Thank You For Your Support

November 7, 2013 at 11:11 am (Clairissa, Sweet sticky things)

Clairissa's Flying PigI took the train downtown to the Psycho Safeway. I’d asked Clairissa if she wanted a beer? “Nah, bring me a candy bar. You choose.” I found a Cadbury Milk Chocolate bar, stashing it in a black plastic beer bag. I waited for the Union Avenue bus, listening to Steely Dan and reminiscing about all the times I used to invade my barber. There was a time when I would see her every two weeks. There was the summer of my 50th birthday, when we shared truly magical times. I missed my friend, my hair was a mess, and I was having girlfriend issues.

It was time for Hairapy.

It’d been a few months since I’d had a trim. My hair was mushrooming; I was turning into a square-head. I laid back on her bed as Clairissa stood over me, surveying the situation.

“That sports bra really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

This would not be an out-of-the-norm statement in one of our conversations. Except Clairissa has green eyes, and wasn’t the one wearing the sports bra…

* * *

She sat on the porch smoking an American Spirit, looking fit and lovely. “Hey you,” she said. A hug and a kiss, and it was like not a moment had past. “My god, look at you! You’re almost skinny!” She led me upstairs. Since it was raining, this haircut would happen in her bedroom.

Rufus and FreddyShe’d remodeled since the last time I visited. I admired her decorations, like the opossum skeleton that had been slightly modified to a prehistoric look. What’s that? Our frog! Freddy the Frog, our dead love child we’ve shared custody of for the last ten years, was there too.

“I got all my stuff out of storage. Look what else I found…”

I recognized the jar immediately. It was Prescott Wellington IV, my hairball!

For those of you who don’t want to go back five or six years to read the backstory, Clairissa started saving my neck hair early on, forming it into a ball. As time went on, it grew to the size of a golf ball, then a tennis ball. We’re now at major league baseball size.

My hairy balls.

My hairy balls.

She opened the jar. “Look at the layers.” She broke the biggest clump apart, and you could see it get darker as she got to the center. Maybe I am more blonde than redhead these days.

Nah. That’s sun-bleaching.

“I can’t get over how much weight you’ve lost. Your dicky-do is almost gone!” (The proper medical term is pannus, the meat apron that spills over your belt buckle.) “You know, when your belly stick out more than your dicky do. Got I love you for telling me that one.” She smiled. “Can I see?”

“Well, I’ll have to take my girdle off.” I’ve been wearing a back brace for several months, since the hernia surgery. “Fat won’t climb uphill to lose itself, but if you hold it up it’ll melt right off. I should figure out something for my chest now. Fuckin’ man-boobs.”

I said the wrong thing. Clairissa has a weird (?) attraction to hairy man-hooters. Of which I have two. “Let me see!”

I peeled my shirt off. She grabbed a fistful of flab and gave me a squeeze. “Want to try one of my sports bras?”

“Like they would fit me.”

“Let’s find out!” She peeled off the black one she was wearing, and began wrestling it over my head. And I’ll be fucked in the ear if it didn’t almost fit.

“Whatdya think?” She admired her work.

“It’s actually comfortable, kinda tight.”

“Just a sec.” She went to a drawer and returned with a blue Nike sports bra. “This one is from when I was doing more hair and less yard work. A bit roomier.” She pulled it over my head, packed me in. Her nipples brushed against my chest, and suddenly this haircut was heating me up. “How about that?”

“Wow, that’s even better.”

“You can have it. When you say you’re coming for a haircut, I expect almost anything. But I did not expect this!” She ruffled my hair, tweaked my nipple, and pointed me to the barber chair. Not only did I get a first-class haircut, she managed to hit my horny button. Like that was ever a challenge. When she saw the forehead pube, she smiled. “Time for mouth action.”

“Rain saw that rogue hair a while back, and offered to pull it with her teeth. I don’t know if she heard me talk about that, or what, but I told her no, that was your thing and she couldn’t do it. You should have seen the look on her face.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. Let’s see if we can get that little bugger.” She leaned over me, her ample bosom brushing over my contained one. Her mouth came to rest an inch or two to the left of my right temple, and her soft sweet mouth began doing its thing. I tingled all the way to my toes, and it felt like I was having the world’s greatest heart attack.

“Mmm… you like that, don’t you?” she purred.

“A few more seconds of that and you could have pulled my spine out with that hair. I am fuckin’ jelly right now…”

And we talked. She’s in a wonderful relationship with someone stable, normal. She’s happy, without the many exceptions and asides that we tend to share. (We’ve been each others bitching posts for years.) She gave me Rain advice, bra advice, and we milked our visit until the last minute.

It was kinda weird, adjusting my bra. It’s been three days, so results are hard to gauge just yet. It itches, I’m guessing because of all the hair my barber plays with. So far, only Meg and Rain know my secret. (and you, dear reader.)

I will continue to experiment, in the name of health. If I start wearing garters and heels you can worry, but for now my masculinity is intact, albeit a touch metrosexual.

My favorite part? I’ve got a brand new place to hide weed and money.

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