Monthly Archives: August 2013

June 18th, 1994


Today we went to the grocery store to get stuff for the party tonight. Travis had Cory over, and they were there. Cory saw me, and said, “What are you doing here.” and I said, “What do you think?” and Travis said, “could you talk any quieter?” and I said, “If I tried.” Boring! Oh, well, maybe next time. Cory’s sorta cute, but if he asked me to go with him, I don’t know what I’d do, because Kelly really likes him.
Haha. And I said, and he said, and then I said. Very important stuff, this.

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After Effects


BEFORE.

Greg shrugged sheepishly, and lowered her down to the floor, though he refused to remove his grip from her lovely ass until she forced him to.

“Well, you are young enough to be my daughter. How was I supposed to know you were into such mature men?” His thumbs stroked her behind, and he relished the unbelievable softness.

Casey laughed and wriggled out of his grasp; Greg tried to hide his disappointment. “That tickles!” She scooped up her discarded yoga pants and danced a few feet away before turning to face him. Greg admired her confidence as she stood in front of him, pants-less, and raised one perfectly-arched eyebrow.

“I’m into anyone who looks at me the way you do, so there. And I don’t really think there is such a thing as a ‘mature man’.” She did air quotes with a wad of pants in her hands, and Greg felt himself smiling. “I am convinced men are  completely led by their dicks, and only pretend differently to keep up with the women.” Her tone hardened a little bit during her statement, and Greg was going to argue, but she skated off to the bathroom before he had a chance to reply.

Greg pulled on his pants, and began surveying the many titles that lined the bookshelves he’d just defiled. He was surprised to find they were alphabetized according to author, and that there was quite a variety. Classics, biographies of Presidents, history of warfare, science fiction, art, philosophy- they were all there. He stopped when he found three copies of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. He’d read it in high school, and found it to be incredibly dull. He wondered why someone so full of life would have three copies.

“See? They are beautiful! You cannot help but be enamored of them.” Casey stood looking at him approvingly, and Greg wondered how long she’d been watching him.

“Well, you weren’t in here for me to look at, so I had to look at something.” Greg flirted, badly.

“Ugh.” Casey narrowed her eyes and did a jacking-off motion with her hand.” Please. As if I’m better to look at than Jules Verne and R. Scott Bakker.” Greg couldn’t believe she didn’t realize the effect her looks, and her body, had on him, but felt too foolish to point it out. He also felt slightly uncomfortable that Casey seemed to be ignoring what had just happened between them.

She wandered over to the refrigerator. “Did you want anything to drink? I have-” she looked inside for a second, then shut the door. “Well, I have nothing. Did you want to go get a beer or a bottle of whiskey or something?” She looked at him from across the small space, and Greg felt they were on two islands miles apart. Clearly, the sex was casual for her, and even though Greg didn’t exactly know what he wanted from this sexy young thing, he knew things were not the same as they had been before he’d entered this apartment. He felt stupid, like a teenage girl, but he wanted more.

“Um, would you like to go out to dinner with me? There’s a really good Mexican place down the street.” He weakly replied.

“Food! Oh yes, food is good.” Greg felt himself relax with relief. “Shit. I have to go to work soon.” Casey looked at him apologetically. Maybe tomorrow?” The relief was momentary. Greg got the distinct feeling she was blowing him off. He decided to admit defeat.

“Sure, if you’re not too busy. Just let me know. I have a thing I gotta do tonight  anyway.” He lied, and hated himself. He walked to the door and stopped, debating on whether he would say what he was feeling, and thinking better of it. Instead, he looked at Casey. “Your books are beautiful.”

Casey grinned, stepped over to where Greg was standing, and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?”

Greg nodded, but didn’t say anything as he walked out the door. He trudged down to his own apartment, wishing he hadn’t fucked things up.

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A Sparkly Housekeeper


I don’t know if it is a normal habit of people unsatisfied in their current careers, but I spend a shameful amount of time looking at the job ads on Craigslist. I generally look under the restaurant listings, as I am more likely to make the most dollars flashing my smile while catering to people stuffing their faces. However, during my perusal of Craigslist, I’ve sent my resume to a bank, a law firm, a nanny agency, and a plethora of other odd jobs. I’ve even considered applying at the Fantasy French Maids agency I discovered is in my town, but I wouldn’t want to put all the other French maids out of business, so I refrained.

I’ve found in my scrolling of hopeful jobs, that I seem to gravitate to the housekeeper type positions. Perhaps it is my unintentional goal to become Mrs. Doubtfire, or maybe I just don’t want to deal with the pain of having to work constantly with fucktards. Either way, I began imagining myself as some wealthy person’s maid, and I was not at all repulsed by the idea.

How fuckin’ weird am I? Most people dream of having a mansion on a hill with a yacht parked in the marina that they can drive to in their Porshe. I’d be content cleaning that fucking huge-ass house for $15- $20 dollars an hour. At least until I finish writing my bestseller and get my own castle. I wouldn’t even mind wearing a frilly, bust-enhancing maid’s costume while I did so.

Is this what I aspire to? Picking up after some arrogant CEO and his children who are being raised by a nanny? Yay me. (Sense the hint of sarcasm.)

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Besmirch or Be Besmirched


I just got done typing up my version of The Red Shoes for H.E. Ellis, and was trying to think of something to post, when this word popped into my head: besmirch.

I said the word aloud in my head a few times- be-smirch be-smirch be-smirch- then said it in a quick and trolloping staccato- besmirchbesmirchbesmirch– before pulling it apart like taffy with the tendons of my brain- beeeeeeeeeeeee-sssssmmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrch. I’ve decided this word is simply wondrous.

I must admit, I wasn’t exactly positive of the definition of said word, but I knew whatever it was, it wasn’t necessarily a good thing. So I looked it up.

Besmirch: to sully or soil.

Huh. Makes perfect sense why this word would be floating around in the rotten cess pool that is my mind. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I am possessing of a dirty mind.

So, in order to besmirch your minds, I’m going to use this fabulous  word in some sentences.

I plan on besmirching my clothes when I go to work tomorrow, because my boobs most certainly get in the way to be besmirched by pizza sauce on a regular basis.

My Rockstar does NOT besmirch his undies with skid marks, because he is a clean and unbesmirched man, whose ass smells like flowers and dryer sheets.

My besmirched mind is full of enough imagination to besmirch YOUR minds just a little bit without you even knowing it.

I admit, my Rockstar and I besmirched the sheets a little last night. (Heh-heh)

Besmirch my newly cleaned yellow truck, and I will besmirch the pavement with your brains.

I urge you all to use besmirch in  a sentence in the next few days. I guarantee you will be smiling after.

 

 

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Client Privilege


In the beginning…

You might wonder what makes me any more special than Candy or Blake or any other Dial-A-Whore you might find on the back side of the local entertainment pages next to the ads for sperm banks and penis enlargement pills. To be honest, Candy is gorgeous, and the dickheads down at Winston’s refer to Blake as the “Hoover” when they know she’s not around to kick them in the balls. But have they ever been the Angel of Lust? Think about it- take every carnal desire you’ve ever had, every animalistic sensual hunger, and multiply it times a thousand , or ten million, or a billion, and you wouldn’t even have begun to scratch the surface of the chaste shell of God that’s encasing an eternity of wanton emotions. He gave you those yearnings on purpose; He created me on purpose. Everyone knows God doesn’t make mistakes. Maybe He just realized all that passionate voracity blinds people to almost everything else, so He told a few disciples and prophets it would be best to tell people to restrain themselves a little. Who knows.

Clearly, Charlie didn’t get the memo.

Charlie’s my most loyal customer. You’d think he was in his twenties, if you based his age on the amount of money he’s paid me in the last few years. Luckily, his twenty-two year old libido is matched up to his fifty-two year old perfectly- practiced gift for fucking. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do him for free.

He was here earlier. Normally, I don’t accept clients at my own place, but Charlie, well, he’s Charlie. Of course, he couldn’t teach me anything I wasn’t already designed to know, but after I knew Charlie for awhile, I kinda started wondering if Charlie wasn’t God’s male duplicate of me. Or maybe he’s just sexed his way through enough women that he’s got nothing else to learn. Thus his captivation with me.

When he gave his habitual rhythmic knock on my door, I was applying my Urban Decay lipstick in F-Bomb (my favorite). He opened the door without waiting for me to reply, and leaned against it after he closed it, just watching me. It’s my job to unnerve people, and I’m still not sure how Charlie can do it, but I watched him watching me in my mirror, and his intense ice-blue stare made me on edge enough that my lipstick slid right off my bottom lip.

“Fuck!” I whispered under my breath, hoping Charlie hadn’t seen, but knowing he had.

Before I had a chance to wipe it off, Charlie pushed his tall body off of the door and he strolled over to where I was standing. He said not a word, but continued to watch me in the mirror. His eyes never left mine as I felt the soft pad of his thumb trace my jawline before running along the outline of my lip, wiping the red stain away. Even with my peacock blue, five-inch heels on, he was a good nine inches taller than me, and I watched in the mirror as his hand slid from my face, down my neck, and under the neckline of my silk dress. Before his hand even touched my left breast, I felt it all the way south of my belly button, and I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped my rouged lips.

Ok, so let me explain a little bit about Charlie. He’s been married, numerous times, in fact, has enough money that he never has to work, and gets off on getting women off. A lot of guys don’t give one shit about whether their woman is turned on before they stick their dick in them, and couldn’t care less whether she orgasms or not, and probably wouldn’t be able to tell either way. Charlie is not one of those guys. I’m convinced he wouldn’t even be able to get a hard-on unless the woman he intended to fuck was dripping wet. Don’t ask me why he pays for sex, because even after all these years, he won’t tell me.

When he heard that sound, his fingertips squeezed my nipple, and my eyes slid shut, relishing the tingle that was running down my body. I leaned back against him, his toned body taking my weight easily, and ran my hand up his tailored pants, rubbing his cock through the fabric. As I did so, his hand enveloped my breast, squeezing just hard enough that it hurt. Another little squeal escaped me, and his grip tightened even more. My eyelids flew open, and my gaze met his in the mirror; his eyes had never left my face. His breath was on my neck, on my ear, and sent little shivers of pleasure across my skin. I looked into his eyes as he ran his free hand up my leg and under my skirt, and I noticed his dimpled smirk when he realized I wasn’t wearing any panties. His face in the mirror looked like a young man’s- a young man with a dirty secret- as his experienced fingers explored my most intimate places, as he discovered what his fingers and his eyes and his breath on me had done. I was encircled in his grip, and couldn’t move as he moved his fingertips achingly slow  in and out of me, in and out, in, and then out before bringing them up and sliding them between my F-Bomb-ed lips. He watched as I tasted the salty musk of myself, and broke his trance-like stare when I ran my tongue over and around his fingertips, and then sucked ever so gently.

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June 17th, 1994


Then.

Kelly spent the night last night. We went to Anne Lake to go swimming, but there were boys there, so we didn’t. When we got up to leave one of them asked if we were going to swim, and Kelly said, “Not with you,” and he said, “well, golly.” and shut his trap. So we went to Spec Lake. Mom rented Oklahoma today. It’s really stupid. But a girl in it got married. Sigh. Kelly said Travis (Kelly’s brother) was having Cory over and she was really happy. I sorta wish it was me, but I think I like Ethan more. I don’t know. I can’t wait till camp. We might take one of Janet’s or Angie’s bras and over to the boy’s part. It’ll be funny if we do.

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June 11th and 12th, 1994


Last week, nineteen years ago.

I spent the night at Kelly’s last night, and I met Becca. She’s really nice. We went swimming in the Rum River today. We had fun. Then Mom and Dad came, picked me up, and we went to Kevin O’Connor’s (my second-cousin) open house. I saw Jesse (Kevin’s brother). He’s soooo cute. And when he talked, his voice was really deep. I told Kelly I’d ask Cory if he likes her.

June 12th.

We went to church and then went to Cornerstone (a newly begun church at the time). Cory wasn’t there! 😦 Oh, well. I got to stay home alone tonight. Mom said Kelly could come over one time this week. Kelly called me tonight and asked me if I would go to camp this year. I said I wanted to, and dad said I could. Yea. We can get tan, lose weight, get lots of candy, and meet cute boys! Awesome! Too bad Cory or Ethan aren’t going to be there. Oh well. We’ll still have fun.

As you note my plans for camp, you can see that I haven’t really changed since I was 12. Huh.

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