This Morning's Horrifying Horoscope

Aries 3/20-4/18
Unless you are saving yourself for someone, it is time for you to get laid. Even if you’re in China – do the deed. Unfortunately you’re not going to meet anyone at a bar. Find a new thing to do and work to qualm your libido necessities with that angle. Oysters – eat oysters – just to be masochistic – while you search or at least until your s.o. gets home..

Maybe I'll wander around the city scrawling my phone number on bathroom stalls or something. That would certainly be "a new thing to do". As you can see by my astrological sign, y'all missed my birthday, so someone out there owes me some zodiac supported sex, no strings, necessarily, attached.

Why I Gargle With Bleach

After a long night of people abandoning plans for your birthday, a night filled a screaming match with your pseudo-boss and an awkward moment with your not-quite-ex who is your not-quite-ex because you were never quite dating; after a night like this you're almost grateful that your roommate's girlfriend greets you with a little kiss when you get home. You are grateful until her boyfriend/your roommate hands her some Altoids and says "Try one of these, your breath still smells like my dick."

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/2_much_sex_info/71183.html

All My Exes Live In Sex Flicks

Like a pedophile's inappropriate erection at a YMCA pool, Seith kept popping up. Three years post-Seith, I was living in Burlington in a house full of "creative types" (read: potheads with enough money to buy musical instruments, paintbrushes, and poetry journals). For a couple of months, I was the only person in the house with a computer, so I put it out in the den to make it a public computer. I deleted all the pornography, and wiped the history file clean of anything that could ruin someone's day.

About a week into it being a public computer, I checked the history file to see what people were looking at. I found an assortment of online comics, the complete lyrics and tablatures to Phish and Ween, a how-to guide about Section 8 living, and Gay.Com.

I was not the only out homosexual in the house. There were up to seven of us living together at any given time, and at this particular juncture there was me, one bisexual guy (no, not ever, not if his cock tasted like Smarties, and his ass felt like gelatin...well, maybe if his ass felt like gelatin, but it didn't, so the point is he was gross), and one decidedly dykey lesbian. Oh, and we think the cat was a little fey, too.

At any rate, I had never seen gay.com before. I'd visited the personals on PlanetOut, and seen an assortment of real porn sites, but I'd never stumbled over that infuriating little spike on the information superhighway known as Gay.Com. So of course, I started clicking. Everywhere. Guys here, guys there, looking for this, look at my cock, I want a man who dresses in purple bunny suits and likes to be peed on while reading Martha Stewart Living, etc. I was enthralled. And then...I saw him ByronElvisSeithRex. His hair...his hair was styled EXACTLY like mine, it was my color (it had not been when we were together). He looked like a thinner, better-looking version of me. So much so that when I showed the website to a friend, she asked if he was my little brother. Ga.

I haven't been back since.

Occasionally, his name would pop in a conversation with someone who knew me back when we were together. I started writing about him in the hopes of exorcising him completely from my life.

I moved from Burlington back to Boston, and spent two years not thinking about him much. Then I moved from Boston to Pieceofshitdeserttown and knew I would never have to see his face again. We were both older, and...why am I trying to build up tension here, you know what's coming.

A couple of weeks after I returned to Boston, I resorted to porn. Well, not exactly resorted, more like camped out at a cheap motel, or hoboed. I put some phrases into Kazaa and started downloading. The first three files were very porny. I found myself more amused than turned on. Began contemplating writing a porno script, so I began to put in common porn theme ideas into the search feature: pizza delivery boy, plumber, behind-the-scenes, poolboy, etc.

The sixth video I successfully downloaded was a plot-porn. The first two "characters" were discussing a third. The two were amazingly hot. I really didn't think I was going to make it to the third character when they showed him: Elvis.

The turtle pulled in his neck, the boys decided it was too cold and went home, someone let the slack off the line...my cock was Droopy the Fucken Dog and it said "Going down, sir. Sub basement level, sir."

It was at least an hour before I looked at porn again.

My Baby's Mama

When I first started working at my current place of employment, I was determined not to be an asshole. This can be difficult for me. I have a habit of purposely saying the wrong things to the right people in order to get laughs at their expense. I think this is why I've almost exclusively dated morons.

I lasted a record two shifts before I became the poster child for Eye Rolling and Sexual Impropriety. I got to be really good friends with Former CoWorker and She Who Would Eventually Become My Baby's Mama. A few months into our friendship she asked me if she looked fat. The girl is 5'3" and possibly 11 pounds, maybe 12 if you dip her in a vat of bacon grease. Maybe.

I told her that she did look like she'd put on a few pounds, but what did she expect? She was carrying my child. It was a throwaway joke and probably wouldn't even be memorable if it weren't for the next night.

I was hungover like a towel on a dormroom closet. Between paperwork and the actual waiting tables, I'd been working for nearly ten hours str---gay. My last table of the night was a group of frat boys. Like koala bears and Elijah Wood, frat boys are cute in their natural habitat, but you wouldn't want one up close and eating in your restaurant.

Fifteen minutes into their debauchery, I realize they hate me. I mean they HATE me. Enter, She Who Is Now Referred To As My Baby's Mama. It's her night off, but she stops in to meet some people after work for a few drinks. She looks a-fucken-mazing. You know, if you're into short chicks.

One of the guys at the table starts to get huge hearts in his eyes, his tongue falls around his ankles and his erection would have knocked over the table except for the fact that he's a frat boy, and everyone knows frat boys have macroscopic phalluses.

Frat Boy #1 turns to Frat Boy #Who Cares? and says "Dude, I could totally get her phone number." This starts a barrage of comments affirming their heterosexual machismo while reducing She Who Is Nearly Known As My Baby's Mama to nothing more than a walking ass with tits on them. An affliction of sight prevalant in the wild frat boy.

She Who Is Seconds Away From Being Known As My Baby's Mama has great hearing. She pivots towards the table, which does little to hush the bravado of Frat Boys The Musical. As she walks by me, she pushes my order book out of my hand and kisses me quite hard.

*Thunderstruck Silence*

She looks right at the table and says "You guys are lucky My Baby's Daddy isn't a jealous man," and then walks away.

The Fratboys ask me if she's seriously my wife. "No." I tell them. "We're not even really dating, we just kind of fool around, and thought it would be fun to have a kid together."

The Fratboys name me their king, toss me on their shoulders and lead me to the infinite land of keggers and Madden Football. They also leave me a sweet tip, and ask me if My Baby's Mama has a sister.

Now the offhand comment about our relationship become a long-running joke. Nine months after the comment we name the baby Unique, and make jokes about my deadbeat-daddedness. I keep leaving for three or six month sabbaticals, and never pay child support. What can I say? I'm a bastard. So is Unique, I suppose.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/15509.html

His Name Was Marc

Sometimes this journal makes me fall down stairs. I'll be at work, dropping off someone's check, and I'll see someone giving me the eye from another table. Not the "let's take off each other's clothes and fuck right here on the table" look, but the "I think I know you from somewhere" look.

Two weeks ago, I dropped off salads to a guy that I had gone to elementary school with. Hadn't seen him in fifteen years, but we immediately recognized each other. No, this story is not going to get kinky.

Before I took a six month desert sabbatical from work, I got the eye from one of my own customers, while I was taking their order. I'd already introduced myself as Insafemode, so I figured if the person really knew me, he would have recognized the name, and figured out how we knew each other. He did look somewhat familiar to me, but I happen to think that all white people look alike, so I dismissed it.

When I stopped by the table to make sure they liked the food, he asked me if I went to some high school near Boston. No, I didn't. He then asked if I ever worked at a movie theatre. No, I hadn't. We went back and forth about places we might know each other from, Cranberry Lake, a renaissance faire I used to work at, places I'd performed, the state he had lived for a few years. Nada, nothing, zip. We just looked familiar to each other.

At least, when we recognized where it was we knew each other from, that's what we led the rest of the people at the table to believe. Oh, we'd met alright.

I think the chronology went: Guy I Blew on the Beach, Joey, Tommy, Marc. I don't know, I was rather busy with the ass and cock that month.

You'd think I'd be fixated on Tommy. He was beautiful, astounding in bed, had many common interests, and had the libido of a seventeen year old...you know, because he was seventeen. I wasn't. Not because I was a whore, but because Tommy was seventeen, and just as much of a whore as I was. While I thought he was amazing, my self-confidence led me to believe the feeling was not mutual. So back to AOL's Cranberry Lake Whore4Whore I went.

As soon as I entered the chatroom I got an IM. Marc had read my profile, and wanted to hang out somewhere public and safe. So we did. He was a twenty-five year old student who was about to transfer from UMass Cranberry Lake to some Ssuthern University. He really likes Cranberry Lake, but he hadn't found anyone interested in the same type of films, animation, books, whathaveyou until he read my profile.

The scene resumes at my house. We're talking about Run Lola Run. We're naked. Because, really, there's no better way to talk about a foreign movie than when you're about to fuck a film student.

The conversation was great. The sex was equivalent. I wasn't aware of it as it was happening, but we were having angry sex. I wasn't aware of it because I wasn't the one who was angry. I was in bliss. He was way better than Joey or The Guy I Blew on the Beach, and nearly as good as Tommy, who had only left the house about eight hours earlier.

When we were finished, he immediately started to put his clothes on and head to the door.

"Have somewhere you've got to be?"

"Kind of." He said, as he put on his Southern U cap.

"Want to get together sometime and rent a couple of movies."

"I can't. When I get home I've got to tell Joey that we're even. Then, I'm hoping he'll be faithful to me. Otherwise I'm dumping his ass. Even if that happens, I won't be calling you."

"Oh."

I was almost tempted, as I cleared their dishes away and dropped the check off, to ask how Joey was doing. For all I know, Marc was a sleazebag who dumped Joey when he failed to be a cutiful nineteen year old hornball. Marc was pretty sleazy. He lied to me about his age, wasn't up front with me about having a boyfriend, and he apprently monitored his BF's Internet use by reading over his chatroom logs. But who was I to judge? I was the guy that blew his boyfriend on his bed. I didn't say or ask anything. That may have been the reason he left me such a good tip.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/14961.html

Giggles The Chowderhead

Giggles and her boyfriend arrived in the restaurant I work at, just before I was to go home for the evening. They took a seat in my section and informed me that they were waiting for six of their friends to show up. They ordered two waters (of course), and said they wanted bread on the table at all times. I got the feeling there were no other friends showing up, and that they were on some sort of prison diet.

An hour later the friends showed up, all talking on their various cell phones, and shaking their heads and shushing me every time I went to their table to ask if they were ready to order.

Giggles was the Alpha Bitch. When she was ready to order she yelled my name across the restaurant. The table ordered a plate of Cheese Fries, two salads, and a bowl of Clam Chowder.

Someone had rung in a Cheese Fries by mistake earlier, so there was an order sitting in the window when I got into the kitchen. Since I wanted to get these people out of the restaurant as soon as possible, I brought it right out to them. I then went back to the kitchen to wait for the salads and soup.

Just as the salads were coming out, one of my coworkers rushed into the kitchen and said I was needed at my table immediately.

Giggles was no longer chattering with her boyfriend, or their assorted friends. Her lips were sneered so high that I couldn't see her nose, and I'm reasonably sure there was steam coming from her eyes.

"Sir," she snorted "I usually don't like to complain" *cough* YEA, Right. "but I have never been so disgusted in my life. The clam chowder you brought out is cold, has no clams in it, and the portion is ridiculously small. I demand a refund, AND I want to see the manager. There is no excuse for such horrible food."

I did my best to keep my polite customer-service smile as I said "Miss, that's not clam chowder, it's ranch dressing."

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/mock_the_stupid/889252.html

A Personal Post

I was telling one of the two people that know me/read this journal that the other day I received yet another e-mail from an antique online personals ad (hadn't placed an ad in about a year) and briefly considered meeting someone. Why? To have more stories for this LJ. These are the lengths I was pondering going to until I realized that Iwanted to keep all of my horrible sex stories in the past.

Then I got another e-mail. I didn't reply to it. Instead I decided to update my profile on the dating site, and see if I got any replies.

This is how it reads:

Someone recently made a degrading remark about a gay mutual friend, and implied that the annoying fantasy world he lived in was because he was gay. When I replied that I'd rather not be lumped into a category with the lunatic simply because we both liked cock and ass, my friend said "Wait, you swing that way too?" "Yes," I said, "but whereas many of our gay friends prefer to swing for the fences, I prefer to bunt."

This pretty much sums up my sexuality.

Odds are, if you see me in a gym, I'm asking for directions. By the same token, if you see me up at the buffet with a heaping plate of food, I'm filling my plate for someone confined to a wheelchair or a pantsuit.


Ideal Person: So far my experience with men has been, at best, unbalanced. I've had some mundane relationships with people who I really cared about, and I've had some amazing sex with people I wouldn't mind seeing strapped to an anchor and dropped off in the deep side of the continental shelf.

I'm tempted to write that I'm looking for someone interested in more than just sex, but I should point out that "more than just sex" implies that they're interested in sex. I already have friends who don't put out.

I don't really go to clubs, but that's mainly because I work nights, not because I think I'm too good for them.

I'm not interested in married guys or people into in-depth role playing. I have a father, thank you, and there is a reason I don't have kids. That said, I'm pretty open minded in the bedroom (and the kitchen, and the bathroom at City Hall, and the sidewalk in front of my Republican neighbor's house...) but there's only one bodily fluid I'm interested in exchanging, and it doesn't usually involve toilets.

Basically, I'm looking for someone for a LTR, but realize I'll probably have to go through a few one-night-stands/STRs to get there. As long as there are no STDs I'll be a happy man.

I wonder if I'll get any interesting replies.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/8439.html?view=2873079#t2873079

Why I Almost Just Hurled

After a long day of work, I came home to write some e-mails and get to bed. After typing up a few LJ comments, I went to rap my fingers against the desk and got three fingertips coated in my (I assume) roommate's semen. Where is my Lava soap?

Uck. It's not like there isn't a box of Kleenex right next to the desk.

At least I didn't bang my head against it.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/2_much_sex_info/41207.html

Sexual Harassment Theatre

As a general rule, I don't mess around with people I work with. Sometimes I break that rule, but it comforts me to know the rule is there to fall back on.

I recently discovered that several people I've known and worked with for the last two and a half years don't even know I'm gay. I mean the gay people I work with don't know I'm gay. The dreaded curse of the SSGG (Straight-seeming gay guy). I don't hide my sexuality. In fact, they should make videos of the way I behave at work and show it to potential employees just to warn them away. I'm like a roving Scared-Not-Straight Campaign.

I'll be posting a bunch of stories involving myself, Jeremy The King Of Bisexual Harassment and Equality, and John The Weirdest Perv I Know Outside of My Friends List.

Here's tonight's story:

I was training a new kid. Let's call him...Jason because that's his name. Normally when I'm training I tend to be more matter-of-fact than normal, but this was the kid's fourth night. If he didn't get it by now, he was gonna be busing tables instead of waiting on them.

I thought I had been fairly low-key the past few shifts, not being the perverted ass that I can be. I was wrong. I know this because after my sincere conversation about what I expected him to do, and what I felt we should work on, I asked "Is there anything you think you need my help with?" To which he replies: "If I need anything from you, I'll scrape it off my zipper."

¿¿¿What???

I'm fairly sure he got the line mixed up, but I can guess the intention behind it, so I preceded to make the rest of his night Sexual Harassment Hell. I sicced Big Rich on him.

Big Rich is far gayer than even Big Gay Tom. Big Rich is a fiftyish year old man about 6'2", at least 300 pounds. He kisses the tops of guy's heads for no discernable reason, likes to pinch people, and seems to have a fetish for youngish looking asian and/or jock boys. Who doesn't?

Anyhow, I have Rich invading his space all night. After about a half an hour, Jason playfully slaps my ass while I'm carrying a tray of food. Oh, it's on now, motherfucker.

I start carrying a big wooden breadboard with me. I "accidentally" slap his ass with it while he's taking an order from a table. He retaliates with a bread board while I'm up at the bar. As he reaches into the bread oven I wind up and CRACK!!!

I (A)break the breadboard on his ass, which causes (B)his upper body to spasm upwards, pressing his (C)arm against the top of the bread oven (D) which is very hot causing him to (E)curse so loud you can probably hear him outside in the restaurant's parking lot, which causes (F)another server to drop a plate, and eventually the whole kitchen is involved in a very Rube Goldbergesque scenario.

His arm is not actually burnt, making me feel a little better. He whimpers out "I think my ass is bleeding." and then proceeds to go check. Of course it's not. Bruised perhaps, but it's not like I poked him with a skewer.

That ended our breadboard warfare. While I don't know if I ended up winning for the night, I know he ended up losing, as another server for reasons that had nothing to do with me took his cell phone camera thingy into the bathroom and left him all sorts of blurry dirty pictures.

Sometimes I love my job.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/4289.html

All Moby, No Dick

There was a reason Justin never sent me a pic. I'm not choosy, but he wasn't my type. Not unattractive, but too fat to comfortably fuck. A friend once told me that he hated having sex with other fat people because it was tough to stay penetrated. I'd never experienced that before tonight.

We were off to a bad start when we realized that neither of us had done any online dating since the nineties. We were obviously uncomfortable around each other & had little chemistry apart from both liking the same TV shows.

Drank a beer to get prepared. I hate beer.

Started out in the shower. He was bigger without his clothes. Smooth but awkward. I knew I should have gone home. He was too big to shower with, so we headed to the bedroom.

The bedroom had a couple of dildos out and some lube. I had brought the condoms.

He likes to give head with the latex on. Had I known I would have bought flavored condoms.

Despite not being attracted to him in any way, I managed to get aroused. He gave decent head.

After a few minutes he was ready to get fucked. This is when I realized that I am an emotionless robot. If I'm not attracted to someone I have the most mechanical sex imagineable.

It was tough to find a position to get comfortable in. He was clearly too big to be comfortably on top of me. It would be like being pinned by The Canadian Earthquake. His bed wasn't high enough for him to be laid out on his back, so we ended up doggy-style.

Usually I'm all about long tantric sex, but I just wanted this to be overwith, so I ended up coming in about eight minutes. Yes, I looked at the clock. That's how bad it was.

The hard part would be getting him off. I'm not a fan of licking latex, and haven't bottomed for anybody in about six years, though I don't dislike it. I decided I'd rather get fucked for a while than lick latex.

He lubed up a condom, and put it over a butt plug which he then sat on. I laid on my stomach, forgetting that the bed was too low for this to be a comfortable option. Doggystyle again. It didn't work too well, though, as his stomach kept getting in the way. Also he was much more of a bottom than a top, so he was having trouble staying hard.

After about two minutes the condom fell off, and that was all she wrote. I wasn't into it enough to kiss or give proper attention to keeping him aroused. My passionless jerking of his cock did nothing for either of us.

He was clearly embarrassed. He offered to pay for a cab ride home, claiming it was too cold for me to walk to the subway. It wasn't that cold. Neither of us broached the subject of his not getting off, but he was clearly disappointed. So was I.

At least I don't have to wash santorum out of my boxers.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/458.html, http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/379486.html

Who Let The Penguins Out?

I have decided to move again. I can't take the cold so I'm going to move to a warmer clime like Siberia, Moscow, of the North fricken Pole. It was twenty degrees warmer today in Moscow than it was in Boston. When I went to open my front door today, my hand broke off on the knob. You read that right. I am now typing one handed, and not because LJ entries turn me on.

I went to the aquarium today and asked one of the workers if he would consider letting the penguins out to play. I think he thought he was coming on to him, though I'm not sure what "letting the penguins out" means in perv. The sea lion I could see, but penguins?

When I'm a millionaire I'm going to buy me some Emperor Penguins and let them loose on the streets of Boston. Sure, they look cute on TV, but imagine walking down the street on your way to the grocery store and seeing a flock of pissed off four foot tall penguins waddling towards you. Everyone assumes penguins just eat fish, but there's not a lot of human flesh around in the Emperor Penguins natural habitat. In fact, it gets so cold in Antarctica that every type of bird migrates except for the Emperors. They're some hardcore fucken penguins. I bet if I start feeding them human flesh, they'd develop a taste for it and start running amok in a way that even Alfred Hitchcock couldn't imagine.



The new Opus strip wouldn't be very popular then, would it?

Christmas In A Piece Of Shit Desert Town

If I could have been someone, anyone, else for Christmas last year, I would have. Since I had no ID, I technically could have been someone else. It was the not having the ID that was the problem. Somewhere during my three day trek from Boston to Arizona, I lost my driver's license. Again. I had managed to survive five months without the documentation, procuring two jobs, and even being served liquor by some very accommodating Mormons. Unfortunately, the people at Delta airlines were determined to make my life difficult.

All I wanted to do was go home. Not just for Christmas, but forever. I'd had it with Martyr Complexed "friends", cracked out Goth losers with too much ecstasy and not enough brain cells, and I'd really had it with being broke. Every paycheck I earned went to a roommate that I only actually lived with for two months, though I paid rent for three. She was a much better roommate than say...Melissa Plummer, but she certainly didn't make my Favorite Roommate of All Time list. Then, again, I'm sure I didn't make her list either. It was a bad fall. I wanted out of Arizona. I couldn't think of one thing about this state that I was going to miss.

Add to this the fact that one of my uncles, and my Grandfather were both on the other side of the country, getting ready to distribute their wills, and I was very anxious to get home:

***Author's note: Time jump. It is now no longer 2004, but December 2003. It was a short time jump, more of a time hop, really, but I thought I'd let you know.***

Synopsis of the week so far. Call airline to let them know I have no ID. Am advised to kill myself, there is no way on plane. Call VT DMV to find out how to get new ID. Am advised to call AZ DMV. Call AZ DMV. Am advised to get lost. I consider going Greyhound. Get good info from Steggy. Get an e-mail from a police officer/poet/friend informing me I need only file a report with the PD, and they'll give me paperwork to get on my flight (which is now the third scheduled flight on the third different airline).

I call the PD, fill out an incident/lost ID report. Am advised to call VT DMV, that they will fax a copy of my ID to me. Call VT DMV. Am advised that it is against federal law to fax me any ID info. This makes me comfortable security wise, decidedly cross on getting-homewise. They suggest I call the AZ DMV, that they can help me. Call AZ DMV. They are completely useless and can do nothing. They are the only people I called that are both useless AND rude. I call the airlines and update them on my situation: no ID, no ID related paperwork, one copy of my incident report. Am advised that I will probably be able to get a boarding pass, but that the gvt. security has the right not to let me on the plane without ID. I call the gvt. agency (Flight Security or something). Am informed by a very nice lady that apart from checking my bags, I should have no problem with the gvt. security, but that the airline will probably not give me a boarding pass. Call airline again. Update them on the gvt. security issue. Am advised that it's not up to them or the gvt. agency, but Phoenix Skyway. Call Phoenix Skyway. Am advised that it's not up to them, but really the airline.

The terrorists have already won. I just want to get the fuck home.

ATA airlines to the rescue. I don't know what ATA stands for, but they promise to give me a boarding pass, and let me deal with security. I damn near crawled through the phone and gave the lady on the other end cunnilingus. You have no idea how much I have to love a person to offer that.

My flight leaves on the 26th. Tomorrow. A day too late to spend Christmas with my family, but at least it gets me out of this fucken town. To celebrate, I threw on my bathing suit and went out to do water angels in the pool. Soon enough I'll be able to do snow angels. For now, this is comforting.

Several...ok, two...very kind people have offered to include me in their Christmas plans. Bob the Amazing has done enough for me. He got me a job, he tried his best to keep me from killing certain people who could have used a good dying, he even had me over for Thanksgiving for an amazing meal with his family. Chris the World's Cutest Straight Boy invited me as well. But, like Bob, he's done so much that I don't want to infringe on him anymore. He offered to get me out of my roommate's house long before I was unhappy there. He helped me move my stuff to his apartment, where I'm not paying rent, I even had to talk him down last week when my ex-roommate came buy to pick up the last check. I really thought he was going to rip the skin off her face and shove it down her sanctimonious throat.

Because I didn't want to alter their Christmas plans, I am on my own. I've got all the ingredients for Ground Nut Stew, a computer, a DVD of my favorite gay porn, and a two liter bottle of Cherry Coke. It's entirely possible that this Christmas will only Mostly Suck.

I toss the sauce I made for the stew last night in the microwave, put some rice on the stove, and turn on the TV. I don't want to risk being distracted by porn or The Internet while the food is cooking. The only things on TV are "The Married With Children Christmas" and "A Very Brady Christmas". I am officially in Hell. Although, "A Very Brady Christmas" isn't nearly as bad as I'd imagined. It's a reunion show. The kids are all grown up. Dad Brady is very obviously making eyes at Greg Brady. All in all it's---why is the fire alarm going off? FUCK!!!! THE RICE!!!!

I rush to the stove, pull off the pot. Curse myself for not thinking to use a towel. Put my now burned hand under some cold water. It doesn't look too bad. I grab a towel, pick up the pot and begin scraping the rice into the garbage disp---oh fuck. You don't put rice in the garbage disposal. I dig out as much as I can and then hit the switch. Grind grind grind grind grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgrgrgrgrgrgrgr

grgrrg sputter wheeze. Fuck.

I open all the doors and windows, and turn on all the fans, blowing the burned rice smell throughout Christopher's condo complex. Here's the smell of my holiday cheer Ari-fucken-zona! I then go to scrub the rice that burned into the bottom of the pan in the sink.

Joy of joys, my garbage disposal breaking is causing the sink to back up. How am I supposed to clean up this mess if I can't use the si...ahhh, I'll use the shower.

I don't think it's possible for anyone, even people who've known me for years, to imagine the look on my face when I realized the rice that was blocking the sink/garbage disposal in the kitchen, was now floating up into the bathtub. This was really Not Good. Christopher was Not Going to be Happy.

I cleaned up as best I could, popped the DVD in the computer, and prepared to pop myself.

Just as I was cruising down Ejaculation Alley, Christopher came home. I turned off the computer and zipped up. Most of the smoke had cleared, but he has Wolverine's sense of smell. "Burned rice?" he asked as soon as he walked in.

"Yeup."

"Hope you didn't try and get rid of it in the garbage disposal."

Velociraptor look.

"You did, didn't you? Fuck. I did it a couple of months ago. I had to call the condo people to fix it."

Man, my fuck up wasn't even original?

"I brought you some of the Girlie Beer that you left at The Kuk's house. If you put the red and green Skittlez in the Stoli Razz, it's almost like being festive."

Ok, maybe there was one thing I was going to miss.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/94370.html

Nerdy Punk Rock Animé Hair

Like I say at the beginning of all my support meetings, I am a nerd. I have a favorite comic artist and writer, and can give you in-depth reasons why I've chosen them. I write poetry. I perform said poetry in public. I've even done a couple of low-level national tours with other poets. I spent several years working at a renaissance faire. I liked it. I am a nerd.

I am also incredibly attracted to nerds. Sure the midwestern farm boy look is kind of hot. And who can resist a buff surfer boy. But give me mussy hair, glasses, and an IQ high enough to bake bread at, and I'm in love. And if they're multi-lingual...

Pardon me, I have to go change my pants.

Ahem, so...last year I was at a convention in Chicago. A friend of mine and I were staying at a hostel to cut down on the cost of the convention. It was the middle of August and the hostel had no air conditioning, and the free fans they supplied didn't work. We made plans to crash on the hotel room floors of other convention goers.

Why was I not whoring? Did I have a boyfriend? An STD? A sudden attack of morals? Hells, no. But in the five years I've been attending this convention I have never had the opportunity to stretch latex. Shit, I've never even been kissed by someone that I had a desire to be kissed by.

During the first day of the convention a good friend of mine reintroduced me to one of her gay friends. He was a hottie. Very punk nerd. Huge animé hair. I'd met him the year before and developed a mini-crush...until I caught him making out with my doppelganger (I have one...it's a story for another time). Note, I didn't stop crushing on him because he was making out with my doppelganger. The crush stopped when my doppelganger told me that Animé Hair was a terrible kisser.

At any rate, I spent some quality time hanging with Animé Hair and my friend (who might also have been referred to as Animé{e?} Hair), and decided he was a likable guy, but I refused to go all crush woozy. I was in fact chasing after a cute frustratingly straight attention whore who knew I had a crush on him (yet another story for another time).

At the end of the night, some friends and I ended up at the main hotel drinking and spitting words in the hotel room that contained, among other people, Animé Hair. As far as I could tell, no sparks were flying. Attention Whore left the room, to watch a couple of bisexual girls make out in one of the other rooms.

Over the course of the night, I had tried to get blitzed. Alas, I have a high tolerance for alcohol, and no love of beer, so getting blitzed can be expensive, even when the fairly unkind bud began being passed around the hotel room. Eventually, though, jet-lag, lack of sleep, alcohol, marijuana, and my interaction with Attention Whore made me dizzy. So when Animé Hair took my hostel room key and slid it into his pocket I was confused. Fairly soon after he took my key, his roommates decided that 4:28 in the morning was a good time to get some shut-eye, so I asked Animé Hair if he was coming to the hostel with me. He looked confused as I was and said sure.

We took an uneventful cab ride from hotel to hostel. We shot some shit and coy glances at each other. When we reached the hostel he said, "Well, I'd better get back to the hotel. I'll see you tomorrow."

"But" I stammered, as I fiddled with the door handle, "you have my room key."

"Huh?"

"My room key. You took my room key out of my hands back in your hotel room." I pulled the key out of his pocket. "See?"

"Oh. I'll come with you then." It made sense at the time. Really.

As I stepped from the cab I tripped a bit, and my canvas bag dropped to the pavement, spilling all my belongings. While I was collecting the books and papers, Animé Hair was snickering at me.

"What?"

"Progaine Shampoo?"

I turned crimson as my hair. "A pre-emptive strike against impending baldness."

He laughed some more. We went up to my room. I found out later that my roommate had crashed on Attention Whore's floor back at the hotel. We had the room to ourselves.

I'll spare you the coy boy flirtation ordeal and cut to the chase: he started talking about his boyfriend back home. Having previously learned my lesson regarding boys with boyfriends, I terminated flirtation. Or so I thought.

Animé Hair was spread out on my roommate's bed (which my roommate never got around to sleeping on). After every other sentence or so, he'd give me this incredibly flirtatious smirk. Finally, I could bear it no longer.

"If you've got a boyfriend, why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"Cause, hon, your dick is hanging out of your boxers."

Melissaphobia (Part 7: Inconclusion)

What Melissa didn't know was that I never had any intention of calling the police. I didn't have to.

When the college who cut me the check finally mailed me a copy of said check with my forged signature, I'd called a police officer friend of mine from Arizona. He'd advised me that the easiest way to ensure her suffering without having to get my own hands dirty, was to tell the bank that had cashed the check that the signature was forged. Then, the bank would reimburse the college, who would cut me a new check. Melissa would be at the bank's mercy, not mine.

But since she didn't know that (I hadn't called the bank yet), I figured I'd try to get a thousand dollars off her anyway because I was a poor bastard and she was a manipulative, lying bitch with a dog that had pissed all over my fucken clothes. I may have been a little bitter.

She didn't give me the thousand dollars. I never saw her again. Never had the satisfaction of knowing whether she was arrested or had huge penalties from the bank. I'm not even sure she got any financial comeuppance.

What I do know is that she got evicted. Whatever she did with the thousand dollars she essentially stole from me, she didn't use it to pay rent. Also, someone informed her landlord that she had been subleasing part of the apartment to me. She hadn't told him that. He was under the impression that only one person lived there, so he'd given her a great deal on rent. So during the year that I was there, I was paying 75% of the rent and had no idea. Since she was the one who was in contact with the landlord (I've been landlordphobic ever since I moved out of Hippieville), I just assumed we had been paying the same amount. One anonymous call to the landlord changed that.

I met the landlord one night while I was working at The Corporate Restaurant. He didn't know what happened to my bookshelf, my books, my comics, or my computer (and I didn't ask about the porn) but my bedframe and a few of my clothes had shown up in the basement, where (he informed me) all of my stuff had been stored while I was away. No wonder "the storage people" had easy access to the house, they lived in the basement.

I've only been back to the house once since the day Becca and I drove my stuff to storage. It's not too far from where I ended up moving to, but the house has some serious bad juju for me. Even though I know that Melissa hasn't lived there in about a year now, I always get really angry when I drive by, or when the subway passes within sight of it. I have the incredible urge to sneak into the driveway and let the air out of all her tires. But her tires aren't there.

If she didn't end up doing any jail time (and she probably didn't, I don't think she had any prior problems with the police or with banks), I'm imagining she moved back in with her parents. Why they should be punished for her crimes, I don't know. Then again, it was their terrible breeding and/or parenting techniques that contributed to the bipolar sociopath she became.

Blanket Statements

After a three month spoken word tour, I returned home to discover that my crazy ass bitch of a former roommate had changed the locks. For the next three weeks, I couch surfed between friends' houses.

Apart from the occasional shower session, I had been fairly non-masturbatory while I was on the road, and had greatly looked forward to crashing on my comfortable bed, and giving my hand the sort of attention it so desperately loves. So having to stay at friends' houses and sleep on their very public couches while they were at home, did not give me much opportunity for self-loving.

One set of friends, who we shall call Jerry and Lucy, gave me the key to their apartment for a few days. They planned on being home the entire time I was there, but just in case I went out to go grocery shopping, and came home after they'd left for work, they decided to play it safe.

The first four days I was there were so uneventful, I shouldn't have written this sentence. I took a break from staying with them to go visit some friends in a nearby town. I returned on a Wednesday night at around 1:30 in the morning. No one was home. Being lonely, and not very tired, I decided to throw in a movie. I saw the case for "Y Tu Mama Tambien", which several people had recommended to me, but which I hadn't yet come across. I popped it in, and was surprised to see naked hot guys pretty much immediately. Sure, they were having sex with naked hot chicks, and not each other, but it was still hot. As the movie progressed I became interested in it as something other than a cinematic experience. It was 2:30, the bars had been closed for over an hour, the people who lived in the house were not coming home.

Normally, when embarking on a ceiling semening session, I would prepare myself with Kleenex or some other form of cleaning material. But I hadn't really planned on seeing the session all the way through. But sure enough, just as I heard voices coming up the stairs to the apartment, the cork popped off the champagne bottle. I quickly pulled my boxers up, and threw a t-shirt on. The problem was, the blanket I was using was COVERED in cum. I folded the blanket in such a way that you couldn't see anything interesting, and sat up to watch the rest of the movie. Jerry, Lucy, and three of their friends stumbled drunkenly into the room.

"Hey, Safey. What's up?" Jerry asked, crashing down next to me on the couch.

"Nothing, just watching a movie."

We drunk talked for a few more minutes, and then he and Lucy went to their bedrooms, and the three friends took off. About five minutes later, Jerry came out of his bedroom. "Safe." He said, as I feigned sleep. "Safe, are you awake."

I opened an eye. "Not really."

"Mind if we switch blankets? Lucy's...Lucy's blanket isn't warm enough."

YES I MINDED, but how could I explain it in such a way that I didn't have to admit that I'd come all over their blanket? "Ummmm...I'm naked."

He stood there looking about four Cape Codders over the Sagamore Bridge. "The thing is...." He started. "The thing is....Lucy thinks I might have uh....There might be....It might not be a very clean blanket."

Did they know? Had they smelled the semen in the air? "Huh?"

"Before we left we kind of....and the blanket might be, uh, musty." Had I not mustified the blanket myself, I'd have thrown it off in an intense fit of ewww.

"Well, I've been underneath it for about three hours by now, any mustification has already come in contact with my body. But, like I said, I'm not wearing any pants. If you don't mind going into the other room, I'll get dressed and toss you the blanket."

While Jerry went into his room, I dealt with residual dampness, and tossed the blanket into their room. Jerry told me there was a cleaner blanket in the hall closet. I took it. Then I headed back to the couch, where I tried to block out the sound of Jerry and Lucy having headboard shattering sex under the blanket I'd mustified.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/988370.html

Melissaphobia (Part 6: InHulkMode)

My first thought was that I could shatter her dog's spine by merely snapping my fingers together. So would end the suffering of Gussy and everyone else who knew her. But I rarely kill ants, there was no way I could kill her dog, even if it meant putting it out of its blissful misery. I debated burning her house down. Gas wasn't as expensive then, but I decided I'd want to wait around and see the flames. That would probably make me a suspect.

In the end, I decided that rather than killing her or having her killed, it would be much more entertaining to see her try and explain herself. I called her and told her I had the money for her (which I did) and that I wanted to meet her the following morning (a Tuesday) to pick up my stuff. She agreed. But on Tuesday morning she was nowhere to be found. On Wednesday she called with some lame ass excuse about a work emergency. She did data entry for a friend of her family's very small business. She spent most of her days playing with her dog in the office. Whatever. I made an appointment to meet her Thursday morning. She said the storage people would be dropping my stuff off at nine. She's meet me at the house then.

I got there at seven. Just in case. At eight she came out to walk Gussy and was surprised to see me there. "Oh, sorry." I said, "I thought you said to meet you at eight." She was definitely shaken, not stirred.

By nine-thirty, there was no storage truck.

"Hold on a second." she said, breaking the tense silence.

I assumed that she was going in to call the storage people or some sort of bodyguard. I was unprepared when she walked out of the house with a box of my books. "It looks like the storage people must have come last night after I went to sleep. Your stuff is in the back hallway."

The storage people had come in the middle of the night? "The storage people came in the middle of the night?" How did they get in? "Do they have keys?"

"I must have left the door unlocked." What-The-Fuck.

If I gave her any more of "the eye" it would have been two eyes. I went into my former home, and sure enough there were piles and garbage bags of my stuff in the back hallway. I was too flummoxed to do a complete inventory, but I did notice one thing missing right away. "Where are my bookshelves?"

"What bookshelves?"

"The bookshelves that held all my books. Two big ones. They were against the wall."

"I don't remember them. Maybe the storage people took them."

"The storage people stole my bookshelves but returned my TV and CD collection?" She shrugged. "Maybe they misplaced them when they were rummaging around in the dark last night when they dropped off my stuff, huh?"

No reply.

I called a friend of mine to pick me up in her truck, so I could put my stuff in real storage.

"Did you remember the receipt from the storage place?"

"Receipt?"

"Yea. You said that storage was costing you a bundle, and I said I'd repay you if you gave me the receipt."

"No. I'm friends with the guy who owns the storage place. He let me have it for free."

"Then why did you tell me it was costing you a bundle?"

"You misunderstood."

Whatever. I then began counting off the thousand dollars. I made to hand them to her. "Oh. One more thing. Do you remember cashing a check for a thousand dollars the day after I left?"

Blank stare.

"Because the bank and the people who wrote the check seem to believe that you've already been paid the rent for the three months that I was away."

"Oh. The check. I forgot about that. It wasn't the amount I was expecting, so I forgot it."

"It was a check for a thousand dollars, right?"

"Yea."

"I did pay you enough money before I left so that the balance of rent while I was gone was only $900, correct?"

"Yea."

"So..."

Blank stare.

"I'm not giving you this money."

"But I need it." She threw her hand in the air, "Why do you make things so difficult?" And walked to her car, where Gussy was shivering in the back seat. "If I don't have the money by tomorrow, I'm calling the police."

"Here's my phone. Call them now. I'd love to hear you explain to them why you forged my signature on a check, and stole my fucken mail, you psycho."

She drove off.

Becca and I moved my stuff into storage uneventfully. The storage facility was right next to work, and i had to work in an hour, so I spent that hour doing inventory.

Things that were missing:

My bookshelves
All of my books from authors K-Z
My bedframe
My DVD/VHS collection
My pornography
My old comic book collection
My two overcoats (one of them my grandfather's cashmere)
My computer (which didn't work, anyway)
A good chunk of my clothes

What was left of my clothes was covered in dried old dog piss. I called and left Melissa a message to call me back. She did not respond. I called about seven times that week. No response. So on the eighth day I left a different kind of message.

"Melissa, it's Insafemode. I've been very patient. If I don't hear from you in forty-eight hours, I'm calling the cops. You stole a great deal from me, and forged my signature on a check. If I don't get a thousand dollars in my hands by the end of the week, I'm having you arrested."

I then went to take a shower. By the time I was finished she had called my phone seven times but left no message.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/30121.html, http://insafemode.livejournal.com/30689.html

Melissaphobia (Part 5: Checks And Unbalances)

"I don't live here anymore?" In my head I'm doing the five fingers of death (though Kill Bill 2 has not come out yet, I am intrinsically aware of its future existence).

"You said there'd be a check arriving for me in January. I never received it."

"But I called you in January, and February, and March, and you never mentioned it." I'm pulling out her eyeballs with my fingers, and squishing them beneath my shoes.

"I assumed you knew."

I was just sleep deprived enough to think this whole thing was my fault. I asked her what had happened to all my belongings, and she informed they were in storage. When I could pay her the three months of overdue rent, and the storage fees, she'd return my stuff.

It sounded fair.

I went to Corporate Restaurant and explained my predicament. I needed to work as often as possible in order to get my stuff back. Several of my coworkers offered me couches and spare beds until I found a new place to stay. My current debt to Melissa would be roughly thirteen hundred dollars, I expected to have to have about $1800 to put down on a new place. I was fucked in a way that brought me no pleasure. I was also pissed off.

I called the institution that was supposed to cut me the check. They "thought" they had sent it out to me in January. It would take a couple of days to track down, but they'd be in touch. I posted angry anti-Melissa comments in my other LJ. A certain former landlord's girlfriend (I think, I have no proof of who the anonymous fuckwad was) said of my homelessness and misfortune, "That's awesome. You deserve what you get."

I tried not to turn into InHulkMode.

I called Melissa and asked how much storage was costing her. She said she didn't know, but she'd get back to me. I called her back the next day to ask again, and received no answer. The following day, she called my cell phone asking why I was ignoring her repeated messages. I called my voice mail. I had six messages. None of them from Melissa.

The next week was my birthday. I worked eight hours, and then crashed on a coworker's couch. My mom called to ask me if I'd received my birthday money.

The following morning, I trekked over to Melissa's in search of my mail. In addition to the birthday mail (one from my mom, one from my dad, two sets of grandparents, and one aunt), I was waiting for a package from a friend in Pieceofshitdeserttown.

"You haven't gotten any mail here in months." Ms. Smiley Melissa Face informed me as she was putting her work cooler in her trunk.

"No mail?"

"None."

"You're telling my five people's birthday cards got lost in the mail?"

"I don't know what to tell you." She started to slam down her trunk.

"What's that?" I stopped the trunk with my hand. Inside was a package with my name on it.

"Oh, that. That arrived yesterday. I forgot." It was my package from Pieceofshitdeserttown. "Here."

"No, mail for me, huh?"

While there is no doubt in my mind that she did steal my birthday mail (a federal offense, mind you). I had no proof. She had not been stupid enough to forge my signature on those checks. A few days after the run in by her trunk, though, I got a call from the people who'd written me the $1000 check. They'd written it. They'd mailed it. And on January seventh, the day after I'd left on tour it had been signed over to and cashed by one Melissa F*n Bitchface.

Enter InHulkMode.

Melissaphobia (Part 4: Welcome Home)

It's 1:15 on a Sunday morning. After a two-day bus trip at the culmination of a three-month spoken word tour, I had decided to take a trip to my local venue for a surprise appearance. People were surprised. I was happy. I drank. I was tired. I was writing in short, choppy sentences.

My friend Joycee drove me home from the venue. I pulled my bags out of her trunk, walked up to my door, turned the key in the lock and...nothing. Fuck.

I rang the doorbell, but I had witnessed Melisa sleeping through me banging on her bedroom door when she had blocked our neighbor's driveway with her car. She probably slept through the sex she had with all The Midnight Men. They were probably just a bunch of crazed necrophiliacs (except the Coke guy, I'm sure he had no crazed fetishes).

I realized she had probably changed the locks due to a run in with one of The Midnight Men. Maybe somebody hit her, or maybe she had decided she was going to stick to only one married guy at a time.

When she hadn't answered the door to the apartment, and Gussy hadn't even barked at my knocking and doorbell ringing, I went around to the driveway to check for her car. It was there. While I was in the driveway, I realized that I could probably climb in through my window. I didn't remember whether I'd bothered to lock it. But the odds were that I hadn't. I hopped on to the ledge and ---

There was no furniture in my room. Bed? Gone. Bookcases? Gone. TV? Gone. Desk? Gone. Pile of films and porn? Gone. The closet was open and there were no clothes in it.

I decided that even if the window was unlocked, no good would come from climbing through it. Instead, I walked the couple of miles to Su's house and woke her up, explaining my unpleasant return. She thought I might have just been so tired that I mis-saw.

It was true that I didn't do an exhaustive visual search. There were no streetlights, no lights from inside the house.

At about five-thirty I walked back to the house where I had lived for the past year. Melissa was comingo ut of the house as I walked up to the porch.

"Hey, Insafemode." she beamed. "How was your trip?"

"It was fun. I got to see a part of the country I've never been to, amde enough money to live moderately comfortable, met some nice people. But when I got home the damnedest thing happened. My key wouldn't fit into the lock."

"Oh, yea. You don't live here anymore."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/28964.html

Melissaphobia (Part 3: Signs and Post-Its)

There were enough signs that Melissa was crazy to keep two engravers, four painters and a troupe of municipal workers in business for the rest of their unnatural lives. First off there was the dog, there were the midnight men, there was the dog, there were the letters addressed to various friends (who I never met) and family members filled with phrases like "you're not being conducive to my needs as a human person" and "I think I'm going to need some space from your negative energy for a while", and, of course, the dog.

I first witnessed one of her nuclear meltdowns in June. I am the sort of person who is pretty well known for being a good listener and problem solver (so long as the problems aren't my own) but when someone tells me they don't want to talk about something, that's the end of the discussion. I'm not going to expend effort to hear about someone's problems, unless there's love, money, or fucking involved. I never did find out what Melissa's meltdown was in response to.

She started leaving me nasty notes. I'm someone who uses a fair amount of notepaper and writing journals but absolutely deplores the Post-It Note industry. Every Post-It Note I've ever seen involves passive aggressive or just downright aggressive language. When I lived in Burlington, my landlord used to leave me love notes such as "Where's the fucking rent?" and "I hate you. Get out of my house." To be fair to him, I was avoiding him because I couldn't afford rent. I understood his frustrations.

Melissa's frustrations were whacky. "I found this pen in the living room. BE MORE CAREFUL!!!!" It was a covered ball-point pen, left in a room that Gussy was forbidden to go into. Another note declared "Gussy did her business in my bedroom while I was gone. In the future PLEASE CLEAN UP when I'm not home." Uhhh...since when is it my business to go into someone else's room and check to see whether or not their spoiled rotten guinea pig impersonator shat on their floor?

In mid-July she announced that she was leaving for Florida for a while. This made me very happy. When she returned home, there were Midnight Men coming at all hours of the day. Fortunately, I was rarely home at all hours of the day. The one great thing about us being roommates was that (after we both quit Crapplebees) she worked days, and I worked nights. We rarely ever saw each other or had to have conversations. Which was good, as I rarely had anything nice to say to her.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/28834.html

Melissaphobia (Part 2: The Midnight Men)

I don't sleep at night (have you noticed most of my posts are at 4 fricken AM?). My job requires me to be at work promptly at four in the afternoon, sometimes as late as six. I'm done at midnightish, and completely wired when I get home. My life has been like this for the majority of the last three years.

When I first moved in with Melissa, I had yet to buy my bed (best purchase ever), so I was sleeping on the living room couch. I'd invited my friend and coworker Quentin over to play cards. Nothing sleazy, just cards. This was before the madness that is spectator poker. This was merely Cribbage, a game I was once damn good at.

Around 12:15 I heard a key turning in the lock. Melissa was already home. I was already home. There were only two of us. Had Gussy gone outside on her own? If so, why?

A man in his early forties in desperate need of a shave and a shower walked in, blinked curiously at Quentin and I and continued on his way down the hall to Melissa's room. I was puzzled until I heard the sounds of someone trying to quietly fuck. Ahhhh, the boyfriend.

This happened several times through the course of the year that Melissa and I lived together. But it was never the same guy twice. I wondered whether she gave her one spare key out to people she met at bars or whether she always set the key in a plastic Easter egg, and hid the egg in a different location, perhaps putting out ads in magazines or The Internet with directions to where the egg was located. The ad would read: "Want to fuck a moderately attractive girl with dependency issues while being watched and barked at by a miniature dachshund? Go to Pope Hill Park, find the easter egg under the monkey bars in the playground, and follow the directions inside. Bring condoms and rawhide bones."

The only Midnight Man who ever caught my attention was The Coke guy.

I love me some Cherry Coke. One night at around three I went into the kitchen, surprised to find a moderately attractive man in boxers drinking the last of my Cherry Coke.

"This yours?" he asked.

"Yea."

"Sorry, I was really thirsty. I'll replace it tomorrow."

He didn't know what I knew. There was no tomorrow in our house for Midnight Men. Melissa was burying herself under a pile of anonymous men in a pathetic attempt to disguise the fact that nobody loved her enough to commit to her. Maybe we had more in common than I thought.

There was no Cherry Coke in the fridge the next day, but he had blocked up the toilet.

About a week later, I was in the middle of writing when the doorbell rang. There was a Coke truck outside. On the doorstep was Midnight Man with ten cases of Cherry Coke.

"Sorry bout the delay. I'm a little mad at Melissa, but I felt bad about taking the last of your Coke. She tells me you pretty much live off the stuff. Hope you enjoy this. Oh, and don't tell Melissa I said Hi."

I wanted to fuck him right there on the doorstep. Instead I said thank you and began stocking the refrigerator and the pantry.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/28575.html