Nymph
She chewed her bagel like a monster, and I knew I loved her
then, with her black knee-high boots with metal stirrups swingin’ beneath the
3.5-foot chair on which her perfect pretty ass sat.
Monday morning, haven’t been layed since a week ago Thursday. All women over 27 know what that means, and
the married ones don’t like it – “Please this time – not again,” or they lay
back motionless, not moaning and heaving like they did when they were in
college, thinking about what they will paste next on Facebook.
iPhone in right hand, irresistible for any self-respecting
necessarily horny man, which God made.
Empty orange juice bottle. That means she’s charged up. My
sister Laurie told me that I shouldn’t drink the stuff, said it’s bad for the veins
and arteries and the entire circulatory system, but mostly the brain.
I like charged up women.
My Sugar Rush Love.
There she goes swinging her sex-object legs again. Fierce – no she’s is not a fierce one.
I could approach and yak, could ask her: “Conjoin with me” tee-hee “for a chocolate-cherry
milkshake. Tastee Tastee Diner.”
Good lookin’ chick waitresses at that there diner. Good lookin’
high school girls drunk on Friday and Saturday night, remind me of the first
time I got layed, in Daddy’s car, a 1962 Chrysler Newport. Big lots of room front seat, where when we did
it, she, Penelope sitting on my lap with her two sex objects bosoms rolling in front
of my shell-shocked face.
I went to confession the next day. Priest told me to say 26 Hail Marys and 14
Our Fathers.
I didn’t say shit, looked at the giant Jesus cross on the cement wall,
said: “What a gruesome religion. Who wants to be remembered like that? It’s like Al Capone’s syphilitic penis in a jar
at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History, which I saw when I was 12, the poor
penie.
Now, I am being treated with haloperidol, perphenazine and chlorpromazine
for post-traumatic stress disorder, but mostly nymphomania.
I would do a passing test, a trial balloon like a
politician. If she looked at me like she
did twice before, sitting on her fine ass, I would talk, ask her to copulate
with me inside a strawberry milkshake, like I ask all the girls.
One once looked at me and said: “You are crazy, mister!” She was 17 or so, me 62. One said: “Awww-uh. How sweet, but I am traumatized by a horrible
divorce right now, husband trying to get full custody of junior because I had a
nervous breakdown two months ago, and another one three weeks past.”
They all lie to me and make excuses. That one was the best I
ever heard.
I’ll go get a fake cup of coffee. I’ll go pretending that I am getting my second
cup ... I like acting. I am an ass good
actor, like my coffee shop girl.
I passed, like a Parrot AR. drone, observing with a powerful
missile ready to explode.
She didn’t look, attended to her pink pink iPhone with her sex
thumbs.
Went home, smoked a bowl of opium, and went into a dream
about Rapunzel and Cinderella.
Not really. I made a second
pass, then a third, thinkin’ she might catch on to my shy way of flirtin’ and hittin’
on.
She didn’t.
Piss piss shaw.
