Save the Big Pieces

February 11, 2009 at 1:50 pm (Sweet sticky things)

Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!

It’s a glorious Wednesday, the sun is out, and I have the day off. I should be out chasing girls!

Actually… not. I should be sitting here appreciative of the ones already in my life.

While ‘time with the boys’ is important, I spend most of my social time with the fairer sex. I tend to cultivate friendships with women over men. Sleepovers are more appealing. (Too drunk? Sorry dude, you’re on the floor.) I can’t ever seem to get the all-in-one package, so I piece-meal my love life together.

I have a romantic, non-sexual relationship with my lesbian barber. We share our deepest secrets, hug a lot, tease each other in NSFW ways. She’s the girl I say “I love you” to these days. She’s going away soon, and it’s going to leave a hole in my life.

I have a good rapport with my ex-wife. We haven’t been a couple since 1990, or married since 1981. We had a stormy relationship. (Alcohol was involved.) We fought as much as we loved; love won out mostly. The last time I went to visit her, I took a Peter Gabriel video as a gift. I’d remembered she liked it, and when Sledgehammer came on I remembered why. She gave me ‘the look.’ Other than just the right amount of whiskey, that song was the equivalent of saying “Get your pants off.” I don’t know what came over me, but I made up an excuse and got out of there. Why?

I’d just began seeing another girl, and it felt right. I could have quality over quantity. I wanted to jinx nothing. There was I time I’d have boinked the ex, then went to the new GF to prove to myself I could do it. If things had been a little different, if the new girl hadn’t struck me as special, I might have. I’ve learned to trust my gut when it comes to sex; the gut said take the new path. It worked well for me.

After that relationship ran its course, I moped around for a bit. I’ve been technically single for a while now. Lately I’ve been spending time with a new girl. We get along great, she likes me as I am, yada yada, but she doesn’t want to do the BF/GF thing. I’m not sure I want to either. I’m getting back to even ground, and while I think she’s a sweet girl, I’m not sure I’m ready to do the whole love-and-devotion thing again.

That doesn’t mean my eyes don’t wander below the beltway, or that I’m against getting down and dirty. I’m up front about it, and the girls are just as up front. Raven, for example.

She’s a hottie, a little down on her luck, and she told me from conversation-one that she’s not looking for a boyfriend, a relationship, a stalker, or any other ‘arrangement’ more advanced than buddies. I was okay with that, and still am. That doesn’t stop me from flirting with her, but I don’t press my luck.

She lives a block or so from my work, so I’ll stop by to decompress after shift. I rarely have much time; the buses stop running too soon. It’s fun to watch the look on the faces of her neighbors when they see ‘the grocery boy’ coming from her room after midnight. The gossip mill is a churnin’!

Lest I get too big for my britches, she has ways of keeping me in line. Last night? I came in, noticing she’d scavenged a new chair from one of the other hotel rooms. As she sprayed Pine-Sol on the seat, under the cushion she found a copy of Exotic Magazine. “I knew it! Fucking perverts!”

She handed me the magazine. I set it next to her microwave. “Eww! Now I’m going to have to sterilize my kitchen counter!”

Since she was creeped out anyway, I said, “Look how stiff the pages are. It’s like it got wet or something…”

“Let me see that!” She took the magazine, not the reaction I’d expected.

“Want some latex gloves?”

She ignored me, flipping through the pages. “This isn’t too bad… lotta ads though.”

I explained that Exotic Magazine is a freebie put out by the local strip clubs and features actual dancers. I told her the story of one dancer I’d known, and how I’d met one of the writers through my work. (Hawt little thang, and she can write!) I’m not a regular reader, but I’ll snag one if I find it at a bus stop. “Hey! I know her!”

This particular edition had an article written by Jim Goad. It was about (gulp) castration. I had to take a peek, and soon we were sharing. I spent the better part of half an hour squirming and cringing. Everyone knows the Bobbitt story. (Cue the Stone Temple Pilots: “I’m half the man I used to be…”) We mused over the aptly named Po Dong, who lost his, first to the wife, then the dog. Tales of slicing and dicing. “What THE FUCK is it with women from Thailand and castration?” she wondered. “And the dicing?”

“Maybe they are being humanitarian? Every guy wishes he had another inch or two; maybe they were handing them out on street corners, like Jesus pamphlets.”

“Doggie treats?”

“Nah, just make a wallet out of foreskins. When you rub it, it becomes a suitcase…”

“EWW!!”

And so on.

I couldn’t help feeling a bit excited by the conversation. Risk is thrilling, but her fascination with the article sent a message:

Nothing says keep it in your pants like a hot young girl reading aloud tales of castration.

And thoroughly enjoying it.

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1 Comment

  1. SCREAMIN' BILLY MAYS!!!!!! said,

    Fap’ulous!!! =D

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