Sunday, January 08, 2006
From the Archives...
Was searching for a 2003 receipt in my files and stumbled across some old writing I had forgotten about. I am going to post some of these to my blog because they would otherwise sit in a dusty folder. This is my crack at the fiction genre Neurotica, which I tried to put on the map several years ago:
This is called Motorcycle Man: A Neurotic Adaptation of a Short Story that First Appeared in Playgirl.
The night is hot and sticky. My hair is plastered to my cheek and the back of my neck as I hose down the mechanics bay. All I want to do is turn the hose on myself and get drenched, but I it might not be a smart idea if I want to offer good customer service.
I decide to cool off with a tall bottle of Coca Cola. I was left to close the gas station by myself, alone. I let the icy bottle rest in the valley of my breasts. It feels heavenly. The sweat from the bottle drips down between them and into my belly button. The icy water feels so good trickling down my breasts...My breasts. Had I detected a lump in my breasts this morning? Let me think.
I remembered I was in the shower soaping myself up, running my fingers all over my body as I dreamed of Kent Crunchman, the pool man. He was dead sexy and always vacuumed the pool in cut-off shorts without a shirt on. He had six-pack abs that spoke to me. I moaned slightly and touched my left breast. Suddenly Kent's face was replaced with the face of my gynecologist, and I remembered it was time for a self-examination. Using the pads of my first three middle fingers, I checked for any changes, lumps or irregularities and...What did I find? Oh yeah, nothing. Phew.
I again begin to enjoy the feel of the Coca Cola on my skin. It was making me hot. Out of nowhere I hear the deafening roar of a Harley. I can tell it's a Harley because I work in a gas station and don't have much else to do than listen to engines all day and fill cars with gas. Why I dropped out of highschool I have no idea. Where am I going to be twenty years from now, after my looks have faded and I'm no longer employable as the sexy gas station girl? What will I do then? Before I can mentally answer that question, a man pulls up riding his hog. He's wearing a black bandana and sunglasses, even though the sun is setting. He has on a tight white t-shirt and worn-in blue jeans. On his feet he wears big, black leather boots. I nearly faint as he stops at pump number three and turns his head towards me. I look up at the sky and whisper, "Thank you."
"Hi," I say. "What can I get for you?"
He grins. Dimples wink at the side of his wide, full mouth. A hearty wave of animal lust slams into my gut.
Or is that indigestion? Shit! What if I only think I'm lusting after this hottie on a hog when, in reality, I've got a horrible case of indigestion? Suppose I fart in front of him? That would be majorly embarrassing. Please don't fart, I tell myself. Pleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfartpleasedontfart.
"Can you fill it up?"
"Sure," I say. I grab the pump as he swings off the bike. His jeans mold around his firm ass. I slowly insert the pump into his tank as he walks around stretching out his thick legs. So far so good. I'm pretty sure what I'm feeling is lust.
He turns to catch me watching him. I quickly turn away as my legs started to quiver. Or is this the beginning of an epileptic fit? What is an epileptic fit? I don't know, though I'm certain I'm about to have one. Pleasedontletmeswallowmytonguepleasedontletmeswallowmytonguepleasedontletmeswallowmytongue.
Nothing drastic happens and my leg continues to shake. He approaches me slowly. I can feel my groin ache, and my throat goes dry.
"Are you working alone?" he asks.
I slowly look up at him as he removs his helmet and glasses. His hair is dark and hangs past his ears to just above his shoulders. His eyes are blue--a piercing, sapphire blue.
"Yes," I answer.
Oh my God! Did I just tell him I'm alone? He could be a murderer! I can be so stupid sometimes. Where's my cell phone? I can't recall where I put it last. If I scream, will anyone hear me and come running? Wait, I'm being silly. Serial killers and murderers are NOT good looking. And even if they are good looking, they definitely don't have the fashion sense of this guy. He's probably just flirting with me. Although, didn't Ted Bundy dress well? Bundy dressed preppy. Motorcycle man is no preppy, so he probably won't kill me.
"What else do you do besides pump gas?" said motorcycle man.
I take the hose out of his tank and hang it back on the main pump, and then wipe my hands off on a rag. I stare at him through lusty green eyes.
"I like to knit quilts for the elderly," I say.
No WAY did I just say that! Knit quilts for the elderly? Oh, that's real sexy. NOT! Did I just say NOT in a really hacky way in my head and then bust myself for being hacky? Must save this situation.
"I mean, do you want a lube job or something?"
Nice. A little double entendre ought to do the trick. But wait. This is a gas station. That's a perfectly legitimate question. People get lube jobs all the time at gas stations. What if I didn't make myself clear enough? How is he going to know I want to have sex with him from the question I just asked?
"Yeah, something like that." he answers.
Like what, I wonder. What are we talking about here? Does he mean 'something like that' as in, "How 'bout a tune up?" Cause that's sort of like a lube job. It's definitely along the same lines as a lube job insofar as both things are important to motorcycle maintenance. I should never have used a double entendre. What is he referring to?
I close my eyes and move into him. He towers over me by at least six inches. He's a gigantic man, powerful. My whole body quivers in anticipation. He cups the back of my neck to keep me still as bends down. His lips brush mine gently. I open my mouth in invitation. His tongue meets mine in a delicious waltz. He speeds up, it's now like an oral merengue. I'm melting into him. Mmmmm. He tastes good.
Then I remember that I had garlic for lunch. He squeezes my ass and I wonder if he can tell I've eaten garlic. Does my breath smell? Is he unbuttoning my pants out of pity? I mean, I ate A LOT of garlic. Of all the days to eat at The Stinking Rose, why did I have to choose this one...