The Isle of Lesbos

January 30, 2010 at 2:14 pm (Clairissa, Sweet sticky things)

Before leaving for Clairissa’s, I had some prep to do. She’s been cutting hair on the fly for the last year or so, and now has a spot where she can set up her equipment, sort of a bootleg salon. After Hot Box closed down, I held onto a few mementos. It was time for some of those mementos to come home.

I loaded up a porno bag with all the old issues of Rolling Stone I’d been saving. I slipped in several copies of blogposts featuring Clairissa. (She collects hard-copies of our adventures, which she totes around in a waterproof storage tub. Dr T has been assisting me in keeping her up to date.) I had one more special surprise, which I slipped inside my Navy watchman’s cap to keep it from getting broken. I dug out a bottle of vodka hidden under my desk. It was half-full. Yup, that oughta kill some brain cells. I had to remove books and magazines to fit everything in.

And now that her wackness was ready to roll? My turn for a little fun. I dug out the tiny baggie Dr T gifted me a week or so ago. It was a rare moment when there were no kids or adults home. I had the freaking house to myself! I pulled out my brass pipe, turned up my “It’s 4:20 Somewhere” CD mix and jammed to Parliament/Funkadelic, Radiohead and Sublime while watching myself smoke in the mirror. I finished off the bowl and the music listening to Herman Brood and His Wild Romance sing about Saturday Night. I stuffed the baggie into a film canister and hid it in a zippered pocket.

Let’s blow this joint…

Clairissa’s new place is called The Island, although technically it’s more of an asphalt-and-concrete jetty or peninsula. The front yard tapers down to a Y, a running joke in the lesbian household. As I approached the intersection, she opened the front door and met me in the middle of the street. After a welcoming hug and kiss, we went inside.

I pulled out the bottle of vodka and handed it to her. “Ooh, the good stuff! Where’s the rest of it?” She eyed me suspiciously.

“It was in that bottle of Sprite I left at Motel 666 the last time I brought you booze,” I said.

“Still sober then?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Good boy.” She poured an inch of vodka into a Dixie cup and topped it with Sparks. Zoom zoom zoom!

We left the girls and the dogs upstairs and went into the back yard. Down the steps and into the basement we go…

I was in love with the place already. From outside it looked like the basement in horror films you best not go into. She pushed the creaky door, and we went inside.


Clever placement of animal prints and mirrors made the basement look spacious. A love seat in the corner and a couple folding chairs provided furniture. Off to the left was her work space. A floor-to-ceiling mirror sat in front of her reclining shampoo chair, which doubled as her barber chair. She’s been having trouble reclaiming some of her more valuable barbering equipment. Like a chair.

We cozied up on the love seat, and I pulled out my bag of tricks. First the Rolling Stones. “Yay! I will be using these to mural some of the rough spots.” She set them aside and lit a cigarette.

“I don’t even smoke, but it’s nice to see someone smoke indoors.” I must be in love. Cigarette smoke smells good on her. “More Dingleberries for you.” I handed her a stack of photocopied stories.

“Ooh! A bunch of them. You’ve been busy.”

“They’re not all about you. Dr T wasn’t sure which stories I wanted, so he printed all the recent ones.”

“What’s this one?” she asked.

“That’s where you show me your ‘heart’.” I probably blushed.

“Leave that one on top. Your naughty ones are the best. I’ll read it later, after I’ve had a few more drinks.”

I pulled out the film container and loaded a bowl into my smokeless traveling companion. I took a few puffs. Clairissa, who only smokes tobacco, watched as I did my rituals. She looked at the bud, admiring its tight green-and-purplish beauty. I pulled out a copy of Busted! magazine and told her stories of mug shots I recognized. An hour passed, and she said, “We should get busy. I still want to play with your hair…”

“I don’t want my hair cut off. Maybe a neck trim?”

“Oh, I’ll leave it long. I just wanna remove some of the bush up there. When I saw you coming up the street, you hadn’t seen me yet, but your hair was jumping all over the place, yelling ‘Hey Clairissa, I’m so excited to see you!’ It has a life of its own. You’ve got the most excellent clown-hair going on right now…”

I looked in the mirror. She was right. My wings had upcurled, and I looked like a bald-faced Bozo.

Prescott Wellington IV

“Before we start, I have one more surprise for you.” I pulled out the Navy watchman’s cap. Inside was a half-pint jalapeno jar with one of our pet projects: A tennis ball-sized sphere of neck hair we’d been building on since 2004.

“It’s Prescott Wellington the Fourth!” She squealed with excitement, and gave me the biggest kiss. “I love you…”

She looked around the shop. “Where can I put it? I know.” She fetched a hammer and nail. “I’m going to hang it from the ceiling.”

I spotted while she did the handyman thing. (I’ll take any excuse to grab her by the hips and hold on while she wiggles her butt in my face…) She nailed the metal lid to a 2X6, then we screwed the jar back on. It looked like a poor man’s security cam protector, with a tiny furball keeping watch.

She pulled out her straight razor. “We should feed Prescott.” (Critter was too generic a nickname, so after much discussion we named the furball formally.) She lifted my mop of hair and began trimming. “It’s like that ring of dirt around the bathtub after you drain it back here…”

“What?” I asked, mortified. “I just showered!”

“No no no, hon,” she laughed. “Hair. Hair. Your neck hair is thin, and the way I’m shaving it makes it look like a high-water mark. You are squeaky clean, love.” She chewed on the back of my freshly-hairless neck to make her point. I shivered. She balled up the sizable wad of neck hair and added it to the outside of Prescott. “Feel the density of that sucker,” she said. “That’s a lot of fuckin’ neck hair.”

She reattached the jar to the lid. “Let’s thin some of that mop.”

Using thinning shears, she started chopping at the bulk of my hair. Seeing the shock on my face, she said, “Relax. It’ll look just as long.” After she finished, she grabbed a fistful of hair from the back of my head and pulled it like she meant it. I let out an involuntary moan.

“You like that?” she asked. “Naughty boy…” She ran her hand down my chest. “Where’s that nipple?…” She grabbed ahold and gave the right one a savage titty-twister. She didn’t let go until I yelped a little. That got the motor running.

I looked at the pile of red hair on the floor. “Christ, it looks like a cat got hit by a lawn mower.” I examined the results. I slipped into my best gay butler voice and said, “WAAH! WAAH! I can no longer impersonate Stewie Griffin! WAAH! WAAH!” My football-shaped head was back to normal.

“Now Stewie,” Clairissa said, impersonating Lois.

“I actually scared myself the other day. I was running for a bus, had smoked a little- okay a lot, and as I was hurrying for the bus I looked over and saw Darth Vader swooping down on me! I flinched, then realized I was seeing my shadow. My haircut, at the right angle, looked just like Darth Vader’s helmet.”

“You afraid of your own shadow? You *must* be smoking some good stuff…”

“After I shower in the morning, while the hair is still wet? I look like Javier Bardem in No Country For Old Men. I call myself Friendo while I’m combing my hair…”

The shop cat, a giant furry stray from the neighborhood, came in through the crawlspace. Clairissa picked it up, petted it and offered it to me. I recoiled. “Although it’s totally against my nature, I must decline to touch your pussy, my dear. I can be around cats, but am deathly allergic to scratches and fur. I should keep my distance.”

“I’m allergic too. I’ll be a snotty mess in a few minutes, but I want to give her some love.” She snuggled the cat.

“Speaking of touching pussies, I thought for a minute I’d met a hooker at the bus stop. She was really cute. I was trying to think of a delicate way to text you, but it semed in bad form to ask if I could boink a hooker in your bathroom…”

“Hey, no biggie! I’m not above helping a buddy get laid.” She teased the cat with her sleeve, bringing out its mousing tendencies.

“Alas, she was just being friendly, and I’d have felt weird asking you. It was fun to think about, though.”

“Next time do it. Break in the shop for real!”

I like the way she thinks.

Time had slipped away; it was almost 7PM. I had duties to conquer, and Clairissa had one more appointment. She walked me upstairs, and out the front. We stood at the tip of the yard. “Thanks for coming by,” she said. “It’s clients like you that keep me from getting discouraged.”

“You couldn’t have kept me away,” I told her. “I love the new funky digs. It’s underground, in more ways than one. It’s like you have to be a member of the club.”

“Yes, and that’s the way I want to keep it, for a while anyway.” We said our goodbyes, and I wandered off into the night.

A few blocks from serenity and I was back in the big city. The MAX stop was full of people “waiting for the train” in hoodies and droopy drawers. After three passes they determined I had no interest in buying weed or anything else illicit. I boarded the train and headed home.


It was like I’d gone home twice already that day.

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