A new story, where the fuck did it come from? I may never know... i fell asleep in a booth at waffle house shortly after getting this far...
Tentative.
As far as I can think back, Id never felt as detached from my own body as I did right then. The sting in my ears was too persistent to ignore, and the repercussions of hotel sex and booze left my body feeling like a suit that was tailored expressly to not fit any known body type in the universe, let alone a five foot eight inch 24 year old with muscular legs and the arms of a hyperactive ballerina. Me and my tattooed shell of a body walked down the crimson wall papered hall way and into the open lobby with all the finesse of a cigarette thrown into a wind torn alley from floor thirty eight of the busiest courthouse in Hell. I weaved, bobbed, and bounced just a little more with each consecutive step and tried hard to convince myself that I might be getting the hang of this whole walking thing.
I was wrong, of course, and I stumbled so hard the second the thought arrived like an exuberant stork to a burned-out home that I slammed into the Welcome to Tennesse brochure stand and let out a Collie-like whelp. Filled with all the attractions and tourist stops that even us locals find inane and unbelievably dull, the stand was built of surprisingly solid stuff and it gave not an inch as my right knee and hand made a flesh sandwhich with the all too willing Lucite corner of the pamphlet repository. Whatshisname, the valet/bellboy/ desk clerk pretended not to notice my condition and I pretended not to notice that he was in nearly as rough of shape. All things being fair, I decided, his job is to move cars and who was I to question his sobriety
The time passage from my fall in the lobby to thirty miles south of Nashville could best be summed up the sound a record being scratched followed by this fascinatingly stupid inner dialogue:Im driving? Since when am I driving? What did she say about her myspace? Oh fuck, how did I get here? Shit, why does it have to be raining? Ok, shake your head out. Focus no! not on the sex. On the road. Focus on the road. God, she did have great skin Alright, lets see fifteen minutes from home.
Gypsy jazz played via my ipod, reverberated throughout my Cadillac as I ran back through the night. Or tried to. It wasnt that I had drank so much, or that I lacked so much sleep it was just one of those nights when my body said Im done but for some reason my mouth said make that a double. I wasnt conscious of any thirsty sorrows but apparently the lack of someone to be upset about was more than enough to be upset about. And then she stepped out of the crowd, too indescribable for analogy or witty bantor. I didnt know it yet but she was only in town for the night and her hips were as hungry as mine. It wasnt that I had been turned down or rejected by anyone and it wasnt that I didnt know anyone who would offer their company but a plane ticket for the distant coast occupied my mind in such way that I had lost the ability to feign interest in moments that were less than spectacular. She was nearly as well stocked as the bar, with her curvy form tucked (just barely) into a white and black hounds tooth jacket and skin tight jeans. Her Greek skin was the exact color of olive oil and her lips were painted with the kind of lipstick that is as easy to wear home on your collar as it is to apply to your lips. The kind that pin-ups in the forties wore to look kissable; which is to say the exact opposite kind that porn stars actually wore when they kissed. I was similarly attired, in a skin tight suit that stuck out like a sixth finger in the crowd of teenage rebellion. I was dressed to impress, but clearly not to undress. Three piece, dress shoes, perfectly knotted tie. I attempted Sinatra but usually ended up channeling Jerry Lewis by mistake.
Tentative.
As far as I can think back, Id never felt as detached from my own body as I did right then. The sting in my ears was too persistent to ignore, and the repercussions of hotel sex and booze left my body feeling like a suit that was tailored expressly to not fit any known body type in the universe, let alone a five foot eight inch 24 year old with muscular legs and the arms of a hyperactive ballerina. Me and my tattooed shell of a body walked down the crimson wall papered hall way and into the open lobby with all the finesse of a cigarette thrown into a wind torn alley from floor thirty eight of the busiest courthouse in Hell. I weaved, bobbed, and bounced just a little more with each consecutive step and tried hard to convince myself that I might be getting the hang of this whole walking thing.
I was wrong, of course, and I stumbled so hard the second the thought arrived like an exuberant stork to a burned-out home that I slammed into the Welcome to Tennesse brochure stand and let out a Collie-like whelp. Filled with all the attractions and tourist stops that even us locals find inane and unbelievably dull, the stand was built of surprisingly solid stuff and it gave not an inch as my right knee and hand made a flesh sandwhich with the all too willing Lucite corner of the pamphlet repository. Whatshisname, the valet/bellboy/ desk clerk pretended not to notice my condition and I pretended not to notice that he was in nearly as rough of shape. All things being fair, I decided, his job is to move cars and who was I to question his sobriety
The time passage from my fall in the lobby to thirty miles south of Nashville could best be summed up the sound a record being scratched followed by this fascinatingly stupid inner dialogue:Im driving? Since when am I driving? What did she say about her myspace? Oh fuck, how did I get here? Shit, why does it have to be raining? Ok, shake your head out. Focus no! not on the sex. On the road. Focus on the road. God, she did have great skin Alright, lets see fifteen minutes from home.
Gypsy jazz played via my ipod, reverberated throughout my Cadillac as I ran back through the night. Or tried to. It wasnt that I had drank so much, or that I lacked so much sleep it was just one of those nights when my body said Im done but for some reason my mouth said make that a double. I wasnt conscious of any thirsty sorrows but apparently the lack of someone to be upset about was more than enough to be upset about. And then she stepped out of the crowd, too indescribable for analogy or witty bantor. I didnt know it yet but she was only in town for the night and her hips were as hungry as mine. It wasnt that I had been turned down or rejected by anyone and it wasnt that I didnt know anyone who would offer their company but a plane ticket for the distant coast occupied my mind in such way that I had lost the ability to feign interest in moments that were less than spectacular. She was nearly as well stocked as the bar, with her curvy form tucked (just barely) into a white and black hounds tooth jacket and skin tight jeans. Her Greek skin was the exact color of olive oil and her lips were painted with the kind of lipstick that is as easy to wear home on your collar as it is to apply to your lips. The kind that pin-ups in the forties wore to look kissable; which is to say the exact opposite kind that porn stars actually wore when they kissed. I was similarly attired, in a skin tight suit that stuck out like a sixth finger in the crowd of teenage rebellion. I was dressed to impress, but clearly not to undress. Three piece, dress shoes, perfectly knotted tie. I attempted Sinatra but usually ended up channeling Jerry Lewis by mistake.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
is this a new thing?
this is great!
Sighhhhh...
This will become us.