Monday, May 13, 2013

missed connections, part 2.

I wrote this one a while ago. It was taken down pretty quickly, so I wasn't able to get a screenshot of it. Language gets a little salty, so take heed, intrepid readers:


You: tall, skinny, bespectacled, and quiet, always hanging around bars in Ferndale.
Me: nondescript, zestful, and maybe a little amorous.

I saw you playing pool with a friend on one of my regular expeditions to the bar. I was already three sheets to the wind by the time I took notice of your rail-thin frame, but something about the way you handled that stick told me that I should pay attention to you. I sat and watched as you struggled through your game, quietly analyzing your body language and trying to piece together what kind of person you are. By the time you had racked up the balls for your second game, I had painted a picture of you in my head that I was positive was at least partially accurate. You're studious and industrious, yet reserved and dignified. You're confident, but not showy. You consider yourself more of an observer than a participant, but I was already entertaining thoughts of making you a participant in my seediest of fantasies, if only in my own imagination.

I recorded a video of you with my phone and rushed to the bathroom to indulge my carnal urges. I watched your movements on that phone's tiny screen, my petite fingers working their magic down the front of my skirt. Sitting on that toilet in that stall, we lived entire lives together in my own mind. I imagined approaching you and telling you what I thought of you and your lithe body. I imagined us sneaking away and fucking in the bathroom stall, my finger plunged firmly in your anus, milking your prostate as you thrusted away into my hairy honeypot. I imagined us dating, eventually marrying, growing old, and dying together, only to come back, reincarnated as two gypsy moths, who fucked even more voraciously than we did in our human forms. I fell in love with you as I watched you morosely stalk around that pool table, planning your next inadequate shot. I timed my orgasm with you sinking the eight ball, and I fell limp, thoroughly exhausted from my self-pleasure.

I've used that video countless times since that night. Sometimes I pretend that I have a penis, and I imagine you handling it in the same way that you handled that stick. You're Jake Gyllenhaal and I'm Heath Ledger, and we're two cowboys who can't quit each other. Other times, I picture myself as Scooby Doo, and you as Shaggy. You're holding a jar of peanut butter and your pants are around your ankles, and you have the most mischievous look in your eye. I pretend that I don't want that peanut butter badly enough, but I really do, and we both know it.

Once I had a dream that you were a tampon that I had accidentally inserted into my own urethra, and I had to go to the doctor to get you out. He put me up in stirrups and took a look, and after a minute, he informed me that there would just be no dislodging this tampon from my urethra without serious surgery, which I couldn't afford because I didn't have any insurance. I woke up believing that it was a sign from God that we were inseparable, and I masturbated as symbolic acceptance of our entwined fates.

Please, message me to let me know that you read this. We're already married in my mind. Be my tampon, and let me be your Scooby Doo.


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