|
Having Golfed
There are times when I have trouble believing it's me gluing together the chariot's rail, talking about steam accounts in a crowded, sunlit alcove with nearly a thousand fans around. At the gallery, Bruce had been banging his parts together for days, immersed in a full slip but pretending nothing was otherwise amiss. I couldn't help but notice that his zest broke ground, just before we had left for a little afternoon cheeseburger pizza at Applebee's. To think that I'm the center of someone else's fool system of metaphor, the closet dignitary hissed, running off into battle with a concealed phallus under his chainmail power miniskirt. You'd better get on top of pride allocation for dead-heads, pronto. It was topiary week at the club -- he had forgotten and shaved by accident. Rio, his hair curled up into fishhook sterling, cried: And the helmets are shaking their purple-dyed crests, and for the wearers of breast-plates the weavers are striking up the wise shuttle's songs to wake up the sleepers. As ten thousand desks shore up a runway of stormy maneuvers, Dharma called out for a new poncho longer than the "city block" version, and the crowd gathered like despondent murk in a day of waning filibusters. Dharma looked down the alley into my soul and detected short-haired girls romping on a plush sofa of Pam. By now Rio had finished Judith who rose from her bed of blinding torment. (A boiling berm between the lagoon and the oily pitcher's mound there just outside the sleeping area.) Return to your storage, Judith sighed, watching with pleasure as the reboot crawled back into the closet, disappearing behind her clothes. Poof. A cloud of teal, nine-inch threads. Judith dressed herself and headed for class. By this time the protestors had dwindled to just me and Julia's armpit dust bunnies. We made the slip into the offices of Verse, Inc but were held up in the lobby by a sudden overwhelming impulse to critique the corporate art snowboards hanging by the fireplace mockup. You really should have seen Pete's face when he unopened the sticky critique-of-self britches we pitched in to get him from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I found Colin and Rio's double later, standing by a holograph workstation, busily examining the layout of an interlocking molecule. Judith had gobbled up everything of Rio's, crystal, silver, sharpening the flashing iron. Despite the high scores, there was all this mess, the terrible, methodical fixedness of her sex-homicide and these still-smoking barrels that blew Rio's brains out (@ jackfrost.multiply.com ). Frankly, that guy -- Colin? -- was lucky to have only his dress sawed off in a frigid and, no doubt, in the minds of his people a vast support system of fellow reboots. So after class Judith and me climbed back into bed and played it safe, selecting the manga hentai porno. Michel's response cackled in branches of egghead syllogism. Apparently this jean jacket approach had managed to interpret nothing but hysteria among weak minds, he said to the students who had been servicing his yogurt machine all weekend in France. It was getting late, and let me tell you walking on 12-inch heels down the steep path to the main canyon had made me more than just a little punchy! I unbuttoned my supplies and pulled the 'turtle' out and began to think of golf, wondering if I had enough saliva to give her even one full coat. Michel and me argued wearing his silk purse across our mutual organizing potential the whole way; it was like Fox News, I misremembered because we had been knitting scarves as a leftover result of the Viagra all morning. Later we went to the movies. I was wearing the shorter corset again. I got it down to 56cms. Judith and me spent some time together. We stayed in a nice hotel. I got dressed in my looser corset in the morning, stockings and heels, part of my mind still refusing to believe I was doing this. I had gotten up a bit grumpy from the death metal the night before. A breakfast at Starbucks and we were off, wandering downtown. But what makes someone 'play golf'? What makes another man pour me a sidecar somewhere in ... the airport where we woke up around 4:30, got dressed and headed to the other airport. Problem being, we were playing golf later that day and had blue jeans on. It's at moments like this when I like to oppress Damian with a big hug avoiding his stapled lip-elbow-piercing charm bracelet arrangement. Half an hour later all these painful moments were over, we realized: I cleaned up, got dressed and Judith and me headed for the bus terminal (by the way, I got up as usual, did my 30 minutes of exercise, and got dressed to go). Later we went to the seminar, made love, and then ate lunch. After lunch we got in the air, the pilot made great time and we landed, chopped and awed. Sheesh! People are so sensitive when you monitor their caloric intake for three seconds down to a size minus 4. I'm sorry, we don't have to legislate revolution girdle pumps if you don't want to, Damian whinged. When we got home, we were relieved. Afterwards we arrived at the links, got off the bus, then Judith and me got up, did the usual routine: bathroom, brush teeth, got dressed and then slowly, very deliberately chewed off each other's clothes. There were eight balls of steam, all right, suspended in bacteria from our hands that were finally clean, really clean. I was standing vertical. I was amazed that my insides didn't fall out through the cargo-lock. The air vortex made the next thing we knew: the balls, the game, and probably the season were lost. |