ELEVATOR: FAST-FORWARD TO THE GOOD PARTS

Her hands tugged gently on the bottom of my workshirt and pulled it out of the waistband of my pants. My breath quickened as her soft hands played slowly across my abdomen, her fingernails scratching at my ribcage. "That feels pretty good. You have magical fingers," I managed. I heard her breathe mirth in the darkness of the elevator, and I leaned in for a kiss. Her lips were supple and fat. Soft like pillows and slightly parted, my tongue slid effortlessly into her hot wet mouth as I felt her fingers perform their sensuous dance. Her right hand slid up my hairless chest and squeezed gently my pectorals.



Pulling back from the kiss, she said, "Been working out, Troy?" Her left hand slid briefly across my groin and she...

CHOOSE YOUR OWN CLIMAX: WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

The lights flickered and went out. We were alone in the elevator, stuck between the fifth and the sixth floors. I could smell her perfume and I could see her silhouette. And I could hear the quickened pace of her respirations. Other than that, I was in a ink black box. Panic, thy name is pseudo-sensory deprivation.

"What the fuck?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"I don't know," I said, my throat tight. "Maybe the power grid? Maybe all those damned air conditioners knocked it out? Like they said would happen?" I felt behind me and touched the metal bar on the wall of the elevator. For some reason, that made me feel a slight bit better. It made me feel more grounded, I guess.

"How long do you think we'll be stuck here?" she asked.

I am a mailroom dude. I push important documents in a wire mesh cart from floor to floor. I am not an elevator technician. I never have been, and I probably never will be. I told her as much.

"Thanks so for your help," she said. Snooty. Like she deserved to be stuck in an elevator with a CEO. Or a professional athlete. Like a mail clerk was below her. I breathed deeply. The scent of flowers filled my nostrils.

"Sorry to disappoint," I offered.

When she spoked again, her voice was softer; I think she'd embarrassed herself. "No. I'm sorry," she said. "I guess I'm just a little out of sorts." She laughed nervously. "I have a touch of claustrophobia. Never liked small places." She paused and drew in a hitching breath. "I usually take the God damned stairs. Shit."

I mumbled some noncommital noise and sat down with my back against the wall. If we were going to be stuck, I figured, I might as well make myself comfortable. After a minute or two, I heard her sit down, too. I heard the scrape of her high heels skitter across the floor and then I heard the soft thump of her posterior make contact with the bottom of the box. She shifted and I heard the soft rasp of clothing. I figured that she had primly pulled the hem of her skirt down. I figured that I had heard the shift of black skirt against black-sheened stockings. And, being Troy the Mail Clerk, my mind began to wander.

We had only been on the elevator together for a couple of floors, but, before the lights had gone out and the lift had stopped jarringly, I had gotten a good look at her when she had climbed aboard. She had that sexy librarian look, the look that got my engine revving. Middle-parted shoulder-length dark brown hair with dark tortoise shell eyeglasses. Arched eyebrows. Aquline nose. Her blouse was sensible yet sexy, hinting at a voloptuous figure beneath. Her black mid-thigh skirt clung provocatively to her pleasingly-curved ass and her legs were long and slender, accented nicely by her sheer black stockings. Regardless of our shared quandary, my cock began to stiffen.

I opened my eyes. "So," I said, "since we may be here for awhile, stuck in the dark, maybe introductions are in order. My name's Troy. Ordinarily, I'd be pleased to meet you, but, in this case...." I trailed off.

She cleared her throat. "Uh, yeah. This is fucking bullshit. Isn't there supposed to be, like, an alarm or something?"

I laughed. "Yeah. That's a good idea. It should be over there." I pushed forward onto my hands and knees and crawled in the general direction of the electrical box. I waved my right hand ahead of me and connected with something soft and yielding. Her breast. I jerked my hand back as though I had touched a hot stove. "Sorry about that," I mumbled.

"No harm, no foul," she said distractedly.

I nodded and crawled forward.

DECLARATIVE SENTENCES

I purchased a cigarette-rolling machine. Its picture is to the right. It did not come with papers. It did not come with tobacco. I will have to buy both.

Oliver likes to chew things. This could become a problem. I will have to watch it closely. He chewed my fleece throw blanket. Perhaps he liked the texture against his sharp little teeth. Perhaps he liked the scrunch against his tongue.

Louie yields to Oliver. When Oliver eats, Louie watches from a distance. Oliver eats like a piglet. Lou mops up the remnants. I am a bit nonplussed by this development. I had hoped that Lou would automatically assume leadership. Perhaps he has abdicated his Alpha-ness. Maybe it is too early to tell.

Money is good. I would like to have more of it. I worked 13.5 overtime hours last pay period. I look forward to receiving my check. I don't work for free.

One of these days, you will click on this site and your monitor will melt. The story on the screen will be that hot. This is not that day. I am simply warning you.

[IN]COMPLETE THOUGHTS

My mind is blank. I have nothing (and everything) to write about. Interesting conundrum, eh? I was walking Lou and Ollie earlier today, and I was thinking about writing an extremely sexually graphic blog post. That could be fun. Or a blog post that is incredibly violent.

I am feeling very much handcuffed, right now, as family members go through something that I cannot do much (if anything) to alleviate. I feel impotent. Thus the sex and violence, methinks. It's an outlet of sorts. A way to blast my mind out across the Interwebs.

Then, as I was the hounds, I thought to myself that it might be cool to write four-word teasers to stories. This idea was brought on by the internal phrase He slid his member. Interesting, huh, the way the mind sometimes reverts back to its crocodile nature when faced with a giant bundle of tangle of knots of Emotion? It's almost as if the thoughts that churn are so damned nebulous and vague (yet far-too crystal-clear), my mind kind of throws up its figuartive hands and says, "Fuck it. Let's melt into pleasure."

To be continued.

Anyway, four-word starter phrases. You all can fill in the rest:

He slid his member...

The quick red fox...

"I ate my beets!"

The scuffed football spiralled...

The force of impact...

He had never seen...

The pleasure bloomed and...

Machetes chop as effortlessly...

Home is where the...

Her breasts heaved as...

Skinning a catfish takes...

Oliver humps Louie often.

DOMINANCE? OR FORBIDDEN PLEASURES?

The Beagle has landed. Oliver, my new dog, a two-year-old beagle, is making himself at home. He and Louie are getting along swimmingly. In fact, it is as if they have been roomies for a long long time already.

Lou is smiling more than I have seen him smile in the last year, year-and-a-half, and his is an air of contentedness. He's got a playmate 24/7 and so he is happy. I am happy for him, too. I like his new roommate. (Although he scratches a lot and I, too, am beginning to scratch, sometimes. Uh-oh.)

Anyway, it is seeming to be a joy to have adopted young Oliver (Perhaps named after Oliver Twist, seeing as how both are or have been orphaned, unwanted? Naw, he just looks like an Oliver.)

So...what was I saying? Oh yeah. Little Ollie is making himself at home. For instance, more than a few times I have walked into my bedroom to see His Highness lounging languidly on the pillows on my bed. That ain't gonna work, Oliver. Sorry to bust yo' bubble. Too, Oliver is wholly at peace with eating out of both dog food bowls (as is Lou) and Ollie sees nothing wrong with basically taking the bone out of Lou's mouth and chewing away on it. I will not interfere; they will work it out for themselves.

One more way that Oliver has made himself at home? Whenever he and Lou playfight, invariably Oliver will end up behind Louie, slowly pumping his pelvis in the general direction of Lou's ass. And I mean slowly, languidly. Truth be told, damn near everything this little dog does is done in a languid manner. Screw "Oliver," I should have called the kid "Languid."

So which one is the Alpha? I don't know yet, but it seems that Oliver is well on his way to Napoleanic heights. Just stay off my pillow, Nappy. I could do without the itchies.

INTRODUCTION DAY

Baby gate? Check. New food and water bowls? Check. New leash? Check. Treats on which to chew? Check. Bright new yellow bandana around Lou's neck? Check and check.

There is a new dawg comin' to town. Named Noah, looks like an "Oliver." Or a "Nelson."

I'm going to set out to pick him up in about ten minutes. I'll shoulder the nervousness for Louie. Nervous? No. Not really nervous, I guess, but I am a bit trepidatious. Same thing? Maybe. I am just hoping that 1) they get along--which I do anticipate--and 2) that Noah/Oliver fits in, here, to my and Louie's schedules, as seamlessly as is humanly (or canine-ly) possible. I have a dual dog den, now, in my dining room. Two of everything.

Let's hope that it stays that way.

SNAPSHOTS

feelings bunch up,

fear shoulders aside confidence and

love and pragmatism

play chess

pragmatism is quicker on the timer

but love takes its time

grief and denial play a game of badminton

grief goes for the kill

denial plays a steady game

but falters at the end

slam the shuttlecock

smile for the birdie

do tea and coffee talk?

the steaming containers open slightly

to let out wisps of Wisecrack

sugar is silent and stoic

when one would expect it to walk around

with a lampshade on its head

burly

strong

sarcastic

tender

loyal

Love

fear sets up shop, cracks open the sports page

concern has been relegated to dishwashing

fear cocks back its bowler and fires up a cigar

fear talks like a '30s gangster

cigar is teethed in the corner of the mouth:

"see that blank room, sonny? i want you to walk into it

and take a seat. life is life. the dark horse is a mudder."

I'm planning on getting another dog. Not a replacement, obviously, for Louie, but rather a partner-in-crime. A friend at work offered me a beagle that her brother was doing a shipshod job of nurturing. How the hell could I refuse? This beagle, whose name is Noah, is about two years old and has, through various circumstances, been a member of three households. His eyes are melted butter.

I went to visit last Sunday, to see what Noah was all about, and my friend came out of her house with him wrapped in a towel, having just given him a flea bath. He looked like a sharp-nosed baby with yellow eyes and droopy ears.

Lou's interest was piqued immediately. His expression jumped about 13,000 levels of Alert and when Lisa set Noah on the ground, they at once set about Dog-Ass-69ing each other. No growls. No yelps. No snaps. All good signs. Lisa's husband opened up the gate to the backyard and the two canines shot into the open green, Lou bow-slapping at Noah and Noah, eventually, torpedoing Lou, going in low, always moving forward, always under Lou's feet. I laughed. Lou, 70 pounds, looked like a Great Dane compared to the 35-pound Noah.

I shook my head. Noah? No. The kid looked like an Oliver, to me. Louie and Olly. It has a certain ring to it.

So. The plan is to stop by this coming weekend and take Oliver and give him a good home. I wonder, though, does anyone out there have any second-dog advice? Or, better yet, does anyone out there have any second-dog horror stories?

Oliver seems to be--and I'm told that he is--a sweet dog. And Lou needs a buddy. I tend to be a somewhat-neglectful asshole sometimes. (Albeit a loving asshole. God. That sounded bad. An asshole that loves...I'll stop whilst I'm behind. Whoops!) Anyway, is this a mistake or a boon for both Lou and me?

LADY CHATTERLY, HARBINGER O' YAWNS

Meagan and I ventured off to the Detroit Film Theatre tonight to view "Lady Chatterly," a supposedly highly-erotic and "brilliant" adaptation of D. H. Lawrence's "historic" novel of the same name. After enjoying a fine meal of sauteed mushrooms and lentil burgers and a Reuben at the Cass Cafe, on the Cass Corridor, we drove around the block about five times trying to determine just where the hell the Film Theatre was. We had heard that it is a slightly non-descript white edifice, an adjunct to the Detroit Institute of Arts. Yes and no. We saw the white building about five times, but, seeing as how they had not a solitary sign indicating that, yes, this was the DTF, we passed on by each time.

Anyway, we finally asked a kindly passerby and she directed us to the correct destination. Much thanks, madam.

We parked. We walked across the street and into the building. The clientele were pretty much what I had anticipated: Older, white and wealthy. The DTF is really something to behold, though. With architecture from the 1920s, the stage-area is replete with ornate gold trim and royal red curtains. Unfortunately, the seats are way too close. Meeg and I chose a row near the back and settled in to be dazzled by the eroticism. An older man and his wife sat down directly in front of us. This would prove to be a hinderance to my enjoyment of the movie. The woman's hair was coiffed and teased and curled so that it basically blotted out the bottom to middle of the screen. Normally? Not a problem. But, this time, seeing as how the film was produced in 2006 in France, the bottom of the screen was rather important.

[Let me diverge from this wholly entertaining critique of super-soft porn to say this: If you're going to have a film with subtitles, do you think it's too much to ask to film the movie in a wide-screen so that the words on the screen are white against black? It truly is a pain in the keister when the subtitles are white like the actor's shirt. I don't speak French; I need to be able to read the letters on the screen.]

Anyway, the woman's hair ended up pissing me off. I had to resist reaching up, at several points in the movie, and forcibly jamming the lady's hair down on her skull so that I could read the fucking words. Anyway. I resisted. My socialization as a toddler shall now be deemed a success!

And on to the movie. I'd almost have rather read up on this. Don't get me wrong: The actress Mirina Hands was pleasing to look at and blessed with a nubile internal organ package, but the movie was two hours and forty-eight minutes long from start to finish. There was no intermission and there was no food or drink allowed in the theatre. I might say that it was agonizing. And the sex scenes weren't even all that steamy. Did I mention that the movie dragged from the beginning, in which Connie Chatterly wanted to get her rocks off, two hours and forty-eight minutes to the end, in which Connie Chatterly has gotten her rocks off and is trying to set Parkin the gameskeeper up with a farm so that, if she leaves her crippled war veteran hubby Clifford, she can meat up (pun intended) with her lover later and continue dancing naked in the rain and fucking in the mud and placing flowers lovingly in the folds and creases of each other's genitalia? Yeah. The movie was long. And pretty damned boring.

The most exciting time that I had during the marathon movie was when, after a particularly "steamy" scene, when the theatre was death-tomb silent, one of the moviegoers had the misfortune (or audacity) to sneeze. And the sneeze did echo. And the sneeze was wet-sounding. And the sneeze was perfectly timed. And I did feel the shoulders of Meeg shaking silently next to me and I did feel the need to remove my arm from her shoulders before I lost it myself and burst into gales of barking laughter. And so I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from braying guffaws. I knew that I was doomed if I happened to look over at her, so I looked straight ahead...right into the rat's nest that was the perfumed lady's hair. Surreal moments...gotta love 'em.

Someone sneezed later. That time I was prepared. I had Tic-Tacs.

NEW BLOG I CAME ACROSS

Check this out. Not only is this woman intelligent and as cute as a button, but she also takes some kick-ass pictures. I particularly liked the shot of the shark surfacing.

Wow. Is all.

LITTLE MISS MUSTARD

I was talking with a friend today at work and, for some reason, the topic of tuna wraps came up. I am a fan of buying those spinach tortillas and making my tuna fish and wrapping the whole shebang up like a burrito and going to town on it. I mentioned what I like to put in my tuna fish: hard-boiled eggs, pickles, onions, sometimes walnuts, and an assortment of anything from green olives to jalapenos to finely-minced celery.

She opined that mustard was good, too.

I'd thought that I had heard her wrong. "You're saying that you put mustard in your tuna fish?" I asked.

She nodded. "Sure. It's really good." She took in my shocked expression and laughed. "What?!"

Okay, okay. I'll try something at least once before I totally denigrate it. After all, I'm the guy whose mother put Jell-O in the lemonade once, a long time ago, to make it sweeter. "Okay," I said, "I'll have to try it. It might be good."

We continued talking about mustard for some reason. The conversation got more and more surreal as it unfolded. I learned that mustard on ribs was good, too. "Boil the ribs," she said, "and then take them out and massage the mustard into the meat. Then throw 'em on the grill."

Mustard. Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with the spare ribs.

"My mom told me once that if you get hurt, like a scratch or something, rub mustard into the cut. It's supposed to help."

I goggled at her. Mustard. Mustard, mustard, mustard. She was wearing a yellow Catepillar sweatshirt. Mustard. I began to feel that I was an actor in a Forrest Gump satire. Whereas Bubba talked about nothing but shrimp and the multitude of ways in which it could be cooked and eaten, my friend seemed well on her way to revealing the thousand and one uses of The Yellow Wonder.

"You're not talking about regular yellow mustard, right?" I asked, clinging to the hope that she might have been talking about some kind of gourmet motherfucking shit, but, no, my antcipations were dashed. Dashed, I say!

"Yup. Regular mustard. Good ole Plochman's."

Our cigarettes injested, it was time to head back to class. "So," I said, "I take it you like mustard potato salad?"

"Nope," she said blithely. "I like the regular kind."

GOOD-BYE

Cancer is such a motherfucking bitch. It just moves so fast, sometimes.

Uncle Rodney died this morning at around 4:00, surrounded by his siblings and a good friend. We saw him last Thanksgiving; he'd mentioned severe back pain that he'd thought had come from lugging hundred pound bags of rock salt. In June he'd awoken to paralysis, a malignant tumor in his spine. Admitted to the hospital, he had learned that the cancer was Stage Four and had spread to his bones and other areas on his body.

Diagnosis was near Memorial Day. Passing was near Labor Day. So fast. Cancer is a bitch.

I saw Rod twice before he died. The first time was right after he'd been admitted to the hospital in Ypsilanti in June. The second time was when he had been in physical therapy in Birmingham. Both times he'd been bright-eyed and had had his wry sense of humor, his dark joking. He was stoic and strong, stronger than I would have been, I'm sure, having been bullywhapped with the dual diagnosis of terminal cancer and paralysis. As I prepared to leave after the first visit, he'd said something about his being a wuss. I remember that my heart had caught a bit in my throat. "No way," I'd said. "That's bullshit. You're as strong as anyone I've ever seen." He smiled but I don't think he had believed me. I spoke the truth, though.

Strong. Stoic. Full of cancer and paralyzed, I had never even seen a tear...or a why-me attitude.

Uncle Rodney, my father's little brother, died this morning at around 4:00. He was surrounded by people who loved him. Rod's only son, my cousin Dean, died in a car accident almost 20 years ago at age 18, and his passing crushed my uncle.

20 years ago this December, Dean left this three-dimensional world. His father followed today.

I'd like to think that they are together, wherever--be it Heaven or be it an alternate plane of existence--catching up on lost time. I like to think that, on that tenuous slope between this world and the next, Uncle Rod saw his only son, Dean, smiling and beckoning.

And I think that Uncle Rod climbed painlessly from his deathbed and walked to the Doorway and embraced his son in a bearhug that will never be broken.

God bless, Rod. Say hi to Dean, for me.

OVER-OVER-OVERDONE HYPASCITY

You know what I don't need? I don't need a Botox-ed relic from the '80s singing that he was raised in a small town. What I need is professional football. I need the vicious hits and I need the perfectly-placed passes and I need my boys on my fantasy squad to stand tall and produce me copious amounts of points.

Thanks for coming John Leopard Tittycommune. But go now, please. The door is over there.

I am ready for some...football.

CHERRY ON THE 'TUBE

They say that the first time hurts. I am here to tell you that that is not just a theory.

I had my small red pitted fruit popped today and I am here to tell you that I feel like I went 15 rounds with Mikey Tyson; I am muscle-fatigued and bloodied. My face is flushed with red and my breath hitches in my chest. My thighs are rock-hard and sore from over-exertion; my groin has been battered.

I have been initiated. I am "in the club," now.

I went tubing today. It's the first time that I have ever done that, and now I am feeling the effects. Yes, tubing--being pulled on an innertube behind a speeding boat. Being buffeted at 30 knots by the waves (the wake) and injesting intermittent splurges of water when one hits the waves just right.

Tubing. Yes. Tubing. What'd you think I was talking about? Sex?! No way, Jose. Not until I'm married, gosh dammit!

I had a friggin' blast. And now I want a boat. There is really almost nothing finer than enjoying a beautiful Labor Day on the deck of a friend's boat. Soaking up the rays, eating delicious sammiches, getting pummeled by the concrete water. Stepping blindly into an open hatch in which a portable tabletop lay in wait...slicing one's toe open.... Flip-flap, flip-flap.

I want to send a big ole Cyber-thanks out to Lees and her hubby Mike for so generously offering the invitation to spend the day on their brand-spanking-new speedboat. I had a great time. As did Meagan. Minor pains notwithstanding.

;-)