WM_0016 ::::::::: Miss O' Jenee
June 08, 2003
Days like today, I could declare that
I will live life as a man with no redeeming value
to women, except for the hard fuck in the ass and
the truly enchanting opportunity for women to occupy
just a bit of my valuable, ever-depleting time.
Yes, these are the days when one has to reconsider
what kind of control these females have over men,
and why we're running as a monogamist society, when
it's pretty fucking obvious that we're a polygamist
species and we should really take back a little
bit of this moral control. I keep coming to thinking
that the pimps got it right, with their strings
of bitches standing at attention, them, and the
tribesmen with three huts, one for each wife. Now
those guys know what the hell is going on.
Today's moral reconsideration, or vocalization of
it, comes from my little prediction about that fuckover
just around the corner. At this point, there's no
official fuckover, but the cunt is definitely hanging
in the air. Chloe phones late last night when she's
well due for a serious pounding to say she needs
a little time to think about what she's doing with
her life, how she's not sure about the direction
she's taking, and how she's just confused in general.
Confused.
The translation for a woman's confusion is that
she's bewildered by the plethora of cocks that want
into her pink and lovely and she doesn't know which
one to grab. She thought the one that was in there
a day ago was fine, but it fell out, and you know
how they all look the same. Confused. Which one
was it? Do I want the same one? This one's new,
and even though it's smaller, it's attached to a
much bigger house. Or at least a house that doesn't
feel like a fucking meatlocker all the time cause
the guy that rents the basement can't afford to
crank up the heat.
And it all started after the consolation meeting
with her old boyfriend, The Accountant. I have a
feeling their little meeting went a little something
like this:
INT.- COFFEE HOUSE - DAY
Chloe walks into the coffee house. Walls are covered
in photos of dead jazz icons. Nobody knows their
names, though people pretend to be familiar with
their work. THE ACCOUNTANT is sitting on the couch,
latte ready in hand. He stands when she enters the
door, and they hug. He murmurs.
The Accountant : I'm so sorry about your Grappa,
Chloe. How are you doing?
Chloe: I'm ok, but thanks.
The Accountant : Do you want a latte? I've already
gotten you one.
Chloe: Oh thank you.
At this point, Chloe is looking over the counter
and thinking — I'm interested in the beer they've
got in the back fridge, but I guess I should take
the coffee. I guess I did just lit up a pinner just
before this and I can feel my little Dublin pussy
hairs tingling a bit, so I should be able to get
through this without getting absolutely hysterical.
This guy looks good, nice hair, nice shirt, nice
shoes, and god, just once in awhile before, he used
to proclaim his love for me and take me to dinner,
and here he is again, buying me coffee and being
so straight and considerate, which might just be
the greatest for the next couple of months. The
question is, how much of me can he take? God, i've
got to get this Mingus stuff off my chest.
The Accountant: So how are you doing?
Chloe: Good, I guess. A bit messed up, you know?
The Accountant: Sorry?
Chloe: A bit messed up. I'm a bit messed up.
The Accountant: I'm sorry, sorry to hear that. Do
you want to talk about it? Talk about your Grappa?
He was such a nice guy...
Chloe: I think I'm done with that. I think I just
want to talk about what you're doing these days.
The Accountant: Oh, well, I'm still working at the
firm. Winding down from the end of the corporate
year. Jesus, it's almost three months, but it seems
like we're still winding down. In another three
months we'll be winding back up. It just never seems
to end.
Chloe: That's not what I mean. You know this guy
I'm fucking?
The Accountant: Pardon?
Chloe: I'm sorry, I don't mean to play with your
head, but you know the guy that I'm with these days?
The Accountant: Sort of, I think I met him a couple
of times. (coldly) Why?
Chloe: I don't know, we're sort of having problems
or something. He's too messed up.
The Accountant: I see.
Chloe: Not that I'm not messed up, but I think that's
the problem. We're both messed up and there's too
much going on right now for two messed up people
in my life, with the whole Grappa thing, and I'm
supposed to be starting a show right away. I guess
the thing is, are you seeing anybody these days?
The Accountant: Well, off and on. Nothing too serious.
Chloe: I think I need someone to take care of me.
The Accountant: What do you mean?
Chloe: I need a man with his shit together to take
care of me. (laughs) I don't mean forever, I just
mean for awhile.
The Accountant: I'm not exactly running a baby sitting
service.
Chloe: I know you're not running a baby sitting
service. But you know that I'm no baby.
This is the point that the accountant recounted
to all his friends the day after, about how she
looked at him directly in the face, stuck out her
tongue, licked her hand top to bottom, slid it into
his pants and ran her palm from tip to balls and
let her hand rest there, cupping his nuts under
the coffee table. His friends all laugh and say
what a crazy bitch she is and fuck why not man,
just nail her for a couple months, that bitch is
a fucking nympho, and then he is a bit of a hero
for that lunch hour and into the afternoon throughout
the office.
Of course, he doesn't relate how she stroked him
four times to get him fully erect and stroked him
another five times to make him blow his load in
his pants and that it was all over in less than
a minute and she soon had her hand back on the table,
wiping the semen off with a napkin and how she grinned
and how she owned him now like a new pair of sandals
and how he would have no say from now on when she
told him to pick her up or how he was going to have
to be the gentleman to pick her up from Zu Mingus
after a night of drinking and fucking that somehow
ended in yelling and throwing books at each other.
Fucking christ, how do these things get like this?
First Nat, then the string of other girls too numerous
to enumerate and now Chloe, whose presence I actually
enjoy, and whose presence I would actually miss
once it were gone.
Perhaps I'm overthinking this, perhaps Chloe and
accountant just had a quick coffee and caught up
and talked about George Bush and WMD and acting
and accounting and piddled over death a bit and
the Accountant talked a bit about his fiancee or
his Scotland Terrier or some new tax law that was
making his work difficult. Who knows. Mingus doesn't,
and maybe Mingus is just being messed up and paranoid,
but Mingus suspects that it isn't so, that she gave
him a handjob in the least and she's setting up
for a late night transfer to a better bedroom with
nice sheets and the fuckover will happen and that
Mingus should be ready for such things.
But as I said before, perhaps it's time for a little
societal revisionism, and perhaps the first step
towards that harem that I'm always dreaming of,
with my six wives and their huts, is to protect
the one I have, and defend her sweet dublin pussy
against the drudgery of a well scented little cock
stuck onto an obtuse automaton of a man that I call
the accountant. There's something I've got to do
about him. That's right. He doesn't know it yet,
but by fucking around with Chloe, he's fucking with
Mingus, and when you're a man fucking with Mingus,
you'd better get ready for a man to ride a wild
stallion through your front door on a Wednesday
night swinging a two handed sword and screaming
your name in Sumerian.
So get ready, motherfucker, cause the fifth horseman
of the Apocalypse just wrote your name in his book. |
|
