Well this has been quite a week so far. If we read something ‘spiritual’ into the process, which you could say, I do, with this process starting on Sunday and all, Palm Sunday actually, as the stars and moon would have the in the year of our Lord 2012; or to be even more accurate, even maybe exact, this process may be considered to have started the day before; on ‘Lazarus Saturday’, that being the day, in that moment one late afternoon, the good man rose from the dead, at the Lord’s bidding.
It is two years to the day on April 1st,, that day when I first arrived in the Bronx in 2010 when the only significance I first initially found on that date was I finally getting out of my four and a half month winter stay in a crowded mid-town stinking shelter, and it was April 1st exactly I remember – April fool’s day – as I entered my new clean apartment on the 7th floor in the Bronx and looked out the window and stared down to see cherry trees blossoming their puffy white cherry flowers blossoming in the back courtyard in the late morning sun, and it was very pretty and very quiet and very relaxing as I feeling the warm sun on my chest; as my window is facing south; and as my apartment was on the 7th floor and 7 is a lucky number I was hesitantly deciding that this is a good thing – a very good thing(?), considering with some trepidation I was – you see there is another number involved here see, not that I am superstitious or anything - it is still April 1st – I am still in April fool’s day, and given all what had happened, and can yet still happen, to me, in this often times I finding cruel world, well…
Finding ‘The Promised Land’ – maybe…maybe this is just a cruel joke so often played on this day.
So here it is 2 years later to the day and a whole lot of experiences, a whole lot of things have happened, as you may have read, in part, about some of them; I was inspired, this may be too mild a word, ‘inspired’ to write – shocked say, or astounded as in seeing a burning bush – although I did see a lot of them, rather sort of – already burnt bushes, or a spirit that once was…or a healthy bush, of sorts, once – I guess…now burnt… Better said, the feeling was more that I was appalled at the ravages of a ghetto life, a different ghetto life than I aspired and brought up in as a youngster; and in this bewildering dismay I was inspired, oddly, to write some stories.
I mean Christ! Come on – the tenants are throwing garbage out their windows – and feces too! And they are constantly having to be reminded, told even
“Don’t do that! It brings rats!”
Among other really obvious reasons I am thinking.
I guess the counselors, the case managers are pandering to their client’s self interest, perhaps, their survival mechanism, if such existed; well they are still alive.
How about the more obvious reasons not to engage in such behavior, as in throwing your shit out the window(!), or maybe the shit was someone else’s(?!) shit; throwing shit out your window is not exactly ‘good form’ or even ‘reasonable’ behavior say, though up in the Bronx ‘reasonable’ would at times bring on whole new meanings, whole new understandings.
So here it is two years later and what was first categorized to me as ‘transitional’ housing for homeless vets – that is why they pulled me out of the shelter when they, my case manager, finally figured out I was an Honorably Discharged veteran; boy was she excited; types like me are often times hard to find in our city’s shelters, as hard to find as a dirty hound’s tooth you can sometimes get to thinking…
“You are an honorably discharged homeless veteran and we have a housing program for you!” she says to me.
She can be so funny sometimes, Jasmine, and she sure smelled a hell of a lot better than the rest of that stinking shelter. These case managers in the shelter love a success story – much as even themselves are often mislead – they are nice enough though.
So all of a sudden, within a few weeks I was pulled out of the shelter and I was entering into my own apartment on the 7th floor with my window gratefully facing south, overlooking the beautiful blossoming cherry trees and I am opening the door with my own key, though I generally hate keys – all the responsibility, and all
“Don’t lose your key!”
You know my house key, the only key I carry and the key the cops are always stealing from me when they frisk me, for no good reason, on the street, in the ghetto, and in their obvious consternation of finding nothing and acting as a frustrated spoiled brat not getting what he wanted and then having to take something(!) – confiscate something(!) – anything! in their grubby hands; yeah, that key.
“Don’t lose your key!”
The key, that only serves to remind me of the nefariousness and the thievery of my neighbors and even the cops every time I enter my key into the metal serrated slot of the lock…
Why else to have a key?
I am not locking anything in – everything in my apartment is pretty much going to stay there – not that I have that much – nothing is walking or flying out of my apartment on its own. No, anything in there, in my apartment, would need help from someone or something out here for it to get out; I’ve never seen a lap top or a cooking pot fly, yet – at least on its own – but this is really a spiritual story, so anything is possible really and I know I haven’t seen everything yet, though after 2 years in the South Bronx added to the rest of my life…well you can get the idea.
Anyway as my fate or my luck would have it I was correct in my intuition concerning that one number of April fool’s lore luring me, being the butt of this April fool’s prank, I really am the rube soothed and put at ease I was, initially relaxing to be out of that crowded shelter with promises that would never be kept.
I would eventually learn many many months later that my ‘transitional’ housing has now been converted to ‘permanent’ housing, all of a sudden, overnight, if you will. You see the bureaucrats and/or the politicians in an upcoming election year wanted to reduce the number of homeless veterans; seems a good idea – even laudatory! But the government being what it is, among other questionable behaviors – Hey, call me cynical if you like but I have seen a lot of shit going down after six decades of life in this arena – my government decides that this apartment I am living in is no longer considered ‘transitional’, it is now ‘permanent’, and I and a whole lot of other veterans like me are no longer homeless – what a good idea!
Well yeah, except we really weren’t, because 2 years after my stay I am still being held to my side of the contract that they had me sign when I first got here: after 2 years (excepting any other transgressions I may commit) I am out – really 18 months is the contract but I had a stay of eviction, or a re-set of my initial contract for an additional 6 months as I having to spend 2 weeks in the hospital after getting really thumped(!) one night in the B train after about 7 months into my tenure here in the south Bronx - hey here is another lucky seven again(!) – and they broke my nose the bastards!
And now that I am considered in ‘permanent’ housing I was taken off that list I had been patiently, expectantly waiting on, for to be given, ‘permanent subsidized’ housing, that line I had been waiting on to get to be first, one day in the future to be finally on the front of that line, finally, it usually taking about 12 months, which is why the transitional housing program was designed for an 18 month ‘transitional’ stay, well now I was no longer on that line – no need to be – I am no longer in ‘transitional’ housing because I am in permanent housing!
So my government had changed the rules mid-stride and I was without the power to protest – talk about unilateral decisions – our government so likes those unilateral opportunities of powerful largesse, so easy and soo uncomplicated; and all with just a stroke of the pen.
So the number of homeless veterans in suddenly, almost miraculously really, reduced – sort of – for a little while, at least, or maybe just long enough, before an election, if you want to get really cynical.
So I am now about to be put back out onto the street – homeless again and trudging off to a shelter; at least it will be a warm spring day, though it may be raining, certainly.
And my case manager – my 2 case manages I have(!) – are ringing their hands and saying
“Oh we are so sorry! What can we do for you?”
Well you can get me the permanent housing you promised me when you pulled me from that shelter 2 years ago.
Well, no, they could not do that.
Yeah well stop asking me what you can do for me. You wouldn’t mind me thinking you ain’t going to produce, no matter whatever the hell you promising you going to do for me? Do you? How about recommending a ’good’ shelter I can go to while I wait for real permanent subsidized housing – again.
Well no they couldn’t do that either; they actually did not know how, had no knowledge, and I am thinking ‘you better learn’ because there are going to be a hell of a lot more of me coming your way after their 18 months are up in your ‘transitional/permanent’ housing or whatever the hell you going to be calling it then.
You know one of the experiences I found rather disconcerting during this two year process is that this experience is supposedly designed to help the homeless veteran re-enter into the society by getting securely situated and thereby becoming secure and having less anxiety, and in this almost artificial womb of security become secure enough, re-directed enough for the veteran to reenter the main stream and engage, since it has been studied and shown that a great deal of homelessness comes from the inability to deal with the vagaries, the cruelties of society, and finally one just gives up; I can relate to such experiences. I am here, aren’t I?
So, I figured in this ‘transitional’ housing program, when, back in those days my housing was really ‘transitional’ housing, the encouraging, reassuring experience, the program of promising the support network would encourage me, engender me to trust people, and their processes, again, and grow back some of that ‘ol self confidence I once had, regain enough self confidence and self reliance so I would feel brave enough, and confident enough to reengage with society.
It seemed like a good idea.
What, in fact happened, is that I found myself surrounded by the vagaries and the cruelties and the craziness and the promises not kept: basically of what life really is; I cannot begin to tell you, enumerating each discouraging painful detail within this short piece, culminating finally in this last unfulfilled promise!
Am I out on the street again!?
And then I got to thinking, that maybe this process was in fact meted to me with volition, it was planned – except say that thumping I endured on the B train – and that this whole experience was indeed preparing me for, working me to get ready for, the real world; a smooth transition so to speak, rattled enough through this process of casual(?) deceit(?) in order to be really prepared, and not so taken by surprise or naively unsuspecting nor bewildered by the real rattling about to come when I reentering the Hell identified as ‘society’. It is an approach, certainly, although at the end of this process I am homeless again…
Better prepared? Maybe…
I have seen this approach, of sorts, work, in the military, say – may be we should try this experience, the process, on new borns too, really mix them up early, to be ready – oh wait; some parents, or stepparents have tried I heard, and some are in jail now, perhaps being so taken up and carried away in the excitement of it all, the excitement of the program.
And this preparation and self confidence thing, well…it may be overrated.
So one day shy of April 1st, as I said on Lazarus Saturday, one of my drug addled, drug addicted friends comes finds me and she says she knows of a place
“Here, call this number.”
And she gives me this scrawled number on a soiled scrap of paper and it does make one wonder though one call later I am setting up, assenting to an interview, and the next day – Palm Sunday - as our Savior entering the Holy City, I am entering the holy county of Queens, Hillside exactly, coming down a broad boulevard, and not an apartment building to be seen; must be something in the building codes, or zoning I am figuring, maybe this is a holy city, and there they were, actual palm fronds scattered about on the boulevard and the sidewalks in front of me, perhaps there really is a bit of Don Quixote in me, and while I did not have a donkey at hand I could not help but accept, acknowledge and silently revel in the semblance, in the prophecy of the spirit made manifest, of me, the anointed one arriving and I am accepted into a lovely home and I share this home with two very nice people, and no one is throwing shit out the window(!) – at least not yet, though I am still looking around furtively; I must admit.
Now mind you, my two case managers – two(!) – very straight and very buttoned up and very, very sober – God Bless, I hope to God!- and very trained, at least I guess they are, I hope to God so(!); So these two case managers of mine could not do shit for me – not a fucking thing. It took my drug addled friends to recognize my fate, and take my predicament in hand and know of a reasonable, even appropriate solution; thank God I keep drug addicts and whores close; it pays apparently in my line of life, although some would have reservations or even straight forward disagreements of the company I keep (my mother comes to mind), no matter the rather obvious similitude of our almost most holy Mary Magellan during this most holiest of weeks in the Christian calendar.
But as my mother often says
“The proof is in the pudding.”
And yes I am eating pudding now too - big mounds of the stuff I have now around me – stuffing my face, as matter of fact, with large spoonfuls of the delicious sweet confection, I actually am; thank God I am writing this as opposed to actually having to speak this story with my mouth all full. Oh, did I tell you my new kitchen has a HUGE refrigerator and the big clean 4 burner gas stove even has an oven now – my previous ‘transitional/permanent’, or however slyly they now describing my very recently vacated previous crib, did not – so I am cooking up a storm now – do you know my bathroom has a skylight? Neat huh! - And I have this great big living room I can invite friends in and no one has to ‘sign in’ and present, to the unreasonably fastidious door monitors, identification(!); even the ones that don’t have any ID can visit me now – if I choose!
They can even sleep over and I don’t need no ones permission!
I‘m the boss here.
And I can see a beautiful full blossoming flowering cherry tree right out of this south facing window here - too.
So I celebrate this April 1st as not an April fool, at least that is the feeling I am getting these two years later on this Palm Sunday in which I am experiencing my fateful sacred life in this ‘new’ neighborhood.
In this neighborhood there are a whole lot of Indians and southern and northern Asians I am noticing – Gooks generally – in all shapes & sizes & types, good Gooks, and some very pretty Gooks too, and all very well behaved – and quiet too – thank God, even the kids, in the morning especially, we can all have some peace and quiet, and even in the evening as we ride back from work, I am surrounded by sensible reasonable people.
There is even a Phillippine-American Center not ten blocks from my new home; I have never seen one of those Centers in the Bronx; and I saw two nice looking Columbian restaurants on the Avenue here too, though I will have to be diligently saving some of my meager bits of money before crossing that fancy threshold.
I do look ahead with anticipation, with some trepidation even at the possibilities of Friday, for Good Friday, it will be here soon, though given all its biblical despair and portents Black Friday I certainly consider the more appropriate and sometimes alternatively declared name of that disturbingly memorable day, for you can only call that day ‘Good Friday’ if you are sure you know what is going to happen on Sunday, but you and I both know of the vagaries of life and the slim possibilities of everything working out OK, no matter my just in the nick of time luck, yet again this luck of which my some few friends think I have way too much of – just in the nick of time luck, this time around – yet again - maybe I will hide under my new bed that threatening day, and the next day too, hunkering down through ‘Holy Saturday’, that’s when the Holy Church recommends I fast and if I see the opportunity, or perhaps succumbing to the visions, depending upon the resoluteness and severity of my fast, I will descend into hell as He once did and free the captives – and then on Sunday, if I am still alive, and thereby fulfilling the holy prophecy, on Easter morning the Son will surely be risen.
The Promised Land (continued)
So I am hiding under my bed see, alone on Dark Friday, and I am figuring I am alright, so far, at least for a while out here in the fair land of Queens on Hillside Avenue and low and behold the money I gave this very gracious black woman who made me fill out all this paperwork when I first arriving, and my two roommates too; and she assuring me & us all in the most soothing tones how grateful she is for our service to our country and I am thinking she is laying this on a little bit too thick and I am telling her,
“Ahh mam, that was a long time ago I did all that.”
“No, no!” she is insisting.
She is very grateful and she is kinda pretty, she assuring us all, all three of us listening to her attentively in our new apartment on the 2nd floor, you could almost believe her – and my government too(!) – Why not?
Yeah well come to find out she disappeared and took all our money with her – well, actually the money was supposed to be going to the landlord, the landlord’s money she took –
I guess.
The reason we found out, other than we thought it rather odd we hadn’t seen her in a while, at least almost a month, and she was supposed to be living downstairs keeping an eye on us and helping us – no; no, we found out she skipped town with our money when the landlord comes banging in one morning, comes barging in, or rather the landlord’s big fat lawyer comes banging barging in climbing with difficulty up the stairs, huffing and puffing and acting all tough and shit and talking about the DA opening up a case and we all could be in BIG trouble – accessories to fraudulent dealings etc, etc. etc.
And I am thinking, ‘Fuck him; you ain’t scaring me’.
This must be Holy High Saturday. I must be in Hell, or at least in the process of descending.
I don’t even know if he is the landlord’s lawyer.
Who the fuck knows who is who or who is anyone anymore?
And he is saying we can pay him the rent now – and the rent is double!
Yeah right…Let me see about digging into my little pocket here and pulling out a
BIG FAT GUN!
He left warning us we better pay him and threatening DA Brown is his friend and blah blah, blah blah blah –
Fuck him; interrupting – defiling(!) my High Holy Saturday.
I stayed another month – rent free – Yippee!
I do recall I had a nightmare towards the end here – a real honest to goodness nightmare.
I haven’t had one of them since – I can’t remember – since I was young(?)!
Anyway I dreamn’t – sometimes I still think this really happened – anyway this really scary real old ugly wrinkled old man with a long grey scraggily beard and scraggily dirty grey hair hanging from his big old creepy ugly head hovering over me with his dirty long fingernails, hovering over my bed, he pretty ugly tall, and next to him an ugly scary, really scary looking old shrew hovering over me too with scraggily black and grey streaked hair and her really really long skinny really sharp fingernails, the ugly hag, I think her nails were painted dirty red – (can you dream in color?), and they are hovering over me and about to pounce on me, grab me (and throw me out?!) and I tried to scream(!) – I really tried, really, really tried so hard to scream – I -
“Get away from me!!”
and they were about to pounce on me…oooh that nightmare still giving me the creeps – if it really was a nightmare; if it really did happen. Can you dream in color?
I am still not sure.
Horrible nightmare and so memorable; obviously Hell is visiting me; speaking to me; me, the about to be rising Son.
I left shortly after that experience.
Who could sleep in that bed anymore?
Some black guy came by one evening in a fancy new BMW and telling me he was the one to pay the rent to now, and I am thinking to myself: What is this? Am I living in the fucking Golden Calf?
I didn’t give him shit. I’m in Hell now – right? Must be; or else close to it.
One of the guys is still living there in that house. He figures he is good for a few more months, at least, until the uniformed Marshall’s come to evict, obviously he ain’t having the dreams I am having; but then again he is not the chosen one; I am.
And I am thinking how will he know the Marshalls are really Marshalls when they come? I guess he will know for sure those Marshalls are really really, really Marshalls when the cops come, I guess then he’ll know then, when the cops come, the cops are for real with all their flashing lights and sirens –
Who the hell knows what is what and who is who when you are in the Bible?
It was a very nice house, still is, I guess; I really did like the neighborhood too.
Which only goes to prove, yet again to me, there can even be a little bit of Heaven even in Hell.
Well…I guess it isn’t Easter Sunday yet, though I certainly must have made it, my life, to Holy Saturday, for, for sure as Hell I met the devil – or some devils – doing bad things to me; why?
They stole my sneakers!
And although the time frame seems not to be exactly right, or even correct, not like as explained in the Bible when time seems to be moving, happening day to day, one after another even though people live hundreds of years and more in the Bible.
But that is in Biblical time, so timing, the real timing may be lasting longer than the time I spend here seems, that the time, my time, really is, I spending; more than say, three days, dying, descending, and then rising; could be possible, I guess – all this more than three days.
I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time either descending into or finally in Hell; not just one day. I am supposed to be rising here about now, I thought; any day now.
And I am here in Hell; to free the poor souls! Let’s get to it!
Someone stole my new sneakers last night; right off my feet!
I found a crib, a cool dark chamber, to crawl into for a few days, where my friend is gracious enough to offer refuge.
Actually, he never said “No” to me. He did say
“…these MotherFu**ers I deal with everyday are so ‘grimy stupid’…!”
He can’t stand it; can’t stand them either, it seems..
Someone stole my sneakers right off my feet and threw me down a chute!
He lives in Hell – or at least he says he does, to me, and other people surely would agree.
Who am I to disbelieve?
They threw me down a chute full of garbage!
I laid about watching good TV – his movies – he seemed very happy to view with me; and I watching these junkies come in and out all day and all night – they never stop and he always seeming to have whatever they need;
So I guess, I keep thinking, even in Hell there is little bit of Heaven…
Someone stole my sneakers and left me barefoot in my socks in a chute full of garbage!
He is quite the accomplished pharmacist, though he does not take Medicaid – no plastic – cash or trade only. And these junkies never stop arguing and whining and finally begging for a loan, and sometimes he is nice to them and sometimes he uses a very loud voice, even scaring me sometimes, and then he stands up – he is easy 6’ 4” and at least 280 –
“I am PITAH! I am the RESURECTION!!”
so then you would think these skinny little worn out junkies and crack heads would shut up and get out, thanking their little blessings, what few they have – but no, they go right on trying, whining and begging…
“I AM PITAH! I AM the RESURECTION!”
You got to give ‘em credit for persistence, those junkies – and then he has to, finally, throw them out.
“I AM PITAH!”
And he is doing this while he is hobbling around on a big tall crutch!
“I NAME ALL THE STARS AND ALL THE CELESTIAL BODIES OF THE UNIVERSE!"
He blew out his knee on some stairs a while ago; there’s a lot of weight coming down on one crippled knee.
The scene is pretty funny sometimes – if – if the scene wasn’t so sad and scary; him, his very large black form swinging around with that really big crutch swinging about in this small dark ghetto apartment; swinging about, his tall black form swinging about in a small dark space, ghost like, swinging that tall crutch swinging around in a sort of hopping desperation his big large jaw and mouth glistening white teeth opening wide ready to eat the next -
“I AM PITAH!”
And they most always leave with something.
If I tell you, if he gave to everyone who had a hand out banging, banging on his bent metal apartment door at all hours, well…it couldn’t last – the opportunity wouldn’t.
He did give me another new pair of sneakers; these I have on now are white ‘Adidas’ –
I wasn’t asking for any.
He has a pile of sneakers in a corner. I have no idea where he got them, though I am thankful.
They stole my sneakers right off my feet and they threw me down a basement stairwell full of garbage!
I saw another man down there too! He was laid out gesturing surprised in the trash; another piece of garbage thrown down into Hell.
My friend is all mad about me losing my shoes, his sneakers, so I first thought, though really he is really mad about me being in a position of allowing that position to happen, not because he had given me those pair of new sneakers that they stole from me. He had given me those new sneakers a few weeks ago. He said he sick of looking at my old ratty sneakers; he literally pulled my old ratty sneakers off my feet and he said,
“I am going to incinerate these – INCINERATE!”
I didn’t think they were that ratty. I had had them, worn them, for years; so I was kind of used to them, liked them even, all broken in and comfortable they were.
So he left to incinerate my good old sneakers and then he comes back and gives me this brand new pair of very nice sneakers, very nice action, I must say, in a grey two tone with some leather accoutrements and touches too; Yes, very nice I am thinking, ‘New Balance’, putting them on.
Those are the sneakers they stole from me, right off my feet, and left me barefoot in a garbage chute, down through a back alley, into and thrown down into a back yard stairwell full of garbage, so much for ‘New Balance’, or really any kind of balance; I guess.
Yeah so my friend is all mad about that and he says
“You shouldn’t drink so much.”
And I said, “Yeah, you’re probably right; I am sorry about losing your sneakers.”
“Ahh man, they weren’t mine; they were yours.”
And I said, “Yeah.”
And I stayed there for a few days and when I left he made me promise I would come back, by June at least; and I promised him; I would even come back if I had found the Promised Land by then – or especially if I did!
Jesus came back – right? Like about a month later? He came back –right?
The place I am living in now on 1st Avenue is very exclusive – pre-war building I am sure – brick and brownstone and some lime; and I am pretty sure a New York City Landmark, and I am also sure an extraordinarily storied CV.
There is something so beautiful, gallant - regal even, in her safe strong structure sailing through years in New York City.
When I look out my window; I can see the Water Club; Yes, right there, right across the street, her colorful pennants and flags flapping, flying sometimes even snapping in the strong breeze; and right after the club, right next to the club, located on Kip’s Bay, I can see the ever flowing East River and then onward farther eastward into Long Island I can see all the way to the distant eastern horizon.
The view is so beautiful when the sun is rising at dawn, sparkling on the glistening golden river illuminating in glowing silhouette the Queens skyline and especially the high delicate elegant spiraling church steeple too catching my eye; maybe I should go to church.
I cannot help noticing some very pretty women in this neighborhood too; models? Sort of skinny they are; that’s ok; I can love her; I love everyone: I especially love her.
You can ‘dine in’ if you wish though one must be careful – you can certainly gain some weight on their fare here.
Unfortunately our hosts do not have a gymnasium – at least not a proper one - and I have suggested a gymnasium must be installed, and I have discussed the matter, and also the exact specifications needed, with the responsible parties of course; I must bear my own societal obligations.
They do have the most convenient quiet outdoor courtyard in the middle of this rather massive building, the courtyard giving relaxing shaded haven – an interlude – a cool respite even, from the ever noisy dangerous cacophony of this teaming city; the pigeons think so too.
And while the elevators can be a bit touchy – why even in the most modernist of buildings you will find ‘touchy’ elevators; why I read just the other day of a poor young pretty woman, an Executive type, being cut in half(!) – well…no need to dwell on that and her demise. I mostly use the stairs to work off this rich dining fare – and good exercise too! Seven flights up; ahh, there is that number again; maybe I should play the ponies – huh?
Although bereft of a proper gymnasium there is an adequate enough ping pong table and I have been known to play a mean game with rather stiff wagers bidding on the sidelines.
There is also, of course always the requisite pugilism when fine rousty young chaps are gathering together; not too much blood; one must give respect and all which is normally to be expected.
Later in the evening, before retiring, we come together for smokes and a few stiff drinks, and, if you desire, there are selections from a more exotic menu of other, more questionable(?) fare…
And I must admit the always properly uniformed staff is surprisingly accommodating. I must mention this to the management and congratulate them on their choice of outstanding help – who knew? Expectations can run so high sometimes…
So we gather around smoking and drinking and exchange ‘war stories’ – of course, those of us who still can – some of our other compatriots seeming to have imbibed or ingested one drop too stiff, or too exotic, and seem to be playing out their own personal ‘war stories’ in the midst of us, these stories to be told, perhaps, on another heartfelt stimulating quiet evening.
But for the rest of us cordial relaxing crew, we are telling stories, and exchanging pictures – and, and I tell you I have been hearing the damndest stories(!) – amazing…and the pictures!
“My God man! Is that her!”
“I told you!”
Well I have never seen such a – a woman – a beautiful thing – in that position too! And I have seen quite a bit in my travels.
“What a woman!”
“Can I marry her?”
“I will marry her!”
“OOhhh I would so love to.”
He said he had wanted to stick his tongue all the way up her ass,
“Her beautiful ass…”
I must admit her arse is indeed beautiful – so round and plump – inviting even.
“…all the way up her beautiful ass…”
All the way up her beautiful arse and into her body all through her body rooting around and such, I guess tasting all of her, loving her(?), until his tongue comes out her mouth…
And he did.
It was an arresting image laying in my bed, I must say…still is; and this image gave me pause; his tongue deep into her arse, all the way up into her rooting around inside her beautiful form, I mean for maybe forever, until his tongue comes out, out of her mouth…positively Egyptian.
What on the outside is on the inside…
“Now she speaks with a lisp.” He says.
Dumfounded we were. He assures me the picture is not photo shopped, and I of course, believe him; and why not?
I would show bad form to suggest – unseemly even – or worse, accuse one of these good chaps some falsehood! The accusation would ruin the mood, at the very least.
“Do you have her number?”
“Maybe.”
“Please man – you’re killing me! I want her; lisp or no!”
And for the rest of the pictures – well – we will save those tarts for another day, or perhaps for another late evening with drinks and smokes and whatever else we may choose from an exotic menu fare; we will not be viewing these shots tonight however, or any night in mixed company.
Do you know one good fellow here has a cell phone stuck up his arse?(!)
Yeah; I didn’t believe it either.
When he lifts his leg, his fat thigh, you can hear the phone ring,
Brriinnng, Brriinnng!
The most unusual juxtaposition of which I familiar with now is the damndest thing -!
He says he was born with the cell phone up his arse,
Brriinnng, Brriinnng!
He says you can talk to it too; yeah…well call someone if you want.
Yeah, right up his arse; you can use it.
He says he’s got the unlimited plan, he says; good thing, I’m thinking.
“You cannot call long distance.” he tells us; I don’t know how the hell he charges the thing – and I didn’t ask.
“No long distance!” he says.
OK, I am thinking…
“Gets too hot. Here –“ lifting his leg.
“Yaooh – Yaooh man –.” I back away, “Not too close!“
“No long distance; Local only.”
Brriinnng, Brriinnng!
Right up his arse. I have his number, you want it.
Do you?
To hell with him – right?
“Let’s call her!”
“She local?”
“Yeah, she’s local”
Brriinnng, Brriinnng!
