Tuesday, January 16, 2007

I blame the plastic

It was cold last night. The first cold night of the winter, really. I stopped by the bridge and found Glowenda and her purse dog and four or five other kids. I gave her the key to the house. Told her she and her friends could use it until the utility came by. It wasn't much after 10:30 I heard them come creeping in the back door.

I'll maybe see Rothgar, if I get a chance before I leave.

I gotta go. There's nothing left here for me now. I'm sure The Proper Authorities will be showing up any day now. Sunny Days.

The Big Event had an apocolyptic seizure. Saturday.

A lot of serious fucking out.

We stopped by the doctors country house as as we said we would. Loubeena was nervous, but once Gaspardo the greasy wop got a look at Shawnelle, any professional steeliness or other learned and put on shit just evaporated.

We were fucking within an hour and a half. All Five of us. We all knew why we were there.

A chemical fuck fest, as opposed to a alcoholical fuckfest. There was some sparkling wine to begin. But then Gaspardo brought out the pills and we went chemical for the rest of the night.

Chemical fucking is a different fucking. You do things you wouldn't otherwise. Or have never done.

Which is great for the camera. Your focus is on performance. And the pleasure comes im that last second draining of everything you've got left and then on the other side you find love and a new level of trust and openness. You're fucked out.

That's what I found.

Shawnelle and me went all out. She was still miffed about me and Loubeena but was jacked about the big event, enough so that my offer of a morning at the spa was a green light make good. I got my balls shaved by this emo. Had to at once keep my dick erect and contract my balls. Not easy. You try it. Emo helped out with that as Shawnelle lay two feet away on her belly getting a rub.

Fuck did she look good. Never better. The body. The tanning. And her hair.

Fuck me.

I was watching some of it back, sitting in Gaspardo's leather recliner, naked, thinking that, with a big permastiffy. Shawnelle, my god you have no idea how much I love you right now.

I went to find her. Loubeena and Jizelle were past out in each others arms in the main set masterbedroom. I went down into the kitchen, walking around this big country house with this big country hardon.

Shawnelle was in the kitchen cuddled up with Gaspardo sipping tea and talking.

And it was as if everything that we had just done upstairs - the massive fucking out, I mean Shawnelle eating out Loubeena was fucking sensational - that and all of everything over the past few weeks, the general over all fucking out that we'd been through, the attention, the power - it was as if none of that had happened and that I had just here and then walked in on my wife post missionary coitus snuffling with her lover and sharing intimacies.

I blame the plastic. The plastic clogged a sort of other dimensional artery in my being and the proper flow of nutrients and shit was disrupted. My brain went off and I reverted. Or regressed. Or whatever. Became for no more than five minutes The Jealous Homicidal Maniac.

I had forgotten my personal history. Is what happened. The well documented personal history. The stuff they have on me. The shit. The goods. It just wasn't there to help me digest the scene of my wife in a bathrobe kissing and talking to her lover. My memory failed me.

History repeats itself mostly cuz us dumbfucks can't even keep our own dumbfuck histories in mind. Or some dark forces are at work swinging shit its way. God, as you may imagine, certainly doesn't fucking enter into it.

But like I say, we move on.

And I'm moving on. To live in the bush.

The job is gone. The dream of the chicken roaster business gone.

And Shawnelle. Gone.

I'll never love another like I did her.

I gotta go. I can feel The Proper Authorities circling.