Tuesday, April 28, 2009

scorched earth policy


If change it was then let it come, I was ready for it and more than ready.

You know the guy at work who doesn’t give a quick shit about anything? The one who the supervisors really can’t tolerate because the very existence of such a seemingly carefree presence inside their holy temple of the almighty paycheck is an affront to their own fragile dignity and an intolerable challenge to their flimsy self worth? The guy whose mere entrance into an office is the equivalent of someone pulling the pin on a grenade and rolling it into the room? The happy asshole that never seems to be bothered by anything no matter how bad things get? The one who comes back to the salt mine smiling and whistling a happy tune the day after he’s burned his last sick day? The misfit? The fuckup? The loser?

I was that guy but I had lots of company.

The place was the railroad and I’d been working on it for ten long years and had heard all the jokes but go ahead if it makes you feel any better. I worked in the largest RR station in the second largest city in the good ole U.S. of A., right smack in the middle of the country. Every passenger train in the nation that was heading from one coast to the other or anywhere in between passed in and through our little world, along with 20 or 30,000 suburbanite commuters dashing out of their morning trains and into their office cells and then bolting back to their evening express’ and subdivision prisons each and every day.
It was fun in the winter to watch the crowds freeze their asses to work while you kicked back to sip coffee and it was much better in summer when you got to enjoy the non-stop parade of tits and asses bouncing into and out of the station. Dodging supervisors in order to enjoy the sights wasn’t always easy but after 10 years most RRers considered work to be “optional” and avoided its assorted indignities with collective blue collar aplomb.

A lean decade ago I’d been busting my ass selling hardware and outdoor BBQ grills during the day and then liquor at night. I wasn’t any good at either but I did become adept at robbing the supply of airplane bottles (back in those days they sold them off a rack right behind the counter) from the store’s inventory and in some ways was sorry to see that gig go but I had an apartment full of mini-bottles to ease the pain and I hadn’t yet sold a single BBQ grill at the hardware store so when a drinking buddy mentioned to me about a job on the RR (sweetest deal you’ll ever find he assured me) it sounded like an idea. He’d been there sucking it up for years and enjoying his good life and I figured maybe it was my time. I was damn grateful.

I started off my illustrious RR career humping food to the kitchen cars on long haul trains and in my 10 years there I’d done most everything imaginable while I worked my way up to Janitor. It was a big place with plenty of opportunity to go nowhere.

There was the actual Union Station, which had been built in 1921 and remodeled in the 80’s before I got there; its exterior buildings squatted over two massive city blocks (one building a neo-classical Grand Old Lady and the other the ubiquitous 70’s glass and steel box brick) and were surrounded in two squares by eight main downtown arteries with traffic and an army of taxis buzzing it like twin hives. One building was strictly for office use and the other contained a health club for yuppies along with numerous shopping opportunities and both buildings were jammed with fast food places (and the army of workers that were needed to staff and clean them) to feed the huge herds of lazy fat ass office slugs who poured in daily to stuff their faces with grease. There were even a couple of pathetic bars catering to the commuters that wanted to talk big city tough before they walked all of a hundred yards to get on their trains back to their split levels and faceless condos with their sterile oasis parking lots filled and their 4-wheeled pride and joy waiting faithfully to confirm the righteousness of their existence.

It all got going around 5 in the morning and didn’t stop until after midnight. Depending on the season and where you stood around the Station, it was a great place to waste time or hunt for pussy. If you had to work somewhere there were worse gigs, I’d had a lot of them.

Then there were the Yards- About 3 miles of tracks stretching north and 3 miles south along the river with the station right in the middle like the head of a giant octopus. Around a hundred commuter trains shared the 20 or so tracks with Passenger rail trains daily. It was no small operation. All those miles of track required daily maintenance and it required working in the sub-zero winter and blazing hot summer to do it and so, consequently, I avoided those jobs whenever possible.

Just under a mile south from the station was the largest post office in the nation and the tracks ran right underneath it. We hauled mail on the trains and had a huge decrepit facility for loading, unloading and shipping it up top to the postal guys. This cooperative enterprise had been in existence since the 20’s and had seen its better days.

The mail terminal was an ancient 3 level labyrinth (only one of the levels being above ground) filled with vast tunnels too long to walk through (so we raced through them on little battery operated tugs used to haul heavy loads), dim 30’s lighting, cubbyholes, steam pipes, chutes, ladders, dilapidated conveyer belts that went nowhere, weird mad scientist machine shops and decrepit locker and lunch rooms used for sleeping, drinking and watching TV.
Sometimes we had lunch there too.
The tunnels were so endless that a legion of cats had taken up residence years ago and roamed freely as they feasted on leftovers and whatever else lived down there. Everyone was happy they were there because we all considered the alternative, which surely would’ve been monster horrorshow rats.

The mail terminal had once been a booming enterprise.
Back in the depression years and all the way through the 60’s it’d been the one sure place where a man could make a honest living and get a decent paycheck to feed his kids with, but in the 90’s, it had fallen on hard times and its giant ghostly caverns of disrepair, echoing past gold rushes, were nothing but a sad reminder of the beginning of the end. Still, somehow, the mail terminal crews (now numbering only about 50 when once they’d been in the hundreds) retained a bitter, salty pride and tenaciously defended their territory. During rush hours when all the trains in the station would be gunning their engines at idle and pouring diesel fumes everywhere we’d crawl out of our underground locker/lounge/lair to go up top and sit and wait for the mail cars to back into our docks so we could pop the doors and unload. Sometimes we’d have to wait for 10 or 20 minutes, sometimes more and while you were up there you could see the air, it was an oily blue and it smelled of gasoline. The Old-Timers would plant themselves in their seats, light up and blow clouds of cigarette smoke through that oily blue air as if they were kicking back on a sunny beach next to the ocean while working on their tans. That was how they were. The collective personality was that of a mean old dog who knows his best days are past but is patiently waiting for you to come just a tiny bit closer so he can show you what he’s got left.
The favorite saying over there, snarled at all newcomers who dared invade their domain, was-
“You don’t want to work, go home.”
The hostility bubbling out of their mouths as they spit the words at you. I always felt perfectly comfortable there.
As it was considered “man’s work” women were generally unwelcome and, reading the writing on the wall, generally avoided the lovely environment altogether.

Then another mile or 2 down the river were a trailer and another loading dock used to transport truck containers onto and off of the trains. This department was dominated by a 17 year and up crew of 7 seniority drunks who were so solitary, surly and out of control that everyone, supervisors included, was happy to leave them alone and adrift at the end of our RR outpost. A lot of fellow employees tried to tag my buddy as the ringleader but I happened to know that he had no real interest in the position, perhaps it came to him naturally but to be sure he had no designs on it. They were known as the “River Rats”. No one went there to check on them and no one cared to and their place ran just fine until some management genius got the bright idea to fix the situation.
While the Rats were there the place ran like clockwork and had made a profit ( in spite of or because of their drunken antics no one knew), one of the few enterprises on the RR to do so, but after the genius’ solution it was another government money pit and the Rats headed back to the Station. I was already there.

I’d done just about every job in the place by that time. I’d hauled baggage, hauled food, hauled garbage- shipped, wrapped, loaded and unloaded every conceivable bike, bag, box and body- swept, mopped, scrubbed, wiped, vacuumed, power-washed and detailed every inch of its millions of square feet- I’d took tickets, checked baggage, answered questions, gave directions, fork-lifted pallets, hand-cranked wheelchairs holding giant fat asses into and off of the cars- I’d kicked ass, kissed ass and got booted in the ass more times than I could count and still I came back for more. You see I didn’t know much else.

So after my long decade of soul destroying labor and mind numbing monotony that zoo of a RR reminded me of nothing more, and certainly nothing less, than jail and in more ways than one.

First but not least, it was populated by what had to be the absolute lowest end of the social spectrum- dropouts, lead heads, mental defectives, lazy malcontents, the otherwise unemployable and guys that didn’t have the drive to become drug dealers. And scattered into the mix, just to keep it interesting I guess, just plain unlucky fucks who had somehow ended up there through little fault of their own. I fit right in somewhere and tried not to think about that too much.

Second, it’s overriding objective, the order of the day, the main theme on a minute to minute, hour after hour, day by day till the days turned into months and then those months turned into years grind and you finally understood why those nuts show up at work with automatic weapons; it’s very reason for existence seemed to be to finally, utterly and completely crush all individual hope of something better then ceaselessly pound the inmates into complete submission while simultaneously pulverizing any dreams of escape until the lowlifes who ran the place (desperate lifers themselves clinging tooth and nail to any firm hope of income and security) had everyone marching in line and saying “Yes sir” and “No sir” most sincerely only because it fit comfortably into their tiny vision of their tiny, dried up, lifeless world. Well maybe it wasn’t that much fun but almost.

And just like jail what you mostly got in response was drugs, drunks, fights, passion plays and bitter hatreds simmering steadily in slow-witted but deadly animal brains. The cast of characters was about the same as the slam too: every breed of nut, goofball, freak, psychopath, straight-john, honest-Abe, hustler, bullshit-artist, dope-fiend, boozehound, cocksucker, snitch and just plain fuck-ups represented equally, stirred into a hot pot and left to boil as soon as you punched the clock. It was about the same color as jail too. About 80% black, 10% white, 5% Latin and 5% Other. I was in the Other category and wouldn’t have had it any other way even if I could’ve but you can’t anyway, you know?

And it was all about Time.
The place ran on a seniority basis and that was the biggest fact of life and the most important factor in your RR existence. Every single inmate had his seniority date (date of hire) memorized and could quote it to you on demand, which we often did. The most moronic 20-year bum (and there were plenty to choose from) was infinitely more important in the scheme of things than any hard working go-getter with two years and no clues. Merit didn’t mean shit and if you struggled with that idea your life only got worse as the years crept past you. We’d say,
“There’s the right way, the wrong way and the railroad way.” And everybody knew what the hell that meant if you managed to punch in there everyday for ten years or so.
You had to go along with the ride.

My personal RR mentor, Marshal Decket, a handsome blue eyed devil, 20 yr. vet and besides Keith Richards the coolest white man on the planet, used to tell me between puffs on his cancerous non-filtered cigarettes as we kicked back and enjoyed the show,
“Hey Kid,” he called everybody Kid, “You can work hard or you can work easy,” then he’d pause to lean in with the punch line and his crocodile grin,
“But the pay’s the same.”
Once I learned that simple lesson the ride got much smoother. It only took me about 5 of those 10 years and a little drink every now and again to help shake out the kinks.

About the only difference between Us and the slam was that the constant threat of overt violence wasn’t always present as in the shithouse and also, more importantly, no one seemed to ever want to escape or just ever be free from it all. Every goofy jackass, desperate loser, smug winner and solid citizen clung to that gig and fought over it like two starving rats on the last piece of cheese. Oh they complained constantly and non-stop about how much they hated the place and everyone in it but when you said,
“Why don’t you just fuckin’ quit then.” Right into their faces they looked like they’d been slapped.
“I gotta pay those bills, you know.”
Yea don’t we all brother, don’t we all.

There were crazy old janitors, 30 year-plus lifers (janitors mind you! you know with the mop and the broom and the little dustpan all piled neatly onto their little cart they wheeled around with that familiar zombie shamble) working there who made 80- 90,000$ a year because they, literally, never went home. They’d work double shifts, 16 hours, swabbing out toilets, sweeping up cigarette butts and emptying garbage cans, in between long leisurely breaks of course, then wrestle for the third consecutive one when a young guy’d call off sick. If the cheese gave them any shit about not being able to work 3 consecutive shifts due to safety regulations they’d raise holy hell and quote Union rules and make phone calls until the bum ass supervisor would gratefully cave and give them the shift. This only happened when there was a rookie boss that hadn’t yet learned about life on the RR and wasn’t properly broken in yet. Then these lunatic lifers would do their third consecutive 8 hour shift, at time and a half of course (about 22.50$ per hour), again, slide into the locker room and sleep for a few hours (they had beds set up in there) then catch a quick shave at a locker room sink and come right back for their original morning shift smiling like they just got a blowjob from a movie star.
They took a day off every couple of months or so and took their 4 weeks of vacation every year and other than that they lived at the station.

I had a locker next to one of the oldest. An Irish character named Jim “peek-a-boo” Levy. He looked like W.C. Fields and had a similar misanthropic disposition. Everyone called him Peek-a-boo because he was always around but it was next to impossible to find him. He detested physical labor and successfully avoided it whenever possible. On the occasion of us meeting at our lockers to change, me into or out of street clothes, Peek-a-boo to change into a different blue uniform, always spotless, (in my ten years there I never saw Peek in anything other than his matching blue work pants and shirt with the same tired old boots), I’d say to him,
“Hey goldbrick, ain’t you dead yet?”
He'd squint at me sideways and retort.
“Yea the funny thing is, Rangel” here he’d almost snicker, “I’ll be going to your funeral.” winking, “Maybe take a nice piss on your grave.”
Then he’d make a to and fro peeing motion in front of our lockers, his pot belly sticking out hard and firm as a basketball.
We were very fond of each other
Whenever I came in to do my eight straight if I didn’t see that old bastard at least once I just figured he croaked. It was that rare not to spot him on the job sometime during the day or night. He had the vigorous pallor of one of those moles that lives under ground that you see on the Nature Channel and he waddled around the station like a suspicious spy and furtive pipe bomber.
And he was nowhere near the strangest of the bunch.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Interview with Jesus- Part 1


As part of a new and exciting feature of AnalogBlog, we are proud to present this first in a series of Personality Profiles and Interviews with prominent figures of the Past and Present.
But mostly the Past. (due to certain legal restrictions)
And so, as they say, without further ado-

Well what can I say to start this one off.....obviously someone who needs no introduction and has been for Centuries World renowned as a Philosopher/Savior/Messiah and All-Around Good Guy.......

AB: Mr. Jesus Christ, Thank you for sharing some time with us today and welcome to AnalogBlog.

JC: Thank you for having me Billy...and Jesus is just alright with me. (winks)

AB: Our pleasure. OK, Jesus it is.....although I stated that you needed no intro I guess I'm gonna try to sum up your, well, career for the 2 or 3 people out there who haven't yet heard of you.....

JC: (beaming, nods encouragement)

AB: You were born dirt poor in Bethlehem, a small town in what was then Jerusalem, about 2,000 years ago, give or take, to a carpenter named Joseph and a virgin named Mary (we'll get into that later) then had what was by all accounts a fairly normal childhood before establishing yourself as a leading Prophet/Revolutionary sometime in your early 30's as you rapidly gained a sizable and dedicated following along with unfortunate persecution from the Government before being falsely accused, arrested, convicted and crucified by the Roman Empire only a few years into your peaceful campaign, a ghastly death that oddly enough lead to your lionization, deification and eventual global preeminence these thousands of years later.....and now you're certainly one of the world's most recognized, if not always agreed upon, icons of religious faith and moral/ethical righteousness.
How's that feel today?

JC: (shrugs, grins bashfully) Well I'm absolutely humbled and grateful but I do want to straighten a few of the more minor details out before we all get too far off track here.

AB: The Virgin Birth thing, you mean?

JC: Oy! Billy please........I wasn't even there yet, you know what I mean? I mean let's stick to the stories where at least I was a Sentient Being, eh? Maybe like more than 1-day old, fer instance? Whattya say? (chuckles)

AB: Right, my bad.

JC: Virgin birth....... I mean, yikes! No comment.

AB: Gotcha. Well I've alluded to the fact that your Christian Faith and Following has since grown into the, what, at least 100's of millions of True Believers around the globe.....
Do you feel vindicated after such a brief period of spreading the Word before your untimely, earthly, death?

JC: Of course I'm pleased with the way the stories have grown and if they've helped the World to be a better, safer, more loving place then I'm happy but I was always pretty sure about the Message so vindication is not really a term I'd care to use.
Having said that, however, when I think of how easy it all could've been today what with the Internets and YouTubes and MySpaces......Oy! It gives me a pain!
I mean We were walking! In cheap sandals or barefoot!
Miles and miles from dusty little village to drought-ridden run-down towns, if you can call them that when most didn't even have a simple, common marketplace to get a bite or anything, and lucky to scrounge up a couple of half-starved goat herders or 5 or 10 near-dead farmers who weren't too exhausted to listen to the Good News. Maybe a few lonely fisherman on their 1 day off a year was a big crowd for Us.
Talk about rolling the rock uphill!

Now?

3 million hits in one week for that Lady with the voice over in England? How can ya' go wrong?
I give up!
Forget about it!
Great set of pipes tho'. Fact.

AB: Quite a lot has changed. Was all the hiking the major difficulty of spreading your Message of Non-judgemental Love and Forgiveness throughout the Middle East back then?

JC: I wish...oh how I wish it were.

AB: The Romans?

JC: The Romans were no treat, lemme tell ya'.....brother, they were building an Empire and they were gonna build it!
Slavery, torture, indiscriminate prosecution and murders.......what a collection of Hard-ons those guys. And try figuring out what they were gonna come up with next if you didn't want to sleep at night or get a moments peace.
And the taxes!
Trust me , you don't even know from taxes!

AB: So it was the Romans?

JC: no.........Billy, you know the main problem was and is the same hurdle we'd have to jump today. Ya' see Peace, Brotherly Love , Fairness, Forgiveness, Compassion, ........those are all tough, tough sells to the Money Men, then and now and that's really the nut buster right there.
And just try cutting into some shyster's established religious base sometime if you really wanna make your enemies line up with stones in their fists. Philistines...Yeeesh.....you can talk 'till you're blue in the face, don't get me started.

AB: I hear Ya'. But don't you think we could update the Message a little bit now.......give it some spin...sex it up a bit, you know, just to sort of freshen up the Brand and get the Kids into the tent, so to speak?

JC: Bill, (beatific smile) have faith. I got this one.

AB: 'Nuff said. Well, I guess the burning question so many readers are dying to ask, or should I say questions, concern the Miracles.
Any objections?

JC: Bring it on, Kid.

(Part II to follow.)

Saturday, April 11, 2009

'Cuz it's Monday.....That's Why!

And Mr. Rock has a message for you.




AND I'M TRIPPIN'!

Thursday, April 2, 2009

scorched earth policy


The thing she used to say about yesterday and all her yesterdays was this-

“I’m not too good at remembering things…. But…… I’m really good at forgetting them!”

Then she’d smile her Naomi smile. Shy and sly, promising nothing and offering everything, her slender body bursting with juice and satisfaction. She was a spoiled child wanting what she wants, a careless whore burning her bridges, a seductive narcotic demanding no sacrifice, a roaring fire warming your flesh and drawing you toward the flames. Hypnotic. If you happened to have been fortunate enough to have tasted her pleasures already then her promise of earthly heaven would make your cock thump in your pants as she stood there teasing, curling her lithe limbs into herself, pulling you into her oblivious orbit.

If it was your first shot at it then hold on brother, your life was about to change forever because Naomi was no tease.

The first time I met her we cut straight through the shit and dug in. I explained about my motorcycle, the perfect weather, the cool breeze off the water and she took a nice bite.

“I’m working till 11… can I call you then… maybe go for a ride... get something to eat?”

“Can you?” Her soft voice insinuating pleasure. “It might be wonderful.”

I’d met her on the job, I was working at a train station and she was passing through, a 20-yr. old student on vacation, traveling alone and looking for some what...kicks? I didn't care.

She stood in front of me, close enough for me to breathe her scent, crossing one foot in front of the other; tracing lines or biding time I didn’t know because she was staring at her shoes and I was fixated on her tiny top, a piece of tan stretch fabric that couldn’t cover my head. No bra, didn’t need one. When I finally managed to pull my eyes up and off her, she had me locked in.

”Why don’t you just pick me up instead?” she’d lifted her dark eyes straight into mine and left them there, measuring me.

“You got it, beautiful.”

I could feel my heart in my chest. Naomi told me the address and gave me a phone number just in case, then turned and walked out a door and into the jam packed sidewalk, disappearing in the crowd almost instantly. I started repeating the numbers in my head as I ran to borrow a pen. I ran fast.
I hit the clock at 11 sharp and jumped on the bike at 11:01; I revved the engine, jumped the street and twisted throttle all the way, flying through the night towards her, aiming straight between her legs.

It was a 20 minute ride to get to her address, a youth hostel, and I ran through the options in my head- Take her to eat where? Take her to drink after but where? Should I take her dancing? Late night stroll on the beach? And most importantly- How do I get her back to my place and into my bed?

I was 32 and no rookie to hookups but Naomi was different than any other I’d encountered before. For one she was young and young girls were often surprising in wonderful or terrible ways. They might be savvy and they might be stupid, they might be calm and collected or they might be empty headed and dull yet frighteningly unable to stop running their brainless mouths, at least until you put a hard dick into it. But Naomi was a mystery and impossible to read. Her face gave away no hints to any definitive nature, it was innocent and decadent simultaneously; teasing girlish lips on a tiny bird mouth with dancing almond eyes framed by a short shock of careless black hair, almost daring you to stare or forcing you to look away. The skin was light caramel and flawless. Her whole body casually conveyed the only important fact that I was able to glean upon first sight-

She had a secret, maybe she’d tell or maybe she wouldn’t.

I turned the final corner to her hostel as I thought about all those things then I stopped thinking and started looking for numbers. I couldn’t find the address right away so I pulled up close to where I thought it might be and asked a woman who was walking by for help. As I was explaining my predicament to her I heard the voice, playful and taunting.

“Hey… I’m right here!”

She was standing at the curb, somehow I hadn’t spotted her but she must’ve been there all along, waiting for me to show. As I turned to look at her I found myself hoping she was no mirage.

She’d replaced the tube top with a black t-shirt that was even tighter, her sweet 20 yr. old tits poking at me like ripe peaches waiting to be plucked and sucked. Her lean legs were wrapped in flared blue jeans that clung like paint. High heeled gold strapped sandals highlighted her perfectly dainty feet, toes painted glossy black. Her hair was even more careless than earlier, as if she’d just fell out of bed and didn’t mind the look, I knew I didn’t. Her hips were a soft challenge to my hardness and locked in a cocky “Come get me” stance. The lips were moist, red and pursed into arrogant bee stings, daring me to make a move.

“OH YEA!” It erupted from me like a burp, she cracked into a small smile, waiting and radiating desire. “C’mon girl, let’s ride.”

I patted the back seat and she jumped forward and hopped right on. I had to grab some thigh, it was a gamble but I wasn’t able to stop my hand. I found the only thing wrong was that I’d have to let it go. As I kneaded that choice meat I felt I should say something just to prove to myself that I could still speak. I blurted,

“GODDAMN you look good!”

She slid her hands around my chest and leaned her chin into my shoulder as if we’d been riding together for years, natural.
“You too.” And she squeezed back. I wanted to throw her on the ground, rip her clothes off, suck her and slam it in deep but somehow I managed to get it in gear and jerk the throttle instead, pulling out fast and tight.

When we stopped at the first red light I asked her if she was hungry and did she want to get something to eat. She whispered clearly into my ear, her breath tickling my brain.

“I’d rather drink.” That’s the kind of girl she was.

The drinking didn’t take long. I rode over to a place where I knew the bartender and knew we wouldn’t have any problems with ID’s. I told her I was getting a beer and what did she want.
“OOoooh…… I loooove beer!”
She said it like I’d slid my finger into her nice and gently and was working it just right. I turned to the bar to catch my man’s attention and get the drinks, it was crowded so maybe he took sixty seconds or so. When I turned around with the glasses Naomi was curled up like a spider on a flame, one hand in front of her blue jeaned pussy and the other at her mouth, nibbling on her thumb; she was staring at her shoes again and crossing her feet one over the other. In front of her were two young boys sitting at a table ignoring their drinks and leaning into her, slack jawed and smiling everywhere.

“So where are you from?” one was begging and grinning ear to ear while he did it. I cut in hard.

“Don’t worry about it, slick….. C’mere you.”
I didn’t say it in any nice way either but she followed me. The boys looked like I’d just canceled Christmas but they weren’t the type to do anything about it, she didn’t seem to care in the least as we sat down at another table. I flashed a look over to the boys and they snagged the hint.

I took a sip of my beer. She lifted hers and drained it in around ten seconds, gulping fast as it slid home, then she placed her empty glass down on the table carefully, precisely as if the world depended on it, and breathed,

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” Rolling her eyes and licking her lips, “Oh I’ve been waiting so long for that.” I chugged a generous amount of mine to be neighborly.

“Want another?”
“MMMMMMMM…….YEA!”
Like a cool cheerleader who smokes and gets kicked off the squad. If she was up to anything other than a good time she sure wasn’t thinking about it too much. I signaled to a barmaid two more and she brought them over as I finished mine. Naomi stared at me blissfully and I tried some small talk as the drinks arrived and I paid up.

Did she like school?
“I Loooove it.”
Do you like Montana?
“I want to die there.”
“What are you majoring in?”
“No major yet, maybe journalism… I don’t really want to know right now.”
What do you want to do after college?
“Go to Paris.”

Then she leaned forward and slowly slid her hand up my arm from wrist to bicep. My cock was drumming in my pants. It’s always shocking to me how certain girls can just touch you with a fingertip and your rod snaps out like a switchblade, and other girls can be scarfing your pole till they gag and it’s strictly a yawn. Naomi had a touch that singed my blood.

“But do you know what I really want to study next year?” I just shook my head, it was all I could manage.
“Massage therapy.” I hoped she didn’t see me gulp.
“Cool….. Maybe….. Ah…. you could practice on me sometime?” It was as smooth as I could make it and the only question her eyes left me to ask, but still it came out a croak.
“Anytime.”

She said it quietly and calmly but I thought I saw the color in those eyes change or maybe it was just the booze. She gently squeezed my arm and then purred.
“Mmmmmmmmmm.”
We both tilted glasses. When I had enough breath to talk I said,
“How about practicing on me tonight?”
“Sure.” She came back so fast and certain that she could’ve slapped me and I would’ve been less surprised.
One voice in my head whispered- Is this broad a Pro? Gotta be. Is she going to tell me any second now, “You know it’s going to be five hundred, don’t you?” Hell I didn’t have money like that and she should know that if she’s a Pro!
But another voice barked- Push it you punk, go for broke. ROLL THE DICE!
Or maybe it was just the lead between my legs.
“How ‘bout right now?”
She glared at me then lifted her second glass again. I did the same. I put my empty down a moment before hers. Her dark eyes were definitely flashing fire as she set the glass down and stared into me.
“Let’s go.”
No trace of a smile on her lips, a blessed beautiful mystery.

Go we did.
I tunnel vision bee-lined all the way home as she held on tight. When we made it to my front door I worked the lock faster than a burglar on parole and she marched straight in ahead of me as if she owned the joint. I shut the door, locked it behind us and when I turned around she’d already found the bed and was sitting on it, her feet off the floor, burning a hole into me with those soft almond eyes, flames dancing. Naomi casually kicked off her high heels as I slowly approached; I wanted the sight of her in my bed to last forever and I wanted to pounce immediately, the only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted it all. Then she crossed her forearms, grabbed her t-shirt at the waist with both hands and pulled it over her head, shaking her short hair out. Those sweet peachy breasts bounced to attention, golden skin glowing, as she leaned back onto her elbows and waited. I didn’t make her wait long and I shucked the painted on blue jeans off her almost as fast as she had the shirt. Her tiny black panties were criminal in their intent and so beautifully wound around her ripe ass that I almost wanted to leave them right where they were and savor the vision, but the only thing they covered effectively was the treasure of her wet temple and I wanted in, in the very worst way.
I carefully peeled the panties then Naomi gazed brazenly up into my eyes as she spread her slender bare legs in invitation, dainty toes stroking my chest ever so softly. No drink ever got me that drunk.
10 or 12 seconds later I was buck naked and then we didn’t say much of anything for the next 15 minutes or so as we smashed our bodies together, or maybe it was an eternity.