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All I really want is girls before/after Poetry reading last nite. It was just the core group, but next month is supposed to be huge, with the release of the magazine and publicity all over.� Or so they say.� I don't believe much of what I am told these days, and its not my fault. It went well, I had piano accompanyment.� I fucking love piano accompanyment when I read. Went to the bar afterwards, and played darts.� I was up a couple of hundred points when I put them out of their misery.� Like riding a bike, its something you never forget. Lots of hotties down at the coffeeshop.� I'm thinkin' of goin' to play there tonite. And I met a really nice girl.� She's in the middle of separation or divorce or something, and�her mom was diagnosed with breast cancer.� Her husband, a cop, just up and left her one day.� It sounded like one of those things where they got married at age eighteen and stuff.� Which blows my mind to think that people still do that. She told me her whole story last month, and broke down crying, which I guess is something she doesn't normally do.� And she got up to read last month in sunglasses, while tears streamed down her face, and while she read, in the background on the guitar I softly played NIN "Hurt".� It was poems about loss and heartbreak. Anyway, she's a friend of one of the producers (so to speak) of the open mic.� I told her to come back next time, and she did.� She took my poems from me after I came off the mic and read them through, then later made a point to come and talk to me, getting my email address. "I email all the time," she said, "When I get home, I'll have seventy emails." "I won't.� Nobody emails me anymore.� Except people who want to help my erections."� I said, "All these offers for little blue pills, and its like, I don't have any problems with my erections.� I don't.� Not really.� All this help for weak, soft erections.� I mean, I don't know how the secret got out.� I don't know who told." More and more I seem to be getting a kick out of myself.� And being sarcastic, cynical and mean. Por exhemplo, (which is spanish for "for example"): Speaking to christie, the desk girl at the gym-- "Wow.� It looks like you took a shower." "What?" "I was just congratulating you on taking a shower." [pause] "I always take a shower.� That's...mean" "No, no, its a compliment.�� I mean, its about time." [end] And now this.� Rambling on with no internal censor about weak, soft erections.� I used to not talk quite as much. She got my email, and gave me a hug, saying she'd write me.� I figured she'd email the same night, and she did. And now in my in box at one of my various addresses, lurks this letter: Hi there! I want to write her back something like: 'We were in 'Nam�together.' or 'We were in 'Nam together, back in Fu-Bai, hill 503, me, K-Dog and Flip charged into a rifle nest of Charlie, until the Motherbird smoked 'em all out with a discharge of napalm.� K-Dog and Flip ate it, and you took care of me back at the hospital in the Trang.' 'No wait!� You were in the room when I snorted blow off of the hooker's ass in Vegas that week I spent buying quualudes off of the Imam, then reselling them to the faithful down in 'Zona.� What a week that was. Shucks.' Y'know, purely for shock value, I guess. But she's so nice, and been through so much in a short amount of time, I haven't been able to bring myself to do it. So the letter lurks, and lurks.� She's probably checked her email 3-5 times already. Then there's the girl at the coffee shop.� She spontaneously went for a walk with me months and months ago, which I thought was highly cool.� She broke up with her boyfriend, and moved out, and is now working full time at the coffee shop.� Her grandmother died and there seems to be upheaval in her life, but that's cool.� Everybody has upheaval of some sort.� She now only does massage for friends, and not at a shop. I lust after her, and the thought occurrs to me to buy a therapeutic massage from her.� I think its forty bucks for a half hour deal.� Maybe I'll try to talk her down, I don't know.� The payoff comes from me trying to, and hopefully succeeding, getting naked in her presence and having her rub me all over.� I'll totally know what to expect, y' know? I have several variations on that fantasy, which could easily become reality, if I pony up the dough.� I need some adventure, perhaps I should head to a casino, run up the forty dollars, come back, and let her rub me down while I struggle to contain my erection under a towel. Hell.� I wouldn't even try to hide it.� Not anymore.� Why bother?� The liklihood is that I'd probably keep trying to shed the towel.� Who knows how it would play out, and really, I'd probably feel weird on the walk-up to her place.� That's where it would hit for me, the decision stage, not the action stage, or the pre-action stage. Talking to a girl through IM, she said her decision time is when the clothes come off, and then she makes bad decisions.� Or something like that.� And she moves subconciously towards it before then. Myself, I make the decision way before hand.� Many of the girls I've met, if not all, I thought, made the decision in the first couple of minutes, and then most prospective guys proceed to disqualify themselves.� Then again, everybody is different. And last night, I made the decision way before hand not to be party tonite to any infidelity.� And I didn't. Proud of myself for that.� Kept looking at her mouth and getting a hard-on, though.� Couldn't help myself, and its like "Woah, that gave me a stiffy.� Do it again." I don't really think that specifically, but that's the mentality. And I laid my thoughts about Smeagol down.� "You're probably the only one in the history of the movie that has watched that and thought that." "Well, you know, I really can't control which way my mind goes." And its true. Meanwhile, the letter lurks.�Lurk, lurk, lurk.�I should just be nice. I also want to call the girl who cuts my hair, whom I'm totally sweet on, and ask to sniff her baby. She's had another person come up to her out of the blue and ask.� First it was a truck driver with a mullet.� Now it was a middle aged woman. Walked right up, said it, then took a snootful of baby. I laughed my ass off the first time, so she remembered it the second time, and made sure to tell me. I laughed hard this time.� I've also resolved to call her out of the blue and ask to sniff her child, because, well, it would amuse the hell out of me. It could break very badly, and I'd have to find someone else to cut my hair.� No small feat.� But I cannot resist. I don't know if I'll affect a voice or not. "Hello?� Please...I want to sniff your baby.� Let me sniff your baby."
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