“January 21, 2010
I’ve commented before. I’m the one who tried to get you to tell us whether or not Nora is real and if you are actually married. You didn’t answer so I thought I would be a little more direct. And since I know that’s how you roll, consider me…
An Annoying Email Bitch
Kansas City, MO”
Dear Annoying Email Bitch,
I walked into the Record Bar Monday and was greeted by the unlikely sight of multi-tatted lass all tricked out in Japanese schoolgirl, though with a neo-geisha twist.
Back-lit by the bar’s Pabst’s neon she sat one of the hardwood slat-backed chairs, her bare legs pressed together with a certain…frission…below her short plaid skirt. Rice paper thin white anklets slipped neatly into black patent leather Mary Janes. Chinese dragons, one red the other blue, crawled up each shin, their serpantine tongues flicking toward her pale knees. She stared at me dead eyed as her overblown lips worked the inevitable cherry lolli, moist “plops” resounding each time she drew out the hard candy.
Something called Cadillac Flambe was inadvertently quoting Robert Johnson. Or Stagger Lee. They were too involved with making music to care and too far too young to impart any authenticity…but so what? I appreciate background music at any time; it means I don’t have to score my own running film…
The room was empty save for bishoujo, a few drunks, and the band’s friend and his date.
She waved me over with her lolli.
I stepped past a couple of bar chairs and came up on her right side. I stood pressed against her, placed an owner’s hand onto her slight shoulder and lowered my nose to her dark hair. Hmm, Tsubaki. The bartender appeared with a glass of Turkey and a water back and gave her quick WTF? glance. He tried a hard look in my direction, but couldn’t sustain it and turned back to his glassware. My little geisha wannbe settled harder into her chair.
So…she’s out late. She’s a fetishist. Also Internetz savvy (or she would have never scored the Tsubaki), of age (or damned good ID) with a mature taste in booze and men…all good omens.
Without looking at me she reached over her left hand and began to rhythmically squeeze my cock.
I picked up her Turkey and let half of it fire down my throat, watched while her tongue worried the candy and her firm hand continued its metronome massage. It was bitter cold outside and I had no particular place to be. The band wasn’t awful. I finished Lolita’s drink and shut my eyes.
Perhaps five minutes later she grasped my cock intensely, drawing me yet closer as she tried to fold my organ in half. Her eyes slightly crossed and her breath hissed across my cheek as first one, then a second jade ben-wa ball quietly “thowped” onto the chair between her parting thighs.
In the 8th century Jabir ibn Hayyan theorized that the classical elements could be transmuted by rearranging the basic qualities of each, facilitated by something known as al-iksir. The elixir itself was made through the use of a legend called the philosopher’s stone. In the 13th century Magnus supposedly discovered the philosopher’s stone, before his death passing it on to his pupil Thomas Aquinas. Magnus recorded that he had witnessed the creation of gold by “transmutation”. What Aquinas did with the fabled stone is anyone’s guess; no one has ever seen it since.
There are rough approximations of course: Wall Street. Unregulated banking. High political office. All difference engines suitable for transmuting raw flesh, other people’s money and hopes & dreams into gold.
A stone need not be philosophically advanced either – a dross of a dinner party, unrelieved by wit or charm, can be sweetly gilded by the judicious use of a TV.
A handgun is very often a philosopher’s stone. It’s properly timed revelation may effectively string taut discordant emotions in parallel, or, just as equally, be the weapon that pierces all tensions, leaving the group with a “whew…that was close” collective sigh.
The slick ben-wa balls were our philosopher’s stone. And tangential to that fact was the entity gleaming behind Lolita’s green eyes; …never was there a time when I did not exist, nor you, nor all these kings; nor in the future shall any of us cease to be. Sure, I could get behind that. It was no different to my mind than Jung’s racial memory or Plato’s recollection. You say tomato, I say transmigration…
I gathered up the ben-wa balls. They were not that famous pale color – they were already cold despite their very recent expulsion from the hothouse. I rolled them around in my palm, thumb pushing them faster and faster, the irregular pattern causing little “ticks”, moving my hand just outside Lolita’s skirt…until I wasn’t, my fingers now slotting the first ball, pushing up and in, notching the second ball and simply pulsing it against her folds in time with her twitching hips, finally pushing the orb in to pair with its twin and resting my thumb on her swollen clit, not moving, just resting the thumb, but it was more than enough and she went off like a million souls before her, Japanese schoolgirls or not.
A brief minute later she slipped to the floor, unzipped my slacks and took me into her mouth, hands again squeezing, though this time my ass, as she greedily sucked and sucked until I spent myself.
I took her hand to help her rise, straightened myself and watched as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a bar napkin, then stood absolutely still when she turned, picked up her small clutch and, with one last wave of the lolli and a brief smile, walked toward the restrooms.
The green entity was now gone, of course.
I gave her 15 minutes to be sure, then dropped a 20 on the bar and went back out into the cold.