Dear reader: I have given in to a lack of confidence and let my urges and appetites run riot in an unalterable life. Like a shadow play with the myriad clocks within set to alarm their desires out, with no peace, internal unity or direction. I am a warm puddle on the floor, of moist juicy life. My bones have become like boiled maple syrup. My brain, quiet like the womb of sleep. Not thrilling. Not haughty, but suggestible; permeable. I drool. I burp. I sit in a glob on the floor like a bath towel which is fallen in and absorbed its limit. Here comes the good part -- The door bursts open and her words waltz in in front of her like the metal edges in a factory set to produce gears. I didn't catch them --they floated by like the pieces of a christening bottle floating on the foam of the sea after being crushed in the water by the hull of a ship eager to brace against the waves. I just took note of them, like the churning of a symphony. Sheila was cruel; her greasy sinking ships of glory bound for phone tag with a split sex anonymous abstract, down below the waist line of her huge sagging tits. She is only 16, but has breast fed the world, and the industrialists have sucked her drier than a shaving cream can at summer camp. You -- the horse you rode in on has started kicking, into the stall where it won't come out, crying: "Mommy, hold me – change my diaper; It's full of spinach". When that happens the world becomes a wall of voodoo. Spanish coffee that grinds on, in the fire of an exquisite exile, like a big purple cock that sweats for the love of a Madonna. While she walked in, the shadows chorused along the wet streets that night, combining with the darkness in a harmony of absence. Nobody important walks the earth, and they leave no tracks. What was I to say to that? And what was I to say to her, gleaming so repulsively in her body suit armor? "Oh, hi dear. I'm not depressed. It's just the ceiling getting closer..." What the hell is this mood I am in? I am like a ribald liquor cabinet which springs open at the slightest twinge. I am getting drunk on the withering negativity which runs down her legs and gushes to the sea, which then opens its stupid gaping yaw to receive it... "YOU -- YOU SLITHERING SCUMBAG", she pouts as she walks in. "Cheer up"! What fucking kind of advice is that? Now, if I was Sheila and I took a look at me, I would make for the door that she just came through, but the dear girl doesn't know any better. In fact, if I knew what this play would be like, I’d have jumped out the window first. One could easily have made earrings out of her thoughts to wear to the ball if she had any, but against her quivering vagina I had no defense. I guess she doesn’t know that her ass is a window to my soul. So I said to her, in a vapid retort: "Sheila, your wish is like the flour in my tortilla. My scumbag overloads, implodes, and it smells like the grease between your toes. I love you, I wuv you, and I want to smother you with my big smoochie." What could she say to that? "Oh my darling, I knew you'd come around." So there we were -- a torrent of words from two turrets of language. I bedded her down that night -- way down, to the chthonic depths beneath her diaphanous curves. What a whore -- and I am talking about ME. We pounded; we pleaded, we posed and we pouted. We skirted the edges of sanity. "I am Priap", I declared! "And I, Aphrodite", she squealed through the vaporous pores of her skin as she rose herself up to meet me. The great hermaphrodite reconvened; we writhed like worms beneath the soil. It felt like my cock went all the way down to the center of the earth, right through the fucking magna in the middle and popped out the other side, speaking Chinese. But in the morning, she was still there, and I thought "Oh God, do I have to be reminded now, of the ordinary?" I kept this to myself, but I did throw her out. Sacred whore, off to work you go, at the portals of Vestal. Soon it would be time for cards. I had been renewed, revised, and now just plain felt "lucky." Cards are my special thrill, cause they are just like a fancy hooker who blows you but steals your wallet and leaves you handcuffed to the door. It ain't sex, baby it's stealing. The card pimp taught her that. Getting open your pants is just the easiest way to get you to consent to the theft. Oh and you do, and in poker, everybody is named John. That's what the cards are like for me: getting wicked thrills as I watch my money going down the drain. And what a fucking seesaw. I get the thrill while someone else is getting the shaft, or vice versa. As I am taking off my shorts to pay for the game, or while I watch the red taillights of my new car drive off as part of the stakes, I realize that it is a vice. But when the action is hot I feel only the delicious turn of the knife going in. Like the time I dropped $6,500 beans on a hand full of stale crackers while looking into the eye of a guy who was getting the greatest blowjob of his life -- money. It was worth every penny. So Sheila had to go, leaving the sweet smell of yesterday's fuck behind her to torment the guys who were coming over... © (p) 2004 Richard Lloyd all rights reserved |