A glass of pinot grigio, please

Alarmed at the disarray, he laid his arms bare across the table. In a great sweeping motion the dishes crashed to the ground.

Soiled plates. Soiled forks. Soiled rug. Soiled dreams.

There was nothing left to do but sink deeper in the stain. Nasty and aggressive, his cock slapped her bored cunt, as a few strings of angel hair clung, terrified, to her soiled panties. Finally, his finger let go and he could feel the burn as her panty's seams rubbed raw his furtive tool. With a final release, he brushed aside the sauce his tangled captives had spewn across his loin and walked out.

A slow breath crept through her apathetic lips as she limped off the table. Better clean the mess.

sometimes quick and dirty is all there is...

and so it was. a little gun-shy, and yet nonetheless full of beans, he trampled forth towards his nemesis...oh, how the cold steel numbed his palms...the nervous, beating in his chest producing an anxious dew across his skin. thankfully, he acknowledged the thin rubber grip that kept his weapon firmly in hand. it was really only the shaking that concerned him. his enemy was down. Just one sure, clean stroke required to end this.

he raised his arm and began to squeeze on the trigger.

"WAIT!!!" she screamed as she pushed through the door, the tears streaming loudly in her shrill cries. It was too late to stop the shot, the bullet piercing the plaster across the hall, but enough to further unsteady the unsteady hand....

He fell on his knees and wept. His nemesis would return. he would fail, like a hundred times before, to kill the boy that haunts his soul.

"you!" his face twisted in rage, boiling like the puss of a teenager's infected pimply nose. with a sharp tug, he yanked her arm and pushed her into the floor...pressing her face into the dull bristles of the carpet, he swiveled behind.

"YOU!" he quickly reached up her tight blouse and nudging his thumbs underneath her nipples squeezed them tightly between his forefinger and thumb. he could see it hurt and relaxed a bit before deftly extracting and shoving his manhood in deeply from behind. with every thrust emitted a faint squeal as his fingers flattened her, now, blood red nipples with his fingers to the ungainly rhythm of his dirty, angry dance...

"i never kill him...i'll NEVER KILL HIM!!!" he shot his load quickly and pushed her over. looking in disbelief, it was all he could do to stand and calmly walk to the door.

she curled up, a frightened kitten, tears of relief and pain stirring out of each delicate eye. "why?" she wimpered, “why this?”

"Because...sometimes quick and dirty is all there is."

And he walked out the door.

comfortably numb

The solitude is comforting, languished his fevered head, Only moments more to go.

Waiting years for that moment of delectable release, his brow was tensely pinched in anticipation.

Sweet, sweet senility, wash away these memories that make me want to cry.
Sweet, sweet senility, wash away these memories that make me want to die.

Compulsively cleaned, his arm, pasty and threadbare, a slight crunchy, transparent parchment replacing his manly, sinewy youth, thrust out as Christ at Calvary before falling just as suddenly to his sides.

The footsteps were getting closer.

Ahhh. It's finally time.

With slow deliberation, he limply slung his left arm on the counter and pushed the needle deep inside, snagging for a moment before sliding into a willing vein.

"AAAAAHHHhhhh........"

He could hear the knocking on his door trail off as thick, Vermont maple slid across his warm pancakes as a boy.

sweet release...sweet........senility.....

cuba libre

I knew this would be good. Those who could take the heat were in for a special treat, a treat so few tourists enjoyed. I pointlessly wiped my brow. The thick, fog of the jungle clung their loose cotton and linen dresses tightly to their bodies. Yummy, I thought. Of course, the locals noticed about as much as my grandparents could see the overtly sexual tones conveyed in those 1950’s fuselage bras. They took the heat, and the broiling blood it brings, for granted – a part of the natural order of things.

And then I saw her. There was something special in the way she swayed. Not like the overly sexual, lilting swish of the others, beckoning a free drink or dance or nightcap. No, she moved with a more natural, luscious swirl that drew your eyes up to her soft smile, imbued with the confidence of romantic youth. I was going to need my A game.

“hey, baby. find what you’re looking for?”

Taken aback, her delicate lips slightly parted, “What makes you think I’m looking for something.”

“aren’t we all looking for something? why else are you here?”

“I’m meeting a…friend.”

She stepped back a bit, scanning the dance floor with a little too much intensity for credibility. I could sense the growing desperation rising up her shoulders, as she try to conjure an acceptable, polite escape. She had lost.

“we’ll you’ve found one. let’s dance.” and in a motion entangled our fingers and led her deep within the mass of flailing, musky flesh.

* * * * * * *

“I still remember that night,” she smiled broadly under the umbrella at Café Piccou. “I can always feel the way you looked deep into my eyes, your fingers tracing the outline of my swollen nipples on that silly, white cotton blouse asking, so…how does it feel to live?”

adrift at sea

It has been days since I sailed out of Sakonnet. Adrift with heavy waves buffeting the hull. So sick it seems with the constant rocking, tilting, and sway. I am not a natural sailor - I acquired a taste of boats early in life but had not acquired my own until much later...anyway, what kind of sailor can't even swim? But the way I figured it is if you actually have to swim in the big water, you've got much larger things to worry about...

here there be dragons

Casting off the moorings tethering me tightly to the shore, I gave a sharp kick to the pier. Off we drifted - the mast resplendent in the rising sun. With so little wind and current just as weak, I wondered where we might drift or whether we’d get far at all.

Hell, I guess I could always row. Not that I minded to row from time to time. Sometimes the exertion was therapeutic, an enema for polluted thoughts that betrayed the honesty of raw labor. I had been encouraged by the previous owner to install a small outboard engine for these moments, but I said I wouldn’t. “No, I couldn’t put an outboard on this old boat. All wood and brass and sail is what I want. I like my things solid,” I had said. He could tell I meant it and for a moment looked strangely, deeply satisfied.

But rowing is real work. Particularly, when you don’t know where you are heading. Spend yourself too deeply rowing out of the calm and there may be nothing left to give when it’s rough. I’ve learned that lesson a few times.

Hmmm. I could feel the restless tension begin. Only a few yards off of the dock, maybe it makes more sense to wait for better weather and just soak in the sun. Such pure, azure sky.

Was I adequately provisioned? I had thought to acquire stocks in either Sakonnet or Kiptopeke before journeying in earnest, but my hasty departure and this damnable calm may leave me ill supplied for even this first leg. And well provisioned I would need to be. It’s difficult enough to sail off the map, but doing so hungry is altogether different. Just ask Columbus.

Hmmm. Best decide before dark. Staring into the placid drink, I can’t help but think to my uncertain destination – here there be dragons.

social capital lost and found

Suckling at the last of his drink he pressed for another. The biting sting of fresh lime burned his cracked lips as the sweet Suaza Silver slid down his throat. "Number 1 tequila in Mexico they say," his thoughts wafting away with the excessive smoke of too many cigars sauntering slowly through the open air patio. "How fitting, fucking parrotheads." As always at this time, the local color had begun to relive the excess of their fraternal youth, the endless chant of Buffet sloshing off the juke. "...and I know, it's my own damn fault. Fucking Brilliant." Grabbing his stained jacket, he stumbled away, stuck on the remarkable subtlety with which signs always arrive.

Brokeback Eggroll

putrid rear opens
squirting sour cabbage yet
I just can't quit you

Oral Cartography

Weary from the drive, I should have known better than to trust Little Jim. It wasn't the mechanic's carefully pleated and pressed nose, a byproduct of many revelrous nights back in the service, but rather the peculiar brand of oral cartography practiced like a tired punchline. After a few days you'd think I'd expect it coming, but my claims of distant kinship are either regarded with the suspicion reserved for the revenuers of lost decades past or embraced for a false understanding of the secret codes punctuated in the local dialect. Regardless, my directions always beget a spiral of beguiling turns through the woods and hollows as landmarks slipped through a web of "can't miss" and "just past yonder."