feel her tense up, like she thought I might object soon or something. As if. I took her hand which was vice gripped on my thigh and mashed it invitingly into my breast as if to say – “don’t you dare stop.” (and “fuckin’ relax already, you’re seducing a woman, not disarming a bomb.”) Sure I could have ravaged her 6 ways from Sunday at any moment there, but it was so much fun to see her figure out what to do. To do to another girl what she had always wished a boy would do to her.

She was so pale! Maybe just being from Cali and seeing all these bronzed, glowing demigods walking around all the time makes me feel kind of immune to the whole perfect-tan aesthetic. I didn’t realize that I had such a fetish for the soft, totally pale, vulnerable belly of a girl until I came to Minnesota. There’s something so vulnerable about it. It’s so fleshy – I can’t stand it. I mean, I can – I totally can. I invite it actually, it’s just an expression. What I thought was really really sexy was the way her labia were the exact same rosy burgundy color that her lips were everyday. Her nipples too. Those were big and round and symmetrical and they looked so dark and red on her snow white breasts. She didn’t even have any moles – just flawless, supple Scandinavian skin. I could go on about this woman well into the night, but I just have to say maybe my favorite thing about her is that when I was licking and sucking her pussy lips, my sensory field overwhelmed me with the sensation of eating a plain cheese deep dish pizza with WAY too much cheese on it. I call her Erica Noise now in my head because I heard the most beautiful chorus of electronic Christmas tree angels chanting a G major when I came. 1 tongue and 3 friendly fingers loaned to my crotch by a perfect stranger made a heavenly chorus of cherubs hit a perfect pitch for at least 5 minutes.

She didn’t say a lot afterwards because she was nice and busy being shy and satisfied. She did eventually tell me that she had plans for later and needed to bathe and prep before she went out. I took the clue and let myself out – giving her another deep kiss with lots of tongue before leaving. I went back to the Walker to get my bike then I rode home. My hand was covered in her pheromones and I couldn’t stop putting it over my nose and huffing it on the way home. I was nearly grinding the padding off of my bike seat whenever I would stop at red lights downtown. Good thing there’s no way for cops to give you a breathalyzer for the binge consumption of human sex, because I would have been slapped with a DWI that night: “Driving While Infatuated.”

I made it home and fell asleep double clicking my mouse while watching some Jimmy Stewart film. Lots of scroll wheel action going on, if you catch my drift.

So that’s the short version of how I became an art lover.

The Panda's Birthday Party

So last night was another fabulous adventure at my equivalent of church - Too Much Love. My favorite dance night of all time.  I get in for free with a long since defunct California VoTec School ID, and drinks before midnight are cheap. So early I came, and volumes did I drink. 

It was the birthday of the main DJ there, Soviet Panda l

ast night, so this wiry little guy in a cardigan and cute long thin hair kept getting up on the dj booth with a mic to drunkenly call on 'shouts' for SP like every 15 minutes it seemed.  It would have been so very John Hughes film if after one of his shout outs he were to scream and dramatically fall off the booth and get caught and surfed around by the crowd. It didn't happen that way though. 

I set out to write a sex blog, and I really have only been disappointing myself. Last time I hinted at it and procrastinated writing that humiliating tell-all for another time. But hey, maybe I just like to tease.  This will be the entry, I guarantee it - because I got too much love last night!!! It was fucking amazing - and not even just the sex! The whole hilarious drama leading up to it, and the cab ride, and the foreplay: It's making me swoon, so I should just go ahead and write it down before I just start daydreaming. 

Well first off, he was looking kind of goofy and cute the way he always does when he walks around before his set (Soviet Panda) and it crossed my mind a time or two to try and bag the Panda himself, ON HIS BIRTHDAY! He makes the understatement of just an ironic tight t-shirt and jeans work pretty well. He's not an olympian or anything, but I'm not always that choosy. 

     But the longer I thought about it, it just didn't seem like the kind of score that would seem as epic in retrospect. Going after the DJ, in my mind originally felt like going after the quarterback of the football team. Ooooh the publicity! The intrigue! But after I thought about it more it seemed more like going after the Mascot. 

The one thing we have learned from Chinese zoos, is that Pandas must first be seduced. Not an easy thing to do.

So with that idea in flames, I set off to find my Quarterback, and maybe a couple cheerleaders if I was lucky. 

First I started up a conversation with this one really friendly guy who was very very cute. He was skinny but had some decent muscle in just the right places.  I could see him being good with horses if we lived 100 years ago.  Dressed pretty nice, but didn't overdo it. His eyes were really sharp for most of our conversation which lasted the better part of an hour. He bought me a couple drinks, but bought several more for himself. As he drank more and more he got really excited and lost that kind of sharp edge to him that I thought was so hot before. By the end of it he was acting pretty foolish and still trying to impress me, but I just wasn't feeling it anymore. 

Good thing a small group of his friends came up and pulled him away to go dance. I was still drinking so I remained and talked to a couple of boys and girls from his group that stayed behind. My cheap drinks were tasting watery the way that cheap drinks usually do, and the dance floor was pretty slow to develop into anything significant, so I was perfectly happy getting nice and buttered up. I played the honey bee going back and forth between talking to the girls and the boys, but a very tasty drama unfolded as it was all happening.  I should describe all the players so it makes sense when I tell what happened. 

BOY 1: Black hair. SMOKING HOT. Unhhhg. Really nice, NO GAMES - this is what people had been telling me about the midwest all along, but I never believed it. If this guy were in Cali, he'd be a player and a douchebag, but here - 100% cool dude.  He had sort of a Brat-pack charm and style to him. The shit he said was really cool I liked him immediately and I could tell he liked me back. I wanted the key to his pants. 

BOY 2: Sort of a wingman for Boy 1, but also very funny in conversation. He spent a lot of time texting and taking phone calls amid all this so I didn't get as much of a feel for him. He had brown hair and kind of interesting looking blue eyes. I liked looking at them when we talked. The best thing about him was probably his complexion. It wasn't tanned, and it wasn't pale it was one or the other in certain places. His cheeks and face overall were a nice sandy tone, but his neck and under jawline were kind of lighter and soft looking. Can't lie - it was pretty sensual looking. Oh - and his fingers were really long and looked very delicate when they curved. The shape of his jaw was also very good, the muscles on it rippled when he wasn't talking. 

GIRL 1: Quite pretty, I will admit. In a very generic, club DRINK kind of way - blonde, great cheekbones and eyes that were like anime-huge. She was wearing this little black dress that had super tight black tights on underneath, great shoes too. I was turned on as soon as I saw her, but as we talked I just kept getting SO annoyed in newer and more extreme ways. The things she said were just so oppressive and final that I was just naturally on the defensive regarding almost everything she was saying. I was playing devil's advocate just so I could engage her at all because everything she spewed just rubbed me so raw. On top of that I could tell that she was really into my Brat-Pack boy (They were ALL single, which struck me as weird. But they all probably get enough sex on their own not to need an exclusive supplier) Girl 2 (who I will get to shortly) kind of took my side early on and we bonded over just being sort of against everything Girl 1 was saying. I can't give a lot of examples, but it was just life perspective stuff that sounded so nouveau  victorian and old fashioned. She wasn't religious, just uptight. I was constantly looking forward to when I would talk to Boy 1 again, but I couldn't get away from Girl 1 or else I would have. 

Girl 2: This was a snazzy girl. Dark chin-length hair dark eyes, a little bit punky - so I don't know why she was hanging out with Girl 1. It must have just been because of the group. She had kind of a growly lower voice and she was really cynical and funny. Sometimes I would wink at her for insulting Girl 1 in ways she wouldn't even notice. We were very on the level from the very beginning. I bought her a few drinks but never offered to buy for Girl 1 in hopes of making a point. "If you are a drag, you get no free booze from me." 

OK - now the story. We all danced together a bit, then went upstairs for breaks a couple times - each time a little more tension. The first conversation round simply set up the facts: They're all single, also pretty untied from major professional ambition, Girl 1 has liked Boy 1 for a few months, Boy 1 is pretty happy go-lucky didn't seem to aware of Girl 1's plans on him.  Oh and another sexy detail about Boy 1 was his drink of choice: in the rail liquor world of froofie sweet drinks and girl-aimed alco-pops, he drank a real man's drink, Scotch on the rocks. He didn't drink the rail stuff, he went for the shelf. I mentioned how manly I thought that was and he told me what I already knew - that it depended on the quality of it. He bought me one to try and it was true - it doesn't take huge balls to drink the top shelf stuff. I have don't have any at all and it was pretty painless. Never really been a scotch drinker, but I may become one now. It really does the trick. 

The second conversation was like the ACT II of any play - all the true personalities of all the players start coming out. This is through the bulk of my conversation with Girl 1 took place. You know - in life, it's harder to feel like the world sucks if you lose in a fair fight. Where both people start from the same spot and run their hardest and try to get to the line first. But the whole night, Girl 1 was pretending like Boy 1 was a fly tied up in her web, and I could admire him as much as I wanted but he would still be her dinner. And her depiction of his personality and their interactions sounded so unlike what I was getting from him. I won't pull punches any longer -  she was a princess caught in the real world. So I felt inclined to play up the real world in any way that I could. I'm not all that vindictive naturally - but I felt like she had it coming. I set my flirt phaser for "kill."  

While Boy 1 and I were at the bar getting another Scotch I pulled him onto the dance floor ahead of everyone else and got right in close and intimate like before the rest of them joined us. He looked really relieved and I could tell we were thinking the same thing.  The last thing he did right before Girl 1, Girl 2, and Boy 2 got to the dancefloor was put his arm around my waist from behind, then planted his nose and mouth right behind my ear and breathed in. Somehow that was possibly the hottest thing ever. 

This is about when Girl 1 let down about 90% of her nice facade towards me. She could tell I had Boy 1 more in my corner than hers, so she tried to buddy up really close with my other female ally, Girl 2. It was a really transparent silly attempt to get all BFF LYLAS with her that was failed because she turned it on like a little faucet. Girl 2 wasn't dumb and I could see that it wasn't really working - she wasn't mirroring her body language at all, so it looked very tense between them. Girl 1 was doing a pretty good job pretending she was having the best time ever though. That was completely fine with me... (mwah hah hah hah...) 

Her occupation with my dear little Girl 2, left Boys 1 and 2 lonely and looking for some amusement. Boy 2 was a slightly better dancer than Boy 1 - maybe his one fault. Boy 1 could move and definitely tried, but it wasn't as loose as Boy 2's jangly Beck Hansen shimmy. I danced with Boy 2 more, but I played around with them both. Boy 2 also had very nice grey slacks that were made of a very nice material that folded and waved around his legs really beautifully. They made his thighs look really muscular and long. They were very vintage 1940's-ish, which I have a small fetish for. 

My shirt/skirt was kind of low in the front and I was only wearing a little tube-top underneath to make my boobs behave while I dance. There was one time when I was facing the boys and I shimmied down really low and I could tell I gave them both a show at the same time. It's true about boys - their eyes are laser trained on any cleavage or breastage the moment it is revealed. Who am I kidding, so too are mine.  They had these giddy smirks on their faces just afterwards and that made me smile really big too. That's when I could tell Girl 1 started watching our interactions as well.  I was feeling really playful so I shifted my top forwards while I was dancing so that the low front was even lower, and I kept inching down the tube top to show more and more and more. (And for the record I have a very healthy amount of breast real-estate, so I inched that thing down for quite awhile. It was hilarious, I just played oblivious and they just kept getting more and more tense. Boy 1 blushed SO HARD, and even tried to turn and dance with Girl 2 just to avoid the challenge of the "don't look at boobs game" I was waging. Boy 2 was so funny - he just pulled out some black sunglasses and played it up 'supercool' and started dancing really big. As soon as he put them on he looked JUST LIKE JOHN CUSACK, and I juiced just a little bit. With a move like the sunglasses, I can comfortably admit that - HE WON - ... that round.  

I had mainly been on a "talking-to" and "enjoying the energy" relationship with Girl 2, but as we were playing this little game of veiled desire that's when I started looking at her through my estrogen-lenses. As I was pulling down my top, she was pulling up the hem of her long white t-shirt and tying the long slack into a knot at her belly-button to show off her TIGHT RED HOTPANTS. They were these PERFECT red short shorts, that didn't look as skanky as those lycra stretchy booty shorts in rap videos, but they showed off just enough cheek to make even ME stare uncontrollably as she waved her ass at me. Then she was working these really sly booby squeezing gestures at me into her dancing. That's when I thought even I might be blushing.   

The music kind of came down for a second and we all took this as a cue to go drink some more. We were all getting a little hot under the collar after all. This is when it took kind of a weird turn. Boy 1 and Boy 2 went to hang out by the bar and talk (I'd like to think it was to talk about my boobs, but they have other passions in life, I'm sure.) So it was just me with Girls 1 and 2. I was preparing for a verbal judo fight, but Girl 1 put away some of her vinegar and just talked more naturally than she had the whole time previous. We got off the topics of here and now, and talked about our pasts a little bit. I didn't talk about my exodus from Cali all that much nor about my parents or my uncle.  I just said enough so that they'd know it was a little effed up, but didn't want to give too much of myself away right then.  Hostilities were pretty much defused. This really helped my mood and probably preserved a lot of my energy for later :) I got pretty smitten with just sitting there for a bit after Girl 2 started rubbing my leg lightly under the table with her knee and fingers. She did this thing where she ran her index finger just under the hem of my knee length tights. "Ooooooo" Girl 1 started on to this thing about relationships that even kind of made some sense at times and she sounded a little less uptight for a second, then I finally just decided that she and I have very different desires and opinions of companions.  She wanted to pursue all boys in hopes of testing them to find her "real man," as she put it. 

So feeling a little bit of animosity again as I felt that she was going to start rubbing her scent on my Boy 1 prematurely - I decided to act. I wanted to end it. It was getting really close to closing time and I knew they would be ejecting us soon and positioning myself to score was going to have to happen within just a couple moves. 

(In chess terms) The chess master had been playing a leisurely long game in the park with a worthy but outmatched opponent because the weather was nice, and the conversation was good. This was the chess master looking at his watch, feeling the pain in his ass from sitting so long, feeling the pang in his hungry belly. He didn't want to be rude, but in all truth he was simply toying with his opponent all day. The growl of his stomach found the closest route to checkmate.   

Girl 1 was off on this preachy thing about her "real man," and I could feel 'the hunger' inside me. So I asked her where she planned on finding this "dream boy." She corrected me and said this thing that sounded pre-rehearsed, something like "I'm looking for a REAL MAN, because Dream boys always seem to disappear as soon as you wake up." The lights were coming on in the club and the bouncer came along and was telling us to get out, and that's when checkmate happened. (I'm so giddy just writing this down right now!!!) 

Move 1: (check)  Knowing the need for niceties had come to an end I said "Aww that's sweet, but I never mind being a Real Man's "Wet Dream Girl" every once and awhile."  At that moment I picked up my purse, stood up, and took up my stance really close to Boy 1. There was hellfire in her eyes. (teeeheee teeeheeee!) ( I felt like hi-5'ing someone right then!)

Move 2: With a little assistance from Girl 2 (who is a living saint) says unidirectionally towards Boy 1 and I, "Hey do you want to share a cab?" (checkmate)(she didn't even know what part of town I lived in)  

I regret not getting to say a better goodbye to Boy 2, but he ended up being kind of a pawn sacrificed in those last moves.  Girl 1 took her defeat with a smile as fake as it had been all night. She hugged Boy 1 on the way out the door and made some arbitrary sounding plans with him to hang out "sometime." Girl 2 had to run back upstairs and close out her bar tab. Girl 1 then pulled Boy 2 along to join her and said that she also had to pay a bar tab and get her card at one of the downstairs bars. (even though she had been paying with cash and drinking at the upstairs bar all night!) Boy 1 and I went outside to wait for Girl 2 in the big closing time crowd on the corner. He pinched my hip, and I rubbed the stubble on his cheek in the course of our talking and waiting. 

I was giddy just thinking about what a GLORIOUS COUP it had been!!! So proud of myself in a very devious kind of way. I hadn't made my touchdown on the quarterback yet, but I was close enough to the endzone to call the game early. 

BEFORE I LEAVE FIRST AVE in this story, I must give those who caught my eye their certificates of participation: 

*The cocoa skinned Indian girl wearing the red top who I talked to in the bathroom. She was there with her brother who she introduced me to before I started talking to the first guy I mentioned. I got her phone number and as I put it in I couldn't help but think about a 3 way with the two of them. It would be so kinky to get a brother and sister at the same time in the same room.  I didn't read them as they type who would be really apt for that kind of thing. I don't know if Indian people are so conservative by nature, to rule that kind of thing out. Although if I planned it just right I could probably manipulate the hormones just right to get them to the point of doing anything for lust at just the same time. I'm evil, aren't I? >=} 

*The skinny boy  in the white t-shirt with the little blonde afro. You're hot. Props. 

* The super cute brunette chick with awesome hair wearing a kind of modernish DFA-esque shirt, and this impressive pink David Bowie eye makeup. I wanted her too. 

*I'm usually not into guys with pony tails, but there was one guy near the bathrooms who had just the right face for it to make it seem more like 17th century farm-boy rather than natural 21st century granola man. It was kind of blonde/brown and his brow and jawline looked intense and rugged.  Nice touch sir. 

OK - NOW I CUT TO THE SKINNY. So we caught a cab in front of the Target center, and it's of importance to the story to mention that they still never asked me where I lived. The direct result of mentioning this to them at the time was to force them to admit a portion of their true intentions for me. 

Since I was still feeling playful, I asked it just like that - "So you two don't even know where I live, what makes you think we can share a cab?" Girl 2 just smiled really big with those giant pretty lips of hers. I realized just how big her mouth was right then.  Just like she was quick with the cab idea in front of Girl 1, she said to both Boy 1 and I "So how are you feeling right now? Want to come over to my place for awhile for a nightcap?"  Very innocently I said "sure, I'm game." 

Seeing the situation that Boy 1 had managed to get himself in made him get more bashful than he had been all night. He smiled this smug little smile, and did this cute thing where he ran his hand through his hair a couple times looking like he was going to say "No" but finally said "What do you have to drink?" Girl 2 listed off the contents of her whole bar, not as if it mattered. We both pretended to ponder what she had said as if the drinks would sway our decision. We each knew this was hilarious - the subtext was so INTENSE, it made everything that was said very cheesy. 

So reaching a decision, Girl 2 changed our destination with the driver to a specific address. He put it into the GPS and we were on our way. 

Her place was really impressive. The building wasn't all that great and neither was the neighborhood, but for a kinda small studio apartment she had done so much with it. It was so classy. I understood why I liked her. It also impressed Boy 1, who started sizing her up by the titles on her book shelf.  There was a lot of hard booze available, but she also had a whole little fridge just for wine. She pulled out two different bottles and opened them both. Drinking together is usually how threesomes begin, from my experience - but it didn't seem like either of them had done anything like 3-way sex with strangers before. I could see it in their actions, and I think they could sense that I knew what I was doing because at first they talked mostly to each other and just offered me more wine each time I finished my glass. But it was okay I just liked listening to them and tasting that aura of sex on my lips as I got more and more excited. The tension that built between them was really fun to watch develop as well. But soon a move had to be made.

I already felt like my aggressiveness had been satisfied for the night. The wine was totally chilling me out, so I just felt like going along with whatever happened. It was as I was hoisting my tube-top back up. She flipped off the kitchen lights - which were the only ones on in the apartment so all was dark except for the city light coming in the window. It was also a full moon so that was lighting things up as well. She ran with her wine glass and bottle over to her king-sized bed and jumped up on it to kneel, almost spilling all the wine as she did. She called us over to admire her view of the Minneapolis skyline from her window.  Boy 1 and I walked over and sat on her bed. It was quite a view, almost completely unobstructed - only another building nearby kind of jutting into the panorama a bit. Not bad though. When it lost its novelty we just kind of took off our shoes and kept sitting there, talking, drinking the wine.  

Astoundingly about 15 minutes passed before anything started. We were all nice and loose. That first touch always feels amazing because you want it so bad. Everyone laid down as soon as sitting became old.  I decided to be cute and use them both as pillows - putting my legs over her and laying my head on him. His chest felt beautiful - it was soft in just the right places and rock hard in the others... and very very warm. Girl 2 put her arms over my legs and cradled them. 

We were forming a human "H" on the bed. She reached over to the computer right next to the bed I didn't even notice was there. She moved the mouse so it came to life. The screen was so bright and lit up our lounging formation. "Some music?" she said suggestively. I loved this girl as she clicked around in itunes and all of a sudden Bjork started playing on the nicest stereo system I've ever witnessed a female own before. First up it was some rare live version of something from Vespertine, it was quiet and sensual. 

His hand had slid up my arm,  shirt sleeve, and was working its way under my tube top. His hands were really cold so it made my nipples get really hard and he ran his thumb over them as he lightly squeezed the whole package.  I reached up and lightly nudged his cock in his pants as I ran my other hand over his chest - that hand came down and held his hand that was in my shirt. I pressed it in to my breast and gave myself tingles. 

I hadn't noticed, but our "H" had become an "A." They had started kissing slowly, silently, and sensuously.  I was a little jealous that I hadn't been the first to kiss him, but I comforted myself by remembering that I did have my hand on his hard dick. Both of them were breathing heavily and it felt like some kind of therapeutic massage beds with my legs and head rising and falling at different rates. It was liking floating on a warm ocean of sex. 

Turning my head up to watch them kiss, I nuzzled his shirt up so I could press the side of my face into his bare stomach. I made it very obvious as I smelled him with a long inhale and satisfied exhalation. 

Her hands were now slowly rubbing my upper thigh and in between her own crotch at the same rate with HEAVY intensity. This girl wanted it bad. I held her hand with my other hand and moved it towards my crotch. 

Although I was really enjoying this geometrical 2nd base club,  I needed some greater position of involvement, so I turned parallel with them so we could become a drawer of spoons, or in keeping with the theme, the Roman numeral "III."  I faced her because it was her lips that seemed much more kissable at the moment than his. In the computer light, her lips looked bright red and full and I locked right into them. That gave the boy free license to start playing with me from behind.  The neck of my shirt was big enough that he was able to just pull it down around my waist.  I have pretty thick full lips too, so kissing her was like drowning in a sea of wonderful skin and her tongue swam into my mouth like an eel. 

He had taken my tube-top off also when he pulled my shirt down, so now his strong hands were squeezing my left boob from behind like a trained masseuse, while she was squeezing the right one from the front. Finally, I was getting ALL the attention. 

Then like a jack-in-the-box, she leapt up and whipped off her shirt and slung off her cute little bra. She had the best little athletic b-cup titties, they just begged to squeezed and admired. I bet having those sure does take the logistics out of dancing. After she was off with the bra, she surprised me and pulled off my tights with such enthusiasm.  It was so hot seeing her in nothing but her little red short shorts, the way they came so low.  

She laid back down in front of me and I put my hand down the front of those little red shorts and she let out the most precious little coo.  Now that's what I'm talking about.  That's why I do this.  But back in the moment, something was off balance. 

I ran up the score in my mind: Girl 2 - 1 pair of red short shorts and panties. Me - Just panties and a grin, Boy 1 - FULLY CLOTHED. "Something must be done about this," I thought.  

Just as I was getting ready to roll over and begin undressing him. She ran her hand down my stomach and between my legs, but not for my crotch - she reached all the way between to grab his. So I thought - "why rush it?" and just spent all of "Venus as a Boy" grinding on her arm that she had made me straddle to get to his package.  She's going to have my scent on her forearm for 3 weeks with as hard as I was working myself into her. 

She let up for a second and I rolled over to finally undress Boy 1 who had been rubbing my boobs and running his fingers through my hair and breathing in my ear up until now. But as I was rolling over I felt the warm flesh of his hard cock rub across the small of my back.  That Ninja Woman had reached through to unzip him and essentially give both of us handjobs at the same time.  That was hella sly. 

She lunged for him at the same time that I did. She went for his shirt, I went for the pants. I flung off both his pants and boxers in the same swift motion. It was a very good looking cock as far as cocks go. It was super skinny for how long it was, but had a nice big head on it. I put it about halfway into my mouth and breathed some long hot breaths on it for about a minute before I closed my mouth around it.  Somehow I don't think he appreciated every ounce of my teasing subtlety, for in the moments since I had turned my attention to his erection, Girl 2 had removed her red shorts and panties and was sitting on his face. We all smelled and tasted so musky from having danced the whole night up till now, but all the extra pheromones just made everyone grind that much harder. When I would look up to see what she was doing with his head, I almost expected to hear his teeth getting cracked out or hear him start gasping for air with how goddamn hard it looked like she was grinding her pussy into his face.  It looked like she had one hand on his forehead and the other one running through her own hair as she moaned with that raspy voice that had intrigued me so much back at the club. 

He had his arms wrapped around her thighs and his muscles were flexed, seemingly pressing her pelvis in to his face, so he must not have been hating it that much. I was enjoying myself giving service to his dick as his pelvis thrusted gently totally independent of the movement of his upper body. I practiced deep throating him, but didn't want to do  anything too dramatic and accidentally ruin the mood of things with a loud gagging coughing sound coming from my end. 

She dismounted his face for a moment so she could turn around and face me. She said in a really friendly voice "Hey, I almost forgot about you down there."  and I didn't know if she was talking to me or the penis.  We both serviced his junk for a couple minutes until he said he was going to cum and he didn't want to yet. 

We took a little break for a moment. She lit some of the best incense I have ever smelled and got out some very fragrant massage oil, but didn't use any yet. There wasn't going to be a whistle or a buzzer to indicate the end of the break, so I just jumped right back in - except this time I chose to get a little face time with the boy. I laid down along side him and he rolled over on his side and started kissing me and squeezing my tits and it felt so good. 

Then I felt the girl's hands, very warm by contrast, pull my underwear down and throw it on the floor. It took a little extra peeling in the crotch region because of how wet I was and how much it was making the elastic stick to me.  She put her whole big mouth over my pubis with her tongue and thick lower lip resting on my clit. Then like a blast wave of pleasure she uttered this long deep "mmmmmmmmm" with that kind of raspy low sexy lady voice of hers.  I almost died. I closed my thighs around either side of her head and squeezed, while rolling my pelvis forward further into her mouth.  That long powerful eel tongue of hers was now undulating through my pussy lips like a salmon swimming upstream. At the same time, the boy was sucking on one of my nipples as he rolled the other one softly between his thumb and forefinger. I cradled his head with my arm and pressed his face deeper into my breast.  

Here I was, receiving all this service, but giving none at all. So I run my hand down along his muscular torso and up his cock and feel that it's resting on the girl's shoulder in the crook of her neck partially in her hair. I ran my hand over the whole foreign topography. This struck me as REALLY HOT. You get used to the sensation of a penis, or a shoulder, or hair independently, the way that you're pretty sick of concord grape juice by the time you finish first grade. BUT then if you blend a couple favorite things together and you have Cran-Grape juice it's brand new again and stokes brand new nerve endings. That's what this was like - a penis on a woman's shoulder. She was pressed firmly between us and starting to get rhythmic with her motions.  

She started moaning with her mouth on my pussy again which really made my eyes roll back, but then as soon as I started to moan too, she slowly slid two fingers up inside my body from below. My only critique is that she could have done more with them than just in and out - but hey, I guess it's similar to the way you don't put your feet up on the coffee table the first time you're over at a new neighbor's house. As I was kissing the boy's face, I could definitely smell and taste the girl's pussy all over him which was a cool sensation.  

Last night made me rediscover an old favorite of Bjork's.  This really slow intense live or remix version of "Possibly, Maybe" came on her playlist and it must have been 20 minutes long, it was exquisite. It played for almost the entire time I was kissing the boy and the girl was licking the pink off my vulva.  

"As much as I definitely enjoy solitude: I wouldn't mind, perhaps spending a little time with you... sometimes sometimes." - Bjork, "Possibly, Maybe"  

His lips were pretty small and firm which was not so bad because my lips are soft and big enough, and I had already had such a lavish time with her big ones already - this was a nice change. I was already getting pretty close to coming, but I don't think he had received any serious service on the lower half for quite a while. He rolled over toward me which pushed the girl out of my crevice. She was such a good team player - I'm serious. As soon as she was out of me, she knew what was going on and she was digging around in a little box by her bed for a condom.  He was looking into my eyes with those kind but steely eyes of his, and down below he was teasing my lips open with the tip of his cock. I was burning red on fucking fire right then and she couldn't have found that rubber any sooner! She even rolled it on for him.  

Soon he was aiming it right on target and sliding it into me so smoothly. It was so long that it felt like a passenger train going into a tunnel - I seriously didn't know when it was going to stop.  My one complaint was that for as long as it was, it could have been wider/thicker.  But it was by no means bad. His movements were top notch. Long, smooth, intense strokes - plus his pelvic bone was shaped just right so that when he was all the way inside me he would grind my clit so hard.  

I think Girl was sitting at the foot of the bed just watching me get laid at this point. All the sensual imagery must have finally gotten to her, because we both chuckled when we heard her groan with sexual frustration and crawl up the bed to be next to us. I really didn't want to leave her out, I don't think the boy did either. So I cuddled her up with both arms and pulled her upper body on top of my chest so the boy could kiss both of us and because I wanted to finger her vagina.  She had a pretty hairy crotch, hairier than you see these days - but I think that just made it more aromatic. But once I got through the thicket, I could tell why she was guarding it so heavily. Her labia were big and thick and soft and they mirrored the lips on her face. Her folds and textures were so delicious to the touch. Her love crater was big and wide and wet, and piping hot to the touch.  

The boy was now sucking her ear right in front of my face. Between that, and playing with her tits - I think he was a little over occupied and forgot to keep thrusting in me. So I grabbed onto his shoulders and started the motion going again with my pelvis.

Now between here and the next position we got into, I don't remember how it happened. We were just there all of a sudden. Or maybe I'm forgetting a part. Anyway... She's on her back, I'm lying on top of her, and he is fucking me from behind now. A couple times he slipped out of me and went into her instead. I would feel the absence in me and then she would moan the very next second and I put 2 and 2 together. Soon he really started going at me and pulled me up to my knees to pump me much faster and get the countershift of the mattress going too. This made her boobs and mine undulate up and down in the same rhythm. Now she was just lying below me watch it all happen while masturbating with two hands.  Her feet would sometimes come up and gently caress the boy and I slowly while we were going at it so violently. She had this amazing smile that was so peaceful and calm as I looked down on her face. I think she had made herself cum already and was just waiting for the boy and I to finish. 

For such a manly man, he made some kind of effeminate sounds when he was getting close to climax. But I think he was reading my body language pretty well because we both came at just about the same time, and soon, we were all sweaty and lying in a big smitten pile of 3.  The Bjork music continued and I looked at the big bright moon in the sky over my head.  

As he went and took care of his condom clean up, the girl and I cuddled intimately on the bed. Because I think it's so fascinating, just the physiology of it all, I took her hand and put it between my legs to feel the spot where my orgasm keeps on ticking for a few minutes afterwards. She was amazed at how pronounced mine was - she said hers was rather discreet. 

When the boy returned he found a way between us and we all just cuddled for a little while and talked. Nobody was even close to sleepy yet. She grabbed the bottle of massage oil and put on some ambient music, then gave me one of the most wonderful massages ever. The boy checked his email and finished off one of the bottles of wine.  I asked how old he was - he said 23.  The question hung in the air and it turned out that the girl was 25.  They became friends in during college it seems, but this was the first time they've ever fooled around physically. It was funny hearing them confess right then that they had both wanted to but always thought the other was with someone.  How funny indeed that it took a little tramp from California to bring them together - now they've got friends with benefits - what a wonderful world.  Her birthday was recently and she said that when she blew out her candles, she secretly wished for some sex, and was happy that it came true. 

When we were laying there still, the boy sighed at one point and said something like "wow, what nice thing did I ever do to deserve THIS?" It sounded so sincere and cute that I just had to kiss him on the cheek. He was a sweetie. 

While she was massaging me, she paid extra attention to massaging my ass and it felt AMAZING. She told me that the body carries a lot of tension back there, and that it's one of her favorite things to massage because it reminds her of baking bread. Which makes sense, because it felt like butter to me.  

After a long time of just laying there - I could tell that the girl and boy were embracing very seriously and talk was kind of starting to subside. He was behind her, pressed firmly into her with his hand cupped on her breast. She was reaching behind her to pull his face to where she could kiss it.  It looked so romantic, it was such a good pose - and in the moonlight of all places. 

I could see that his hard cock was now protruding out in front of her with her legs straddled around it. Since we had been quite free and creative with our positions all evening, I thought I would try something a little strange. Let me recap: He is behind her kissing her neck, his dick is sticking out in front of her a little ways between her legs, and her face it pointed towards me, eyes closed just enjoying herself. SO THEN, I put my pussy up to her face again and invert myself 69 style to start sucking HIM off with my head somehow pressed into her crotch. It was awesome. I was going down on him with her smell right then and there. I want to patent that one and call it "The 669" - see what I mean?  Or maybe the "679" I guess history will decide. 

That move was fun but not too sustainable so it only went on a minute or two then I could tell that they wanted to fuck. So I looked around in the box where it looked like she grabbed the condom from, but she said she wanted to go with out. "I'm on the pill, and I trust the guy. I know he's too busy to get laid TOO often."  So with that, she reached between her legs and slid his entire length inside her. She even made that coo again that sounds too high to match her voice. That's one way I guess to know that it's totally involuntary.  

I went below them to watch them fuck and ended up getting mighty aroused again myself. It's clear to me now that I was just a tad drunk - because I looked around for the first smooth oblong object I could find - which was the empty wine bottle - and shoved it into my pussy. It actually felt really good, especially when I got it in far enough to where it started getting wider at the bottom.  I came pretty quickly on my own, and then applied myself to eating her out while she was getting sexed from behind.  It was really cool to put my tongue on her and run it down till I could feel him going in and out of her on my tongue. She was so warm and wet and musky down there, I keep folding my upper lip today so I can smell her again.  

After he came and she came and she laid there for a few minutes she goozed a fucking river of semen out of her. He cleaned it up like a gentleman so none of us had to sleep in it.  Then we slept.  

Wow - that was really fun, I feel like having a cig after that blog post. whewwww, I'm a little heated again just from reliving it like this in such detail. 

This morning we slept in really late then got up and we made waffles.  So much said now, I don't know what else to say. I guess - happy birthday Soviet Panda. Can't wait till next Saturday.

Boxing Pandora

With references to Greek Mythology and Roman History in the first week of keeping this thing, the casual glancer might think this is some kind of scholarly podium at which I present my views on Classics. My answer to this is - "just read the damn blog." You'll see what I'm using the podium for in this class. 

The main point I wanted to get down in here, because I seem to forget it each time just before I do, is When you read someone else's diary, you will always get what you asked for.  I'm not talking blogs, but someone else's private thoughts - sometimes the truth will be a little too truthy for comfort. 

Take this guy, Victor for example. I met him in Uptown two weeks ago - we talk, we shag, we hang out for like 8 straight days, and then we kind of part ways. One person just doesn't call the other one day, and the other doesn't really notice. It happens every day. And I was pretty fine with this. It was okay by me. 

I knew he kept a blog. He updated it all the time - that's how I know. I didn't ever read it during the time we were hanging out, but after a couple days went by I just wanted to see what he was up to, to save even the work required for a phone call. 

I checked it in the middle of the night on a Friday. Janie is not the kind of girl who can be hurt by conventional means. I'm kind of invincible like that. But what I read in his blog I don't think was meant for the public eye, and especially not mine. The story I made up in my mind is that he got back from the bar (via the 3:13 am timestamp on the post) and wrote a post after talking to his friends about me, got a lot of "skank" and "walking STD trap" junk from them, decided to write it out, But forgot to hit "private" on the post.  You wanted uncensored truth - you got it lady. 

"Go ahead, fall from any height. I'll take care of the consequences."

Like I said - I can't be hurt - I've heard it all before, but I am a sensual person, and reading that definitely stung a little.  I just wondered if he was thinking those things on his own while we were hanging out, or if those were just implanted opinions after a night out with the boys. Either way, he's either gutless or cruel. I didn't cry or anything. I was just a little let down because he seemed very genuine.  

But like I said, when you read someone else's private thoughts, you always get what you asked for. I was certainly asking for it.  However, It can be a number of different things.

 And when you say you're let down; where are you let down from, and where do you land? Those are the very subjective points of data that can usually elucidate the truth from the very nondescript phrase of saying "I was let down." 

*Were you dropped from a warm and cuddly pipe-dream onto the cold steel surface of reality?

*Did you accidentally crawl through a storm drain on the surface of reality and fall into the sewer of poor regard? 

In this case it kind of felt like I was dropped from a stunt helicopter through some clouds that simply obscured the distance to the hollywood crash balloon below. The only element of surprise was "when am I going to hit?" I hit the bag, take off my helmet and cape and bow to the wild applause of an adoring crowd. I won't lie - the pills I'm on definitely act like the best stunt bag money can by. Go ahead, fall from any height - I'll take care of the consequences. Including those of this little episode. 

For now, I'll be in my trailer. (hmm, that's a good nickname for me: "Stunt Bag.")

(Maybe as a tribute to Victor, I'll pop this blog's cherry and go into detail about about some of his bedroom heroics... and shortcomings.) (Isn't the truth tasty?)

See you soon, Vic. ;)

Caligula's Blush

Perhaps it was very appropriate that the final movie they played on the Greyhound hell-ride from CA to MN was none other but Gore Vidal’s 1979 sleaze-flick/Roman history biopic  “Caligula.”  I shit you not. 

29 hours into the ride when I was about to crawl out of my own skin I realized that when a Greyhound bus gets a certain distance from a place that could possibly issue any kind of punitive retribution – all official protocol goes right out the window.   

I noticed this filthy looking old white man who got on the bus somewhere in Northern Arizona, talking to the driver a couple hours into a long stretch of no towns. This bus had little TVs installed all over the bus and you could listen to whatever was on them if you plugged some headphones in to the little jack on the back of the seat in front of you.  He must have been asking if he could put a movie in for us all to watch.  How kind of him. The driver’s bored voice came over the intercom and I thought he was going to announce the next town we were stopping in, but he was just asking if anyone had any objections to watching a movie. Nobody spoke up. He didn’t exactly say what movie it was, but no one hardly even reacted anyway. 

I thought it was funny how many kids there were on the bus and how none of the parents objected to anything in the 2.5 hour orgy of blood, incest, lunacy, and Roman history. I’m just as perverted as the next gal, but through the first hour of it I felt like I had witnessed 15 children get eye-raped by the cinematic feature chosen by a guy who looked like he could be a relative of John McCain.  The second hour, however – I got more comfortable with the absurd events unfolding before me.  I found it actually QUITE appropriate that such a film was going to be heralding my arrival in the upstanding Midwestern town where I would begin my reign of nihilistic excess and titular exploitation of flesh.  It was kind of a boring film in parts, but I’ll say that I gave it “one thumb up, one thumb down” from the relative seclusion of my seat in the back under my blanket. You savvy?

To kill the agonizing boredom it even crossed my mind to try and score someone in the lavatory.  This idea was very short lived for a number of reasons.  The thought of it even made me see and hear violent static and black & white flashes for a couple seconds.  A: There is NO Greyhound equivalent to the “mile-high club.” Don’t even consider it folks.  B: The smell might have made me vomit all over my partner, which is a buzzkill – unless you’re into that sort of thing. And most of all, C: There was not one soul who rode on that bus from CA to MN who I would have even considered talking to, let alone conquering in that 70 mph shithouse.

A Greyhound bus honestly has to be the absolute worst way on earth to travel from one place to another. I would have seriously felt more comfortable, and safer duck-taped to the corrugated rear bumper of a semi than in the greasy, cramped, flatulent confines of that damned hell bus.  Sure I was feeling a little suicidal and prone to self mutilation back in S.oCa.l , but what I very painfully learned on that bus was that there are certain kinds of torture I actually don’t enjoy. Correction – CAN’T enjoy.  While buying your motor coach ticket online from the comfort of a home in sunny Cali.forn/ia – you truly have no concept of what 51 hours on a bus feels like.  It’s a whole week of work plus 11 hours of overtime… spent in the company of the old man who farts and uses the bus toilet every hour, and the LA gangbanger and his baby mama who he argues with in their own incoherent language, or the greasy and fat old woman in the calico muumuu who twitches a lot and carries a big stuffed dog for comfort. You can’t just get off in one of the towns unless you want to stay there for another 8 hours till the next bus breezes in and you try your luck with the next rogue’s gallery of societal throwbacks. Maybe I’m being harsh, but I feel needle pricks and the sound of buckets being pounded with hammers every time I think of that bus ride.  Maybe it helped me understand that Chinese guy in Canada who beheaded his seat neighbor on a Greyhound trip as he slept a couple weeks ago.  The guy even took bites of the corpse after he was done displaying the severed head to the rest of the passengers.  And they didn’t even show “Caligula” on their bus. Well… maybe they did?

I even skipped my favorite pill and didn’t drink any coffee in hopes I could just sleep through the whole living nightmare. I bought some cheap sleeping pills at a gas station when we stopped. 

The whole ritual put me out for about 10 hours but that only added to the terror of it all. I fell asleep when it was light out, and woke up in a different state, at night, groggy as hell,  had gotten my period, confused and depressed because I had skipped my prescription, and absolutely disoriented.  The bus was also now full of people when it had been somewhat sparse when I fell asleep. I couldn’t see who was next to me since I was blaring stimulus so jaggedly.  I didn’t want to see. I was learning also that I did indeed have a ‘comfort bubble’ and the entire bus was violating it like farm boys loving sheep.    

I had only slept for 10 hours; roughly 1/5^th of the entire trip. I knew there were still double digits ahead of me but somehow I was able to keep it together. So proud of myself for not totally losing it and beheading someone.  I thought of sending in my application to NASA for that theoretical “1 Person, 1 Way” Mars mission I read about. With that kind of emotional stamina displayed from CA to MN, I know that 6 months in a capsule alone on a kamikaze science field trip to Mars would be like ice cream in the park compared to the Greyhound ride. Every time that old man hacked up phlegm in to that hanky I thought my jaw would unhinge itself and I would chew through my own cheeks like something out of “Event Horizon.”   

When I finally arrived in the middle of the night at the bus station in Minneapolis, I felt like a martyr for the human race. I really wanted a huge dick hanging between my legs because it seemed like I could use it like a shotgun to blast my contempt for that silver bus and everyone on it in a sticky white atomic discharge that would send them all to the 9^th level of Hades where they all belong. Maybe that’s why I am liking Minneapolis so much; it lives on in my mind as the place where I finally got off that motherfucking bus.   

I was trying to be as smart  as I could about conserving that pot of money back home, but if I knew then what I know now, I would have paid 8 grand for a plane ticket to Minneapolis as an alternative to that. I realized I saved $300 by taking the bus over a plane.  Now $300 won’t buy back the piece of my soul that ride took from me. 

It’s clear now that the pent up rage and sexual frustration that fueled my first two (and possibly favorite) fucks in Minneapolis was a result of that ride. So in the end, it turned out okay. But never again so long as I live will I ever take a Greyhound anywhere except for the race track. 

Torn (for the moment)

So much potential lies in a brand new journal. It's that squeaky clean kind of potential that makes you feel pretty clean inside too. Like the freshly squeegee'd chalkboards at school on the first day of class after the summer. As if what was to be written on it first would be utterly effortless to memorize because of how crisply the chalk lines stand out from the green slate. 

As I saw when I went back and read that rant I cranked out yesterday, I don't have much trouble just letting my mind open up to spill out what's inside. However, today I am terribly torn by the urge to put down about 8 different things, and I'd be damned if I could just decide what to put down first. 

I have been wanting so badly to finally just get these things in my head written down before they fade out and I don't have as much to say since I've forgotten all the really relevant details. I want to tell the story of the museum docent I had sex with or about the gymnast boy, or what I thought of that French movie, or about the boy whose ear I licked clean at TML last week.  Okay, this will be the note to myself to write about those things - but what is really weighing on me is the need to relate the process of coming here, and first thinking I had a place to stay here, and the awful 51 hour bus ride, and the trust fund thing.  Just to illustrate what has put me in position for this final approach. It feels like everything I'll write from then on will make more sense.   Mmmph I can't stop picking my nail polish off as I sit and think of what to write next. The little flakes are all over my legs now and are getting in the cracks of the keyboard, it's annoying.

I re-read what I typed yesterday, and I don't think I sound like a very fun person to get to know and get inside of (take that however you so feel).  I wouldn't do me, that's for sure. If I met me at a dance place like First Ave or Transmission (forgot what that German place is called) I would probably hit on me and buy me some drinks at first, but as soon as I heard how gloomy I sound, I would make an excuse to leave and be thankful I didn't have to share that post-sex awkwardness with such a BarBitchuate. (stuff THAT one in your lexicon and smoke it) Once that uppity grind hump hump excitement is gone, you either think of a whole lot of things to say to pass the time until morning (now that the veil of biological obligation is lifted), or you pay the price for bedding a total stranger in terms of personality as well as in terms of the more literal lack of prior familiarity. 

I'm a pretty old-fashioned girl. About as old-fashioned as they come. You and I and everyone are nothing more than clumps of energized matter. No I don't hold hands in the park or attend Ice cream socials, or blush when my date pins on the corsage. That's all just a garnish for those who feel obliged to polish the silver of inherited moral tea sets and flatware engraved with the monograms of duty and reputation.

 Older than THAT is the code of the animals who flock together to reproduce, primarily, and to  mark their territory and survive droughts and such. I'm certainly surviving alright on my own now, and I certainly don't feel the desire to share my space with a genetic replica of mine either. (It is debatable however, that I will be guilty of marking my territory a little bit each time I tell a story in the blog.) 

Before even the animals, what was there? - The Universe. Planetary bodies have always collided, and merged, and repelled just as I do when I go out on the dance floor to shake my asterisms in hopes of attracting a heavenly body or two into my orbit. Does it ever cross your mind to question Gravity on any level? My black hole is the very birthplace of Gravity - not even the enlightened can escape.  Inner-space and outer-space don't always have so little in common.  Some days I crave a Leo, other days - a Virgo. Gemini if I'm really lucky and Cancer if I'm not. I chase a little comet tail and if it's written in the stars that night, I might just get sprayed with a little stardust.  Collision just happens to be in my immediate timeline so I'm just trying to get as much rotation out of this epoch as I possibly can. So if you happen to cross my path any time soon, feel free to orbit and join the revolution or just burn up in my atmosphere.  

(This always happens when I put on the NASA channel as background noise)

I feel like I should be a speaker for classes of elementary school aged girls - to teach them about the dangers of Philosophy. How a Philosophy major can ruin your life, and classes on 19th century literature can only serve as a gateway to it. 

"Listen kids - after you graduate, IF you graduate, when it's time to look for a job; what if all you could do was ask yourself 'what IS a job, anyway?' And say you took a class on Semantics somewhere along the line? Next you might ask yourself, 'what is 'Is'? And THEN when you're already vulnerable and confused, someone pressures you to take a seminar on Dada and Absurdism in 20th Century Theater with them - you might end up short-circuiting your own brain andyou could end up in the ER or the Morgue when you ask yourself 'Is what is bleep what zoink?' "

"Stay in school, kids - but don't believe what they say about a Philosophy Major. Sure it might be all glamor and cash for a little while, but it always ends up with a world of pain and separation from your family. Thank you for listening."

TEACHER: "Ok class now let's thank Ms. Nygme for talking with us today. Can we give her a big round of applause?"

Well this is the second night in a row I have turned my back on responsible sleeping, but I've never been known for responsibility anyway. However during all this musing, I managed to decide that I'll just do an entry or two more on my back-story and on coming here before I get to all the T&A and stories about dance nights and drink specials. So, I guess it's time to brew up another espresso and let my fingers do the talking. 

Project Run-Away

I couldn’t quite find it in the creamy center of my Swiss cheese brain, the willpower to cook up a more creative title for this new outlet, so “Kiss n’ Tell” it will be.  I usually relish the privilege of getting to name something. I think of titles for things all day long, and then when it comes time to actually name something, I totally drop the ball – like clockwork, each time. I get too excited thinking about the prospect of getting to interact with whatever is getting named. No patience in my body, whatsoever.  If I’m ever unfortunate enough to sprout my own little vermin someday, I’ll probably name her something very plain and hasty  like “Katie” or “Sarah” just because I’ll be too excited to start teaching her foul words and  how to spit. 

Oh shit. A day dream just popped and sizzled behind my right ear (where they always start)  like an errant bottle rocket in a rain-starved and crispy redwood forest. It looks like it might be a big one.  The upsetting thought of my own future progeny always runs in and takes over, I hate it.  A little grey alien parasite sucking up my life juice and invading my crotch, making me fat, forcing me to expel it from my F-hole and wipe it’s nose and teach it to read until it grows a pair of its own, steals my cash, gives me the finger and leaves home. These are not thoughts I want to have but I have no control over my own brain anymore. That fizzled sack of nerves does what it wants and drags consciousness along behind it like a younger sister trying to walk  the  Golden Retriever before she’s even out of Velcro shoes.  (Can you tell yet that I like metaphors?) (Can you tell that last one might have actually happened? I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding.)  Daydreams are just tangents of thought, and while even trying to chase one in particular to make my first paragraph make sense, you can see I’ve strolled down yet another one all together.  

I saw a little girl, my little girl – an anonymous “Katie “or “Sarah” standing in little red shorts out in a gravel driveway holding a garden hose, shielding the yellow Midwestern sunlight from her eyes so she could stare right into the souls of  the traveling homeless hopeless unseen in the filthy seats of the Greyhound bus as it speeds by pulling a monster tide of khaki dust behind it.  There I was, running. (but we’ll get to that later) I was traversing a country I had very little in common with, yet always kept a profound reverence for its ways – backwards as they may be. There I saw a little kid without a thought in her head, just a garden hose in her hand. And I thought out of all the fates there could be for a little girl, being just another “Katie” or “Sarah” in a little shithole town in the Midwest  wouldn’t be the worst you could have. It actually is probably one of the better ones. No – you probably won’t win any awards outside of your high school, and you might just die a mile or two from where you were born, but at least you get to be you. You get to be a whole person here, I think – so I’ve heard, whatever whatever, amen.  I’m sure that every little girl here in Microsville USA wishes she could leave and see “The Big World” but what she should realize at some point is that for every one of her kind looking to get out, there’s another little girl on a Greyhound bus from The Big World headed her way looking to hide out for awhile.  The point is, If I ever happen to squeeze one out, I plan on leaving it in an empty KFC tub on the front steps of a Lutheran church somewhere in the middle of cow country.  Even devoting your adult life to mastering the art of the potato salad is better than cursing the name of your goddamned uncle and living a lie. Even if it is a glamorous, luxurious lie, the problem is – it’s all yours.

This journal sure is off to a roaring start. I hate thinking about pregnancy, childbirth, and parenthood - so what do I do?: Write a fucking essay on it. I guess it’s the same way with car wrecks – can’t look away, even if you try.  Does this all sound pretty messed up so far? I'm glad.  I hope whoever is reading this thinks it is. That might prove that there’s still a little sanity in this world. But still, one has to wonder – who is more messed up: the one who writes down her problems, or the one who licks up each little scandalous morsel and comes back for more?  Fuck – I’m probably on page 4 by now.  Well I have a lot to say – it was a long bus ride, and now I’m looking to excrete what I’ve been carrying around all this time.

At age 24 are you allowed to call yourself “a runaway?” No one called the police nor printed my face on the milk cartons or those little postcard sized mailers that everyone tosses away with the junkmail. Technically I am “running away” and the place I left had been “home” in a distant sense of the word.  When you’re 14, doing what I did 2 months ago is seen as a brazen act of defiance. When you’re 24, and no one really likes you anyway, you’re just kind of doing everyone a favor. It ‘s an act that doesn’t even have the gall built in when you decide to disappear permanently from social life but make your family members or friends clean up a nasty suicide corpse – it’s the same effect really. Being gone forever one day – just without all the expensive body removal bills.  I’m sure they’re thanking me for that aspect in their own way out there somewhere. Their biggest display of gratitude would be to simply forget about me, and never bother to try and look for me.  Ok, fine – I admit. So maybe they might miss me, but ONLY out of obligation.  Just so that when their friends ask “Oh, How’s Janie these days?” they don’t have to say “Well to escape the bitter coldness we showed her at home, she packed up an left for Minneapolis.”  Yeah, that’s enough to put the sword through the cherry of any poolside cocktail party.  Uncle Rob attends plenty of those, and has plenty of obligatory friends who would ask such a question – again, purely because they’re obligated to care. That’s the only reason I’m even a little hesitant to spit too much detail in this trough. One net-savvy private dick finds this and Uncle Rob will be harassing me for the bank key on my new front porch.

This new blog feels like a new friend. This being the first entry, it feels like that first long conversation you have with the new friend. It happens on a day where neither of you have anywhere to be except right there and the hours kind of slip away until all of a sudden the whole day is gone and you have this invisible pull toward the heart of this person who was nearly a stranger to you yesterday.  In that first monster convo, you have to lay down the foundation for who you are, in hopes of establishing a context for your personality to fit into in the eyes of this friend from that day on.  You have to tell the “life story” the way you tell a bedtime story to a kid.  It’s so familiar to your own ears, but you see your audience listen with such attention, so hungry for the next piece of the narrative.  And keeping to the “bedtime story” metaphor – the story changes just a little each time you tell it either to suit the audience, or your most recent state of mind or perspective on things.

This voyage here to the Midwest was such a kamikaze move anyway – I don’t even know if its worth it to spell out every little biographic iota in here.  I don’t see the point. Plus, who would “Janie Nygme” be if she laid it all out, Barbara Walters style.  I moved my ass to the Midwest, the same way that Thelma and Louise decided to take a driving tour of the canyon.  Catch the drift?

On the other hand, I’m thousands of miles away from anyone who might put this in any kind of context, and Minneapolis seems like a big enough place to stay hidden for any amount of time – so even if someone got even halfway wise to where I was camped out AND cared enough to come after me with a lasso, I’m pretty sure that I can just keep my head down and look like a loon or a lake or a piece of casserole for awhile.  So if this blog is really going to be my new best friend, I suppose there’s no way I can avoid a little biographic show-and-tell.  It’ll just have to be rather brief, and rather vague to keep the keywords far enough apart for Google not to hone in on the life and times of “Little Janie Runaway.”   

She was born rich and bored in S.outhern Cal.ifornia (a little search engine camoflage trick I learned from a friend – pretty snazzy, huh?)  But unlike her very bored friends who just sat and bitched to each other about the prison bars on each side, I was busy painting the bars primary colors and festooning their circumferences with ribbon.  I did Debate, Speech, and AP English so at least I could articulate what I couldn’t shout.  I read as many books as my social life would allow.  It’s funny how I talk about all these “friends” of mine, and these theoretical interactions between new friends, and so on and so on – when the true blue of it all is that I’ve had so few people in my life that I could really call a FRIEND – in the honest sense of the word. And even then, all of them lived too far away to rely on them the way I hear ‘friends’ are supposed to be able to.  Therefore I have always counted on the internal monologue to make sense of it all. Back in the day, when I was a good girl, I would journal it away in little pink diaries so I could read it someday and see just how far I hadn’t come.

Here goes nothing, Barbara...

 Two big brothers, one little sister, some cats, some dogs, and a Mom and Dad. It was one of those ongoing, very unplanned families – where the older brothers are WAY older, and the younger sister is too young to relate to.  Mom and Dad loved each other in that kind of ubiquitous, impersonal, "hippie" kind of way. That’s what they were after all. Total Hippies. Even after dad ended up making all of his money by providing a very valuable but mundane service to the movie industry, they still found ways to keep it real.  They just kind of went on breeding because they still could. Money wasn’t really an object, and I guess it was just kind of a way of leaving signposts in the sands of time. To have a kid at the beginning of every decade and to name them arbitrarily the way one names a pathetic online journal.  I am the 1980’s – I represent fruitless excess, misguided economics, and absurd pop-music.

The way Mom and Dad kept true to their hippie roots in light of owning a house in O.range C.ounty and driving a ridiculously un-hippie car was to visit their old shack in the hills. I’ve never known right where it was but I’m absolutely sure that all of my siblings and I were conceived there. I’ve been there in spirit I suppose – as a sperm or egg – whichever was the case,  but I’ve never set a living foot in or near “the shack.”  Over the years as their situation improved they made improvements to the shack. They would leave for long weekends to install various items of creature comfort in and around their little nest.  Gas lines for heating and cooking were one of the last improvements they made. Dad installed the piping himself – the handyman that he was.  Mom sometimes questioned the quality of his work in that department (womens’ intuition & hippy earth-spirits insisted, I’m sure) so she made him hire this local Mexican kid who lived near to the cabin to go and check on the pipes for the smell of gas like once or twice a week in exchange for a little money or old appliances each time they would go up there.  

You can probably see where I’m going with this by now; DIY Gas piping, placing safety in the hands of a Mexican kid, referring to them only in past-tense.  I would say it’s a gruesome way to go, but from what I heard there was absolutely nothing left.  Just a big black hole. It was the same day that some wildfires blew across the highlands and didn’t get put down until 2 ½ weeks later after spreading a couple hundred miles across dry grasses and crinkled yucca plants. I sometimes like to think that it was them passing a joint that sent the whole shithouse up in flames, which then in turn burned up mile after square mile of s. California’s 6 to 7 figure real estate country.  Or the blaze could have started independently and consumed their shack in a deafening blast while they took a nap – either way, it doesn’t really matter.  My story basically begins with the day my parents were atomized.

I was at home one day and I get a call from my dad’s old lawyer-turned friend, who first briefly told me that I have been orphaned, followed soon after by an elaborate sequence of directions which have me drive 30 miles to a bank with a thick stack of stock certificates, bonds, cash envelopes which I stash in a family safe deposit box along with about a liter of tears and snot.  The lawyer told me that Dad’s estate got put in to my Uncle Rob’s name on the will because of some pressure from my Grandpa since Rob helped him out with money when he was just getting started.  But if you knew Rob you would know that there would be dollar signs in his eyes way before there would ever be tears for his brother’s untimely demise.  I guess this lawyer knew that Rob would absorb all of it before there was ever a chance for any of it to reach my sister and I. A little bit of property was left to my brothers but they hadn’t really updated the will since before my sis and I were born.  He was just looking out for us.  Good thing cos, as we soon found out, no one else was. 

As soon as Uncle Rob found out that he inherited custody of my sister along with his estate he did what any sympathetic family member would in the time of a crisis: the motherfucker put her up for adoption.  I didn’t know until then that you could put a 10 year old up for adoption, but apparently you can in Cal.ifornia. I made her memorize the address of the post office box I bought. She said she would write since I was not allowed to know where she was adopted.  My friend Peyton checks the box for me every few weeks or so, but up to now, I have had no word from her.  It’s been 4 years. 

For the first 6 months I was ‘allowed’ to live with Uncle Rob and his transparent trophy wife – as long as I paid rent equal to the going market rate for one-bedroom apartments in the area.  He lived in Sherman Oaks, so you can see just how that went.  Plus he would try to drill me for the location of all dad’s stock certificates and mom’s jewelry, and the cash and all the stuff I hid in the box. He would claim it was his and I was being a criminal and violating my dead dad’s wishes for keeping it from him.  As if it was in keeping with dad’s will to pawn his youngest daughter off to strangers and make his other daughter spend her makeshift inheritance paying a fortune in rent to him.

Jesus – it really looks like I’ve committed myself to telling this story, haven’t I? It’s the damned pills, I swear. For being hippies, my parents sure did have a blind trust in modern pharmacology.  Since puberty, I have been on a daily cocktail of mood stabilizing drugs.  I have reached the opinion that it’s kind of unknown at this point whether or not I needed all those teen-uppers and kiddie-downers,  but it’s certain that at this point in my mid-20’s, I can’t go a goddam day without them now.  My brain probably doesn’t even make its own chemicals anymore.  It’s porous straight through, like a cartoon block of cheese in a room full of hungry mice with forks and knives.  Maybe I could have been one of the greatest minds of the 21^st century – but I’ll never know.  I’m just a pill chewing wad of post-modern nihilism with a feisty vendetta against the world, a secret identity, and an overactive sex-drive hungry for the private bits of strangers.

Ok, fine I said it. I’m about as loose as they come. The alternative to paying a small fortune to be miserable in Rob’s house was to move out and just sleep over at the homes of friends every night. The problem was, I never really had enough friends I could do such a thing anyway. The friends I had weren’t all that close either.  It was pretty shitty.  I don’t really know how to work or have an apartment (although I’m trying now)  The problem with my family was – well, I was loved - yet neglected simultaneously. Does that make sense? Some people might wish their parents had never pressured them to look for work or do lots of extra curricular stuff – but I wish mine had. Like a kid standing blank faced staring off into space back stage at a school play. She didn’t hear her cue, and is unknowingly causing moment after painful moment of butt-clenching dead air on stage and in the audience. Teachers and parents frantically whispering your name as loud as they can to make your move and get the show on the road.  But no, you stare off at the silver garland covered cloud suspended in the rafters above the stage picking the pink spandex unitard out of your ass-crack.    

I had no real friends to sleep with, so I slept with strangers until they felt like friends.  Yes, after it worked so well the first few times – it became so very clear what I must do. Yes, I would become the cheapest whore in the county.  Anything you like for the low low price of letting me crash at your pad and making me feel like your pet for a little while.  I even stayed with girls a few times who insisted I didn’t need to pay them back in any way, but I would always end up eating their cunts eventually so I wouldn’t feel like I was racking up any debt.   

 

So “why did you move to Minneapolis,” so many of you have asked in various states of undress? Cliche pillow-talk. From what I heard it seemed very real here. “Seem” is always the word I will use for that perception.  PS3 “seems” more real than NES, but either way in the end you’ve still wasted an entire day sitting inside mashing a piece of plastic with your thumbs in exchange for some paltry neuro-chemical stimulation.

I heard that there was a chance that “Minnesota Nice” might allow me to crash on peoples’ couches and I might not even have to fuck them for the privilege. The only catch was – I WANT the privilege TO FUCK THEM – I so don’t care anymore. It’s not about pride or self-esteem, or even utility anymore.  It’s about a 1 way ticket to the bottom, and old-fashioned endocrine juicing. Getting my rocks off whenever I want with whomever stands in my way.  I am going to re-define the word “Slut” like Michel Gondry redefined “Music Video” and am going to chronicle my exploits in a post-modern sutra that transforms all known ideas of depravity in to museum quality artwork for all to revile or revere.

If you want subtlety this won’t be the place – try The Current. (god, I hate that station.) What I’ve discovered is the only thing I like better than fucking strangers is writing about it.  Why not? I have an endless budget, a cool apartment, a hot body, and a brain just numb enough to think it’s all a pretty good pastime.  What else would a good Nymphomaniac Synesthetic Pill Popper do in my shoes? 

(Oh, by the way – if you don’t know what the condition known as Synesthesia, you should really know, because I have it in a very extreme form and I’m going to be talking about it a lot, and things are bound to get very confusing/psychedelic if you don’t know what I’m referring to. Here’s the wikipedia link, because you are lazy: Synesthesia )

In short, whenever I receive stimulus from something real, I experience a corresponding secondary stimulus that is entirely imaginary, but no less real to me.  For example if I ever get in a nasty argument with someone (I won’t say with WHOM, but…) I might see odd numbers drip down the walls. If I hear a good song, I might smell lavender and the inside of a new car. If I have a great fuck I might hear a perfect E tone followed by all of its octaves all the way up and down past the limits of human hearing.  Do you see where I am going with this? 

I also love dancing. It produces a pretty non-stop parade of positive extra-sensory entertainment. There’s a possibility that all the drugs have made me schizophrenic as well, so sometimes the voices will tell me the numbers dripping from the walls are all integers of 4 when they’re actually just a Fibonacci sequence beginning at .4 and ending when the numbers get so long so quickly that the digits all blend together and the walls just turn white again. So you can see how it gets a little confusing being me sometimes.

But as far as dancing goes, my favorite around town is at First Avenue (Prince’s home venue!) on Saturday nights.  It’s also been the home of my first few scores. Tons of beautiful boys and girls dancing to pretty decent music – all of them too real to know how easy it is to just take advantage of someone.  When I go home with them – It’s me going to their house for some extended revelry and them just coming along for the ride.  What happens, happens – and everyone is all smiles the next morning. 

Speaking of things that my brain has chewed up and churned out – one of them was my morning dose and the other was this exhausting 8 page gut spill.  My head is so tired, and my fingers – equally so.  I really need to truck over to that coffee shop across the park where I got my first quadruple espresso shot this morning and reload.  No it’s probably not a good idea to mix these head-meds with so much pure java. You all tell me that my heart might just stop someday, but I wasn’t really planning to make it much further than 30 anyway, so what’s the worry?

Again this feels like that age-old “first conversation” I was talking about earlier – you know, with the “new friend.” You just don’t want it to end.  I feel like I’ve probably christened this blog better than most do on their first posting – but I have nowhere to be, and neither does the internet. I’ve hit ‘save’ 8 times now.  I am tempted to start talking about the days before I left the valley, or… that one really good summer in High School that was different, or my first few awesome lays in Minneapolis, or even the hellish bus-ride from California to here.  It can wait. It WILL wait. So will you.

Thanks for reading. You’re wise; it might be you I meet next at TML.  And if I already have, don’t take it personally – I can be a notch on your bedpost just as much as you are on mine.  To quote the Artist, “thank U 4 a funky time.” Keep dancing, my fishes. Keep dancing.