1/10/12
GONNA BE THAT KIND OF PARTY
The first thing I looked for was the industrial sized barrel of generic snack mix. And there it was, looming high above the rest of the sad little snack table. Dwarfing the sad cheese plate and the bottles of generic soda- no, not even sodas, seltzer only this time- it sat, her handprint visible in the thin layer of dust. Julia had been putting that sad tub of snacks out at each and every single one of the lame parties she'd thrown since I met her. "Glad you could make it, Jim!" she said. I looked around the empty, dingy apartment and thought to myself I sure bet you are, Juliaand forced a smile across my face.
1/9/12
WAY OF THE WET FIST PART 1
Chenmin Yu walked down the street towards his school, the plastic of his grocery bag rustling against his leg. He paid it no heed, his mind lost in contemplating the recent troubles that had befallen his school. Mild annoyances abounded. There had been two instances where the windows of his school had been shattered in the night, likely by the thugs of the Toscani school. Childish prank calls rang at nearly every hour of the day, disrupting practice and preventing actual business form being accomplished. Mail had been stolen. A banana had been forced into the tailpipe of Master Yu’s Econoline van, and the lacquered yin yang he had painted himself over thirty years ago had been defaced with hundreds of tiny key scratches. And on top of all of that, his cherished koi had died the night before in the night.
“Well, sometimes fish just die Uncle,” said his nephew that morning, as his uncle clenched his knotty fists in decidedly un-Zen like calm. The small pond was sheltered by a small group of trees, planted when the school was new.
“Sometimes. But I would wager that if you were to taste that pond water, you would find it to be unusually salty.”
“…uhh how do you know how salty a koi pond usually tastes, Uncle?”
Master Yu stared On Pui down, until the teens eyes found something very interesting on the base of a mulberry tree. “Just go buy some more fish.”
On Pui often stepped on Master Yu’s lines when he was trying to be sagelike. It was irritating.
That morning, Master Yu buried the fish in the yard beneath the mulberry trees and tried to go about his day. He ventured forth into the bright sun for a quick stop to the corner market for a few groceries for his small kitchen in the rear of the school. A small bottle of iced tea, two cans of tuna, a bottle of soy sauce, a half gallon of milk. This last item he bought with great reluctance. Dairy products are commonly not consumed in Chinese culture. But though he was in fine shape for a man in his late fifties, Master Yu had grown older. He had come to fear the onset of osteoporosis as his middle age slowly meandered by. His nephew had sold him on many benefits of Western training –running for conditioning, weight training and the like- but the past he had resisted the most was the diet. Master Yu found milk to be cloying in his throat, the thick wetness not agreeing with his chi. He doubted that it did anything for his muscles or bones, but had to admit that his nephew grew taller than he or his brother had ever been when they were On Pui’s age. He had to accept that it may have been a direct result of the calcium and vitamin rich diet the boy had as a youth. Not that he would ever admit to such a thing.
He pondered this thought idly as he turned down the alley to the back gate of his school, grateful for the momentary distraction from the troubles with the Toscani Tong. Perhaps, I will have a full glass today, he thought. Then grimly looking up at the hot sun, rethought it. “It is too hot for milk,” he said aloud as his free hand fumbled in a pocket for his keys.
“Talking to yourself, old man? That’s an early sign of…senility.” came a snide voice from behind him. Master Yu sensed something, and tilted his head gingerly. A black, ceramic blade thrummed as it planted itself into the fence at the back of the alley. Whirling around, he crouched slightly into a defensive stance to find himself facing his enemies.
The Toscani Tong.
The Toscani Tong ‘grandmaster’ stood at the end of the alley, flanked on either side by two of his students. With snakeskin vests atop their jet black gis and long, black hair pulled back into oily ponytails they stood, sneering and posturing in what they likely thought to be ‘cool’ poses. To a man, all members were oddly pudgy and unnaturally tanned.
The Toscani Tong ‘grandmaster’ stood at the end of the alley, flanked on either side by two of his students. With snakeskin vests atop their jet black gis and long, black hair pulled back into oily ponytails they stood, sneering and posturing in what they likely thought to be ‘cool’ poses. To a man, all members were oddly pudgy and unnaturally tanned.
Orange, even. This upstart school had taken the underground kung fu scene by storm months back, leaving several lesser schools in shambles after of harassing their opponents to their wits end, and then dominating their harried opponents in fixed contests. And now they had their sights on the Yu-Ban school. In regulated competition, the Toscani Tong’s opponents would generally be so frustrated by the bullying tactics of the Toscani that the uncentered fighters would leap headlong into the fight, only to be cruelly defeated shortly thereafter.
Their fighting style was unorthodox, primarily based on countering the attack of an opponent, followed by an array of brutal chops and punches. They would not kick for whatever reason, although young On Pui’s theory was that they were simply
unable to. And for all their oily ‘cool’ and devious behaviors, even Master Yu had to admit that they had in fact a formidable fighting style.
What he did not understand was why they had chosen to devote themselves so totally to Steven Seagal.
1/8/12
Zombie Road Test: Driving During the Zombie Apocalypse
Keep it right at or just under the speed limit. Just because other drivers are driving faster than you, don’t think of it as a peer pressure thing. That also goes for when other drivers are driving on the wrong side of the road, or on lawns.
First thing: keep your hands at ten and two. You always want to keep your hands at ten and two. Both concentration’s sake, and also so if you need to react swiftly your hands are in the correct position. And we want to keep the windows up because the streets are teeming with the bloodthirsty living dead. Remember: concentration is key.
Okay, do you know what you did wrong there? No, in this case the last thing we need to do is come to a complete stop at a crosswalk. Remember: bloodthirsty living dead. If the road is clear, you should drive right along.
You can probably speed up a little.
Now, who has the right of way in this situation? That’s right, fire engines, police cars, and ambulances have the right of way. Moreso if the ambulance is on fire and careening wildly across the yellow line, like that one. That was very well done.
Hey, pay attention! You are the driver, you need to keep your eyes on the road and on your rear view mirrors and how fast you are driving! I will worry about the radio stations. It’s all the emergency broadcast system anyways.
Okay, you need to remember that in all cases the pedestrians have the right of way. Especially if they are housewives covered in blood, fleeing a horde of undead children.
Whoa! Hold on! You always, always need to come to a complete stop at an intersection! You could have hurt that man...oh, it’s one of them again. Why, God why? Why is this happening?! Is it judgment day?! Okay, I think we can let it slide this time.
In all situations you want to keep a full car’s length between your vehicle and anybody parked in front of you. Especially that convertible in front of us with the living dead all over it. Those poor fools. Those poor, damned fools. Why would you put the top down on a day like today? Why?!
Hands at ten and two!
1/5/12
DEATH BY TRUCKNUTZ
Well, well. Kudos to you Special Agent Lopez. It’s been quite the journey for both of us, and here we are. Finally face to face. May I call you Jillian? After all, you obviously know so much about me. It’s almost as if we were old friends, no?
But yes, yes. You think you know everything, don’t you? Oh, but you’ve barely scratched the surface. Oh my, yes. Jillian, how many victims of mine have you accounted for? Really? Is that all? Well I’m afraid that I regret to inform you that I have some secrets yet to share. Mmm, oh yes.
Perhaps I shall start at the beginning. The first time happened in Ridgeland, Georgia. It was a late night when it happened. The road was wet from a passing squall, and I was quite tired as I drove my Prius along I-95. The calming tones of National Public Radio soothing me; I was simply minding my own business when all of a sudden a truck cut me off, red brake lights flashing like the devil’s eyes. The shock of the near collision sending me careening off into the breakdown lane. I shall never forget the experience. It was a massive, red pickup. Some kind of F-150 or what have you, some classic colossal penis substitute.
Jillian, I was quite upset by this set of events. A goodly portion of my emotion was certainly fear; some discomfort from my soiled briefs, but a majority was my blinding rage. After taking a moment to collect myself and replace my drawers, I pulled back onto the highway for a short time, and then pulled off in search of a rest stop.
And imagine my luck: at the very first rest stop I came across, there was that same big, red pickup truck. It was parked out behind a dilapidated truck stop, by a dumpster. I parked next to the truck immediately. I was going to give this man a piece of my mind!
The parking lot was deserted, it was quite late after all. But when I got out of the car and walked over to him, he walked by me brusquely; hitting my shoulder with his own. And he said under his breath: “Sorry about yore drivin’, faggot.”
Can you believe it? *I* was not the one who made the error! And why did he assume I was a homosexual? Because I drove a hybrid? Because I care, strongly about gas mileage and sustainability? I was enraged. Not only did this, this...primitive almost kill me on the interstate not ten minutes before, but now he laughs at me and insults me? I’d never felt such, I guess “road rage” before in my life.
It was then that my eyes fell upon them, hanging from his trailer hitch. They were bugglegum pink and they swayed slightly in the breeze, like a ripe peach. Or peaches, as the case may be.
I don’t know what came over me, Jillian. But I bent down, plucked his Trucknutz from beneath his bumper, and proceeded to beat him to death with them.
I went into a fugue state, I think. Everything went red and then white and then reality started to focus again and...there I was, crouched over his broken, bloodied face with a novelty scrotum clutched in my fist. And while you may think me mad, Jillian: as soon as I realized what I had done...I accepted it. I rejoiced. And I knew then what I must do.
To date, I have beaten men, women, and not a few children -teenagers, I mean to say- to death with every colored Trucknut in the rainbow. Green ones, red ones, blue ones, chrome ones, Trucknutz in gold leaf, camouflage, so many of the horrifying ‘flesh’ colored ones. They do not look like flesh, Jillian. at least...not my own.
Why was I never caught? Why, I would simply replace the bloodied bollocks to the trailer hub where I had gotten them and simply...leave. Hiding in plain sight? Not really. It’s just that most police feel the same thing, that most all people feel when they see a set of plastic testicles attached to a pickup truck. Revulsion. Put yourself in the shoes of your typical, rural policeman. It’s three in the morning, you’ve been ripped from your warm bed in your double-wide trailer from your three children (only the last of them born in wedlock), investigating a grisly murder in the pouring rain in the middle of the night in some godforsaken truckstop...”Oh well boy howdy, guess I’ll shine my flashlight around and look for some clues....say, what are those? BALLS? Gross. I’m gonna look over there now.”
Oh, does that sound stupid? But then again Jillian, how long had your special task force been searching for me? If you could go back in time, I’m sure you could find a great many unsolved murders and tie them around my neck if you were to check for fingerprints wrapped around the Truck ‘Vas Deferenz’ of those little plastic novelties.
But I grow weary of this. I know now, the mistake that I had made. There I was, driving the highways so late at night in an effort to fight my little class war all on my own...a losing battle, to be sure. And after so many nights attempting to cleanse the highways of these morons, I am certainly doomed to a life behind bars. And behind these bars, I shall likely find more men of the same caliber who felt that hanging artificial testicles from their vehicles to be so very clever.
I have no one to blame but myself, and only you to congratulate Special Agent Jillian Lopez. Yes, congratulations. Kudos to you. I’m sure you will receive the highest accolades from the FBI, no? perhaps even the President himself will congratulate you for your work. You may rest your weary head tonight, content in knowing that you have made the roads safe once again for people to drive about with plastic testicles.
But I also know this, Jillian. Every time you see a pair swinging from a trailer hitch, or crudly fixed with wire to the bumper of a Hyundai- you will think of me.
And now, I invoke my right to counsel.
1/4/12
TELEVISION
I'm watching this show about hoarders on TLC. IT's horrible. The house is covered in trash and roaches and black widow spiders and used syringes and used sanitary napkins all over the place...it's pretty wild. But I watch, mildly.
And then a commercial for that Toddlers and Tiaras comes on, and to THAT I say aloud "fucking gross."
I don't know what this means.
And then a commercial for that Toddlers and Tiaras comes on, and to THAT I say aloud "fucking gross."
I don't know what this means.
THE ONLY LOGICAL ANSWER WAS ARSON
The brothers got the call, and it was the worst possible one: they were trapped. The investigators from the bank had concluded their findings, completed their report, and turned it over to the federal prosecutors. So yes, they were completely trapped. After a long, long minute of painful, panicked silence they looked one another in the eyes; nodded and set to work tearing their office apart. Wordless and frantic; they ripped open reams of paper for the copier, tore apart an old dust-covered phone book, an old pile of newspapers in the break room, and seven packets of yellow and orange sticky notes. The torn papers they collected into haphazard twists and irregular bouquets which they flung throughout the office; into empty cubicles and the break room and the coat closet and the server room and finally back into their own office. Breathing heavily, the two stood at exit; staring around at the ruins of their doomed little empire. And then again without speaking a single word, they each lit themselves a twist of shredded papers and set the room ablaze.
1/3/12
MY ALLERGIES ARE KILLING ME
Excuse me, sir? Sir. Would you and your date mind keeping it down a tad? No, you’re not being too loud. It’s just that I’m allergic to sarcasm.
There is no need for laughter. I’m not trying to be some kind of touchy-feely, New Age whiner. I’m not making some pedantic statement on human nature, a feeble attempt to comment on how I abhor our cruel, post-modern society and refuse to engage in it. No, your sarcasm is literally making me break out in hives. If you keep it up, my breathing will become labored, and then I will go into anaphylactic shock and perhaps expire.
Sir, I will have you know this is a legitimate allergy. I have had it confirmed as real by both an herbalist and by two out of three homeopaths. This is my life, a constant struggle. I’ve lived with this my entire life, and let me tell you. It has not been a picnic.
There, right there. “So you’re allergic to sarcasm?” Do you see the red bumps that are breaking out on my forearms? That was not helpful. The very tone of your voice, that inflection on the word ‘sarcasm’ was enough to start the process. And now, the hives.
It first happened when I was in middle school. We were coming back in from gym class, and I slipped on the wet tiles in the locker room. I didn’t fall, but I remember Paul McHenry shouted out “Oh, smooth move Ex-Lax!” and I fell to the ground with my throat closed up and my eyes swelling shut.
And then again in high school, school picture day. “Hey, I really like the new look. That’s super cool. Maybe next time you should try and do them so that they touch in the back.” How was I to know that the lines shaved in my temples were off-center? And how about a little bit of empathy, huh? It’s not my fault that my mom couldn’t find the ruler. I nearly died that day. Thankfully, I had started carrying an epipen when I was fourteen.
At least on most occasions, I know when it’s sarcasm so I can put a pencil between my teeth to help with the seizures. But college was tougher. A much smarter class of people, half of the time they were being sarcastic and I didn’t even realize it. I had a professor who took me to task on a term paper I had written. “Why yes, I suppose that Plato’s Cave could have illustrated man’s sense of imagination while addressing the very nature of education as well.” Writ in a pen as red as my inflamed cheeks and sinuses.
I didn’t know he was being sarcastic until I was editing my essay in the library later that evening. I ended up projective vomiting for two days and ended up in hospital.
We settled out of court with the university.
Sir, I’m trying to explain it to you. I will stay in my apartment for days at a time, trying to avoid people so I won’t even have to risk encountering any sarcastic comments. I try and restrict most all of my social transactions through the internet, because they say that sarcasm doesn’t translate through the internet as well.
But you know what? It surely does. They lie. A single comments page on Youtube might kill me one of these days. I’d trade this for the worst peanut allergy any day of the week. They have to label foods to warn you about peanut allergies. I wish they could label websites.
Worst of all are the paramedics. I guess they call it gallows humor, but I call it singularly unhelpful. Their attitudes might help them deal with the pressures of their job, but you would think that if they came to my home on a monthly or weekly basis that they would understand not to say things like “Oh, what happened? Were the Geek Squad mean to you again?” Or “Good to see you again!” Yes, I know that tone. Perhaps if they could develop the slightest modicum of empathy for my ailment they wouldn’t have to drag that crash cart to my third floor walk up.
Thank you, it really does feel like I’m the only person in the world with problems. It really is hard to live like this. Thank you for understanding.
...wait, what?
There is no need for laughter. I’m not trying to be some kind of touchy-feely, New Age whiner. I’m not making some pedantic statement on human nature, a feeble attempt to comment on how I abhor our cruel, post-modern society and refuse to engage in it. No, your sarcasm is literally making me break out in hives. If you keep it up, my breathing will become labored, and then I will go into anaphylactic shock and perhaps expire.
Sir, I will have you know this is a legitimate allergy. I have had it confirmed as real by both an herbalist and by two out of three homeopaths. This is my life, a constant struggle. I’ve lived with this my entire life, and let me tell you. It has not been a picnic.
There, right there. “So you’re allergic to sarcasm?” Do you see the red bumps that are breaking out on my forearms? That was not helpful. The very tone of your voice, that inflection on the word ‘sarcasm’ was enough to start the process. And now, the hives.
It first happened when I was in middle school. We were coming back in from gym class, and I slipped on the wet tiles in the locker room. I didn’t fall, but I remember Paul McHenry shouted out “Oh, smooth move Ex-Lax!” and I fell to the ground with my throat closed up and my eyes swelling shut.
And then again in high school, school picture day. “Hey, I really like the new look. That’s super cool. Maybe next time you should try and do them so that they touch in the back.” How was I to know that the lines shaved in my temples were off-center? And how about a little bit of empathy, huh? It’s not my fault that my mom couldn’t find the ruler. I nearly died that day. Thankfully, I had started carrying an epipen when I was fourteen.
At least on most occasions, I know when it’s sarcasm so I can put a pencil between my teeth to help with the seizures. But college was tougher. A much smarter class of people, half of the time they were being sarcastic and I didn’t even realize it. I had a professor who took me to task on a term paper I had written. “Why yes, I suppose that Plato’s Cave could have illustrated man’s sense of imagination while addressing the very nature of education as well.” Writ in a pen as red as my inflamed cheeks and sinuses.
I didn’t know he was being sarcastic until I was editing my essay in the library later that evening. I ended up projective vomiting for two days and ended up in hospital.
We settled out of court with the university.
Sir, I’m trying to explain it to you. I will stay in my apartment for days at a time, trying to avoid people so I won’t even have to risk encountering any sarcastic comments. I try and restrict most all of my social transactions through the internet, because they say that sarcasm doesn’t translate through the internet as well.
But you know what? It surely does. They lie. A single comments page on Youtube might kill me one of these days. I’d trade this for the worst peanut allergy any day of the week. They have to label foods to warn you about peanut allergies. I wish they could label websites.
Worst of all are the paramedics. I guess they call it gallows humor, but I call it singularly unhelpful. Their attitudes might help them deal with the pressures of their job, but you would think that if they came to my home on a monthly or weekly basis that they would understand not to say things like “Oh, what happened? Were the Geek Squad mean to you again?” Or “Good to see you again!” Yes, I know that tone. Perhaps if they could develop the slightest modicum of empathy for my ailment they wouldn’t have to drag that crash cart to my third floor walk up.
Thank you, it really does feel like I’m the only person in the world with problems. It really is hard to live like this. Thank you for understanding.
...wait, what?
1/1/12
I'M NO JANE AUSTEN
I mean hell, I'm not even a Harlequin romance novelist.
“Master Wentworth? Please come here,” shouted Penelope, her voice ringing out as loudly and clear as a crystal bell. “I have...need of you.” She smiled coquettishly to herself at the last; her rosy cheeks turning rosier at her saucy double entendre, her deep green eyes looking downwards. One hand drifted up to snag a dangling crimson ringlet, and twisted idly as she waited nervously. No answer came, and her smile faded away as she grew fearful. Was she too late? Did she wait too long to come? Had her beloved absconded with that accursed schoolmarm?
But then Penelope heard the roar of the toilet in the water closet and she smiled, her hopes soaring once again. Her slight smile erupted into a breathy gasp as the door opened. Charles Wentworth the Fourth emerged from the steaming bathroom, clad in naught but a fluffy, white towel with turtles on it. His broad, hairy chest was dripping with moisture, his thick, lustrous auburn hair wet and flat and with not a little bit of foam from his shampoo. “Penelope? Why...I...I mean, milady Swaddlesworth.” he said, straightening his broad back and shoulders. “Milady. How might I be of service?”
“Oh, Charles. Haven’t you had enough of these silly games?” Her lips spread in a broad smile, but her eyes sought his, pleading. Charles lifted his spectacles from a counter inside the bathroom door and furiously tried to wipe the steam from them to return her questing gaze. “Charles, I cannot pretend any longer. You have served our family long enow! The time has come for us to do away with the charades, and the games, and the charades and the games that we play for the sake of propriety, damnable propriety. I love you, Charles. And I know that you love me.”
Charles blinked, gasped. His mighty adam’s apple bobbing in that well-muscled throat with delighted surprise as like an apple bobs upon the sea. “Milady...oh, Penelope. I have so longed to hear such words...from you! From you.” He stepped forward, eyes squinted against the soapy water that now streamed down his broad forehead.
She went to him, ample bosom heaving. “Charles, I cannot live another moment without the touch of your lips against mine. I am like a turtle, to always see the sea but never to drink deep of it!”
“Well, turtles can breathe air,” replied Charles, wrapping his powerfully built arms around her waist, his grip warm with lust and bathwater.
“A tortoise then! Oh dear Charles, ever the tutor! Kiss me, dearest Charles! Oh, do kiss me!”
And he did, his lips crushing down upon hers as the sunset does upon the distant horizon. They kissed long and hard, sharing hot, gasping breaths and unpleasant, painful flinches as their front teeth clicked together.
Lost in passion, Penelope tried to speak again, but for Charles broad tongue stifling her lusty dialogue. Soon, he turned his attention to the soft angles of her neck, her ear. As he nuzzled her she gasped in ecstasy as his breath rasped in her ear, deafening her. “Charles, oh my darling Charles.” She pressed her face into his wet hair, to breathe in his scent but instead inhaled a small amount of stinging shower foam. She gasped again, this time in pain as the soap ran into her left eye, but Charles could not tell the difference.
He pulled away from her abruptly, and gazed deeply into her one open eye with his two brown ones, deep and soulful. His manhood was pressed painfully against her hoop skirt, but he did not care. He tenderly caressed her face with his left hand, a tender smile passing across his lips. “Penelope...” he murmured; trailing into silence as he had forgotten what he was going to say next.
Charles reached up with his big right hand and grasped the front of her bodice and tore at it savagely to free her heaving bosom. But they did not reckon on the sturdy fibers of her dress resisting his manly grasp, and instead of freeing her heaving breasts Charles instead jerked her back and forth violently, like a lovely rag doll in the fists of a petulant child. “Stop...STOP! I’ll do it already! ...beloved...” snapped Penelope, lovingly.
She fiddled with the laces and snaps and buttons and hooks of her dress, and within mere minutes she was naked. Soft pink and freckled flesh, she pressed her flesh against Charles’ own, her wet lips dancing across his chest hairs. She longed to kiss each and every one, though this task would take her a lifetime as he was quite the burly man. He moaned softly in pleasure, as he gently cupped her broad buttocks; one in each hand. He handled them gently but firmly, as the baker handles his loaves. Tender and patient, but at the same time knowing that a good, firm kneading was the way to do it.
“Charles, dearest Charles! I can take it no longer! Take me! I beseech you my darling, take me right here! Right now! Take me! Make me yours! Oh my love, I need to feel you, every bit of you! I need you! I want you! You tempt me so, I adore you I ADORE you! I love you, oh how I love you! Oh darling Charles, take me, make me a woman! Complete me, ravish me, love me! I can wait no longer! I need you now, no more waiting, take me now! I love you so, I need you so, take me!” she begged him, words tumbling over one another like snowflakes above a roaring fireplace.
“Yes!” he replied.
He lifted her then, his damp and cold towel falling unwanted to the floor about his ankles. stumbling a little over his towel, Charles laid her gently upon the bed and then pressed himself upon her, their lips and tongues dancing together like a pair of locomotives dancing in and out of their tunnels.
He pressed himself down onto her, into her and met her eyes. “I have longed for this moment for longer than I think you could ever know, dearest Penelope.” he whispered, again caressing her cheek softly with the blade of his hand. A broad smile crossed her lips as she hooked her ankles around his waist.
Ribbons of ecstasy tickling their souls, the purest pleasure of their congress vibrating through their physical forms as their hearts and minds soared on waves of joy. And then they were off, suddenly merged into one perfect being. A being made of two souls, molded into one purest form by a lifetime of longing and stolen glances, by years of unrequited love. In this moment, both Penelope and Charles were finally complete, were finally together. Those broad, gaping holes in their hearts were finally filled with the warm, pulsing light of love. In that moment, the couple knew purest happiness.
And then that moment passed, and in the next moment Charles’ body was wracked with spasms of more personal pleasure a tenfold more intense than the shared pleasure that they had both experienced a moment ago. Charles shook with the intensity of this feeling, his jaw clicking open and shut with its force. Small bubbles of spit formed and popped at his mouth, raining down onto Penelope’s sweaty breasts in tiny droplets of saliva.
And then it was done, Charles collapsing heavily onto Penelope’s suddenly rigid form. “Oh my darling, my darling! Sweetest Penelope, I never knew such bliss.” He wept now, his body limp and spent. “Such rapture! In all of my lonely years in this land, I have not felt such passion but in the deepest throes of secret, sweaty dreams. My love, my love! Tell me my love, tell me that you share this blessed euphoria!”
After a moment, Penelope replied. “...yeah, great."
THE SUN SETS ON PASSION
“Master Wentworth? Please come here,” shouted Penelope, her voice ringing out as loudly and clear as a crystal bell. “I have...need of you.” She smiled coquettishly to herself at the last; her rosy cheeks turning rosier at her saucy double entendre, her deep green eyes looking downwards. One hand drifted up to snag a dangling crimson ringlet, and twisted idly as she waited nervously. No answer came, and her smile faded away as she grew fearful. Was she too late? Did she wait too long to come? Had her beloved absconded with that accursed schoolmarm?
But then Penelope heard the roar of the toilet in the water closet and she smiled, her hopes soaring once again. Her slight smile erupted into a breathy gasp as the door opened. Charles Wentworth the Fourth emerged from the steaming bathroom, clad in naught but a fluffy, white towel with turtles on it. His broad, hairy chest was dripping with moisture, his thick, lustrous auburn hair wet and flat and with not a little bit of foam from his shampoo. “Penelope? Why...I...I mean, milady Swaddlesworth.” he said, straightening his broad back and shoulders. “Milady. How might I be of service?”
“Oh, Charles. Haven’t you had enough of these silly games?” Her lips spread in a broad smile, but her eyes sought his, pleading. Charles lifted his spectacles from a counter inside the bathroom door and furiously tried to wipe the steam from them to return her questing gaze. “Charles, I cannot pretend any longer. You have served our family long enow! The time has come for us to do away with the charades, and the games, and the charades and the games that we play for the sake of propriety, damnable propriety. I love you, Charles. And I know that you love me.”
Charles blinked, gasped. His mighty adam’s apple bobbing in that well-muscled throat with delighted surprise as like an apple bobs upon the sea. “Milady...oh, Penelope. I have so longed to hear such words...from you! From you.” He stepped forward, eyes squinted against the soapy water that now streamed down his broad forehead.
She went to him, ample bosom heaving. “Charles, I cannot live another moment without the touch of your lips against mine. I am like a turtle, to always see the sea but never to drink deep of it!”
“Well, turtles can breathe air,” replied Charles, wrapping his powerfully built arms around her waist, his grip warm with lust and bathwater.
“A tortoise then! Oh dear Charles, ever the tutor! Kiss me, dearest Charles! Oh, do kiss me!”
And he did, his lips crushing down upon hers as the sunset does upon the distant horizon. They kissed long and hard, sharing hot, gasping breaths and unpleasant, painful flinches as their front teeth clicked together.
Lost in passion, Penelope tried to speak again, but for Charles broad tongue stifling her lusty dialogue. Soon, he turned his attention to the soft angles of her neck, her ear. As he nuzzled her she gasped in ecstasy as his breath rasped in her ear, deafening her. “Charles, oh my darling Charles.” She pressed her face into his wet hair, to breathe in his scent but instead inhaled a small amount of stinging shower foam. She gasped again, this time in pain as the soap ran into her left eye, but Charles could not tell the difference.
He pulled away from her abruptly, and gazed deeply into her one open eye with his two brown ones, deep and soulful. His manhood was pressed painfully against her hoop skirt, but he did not care. He tenderly caressed her face with his left hand, a tender smile passing across his lips. “Penelope...” he murmured; trailing into silence as he had forgotten what he was going to say next.
Charles reached up with his big right hand and grasped the front of her bodice and tore at it savagely to free her heaving bosom. But they did not reckon on the sturdy fibers of her dress resisting his manly grasp, and instead of freeing her heaving breasts Charles instead jerked her back and forth violently, like a lovely rag doll in the fists of a petulant child. “Stop...STOP! I’ll do it already! ...beloved...” snapped Penelope, lovingly.
She fiddled with the laces and snaps and buttons and hooks of her dress, and within mere minutes she was naked. Soft pink and freckled flesh, she pressed her flesh against Charles’ own, her wet lips dancing across his chest hairs. She longed to kiss each and every one, though this task would take her a lifetime as he was quite the burly man. He moaned softly in pleasure, as he gently cupped her broad buttocks; one in each hand. He handled them gently but firmly, as the baker handles his loaves. Tender and patient, but at the same time knowing that a good, firm kneading was the way to do it.
“Charles, dearest Charles! I can take it no longer! Take me! I beseech you my darling, take me right here! Right now! Take me! Make me yours! Oh my love, I need to feel you, every bit of you! I need you! I want you! You tempt me so, I adore you I ADORE you! I love you, oh how I love you! Oh darling Charles, take me, make me a woman! Complete me, ravish me, love me! I can wait no longer! I need you now, no more waiting, take me now! I love you so, I need you so, take me!” she begged him, words tumbling over one another like snowflakes above a roaring fireplace.
“Yes!” he replied.
He lifted her then, his damp and cold towel falling unwanted to the floor about his ankles. stumbling a little over his towel, Charles laid her gently upon the bed and then pressed himself upon her, their lips and tongues dancing together like a pair of locomotives dancing in and out of their tunnels.
He pressed himself down onto her, into her and met her eyes. “I have longed for this moment for longer than I think you could ever know, dearest Penelope.” he whispered, again caressing her cheek softly with the blade of his hand. A broad smile crossed her lips as she hooked her ankles around his waist.
Ribbons of ecstasy tickling their souls, the purest pleasure of their congress vibrating through their physical forms as their hearts and minds soared on waves of joy. And then they were off, suddenly merged into one perfect being. A being made of two souls, molded into one purest form by a lifetime of longing and stolen glances, by years of unrequited love. In this moment, both Penelope and Charles were finally complete, were finally together. Those broad, gaping holes in their hearts were finally filled with the warm, pulsing light of love. In that moment, the couple knew purest happiness.
And then that moment passed, and in the next moment Charles’ body was wracked with spasms of more personal pleasure a tenfold more intense than the shared pleasure that they had both experienced a moment ago. Charles shook with the intensity of this feeling, his jaw clicking open and shut with its force. Small bubbles of spit formed and popped at his mouth, raining down onto Penelope’s sweaty breasts in tiny droplets of saliva.
And then it was done, Charles collapsing heavily onto Penelope’s suddenly rigid form. “Oh my darling, my darling! Sweetest Penelope, I never knew such bliss.” He wept now, his body limp and spent. “Such rapture! In all of my lonely years in this land, I have not felt such passion but in the deepest throes of secret, sweaty dreams. My love, my love! Tell me my love, tell me that you share this blessed euphoria!”
After a moment, Penelope replied. “...yeah, great."
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