Babylon Sisters

May 30, 2008 at 11:55 pm (Sweet sticky things)

I want to simultaneously THANK and apologize to Walter Becker and Donald Fagen. Yer fault, guys. I’m borrowing/quoting from your catalog, unmercilessly. Yeah, thanks to you, I know what a dangling participle is. The name Rikki swings both ways.

I’ve just had the best birthday ever. This is gonna be a long, bounce-around story, but it’s all mine.

Drive west on Sunset to the sea
Turn that jungle music down, just until we’re out of town
This is no one night stand, it’s a real occasion
Close your eyes and you’ll be there
It’s everything they say, the end of a perfect day
Distant lights from across the bay

Babylon sisters shake it
Babylon sisters shake it
So fine so young (Tell me I’m the only one)

Here come those Santa Ana winds again

We’ll jog with show folk on the sand
Drink kirschwasser from a shell, San Francisco show and tell
Well, I should know by now that it’s just a spasm
Like a Sunday in T.J.
That it’s cheap but it’s not free
That I’m not what I used to be
And that love’s not a game for three

Babylon sisters shake it
Babylon sisters shake it
So fine so young (Tell me I’m the only one)

Here come those Santa Ana winds again

My friends say no, don’t go for that cotton candy
Son, you’re playing with fire, the kid will live and learn
As he watches his bridges burn from the point of no return

Babylon sisters shake it
Babylon sisters shake it
So fine so young (Tell me I’m the only one)

You’ve got to shake it, baby
You’ve got to shake it, baby
You’ve got to shake it

I have a history of pursuing girls who like girls. (Ya’ think?) I am also a seventh-grade dropout who almost pissed myself when Casey Kasem had trouble figuring out Pretzel Logic. I didn’t like pot until I smoked some Panama red and spent about forty-five minutes trying not to spin off the face of the universe. ( Aja. “Up on the hill…”)

Whenever I fall off the wagon, I threaten to bust out the Motorhead.. Couldn’t find that, but I found the box set of Steely Dan. Stiff upper lip, bro. Ain’t working.

Back when I was underage, like the objects of my affections, I tended to hang with the girls who wore tank tops and 501s. They had nice back pockets, but usually there was a bullfrog in one back pocket and a switchblade in the other. The diff between them and my bros? The girls would use the switchblade to carve up a tomato to feed the frog in their back pocket. The guys would have, eh, nevermind. My tomboy homegirls always had to get back to hang with Cindy or Sue.

The woman I married was a confirmed dyke, except for the baby in her belly. Still figuring it out, I guess. Is there something wrong with me? Maybe not. When I square-eyed her and promised my love forever, she bought it.

With proper respect to my ex, after ten years or so we went our ways. MYOB.

* * *

Got around, got over the ex. Got to the point where I’d rather fuck my brain than someone who wasn’t into me. I denounced women in general, sorta. I quit worshipping.

Then she showed up. Hair redder than mine, unshaved pits, willing to take me to the strip clubs as long as I didn’t try to fuck her or her friends. She was 23, I was 36. I was a dirty old man in everyone’s eyes. Our first date was to the beach. I drank on the sly, until she told me it was okay. I had the biggest crush on her in the world. One day she told me about how she hooked up with a guy and he rocked her world.

And just what the fuck is wrong with me?

After five years, her husband ran into me and told me they were divorcing. I watched him anguish in the car, but then he came back and gave me her phone number. “She always liked you a lot, and you always did her right. We’re cool.”

My head swam at the thought. I was Mister Right There-Rght Now. I tried for years. Her excuse? “When I look at you, I see my dad. When you talk, I hear my Grandma.”

It’s pretty hard to fuck with that kind of logic.

* * *

* * *


Couldn’t give up on the idea, and decided to make my move. It was Valentine’s Day. I went to a local infamous chain barbershop that passed out free beer. I sat in the window and glugged gin until my turn came.

This crazy bitch with a blue mohawk walked over and sat on my lap. “So, can I make you pretty?”

Are you with me?

We shared swigs of my thousand-dollar water bottle while I told her of how much I loved this woman of my dreams. She gently talked me down, explaining that it wasn’t me, it was her. Next time I needed clipping, I went back and waited. About three hours. She’s been my regular barber for a while, and you may have heard of her.

I’ve been with one quote/unquote normal, straight girl. The first time we had sex, she was wearing a Steely Dan tee-shirt.

I’ve since gotten persnickety about how short and pretty my hair needs to be. Grow, motherfucker, grow.

Tonight we had our first date. After beverages and a dogwalk, she cut my hair. Her GF bought me two beers. When it all came down, instead of going out for dinner I gave her a killer neck massage and she gave me a giant hickey.



She hickeys me up so I look better to the competition. Plus the wet dream she inspires later… I’ve been promising a cannibal story, and have a good one. Or two.) I got to eat the tattoo dots between her navel and my dream home. Her sweaty boobs made my hetero bone go north. I grabbed one arm, stuck my nose into her armpit. I lip-locked it and started sucking.

“Shit, dude.” She pulled back in a ‘shouldn’t a gone there, but that was cool’ kinda way. “I haven’t showered in three days.”

My stupid dreamy ass could only say, “Yeaah, you smell delicious. Kinda like me.”

Fucking rules. Babydyke armpit smell and being able to reach into a girl’s pants to harvest a rogue pube? I live a charmed life. Having a girl who will hickey the living hell out of your neck so we can always be friends and not be a statistic? An adorable woman who will hover over you and bite the fucking hairs out of your nose?

Why didn’t I get two hickeys? (‘Twas the plan.) Because her tongue-stud started bleeding. It seemed like a natural segue. I asked, “Hmm…. I’ve never kissed a girl with a tongue-stud. I ain’t scared. Can I lick the-”

She stuck her bleeding tongue out. “Sorry babe. If you and I touch tongues there’ll be no going back.”

Heard of fag hags? Seems there’s no equivalent for girls. Freewheelin’s wife accuses me of trying to save the world from lesbians, one girl at a time. After seeking sage advice from sources in the know. I have my own moniker-

I am Lesbro, hear me roar.

Down at the Lido they welcome you
With sausage and beer,
Klaus and the Rooster have been there too,
But lately he spends his time here.

Hanging with the mayor and all his friends
And nobody cares,
Where the sailor shuts out the sunrise
Blacked out on the stairs

Knock twice, rap with your cane
Feels nice, you’re out of the rain
We got your skinny girl
Here at the Western World

Ruthie will give you the silver key
To open the red door:
Lay down your Jackson and you will see
The sweetness you’ve been crying for

In the night you hide from the madman
You’re longing to be
But it all comes out on the inside

Knock twice, rap with your cane
Feels nice, you’re out of the rain
We got your skinny girl
Here at the Western World.

“When all my dinin’ and dancin is through,, I run to you.”

Happy face!

1 Comment

  1. Jeff said,

    Damm,I I wish my barber chick would give me a lap dance, so what if I’m 56 and she is only 21……………..Did you think you were the ONLY “dirty old man” on the beat?
    As always you offer a very entertaining read!. I make it a point to check the Dingleberry several times a day.
    Happy Birthday to you, mine was May 27

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