Friday, March 6, 2015

Fun House, Wherehouse, Their House / When the Journaling is Over

Memory is indeed a funny thing. As I read the journals I noticed that it was the narrative I tell myself when I reminisce about those days. It was weird. I did get really spooked after that Halloween night. My life did take a different direction after I left the warehouse job.


Here I am on the cusp of my marriage.  Up until now the real events of the Halloween “concert” alluded me. Now not just marriage but with a bonus child coming seven months later. Sure I had only seriously dated the woman for eight months before this. Four months before I decided to commit and stopped fucking the other two women in my life.  But she fooled me. She stopped taking her birth control pills without telling me two months before.

She said she did not have the money. But she made a good living.  Since we had for all intents and purposes living together these past few months I might question her expenses. Other than keeping her tiny studio apartment I estimated them to be minimal.

But I am a fool in love.

Her big blue eyes and bigger soft as a bunny tits, thin waist, and curvy behind had won me. Really it was her simple southern ways and homeyness that she displayed that made me forgo the pleasures of my more experienced, adventurous, and sometimes tandem two toned lover’s beds. The prospect of monogamy and “settling down” seemed more likely with Toni.  The years since Rene I had much sowing and reaping of wild grains on my part; but I was pining for the fiords of a deep, meaningful, and possible everlasting  love.

The  romantic in me will out every time.

So as I go through things that I may not want to drag forward into this new relationship I found those journals from my past. Out of the pages of scribbles and typed pages on the boat anchor weight Underwood typewriter ensconced in my coach house it raised questions within me.  Why that journal? Why from that year?

The long forgotten events of a long forgotten Halloween night. Here is more baggage I need to remove before I start my new life with Toni.

What is most troubling is what was forgotten and now remembered with today’s clarity.  What happened that Halloween night has been revealed to me in High Definition that was not possible then. The events of the spring and summer of my shipping clerk days flooded back to me. It all seemed to make sense now. Those events are freshly etched in my soon to be family man psyche. I need to exorcise these memories and move on.

I will do it on the pages to follow along for myself and see if it is still clearly defined once written down.

First memory that flooded back was how that Halloween day started. The minute I got to the warehouse I was immediately sent over to work with Ellen Joy.

We started our day together as always. Three bong hits each. No more. No less. Today she was wearing her, what I can best describe as floppy hippie hat. It was perched atop her long flowing brown curls. This was no perm. This was hair she had been growing a long long time and it shimmered in the morning light.

Perhaps the dope made it shimmer more. I knew creeper weed and this was creeping up slow and steady.

Soon I was being ridden by this full figured woman who was chanting,  “Deeper. Deeper. Deeper.” Her floppy hippie hat above open blouse with a black silk scarf slung low around her waist were all in motion. She was perspiring platinum. Breast’s lost their fleshy bounce once fully out of her blouse to become still beacons in the morning light. She glowed. Oh, how she glowed.   I marveled at how my cock disappeared into that full curly bush . I was pushing up on my feet, lifting her on my pelvis and arching my back high off her sloshing slapping water bed.

As I pushed repeatedly into that thick black bush. I began to feel I was being swallowed up in a deep lush forest. Except what was once warm wet and wonderful, was becoming wiggly, wormy, and dank. I could swear the black curly hairs, once soft and inviting, were becoming constrictive and stifling. I could not breath and my cock felt coaxed by thick black tentacles and powerful suction.

The hairy black tentacles grasped and entwined me and Ellen’s crotch opened wider and wider as if it were a gaping maw. It pulled me up into her gaping box by my balls. Her unholy twat pulled my balls within her as if to swallow them up like Rocky Mountain oysters. Her usually hot wet cunt was cold as icy death itself.

Her voice husky and breathy repeating over and over , “Flesh of my flesh. Bone of my bone ….”

It was then that the metamorphosis of Ellen Joy transpired. She became the youthful and bouncy boobed Jo Jo. The same Jo Jo I knew only in passing and who was to accompany Tami with me to the concert tonight. But why am I fucking Jo Jo now. Tami was to be my date tonight I thought incoherently. As I was mesmerized by sweat shimmering bouncing brown tipped tawny boobs it was….

Fade to black for me.

4 comments:

  1. Wow! That's entrapment plain and clear as the anchor-weight typewriter! I've wondered if, like nice guys, romantics get kicked around too.

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  2. I wouldn't know about nice guys. But googly eyed romantics like me take a lickin' and keep on kickin'. Good to see you back and continuing your stories on the internets. Missed ya. :-)

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  3. Thanks. I'll be in and out for awhile yet but I missed writing and conversation with good company. 8o} <--Googly eyes for ya! LOL!

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  4. I thought I'd read this before. Of course, it could have been creeper weed... but it's just as delicious many times over! By the way, I know that typewriter. I think I learned on a black steel Royal. I'm still convinced that it's first design was a boat anchor! LOL! Okay, I'm just going to steal "but I was pining for the fiords of a deep, meaningful, and possible everlasting love." and go quietly on my way! :)

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