Nutsack Girl

She carried a bag of nuts with her wherever she went. One day I asked her about them and this is what she told me. "These are not your ordinary nuts. These nuts are hard to crack. Some are shaped oddly, some have a thick outer shell, some are slippery and well, you get the point. The fact is that these nuts are a lot like people and I carry this bag around to remind me of that. You have to have just the right tool and just the right technique to crack these nuts. If you don't do it right, you stand a good chance of getting hurt. Or worse, hurting the tender meat that is sustenance inside the shell."

Then she lit up a joint and I knew our conversation, at least the part that made sense was now over. "So here's how it works, sis. Every day I take out one of these nuts and study it just like this." She slid her long arm bronzed from daily exposure into the small opening she had created by pushing two fingers of each hand into the tiny hole drawn tight by a double drawstring at the top of the bag and gently massaged it open as if she were pulling back the red velvet curtains of a tiny stage. She never looked inside. Letting her arm relax, I could see her wrist and hand begin to writhe inside the bag like arachnid acid. She was getting off on the feeling of the nuts passing between her fingers as she grasped a bunch and let them fall or just let her hand pass underneath them, through them; sensing this one and that with only the deft touch of her left hand. The sound was quite entrancing from my end but that was not her gig. She loved to touch and she was good at it. She continued on like this for some time, letting out a squeal when her hand, which now seemed separated from the rest of her, found some tactile treasure and felt it necessary to share that pleasure with the brain. Her brain was now in a fog so deep it would take hours for her to come back up. She could still register pleasure and pain without the tedious business of thought to bog the whole mechanism down and this is exactly where she sought to be when she got high.

She touched something she liked. I gauged this from her reaction. Her body never lied when she was in this state. She could hide nothing. The tone was lazy this time and more like a moan that she maintained at a lower octave than the others as if to say, oh now this is the one. Then, lazily she threw her head back and with it the hair that had been shielding her face like blinders on a Thoroughbred about to race the Dubai World Cup. Her perfect face now flushed with excitement over the tiny nut she would remove from the bag and attempt to crack. There was a moment of sheer silliness when she realized she had gripped the thing so tightly that her fist made it impossible for her to get her hand out of the hole she had created earlier. She wasn't tender this time. She pulled the bottom of the bag with her right hand and without loosening her grip, yanked her left fist out of the top, leaving a red mark around the base of her hand where it met her wrist. Why she didn't just let the drawstring go slack, I didn't think to wonder about then.

It was a Brazil nut. Nigger toes as dad used to call them. It makes us both cringe to think that there are people related to us who still talk this way. We raise our eyes  simultaneously, but there is no one here to correct or to be embarrassed of. “Brazil nuts only grow in virgin rainforests you know,” I didn’t know. “Not only that but there is only one bee – the bombardier bee - you know the really big one? The one that looks like a B-52? It could just swoop down and bomb your little insect town at any moment.” I know she’s really gone when she starts mixing perspectives like her colossal fondness for WWII aircraft and irrelevant penchant for calling my mons a little insect town, but she’s my sister and I love her. She goes on to tell me about the great coiled hood of the Brazil nut tree’s yellow flower which contains a sweet nectar unlike anything ever tasted by man and that this bomber B-52 bee is the only one with a tongue strong enough to lift the hood and long enough to navigate the coils. Sounds like a legendary invasion my little insect town could hold a parade for or name a street after. Brazil Nut Bee Lane. Yes, lane. Boulevard sounds too spacious and street well, that’s just plain trampy. Lane it is. BNB Lane people would affectionately call it – home of the sweet nectar of the yellow-flowered-Brazilian goddess; a narrow two-laner, recently-paved, smooth and relatively quiet. You wouldn’t want to drive a Cadillac down there though – it’s definitely Not a Thru Street and the three point turn would be a bitch.

Procreation Nation

His tribe taunts me
flaunting the American dream
like a six-pack picket fence
His body tempts me
into accidental procreation
He wants to plant his seed
He wants me to give him a legacy
but I'm wise to the tricks of this
modern day snake oil salesman
He's selling lies
I serve his potion with wine
in twelve matching crystal glasses
and my dinner party
goes off splendidly
though the slide show on the tv screen
is of someone else's family
and the soundtrack is rather awkwardly playing
music that someone will say they like but never hear again.

Someone will hum a note or two
absent-mindedly, later that night or the next day
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point - post lobotomy.

Someone may well be awoken
and say quietly some thing equally important
before busying themselves into remission-
staving off the bestial cohabitation
of body and soul for yet another day.

Some one may thank you.
Some one may shake your hand.
Someone may touch you.
But they all affect you.

In the end, only the tribe remains
temptation exists for a reason
and evolution is not just a theory
if you don't believe me
take a trip to the National History Museum.

The seed is always planted
whether in your womb
or the next.

Someone will get it.
Some one will experience pain
and finally understand
if only for a moment
but the source will be forgotten as in a dream
or more to the point - for all eternity.

 

Readme.txt (in case of death)

on Tuesday, January 27, 2009 at 7:45pm

I wrote this four years ago when I "upgraded" to CS2. It still applies today with the simple substitution of the word DELL for ADOBE. BTW, I LOVE Windows Vista, especially when the automatic updater installs a blue screen. I don't have the energy to write a whole new one for Dell after 12 hours on and off the phone with their "tech support" AKA people who tell you how to reboot your computer 17 different ways and use a simple system restore function for days on end, but believe me, it would be a KILLER.

If you are reading this letter and I am dead, please forward it to the proper authorities.

I WAS MURDERED BY ADOBE® TECH SUPPORT.

Dear Authorities:

Please follow these simple directions to determine the responsible parties punishible for my utimely and painful death.

1. Call 1-206-675-6307 if you think it was ADOBE® Illustrator that brought my mortal days to an end.
A. Press 2 because you do not have a support plan already in place.
B. Press 2 again since this is obviously not an installation issue - rather the opposite as I have now been permanently "uninstalled" from life.
C. Press 1 if you tried to solve the mystery yourself by accessing ADOBE's® incrediby useful (if you are an ADOBE® tech) website before calling this number.

***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.

2. Call 1-206-675-6311 if you believe it was ADOBE® InDesign that eventually did me "in".
and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.

3. If you suspect that ADOBE® Photoshop was the specific cause of my demise, dial 1-206-675-6303 and follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE.

4. It may be that you have surmised the entire ADOBE® Creative Suite 2 has conspired to snuf me out. If this is the case, dial 1-206-756-6330, follow A. B. and C. Above ***HAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD (OR ANYONE'S CREDIT CARD) AVAILABLE and be sure to reference Case #171650945 or have the serial number handy.

5. Wait two hours for an e-mail response to your long-distance telephone inquiry.

6. When you are sure nothing is coming by e-mail, go back to the website www.adobe.com and search the document numbers you jotted down as the tech muttered them under his breath.

7. Watch your back, they may be coming for you next.

 

[caption id="attachment_176" align="alignnone" width="180" caption="God bless the U.S.A. and Dell"][/caption]

Just Another Tuesday

Bonus Audio!

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He put his right arm over her waist
and tucked his fingers between the bed and the spot on her hourglass frame where
time slowed to a trickle.

She loved that spot and he knew it.

His arm was heavy and strong
against her. She arched her back and pulled him in tighter than a corset string
around her waist.

Her hips called to him and he answered dutifully.

He could feel them where the flesh of her soft belly met
with bell-curved bone. He kept his forearm pressed against her, but let his
hand open and close, grasping her tiny waist between a thumb and four fingers.

She was almost asleep. He had that effect on her. Her muscles relaxed and she exhaled beneath him letting her mind wander up his arm to the deep cut of his bicep, around his broad shoulder and through the hair on his chest.

No void was left between them.

As he pressed his arm deeper into her every breath, she rotated her thighs outward and lifted her lower back from the bed.

He wanted her, but he also wanted to see what would happen next.

He moved his hand down to the uppermost part of her left thigh letting his thumb graze what it pleased and  squeezed. First with his pinky, then the ring finger, then all the way through to his thumb which was by now burrowed deep inside her inner thigh.

It went around and around like that until she felt his fingers were no longer separate entities. She moaned and  shuddered against him.

He straightened his arm between her ribs and felt the heat between her legs spread with every gyration. I haven’t  even touched her! He thought. But he wanted to. Her passion was contagious. His thick cock swelled at the thought of it.

She felt him rise against the bed sheets and let her hand fall gently in his lap. Her small fingers lazily found their way around and up and down the shaft of his penis, the round head of his pink cock. So big! She thought. Too big. She loved the feel of it, so soft and yet so hard. She wanted him inside her. But she also wanted to see where this was going.

He brought his hand back up to her left breast filling it up with her flesh then slowly dragged a heavy hand across her nipple, down into her ribs and over her abdomen. Changing direction, his hand turned fingers down prone like the antennae of a worker bee honing in on a volcano of molten honey.

She pressed his palm into her pelvis. She felt his fingers brush against her mound and held him tight there prolonging the anticipation. Her fingers laced in his just like the walk in the park they had earlier. At the thought of that innocent public embrace she could bare it no longer and released his hand knowing full well this was a one way street.

He kept up the façade as best he could by moving his hand to her right thigh first. He extended his fingers until his pinky breached her labia and squeezed again. On the out swing her lips opened for him and he sank his pinky into her clit and over the fiery gap he wanted so badly to penetrate. At that moment, he wanted to take her more than anything
he ever wanted in his life. Still he wondered.

She desperately desired him inside her. Her pussy throbbed and ached to be filled. Her shorts were damp where his pinky slid easily up and down along the perimeter. There seemed to be no end to the searing sugar flowing freely from her body. So sweet; he could smell her like he smelled a storm coming. And after, it seemed like he could still smell her for days.

They began to sweat.

He couldn’t resist letting his pinky fall into her and he didn’t regret it. She gasped and pulled his hand toward her, pushing his little finger as deep as it would go, pressing the third knuckle of his right hand into her clit.

Her grip tightened around him. She tugged him hard toward her but he didn’t budge except to flex his huge cock in her little hand. Her body began to writhe. She flexed her toes; feverishly stroking his cock with her ring finger turned inward to tighten her grip and provide some drag along the large vein that lifted itself from him, pulsating with his frenetic heartbeat.

Her pussy was so hot and so wet. He had never felt anything like this before. He let himself imagine what it would be like to be inside her and instantly began to cum. His excitement so aroused her that she could hold back no longer and let out a moan so hard and deep they were certain it would wake the neighbors. They both giggled at the thought.

In the next pull, they seizured into orgasm simultaneously. They were two solid rocket boosters effortlessly propelling the last space shuttle into orbit where fantasy becomes one with reality.

They lay there sweating and breathing for a moment. Then she leaned over him so he could see her satisfied smile. She breathed the words good night into his mouth as she kissed him then sank back into her pillow with a great sigh of relief. He grasped her hand, pulled it to his lips and held her there for a second before saying good night then let himself float peacefully back into orbit.

Looking Back

Looking back

At a picture I just saw

Of you

And she, and she

Seemed so far away

So distant

And it wasn’t just the angle

Of the lens or your proximity

To the camera

Though you did loom large

In the foreground.

And you overlooking

Not only the snow-draped

Sunset of the painted desert

But the whole of it

The here, the now

And the what ifs.

Even the space between you

Knowing what I know now

Seems in transition

In flux

And the bonding so like the

Flat palms she pressed decidedly

Upon her thighs

And the curve of her waist

So delicate, yet strong.

You have deemed her fearless

But let’s not forget

That we are all human.

Pedestals are unworthy

Of living flesh; alabaster

Or otherwise.

I see decades of happiness

Knowing now what you knew then

Looking down upon her

And the vast expanse

Of other, not so knowable miracles.