Happy Valentine's Day





[The Exorcist steps]

Happy Friday the 13th

Dr. Menlo and I were in the other Washington over the holidays. During our trip, I was tickled pink to have been shown the Exorcist steps. F**ck the White House and the Capitol. I know . . . WHY DO YOU HATE AMERICA?! Of course I don't hate America. I just really love scary movies. When I was little (around 12?) I would watch as many as I could. My parents were really close to this family and I used to stay with them on the weekends. They had six kids, all older than me, which meant I got to see and hear things I wouldn't normally get to see or hear . . . like getting to watch Friday the 13th, Halloween, The Howling, Basket Case, When a Stranger Calls, etc. I loved it, that is, until it was time to go to bed. Then, I would curl up into the fetal position so that no part of my body was near the edge of the bed. One evening, after watching Blood Sucking Freaks, I was particularly afraid to go to the bathroom. I resigned to peeing in a cup, which I found on the bedroom floor. The next morning, I dumped the contents down the toilet before anyone was awake. I don't recall what happened to the cup.

So needless to say, when I saw the steps it was like seeing a celebrity for me. I ran, O.K. walked, up and down the old slate steps several times until I felt dizzy. I had a strong urge to climb atop the brick catwalk like structure, which eerily hangs above the steps, but of course I chickened out. However, Dr. Menlo informed me that a bike messenger friend of his did just that. Yep, he walked right across.



French New Wave Director

Another highlight of the trip was finding the wonderful pic of Godard, which was painted on the wall next to the bottom of the steps.




Laundry

Last November, I participated in NaNoWriMo, i.e., National Novel Writing Month. So along with thousands of other crazy people, I attempted to write a 175 page (50,000 word) novel in 30 days. I actually got pretty close to finishing, which surprised me. I was only short about 30 pages. The goal was quantity over quality so I decided to write a sex filled, campy thriller called Laundry-- inspired by my scary-ass basement laundry room. I'll probably put up a link to the entire story later. The following is a very short excerpt just for fun . . . or maybe not.

Kate took the wet laundry out of the washer and put it into the dryer, along with some fabric softener. She put four quarters into the slot. The dryer started up, sounding like a rolling drum. She stood there for a moment, sensing something wasn't quite right. Before she could move, her head was covered by a sheet and a hand pressed hard against her mouth. A man's voice whispered, "I'm not going to hurt you." She couldn't breathe, let alone speak. She struggled to get away, but the man just pulled her into his body tighter, dragging her backwards. Her feet kicked wildly and came off the ground. He pulled her into the room off the corridor and closed the door behind him. All was silent expect for the rolling drum of the dryer. The smell of fabric softener filled the air.

Faster, Pussy Cat! Kill! Kill!



One of the coolest movies ever!!










Yikes!!

>> From: [Deleted]
>> Reply-To: [Deleted]
>> To: [Deleted]
>> CC: [Deleted]
>> Subject: ARRRRRRRRGGGG
>> Date: [Deleted]

This is not the way I wish to start out my Sunday morning laundry
day...

1. First...needles in the laundry...NOT COOL!!!! no amount of
gloves will protect any staff person from getting stuck...

2. I had to throw out 2 sheets; several pillowcases; several
towels, and I am trying to save the blanket...from a fisting scene from Sat. night that left (pardon My german) shit all over them...again NOT COOL!!! Whoever was in the scene wiped themselves all over them and there aint enough bleach in the world to get those stains
out...besides it is Laundry policy to throw out the sheets if there
is shit or bloodstains on them. I usually will try to get a
bloodstain out, but it doesn't work all the time.

I am sorry to all who I may offend with this this morning, but
perhaps Volunteer Staff at these parties could keep an extra eye
open to certain scenes that create these kinds of situations and perhaps caution the members involved to bring their own sheets the next time they do a fisting scene...or even have the "offending" party donate a set of sheets to the Club...

Again, My apologies for this wake-up call this morning...

(the growling Laundry Goddess)

> Date: [Deleted]
> To: [Deleted]
> Cc: [Deleted]
> Subject: RE: ARRRRRRRRGGGG
> Reply-To: [Deleted]

...if you are going to do a fisting scene, you should bring your
own damn sheets. Accidents happen....although, I might point out
that if one properly "cleans out" prior to a fisting scene, you shouldn't end up with any significant staining. Ask anybody in the ....club.

We require people who do wax play to bring their own drop cloths. We require people who do needles to count their points before and after a scene. We should require folks to bring their own sheets if they are going to do a fisting scene.








The Girls

There are two femme lovers that live across the way from our place on a stage atop a brownstone. Beautiful creatures they are--such munificent performers. Exhibitionists I guess you could say.

The stage is quite sparse; they are probably students. The backdrop: an ivory wall, warmly lit. The furnishings: a large untidy bookcase and an overstuffed sofa. The girls get frisky after 11:00 p.m. or so. There is always great anticipation for their appearance.

It is usually when you are fully engrossed in a book that they surprise you. The gleam of naked flesh and the roundness of a bare breast has a way of catching your eye no matter what you are doing. It commands your immediate attention.

“The girls, honey. The girls ... hurry,” I say to my bf if I see them first, or vice versa.

The show itself is never quite the same. It can be as innocent as one girl changing in and out of several outfits, turning this way and that, while the other looks on from the couch--admiring.

Other times, the show is much more sensual. They may passionately embrace topless, while kissing. Their firm breasts pressing into each other’s flesh. Sometimes the show ends here. But sometimes . . . things go further.

One night, the girls were kissing topless. One girl lowered herself down onto her knees, positioning herself directly in front of her lover. She quickly undid her lover’s pants, pulling them down only a little bit past her hips. She then leaned forward and placed her lips gently onto her lover’s stomach. Her lover placed her hands on her head, caressing her long dark hair. The kisses drifted lower, ever so slowly until her mouth reached the front of her lover’s panties.

I thought about how much I enjoyed the warm sensation of my lover’s breath and kisses through my panties. Such a marvelous feeling--the anticipation of your lover pulling your panties aside; their lips touching your softest places.

The girl on her knees pulled her lover’s pants and panties down to her ankles and resumed between her legs. Her lover’s head tilt back gently and her mouth opened. The girl on her knees pulled away and stood up. One of the girls pushed the other down onto the couch and they both fell out of view.

Only their tangled legs could now be seen, waving madly in the air--feet pointing and flexing. Towards the end of the maelstrom, their legs slowed, and eventually came to rest on the arm of the couch.

They stayed there for a moment--all was still. The metaphorical curtain closed.

My partner and I looked at each other and smiled. We went back to what ever we were doing. The smile remained for a while.

I wonder about our neighbors . . . do they see them? If they see them, do they watch? I imagine their faces: wide-eyed, pursed lips, slack-jawed, eyes narrowed, brows raised, et. al. I imagine the conversations that must take place on various floors:

Apt. #203

“Bob, are you looking at those girls again?”

“How can I help it, they run around naked all day.”

“Pervert.” [Door slams!]

Apt. #302

“Honey,”

“Yes.”

“Will you come over here for a minute?”

“Yes?”

“Is that woman naked?”

“Why, yes, yes she is!”

“Turn off all the lights! Where’s the binoculars!”

Apt. #303

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

The other day, at 2:00 a.m. to be exact, my boyfriend flung open the bedroom door, waking me.

“There’s a threesome going on. Come look,” he said with great excitement.

I’m not one who wakes easily from a deep sleep, which was unfortunate for me that early morning.

“That’s O.K. honey, you enjoy,” I responded, falling back asleep.

Lately, the shows have tapered off a bit. It started around the holidays. Me and my bf flew to the east coast for the holidays and were gone for about a week. When we got back, we walked through the door, walked straight into the bedroom, and slept for about five hours. Soul catching up?

When we finally awoke, it was dark. I stumbled into the living room. I looked out the window expecting to see the girls watching t.v. on the couch or something. My mind’s eye quickly replayed a clip of one of the girls sitting on the back of the couch, massaging her lover’s shoulders. But when the scene ended . . . there was nothing. The stage was still a black hole.

The next evening my bf and I had dinner and decided to watch a movie afterward. While sitting on the couch, I looked out the window, and still total darkness. Where were the girls I wondered. They must be off seeing friends or family for the holidays.

Something inside of me was a little sad they weren’t there. It wasn’t that I wanted to see some tits and ass, but I genuinely missed them. I missed that energy . . . those wonderful lives that existed across from ours. So young, confident, carefree, and seemingly happy and healthy.

One week later . . . I came home from work, tired. I walked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. I looked up and saw the stage was lit. One girl sat on the couch, while the other girl walked back and forth in front of the window, talking on the phone. She stopped, put one hand on her hip, and looked straight out the window at me.

A huge smile spread across my face.

Who Links Here

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