Dissonance

Bullets on Tuesday

2005-01-18T08:06:00.000-08:00

Holy jeez! Waking up at 4:30 is getting old. I feel sorry for my dog. My wife, she needs to get up that early, but the dog, man, he has to abide by our time standards. It has to be rough. Not only that but think about this. He has to get up at 4:30 for his initial walk. I think my wife got up at 5:15, didn’t walk him until after spinning, at 6:30 or so. Then I come back home, no walk, and leave by 7:30. He’s alone until noon, when I come home for lunch. Then it’s five more hours of being alone. Then when we get home we’re tired from work and don’t want to play with him. It’s bed time at nine and it starts over again. What kind of life is that for him? I wouldn’t blame him if he hated being adopted by us.
Going to start riding again. The Houston to Austin MS150 bike ride is coming up. I asked my cousin Kate to join in. She rode across the US last year. This should be a breeze for her. I don’t think she is aware of what a pain all of the people are. It’s like an amusement park in the summer, packed.
My cousin is a semi-weirdo. I’ve always been attracted to her. Yes, yes, I know, this is a theme with me, but you knew that before, this shouldn’t be that big a surprise. So I find two cousins and one aunt attractive and dream of screwing them, BFD, at least I’m not acting on it, at least I’m not as bad as that freak on Law and Order SVU last night who tortured women in his life. When that starts taking hold of my thoughts I run, not walk, run to a therapist, for now, it’s strange but passive. Anyway, Kate is cute. She was a great tennis player, vegan, fun, a lot like me. But I think she is gay. Not that there is anything wrong with it, but I belief she is. Besides my thought about her don’t go very far. As soon as she materializes in my mind, I kinda get turned off, which is good.
I’m finding it really difficult to stay motivated at work. Heck I’m leaving not just this contract, but my agency at the end of the week. Who wouldn’t find it difficult to stay motivated. I’m looking forward to how Natalie fits it. Here I am, a white dude, southern, a little weird, but manageable, a pretty good match for a local business that was started by a true southerner. Natalie is my exact opposite. Big, black, pseudo-liberal, with a republican stripe, female. They are going to flip out trying to make her fit in here. I give it less than six months then she’ll be gone. Heck the fellow in charge of my hiring gave lip to the fact that he is going to begin looking for someone full time (translation: not from your company) soon.
Read a piece today by Jay Nordlinger. Her brings up a great point about the hub bub surrounding Prince Harry wearing a Nazi uniform. Sure it was in bad taste and some people have a right to be offended, but what if it had been a Che shirt. People everywhere wear Che shirts. Is it really that different? They were both mass murderers. One just happened to start a higher profile war, and murder more. Do some research folks, you’d be surprised by what you find out about Che.
Lastly, I missed the chance to invest in Apple. This summer when I started looking at it, it was selling in the mid to low thirties. Now it is up to 60 or 70. I bought at 68. What a dope I am. I should have bought way back when. So now we have Dell and Apple. Hedging our bets?

Losing My Aunt

2005-01-17T11:29:00.000-08:00

Thankfully, and I don’t know why, but I’ve finally been able to exorcise the thoughts of my naked Aunt cuddling with me out of my mind. Not completely, but to a greater degree than earlier. Thinking about my hot aunt, naked and having sex with me is becoming a rather jejune thing in my life. Hell, it seems to happen just about every few weeks, worse than before. But when I start thinking about actually cuddling with my relatives, I get just a little worried. What kind of weirdo does that.
Like I said earlier, I think this whole fascination with her stems from a complete dirth of dames in my live in general. I don’t see any good looking girls, or at least any girls who are hotter than my aunt, in my general day to day life. I feel confident that if I could just get out a little more, this wouldn’t be a problem anymore. I think what is expediting this erasing of my aunt from my fantasies is my going out to Lifers just a little more. Just seeing one or two other chicks is healthy, at least for my fantasies.
I always wonder what other people would think if they knew what was going on in my thoughts. First off, thinking about my aunt naked is weird, I grant you that, but it can be explained away to a certain degree. Thinking about sex with an aunt is a little weirder, but certainly something that most people would expect a person to grow out of, particularly if it is just sex. Making love to an aunt, and all that that entails, is insanely more difficult to excuse. And well cuddling, that’s just insane.
I can only hope that the carpool mom that I seem to like so much will become more and more seductive in the next few weeks. The great news is that Cathy was out to lifers the other day. She was the hot girl that I was in lust with a while ago. She is completely normal in so many ways, but I just can’t stop fantasying about her. She is normal in so many ways, and there are so many girls out there who most people would assume are so much better looking, but Cathy gets my vote. I even asked her her name the other day. I wasn’t sure, but now I am.
That’s the way it’s been for most of my life. I don’t find some women sexy that others do. You’ll notice that Angelina Jolie, Tyra Banks, et al are not on my 100 women list. I don’t find so many of them attractive. I do find people like Vicki Lewis more attractive than someone like Heather Graham. I find Julia Louis Dreyfuss incredibly sexy but I find Teri Hatcher strange looking. I wonder if the fact that I don’t find the normal things attractive, if that transfers to what I like in my fantasies as well.

Fat Thick Carol

2005-01-17T08:40:00.000-08:00

This weekend I ran in the half marathon. Pretty fun. I’ve done it in the past, and although this year didn’t give me my best time, I did have the most pain free and fun run yet. I saw a ton of people from workout etc. Fun to see them all in a setting other than 5:30 in the morning.
I saw one girl who was wearing grey shorts and an extrememly loud striped shirt. She was a bigger girl, not bigger up top but in the legs. She had stong legs, but large thighs. She past us up when were starting mile two. She looked so much like a girl I knew and (sometimes) dated in highschool that I tried to catch up with her and get a look at her face. I didn’t get the chance since it was so crowded on the bridge we were on. Actually, now I realize I may not have wanted to see her. Maybe I wanted to spend the rest of the race wondering if that was Carol, and not really knowing. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Carol. I don’t know if Carol ran much. I’d bet she would never have run a half marathon. And although Carol did have nice legs, they were by no means muscular. This girls legs were muscular. She was wearing these real tight and extrememly short grey shorts that seemed far too thin and revealing for such a public activity. I enjoyed watching her muscular yet fat legs move in that undulating way that is so mesmerizing and then backed off of her to find my running partners. I think I kept the image of her legs, and her largess ass, in my mind for the rest of the run.
I used to dream about Carol quite a bit. I didn’t really like dating her. She was a complete enigma to me. She was not strange to me because she was my first foray into the dating world and I was still trying to get to know what women were all about, she was just a dimbat. She was abandoned by her mother, never knew her father, and lived instead with her grandparents. I loved her grandmother. She was great. Carol was a far cry from being up to the classiness of her grandmother. In truth I enjoyed hanging out with Carol’s grandmother far more than I enjoyed being with Carol. Carol’s and my relationship ended quickly, but I saw her a year or so later. I knew more about women by then, still painfully little than I should have, and realized that Carol was still a freak. I don’t remember ever thinking about her for a long while. I thought about tons of other girls and had wonderful fantasies aobut them all through college. Carol never flashed into my thoughts if only because I still loved her grandmother, who had passed away by that time. Whenever Carol did come to mind I always thought of demeaning her and screwing her in revolting ways. I think these thoughts came up because I still didn’t understand her, and our relationship had not ended well. I stopped thinking about Carol in that way pretty quick. I didn’t want to think that Carol’s grandmother would look down from heaven and see me fantasizing about screwing her granddaughter in such a harsh and revolting way. I couldn’t imagine that Carol’s grandmother would be very pleased with my fantasy of screwing Carol in her ass while I doublestuffed her with a dildo the size of my arm.
Carol didn’t come back up until Ranger School. I went to Ranger School in the winter, and I remember how cold it was more than anything else. Have of our time was spent shivering on guard duty. I remember thinking about Carol’s fat thighs and fleshy ass held against me to keep me warm. Carol may not have been that fat, but I made her fatter in my mind if only in an effort to keep me warm. I can’t begin to count the number of times I fell asleep, or strived to stay awake on sentry while thinking about Carols fat, warm, thighs wrapped around me for warmth. I guess my desire for warmth and comfort was greater than my shame about being discovered with illicit thoughts of Carol by her grandmother in heaven. Hell in my mind Carol weighed a hundred pounds more and possessed DDD breasts, far more than the actual Carol ever had. I defiled her in so many ways while I was at Ranger School, not because she was Carol, but rather because she was fat and warm.
That’s what I thought about when I saw this gril with the too tight grey shorts and striped shirt. She was the Carol that I dreamed about, not the Carol that I had actually known. That’s why I let her run off without know if it was she. The dream Carol was fun to use in Ranger School for warmth, and just as fun to see from the back side, and dream about on the half marathon. She inspired me in both cases more than she’ll ever know. I still wonder though what Carol’s grandmother is thinking.

Not much going on in life

2005-01-13T13:26:00.000-08:00

Update of my life by major daily activities (sort of like taking a painting with a large brush, or with a large point font. It will look big, but probably not show or say much.)

Lifers
I haven't been going much. I have this new job in Sugar Land. What's the point of driving into town in the morning if I only have to drive back out. Regrettably this means there is very little in the way of fantastical musings (see later subject). When I have gone the only two femmes there worth looking at are Suzie (pudgy and now, scandalously married to one of the instructors) and this young girl whose name I don't know. This young girl is an erotic enigma. Great looking, cute, terrific legs, she's a mom too, something I find particularly sexy, I've seen the school bumper sticker on her SUV, you would think I'd be thinking about her constantly. You'd be wrong. I can't seem to get my mind around her at workout or otherwise. Heck the other day I was in charge of holding her feet while she did sit ups. What a sight, but still that hasn't inspired any monumental thoughts.

Fantasies
In terms of monumental thought, there isn't much to say. If you've read any of the previous entries you know that I have a particularly strange fetish regarding my aunt. Well it's back and in full force. I can't get it out of my mind no matter what I do. The most prominent image right now is her ass, in a thong bikini, riding a horse at a full gallop. Don't ask me to explain it, but accept it, like I do., and smile at the perversity. (again, what I do) If any one person has come into my mind it would have to be my cousin, and that isn't much better than thinking about my aunt. C'est la view right? I'm looking forward to my new job if only bc it means I might get to lifers more and see some cuter girls, and bc I'll be in the city where inevitably more cuties hang out. Speaking of perversity I had to tell L the other day that there is a good reason why the doctor keeps finding large amounts of protein in my urine. She and the doctor are afraid that it si a kidney problem. This is no joke, but it isn't. It's more of a what I do in the morning of my day off before I go to the doctor problem. (Again don't criticize, just smile and accept.)
I suppose the only other person who has crossed my mind in any sort of strange, fantastical, erotic way would have to be my neighbor. Since we got our dog Killian, I've been walking him by this lady's house every now and then trying to get a good look in. She has two dogs, dachshunds, Jake and Elwood. I've met her once or twice. She petite, and somewhat cute, short blonde, euro trash hair. She's trying, I guess. My greatest hope is that one morning, or evening, I will walk by and be able to see through that little crack that I can usually see into, the one that looks into her kitchen, so I can just see her range top. I hope that one day she'll be scrambling eggs in nothing but thong underwear. I hope that she is the type to scramble eggs in the pan, o so I can see her little tushy wiggle back and forth. Anyway I saw her last night and realized how silly my fantasies of her were becoming.

Job
I got a new job. It's for a larger group, marketing proposal writing with some website mgt thrown in. That should be good. I think I'm getting in a rut in this job. It's been too stagnant. It was actually fun to resign. I'm enjoying the two weeks were I don't have to worry about being fired. And like I said it should be a far more attractive place to be.

Failed Nano Write Month Try or Better Luck Next Time

2005-01-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

1. Leaving
The rough, dry rocks of the mountains jump up boldly like attacking soldiers from the level, grass plains that surround them. The trees rise up the flanks and along the spurs of the majestic forms, and outline by the deep draws and crevasses sharply, but soften the lower slopes like a soft, green, felt blanket. In the foothills of the mountains, where the folds of the felt blanket wrinkle creating an area of darkest green, is a small town, that looks from far away like little white dots as the sun shines and glistens on the metal roofs. During winter the town disappears in a sheet of white snow. All that an anyone can make out of the city is those glistening roofs during the daytime, and the light through windows, and street lights at night. During the summer, the town is less camouflaged and far less recognizable, instead of blending in the town is seen as thought watching a magic act from backstage rather than from the audience perspective.
Michaelson is a ski town. The only income it receives is from out of town guests coming in and using the town for their own pleasure. The town is usually treated poorly by it's guests, and that disregard is transferred year by year from the guests to the townspeople. The people who live in the town harbor that feeling of disrespect and disregard during the winter months, and only put up with it out of a desire to ensure the continuous flow of money to their small town. And like an addict or a fallen woman, dependent on others for welfare, they remember the feelings of degradation throughout the summer months, hating themselves for having put up with it, but also understanding why it is necessary, determined not to deal with it again, desperate to make a fresh start, but powerless to stop the vicious circle of despair as it starts again with each fresh snowfall in the winter.
The town resides in a grey haze that is similar to smoke in its opaqueness, but dissimilar in that it is not the fault of the town. So much haze might be the product of Pittsuburg's industry or the Los Angeles traffic, but Michaelson has no industry, other than the skiing, and therefore as no means with which to support the haze. The grayness that falls softly, but remains heavily in place around the town is the product of geography and not industrial output. Michaelson has the unfortunate luck to be situated in a natural draw or bowl at the base of Mt. Tilipi. This bowl propels the valley's winds into a circular motion, which if the wind did not have a disposition similar to the inhabitants of the nearby town would have made it a tornado. Instead the strong winds merely push the sludge and snow from the lower extremities of the mountain airborne and desposit them above Michaelson. This neverending circle provides heavy snow in the winter, which sadly is not complimentary to the snow at the resort, and heavy haze in the summer. This is a perennial affliction, that like there melancholy, the Michaelsonians are neither able to affect nor dispel.
When he was elected, Mayor Morris Plabum was determined to lift the town up from its poverty and self effecting prevarication. He bought new decorations for Main Street, large gaudy things that were supposed to inspire a more playful and light hearted attitude to the out of towners. He increased the number of policemen on the streets by almost double, and wrote weekly articles in the local section of the Michaelson Sun that were designed to enliven the local soul and refresh the populace. It was a rehabilitation that didn't have much chance of working. The decorations were cheaply made despite their grandiose price tags and fell apart with the second week of snowfall. They were left in place, dilapidated and falling apart, their flashing, mirrored, paper sparkling dully through the haze of day and the dark night bringing a ruined atmosphere to the town. The police force, doubled to the size of eight through the import of four single out of town men, all of whom had spotty records, was still far too insignificant, as well as too underpaid to bring about change, or care about those changes. And the mayor's columns found no readership among the townsfolk who despite not being able to articulate the reason felt the editorials were like the ravings of a mad man spitting against the wind. The town was set in it's ways and enjoyed driving in their rut for at least they knew where the rut was going. The office and the town lost Mayor Plabum the following year despite there still being three years left on the term and twenty-three years of history in the town, his son stayed and continued following the deeply carved ruts left by the decades before.
Michaelson is not a hidden treasure, nor is it listed in any travel agents top ten best bargains, it is instead a stop of last resort for most vacationers. The summer months are unimpressive. Instead of a white blanket of snow slowly melting away leaving new growth and green in it's wake, the snow disappears to display more grey and brown hues which only serve to deepen the depression of the town. The moutains are less impressive on the west side of the state, and the snow less skiable. The town is therefore a victim of it's geography in more ways than one. The natural bowl creates horrific winds that pelt any new growth to dust. The haze and mist orbit naturally and without end around buildings. The western slope of the moutain offers less snow, and poorer ski runs than those deeper in the Rockies. Michaelson was lost when it started and has not been able to find itself since. Now new beginnings or rebirths will save it. No "special, super saving discounts" will attract new life. There was never a peak time of growth, no boon, no advantage to living there, and never will be. Instead the town resembles a zoo in a failing and banrupt city. Visitors come and are unimpressed. The only come back if there is nothing better to do, or becasue they know they can get away with taunting the animals.
The bus stop sits on the corner of Comperson and Storton. It used to be close to the center of town, but like tides, the center has moved in and out and has settled like silt closer toward the mountain now, than the highway. The highway did not move, and so the bus stop is still where it started now as far away from the center of town than it is possible. At night, particlularly in the winter when the snow piles up to the base of the windows, the bus stop is a circle of light and warmth in a cold, dark and desolate world. The large panes of glass shine brilliantly with a yellow light that emanates at all hours of the day and night. This soft glow, amber in hue, is like a beacon call for travelers. Like hungry insects toward a night light, the people of Michaelson find their way to the bus stop, and wait for their salvation to come in the form of a 4 ton Trailways heading down from the mountains and out toward the plains.
At the moment the snow is an inch below the base of the window. The lights from inside shine brilliantly acorss the snow. Inside are three pews that are so old no one seems to remember how they got there. They have been a part of this bus stop since before the bus stop ever came into existence. They stand in the center of the main room, like an alter or a stage for a full thrust theater. Along the walls are several couches which although dramatically newer than the pews appear to be in much worse shape. Cats and dogs have left there marks on the couches by way of small tufts of cotton pulled through the fabric by sharp claws, and chewed worn corners that expose the wood and batting beneath the frayed fabric.
Sitting on the couch closest to the door is a young man who looks small and diminutive and rattier than the miserable looking couch upon which he sits. His small, bony body, that looks angular and harshly thin is accentuated by the roughness of the couch on which he is sitting. He chose that couch since it was closest to the door. After paying for his ticket he thought for a moment of leaving quickly, going home, maybe even waiting outside so that no one would see him waiting for the bus. His body and mind did not have the conviction of his own thoughts however so he only made it to the couch by the door into which he slumped heavily but without a sense of resignation.
Across from the young man in the couch by the door sits a woman holding a baby. She is sitting on the brown couch with the green stripes. together the colors combine to perfectly make a hue that can only be described as sewage. She is wearing a black coat with boots. The baby is wearing a purple, nylon skiing outfit that is two or three sizes too big for it and has the obvioius markings of being either a hand me down or a thrift store purchase. Despite the dour atmosphere the woman is smiling delightfully at the baby and the baby is giggling back at her. Sometimes the woman balances the baby on her knee and bumps the baby up and down. The squeals of delight that the baby makes during this type of play reverberate through the station and besides the glowing lights create the only positivity in an atmosphere of slowly decaying ruin.
The man sitting in the pew is quiet. His head is up, his chin set resolutely, but his feet hammer stacatto beats quickly against the wood floor. It is still chilly in the room so every few minutes he takes a second off from his foot drum beats and briskly rubs the palms of his hands together. This action to an impartial observer would seem more of a habit than a warmth generating exercise if only because he refuses to take off his gloves. His eyes do not glance around him, but stay focused on the window that faces the front of the station, the one that looks out on the highway, the one that will frame the bus when it stops. He might look down when he rubs his palms, but he never looks left or right. Down or straight ahead are the only attitudes his eyes seem to know.
A car pulls up quickly in front of the station and skids to a dramatic stop that leaves it squarely in the view of all four inside. No one gets out of the car, and from across the passenger seat, and through the two darkeded car windows cast in shadows, the driver can not be seen. The horn of the car beeps twice loudly, insistently, and a hand waves at the bus stop beckoning someone to come out. The four people in the bus station sit motionless wondering to whom the driver is asking for.
2. Finger
On the corner of Elm and Blue, less than a mile from the Michaelson Presbyterian church was a blue Ford Pinto, so near the curb that the front right tire was pressed precariously against the concrete making it look like a swollen balloon ready to pop. The car showed the cancer of rust and age on the exposed edges particularly near the wheel wells. The rear left tire was so much smaller than the other wheels that to think it was a spare left on too long would be a natural inclination for anyone who was not a Michaelson native. The townspeople have seen that same tire in that same place on that same car for so many years that it was as much a part of the landscape as the pink granite cross, broken and deteriorating almost in place outside the small city hall. The spare, like the ugly ingot, among the flock of ducklings, sticks out as an affront to moral order, but unlike the ingot, lacks the future aspirations or potential. Through the front windshield, below the foot long streamline crack that grows several inches longer each winter, and only has two more ski seasons until it completes its transpanular journey, sat Phenious Pablum, Finger to his friends.
Finger looked malnourished but not becasue of the quantity of the food he took into his system, but rather becasue of the quality thanks to his steady sinecure at the Seventh Avenue Stop and Shop. His family used to own the building and the small franchise housed within, and that was perhaps the pivotal reason behind Mayor Pablum's ascension to public office. The former mayor sold the property when he abruptly left town. His wife, Marsha and his son Phenious did not leave with him. The fact that he left his wife and child, but took more than one hundred thousand in pilfered funds from the community says more about the love he had for his family and his community than words ever could.
With an air of resignation, Finger got up from his car and found himself surrounded by the grey haze of the day. The same grey haze that followed him for his entire life. It wasn't a part of his imagination or a manifestation of his mood. It was a part of life for everyone. He was not comforted by the surrounding fog, instead it seemed to drag him down, latch onto him like a tick and suck the life out of him. He always felt that way about the weather in Michaelson, and so was never able to realize the affect the air around him has on his moods or his life. It just was and he was forced to deal with it.
"I wonder if she is there." He said softly as if making a decision, testing the air by breathing in through his mouth. The air tasted heavy to him, like it would drag in and out of his mouth like a chain.
Finger looked up at the second floor apartment in front of him, his hands buried in his pockets. Finger's mouth was open, his head back, his chin up, but not in defiance. An observer looking at Finger would wonder why he was not in bed. His exhaustion was visible even when he struck his commonly awkward poses, something that anyone who knew him was familiar with. Whether standing, sitting, kneeling, squatting, or walking, Finger always looked at least a little out of sorts. People who noticed such things in Michaelson always wondered how a young man could carry on when he was obviously so exhausted. Those people that knew him, knew that Finger was not tired. They rarely ever saw anything out of the ordinary in what he did. Stances that looked misshapen and painful were just a fact of life for Finger, and they were used to it.
Finger took a second to look down the street to his left. He looked all the way to Major Avenue. He does not see anyone. He turned his head to the right in a ponderously slow motion and squinted his eyes so he could see the intersection of Elm with Accent Street, three intersections up. The hill crested there. He did not see anyone that way either. Slowly, Finger turned around and looked behind him, and saw nothing. Instead of smiling, he simply turned dejectedly back toward the apartment and mounted the stairs that run up to the second floor. He knocked irresolutely at the second door on the right, and waited.
"Come in, Sweety." A light, young voice said from inside.
Anyone watching Finger at that moment would probably not have seen the pause and slow inhalation that he took before opening the door. The apartment was well furnished for being on the wrong side of town. Generally most of the homes on the South of Accent Street, which include those on Elm, range from slightly well worn to downright forgotten. The apartment Finger entered was one of the latter. The outside showed peeling paint, and wood that is a few seasons past needing to be replaced. The inside of the apartment told a different story. Surprisingly for the neighborhood, there is carpeting on the floor, blue with a tight knit that always reminded Finger of the tight cornrows of braids that little girls used to wear in school. The furniture, although not overtly expensive looking, was not so well worn as the exterior of the complex. In a complete contrast to most of the homes in the area, and Finger has been inside a few of these home and so has first hand experience, the room was tidy to the point obsession.
He shut the door behind him as the delicately, sweet voice with the slight southern accent said, "I'm waiting for you in the bedroom, Honey."
Finger knew his way and trudged slowly off to his right, through the bedroom door. He walked in and saw Mary in the bed. She was under the covers and the bed was slightly rumpled and the covers were unmade. The rest of the room was the exact opposite. Eveyrthing in the room seemed to have a specific place. There were no clothes on the ground, there were no small pieces of litter in the corners that inhabit so many other bedrooms. Instead the entire bedroom, with the drapes pulled tight and the closet door and bathroom doors closed, looked sterile and stark. Only the cigarette, smoldering in the ashtray on the nightstand showed any trace of chaos or disregard for order. Finger looked at it disdainfully as if it was a personal affront to him.
"What are you doing?" Mary asked from the bed, looking directly at Finger.
Finger said nothing but looked at her as if confused.
"Well come on, I've been waiting for you all day." She said quickly and crawled toward him out of the bed. She was naked. At one time Finger would have been thrilled to see her pale body, large breast and long legs, but not anymore. Now, as she worked at this pants button and zipper he looked at her and felt slightly repulsed by her desires. Almost as if she was a habit he was used to seeing but could no more get rid of than he could slough off his own skin.
"Are you sure this is a good thing to do?" Finger said non-commitally looking down at Mary.
"Of course not." Mary said, sitting on the end of the bed grabbing his pants to pull them down the rest of the way. "That's what makes it exciting." She tugged at them with excitement.
"I don't know." Finger whined a bit the trepidation evident in his voice through the empty apartment.
Mary looked up at Finger with large, expressive eyes. "You can't tell me you don't want to, Phenius. I know you too well." She said and roughly and grabbed his crotch.
She looked up at him knowingly.
He sighed.
"See", she said caressing him. "I knew you wanted to."
"Well, sure I do."
"Then what's the problem?"
"It just feels wrong."
"Well it is wrong in a way, but doesn't it feel good?"
"I guess."
"You guess?" Mary said loudly in direct contrast to Finger's own vocal malaise. "If I didn’t want you so bad I'd probably throw you out the winda for saying something so insulting."
"No, no." He said slowly. "It's not you. You're beautiful. It's just this, all of this." Finger said gesturing heavily with his arms, letting them slap down loudly against his sides in resignation. "The fact that it feels so wrong just out weighs the way it makes me feel."
"It feels so bad that you don't want these anymore." She said holding her breast up to him provacotively. "You can't tell me you don't want these anymore."
"Well, of course I do." Finger said. "Who wouldn't?"
"What about this?" She said placing her hand between her legs.
Finger said nothing.
"Come on. You know you want it, Baby." Mary said embracing Finger and kissing him slowly on the neck. She forced him to hold her and dragged him down on top of her onto the bed.
Finger pulled back to look at her. "This doesn't bother you at all?" He said dejectedly.
She slowly moved her hand to his crotch. "Not a bit." She said languidly. "It never seemed to bother you before."
"Yeah, but we're cousins." Finger tries to say before she covers his mouth with her own and kisses him. He only gets the first two words out.
3. Willa
Willa considers the road as it shoots off in a straight line in front of her like a white ribbon. She knows that Main Street offers a straight shot from where she is all the way to the interstate. Willa knows that if she just keeps pressing the accelerator she will eventually leave the gingerbread covered houses and quaint cottage style homes that border Main Street, behind and eventually hit the ocean of fields that lay like a blanket outside of Michaelson.
"All you have to do is keep going straight." She says to herself. She has always argued with herself it was only since Miles stopped listening to her and stopped caring that she started speaking out loud and her converstaions took on an even more intense tone.
"You really don't have any reason to turn left. He wouldn't care if you didn't come home. He wouldn't notice." The inner voice whispers again reverberating with reason through her mind.
"He would notice the next time he gets out of the hospital." She says outloud.
Miranda who had been sitting comfortably in the silence, watching the houses blurr by in the back seat car window as she say in her car seat, turned when she heard her mother's voice.
"But he doesn't even care if he gets better." The voice says again, persistently now.
"He needs me more than he knows." She counters again aloud.
Miranda turns her head back to the window to watch the blurrs along the road, her three year old eyes taking in the landscape hungrily. She has grown used to these arguments her mother has with no one, and is beginning to realize that there is no reason for her to pay attention.
"He uses you." The voice whispers as Willa passes Creek Side and continues straight toward her turn at River Bend Rd.
"He needs me."
"He wouldn't do this for you."
"He doesn't need to."
"He would leave you."
There was nothing Willa could say in response to that. He probably would have left her. If Willa had been the one to be diagnosed with the brain tumor and not Miles, Miles would have left. He would have left when she had come home from the hospital that first time. Would she have screamed and yelled and been so mean to everyone around him like he had been? Willa wondered. He wouldn't have put up with that. Miles would have left after that. He certainly wouldn't have stayed around to clean up the messes in the bed at night.
"Think of all the times you've been awakened by that foul stench, Miles wouldn't have cleaned up after you." The voice says distinctly.
Willa flinches imperceptibly, she knows that the voice is right, that Miles would have left her after the first time he woke up and jumped out of bed worried that he might have rolled over into someone elses mess. He would have left after the first time he had to clean her up, wiping and cleaning her like a baby. He would not have stayed around, as she had stayed, when he woke up and started rubbing his hands in his own mess and grabbing her arms. He would not have gone through the gamut of emotions she had faced, from, horror, confusion, repulsion to acceptance.
The voice does not need to speak, Willa knows what it would say next. Miles would not have put up with the year of verbal insults, or the three operations each worse than the one before, or stayed through the sleepless nights in the hospital, or tried not to cry at the swelling that makes skin swell like balloons, and scars stare back in an angry red like she had.
Willa begins to think along lines her mind has never followed before. She thinks about whether or not Miles would have stayed when two incomes which barely seemed to cover the new mortgage were cut to one by the operation. She thinks about whether or not Miles would have reacted differently when the child they had not been expecting arrived in the same month as a second surgery, the one that was supposed to detach a growing tumor from an optic nerve. The same surgery that left the scar on his face. The surgery that blinded his left eye, the surgery that took over five weeks in bed to completely recover from. Miles would have left after the first hurdle, he would not have stayed in the race, the race that Willa thought was going to sprint, that had quickly turned into a marathon filled with hurdles.
"I can't just leave him." She says outloud, expecting her concitous minds next question.
"He would JUST leave you."
"What about Miranda?" She argues.
"Is she better with him?"
"He loves her."
"Is that why he hits her?"
"That's the cancer."
"And that's a good reason?"
Willa stays quiet. The voice stops too. She looks up and sees the light above her. The light swings in the breeze slowly right above her windshield. It hangs almost precariously from what looks like a small, think black wire. The red light glows through the light fog. She looks down and follows the road. She looks as far as she can. She knows that some point down their it intersects the interstate. She thinks she can almost see that point, she thinks she can see some movement, cars passing quickly, moving along the interstate through the fields, away from Michaelson, away from wherever they are leaving.
Willa looks up at the stop light again. It has turned green. She looks back down the road.
"How many times can they fuck with his brain?" The inner voice says.
She continues to search for the intersection.
"He's not the same person you married."
Willa doesn't argue. She's right. He is different. She loved the man she married, she loved the Miles she met four years ago, she loved the Miles she dated, she loved the Miles she met, this was not the same Miles. This Miles was mean and spiteful, this Miles was loud and disrespectful.
4. Daylo
Daylo looked around him at the brown waving grass that undulated like a receding ocean tide as it brushed and floated back and forth. As he turned in a circle, looking around himself, he saw nothing but grass around him, with the moutains thrusting up harshly to the west. His truck was parked just behind the pumping station behind him. It's cold metal, surrounded by the silver grey chain link fence, a complete anachronism in the pristine, amber field surrounding the skinny man.
Daylo looked down at his boots. He was going to need some new boots soon. Looking at his boots, and the scruffs and scrapes in the rugged, tan leather, reminded him of his Nikes. He looks as his shoes as he walks back to the truck. They are hanging on the bed, tied to the tarp hooks welded to the sides. They are running shoes, probably about six months old. His reserve, reserve pair. They aren't the ones he runs with right now, and aren't the ones he runs in when the weather is bad. This is his pair that he just wears for daily use. Nine months ago these where his running shoes. six months later they were his rainy day shoes, now it was time for him to get a new pair, and shuffle the other two pairs of shoes he had down the line. He would have to throw these away and buy a new pair for daily runs. The fresh pair he has now, the ones that were almost three months old would be rotated down to raining shoes, and he'd wear his raining shoes as daily shoes after that. It is Daylo's circle of life. It never changes. Three months, and then a new pair. The cycle continues. Every three months it happens and it provides him with a certain amount of stability.
He always wears Nikes. Once, a few years ago, De tried a different brand. He tried several different brands. So many people had told him how great that type of shoe was, or how terrific this shoe was. He tried them and he found that they weren't that great. The soles were not as soft. He may have to change his shoes every three months since his Nike's were too soft, but those three months before they gave out, were better than any runs than the other shoes.
Daylo checks his watch and sees with satisfaction that his day will be over by the time he gets back to Michaelson. He leans against the side of the pale blue truck and slips off his right boot by pressing his left one against the heel of the other firmly. His socks are bunched up and full of holes. He wads the sock around his toes and without untying or loosening the running shoes, shoves his foot indelicately into it. He repeats the process with the other foot and ungloriously chunks his boots into the floor of the bed where they pound loudly against the sheet metal like a mallet on a tympani drum.
"Ah!" Daylo lets out an audible sigh of relaxation Daylo rocks back and forth in visible gratification and feels his feet sink into the shoes. After being in the boots all day, the sores and hot spots that the hard leather created on the soles of his feet, begin to dissapte immediately as they hit the pillow like softness of the running shoes. Even nine months old and almost ready for the dumpster, the shoes still have a comfortable, soft inside that make Daylo's feet feel as though he is walking on clouds, and bouncing on small trampolines.
He jumps lightly into the truck, behind the steering wheel, and peels out quickly down the pebble strewn dirt road that winds through the fields of grass. He reaches the interstate after ten minutes of jouncing and bouncing on dirt roads, and takes a sharp left, accelerating onto the smooth black top, his tires leaving trails of burnt umber dirt in his wake.
Roaring down the four lane highway, bordered on his left by an ever approaching and growing diagonal presence of majestic mountains, and on his right by fields, sweeping into a horizon of grey, Daylo hammers his truck toward his home in expectation. He passes very few cars on this road. It is a secondary artery and therefore avoids much of the traffic that runs east and west through Michaelson. Daylo's older truck, which rattled more than it was suppossed to, was at home on the dusty road. The steering wheel, plastic, a refurbished one he had to buy from the junk yard after his accident, was so well worn the knobs on the back side felt less like bumbs than just wavy imperfections. Daylo gripped it excitedly, rubbing his fist back and forth as if he was revving a motorcycle or pulling a handlebar throttle, despite the fact it was ineffectual on a steering wheel.
"Where should I go tonight?" Daylo wondered aloud. He had gotten used to talking to himself in the car. Usually Polly, his golden retriever sat next to him, her head hanging out the window, happy to be a part of the action, and going somewhere.
He thought about the different routes he could take with excitement. There was the run through the woods behind the YMCA. That was a nice workout that wound it's way up the canyons in the foothills. He ran that last week, Friday, he thought, and had finished it in under an hour, a pretty decent time, even for him.
He considered running along the flue. That route was ten miles if he went the whole way, or he could turn around at any time and make it shorter. Usually he didn't turn around early. He always felt a terrific and dooming sense of disappointment that weighed heavily on his conscience like a chain link necklace dragging him down for his failure. Daylo didn't feel like he wanted to run a full ten miles this afternoon, and he didn't want to live with the disapointment of turning around early, so he decided against that route.
That left the track, the downtown route, or , the park. The track was fun for speed work, but not today, too repetitive and it didn't really offer a good finishing point. There wouldn't be a true goal to work toward, nothing to shoot for except for a time standard.
"No thanks." He said out loud, his voice barely audible agaisnt the roar of the wind through his open drivers side window.
The downtown route was always fun. No matter what happened or how boring the day might be, the dowtown route always had enough to see to keep his mind off of running, at least his conscious mind. His sub conscious mind always kept focuses on moving his feet. But late in the week, their were always people hanging out in the doorways of the bars, or on the patios, and he didn't feel like getting the looks. They always gave him looks that made him feel like an aquarium fish, not a regular golfish to be looked at then forgotten, but a strange fish, one to be considered specifically, and intensely, perhaps even mocked. It was a Thursday, that run might have to wait till Monday Daylo thought.
The park would be fun, he might even be able to see some cuties runing the other way. He actually had one Betty stop and compliment him on Polly last month. Hasn't happened since, but he hadn't taken Polly much lately. Polly was good as a girl magnet, but if he wanted to run fast, she had to stay behind. His fast runs left Polly trailing and lagging her tongue out like a truck's mudflap, after less than a mile. She was good for the long runs, but not the fast ones.
"How do I feel today?" Daylo grumbled to himself. Yesterday he had gotten home late. His run was just three miles, fast but easy. Nothing to straining, just getting the day out of his system. That's what most of his runs had become, a cleansing ritual. When he worked at Haversted, he was able to wake up early and run. That was always nice. Brisk mornings, runs through the snow in the dark of the morning, that feeling of elation that lasted throughout the day. But Jules didn't provide that same opportunity. His manager needed him out checking the lines early, before seven just about everyday. That meant getting up a five-thirty just to get to work on time. Afternoon runs weren't more fun, but they did provide that late day sense of calm.
Involuntarily almost, at the thought of Polly, Danitra jumped into his mind like a wild fire. He met her three weeks ago and she had been popping into his mind like that for everyday for those past few weeks. It was because of Polly that he met her in the first place. He had been running when he first saw her, and stopped to stretch. Polly had been sniffing around doing what dogs normally do at parks, when she had walked up, cool and calm, very confident, that was the first thing Daylo had noticed.
"Hey nice dog." She had said looking at Polly.
"Thanks." She stooped down and called Polly to her by slapping her legs. Polly, always eager to meet new people rushed over to be pet.
"What's his name?"
"Her."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"No biggy."
"What's her name?"
"Polly."
"For Pollyanna?"
"Nope, becasue she is the color of pollen."
"That's so sweet." She said. Daylo noticed that when she smiled her whole face played a part. Her smile was not just her mouth, but it was her eyes, her forehead, her eyebrows, her cheeks, everything contributed and made the entire production more vibrant.
"She's great."
"You run here a lot don't you?" She said after a second or two. "I'm sorry, my name is Danitra." Daylo mentailly perked up his ears when he heard this. How did she know this? Did he know her? He hadn't met many people who were black, she was definitely black, he would probably remember meeting someone like her? She was pretty good looking, he would remember her.
"I do." He said eventually. "What about you?"
"Quite a bit." She said, and then jumped in. "Do you run with a group?" Why was she asking that? Daylo's mind raced. If she know's I run here a bunch she should know I only run here with Polly.
"Nope, just with Polly." He said, knowing what he was suppossed to ask next. "What about you?" He complied.
"Sometimes my friend comes with me, but she doesn't run, just walks."
"Are you starting or finishing?" Daylo asked finding himself sounding more confident than usual when talking to women.
"Starting."
"Want to run with us?"
"Sure." She said, she looked happy that she had massaged the conversation effectively.
"Great."
"I'm Danitra." She said extending her hand. Polly followed her as she stood up, her tail still wagging.
"Daylo."
"Daylo?"
"Yeah, actually is Deleo, but I everyone calls me Deleo."
"Nice to meet you."
"You too." Daylo said. He looked down at her legs, sizing her up, wondering how slow he would have to go for his new partner. They were shapely legs, muscular, she looked like someone who had run a lot in her youth.
"Ready to go?"
"What's your pace?"
"Whatever you want."
"How fast do you usually go?" She said sounding confident.
"Most of the time as fast as she can go." He said looking at Polly.
"Well, lets see how fast she goes."
It had been a less than auspicious beginning to a running date that went on for most days of that week, the next and Daylo hoped this one too.
The first week he had been impressed with her running. She was a great runner, almost as good as he was. Daylo hadn't needed to slow down. When they met without Polly there she had kept up with Daylo even at his fastest pace, although she hadn't been able to keep the pace past the second mile. Her speed made Daylo think of Marcus. He was the only other person who had been able to keep up with him on runs. He and Marcus used to go to races in the city and see how many people they could beat. Usuallly the 5 Ks were competitive and having a friend around to train with and race with had made them only more fun and more competitive.
Over the second week he and Denitra had grown more accostomed with one another. They talked alot more, still ran fast, but talked alot more. He found out that when she was in school she had been a competitive runner too. They shared their stories and talked about how they both wished they could have gone on to college to perhaps continue to compete.
It wasn't until this week, Monday to be exact that Daylo had started looking at Denitra in slightly different ways. He stopped looking at her legs in terms of how fast she might run the next few miles but instead in terms of how they turned him on. He stopped looking at her hair, her face and her form when she runs and strated looking at her in terms of her skin, her eyes, and her breasts. Daylo was having a hard time with it. He had never felt attracted to a running partner and that alone was strange, not to mention the fact that he had never been attracted to black women before.
"Hope she shows up." He said outloud to the empty truck cab as he turned onto Market street and saw his grandfather's at the end of the block. There was a gold and pale yellow lump in the front yard of the old but emaculately maintained, three story house. He knew that if she was outside, his grandfather was in the rocker on the porch, wathcing her, waiting for him with her. Daylo smiled when he saw the lump turn her eyes toward his truck and begin thumping her tail on the ground. A few more seconds and she would jump up and race toward the truck. He was right.
"Got off early." Daylos grandfather says as Daylo steps down from the truck and walks toward the house. Polly is already following him closelyjumping up and down, her eyes bright with expectation.
"How are you Sweety!" Daylo says and bends down to scratch her harshly. He grabs her ears and ruffles her hair briskly. Polly continues to wag her tail swiftly.
"Why'd you get off so early?"
"Got in early." Daylo says loudly up at the porch. He starts walking toward his grandfather, Polly jumping along behind him.
"Back when I was your age we got in early and worked late."
"That's what you always say." Daylo loved cutting his grandfather's complaints off by agreeing with him. "What have you been up to?"
"Nothing really, just watching the TV and watching your damn dog."
"Good to see you haven't slowed down." Daylo responded with a grin that wasn't returned.
"You going to go for your run?"
"Thinking about it."
"Well take your hound. It'll give me a few minutes peace."
Daylo smiled. His grandfather was gruff, but in a pleasing almost overly sarcastic way. "We don't want your life to be too peaceful, you might think you've died and gone to heaven."
"Nope, not as long as you and that mutt are around." His grandfather said with a gleaming eye as he got up and went into the house. Daylo and Polly followed him closely.
"Are you going to run with that Nigra girl?" His grandfather asked. Daylo turned around quickly. "Didn't think I knew about that did you."
Daylo just shrugged his shoulders.
"Michaelson saw you running with you the past few days.
He shrugged his shoulders again.
His grandfather kept looking at him, shaking his head. He didn't say anything, but just left the room, still shaking his head.
Daylo left the house with Polly in tow, not at as happy as he had been when he arrived.
5. Mica
Mica stood motionless looking at the desk in front of her. Jessica looked at her expectantly.
Mica stared at the wall of her cubicle intensely. The threads of the grey, wall, made of fabric, sewn together tightly like a sweater, the type that do not allow push pins to be inserted but instead require a pin shaped like and S, a pin specifically made for cubes. The fabric walls of the cube were usually softly soothing to Mica. She was sure that they were suppossed to provide that sense of calm, it was possibly an insanely researched and investigated element of her cube by the manufacturer. In happier times she enjoyed looking at the walls and thinking of a research scientist doing a study on what colors, which thread patterns, and which gauge of thread was he most calming, but at the same time illicited the most amount of dedication to work. She loved to imagine the depth of work that went into her surroundings. She would sit and stare at her phone for hours and think about a mathmetician measuring the angle of the ear piece and the speaker. She thought about the ergonomics of her stapler and her tape dispenser. She went so far as to dream about who decided the length of her pen and pencil and why it was the length that it was.
The walls offered her no comfort now. Now the walls felt too close, too harsh and too confining. The threaded texture was a pattern that looked like a prison to her, like a net. She could feel the walls causing her to lose her breath. Her chest was constricting. She looked around and caught Jessica's eyes. She tried to soften her gaze and give a small smile, but felt that she did not do it convincingly. She tried to think of somethig to say. Her mind whirled and turned, question bumping into one another like an atom. "What will Jessica think? She'll never believe me again. What can I do? I want to just hang up and cry. Can Jessica see tears in my eyes? Say something, say something. Mica's mind whirled quickly in a tornado of thoughts and feelings that she tried desperately to mask."
She forced a slight grin that showed calmness and furrowed her brow just enough to inpart disapointment and perhaps a little bit of confusion.
"Oh, well if he isn't in, that's cool, I'll try again later, thanks bye." Mica said desperately hoping that Jessica didn't hear the speaker on the other end of the line repeat what she said before the phone was securely on the cradle, and the connection terminated.
"He wasn't there?" Jessica said quickly, with a look of slight disbelieve, cutting off Mica before she could say anything in defense.
"Nope, he wasn't there." Mica said, hoping that would be enough for now, but knowing that it would not be.
"But it's ten in the morning?" Jessica said. Mica saw skepticim in her eyes.
"I know weird huh?" Mica turned back to her desk and looked around for a paper, a pencil, a report, anything to make her look busy and to influence a quick, quiet, and hopefully positive exit by Jessica.
"It's probably a pretty busy time of the morning for them, I'm surprised he isn't thiere."
Mica felt herself tense. She stopped herself and willed a calmness that wouldn't come. She repremanded herself internally. "I should have pretended he was too busy to come to the phone. That would have sounded more convincing."
"Yeah, I'll have to ask him later tonight why he wasn't there." Mica tried but sounds pathetic and fake even to herself.
"You better hope he aint steppin out on you."
"Naw." Mica tries to laugh.
"It happens girl, it happens more than you know."
"Whatever." Mica flips her wrist trying not to look worried.
Jessica leaned over on the cubicle opening in an attitude that inparted a desire and an inclination to stay for a long while. Mica realized she was not going to leave. She felt and overwhelming desire to get away from her.
"Oh, well, I'll try again later, and then we'll make plans." She stood up and started walking toward the hallway. "Maybe well go surprise him next week. It'll be on me."
"You know I hate those places."
"It'll be on me."
"It's not the price, at least not all of it. Their coffee sucks."
Mica tried to move past her but was stopped by her asking, "Where are you going?"
"What a girl can't go to the bathroom without the third degree. You don't believe I have to go to the bathroom either?"
"Chill, chill, just asking." Jessica said with her hands up as she turned to leave. Mica followed her trying to placate her slightly wounded friendship but peeled off at the door to the ladies room not remembering any thing she said just said, nor feeling she had been successful.
She found her way to the first stall. She looked longingly at the counch, the one that the women's restroom had but the men's did not. She accidently walked in there once, and it was the absence of the couch that had clued her into it. The couch looked comfortable and would she felt it would have been nice to sit and relax and try to figure out just what was going on. Instead she felt she needed the privacy that the stall provided.
How could he quit without telling her.
"He doesn't work here anymore." That's what the girl at the coffee shop told her. That's what had caused her to almost breakdown in her cube. It was a simple phrase. Just what? One, two, three, four, five words, one of them a contraction. How may syllables,...does it really matter. She thought. It's alot, and it was enough to make me ventilate.
Why?" She asked herself outloud. There was a rustle of noise next to her. She decided she didn't care about the woman next to her. Let her wonder what in the hell was going on.
"He doesn't work here anymore." She thought again.
What does that mean? She wondered. Had he been fired? Did he quit? Maybe he just switched to a different shop. It could be anything, but she was concerned becasue she immediately thought that he left. Why would he leave. Why would that be the first thing she thought of. Was her subconscious aware of something she was trying to supress. Did her subconscious realize that he was going to leave? When did it know that? How long might she have known without really knowing.
She probed her mind searching for something anything, and instead all she felt was the tears in her eyes falling down her cheeks and into her hands. She sat there covering her eyes in her hands and slowly her back and midsection convulsed, silently.
The toilet in the stall next to her flushed. The woman rustled some more and then clicked along the tile floor in her high heeled shoes to the water faucet. She took a long time washing her hands and then disappeared in vanishing footsteps out the door and down the hall.
"You're crying in the toilet." She said outloud aware now of the foolishness of her perdicament.
"Get up, clean yourself off, and go find out what happened." She said.
Mica returned to her cubicle but only after flushing, and washing her hands. She didn't want Jessica to notice that her going to the bathroom was just a time gaining exercise.
"Is Robert there?" She said into the phone just like she had not ten minutes prior.
"He doesn't work here anymore." Mica knew she was going to say that, just like she had heard her say it before, but she had hoped that she wouldn't.
"When did he leave?"
"Uhhhh....two or three days ago."
"Do you know where he went?" Mica struggled to keep her voice from breaking.
"Chicago, I think." The woman said breathlessly. She sounded busy to Mica who didn't care how busy the woman was.
"Is he coming back."
"I don't think so." The woman says her voice gained a tinge of impatience. "Who is this anyway, did you know Robert?"
"Yeah, we're dating." Mica said.
"Oh, well, yeah, he left." The woman said again, stabbing Mica again.
"But we were suppossed to go out this Friday." Mica almost whispered.
"Not anymore." The woman said as she hung up the phone.
Mica stared at the phone in her hand and wondered if she should call the woman back. Was there anything else that she could say. What more is there. Where in the hell was he? Why did he leave?
Her stomach was doing somersaults within her.
She pushed the redial button on the phone and it rang until the same woman picked up.
"Hi, this is the girl who just called."
"Yeah." She said sounding resigned again to a conversation she didn't want to be a part of.
"Do you know where he went?" Mica said quickly.
"He went to Chicago."
"Right, that's what you said." Mica tried desperately to keep her voice calm. "But do you know where? Do you know why?"
"Nope."
Mica thought quickly, trying to think of something to say before the girl hung up again. "Did he leave a forwarding address or a phone number?"
"Well I'm guessing he still has his cell."
"Do you have that number?"
"Look ma'am, this is our busy time...."
"I know, but I really need to talk to him."
"You were dating him right?" The woman said defensively. "Don't you have it?"
"No, I always used this number to get him." Mica pleaded. "I'd really appreciate it if you could just give it to me."
"Well we're not really suppossed to give out employee's phone numbers...."
"Couldn't you please." Mica pleaded again.
"But, I was going to say, since he gave me his phone number and he's not really an employee anymore,..." She paused. "Hold on, here it is."
Mica took down the number desperately, her hand shaking the lead straining against the white, fibrous pad.
"Thanks." Mica said quickly and hung up.
6. Finger
Finger takes the steps to his apartment slowly, laboriously, as if he is timing the amount of energy he has left in his body to coincide with arriving at his door. He drags his feet heavily with each step as if they were held down with lead.
At the top of the steps, Finger looks up toward his apartment door and sees his door ahead of him. There is a pile of grey and black dust near the door. Finger knows what it is, and he knows it is not dust. It may look like dust, but it isn't. He looks at it and his depression engulfs him. Whatever slight amount of positivity left in him drains as soon as he sees the door. He drudges toward the door as slowly as he climbed the steps.
Finger makes it to his door and looks at the grey pile near the door. Now that he is on top of it the dead fly carcasses stand out clearly. Their hollow shells picking up whatever slight movement of air is around, flutter slightly despite the fact that they are dead. Finger put the flies there. They've been adding up for days. He vaccuums them up and then dumps them there, sometimes three or four times a day, dozens and dozens each time.
Finger sighs and his head sinks down so that his chin almost hits his chest. He looks through the window next to the door and sees dozens and dozens of more flies. Some of them upside down, some of them walking along the white base board of the front window. Finger studies them. Some of them are obviously dead, but Finger doesn't let that fool him. He has seen those types of flies before. He's dealt with these flies so much in the past few weeks that he has subdivided the flies into three different categories.
One type is the possum. This is the type he is seeing now. The possum lies on his back and pretends to be dead. He must have vacuumed hundreds of them before he realized what was going on. He vacuumed up days and days worth of dead flies only to be astounded when he emptied the vacuum bag. When he emptied the vacuum bag into the kitchen trash can, flies sprang out quickly like a whirlwind. He had to begin dumping the vacuum bag out the front door after that. That's what the possum fly does. The possum lies there and then escapes when the bag is emptied. The possum is the reason there are three empty bottles of Raid in Finger's trash, and the reason for the policy shift that called for spraying the tube of the vacuum before sucking up the flies.
The second type of fly that Finger lives with is the kamikaze. This fly springs from beneath the sink or from the cabinets bordering it, and heads straight for the light of the window like spaceship surging into hyperspace or warp drive. They bang their heads against the window fruitlessly, like mental patients in a looneybin. Finally, either succumbing to the pain of the head butts, or to a bursting heart due to their furious exertions, they fall to the window baseboard and die. Some lucky ones fall from the window, rebound off of the baseboard and hit the floor still somewhat alive. They crawl a bit, and try to find a place to go, but eventually, they too give up.
The last type of fly is the mutant. This fly does not fly up crazily like the kamikaze, nor does he fly to the base board to lie in pretend stasis until he is sucked into the Raid filled bag of the vacuum. The mutant has no wings and therefore can't fly. When Finger first saw one of the mutants he thought it was just a one time aberration, and not what he finally had to concede was a full fledge species phase shift. The mutant, a fly with no wings, walks heavily on six legs on the counter tops of the kitchen with an attitude of complete disregard for direction or purpose. They are killed by the Raid vacuum or a swat with a magazine.
The mutant, more than the kamikaze or the possum helped Finger figure out just why and where all of the flies where coming from, perhaps not literally, but figuritively, and in theory. Literally, the flies came from under the sink. That's where they started comnig from anyway. There was a small hole under the sink. It used to be a large hole, but a rat had come through it and gnawed on a styrofoam container in Finger's trash. He had called the super the day after finding that. The super had poisoned and plugged the hole. That's when the flies showed up. But there was still a small hole there, a place the super had missed. That's where they were coming from. He took some tape and taped it up, but it didn’t stick. Finger still imagines the little damikazes banging their heads against the inside of the tape, pressing againt it until the stickiness subsided. The tape didn’t last a week.
Not to be outdone by a bunch of hard headed flies, Finger went to the hardware store. He picked up some putty from the cute, but pimply red head who cheerfully waited on him, and impolitely asked what he was going to use if for. After shrugging off the question, it had only taken him a few short minutes to run home and squirt the toothpaste tube of putty into his hole beneath the sink.
It didn't help.
The flies kept coming. They didn't come from under the sink anymore, but they found a way out. That's when Finger started to realize he had an epidemic on his hands, not just a few flies under the sink. After the putty was in place the flies started working thier way out from between the wall and the molding at the base of the wall, behind the couch.
When he saw this Finger walked out around to the side of the aparment. He got on his hands and knees and started looking for a hole or a crack that would be letting flies through. There wasn't one, there was just a long brick wall that bordered his aparmtne.
It was about this time that he started noticing the possums. It was his daily ritual after that first week to spray the Raid Flying Insect killer along the edges of his apartment each morning and then picking the flies up with a paper towel, but there had been too many to do that. He was used to vacuuming once a week, but after not picking up the corpses for a few days, the apartment was becoming unlivable. Not wanting to haul out the dragon of a vacuum everyday he just started leaving it in the middle of the floor. He emptied the canister each day. The flies would tumble out, into the trash and out would fly the possums. How they were surviving both the Raid plus the ride in the vacuum was beyond him. He decided to up the dosage.
He kept spraying the edges of his apartment with Raid, but then before vacuuming he sprayed up the tube of the vacuum, generously coating the inside. The transperant canister was sopping at time as it sucked the raid up. He would go around and suck up the dead flies which were growing in number each day and watch them zip into the canister and get soggy from the Raid inside. No more possums. Every now and then he might miss one, and then he would be able to watch the fly inside the canister buzz around and become like the kamikaze's, bouncing off of the insides of the cannister.
This worked well. The kamikaze's died quickly when the hit the baseboard of the window, or the window itself, both of which were sprayed liberally each morning, and the possums were sucked up and killed in the vacuums killing jar he created. The problem was that the flies didn't stop coming and the mutants showed up.
He called the super. He tried to explain what was happening and the super tried to understand, but it probably wasn't something he was used to hearing, possums, kamikazes, mutants and all.
"You have what?" The super asked.
"Mutant flies."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well remember that rat I had last month?"
"No."
"Well, I called you about a rat last month, and you came in and poisoned it, and you sealed up it's escape route, but I think when you did that you sealed the rat in the wall."
"No, I didn't."
"Well, I think that's what's happened. I think the poisoned rat is dead in my wall and the flies are hatching from it."
"Not possible."
"Well, I've tried to figure out where they're coming from and this is really the only answer. I think the poison is mutating the maggots and that's why I have the crazy flies."
"I think you're nuts."
"Pardon?"
"Look, maybe I did come in and take care of a hole beneath your sink, but did you know it's against the law to poison a rat and not leave it some sort of egress. That poison makes rats thirsty, they have to have a way out. That's why I didn't poison it."
"Then what about these flies?" Finger tried again. "They're crazy."
"Tell you what, I'll come down there and spray, and see what else I can do."
"Spray? I've been spraying almost daily."
"Well I don't know what to tell you."
And so Finger had watched as the obese super had lumbered up the stairs to his apartment, grunted as he bent down to look under the sink, made noises as he looked deeper into the cabinet, expressed platitudes about how wrong Finger was about his theory, sprayed a liquid, that smelled diluted, in the same areas that Finger sprayed, and then left with a promise to come check next week. Finger didn't hold out much hope.
But the mutants kept coming, the kamikazees and the possums too. They kept flying out from the baseboards and the cabinets, a seemingly neverending stream of flies. So as a small token of rebellion Finger began piling the flies outside the door to his apartment, hoping that the super would become so embarrassed by the corpses piling up in the hallway that he would have to do something. He didn't. Apparently the super didn't mind fly corpses.
Finger opens the door to his apartment and looks down. There are a couple of mutants squirming on the floor by the door. One or two dead non-mutants, impossible to tell if they are kamikazees or possums are lying nearby. The mutants can be amazingly resilient and motivated. It's atleast 20 feet from the kitchen from whence they emenate to the front door, a marathon course for a non-winged fly. Finger had been seeing them near the door more and more frequently. He guessed there might be a smell, or a little bit of light underneath the wood that attracted them.
Next to him the base board of the window was littered with corpses. Some squirming, some bouncing off of the window, some laying motionless. With hanging shoulder Finger lumbered slowly to the vaccum cleaner in the middle of the room. He looks inside the clear plastic container which he hasn't cleaned out in a few days. Laying at the bottom of the container is a ocean of black dead flies. Finger switched on the vacuum and suddenly the dead flies sprung into horrific movement, swirling and revolving in a destructive and discordant spinning vortex, losing all semblance of individuality, and becoming a mish-mash of grey and black swirls. The low hum and rattle of dust filled the small room uncomfortably.
The Raid can is on the bar by the kitchen. He grabbed the can and the tube attachment that reached like a tail from the vacuum. He sprayed a heavy dose of Raid into the nozzel. He walked toward the window and the front door and started sucking up the flies that he saw, mutant, kamikaze, and possums alike, it made no difference.
He pulled the nozzle toward the kitchen, the vacuum bounched and jounced along behind him like a wayward, tired puppy. There were some corpses on the ground by the sink, writhing slowly on the wood floor. These, Finger knew, were most likely possums waiting, hoping for a chance to escape. He sucked them up quickly. He opened the cabinet below the sink, where he had sprayed liberally that morning, and began to suck the flies up in groups. The nozzle acted like a huge straw, sucking and sipping the flies like draining the last bits of milkshake from a soda fountain glass. The only thing missing, Finger thought, was the deep gutteral sucking sound.
Finger looked in the corners, behind the dishwashing liquid, the garbage sack, and saw no more Flies, dead or otherwise. He stuck the nozzle tip into the small hole in the wall beneath the sink, the portal for the flies birth. It was like a unterus for flies. The nozzle looked like an anteater snout snuffling around hungrily for more flies.
Finger stood up and switched off the vacuum. The fly corpses in the container stoped swirling and settled down to the bottom of the plastic cylinder like silt falling from water. He popped the container from the vacuum and sprayed the inside with a fine mist of Raid. Nothing moved, at least no much. One or two legs kicked or moved almost imperceptibly, but Finger guessed that for the most part they were all dead. Finger walked more swiftly than before, toward the door, opened it and poured the dead flies onto the pile to the right of his door as if he was pouring icing on a cake. He replaced the container in the vacuum and left the vacuum where it was in the middle of the room so he could use it again quickly. He sat down on his couch and lost himself in the TV, sucessfully keeping his quasi-incestual relationship from his mind for another few hours.
7. Willa
The baby was crying. Willa woke up and saw that Miles had moved his bowels in the night.
He was lying in his own filth again. She was surprised that the smell hadn't awakened her like it had before. Was she getting used to it? She wondered. She hoped not. That wasn't something she wanted to get used to. She wanted it to stop. Instead in teh past few weeks it had only gotten worse.
Willa left the room and walked toward Miranda's crying. She too needed to be changed. Willa made quick work of the baby and settled her down to sleep some more. It was only ten to five. Hopefully she would sleep a few more hours.
She went back to her own room and was assualted by the stench. Somehow Miles slept through it.
"So did you, remember?" The voice said to her.
She ignored it and started gently shaking Miles.
"What?" He said harshly.
"I need to make the bed."
"I'm trying to sleep." He said, trying to go back to sleep.
"You messed yourself again."
"What?"
"You..."
"Fuck!" He said loudly.
"Honey, Miranda is trying to sleep." She had found quickly that it was pointless to get mad at him or to yell, he didn't respond to that at all. Whether she was mean or sweet she got the same reaction. Being sweet at the very least kept her own headaches away.
"Fuck her."
"Miles, get up and go change." She tried to sound stern.
"Fuck you." He said back, and didn't move.
"I'm not going to let you just lie there."
"Go to hell."
She sighed loudly as he turned over.
She was too disgusted with her husband, her life, her situation to say anything. What do you say to someone who doesn't have the good sense to get up and clean himself off. She looked at her side of the bed. It was probably clean, she thought. She banished teh thought from her mind and grabbed a blanket from the basket and went back into Miranda's room.
"You can do it?"
"What?" She asked the voice.
"Go get the iron, or the skillet."
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
"I'm not going to kill him."
"Why not?"
"They'd catch me and then who would take care of Miranda. Then what would my family think. It'd be better just to leave."
The voice was quiet. Willa stood in her living room watiting patiently. She knew why the voice was quiet. What she had just said was sinking in. It wasn't wrong to kill Miles, it was just not practical. Is that what she really thought?
"I told you so."
"I'm not going to kill him."
"You could make it look like an accident."
"With a skillet." She wanted to scream.
"No one would blame you."
"They may not blame me, but they would certainly convict me."
"It wouldn't be hard to make it look like an accident."
"No."
The voice went away, but not for long.
"How?" She asked the voice.
"Smother him with a pillow."
"Too easy to figure that out. Even I know that." Willa said thinking about the TV crime show she saw a few weeks ago that dealt with that same issue. She remembered it well because it was the first time she realized that she was watching these shows with a critical eye to use one of the murders herself. She had been horrified, but also even more intrigued. How many other people in the world to watch these shows to get some help on planning a murder. It wasn't the first time she had substituted her situation into the show, like some sort of perverse analogy of her own life, but it was the first time she caught herself doing it. It was the start of a slew of nights that found her doing the same thing.
"Rinse the floor of the shower with bleach before he gets in." Willa though she could feel the slippery senstaion of bleach on her hand as the voice said it.
"It will still be there when the police show up, traces of it anyway. What do I tell them, I forgot to rinse the tub I was cleaning at four in the morning?"
"He doesn't take his pills, make sure he looses them before the next day you go out, don't come home for a while, he'll have gone mad, with pain and frustration by the time you get home."
Willa didn't say anything.
She walked on towards Miranda's room.
Miranda was asleep, her mouth barely open, her small pants of breathing rasping through her nose and mouth in rythm with the beats of her chest. She was beautiful,Willa thought not for the first time that day. How could something so beautfiul come from two such horrible. people.
8. Daylo
"Are you doing anything tonight?"
"What?" Denitra said. She would have sounded surprised expect that she was losing her breath quickly.
"Are you busy tonight?" He said again.
She didn't answer. He gave her a stride or two to catch her breath and respond but she didn't. They were running on the straight on the far side of the park. There weren't many other runners just the two of them, and one or two others behind them that they had passed as they sprinted. Danitra was holding close to him, but she always started to fall back at this point in the sprint. They had started training for the Thanksgiving Fall Run in Denver and so augmented their runs with a 5K spint on Tuesdays. Daylo was making it in the seventeen fifties, Dantra usually fell away from his pace at the two and a quarter mark and finished in the low eighteens.
"Hey didn't you hear me?"
"Yeah." She huffed back between breaths.
"Well."
"Can't we discuss this later?" She tried.
"Tell you what, winner buys."
"What?" She was brething so hard she didn't get the whole word out.
"You break your record you pick the place and I buy, I get a PB and you buy, deal?"
"Whatever." She said still trying to keep her breathing steady.
Daylo lengthened his stride and tried to steady his breathing which was on the verge of becoming labored after all of the talking. His feet hit the ground lightly. He focused on the path ahead, there was only about a half mile left. He felt Danitra falling away behind him, and felt the idea of her and his offer forming in his head. He wiped it away quickly using the run like a windshield wiper. His legs pumping rhythmically, he wanted to concentrate on nothing but the run and forced himself to worry about Dantira later. "Worry about each thing as it occurs and then worry about nothing else." His grandfthar at said to him a million or more times, and Daylo was used to calling up that mantra to help him concentrate through his daily activities.
He felt the need to glance back to see if Danitra was still there, but stopped himself. She was back there somewhere, probably closer than usual, maybe further, most likely mad that she was not winning just like Daylo would have been if someone he had been running with had just lengthened their stride, started calming their breathing and taken off like a race horse in the final few furlongs.
He rounded the corner at the end of the straight, the last turn before the finish line by the water fountain. The finish line where he had first met Danitra, the finish line where Paully was probably still waiting tied up by the bulletin board with the note attached to her saying "I'm not lost, nor am I abandoned. My owners will be back soon to take me for a run." She would never have been able to keep up, so Daylo left her until the sprint was over and then took her for a cool down jog after the spint. He looked up and saw the orange fur hanging from Paully loosely like a gown. She had seen him. Her tail was wagging excitely. She was always Daylos own personal cheering section.
His lungs were begingin to hurt, burn with the pressure of his sprint. His knees too were starting to hurt. the pounding on the path was beginging to tell. He tried to concentrate on his form. He tried to maintain a straight back, he tried to keep his head up, he tried to focus on his arms and make sure they pumped up and down, adding to, not taking away from his power and speed.
How much longer he wondered. How much longer could he keep it up. How much longer till the end. Less than a hundred meters now. More than fifty. It will be fifty in a few more seconds. How far back is she? Should I look at my watch or will that just depress me. Nothing to do but to drive on, keep going, hope you do it.
He stepped acoss the imaginary line that ran across the path, bisecting the water fountatin. Paully was jumpig wildly against the leash staring at Daylo, close to barking, but so well trained, like a soldier, knowing that barking would bring a series of unitended consequences on her.
17:56. Not a personal best, not even close. His shoulders sunk.
What happens if I don't get a personal best and neither does she? He wondered. I never thought of that. Will she still feel compelled to go out with me? Maybe she didn't want to go out with me at all.
The questions and fears that he had kept hidden during the last part of his run came flooding as if a pipe had burst from holding too much pressure.
Danitra was really moving. Her arms were swinging and her head was down in a inclination of complete and total determination. Did she hope to make it, or was she only trying to put on a good show for him? Had she already seen the loop hole that he just saw? Was she trying to exploit it or avoid it? He hadn't expected to have to race her for the date. He was hoping she would say "Nothing, want to go do something?" not challenge her to a date. Was it pathetic to have to challenge someone to a date? Is it even more pathetic to challenge someone for a date and then lose that challenge to them?
He looked down at his watch when she was only a few steps away. Their eyes had just locked. He could see the question in them. She was hoping to get a new record for herself. She was looking to him for his strength. He glanced at the watch. She could do it. She still had three seconds. He looked up pleadingly, with a smile that showed his anticipation for her to make it.
18:13.
She slowed down quickly, her arms flapping like a huge albatoss laning in an attempt to pump air into her lungs. She settled like a crashed airplane, in the grass near pauly, on her back her chest plunging down and then arching up almost in a spasm. Daylo walked toward her slowly, watching her chest rise and fall, noticing her legs and the tired muscles beneath the skin, and realized how much he wanted to spend more time with her.
"You made it." He said bending over her, looking her in the face.
"How …." She struggled to breath. "How much."
"You beat it by one second."
"What about you?" She asked as she reached out a hand to pet Pually.
"I didn't make it, four seconds shy." He explained.
"Ohh." She said sounding genuinely disappointed for him.
"Man." He said, sitting down next to her.
"What?"
"You must really want to go out with me."
She smiled expansively and turned over toward him.
"Yep", she said and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek which was as surpiseing to him as a atomic bomb would have been.
"What was all that about?" He said quickly.
"Well, that way you don't have to worry about it at the end of the date you're taking me on tonight."
9. Mica
"Hello, is this Robert?"
"Yep."
"Hi, Robert, this is Christine. I'm calling on behalf of "Half Price Flowers," and I was hoping you would do me favor."
"Who are you with?"
"I'm with "Half Price Flowers," and were running a promotional that has….
"No, that's alright, I'm really not interested."
"Well, if you'd just let me explain, there is absolutely no strings attached, nothing that you have to do."
"No, that's allright."
"It's just free flowers, a dozen long stem red roses, delievered to whomever you want, no strings attached."
"But what I have to give you my credit card number?"
"Nope, like I said this is completely free to you."
"Why?"
"Well, I'm hoping that after I send these flowers to whoever you decided to send them to, that they will be so happy they'll use my business the next time they want flowers."
"I don't have to do anything."
"Not a thing, all you have to do is give me a name and address of the person you want to send them to."
"No credit card, no contract, nothing?"
"Nope."
"Well, okay, I guess that sounds fine, what do I have to do."
"Let's see, I'm going to need a name first and then a short greeting for these dozen long stem red roses. We'll deal with the address and stuff in a minute."
"Okay, could you make it out to Penny."
"Penny?"
"Yeah, and tell her I can't wait to see you again."
"Okay?"
Mica couldn't listen any longer. "Who the hell is Penny?"
"What?"
"Hey Robert, this is Chris, and you've been talking to Christine from the Chirs and Chris Morning show on 95.8 the Wind. That voice you just heard is your girlfriend Mica and I think she and all of our listeners want to know who Penny is."
"Yeah, who is Penny?"
"Mica?"
"Yes."
"Hey Robert, who is Penny." Chirs said again.
"Wait, wait, wait." Robert struggled. "I'm on the radio."
"Yep, I'm sorry I had to fool you Robert, but Mica called us because she was wondering whether or not you still loved her so we made you the subject of our weekly segment called Roses from the Wind." Christine intoned effortlessly.
"Mica who?"
"Mica you're girlfriend." Chirs chimed in.
"I don't know anyone named Mica."
"What?" Mica yelled into the phone.
"Come on Robert, that never works." Chris said. "It's always better just to fess up and get it over with, like a band-aid."
"No seriously, I don't know anyone name Mica."
"What are you saying Robert?" Mica said with tears welling up in her voice.
"Robert are you serious, you don't know Mica?" Christine said.
"This is really, low Robert." Chris said.
"No, no, maybe this is a mistake."
"He's trying to buy time Chirstine. We've seen this before." Chris said.
"Are you Robert," Christine said directly to Robert. "Are you just buying time."
"Look, I'm still trying to figure out what the hell is going on here, but I'm pretty damn sure that I don't know any Mica, and I sure don't have a girlfriend named Mica."
"Robert it's me."
"Who?"
"Mica?"
Chris broke in, "You mean you don't know Mica. She says that you two were dating for the last six months."
"Yeah, she says that you met at the Coffee Bar and have been going out." Christine added.
"Robert." Mica said dolefully.
"Look, I don't have a girlfriend named….."
"Robert it's me Mica, I always got a tall Mochacino, blonde hair,…."
"Mica?"
"Yes, Robert, its' me."
"Mica, what are you doing?"
"So you do know her." Chris said resignedly.
"Yeah, but were not,…..well were not dating." Robert said.
"She isn't your girlfriend?" Christine said.
"Well, no." Robert stammered. "Well, I mean we did go out once, and I saw her at the coffee shop a lot, but we never went out."
"Robert, that's not true." Mica pleaded.
"Wait a minute." Christine broke in. "Let me get this straight, how many times did you two go out."
"Once." Robert said. Christine remained silent in the background.
"And you saw her…" Christine conitinuied to lead him.
"At the coffee shop, but we…."
Christine cut him off. "The coffee shop were you work?"
"Right, but we only went out once."
"Once?" Chris said with obvious doubt in his voice. "We've seen situations like this before man, you know where the guy tries to pretend to be ignorant on the radio, it's not the right thing to do man."
"No," Robert pleaded. "I'm serious, we went out once, and well, you know…..we had a good time and all, but that was it, and that was over six months ago."
"And you haven't been out since then." Chris said.
"No."
"Except seeing her in the coffee shop." Christine tried.
"No." Robert answered sounding tired.
"Did you lead her on man?" Chris said.
"No….well, I mean, I always try to be nice to her."
"Maybe leading her on, trying to keep her around just incase." Chris said.
Christine stopped him. "Well, it doesn't matter, they weren't as close as we thought."
"And not as close as Mica thought either." Chris mumbled.
"Regardless," Christine said. "This has just been a major misunderstanding." She paused, perhaps for the listeners. "We're sorry Robert, we didn't mean to accuse you of anything."
"No, no, it's okay, I'm sorry it was all so screwed up." Robert said.
"But Robert." Mica finally spoke up, feeling lost.
"Uhh, Producer Bill, would you maybe uh…"
"Yeah, I'll take care of it." Mica phone was taken off the air.
Mica looked at the radio. Tears were streaming down her face. She hadn't meant to listen to it. Infact she had told herself that the last thing she should do is listen to her call to the radio station, but she found herself listening to it anyway. She looked up. The road wasn't moving. Her car was pulled over to the side of the road. She didn't remember tpulling the car to the side but she must have. She tried valiantly to probe her mind for that moment when she had pulled over.
Why had she placed the call to the radio station last week. She should have just accepted whatever Robert was doing and not forced him into a corner like that. Now everyone in the town would think she was crazy. She knew they were going to play the telephone call today, even though it had been taped last week. Why did she listen to it, why hadn't she just turned off the radio like she had planned. It was worse, so much worse having the problem back in the fore front of her mind than her own personal problem.
Her phone broke into her thoughts.
"Mica?" Jessica said.
"Yeah." Mica replied trying to sound lighthearted.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"Was that you on the radio?"
"What?" Mica said trying to sound ignorant, wishing she still was.
"The radio?"
"What are you talking about?" Mica wiped her eyes.
"Nothing." Jessica said. "Where are you?"
"Just heading home."
"I thought we could go out and get some drinks."
"No, that's allright, I'm super busy." Mica said.
"Well, I'm picking you up in thirty minutes anyway."
"I won't be there?"
"You better girl, cause I need someone to drink with me." She hung up quickly not allowing Mica the chance to continue the argument.
Mica closed the phone slowly and wiped the tears from her eyes. She sniffled her nose and looke din the rearview mirror, and pulled into traffic heading home.
10. Finger
"I think we should stop."
"No." She said.
"Really, I'm stopping."
"No you're not."
"I'm not kidding Mary."
"Neither am I."
Finger looked around him. His family was slowly milling around his aunts living room looking at different things, discussing different issues, doing things that families usually do around Thanksgiving.
"Look Mary, what we're doing is wrong."
"I know that."
"Keep your voice down."
"What you think anyone is going to figure out we're fucking cause I said "I know that?" Don't be ridiculous."
Finger's face was bright red. Had anyone heard her say the f-word? Didn't the noise and conversations in the room stop when she said it? Had everyone just started looking at them? He was afraid to turn around.
"They didn't hear anything, idiot."
"Don't call me an idiot." He said.
"Then stop acting like one."
"Whatever." He said cause he had no more arguments. He turned and made his way alone toward the bar where Uncle Mike was making drinks. He was big, not fat, but big. He was wearing a knit shirt, not a button down oxford like all of the other men in the family were wearing but a knit shirt. He usually did that. Finger guessed he liked to show off his physique. Mary hated the way her father always wore shirts that were tight around his chest and almost ripped around his biceps.
"What can I get you?"
"I guess a wine, Uncle Mike." Finger replied.
"You know, we haven't talked in a while." His uncle said as he turned to get a bottle of red wine. "How have you been."
"Fine I guess."
"Whoops, were all out." His uncle said, pouring the dregs from the red wine into the glass on the bar. Finger watched as little specks of red, darker than the wine, swirled dismayingly in the liquid and finally settled on the bottom of the glass.
"Give me a second, I'll open a new one." He said.
Finger looked at the glass. What kind of idiot doesn't know that the dregs aren't suppossed to be given to guests? he wondered, with a vehemence toward his Uncle that he had been hosting for many years. The idiot doesn't even know that he poured a merlot and he's opening a Cabernet.
"Heard from you father?" Uncle Mike always asked this. He was an inlaw and hated Finger's dad as much as anyone else in the town who had followed his political career. He always asked this, Finger figured, to get under his skin.
"Nope." Finger said, watching as Uncle Mike's beefy hand grasped the bottle of red wine and started to screw the cork screw, his hamsized fists working together efficiently and effortlessly like a machine.
"Here you go?" Uncle Mike said pouring the cabernet ontop of the merlot, making the flecks in the glass swirl confusedly in the bottom of the glass.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
Finger turned before his uncle could ask him something else. After asking about his father, he usually liked to talk about golf, or the absence of a girl in Finger's life, neither topics that Finger wanted to discuss. Uncle Mike was the kind of person who believed in himself even to the point that it became absurd. According to him, and depending on the time of the year, BJ Singh was the best golfer in the country becasue he could putt so well. The next month BJ was out the window, and Tiger was the "pentulitmate golfer this country has ever seen." The next year it would be a return to the old and the "There was never anyone as good as the Golden Bear." It wouldn't have been so bad, infact he would have been like any other highly polarized and opinionated person in teh world except for hte fact that he tried to justify himself so loftily and with so many different footnotes. Finger had started to discover that Uncle Mikes current beliefs coincided with the newest or most popular best selling books on whatever subject he would talk about.
Mary was over by the kitchen island talking to their grandmother in a lacadasical yet engaging way. How could she sit there and be so non-chalant about what was going on. He hadn't expected to have to argue his point. No, that wasn't true. He realized he had been telling her no for many weeks now, and each time she had argued him out of the idea of quitting the relationship. If anything the more he protested the more degenerative she had become. He had showed up one afternoon just to call the relationship off. She hadn't called him over like she usually had, and when he showed up she was still in bed with her boyfriend, thankfully he was asleep, or passed out. She hadn't let him call it off, instead she had led him down to the car where she insisted that the have sex.
"No, I didn't even bring any protection." This had been his stop gap measure to ensure he didn't get wrangled into bed with her again. The mere idea of sex with her directly after she had just had sex with her boyfriend was appalling to him. The word sloppy seconds flashed through his mind. But she hadn't cared, and seemed instead to revel in teh depravity of making love to him without a condom. Each time she was worse than the time before.
He looked at her. She looked fresh and charming wearing a fall colored ensemble. Her tiny waist, thin figure and pert chest. How could someone who could look so delightfully innocent be so incredibly fucked up in the head. Fingers mind swirled with conflicting thoughts. Where before, before he had been intimate with cousin, he had looked at her in good regards, with admiration and reverence. Now he couldn't think of anything but how much she disgusted him.
She looked over at Finger and saw him considering him. He watched as she terminated the conversation and suantered over to him.
"And just what are you looking at?" She said with a twinkle in her eye that used to enthrall Finger, but now only disgusted him. "Were you checking me out?"
"No."
"Sure you were?"
"No."
"Come on." she said walking toward the stairs. "I want to show you something in my old bedroom upstairs." she whispered.
"No."
"You don't want to come?"
Finger could only shake his head.
"I'll let you do whatever you want." She whispered in his ear."
"No." He said slowly.
"I know how you feel." She said looking directly at Finger. "I know you think I'm disgusting and gross. And you know that feeling you have, that feeling deep in the pit of your stomach that turns and turns like a worm, the one that make you think I am worst than disgusting, something you can't even name?"
She paused. Finger looked at her not sure what she was trying to say.
"Look around you, that's the way everyone in this room will feel about you if you don't come upstairs with me know. I have more leverage against you than you know, and I can make it look real bad for you. I can make what we do look like it's all your fault. Next time you come over I'll show you the collection of pictures I have of you."
Finger was no longer looking at her. He was looking at the swirling flecks in his glass, trying to keep his watering eyes from showing.
"Come on." Mary said and slowly, quietly, grabbed Finger's hand and led him upstairs.

11. Willa
Willa held her

Light Changes

2005-01-13T11:46:00.000-08:00

Went to workout this morning in the park, no Cathy; how depressing. But Carolyn was there. I used to salivate over her. Still do at times. She has a dark complexion, short dark hair, tall, great legs, and terrific eyes. She resembles a cute, super in shape Cher. I used to think about her a lot, but I've grown out of that phase. My favorite fantasy with her included a fictious call girl routine. Her showing up and my buying her affection. A weird fantasy, but fun to think about. She's still great looking, and right now she is an outstanding runner. She's training for the New York marathon so she has hella endurance. I turned around at one point expecting to see no one but Mr. Rudy, and BAM! there was Ms. Carolyn. I'm sorry to say that I did break down just a bit and had everyone sprint in front of me just so I could watch Ms. Carolyn's ass and great thighs in her too short shorts (more on shorts later).

I wish it was after daylight savings and not still three weeks until. There just isn't enough light. Things change so much in the light. When I get to the park before five in the morning it's dark, and right now, when workout is over at six thirty, it's still dark. Daylight savings won't help too much. I guess I should start hoping for spring if I want to see these women in short shorts in the light. Besides winter is upon us, although you wouldn't know it from today, and that's when the running pants come out. I love running pants. I love the way running pants accentuate the female form but obscure flaws at the same time. It's like watching a stripper on stage. She may be running around there in a get up, but all that anyone in the audience is waiting for, is to see her nekkid. That's the way winter is. I get to see all these great looking women in running pants, and don't get me wrong, they look nice, but all I do all winter is wait in expectation for them to take off their running pants and put their too short shorts back on.

I remember that the last Christmas party I went to for the group was at the home of one of the members. I walked in and didn't recognize a soul. Not only was the lighting completely different, but makeup completely changes these women. I see them so early that they are still wiping sleep from their eyes. Putting on make up is still hours away. Most of the time the chicks tie their hair back to keep in out of the way in the morning, annd I don't blame them one bit for that, but man,….these girls can really pretty themselves up. There was more hair teased up, more blush and massacre, more perfume, and silk then I ever imagined. It was like that first time in middle school when you see all of your old friends after the summer is over and you suddenly notice that all of the girls have waistlines, and hips, and legs and they aren't really the same friends anymore. Blown away doesn't begin to describe my reaction.

I'm looking forward to this year's party. I hope Carolyn, and Cathy show up.

My Perverted Fantasies

2005-01-13T11:45:00.000-08:00

10/15/2004
I think I am supremely screwed up. Here’s why.

As we all know from the previous entries, I have a very hot cousin, who for some perverted reason I have been fantasizing about lately, great hair, blonde, tall but with a thin, pseudo petite body, large chest, long legs, spectacular blue eyes. Now thinking about her like that's pretty screwed up to begin with. Secondly, as we also know from previous entries, as a young kid I have constantly fantasized about my hot aunts. I still have fixations that last for months that involve my hot aunt S. Keep in mind these aren't aunt's in law or cousins in law or even second cousins, we're talking the real McCoy, first cousins and first aunts. So stop reading if you can't stomach thoughts that go along these lines. Keep reading if you want a peak into a perverted mind.

Anyway, all last night all I could think about were situations in which I might find myself where I might have the opportunity to see my cousin in the buff. At first I thought about maybe using a web cam to talk to her and maybe if we were talking on the web cam she might stand up, and maybe she's the type who likes to chat via web cam while wearing nothing but thong bikini underwear, and maybe while we're chatting she'd have to get up and go get the phone and when she gets up I might see her walk away in the little web cam viewer with her thong underwear. How awesome I thought. But then again, it sounds pretty fantastic that all of those circumstances might come together all at once while I'm talking to her on the web cam. First, I don’t even have a web cam. Second, I doubt my cousin has one. Third, we don't chat. It's all pretty thin.

Then I started to think about how we might be skiing and get caught in an avalanche. We'd be buried beneath a mountain of snow and to stay alive we'd have to dig a snow cave, take off all of our clothes and cuddle to stay alive. How gross is that? Thinking about cuddling with a cousin and then getting turned on and having survivor sex in a snow cave. Then I started to think that wouldn't it be horrible if we were found having sex in our snow cave by her husband, my own cousin in law, who had been searching for us night and day. Wouldn't that be a turn of events? Her husband searches, tirelessly for us only to dig us out one day and finds me railing my own cousin, his wife, in the ass while she squeals and squirms and grimaces. I don't know, that might be hard to stomach. Or worse yet, we die while screwing and our frozen naked bodies thaw out in the spring, me with a perpetual bone her once graceful, alabaster thighs frozen blue around me in a dead perverted lovers embrace. EWWWW!

Then I thought, maybe if we were driving back from skiing, we end up in the car alone, how that occurs, who knows, but nevertheless, we are run off the road and somehow we get stuck in a ravine that neither of us can get out of and we end up having to have to have sex to stay alive. Somehow, it didn't cross my mind that 1) Why are we stuck in the car? We obviously aren't injured since we want to have the sex. 2) Why wouldn't we just run the heater? 3) Why not forego the sex and just climb out of the ravine? Maybe while we are climbing out of the ravine we get stuck, have to build the snowcave, and then cuddling and hot, sweaty, snow sex happens.

Nevertheless none of these things came up. You want to know what did come up? I'll tell you. Aunt S came up.

I started thinking up situation where both of them might need to be naked with me. That was hard. It's not like they're mother and daughter, they aren't, but I just had a real hard time thinking up situations where both my aunt and my cousin would have to get naked and then feel the need to get intimate with me, they're own blood relative. Again Ewwww! It's gross, I know, but what can I say, I have a super dirty mind.

Eventually I just gave up on thinking up the situations and just began fantasizing about having a ménage a trois with my aunt and cousin. I was thinking about missionary style with my cousin, then my aunt's face in my cousins twat while I slap her plump 50 year old ass. It is nasty to say the least. Think of the worst things you could think of, then throw in your hot relatives, and that's what I thought about all night. My aunts flabby, once pert ass and graying tanned skin wiggling in my face. My cousins white breasts, and pale nipples bouncing deliciously beneath my tongue. Yep, I'm a perv.

But here's the thing, I would do this, if it weren't taboo. I don't find the (imagined) act of fucking my cousin or my aunt horrific or perverted, and if the situation ever arose where I could without social stigma being attached, actually fuck them, I would, gladly, and nastily. That's where I realize how screwed up I really am. It's not that I find the idea of fucking my aunt or cousin gross, it’s the social stigma that stops me. It's the fact that it is taboo.

Oh well, I always think to myself. I may be screwed up, but at least I keep it quiet. Until it becomes taboo to think things, I think I'm safe. Besides these fixations only last a little while. Heck I might see C at workout Monday, and then I'll be salivating over her legs and reaming my aunt in her bum, or fucking my cousin in the mouth will vanish.

100 Women

2005-01-13T11:44:00.000-08:00

10/14/2004
In the movie, Throw Momma From the Train, a fellow in Irwin's writing class writes a coffee table book called "One Hundred Women I'd Like to Pork". In honor of that, I have compiled my own list:

Robyne (old friend)
Marla Pennington (the mom on Small Wonder, 80's TV show)
Christa (L's friend)
Caroline (from workout)
Tracy (from workout)
Nicole Eggert (Baywatch)
Bryan (from workout)
Caryn Richman (The New Gidget, 80's TV show)
Janet (from workout)
Stephanie (smoothie girl/crying girl)
Vicki Lewis (Beth on News Radio)
Julia Louis Dreyfuss (Elaine on Seinfeld)
Triathlon woman (see previous entries)
Halle Berry
Brittany Spears
Jessica Simpson
Laura Bush (First Lady)
Nicole (L's friend)
Alyssa Milano (Who's the Boss)
Natalie Portman (Star Wars)
Jennifer Love Hewitt (The Tuxedo)
Courtney Thorne Smith (Ally McBeal)
Susan Sarandon (Bull Durham)
Nancy Grace (Commentator Larry King)
E.D. Hill (Bill Oreilly Commentator)
Vivian Leigh (Gone with the Wind)
Susan (Aunt)
Shelly Britton (old neighbor)
Gabrielle Carteris (90210)
Hannah Cutrona (Sister Kate, 80's TV show)
Lucy Deakins (The Boy Who Could Fly)
Erin Gray (Buck Rogers)
Jamie Lee Curtis (True Lies)
Mimi Rogers (Lost in Space)
Joan Severence (See No Evil, Hear No Evil)
Jan (old neighbor)
Sandahl Bergman (Conan the Barbarian)
Meg Ryan (French Kiss)
Cynthia (from workout)
Mary (old friend)
Shay Marks (Playboy Playmate)
Lynn Austen (Playboy Playmate)
India Allen (Playboy Playmate)
Meg (Cousin)
Angel Boris (Playboy Playmate)
Kiera Knightly (Bend it Like Beckham)
Lynda Carter (Wonder Woman)
Cory Everson (Fitness Model)
Raye Hollitt (Skin Deep)
Tracy (old neighbor)
Nina Hartley (Porn Star)
Beth (old neighbor)
Danny Ashe (Porn Star)
Venus (Amateur Porn and Fitness Model)
Amydell (Friend)
Tabatha Jordan (Amateur Porn Star)
Kathleen Quinlan (Apollo 13)
Liz Ferrel (School Friend)
Leah Fisher (School Friend)
Nicki Ittner (School Friend)
Christine Taylor (Dodgeball)
Reed (old neighbor)
Jean Smart (Frazier)
Delta Burke (Designing Women)
Girl with chubby legs (from gym)
Annie Potts (Designing Women)
Jan Hooks (Saturday Night Live)
Rosanna Arquette (Whole 9 Yards)
Brittany Daniel (Joe Dirt)
Jane Leeves (Frazier)
Ann (Jamie's Sister)
Peri Gilpin (Frazier)
Jennifer Anniston (Friends)
Courtney Cox (Friends)
Drew Barrymore (The Wedding Singer)
Kelly Preston (Space Camp)
Salma Hayek (From Dusk Till Dawn)
Kellie Martin (ER)
Elizabeth Hurley (Austin Powers)
Liz Taylor (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof)
Madonna (League of Their Own)
Sandra Bullock (Two Weeks Notice)
Lisa Foronda (Local Newscaster)
Claudia Calderon (old friend from Belgium)
Jessica Steen (Trial and Error)
Teri Hatcher (Lois and Clark)
Farrah Fawcett (Charlies Angels)
Heather Thomas (The Fall Guy)
Elizabeth Shue (Leaving Las Vegas)
Sally Field (Murphy's Romance)
Brittany Murphy (Just Married)
Lori Petty (Point Break)
Anne Ramsay (Mad About You)
Demi Moore (Striptease)
Cathy (from workout)
Suzi (from workout)
Linda Harrison (Planet of the Apes)
Kim Catrall (Sex In the City)
Janet Jones (Flamingo Kid)
Tanya Robers (Sheena)

Massage

2004-10-14T14:06:00.000-07:00

I wrote this entry last month, but since OD lost about a month or two of entries on me, and since I have been to Archive.org and typed in my diary's URL and nothing came back, I'm guessing the entry is now lost forever.

First some background. I like to get massages. I started getting them when I was in high school. I think I was a sophomore, reading the paper and saw an article about how massage schools charge significantly less than regular massage therapists. It must have been the very next day that I found the local massage school, just down the block from our house, made an appointment, walked there, signed up, and opened a door to a great relationship.

Since then that original massage school has gone out of business, sadly. I guess it isn't a very profitable enterprise. One of the last ones I had at that school was from a guy who was younger than I was, and very hesitant. He gave me a great massage, but I could tell he was uncomfortable. Up until that time I had generally not cared who gave me a massage. After that I decided that I would rather have a dame give me a massage. They might be uncomfortable, but their discomfort would probably not transfer to me the way the fellow's had.

So I had to find a new massage school last month. It's pretty much the same thing, same policies, same types of folks, just a different location. When I was doing the initial sign up and reading their forms I read, "All massages will be done wearing nothing less than underwear."

Great I thought. No need for nerves. I'm cool with that. I had one massage, my only real "professional" massage and the lady was huge, well over 300 pounds. Half way through the massage she got mad. "Nope, take off the underwear." She growled harshly. I did, and you know I was fine with that. I just didn't care for her tude altogether. Not to mention the fact that her house was foul and she smoked the whole time. Horrible experience overall.

Nevertheless, nude or not, I'm cool as long as it's professional. So the massage therapist at the new school, La-La, came and got me. She ushers me into the room and says, "Take off all of your clothes and then get under this." She handed me a towel.

"All of my clothes?" I asked realizing she was going outside of policy.

"Yep."

"Including my boxers?"

"Do you want your hamstrings and glutes massaged?" She asked.

"Yep." I said.

"Then take them off."

Fine by me, just trying to make things clear I thought. So I took em off and slipped under the sheet. She came in seconds later.

"Nope." She said. "I need you to lie on top of the sheets, with the towel on top."

"Oh okay." I said calmly. Inwardly my mind screamed out that the dimensions of the towel did not conform to the dimension of my (perhaps too expansive) ass. Nevertheless I did it and tried to stay calm.

It was a great massage too. She was probably one of the best masseuses I've ever had. But then, half way through working on my hamstrings, she took the towel, really it was a washcloth, folded it in half and put it on just one of my ass cheeks!

Seriously, if you are still reading this, stop, go get a washcloth and fold that sucker in half. That was what was covering me.

Despite the embarrassment I felt it was still a great massage. And when she massaged my ass (I guess you're thinking from this and previous entries I have an ass fetish, I do, but that's not the only one, I don’t discriminate based on body part) nevertheless the ass massage it was mind numbing. I made sure that at no time did she get too close to anything that would make me feel uncomfortable. I would have told her "That may be too personal." But she didn't so I kept my mouth closed.

Then she went to massage the other ass cheek. I smiled in anticipation. She took the washcloth from my left cheek and decided it was just too big and got rid of it.

Again my mind was screaming. What it was saying who knows. I was awash in contradicting stimuli. On one hand I was thoroughly embarrassed cause my white ass was sticking up it the air making me look like a demented, mongoloid, beached Moby Dick whale. On the other hand the massage was awesome and it was somewhat sensual. Sexual even since she had to be getting an eyeful of my winking brown eye as she massaged back and forth. I didn't know how to handle it, so I just enjoyed it.

At some point she held the towel up, perfunctorily I might add, in front of her face, and asked me to roll over. Usually the masseuse leaves the room, but I'm cool so I rolled over and probably gave her less than an eyeful than she had imagined.

The massage continued. That's when I started thinking of Phoebe from Friends". She had a massage client who she really liked. She loved his butt. She couldn't stand it after a while and bit his bum. I was thinking is this my Phoebe? Will I feel her mouth on me soon?

Sadly, no, I didn't. Too bad.

Great massage though. I called La-La about a month later for another massage. She had graduated and the receptionist didn't sound too willing to give out her number. Saddest day of my life. No more great massages.

GREAT ASS!

2004-10-14T09:09:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was picking up a pizza. As I waited a woman came in to pick up her own order. She was in her late thirties, had a young, blonde girl in tow, most likely a daughter. The woman had dirty blonde hair and was wearing sandals, blue jeans and a white shirt. Nothing at all to remark about. So why am I remarking about her? This woman had the most mesmerizing ass.
I don't know if it was the blue jeans or what, but this woman's ass was incredible. It was so large that when she walked it swayed up and down in a rythym that was more ponderous than her stride. It was as if it was a moving, breathing creature penned up within her jeans. It was so large and pert that the pockets of the blue jeans were riding higher than they would normally on a regular person. He ass was so outstanding that her jeans fit like none other. I stared at it for as long as I could. I even stayed outside in my car waiting for her to come out so I could watch her walk to her car. It was awesome. She walked right in front of me. I followed her the whole way. Her ass bumping jauntily up and down as she walked.
I'm sure that she saw me and wondered what in the hell I was doing sitting in my car. She was probably worried that I was some sort of weirdo scooping out and opportunity to kidnap her daughter. Not the case. I hardly noticed the daughter. The ass was far too spectacular. In fact I hardly noticed the woman. I think she had and average size bust, a decent although older looking face. It was that ass, and nothing but her butt that resonates in my mind.
Would this woman ever have the desire to do something with that ass with me. I've been fixating on it for days. I see her bent over on all fours in front of me. Her underwear stretched precariously across the ass, so much so that the silk is stretches taunt and is painted on her flesh. I imagine it so tight that I can almost see through the fabric, I can just about see the dark crack of her ass beneath the what I imagine flesh colored panties across her starkly white ass cheeks. I would love to rub my hands on that ass, massage it harshly and watch the fat beneath her skin fluctuate, undulate and bend distinctly beneath my fingers. I would want to knead her ass like dough until I found myself falling asleep.
Sometimes I imagine her naked except for a G-string dancing around playfully in my bedroom. How awesome would that be? I would love to see that ass, free of all fabric except for a singular piece of fabric down between the fleshy cheeks. Pulsing, bumping, bouncing, and spectacular. I'm licking my lips right now.
I had that chance once. The girl I named Sheena in the sexual history resume. She had a great ass. I fucked her doggie style all of the time just so I could rub my hands in her ass. I wish I still had the capability. I wish I had walked up to that pizza woman, told her to drop the kid off at home and we could go have a wild time together. How terrific!

2004-10-12T14:47:00.000-07:00

I have about ten minutes before I have to bolt, I guess there is really only one thing to talk about. My cousin. I say that there is only one thing to talk about because that is the only thing I've been thinking about later. Meg is hot. She may be my cousin, and it may be by blood, but she is still hot. I might have had a chance to score with her once (keep in mind, I know that I'm screwed up and that banging my cousin is wrong, but if you saw her you would understand), nevertheless, I was in the Army and visiting Reno to ski. She was there. We all went dancing, and we had way too much to drink. She started grinding on me. Yep, my cousin, so drunk that she was grinding my crotch with her ass. Great ass too.
I guess that the thing that started me thinking about her was a caller on a radio talk show who was talking about how he made out with his cousin once. The host was dumb-founded. He wanted to know how in the world this guy could actually admit that he made out with his cousin on national radio. Well, here I am admitting almost the same thing to the Blogger world.
Anyway, so she was grinding on me, and I was enjoying it. I bet at that point, a few more drinks, etc, etc, and we might have ended up at her place and I would have had more in common with the talk show radio fellow than I do now. But it didn't happen, and not for the reasons you think, we didn't wise up and realize that we were cousins, but because my other cousins were there and take us home, seperately. I doubt if they realized anything, but they might have.
So here is the question....if you're cousin was hot, and you had a chance to lay her,....condom or not? I say no. Despite the fact that there is that chance for a screwed up kid, which would be remote since she's on the pill, think about it; how often would you get the chance to screw your first cousin? Wouldn't you want to do it all the way? If you're going to be sick, be real sick. Go without the condom. Fuck her, let her give me a blow, tongue fuck her, heck shove a finger up the bung hole. Go whole hog I say.
But I didn't. I wanted to. Wouldn't now even though she is hotter now than then, but I think about it. I think about her large tits, and they are great. I think about her ass. It's nice, a little wide, but still great. I think about the whiteness of her ass all the time. I think about it slapping against my midsection as I rail her doggy style. How awesome would that be? Still and all, if we going to be disgusting and talk about fucking first cousins then lets be real disgusting and talk about it without a condom. Would that feel weird? If I had done it, how much would I regret it?
Keep in mind though...I may be a freak, and I may have lived this live (and outlived it) but you're still reading.

Obsessing again

2004-10-12T14:43:00.001-07:00

It was a good morning for me at workout. Guess who was there? Nope, not B, I looked for her, but nothing. Nope, I was doing some jumping jacks and happened to look over in C squad and there was K. I wasn’t sure if it was her at first, it was still too dark at 5:30, but after we ran over to the jogging loop I was able to see without a doubt it was her. I’d pretty much given up on her, and in fact seeing her silhouette in the dark I thought it was so much if only because over the past month I had imagined her looking different, but it was she.

She is without a doubt one of the best all around looking girls who workout with the insiders. Car is nice looking, but she can be a tad pudgy. S, great smile, but way too thick. B is nice, but K leaves them all in the dust.

She has the best smile, the best hair, a fabulous body, and a decent chest. What more is there. Sure, you could say, “What more is there? How about personality?” Well at 5 in the morning when the only interaction I get with the clients is short sarcastic quips and motivational yelling there is very little personality that I can pick up on. I only get to fall in love with the one dimensional aspects of these ladies.

Anyway, I thought I saw her this morning, decided that it wasn’t her since the silhouette looked too top heavy, if you know what I mean, then found myself overwhelmed with joy when under the street lights lining the jogging loop saw that it was she.

She is the type of girl who is good looking in every aspect both far and near. There are some girls who go out to workout who look great from far away, but the closer you get the more problems show up. It’s like Tina Fey. She looks great from a distance, but the closer the camera gets the more flaws seem to show up. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just the way life goes. Heck, from 300 meters I look like Brad Pitt, get up close to me and all of a sudden people start comparing me to Booger from Revenge of the Nerds. K looks enticing from afar and even better close up.

I thought that she had quit. I even asked L about pricing. According to Lthere is a fifty dollar discount if insiders sign up for 6 months. Most do this. I thought that maybe K had only signed up for one month and decided to forgoe the discount. That’s kinda the timeline she seemed to follow, bootcamp then one month of insiders. Not unheard of, but disappointing for me. That’s why I was so happy to see her this morning. Besides it makes more since. She looks like she really gives a damn about the workouts. She tries very hard. Whenever we run sprints man, she is giving 110%. That’s when I really love her. She screws up her mouth, grits her teeth, her legs bow out to give her an extra wide stance, her hair bounces, her shoulders and arms tense up, Beautiful. She’s almost worth all of the hassle I would have to suffer for going out with her.

She has a dude though. I’ve seen him. I wouldn’t want to break that up. Heck, most of the best looking girls at insiders are married or hooked up. It’s only natural. I feel like a patron at a museum. I can go, look, and admire, but no touching.

I always feel that it is like freeway love. There are times when I’m stuck in traffic on the freeway and I look over at the girl next to me. She’ll be sitting there happy and pleasant with the world, she’ll glance over and I’ll fall in love with her. Sometimes it happens on the highway when I’m driving sixty miles an hour. I don’t know a thing about her except through the bumper stickers she has and the type of car she drives, I don’t even know what she looks like from the waist down, but for those few minutes while we are within sight of one another I fall in love. It’s an extremely superfiscial but pleasing feeling. I fall in love on the average of once a day just on the commute home. Then they drive off and I’m left with nothing but a view of their liscense plate. But today I’m expecting great things. Not only did I get to see K today, but I’m driving the truck. Driving the truck means I sit up higher and can see down into the cars next to me. I get to see the way seatbelts accentuate cleavage. I love the seat belt laws.

At the Gym

2004-10-12T14:43:00.000-07:00

Well, this morning it was the tan girl. I didn't work this morning, so K may have been there, but I didn't get to see her. Hopefully next week they'll schedule me for more days. Nope, today, I went to the gym and the tan girl, wish I knew her name, was there. This is the one I wrote about a few days ago. The chunky girl whose legs I was really looking forward to seeing, and it was only after seeing her without her workout pants that I saw just how chunky she really is.
I do not dislike her chunkiness, in fact I am actually turned on by her chunkiness. It's nice and refreshing. It's not at all like K who is toned all around. This girl, although toned in many places, just has chunky legs. The back of her thighs have a light curtain of cottage cheese texture that make them enticing and hard to stop looking at.
It was a morning of chance encounters.
I was coming out of the men's locker room, about to head up the stairs. My head was down, my eyes on the ground when I saw a deeply tanned, muscular calf step into my view. I looked up and we saw one another. She was walking toward the women's locker room. I turned quickly ostensibly to walk up the stairs to the workout area, but secondarily to check out her ass as she bounced her way into the locker rooms.
I was working out on the stationary bicycle, watching the morning news when she walked up, again she smiled, and began working out using the elliptical trainer in front of me and a little off to my side. I had a hard time deciding whether it was more exciting to watch the highlights from the Lakers/Pistons game and the top ten highlights, or watch one of the top ten bodies in the gym gyrate in place only inches in front of me. Suffice it to say, at the moment I have no idea if the Pistons won or not.
While I was doing squats she was at the free weight area with her friend working on concentration curls. I don't know if I can describe this adequately, but there are few things I admire more than watching a young woman workout, seeing her muscles straining against her skin, watcher secondary muscles work in ways even the person who is using them doesn’t understand. It's the same mesmerizing sight that makes people stare at horses. They are bold and beautiful at the same time. Their skin tight and each movement a mystery of physical and spiritual nature. This is how her back struck me as she did curls. She was wearing black shorts and a white tank top so it was easy to see those muscles of her back. I was able to watch her traps and lats move fluidly as her arm moved up and down with each repetition. Simply stated, beautiful.
I went to swim after that, there was a good-looking blonde in the pool with me, but I hardly saw her I was still thinking so intently about the tan girl. I was in the sauna after my swim when the tan girl walked by the glass door of the sauna on her way to the steam room. She had taken off her shorts and was wearing some small, black under shorts. Not quite underwear, but not quite shorts, something right in between. Her chunky legs branched out of the shorts like stern, solid trunks. Her fabulously tanned, pudgy, butt was exposed just beneath the edge of her shorts. She tugged at the shorts and tried to pull them over her butt. It was nothing improper or lurid, in fact she was quite aware of her shorts and the whole affair had the look of a girl who is wearing shorts which for some reason don't fit as well at the gym as they did at the store. She was perfectly framed, like a work of art, for just a split second in the glass of the door I was in front of. Her hand under her shorts, tugging, the rim of her ass, just a centimeter or two, glancing out like an improper visitor, the back of her thighs, all of these things like a masterpiece of engineering in front of me, a show only I saw.
She came into the sauna with her friend a little later, still wearing those shorts, still trying to tug her shorts into the correct size. They sat on the benches across from me. They giggled and said something as I tried to nonchalantly pick up my magazine and read. I'm sorry to say that I looked like a boob I'm sure. They were giggling over the fact that the benches were too hot. The tan girl couldn't sit on the benches with her shorts being so short. I smiled at them. They giggled and said they couldn't stand it and quickly left. The tan girl smoothing her hand along her flank and backside, trying to pat the pain and heat in her ass away with her hand.
I don't think I could have had a more erotic morning.
The funny thing is, I didn't think about sex, instead I just thought about the beauty of her body. I'm in a rut right now. Every few weeks I get into a rut. A rut is an attitude, a state of mind that bucks, male deer, get into in the spring. The velvet is off of their antlers, all of the blood goes to there balls, they start wanting to screw, and will chase the doe just about anywhere. Large bucks that ordinarily would never cross danger areas like roads, fields, draws etc. will gladly lope into those areas during the rut. Well every few weeks I get into a rut. I think about nothing but sex. I want sex just about every day. If I don't get it from Lana then I manufacture a way to have that release. This is when my average shoots up. It's a pretty ordinary thing.
Well I hate to get more personal than I have to, but last night Lana and I got IT on. The night before that I found release through some pictures on the computer, the night before that Lana, the day before that, in the shower by myself, it's been a busy week. I think that’s why I didn't think about sex with the tan girl. I still am not thinking about sex with her, it's too prosaic, too plebian, too low class. When I think of the tan girl and the magnificent performance and sights I got to see this morning I think only about those things. I think about the beauty of the rim of her ass playing peek a boo from beneath her shorts, I think about the hypnotizing nature of the back of her thighs and how I find the chunky nature of her legs so natural, comforting, and erotic all at the same time. When I lived in Europe I traveled to Paris quite a lot. I loved the Muse d'Orsay far more than the Louvre. There was one picture, way in the back that I loved. It was a picture of a caravan. I don't know who painted it, and I don't know what it is called. It's a large painting, not abstract, oil on canvas, at least eight feet wide and the same high. In the center of the canvas is the nose of camel. It is the first camel in a long line of animals, men, and wagons all a part of a caravan through a large, stark, expanse of desert. I stared at the nose of that camel for hours I think. O had to drag me away. That's the way I see this tan girls body. It's not something to think about in crass sexual ways, but to admire.

Images

2004-10-12T14:41:00.000-07:00

I wish I had a camera with me every moment of every day of my life. I would be able to fill a bulletin board with the things I see throughout the day that I find sexy. Or I wish I could download my memory to a computer and select the different images I want to print. If I had the ability to display my favorite, or sexiet snapshot images from my mind they would be the following:
K's Forearm
Her veins bulging against an arm that looks too delicate and fragile to be performing the action. Her Ironman watch, large and ponderous looking against her skinny wrist. It reminds me of a colt, a young horse, as it stands on spindly legs.
Tan Girls Thigh
She is chunky and holds her chubbiness with grace and ease. She walks on her toes in a way that highlights her thighs. Her thighs have a soft curtain of pudginess to them, cottage cheese that is delicate and erotic.
J's Ass as she does Swimmers
J is well into her forties, but is in better shape than almost anyone else out there. She was doing swimmers and having to clench her buttocks to lift her legs off the ground. I never thought she was sexy until the day I saw her sharply defined butt, faded gracefully into the lines of her thigh as it slipped from beneath her running shorts. Heaven.
L's Eyes
When she is being playfully sarcastic Lana's eyes are so expressive. When she's happy and vibrant I melt.
Ch Cleavage
She was wearing a bikini last fourth of July. Unbelivable chest. Absolutely nothing else worth looking at, but the chest was phenomenal.
S's Ass
She was wearing a black bathing suit. I was young and follwing her up the stairs. Her rear was right in my face. She was older and not tanned, but the image of her bum as she walked up the stairs is burned, thankfully into my psyche.
Girl's Legs in the Texas Running Shorts-I ran behind her in a half marathon. She was petite with legs that were unforgettable. Watching the flag wave for 13 miles, admiring the slope of her inner thigh and the prominence of her calves was motivational.
T's Lace Brassier
She was helping me move an antique table. I was younger, teens, she was older, forties. When she lifted the table above her head her blouse opened and I saw the lace of her bra between her breasts, the tanned skin of her chest, and the freckles contrasted against the fabric.

K obsession again

2004-10-12T14:39:00.000-07:00

K was at workout again today. I guess I haven't seen her in so long since she doesn’t come on Tuesdays. She must not think she is a very good runner. I wish she would come on Tuesdays I love watching her run. She gets so tense in the shoulders, her small breasts tight against her body, her hair bouncing, her bowlegs churning. It's beautiful in it's own way.
We did a bunch of pushups, and it was so early that it was still dark. I didn't get to see her much. Plus "I" was there, back from Iraq. He was there for 6 months, 40 missions. Glad he wasn't too messed up. Nevertheless, he was there helping so I had to talk to him a lot, not much time to concentrate on checking out the good looking girls.
I broke the group into two groups at the top of the hour. I gave everyone a number. I noted that I gave K an even number. I made sure to send the evens with I to the picnic benches for stepups, I took the odds for a tricep workout. I did it that way so that when I got the evens, Ks group, it could be lighter outside and I could get a better look at her. I even drilled how I would be able to see her by looking at T to see if it was too noticeable that I was checking chicks out. T has great legs. That's it, nothing else, just great legs.
I was doing some more pushups with K's group. It was light enough to see well by that time. I was right across from her and I looked up to see her wrist and forearm. It was beautiful. She has very small forearms. Maybe I just think that since mine are big. Hers are small, like L's but they look strong, stable and muscular to a certain degree. I could see the veins bulging out along her forearms and thought that if I had the chance I would probably screw her.
We did flutter kick too. Can there be anything better than seeing a girl with a great body, who I already cherish and want to screw, on her back, legs in the air, tank top flat across her petite chest, running shorts riding up to her hips, quads straining against her skin making a nice definition across her flank, face pulled in pain from doing too many reps, struggling to keep her feet at 6 inches off the ground and failing, causing her to bring her knees up to her chest. Nothing better. I imagine I'll be doing a lot of flutter kicks this year.
Right now she is at the top of my list. I like lists. I'll think to myself quite often, at least daily, who I would most like to sleep with if I could sleep with anyone. K is at the top of that list right now. Whether the question "Who, of all the women I know, would I most want to sleep with right now?" and "Who, of all of the women in the world would I most want to sleep with right now?" the answer comes back with K. It's an infatuation and I know it will go away soon just like they all do, but it's nice to think about.
Right now I can't get the idea of anal sex with K out of my mind. I've never had anal sex and the truth is I would probably turn L down if she suggested it. But I do want to have anal sex with K. I want it mean and dirty sex. My fantasy right now is that she hangs around after workout to discuss something with me and we go off into the woods to have dirty, muddy, anal sex. I like the idea of the dark mud against her pale skin. I like the idea of me in her ass and her cringing in a mixture of pleasure and agony that I am providing. Is this a dominance issue or just a fetish for anal sex? I don't know. Don't really care. I just like to think about Kathy, white, naked, ass in the air, with me sliding in and out of her ass.
There is no way it would happen. Wait,….let me clarify that last statement. There is no way that this would happen to me. It did happen to D. He was an instructor last year. He got one woman, a client, back to the football field one morning after workout for a blow. I heard about this way after. It was right after the Christmas party which I am sorry I missed.
Apparently D was there with someone, his roommate/girlfriend. One of the girls, the one who had given him head, N I think, saw him and casually mentioned to the other girls she was with, "Whose that with D, his roommate?"
One of the other girls in the group said, "Yeah, I think so."
That's when T said, "No, that's his girlfriend."
"He has a girlfriend?" Nicole said.
"Yeah, she lives with him." T continued.
"He never told me he had a girlfriend." N said.
"He never told me that either." The other girl in the group said.
"Instructor D has a girlfriend?" A girl walking by said.
You can guess what happened. N ran out from the party crying. D was asked to leave. J fired him after finding out about it. Then it got out that not only was D getting blows from N, he was screwing three other clients as well. All that plus his roommate/girlfriend.
N doesn't come out anymore.
But neverthesless, back to K, she has a dude and I have L. There is less than no chance that anything will go on between us. I wouldn't have it though. But it is nice to think about screwing her.
I know that she is in her thirties. We lined up by age group once. She was in the thirty group. She is very petite, like I said she has small forearms. Her face has lines in it. I hesitate to say wrinkles. They wouldn't be classified as that. She's thrity so her face just looks a bit more mature than L's, the face I'm used to seeing. I like that. I like the lines in her face. They give her greater weight and prominence. I like the way she pulls her hair out of her face. Of course she has too since it's a workout and it's so hot out, but still I find it beautiful.
Well, now I know what I'll be thinking about for the rest of the day. K, naked, in the woods in the park, ass in the air. Not a bad day dream.
The worst part is that I'm starting the offshoot program out in the burbs next month. That sucks. That means I'll be spending less and less time with the clients in the park. That means less admiration time for K. Can you think of anything worse? I can't. I can only hope that another girl, equally good looking is out at the burb class. Either that or that K is a burb girl too.

Last Bootcamp

2004-10-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

There was this girl in the last boot camp who had a terrific ass. Fun to look at. She was a fantastic runner. She wore running pants the first week. The girls in boot camp like to do that. I don't blame them. If I had to roll around, crawl, and do as much on my joints as they do I'd probably wear pants too, but I told them on Friday that they might want to cut it out. It is getting so hot that I was worried they might pass out or something from heat exhaustion. That almost happened to Roe in the Army. I hated when people wore more sniffle gear than they had to. So I told the folks to be careful about that. Now the question is, did I say that cause I meant it, or did I say it just cause I wanted to see this gals legs. Well, her legs aren't that great. They look better in the pants. I guess they added some firmness to the package. She doesn't have bad legs, but they just looked better in the pants. I had them doing Chase the Rabbits that Friday and her ass was bouncing around like an over-ripe peach on bouncing in the breeze on a branch. I started getting a little too excited. I had to make them stop. Her last name is B. Her knees look painful. They look too big and harsh. They don't provide enough definition between her calves and her thighs. They create too great a transition. Sort of like a beach that stretches too far before hitting the ocean. It would be nice if the beach wasn't quite so long. Her thighs are fabulous. Her skin is starkly pale and she had to do something the other day, I guess it was pull ups. The girl she was spotting must have had muddy shoes. I don't know what it was, but seeing her extremely pale thighs with mud on them was incredibly sexy. I know that I am making a big deal about her skin tone, but that's only because most of the girls I infatuate about have much deeper skin tone. This girl has a whiteness in her legs that is somewhat intense. It's not the type of skin that is see through. Some people have skin that is so pale it's see through. Like my feet. Given a few years I bet I'll be able to see all the way through my feet. This girl is just white. I've been infatuating about her quite a bit lately. Right now I think about her on a boat, sailing with me, wearing a string bikini. I've never really seen her ass, but I've imagined it in that bikini quite a bit lately. I imagine her lying down with her string bikini ass in the air. How awesome would that be? S is on that boat. She's wearing a bathing suit too. I doubt if she would look quite as good as other would. She's a bit too thick. I think that she is probably one of the cutest girls out there in the mornings though and her smile alone gets her on my pleasure cruise. What's her name, the girl N liked so much, the one that only comes in the afternoons, she's on the boat. She's the exact opposite. She's almost too skinny and bony for the cruise. She's really only on their for variety. S is almost the girl I would want if I had a hankering for a fat girl. S isn't fat, but she's as close as I'm going to get with the insiders. This girl, damned what's her name, she's only there in case I want to imagine sex with a cricket. Too skinny and bony. It's almost a fetish thing I guess. C is on there too. She hasn't been out in a real long time but despite that she is probably the best looking lifer. I think about her constantly. She isn't all that great, but as an entire package she's pretty good. Her breasts are too big, but also not too small. Her legs aren't the most shapely, but they do have shape. Her ass isn't perfect, but it's not bad. Her face is cute, but not the cutest. But she's on the sail boat since she's been in so many other fantasies. She's been grandfathered into my dreams so to speak. That's were I kinda hit a hurdle. I needed more, but there aren't that many out there right now that would look good in an imaginary bikini. T, she would look good on all fours with her ass facing me, but not sunning herself on a sailboat. C2 looks great in tights too, but really she doesn't have that great a figure. I've decided to add K. She hasn't been out at all lately. I think she only signed up for a month. I only got to see her a few times, but let me tell you, she was the most attractive girl I've ever seen out there. Let's see, no chest, awesome legs, nice ass, cute, determined face, I've never been in love with someone just because of the way that they sprinted until her. So we have K, B, C, S, and what's her name. That's five. I think I'll add C2 just to tie it up nicely. She's older, and kinda weird, but she has a terrific chest. If there is anything the first five don't have it's a nice chest. K is flat, B is not flat, but not big either, C is average, but nothing special, and S too is nothing special. What's her name has a nice chest, but like I said, too skinny to have fun with. C2 will be there if only to give me some breasts to imagine. Someone to fill out the top half of the bikini. What sucks is that I've just now gotten my party started and it's fading as we speak. I've been thinking about it for almost a full week now, and that's about the duration of most of my infatuations, barring one or two life time ones. The good news is that B, of the stark white thighs, has inspired a story. A sci-fi story about a fellow whose memory is erased. I think I'm going to make it so that he was hooked up to a computer for an online VR experience and the system crashed. All that he has is the ghost image of himself on the desktop and the techs are trying to re-open that ghost image but can't. I think eventually they'll just have to give up on it and put his memory in the Recycle Can. Something like that.

TMI?

2004-10-12T14:33:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me what the strangest thing I ever did was?

Easy, my folder.

I had a folder, just a plain yellow manilla folder, that I kept pictures in. It had all sorts of pictures in it. I think it started cause of my uncle's Playboy collection. I always liked going over to babysit for Uncle L and Aunt S. He had the biggest Playboy collection. Each time I went it got a little bigger. I remember that I would babysit for them before and didn't know that it was there, then I think my brother mentioned how much he enjoyed babysitting for them because of Uncle L's playboys. I begged him and pleaded with him to tell me where it was. He did, and then I started liking to babysit there as well.

I remember that I started borrowing some of the pictures from his magazines. Actually after awhile I started borrowing whole magazines, and now, as a collector or things myself I realize how many liberities I was taking. He certainly must have known I was stealing his magazines. Nevertheless, there were always one or two pictures in each magazine that particularly struck my fancy. I remember one in particular. It was a picture of this woman with blonde, blonde hair, tow headed almost except she wasn’t a child so the description isn't quite fitting. Peroxide blonde would probably be better. She was standing in a breeze way, outside a tropical style home. She was wearing a man's oxford shirt. It was white. The wall behind her was red. The shirt was open, unbuttoned completely. She was just standing there, hips cocked, hands on her waist, exposed. Her breasts were magnificent, unworldly. They were heavy but not overwhelming. She was tanned all over. Her vagina was exposed, but I don't think I was drawn to that as much as I was her breasts. It was the eighties, I remember how hairy she was there. She was pretty hairy on top too. Big hair, eighties right? This woman, who was not named in the caption may have been the inspiration for the folder.

I remember I tore that page out of the magazine, probably inserted it into a schoolbook, transferred it home, cut it out, and put it into my folder.

The folder grew over time. There were pictures of Lynn Austen, India Allen, and tons of other women whose names I can't remember. All pretty prosaic stuff really. Then I remember I started fantasizing more and more about sex. I was in high school I think. I had some pretty rudimentary ideas about sex at that time. I had never masturbated or even had a wet dream. I didn't even know what the climax of sex was. I think I may have experimented with a condom, but I thought I was just supposed to piss in it. I was pretty naïve. Anyway, I would sit through English class and do nothing but think of women and how to have sex with them. Usually I thought of women who were friends of my mom. They found there way to my folder as well. I found pictures of these women in social directories, newspapers, whatever, cut them out and put them in the folder.

Most of these were just neighborhood ladies. Mrs. C was very pretty. Petite and pretty. She lived across the street. I played with her son and daughter. I always thought of her in a white bed with white sheets. Mrs. R looked great wearing a pink bathing suit by her pool. I babysat her kids. Mrs. S, also petitie, friend of Mrs. C's. There was a threesome in my mind with them. Heck not just with them. Mrs. H, very fat, good friend of my mom's. I covered her big fat boobs with chocolate sauce in my mind and licked it off a thousand times. Mrs. Britton, big breasts, my brother's and I used to swim in her pool. In my fantasy she swam in the pool with me naked.

I remember I would assign different number to different sexual positions. 1 was for just regular missionary style intercourse. 2 was for doggie style. 3 was for sitting down facing each other. 4 was anal sex. 5 was oral sex. And so on and on. I think I had about ten or eleven different numbers. Most of them had come from the Anatomy of Sex book which was in our library. It had drawings of these different sexual positions. I suppose if I had actually read it instead of only looking at the pictures, I probably would have found out more about sex than the positions. I had extensive lists made up that looked like: Mrs. C: 1,3,4,2,5,5,5,6,2,1. Mrs. B: 5,4,4,4,4,4,3,6,3 and so on. I had no idea how it would all culminate, but I would make the lists and daydream through English. I had the list in my folder too.

I also thought about my aunts. There were pictures of them in that folder too. I''m not talking about aunt's in law, I mean blood relatives. Hey, don't judge until you've lived my life, they're great looking women. It's just too bad I'm related to them. I've probably thought more fantasies about them then anyone else. My Aunt M has huge tits and a pretty decent body. Not a great body but decent. I always thought about her breast bouncing around as I fucked her in my fantasies. I always tried to think up ways to actually see her breasts. I remember trying to think up ways to slip her a Micky when we were all staying at my grandfather's so that I could sneak in and silently touch, feel, probe and examine her body. That was one of my favorite daydreams, my unconscious, drugged up aunt, naked and spread eagle on her bed as I checked her out. And you have to know I thought about screwing her like that. I know, I know, weird, but it's a diary, I can talk about how weird I was without fear of reprisal right?

Aunt S is even sexier. I still think about fucking her. She's like 55 now and is still hot. Aunt M not so much, but Aunt S is still awesome. She tans so she has a great skin tone, amazing ass, and tits as good as if not better than Aunt Megs. Her legs are he show pieces and she shows them off a lot. I thought about screwing her a lot. We used to play tennis, not in my fantasies but in real life. I swear she flirted with me by bending over to get the tennis balls so that I could see her ass in that short tennis skirt. It's hard to play tennis with a bone. She drinks a lot, I mean way too much. I've thought about how I could get her drunk enough to lower inhibitions. Well maybe not thought about it, but definitely fantasized.

I kept the folder hidden in my room. I had a clay bust of an old guy that I made in art class too. The head was hollow and in the hollowed out area was some underwear, panties from some of these women. You have to know that I checked out the underwear drawers of these ladies, and if you know that I stole the magazines from Uncle L you have to know that I pinched some panties. I had a pair from Mrs. Ross that were silky sheer with a pin striping pattern in them. I stole a pair of Aunt Meg's. They were pink. Bigger than I thought they needed to be. I stole a nude colored pair from Aunt Susan. I always thought about how those panties would look wrapped around her ass, conforming to her twat, and holding her skin in tight.

Hey, I know this is weird, but you're reading it, I just lived it and thankfully outlived it. It's not easy being a guy with raging hormones who has aunts who are hotties.

My brother found my folder one day. I don't know how, or for how long he knew it was there, but I caught him in my room and he as he slinked away he said "Oh, and I saw your folder and I think it's disgusting."

That was it for the old folder. I threw it away pretty damn quick. Felt pretty bad about it for a while too. Now, I realize that everyone is demented in their own way. I just happened to have liked my mom's friends and sisters when I was growing up (with the possible exception of every now and then at present). I got rid of the panties too. I didn't want him to have that over me as well. He never mentioned it again. I wonder why not. Probably worried that anyone that sick might be sick enough to hurt him. Or, and this is what I think, he had the same thoughts and maybe his own folder somewhere in his room.