when it rains, it pours

it's a sunday afternoon. it's the best time to get something done. the library is empty and i own it. i own the dance floor and i control the tape deck. i'm dancing with billy idol and adam ant and the human league. rewind in time to that british comedy in the eighties. i'm the DJ for the disco scene. i kick my shoes off because i can and i know that the dog won't run away with them.

but it always happens around the 612s. the itch. the ache. it's nothing that a cream can solve.
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the scene:

i'm wet from the Johnson novels again. i just keep flipping pages till i see the words "thrusting" or "cock" or "bosom" and i know i've struck gold. my back is up against the wall that reads "Quilting Corner." on thursdays, this place will be bustling with older women. mature woman, if you will. this afternoon, it's the quarter only porn machine at the local "adult" store.

it always takes me about fifteen minutes to actually get in the mood. then i put the book down and use my imagination. i'm probably thinking after the first orgasm that i wish some stranger would come by and hold my breasts while i did the important work. so then i have to use both hands -- one on my right breast, another steadily rubbing my clit. it's after the second, i start thinking i would like a boy. any boy. right this second. and by the time that thought is through, i'm too exhausted to even care.

my panties on the ground. my skirt hiked up. shirt bunched. i keep wondering if those threatening signs on the shelves are really true. "due to recent theft we are monitoring the library." i wonder if they get off on it in the back room.
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every thursday greta exclaims, "what's that smell?" 
¶ 6:12 AM |