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I took the seats out of my mini van and replaced them with a mattress. This was not as comfortable as I imagined it would be. We were constantly bumping into each other and breathing heavy air into each other’s faces. One time Jay got pissed. “You got to be fucking kidding me!” he yelled, and then he punched his pillow hard, over and over again. It was terrifying. I spent the night wedged in the corner trembling in fear.
The first time we slept in the thing was at a service station in upstate NY. Jay constantly sledge hammered me with his elbow and his snoring was almost as bad as the godless beeping of the Mack-trucks as they reversed out of their parking spaces. But the worst part of the night was the fucking horror movie my mind would play. Every time I heard a male voice outside my vehicle, I imagined it was coming from some lunatic truck driver talking to a swarm of other equally murderous males. I would imagine them looking into my mini-van, seeing Jay and I all cuddled up…”Faggots!” they would yell, then start tearing the side door off my mini-van and smashing us into the cement, like we were an empty bottle of whiskey. I was not able to sleep, and after a few hours I was ready to hallucinate. It was like dreaming and it was filled with chubby little girls that were getting hunted by ravenous bears. These girls were my spirit animals. I was sure of it. Watching them die was like witnessing a doctor drain my own blood.
By morning, Jay was up and chipper and completely replenished. Meanwhile, I felt like one gigantic red eye that was on the verge of deflating.
Once we got on the road, I noticed that we were near Niagara Falls, so we decided to take a look. The town of Niagara was not what I imagined. I had figured it to be touristy and semi-fancy. Nothing ritzy, but clean. Instead, what I found was a series of run down motels that still advertised they had ‘color TV’. At one point we stopped at a gas station to ask for directions. The woman behind the counter had a dead face, like someone hypnotized her a long time ago and forgot to snap her out of it.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“We are looking for Niagara Falls.”
“‘Falls’?” she said, like she had never heard of the thing. “Oh right, ‘Niagara Falls’ they are about a mile down the road, north. What you got to do is just take a right on Main Street, then you should see them—they’re pretty big.”
“I bet they are,” I said.
Finding the falls should have been easy, but instead of turning into the parking lot I turned onto the bridge that led to the Canadian border. I had neither a passport or a registration for my vehicle. Before customs, there was a toll both. Squeezed into that toll both was the one of the most depressing looking men I had ever seen. The man looked like he hadn’t left the booth in years. As if all he had ever breathed was air mixed with car fumes. Like he had never heard silence, just engines and the sound of voices that were going somewhere better.
“Listen,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to turn here. Is there any way we can not enter Canada?”
“Well, you could turn around here, but then you would be going the wrong way on a one way street, and you would probably get pulled over, seeing we are at the border and right next to the a police station. But, if you wanted to, you could turn around.”
There was no hope. I felt like my life force was being sucked into his jowls.
“Well shit,” I said.” I don’t have a passport.”
“Oh, you don’t really need a passport,” he told us. “Just as long as you have a picture ID, you’ll be fine.”
I prayed that this compost bucket of a man was right, then drove on.
The guy at customs was irritated at the very sight of us. Pinched. Like he was on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
“What? Who told you that all you needed was an ID? Well, I’m going to let you in, but you see, these driver’s licenses don’t actually prove anything about your citizenship. All they prove is that you drive in NY. So I will let you into Canada, but I cant promise you that they will let you back into the US.”
He then had me pull my car over to the side to get searched. Luckily, they didn’t find the bowl my girlfriend had lost in there months ago
The Canadian side of Niagara Falls was more how I imagined it. Not too rich, but sterile, and there were tourists everywhere. I went through all the motions, like I was having a good time. I took pictures of Jay and Jay and me and just me. I commented on how beautiful and powerful and majestic it all was and stared into it like I was completely enchanted… but it was all an act. The only thing I could feel was terror. That nervous customs guy had me on edge. His eyes. They had looked so severe…
After being in Canada for a half hour we were on the road back to the US. The customs guy coming back was relaxed, a stud actually. The type that doesn’t just charm the girls, but can even get a guy blushing and giggling, no matter how masculine he bahis firmaları might be. We even told him our tale of how we ended up in Canada. We were all laughing together like old pals. Shit, I figured he was about to hand us a beer and start talking about all the girls he’d fucked.
“Hey,” he said, trying to take a slightly more serious tone. ” You mind if I check the back of your van? Its standard procedure.”
“Sure, ” I said.
And that is when he noticed the mattress.
“You guys sleep on this thing?” he asked. “Together?”
He looked clearly disgusted. Any bit of friendliness his face had was gone.
“No, you see, we don’t…”
“Just get out of here.”
Once we were good and gone and back on the highway, we started laughing hysterically. It was all so surreal. Had we actually been in any danger? And that guy… the mattress…the look on his face…all we could do was laugh… whatever had happened, I felt like the chubby little girls were set free without a scratch on their bodies. Everything was safe and soft— and blissful.
I woke up with icy air crawling into my ass hole. I felt delicate and brutalized from all the whisky I had drank the night before. And there was a heat coming from my friend Rosie, who was lying in bed next to me with her tits hard and pointing upward, and drool leaking down the left side of her face. We were in a tent that was spacious enough to contain a massive, exceptionally comfy, queen sized bed. For the most part, I was comfortable.
I could only remember scraps from the night before. I remembered grabbing Rosie on the way to her tent. There were midnight mountain shapes subtle in the background, like tired monsters. Her breath was fowl, but she was a good and desperate kisser. We rushed back to her tent and ripped into each other. I remember her tits and her ass, which was thick and firm and god-like. I remembered the asshole hovering above my face and my hands deep in her pussy and her screaming her orgasm, like it was a plane speeding downward. I remember the dense suds from her pussy. It was good. And even though I was hung-over, my dick was hard just at the thought of it.
Rosie woke up shortly after me. Her eyes seemed like they were still in the middle of a dream. She wiped the drool off of her face, and then looked at me.
“Good morning,” she said.
She tried to cover her tits, but I wouldn’t let her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m horny as hell,” I told her. ” I can barely stand it.”
“Stop, put that away.”
I rubbed it against her. It was unbearably hard and a solid inch longer than normal. It felt like something was trying to break out of it—like my cock was some sort of egg.
“Man. I feel insane. I want to molest you until I explode.” I told her.
She giggled, then turned around, giving me full access to the god-ass. I put my cock in-between the cheeks and began to have my eager way with them. This also made her laugh.
“Stop!” she yelled.
“Shit, I feel nuts. Did I come last night?”
“Yes, you sure did.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yup. We rubbed it into my skin like it was lotion.”
The memory of this came back to me and I became even more aroused.
Rosie got out of the bed. Her ass was perfect roundness. And firm. I couldn’t get my eyes off of it. I begged her to come back to bed.
“No,” she said. ” People will hear us, the lady who owns this place is probably already up and farming.”
The place we were staying was some sort of organic operation that manufactured tinctures. The owner was an angular woman who looked like she was constantly in a state of middle-aged yoga-bliss. These people have always intimidated me. I get paranoid and start imagining they can sense something spiritually corrupt about me— they may even want to kill me.
My stomach began to rumble. I knew this, especially when I was hung-over, meant that I had very little time before I had to shit.
“Rosie, where’s the bathroom?”
“Its behind the green house. Why?”
I got out of bed. My dick was still hard and it seemed to be holding onto the blanket. I looked around the room for my pants and underwear but they were nowhere to be found.
“What’s wrong?” Rosie asked.
” I can’t find my pants.”
We were in a tent. There were about three or four places I could look and I did, over and over again.
“What the fuck did you do!” I yelled. “Eat them?”
I was in a panic. The shit was coming, and my body was too hungover to hold it back. Things were getting desperate. I looked out of the tent to see if I could see the owner. But there was only cold air. Fuck it, I decided, and then ran out of the tent and headed to my mini-van.
When I got there I found Jay still in midst of peaceful slumber on the mattress I had put in the back.
“Jay. Wake up.”
He looked up at me.
“Grimbol, what are you doing? Why’s your dong out?”
I reached around him, found kaçak iddaa my bag, ripped out of pair of pants, and then sprinted to the bathroom. It was a good, long, heated shit—a monument to drunk, sloppy nakedness.
I ran into the owner of the farm as I was walking back to the tent, and complimented her on her facilities.
“Isn’t Rosie great?” she asked. “It’s just so lovely having her and the other interns here, it truly brings me the most wonderful happiness. Why, I meditated for days and days about what I wanted my interns to be like, and to see that come into my reality is just such a blessing.”
Somewhere down the line people started considering magic a progressive form of spirituality. The entire farm was thick with talk about energy, yoga and spirit animals. As far as I was concerned their spin on eastern religion was about as sophisticated and valid as wizards and goblins. These idiots weren’t meditating, they were role-playing. All they were missing was a fucking dungeon master and plastic elf ears.
But, for the most part, they were harmless—with the exception of Leroy. While the rest of the interns were just barely out of their adolescence, Leroy was 40 years old—and he loved magic. The first time I met the frumpy little man, he was rambling on about how the energy of his foot fungus is expressed though the pores on his face, and how he doesn’t wish to rid himself of this fungus because of how much it had taught him about his relationship to his spirit animal, which, as far as I could tell, was every other animal he saw. But all of that is nothing really–but cute. What was so awful about this man was his need to debate with you over differences of opinion.
That night, I over heard Leroy talking to Jay. Jay, the poor boy, couldn’t say a damn thing that the man wouldn’t question to the core. Anything that involved linear thinking or productivity was announced as euro-centric. If Jay was to embrace any notion that wasn’t blissful and content, then Leroy looked at him like he was the saddest of all lost minds.
“Well, why do we need to reflect on our past?” I heard Leroy ask. “Who told you that was a good idea? Why can’t we just exist now?”
” You can if you want,” Jay replied. ” But maybe you want to understand yourself in a way that…”
“‘Understand yourself’, now who told you that was a good idea?”
After a good hour of this I was completely lost.
“Wait, What the hell started this conversation?” I asked.
“Well,” Jay said. ” We were talking about this book I was reading, but according to him, ideas don’t matter, so I don’t actually know what the fuck we are talking about.”
With this, we began to laugh. The whole day had been exhausting like this, and all we had left was a belly laugh. No matter how stupid and tired things got, Jay and I always embraced the belly-laugh and tried to ride it out for as long as possible.
The rest of the group did not think it was so funny. They didn’t actually look at us with any contempt, but it was obvious to me they had classified us as poison ivy. I was fine with this. People like Leroy were no different than the sub-normal born-again Christian headaches that I have spent my life avoiding. I was looking forward to getting the hell out of there, to return to the highways that were void of these opinions.
I could tell that Rosie felt weird about all this. Though the tension was subtle and abstract, it was still very present. As the day went on, I could sense her becoming cold to me. Again, this was fine. I had to call my girlfriend who was heading toward Greece the next day. Though I would have loved to fondle Rosie again, it was not important.
Heather (my girlfriend) called at about ten. I went to the portable bathroom for some privacy. I would have just gone for a walk out side, but it had started to hail, so the porta-potty was the only option.
The conversation was tedious. Since she was about to leave, she wanted to have a sweet moment with me—but it wasn’t happening. For one, I was exhausted from the altitude change and all the magic I had to deal with. Two, the girl was just sour. Everything had gone wrong, and all she could do was complain about the hassle she had to go through to make this trip happen. Once I was on the phone for a minute, I had a headache and this headache kept mounting. Still, I knew I needed to stay on the phone for as long as I could. I imagined that if I got out too soon I would break her heart and she would spend the rest of her night weeping like a little girl. Those big juicy eyes of hers aching with abandonment…I just couldn’t handle that concept. So I talked and I talked. And I would try to be as sweet as possible. But it was all a chore.–that is, until I got off the phone. Once that was done and her high-pitched whiny voice was gone, then I started missing her.
It was horrible. There was no way to call her back. It was like throwing a painting in a fire then realizing that it was the best thing kaçak bahis you had ever seen. I was crushed. There was no way I could handle even lying next to Rosie, so I got in the mini-van with Jay. So, I went to the car and snuggled in—waking up Jay in the process.
“Fuck, what’s going on?” he asked. “You bang-out Rosie again?”
I told him that I didn’t, but I didn’t have the energy to explain why. This was fine. Jay was barely awake and just being cordial anyway.
“No pipe for her tonight.” He said, and then went to sleep.
But I wasn’t feeling tired. I just laid there, thought about Heather and her crazed, gigantic, swirling eyes and breasts she has; about that mess of a crotch with all its hair and stench. It was so fierce. I imagined me burying my sullen face in it all, like the gasses it produced were my only chance at happiness. Meanwhile, my cock would be stuck all the way into her throat and her eyes would be closed and peaceful, regardless of her gagging.
“An Issue of Class”
As soon as we pulled into San Francisco, I felt horrible. All I could think about was money—how much we had spent on gas and food, and how much we could have saved if we had done things differently. I felt ugly, wasteful.
Down the road from where we parked, was a series of strip clubs all with marques that seemed to be preserved from the 70’s. They looked enchanting and calm. I felt drawn to them. It felt like they were the only appropriate place to be. Sure, they were by no means practical, especially when one is concerned with money, but the effect of these places would be comforting and immediate, and as far as I was concerned, good medicine.
The first strip club we entered was Larry Flint’s joint. It was only one in the afternoon and we were the only patrons. The mood of the place was lazy. At the bar was a blonde girl named Amber. Her body was boring, but that didn’t matter to me. All that mattered was that the flesh was random. After a drink, I decided to take to the back room and pay her the 70 dollars for a full contact lap dance.
Once we were back there I took a cruel pull from my drink and then told her I was ready. She took off her skirt, and her ass floated up to my face. It looked majestic. I was convinced that every ass in the world was beautiful and precious. But that does not mean you treat this as common. No. You lock on, like a wolf that hasn’t eaten in days; like heaven was something you could sink your teeth into.
She teased me briefly, and then I pulled her ass onto my lap and humped desperately. Once I came, she lifted up and placed her ass in front of my face again. I grabbed it, shook it a little, said thank you, and then walked back up to the bar.
By the time we had left the club, and its neon blue comfort, it was 2 and I was drunk and the crotch of my pants was covered in come. Jay noticed it immediately and told me I was vile.
We spent the rest of the afternoon in art museums where I stumbled around, bitter and belligerent, rambling about how boring art was and about how I felt the only “real” art was the stain on the crotch of my pants–which had already dried and disappeared. Jay rolled his eyes at me. The boy had just graduated from art school and did not appreciate my sentiment. He was an artist and so when it came to art he was obnoxious and defensive. “The artist is divine,” he would say. What shit. I just wished that everyone would give up on the whole thing and focus on having some goddamn class. No one had any goddamn class, except me—and I only had it every once in a while, when I sweated eagerly at a strip club. It was expensive, but important.
Once we were out of those bleached awful places I took a nap at a park, ate some food, then it was back to the strip clubs. Jay, come nightfall, was a little drunk himself and able to engage the strip clubs more whole-heartedly. It was great. He loved it. And dollar bills shot out of his hand like it was a cannon of endless green.
“Holy shit,” said Jay, with his eyes glued to the stage. “Where the fuck are we? Who the fuck is this girl? What is she doing some sort of ancient voodoo dance? This is crazy. Nothing like the last club. These girls have a real skill.”
It was true, the stripper on stage was extraordinary. Her body vibrated madly as her eyes stared hard at the crowd and her mouth hung like we were all cooked and delicious, or like we were little babies. She might as well have been 10 feet tall. She made us all feel little and needy. The other strippers felt the same way. You could tell. It was obvious. They looked at her the same way we did—-like she was lightning stuck to fuck in the crystal blue sky.
Down the street from this was the “city lights” bookstore where Kerouac and Ginsberg used to hang out and read poems about each other and gave each other goose-bumps. They felt that they were divine and golden. Too much divinity. Too much gold. Not enough class.
“dreaming about medicine with a splinter”
The red woods were tall and fat, and Jay and I kept walking farther and farther into it, completely seduced. It was strange being under something that large and silent.
After awhile we realized we were lost.
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