Free Sex
Down at the bayou hoping for maybe one last lick from the Duchess two gabbing female joggers pass behind me as I listen to Hendrix Drifting and the only word I can hear over the music comes from the one on the left saying to the one on the right, "asshole." I am not so sensitive, or gluttonous for the punishment I am capable of self-serving, to think that the word was intended for me and yet how can the word not be considered my own special gift from this bayou to which I come for just such gifts?
You wouldn't think so many doubts and insecurities could be interconnected, separate, but joined in mass like black raindrops. What an impressive shitstorm is to be had if you only seed your own clouds with your own crappy thoughts.
I am going to remember this first part of 2004 and use it against myself (for myself) when I later on am being deliriously happy and guilty about it because imprinted inside of me is a world populated by so much misery and degradation. Just a small example of which lives a bit off center from across the street and to which I have lately been offering assistance and shitting on at the same time, a combination I find most contemptible. Thanks babe, you are so right. I am an asshole. But enough whining, self-debasement, how about a little free sex?
I do not mind admitting that I have some sort of mental problem. It does not embarrass me to admit this, nor do I care if it embarrasses you, however unkind a light that last admission might put me under. But there's going to be the mention of sex here, not the actual thing but the mention of it. The tension of it? not really, but what the hell, are you getting so much really good, uncomplicated, passionate and peaceful, self-regenerating sex that you are not at all intrigued, vicariously interested in my sex story? Hey everybody, free safe sex, come and get some.
I mean literally I am now running inside and locking my door to avoid having sex. She's out there right now (in a temporally artistic licensed sort of way), sitting on those steps across the street, waiting for my slightest nod, obviously not the least bit concerned that I now know that the two dollars and seventy-five cents I earlier gave her was not for bus fare to Kenner, but probably for cigarettes, or a couple of Hubig's sweet potato pies.
She showed me her tits. I'm not happy about this lack of decorum, neither the showing nor the mentioning but it's a thing that has happened; I swear to god I spare you quite a bit in the long run of things. Do you think I'm happy about unseemliness? Forget about it.
She told me she was m'dear's grandchild (m'dear is the mistress of the nearby crackhouse), snuck up on me to tell the lie, and me in the closest state I'll ever get to being ambitious, really giving it somewhat my all to complete this Rocheblave project after four years of drifting on a sea of forgotten teardrops. I don't take you for a dummy, I know you know I ripped that from Hendrix, but that's what I had my ears plugged into (again) when she snuck up on me to tell the lie.
I went to get the two dollars and seventy-five cents from my change cup while she waited and prepared to seduce me for profit below my new steps (the ones I just re-did because they didn't fall right according to the last inspector who busted me against his natural inclination to respect me in all my less than perfect glory.)
When I came out she had her blouse up, adjusting her bra. I turned away in a half-hearted attempt at being a gentleman and when I looked again she was still fixing herself and cussing m'dear for something about the bra which I did not understand. I gave her eleven quarters. She smiled at me. I smiled, sort of, or grimaced. I gave her eye contact and she was right there waiting for it. She had something on her mind. She lifted up her blouse again, innocently trying to fix something that wasn't right. I'm pretty slow but hit me in the head with a brick and it hurts so I knew now that her offered flesh and her leering were meant for me. I looked at her chest this time because it seemed impolite not to.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked me and I should have said yes but I said no.
"Do you live alone?" she asked me and I should have said no but I said yes.
She was onto something, she thought, and I was preparing to back peddle, amazing myself again at how gullible I have remained after all these years.
"Do you like black girls?" she asked me and I should have said, ewww, no, ick, but I said--of course, what's not to like?
She said, "some white guys don't like black girls," and I said I bet that number is less than you think.
She asked me if I would like for her to come over sometime and she didn't need to be Halle Berry for me to say, well you're here right now, why don't you come in, but in truth, she would need to be a little bit more Halle Berry than she was. Crackwhore seems like a really unkind characterization and honestly I don't like how it implies the superiority of those that might use it to describe someone, because you know you ain't a hell of a lot better than what you think you mean when you say crackwhore, but all that said, ain't no crackwhore coming in here. In the unlikely event that Halle Berry takes to the street and shows up here on my doorstep, soliciting herself for the contents of my change cup, well then, I will just do my best to live with the earned title--hypocritical, crackwhore-fucking, shitheel.
But I just said I'm not seeing anyone or wanting to see anyone for a while longer, thank you, and she made a last ditch effort, no, you know, I mean if you need somebody to do some cleaning for you and I said no. She went away after a few more frighteningly unsexy come-hithers, and I went back to being dumbfounded about the specifics of the porch railing I was attempting to build.
|
Down at the bayou hoping for maybe one last lick from the Duchess two gabbing female joggers pass behind me as I listen to Hendrix Drifting and the only word I can hear over the music comes from the one on the left saying to the one on the right, "asshole." I am not so sensitive, or gluttonous for the punishment I am capable of self-serving, to think that the word was intended for me and yet how can the word not be considered my own special gift from this bayou to which I come for just such gifts?
You wouldn't think so many doubts and insecurities could be interconnected, separate, but joined in mass like black raindrops. What an impressive shitstorm is to be had if you only seed your own clouds with your own crappy thoughts.
I am going to remember this first part of 2004 and use it against myself (for myself) when I later on am being deliriously happy and guilty about it because imprinted inside of me is a world populated by so much misery and degradation. Just a small example of which lives a bit off center from across the street and to which I have lately been offering assistance and shitting on at the same time, a combination I find most contemptible. Thanks babe, you are so right. I am an asshole. But enough whining, self-debasement, how about a little free sex?
I do not mind admitting that I have some sort of mental problem. It does not embarrass me to admit this, nor do I care if it embarrasses you, however unkind a light that last admission might put me under. But there's going to be the mention of sex here, not the actual thing but the mention of it. The tension of it? not really, but what the hell, are you getting so much really good, uncomplicated, passionate and peaceful, self-regenerating sex that you are not at all intrigued, vicariously interested in my sex story? Hey everybody, free safe sex, come and get some.
I mean literally I am now running inside and locking my door to avoid having sex. She's out there right now (in a temporally artistic licensed sort of way), sitting on those steps across the street, waiting for my slightest nod, obviously not the least bit concerned that I now know that the two dollars and seventy-five cents I earlier gave her was not for bus fare to Kenner, but probably for cigarettes, or a couple of Hubig's sweet potato pies.
She showed me her tits. I'm not happy about this lack of decorum, neither the showing nor the mentioning but it's a thing that has happened; I swear to god I spare you quite a bit in the long run of things. Do you think I'm happy about unseemliness? Forget about it.
She told me she was m'dear's grandchild (m'dear is the mistress of the nearby crackhouse), snuck up on me to tell the lie, and me in the closest state I'll ever get to being ambitious, really giving it somewhat my all to complete this Rocheblave project after four years of drifting on a sea of forgotten teardrops. I don't take you for a dummy, I know you know I ripped that from Hendrix, but that's what I had my ears plugged into (again) when she snuck up on me to tell the lie.
I went to get the two dollars and seventy-five cents from my change cup while she waited and prepared to seduce me for profit below my new steps (the ones I just re-did because they didn't fall right according to the last inspector who busted me against his natural inclination to respect me in all my less than perfect glory.)
When I came out she had her blouse up, adjusting her bra. I turned away in a half-hearted attempt at being a gentleman and when I looked again she was still fixing herself and cussing m'dear for something about the bra which I did not understand. I gave her eleven quarters. She smiled at me. I smiled, sort of, or grimaced. I gave her eye contact and she was right there waiting for it. She had something on her mind. She lifted up her blouse again, innocently trying to fix something that wasn't right. I'm pretty slow but hit me in the head with a brick and it hurts so I knew now that her offered flesh and her leering were meant for me. I looked at her chest this time because it seemed impolite not to.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked me and I should have said yes but I said no.
"Do you live alone?" she asked me and I should have said no but I said yes.
She was onto something, she thought, and I was preparing to back peddle, amazing myself again at how gullible I have remained after all these years.
"Do you like black girls?" she asked me and I should have said, ewww, no, ick, but I said--of course, what's not to like?
She said, "some white guys don't like black girls," and I said I bet that number is less than you think.
She asked me if I would like for her to come over sometime and she didn't need to be Halle Berry for me to say, well you're here right now, why don't you come in, but in truth, she would need to be a little bit more Halle Berry than she was. Crackwhore seems like a really unkind characterization and honestly I don't like how it implies the superiority of those that might use it to describe someone, because you know you ain't a hell of a lot better than what you think you mean when you say crackwhore, but all that said, ain't no crackwhore coming in here. In the unlikely event that Halle Berry takes to the street and shows up here on my doorstep, soliciting herself for the contents of my change cup, well then, I will just do my best to live with the earned title--hypocritical, crackwhore-fucking, shitheel.
But I just said I'm not seeing anyone or wanting to see anyone for a while longer, thank you, and she made a last ditch effort, no, you know, I mean if you need somebody to do some cleaning for you and I said no. She went away after a few more frighteningly unsexy come-hithers, and I went back to being dumbfounded about the specifics of the porch railing I was attempting to build.
- jimlouis 3-29-2004 6:53 pm