because i am entirely too lazy to go get a membership at a video store that actually carries porn, and because there are no exclusively porn shops remotely near my apartment, i am limited to internet porn, which has a bunch of popup ads everywhere, or satellite porn which costs way too much money. back in the day they used to run the adult channel in four hour blocks so you could invite your love slave over for dinner and have a sex feast for quite a while with the porn for atmosphere. no more, my friend.

on satellite they have like eight different adult channels, which i guess is cool, but some of them cost more than others. after some field testing i realized that the expensive ones have dialogue and actually show penetration and oral sex up close. so okay, i limit myself to the expensive ones, which gives me like three to choose from. but you have to catch them at the beginning of the movie, because there are no more blocks of time, it’s paying $9.95 for one 90-minute movie now. grr.

one time i was torn between a movie that clearly stated it contained no men (yay!) and another one which billed itself as “eurosex – too hot for america!” because i am the same person who surfs around the radio to make absolutely sure that there isn’t something better on that this song that i really like and so i miss half the song finding out the other stations are playing crap, the eurosex thing was too tempting. instead of going with lesbian porn, which i know i will like, i simply had to find out what was “too hot” for the states. so i dropped the dime. and i wished i hadn’t.

not only was it full of men, but it was all in english anyway, which was annoying. i love hearing people in foreign porn movies talk dirty in other languages. it cracks me up. they even moan differently than english-speakers. it was also surprisingly tame, even by american standards. there was one kind of racy group sex scene which unfortunately contained only one woman as well as an extraneous man who had nothing to do but watch and stroke himself (a girl can only do so much with three cocks, ya know?). but after that it was typical poolboy-rich wife crap or sex-in-public-aren’t-they-daring! only het couples after the first scene and all boringly english.

i called the satellite company and demanded my money back. i didn’t get it, but flustering the operator and making him go talk to a supervisor about it was worth the $9.95.

my libido is playing with my head lately. like i will not be remotely horny while i have free time to do something about it, whether that something is to go stalk for it or to rent porn or whatever. however the moment i have an appointment or work or someplace else to be i get ragingly horny and start calculating how many orgasms i can have in the time i have left. or rather, how quick i can get ready to go after having that number of orgasms.

for instance, if i have an appointment at noon and i have to leave at 11:30, i will wait until 11:00 and then furiously seek physical gratification until 11:15, thus giving me exactly 15 minutes to shower, change, and put on my makeup. one time this week i pushed it until i had only 10 minutes left. i spent the half hour drive congratulating myself and dreaming up techniques to shave time off my beauty rituals in order to allow more time for mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

it leads me to wonder if this channeling of a typical male behavior is why i am so tired lately. are men this tired from being horny at exactly the wrong moment? is that why he is always napping when i am wide awake?

please tell me you didn’t. i know that you wouldn’t, because that would be just too wrong and completely surreal. tell me that i’m right, because i really need to hear it.

dammit.

you did, didn’t you? fucker.

when a girl is a certain type of bitchy, like a little bit uptight and such. people tend to say things like, “she needs to get laid”.

but now that this chick is getting laid she is a whole new kind of bitch. she is even more full of herself, even more convinced that she can stream role over people and more convinced of her superiority.

god i hate her.

she deserves it. she should not e-mail large graphic files embedded in html e-mail to those of us who are using inferior equipment which will summarily freeze and grind their work to a halt. in fact, html e-mail should be fucking outlawed, at least in the workplace.

and everyone should use linux instead of nt.

because i was feeling particularly bitchy today, when i had to send screenshots to the marketing cow, i zipped them up after converting them to jpgs from bmps. the jpg thing should confuse her a little, but her computer will display them automatically anyway. however i am fairly certain she has no idea what an archiving program is or where to get one. i don’t think she has one installed either, so her pc will likely tell her it can’t open the file. when she calls us for help maybe i should ask if she’s getting a 404.

i wonder if she’ll open a ticket with the it team or just e-mail us and say that the file is corrupted somehow? either way i cackle madly at her computer illiteracy, because it’s just wrong for someone like her to be in charge of online promotions. the inherent problem here is that nobody on or above her level will know what a zip file is, either, and so it is not possible to have her superiors belittle her for lacking such knowledge.

however my cohorts and i will have a jolly chuckle over margaritas at her expense, yet again.

is when i am in the elevator and it stops on a floor where a cleaning person has a big cleaning cart to transport to one floor or another, and that cleaning person shakes their head and says in broken english that they will take the next one. why? because they’re not good enough to share the elevator with a real employee? because we’re not supposed to know that they have a job to do?

and then i feel bad and try to make them come in, and they refuse, which makes me wonder if i just made them feel worse than they already did by trying to make them go against what management told them to do?

fuck! i hate that. cleaning people are people too!

i swear, this actually happened.

so we have a group of employees who are elected every year, and their job is to take questions from everyone, address them to management, and publish the minutes from that monthly q&a meeting. some shithead submits the question

can we get some decent toilet paper in the ladies’ room?

to which management replies

no. it’s a cost-saving measure and is not negotiable.

i’m not even going to go off on the fact that if your biggest concern is the paper with which you wipe your ass (which actually isn’t that bad in the first place), then shut the fuck up and let the people who are being robbed of their overtime have some air time. the funny part is that the secretary who transcribed the minutes made a typo when she published them. so we all got a memo that said

Q: can we get some toilet paper in the ladies’ room?
A: no. it’s a cost-saving measure and is not negotiable.

which is funny if you are a reasonably intelligent person and can figure out what happened there. it’s funnier still when someone in your department is not reasonably intelligent and actually believes that management is cutting our toilet paper supply in an effort to save money, and runs around to everyone’s cube trying to organize some type of revolt. and fucking hysterical when that person is put in their place later and told what actually happened.

in the end, it’s really all about asses, isn’t it?

why why why? i really want to go! i swear i do!

i want to camp out and sit naked in hot springs.
but lord, i DO NOT want to see my brother-in-law naked. and you know that everyone will be naked at this kind of hippy camp out shit.

i mean really, it
is sometimes like taking an
emotional dump.

i pour out my brain
here. but i tell you, sometimes it’s
just too raw to touch.

that’s a really strange thing to dream, he said.

not really, i said. i think it’s pretty self-explanatory.

we were living in the biggest mansion that i had ever seen. it was so big that when we had our explosive falling out, i could go to the other end of the house and not have to listen to him fuck the woman that i had given him permission to fuck that night. he was wary, she was wary, but i’d insisted, sadly and with regret.

i slept fitfully on the sofa, getting up occasionally to chain smoke and cry. i kept the television on for company, and an excuse. i imagined that he would back out, that she would feel weird and leave. i pictured neither of them caring enough to stop themselves, and gritted my teeth. i waited for him to come find me, but he never did.

the next morning i looked shocked in the mirror at myself, at what i had done. it was my fault. it was his fault. it was her fault, too.

i smoked some more, waiting for some sign that she was gone so i could pretend she’d never been there. when i couldn’t stand it anymore, i went into the bedroom and found her, covered only with my sheets, her hair tousled from sleep? or something else. she stared at me fearfully with wide eyes. he stood fully clothed beside the bed, watching me closely. i threw her clothes at her and told her to leave. she did. he stayed.

i made breakfast, for both of us, and wondered if i could ever look at him, or myself, again.

if you are telling me that you hate when i disagree with you, aren’t you telling me that i should agree with you more?
if i stand accused of disagreeing with you all the time, shouldn’t you also? doesn’t it take two people to disagree?
my intention has never been to hurt you. i have changed more than you think i have. you have changed more than i can know.

if your side and my side don’t ever jibe, ever, doesn’t it stand to reason that the truth lies somewhere in the middle?

we both have funny hair and tattos, but that doesnt mean we should be dating…

Like last night I had a whole very involved dream about how my dentist was a charlatan. all these years I have been going to see him once every six months and he tell me “Wow Ellie! You have great teeth!”
But all this time it has been a big lie and really all my teeth are rotting out.

I think teeth rotting out have some special dream meaning significance. I think I read that somewhere once when I was like 19 and gave a shit about things like that.

Sometimes I have better dreams. A few nights ago I dreamt that I planned a vacation for some friends and myself. But before I left my house I needed to set up the security system. Which turned out to be a huge 10-foot high electric fence with razor wire at the top. As I was messing with it a very hunky guy walked by with his shirt off. And here is were it turned into some kind of cheesy soft core porno… it began to rain and I took my shirt off too and I hugged him from behind and we were all slippery and sliding all over each other.
I took him on vacation with me. And for some reason we were forced to be in church together and the whole time he was whispering in my ear all his wonderfully nasty thoughts about how he was going to fuck me later.

could people just say “link” instead of “hyperlink”? jeez.

were clearly all raised in barns. messy smelly socially retarded barns.

guy 1. claims we were meant to be together because I know what a “tank” is. subscribes to the “turns” theory of calling people. feeds me a bunch of drinks while out and sneaks in some minor smooches. then is pissed at me.

guy 2. have know him for 10 years. as an acquaintance. he was vastly overweight most of that time. just recently I see him for the first time in several years and he has lost weight. sorry dude. your nice and all… but just losing some weight is NOT going to make you my dream guy. stop inviting me over for homemade dinners and shit.

guy 3. dude. do NOT, with a great public display, return all my things. especially not the boxers that were once nice when they were mine. but since you have had them for 6 months, wearing them next to your disgusting smelly body, and you have washed them repeatedly in hot water, I don’t fucking want them any more. unfortunately. it is inevitable that they will be returned to me in front of the chick I am trying to impress.

you know. i am rapidly becoming a man hater, which i have never been. i am so tired of this shit.

they tried to force me to marry him.

he was twenty years older than me, an investment banker who was madly in love with me for my intellect. when nobody was looking, he would make obscene gestures with his fingers and mouth at me. they tricked me into thinking i was attending a wedding. well, i was, but nobody told me he’d be there, and nobody told me it was mine.

the chapel was filled with people i have known over the years, from my best friend to the kid i beat up in first grade. nobody there seemed to know him personally, they had only seen him from afar and been duly impressed with his professional demeanor and expensive sportscar. whispers filled the room, people gossiping about how much money he had and how much real estate he owned.

they swept me into the bridal dressing room before i could protest, and began primping me and pulling at my street clothes. here, they said, is the gown. he paid for it with $50,000 cash. and everyone broke into golf claps.

i managed to convince everyone that i needed privacy to make myself look more radiant and stunning than i’d ever been. they were disappointed that they’d been asked to leave, but their excitement that i’d relented to the marriage was palpable. when i was alone, i put my street clothes back on and climbed out the bathroom window. i looked over my shoulder only once, to see the man i refused to marry gaping at me from the doorway of the chapel. he looked outraged, broken, and humiliated all at once.

i flipped him the bird and kept walking.

you know that bitch in the mercedes who is following you entirely too closely despite the fact that you have had your turn signal on for no less than one thousand feet? yeah, the blonde one with the sunglasses. slam on your brakes really suddenly when you’re ready to make your turn which will force her to either

a) slam on hers, and hilarity ensues

or

b) hit you from behind, in which case the accident is completely her fault for “traveling at a speed at which” she “cannot control her vehicle”.

at which point it’s a damn good thing she’s got that cell phone to call the police to the scene of the wreck which she caused while she was talking on it.

i’m back, in all my tartful splendor. i’m hormonal, and i carry a concealed weapons permit.

in simpler terms: do. not. fuck. with. me.

that is all.

i thought the world was going to end today. and all because some twat saw my tattoo. she acted like all shocked and shit, how dare i mark my body that way, what the hell was wrong with me? these things i read very clearly in the two second shocked expression which she quickly covered up.

additionally i found myself in a bathroom stall with paper aplenty. and not only did the chick on my right realize she was out after she’d already sat down, but then the chick on my left chimed in that she didn’t have any either. and enter me, with the heinous tattoo and a knack for having no good information, having supreme control over whether their asses got wiped or they dribbled in their pantyhose instead.

it sort of made up for the tattoo thing.

i overhear things all the time at work and it is invariably when i hear someone saying something that is completely wrong that i am shaken from deep concentration on my current task. by that i mean that if all information flow around me is going smoothly i am able to block out everyone around me. however let one person repeat a company policy wrongly and i am instantly on top of them with the right answer. it’s sort of like a mutant power, only one that makes everybody totally hate you.

the other amazing thing about this mutant power is that whenever someone comes to me deliberately seeking information, i do not ever, ever have it for them. consequently i look like a complete and utter jackass 99% of the time. the other 1% of the time is when i am on a smoke break, and it’s hard to look like an utter jackass while smoking and ignoring everyone.

given time however i am certain i could harness my mutant power to master that too.

i type like lightning
clackety-clack! the very
sound makes them nervous.

do i really have
to say “thank you” when i feel
like saying “fuck you”?

i’m sick. i can’t eat anything. even ice water makes my stomach cramp.

under the influence of over the counter crap i tend to dream fitfully. only usually it’s actual dreams, which are unreal and have never happened. today though my nap was filled with flashbacks of actual events.

i was so in love with him. we were young and stupid and life seemed free. we didn’t want for anything, until he moved. and when he was gone he couldn’t protect me anymore. not that he could have in the first place, because of his stupid youthfulness. and after the fact, he went on to emotionally brutalize me for several years. i was in college before i could finally get him out of my head, out of my heart, out of my life. he’s gone and i’m glad. but it was like having a life-threatening surgery to cure a terminal disease. if you know what i mean.

i didn’t dare to trust anyone again for the longest time. and when i did, i got beaten all over again. my theory seemed so simple, give him what he wants and he’ll give me what i want. only he never, ever did. and after more years of pain and tears i was back where i started, only he left me with scars that will remain until i die. i have to look at those scars every fucking day.

i remained guarded and trusted only a little bit, and only on my terms. and i had no foresight that those terms could leave me as vulnerable as they did. he proved once more that i had yet to have any control over my relationship with a man. throughout all this i found men that i could briefly control, and i did it repeatedly. when you need a gallon but you can only get a cup, you take as many as possible to fill you up.

there must have been a leak somewhere.

there is just no winning in this particular work senario. if i dont complain, i wont get any work done. i will be thinking about how i cant complain and how irritating that is and also how i can concentrate because some fuckers are way too loud.

if i do complain no one will understand why. i will be the workplace prude.

man, pardon my typing… i’ve had several beers.

this all ties into to my cokmplete and utter hatred of 18-23 year old boys. they live in their own universe. how could anyone A. disagree with them. or B. not think they are gods.

i choose both A. and B. and C. which stands for FUCK OFF.

i have to admit that although i am usually very open about sex and honest about what i’ve done and what i like, i am occasionally put in my place by people that i have mistakenly deemed prudes or clueless about such things.

earlier this week i wanted to tell her something but i couldn’t really tell her only part of it, i had to tell her the whole thing. and i braced myself for her freakout, wherein she would call me a slut or be shocked at the fact that i’ve been there and done that. and i told myself that if she was going to react that way that it was her right and i would just deal with it. i couldn’t not tell her, because i needed her help, and it was more important than whatever ten minutes of derision i might have to endure.

so i told her. i tried to break it gently. then i dropped under my desk and covered my head with my arms, anticipating a mild earth-shattering explosion. but it never came.

she nodded her head, and told me that she too had been there and done that. and so she knew exactly what i was dealing with, and she offered more help than i’d imagined she could give. i was awestruck at first, and then utterly embarrassed at my obvious misjudgement of her character and response. she looked me over and asked

why are you crouching under your desk like that?

i never liked french fries that much in the first place.

pickle me please.

today’s events have provided startling, incontrovertible evidence that someone, somewhere, is clutching a voodoo doll and a pincushion and cackling psychotically.

your popularity among coworkers is directly proportional to the number of times you offer to make the coffee run.
how discreetly they handle your birthday is inversely proportional to your popularity.

ergo

if you do not want to have those big black “over the hill” balloons around your desk and the stupid black jellybeans cleverly labeled as a medication required for people of your age and posters on other floors advertising your (exact) age: do not ever offer to make a coffee run.

this is a ridiculously complex conclusion, seeing how most of the time when people like you they should ideally ask what level of birthday embarrassment you are most comfortable with.

this post is dedicated to george on the ninth floor in accounting, victim of multiple “lordy lordy, look who’s 40″ banners and door posters. bet he doesn’t run for coffee anymore.

you have the best way in the world of getting me high, when you want to.
and when you want to, you have the worst way in the world of getting me low.

i don’t feel sexy
please understand. anyway,
you can masturbate.

i really want to
have more color around me.
should i redesign?

that thing about you
that can be so good sometimes
can also hurt me.

i’ll be strong, i will.
this time i will not back down
i always blink first.

rock, immovable
hard place hurts my tender back
there must be a way.

me: i think it would be great if we could do this.
you: that won’t work for this reason.
me: okay, what if we do that instead?
you: i don’t like that.
me: okay, how about this over here?
you: i know that you want ten yards, but you can only have two.
me: but i figured out a way to be satisfied with five.
you: two. maybe. if you’re lucky.
me: …

alternately

me: do you like this?
you: no.
me: why not?
you: because i don’t.
me: how about this?
you: no.
me: how about this?
you: no.
me: okay, here are 20 things that i can work with. which can you work with?
you: none of them.
me: do you know compromise? it’s all the rage.
you: i don’t compromise.
me: clearly this is the best way to make things work. you are genius.

people are all together … way too touchy.

am am always amazed at people who belive their instant rapports. not that the instant rapport is a lie. it is probably all dandy.
but it is what it is. and it isn’t what it isn’t, if ya know what I mean.

and it sure as hell isn’t a deep meaningful relationship. because those don’t happen instantly. they happen over time.

like, duh.

it wasn’t my idea, but besides dang olden, who’d buy a girlsinthebag haiku book?

listen up, bitch. i have had it with you and your vanity issues. i’m not flat enough for you? whatever!

i have much more important things to do than to look pretty for you and your ilk. you put a barbell through your navel and i’m supposed to thank you for it? and stand tall so you can show it off? you’ve got another thing coming, girly. i exist to keep your sorry ass alive, hear? and this crap where you skip breakfast and skip lunch and throw me an apple strudel in the afternoon before skipping dinner is utter bullshit. i am going on strike. and i carry a lot of weight (heh) with the rest of you, so you might want to work a little harder at making me your ally. where would you be if i called in favors to the nervous system and maybe your lungs, who are sick of your abuse already? laid up in a hospital, rightly, nowhere near a sunny beach and certainly not prancing around in a belly shirt or a bikini.

just think about that next time you work through lunch.

in high school we all knew about it and where to get it and how to get it. but we never ever used it, did we? i mean honestly. how many 16 year-old girls carry condoms? and how many 16 year-old boys actually use the condoms that they carry? and if they did, the condoms, which have likely been in their wallet for well past their shelf life, wouldn’t do any good anyway, would they? and asking mom for the pill would most likely freak most moms out and get most 16 year-old daughters grounded pretty fucking quick. and what 16 year-old girl wants to use one of her good lies or class cutting days to go to planned parenthood? and who would drive them there anyway? their responsible 16 year-old boyfriend?

all of us used to have mad sex with our boyfriends while sort of practicing a miscalculated bastardization of the rhythm method, which isn’t that effective in the first place. and every month as our periods approached, we would start thinking we might be pregnant, knowing our luck, which always ran out at the precisely wrong moment. and the stress we put ourselves through would make our bodies freak out, and when we craved something salty or sweet in keeping with regular pms symptoms, we would zealously ascribe it to a pregnancy craving. all of which would conspire to delay our periods, which would further freak us out. resulting in many tearful, hushed phone conversations in teenager code with our best friends and scaring the hell out of our boyfriends for no really good reason. because we would get our periods three days later and feel so unbelievably blessed to have dodged the bullet this time. and next month it started all over again.

it’s really no wonder the world is so fucked up when you consider adolescence.

in all those warnings for birth control pills and various other forms of prescription contraception, they feel compelled to say women who might be pregnant should not use product x.

now let me ask you something. if you might be pregnant, aren’t you the person that fucking needs birth control? because if you might be pregnant that usually means you’re not on birth control. and therefore you need some. also you will probably then delay getting contraception until you verify that you are not in fact pregnant. but by that time, you are back in the might be category, aren’t you?

that unless i ask you to do so

stop fucking touching me.

people have touched my hair without being invited to do so for most of my natural life. i am a grown woman and yet they still treat me like a two year-old child whose hair is just too lovely to pass up without ruffling it. they seem to vaguely realize that i am not a child and therefore they don’t actually ruffle it. most of the time they stare at me for a minute and then they ask me your hair is so beautiful, can i touch it? and before i can say thank you and no, their grubby hands are stroking my head.

mostly it is old ladies in grocery stores. occasionally it will be an off-duty hairdresser. in every case they feel compelled to give me statistics on how many people pay “good money” for what i have naturally. “good money”? as if there’s any other kind?

never once has any man done this to me, even in the context of a relationship or sexual attraction. which boggles my mind, because men tend to be more clueless about women’s personal space and the possibility of offending someone by acting inappropriately than women.

this whole thing could probably be solved if i would shave my head and donate my hair to that cancer kids’ foundation or something.

okay, i didn’t see you standing behind me at the convenience store. i was kind of busy making a purchase. and yes, we work on the same floor and know each other’s names. and occasionally we work on the same client file and have to speak to each other professionally.

however.

i just know that you did not try to get my attention by touching my hair. right? because the logical thing to do would have been to say hey, how’s it going? or somesuch crap. surely you did not invade my personal space entirely uninvited. oh, wait. you did, didn’t you?

bitch.

so apparently the cow won’t deal with me directly anymore. it seems that little old emmie is just too scary and honest about the crap she pulls for her to deal with it. she goes around me and talks to other people who sugar coat things for her.

but nobody else was around when she sent her e-mail asking us to “explain the algorithm that drives” the company’s website, which we didn’t program. i wanted to write her back and tell her that i don’t make enough money to know algorithms and if i did, she could fuck off because i wouldn’t tell her anyway. instead i wrote a polite note back to her pretending to be as stupefied as she was and suggested that she contact the people who actually developed the site.

fuckers!

and somehow she always thinks that i am annoyed with her when it is really only that i am too busy hating myself to bother with how she feels.

what’s that you say? i have less than two hours to get something done that under normal circumstances when i am feeling well and have already showered takes six hours? don’t you worry, i will pull it out of my ass somehow yet again.

i am superwoman.

and then there was this guy who had a mad crush on me. and i wouldn’t go out with him and he totally knew that. but he would hover around me anyway. and he’d want to carry my stuff all the time so he could follow me wherever i was going. and if i was eating peanuts or m&ms or anything at all that was small, he would insist that i throw them to him and he would catch them in his mouth. few people are aware that this is actually a mating ritual of early man, where the women would be carrying berries and the man would prove his physical prowess by catching the berries in his mouth. apparently it rendered them irresistible to their cave women. but it never worked for me.

and when i was older and had my own place a guy that i was dating started doing that because it amused him. it didn’t amuse me at all and i left his crap in a box on my front porch and had the locks changed.

this one time after a guy i slept with completely and utterly dissed me, i told this girl he sort of knew that my period was late. which was a hard plan because i had to wait for a believable amount of time to pass so it would not seem like the complete bullshit that it was. but the girl that i told was really good friends with his girlfriend, although i pretended not to know that, or even that he had a girlfriend. and i swore her to secrecy based on some utter lack of friendship between us, and she swore with her fingers crossed and told his girlfriend the very next day. at which point the girlfriend dumped him loudly, angrily, and in public.

it served him right, really.

which is more important? sticking to your values? or sticking to your friends or your friends friends?

also, I just can’t decide if I should fuck almost everything that moves or be celibate for awhile. I usually go with the fucking almost everything route. I could try this other one… this one of NOT fucking everything. who knows. maybe I’ll like it.

I tend to forget that I do have a bad attitude. and that my bad or negative or self-deprecating attitude will influence the way other people see me.
I’m not sure if I can handle talking things up, or being cheerful when I don’t feel like it, or outright lying about how I feel about something.

she isn’t the type of girl who will go down on you because you want her to. she’s quite contrary most of the time, and reverse psychology works too well. she thinks she is very complicated, some kind of enigma, but in reality she is very easy to read. she only wants what she wants, and you don’t need to know why, you just need to give it to her. a cigarette in the morning and one at night, and two after you fuck her. a little box of those candy message hearts that are always on sale in february. a worn copy of an intellectual erotic novel. a fuzzy blanket and your legs locked around hers just before she falls asleep.

if you have the greenest type of thumb she will flourish, and produce fragrant violet blooms.

slender cigarette
putting you into my mouth
makes me flick my bic.

i’m not my usual prolific self lately, and i’m not sure why. possibly i have been drinking too much coffee? or maybe not enough. i just wanted you to know that we appreciate you checking in with us even when we haven’t anything new to say.

when i see them flirting i am sort of jealous because it’s been a while since i had that brand-new being fascinated with someone feeling, where everything they say is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard and when they touch you on the shoulder it’s electric and filled with longing and the way that you get into a tickle fight and are not really sure what the outcome will be.

perhaps i will visit him tonight. i wonder if i could stand two inches from him and not move and not touch him for just five minutes?

i smuggled him onto one of those women-only cruises around the harbor by putting him in a wig and heels. i even did his makeup the way i learned from that girl i used to know who did makeup for drag queens, only i went way lighter on the eyeliner. he wore a nametag that said

HELLO MY NAME IS: fifi

fifi and i cruised the slot machines, and nobody noticed us much because they were pissed that the house kept taking their quarters. at dinner, we mingled in the dining area, where he stayed sort of behind me and didn’t talk a lot. i took him to the bathroom with me and tried to teach him how to toss his hair effectively, and he learned it so well that he flipped the wig off once. when we ventured up into the lounge area, where several female couples were reclined on divans making out furiously, we had to lean against the wall until a divan became available. i think one of those girls got seasick or something from the way she went running, with her girlfriend chasing after her. we flopped down and made out, with me on top of fifi to hide the bulge in his fluffy skirt.

after letting him cool down a little, i got us drinks from the bar and we wandered all the way up to the top of the boat. nobody was up there because it was still way too cold to hang out on the deck. he sat on a strappy white chaise lounge and i pulled up both our skirts. we were both going commando and wearing crotchless garter hose, so it was easy to sit on his lap and fuck him discreetly. when the boat docked, i straightened his wig and my skirt, and the chick that organized the cruise handed us some girl-positive reading material on the way out. i wrote a check to whatever charity she worked for, and she shook both our hands a little too zealously.

he actually dressed up like a girl for me. he digs me utterly.