|
Kael's Diary
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: kael.6.94-2
<Author's Note: this is one chapter in my on-going sexual self-
examination. Theoretically each part should stand on its own and
their chronological order is irrelevant..>
Kael's Diary: June, 1994 "Closer" part two
Deep spring 1994, pushing into summer, I was in the prime of my
life and always looking back.
Just the month before Maria and I had gone to see Nine Inch Nails
at the Agora. It was a sold out show, teeming with youngsters, the
temperature rose swiftly as the two opening acts inspired a few people to
begin shoving each other down in the pit, a couple of combat-booted boys
were hurled into the air, set adrift on the hands of a few dozen hard-core
moshers. Those kinds of people will dance to anything.
But when Trent and the Nails hit the stage, the place went ballistic.
It was dark, dank and noisy, the sounds and smells of rusting machinery
flared in my senses. Maria's not too tall, and crowds seem to frighten her.
I saw the pit writhe and sway, huge young men, scrawny guys, a few pit
chicks, the entire mass of bodies would lurch and stop, jump and melt --
sometimes it was more interesting than what was going on on stage.
I had to get in it. I apologized to Maria and made my way through.
It wasn't hard. All of a sudden I was amongst them and Trent, great
haystack of black hair in girlie tight leather shorts, he was right in
front of me, spitting out lyrics and recklessly abusing his keyboard. I
was shoved and I shoved, and I leapt and helped people up on top of the
crowd.
The moshers hold a great secret in their heads and hearts. The
rest of the world, certainly the older generation (those fifty, sixty, or, in
Cleveland, seventy year-olds who write rock criticism definitely) can't
understand what the hell we think we're doing. It looks like a big brawl --
what kind of maniac would risk having their neck broken in that way? It
looks dangerous as shit. But if you haven't been in it, you just don't
understand what it's all about.
It's sex.
Moshing is like sex, only on a grander scale and you have to keep
your dick in your pants. It's hot and sweaty, you push and pull and it
reeks of bodily fluids, and hands come at you from every direction and
touch you and touch you and touch you. BUT it is perfectly safe. If you
stumble and fall, there are twenty hands reaching for you to pick you back
up. No one is throwing punches, no one gets the distance to get a good
running shove at you, break your back, no one is kicking or biting, you are
just swaying back and forth in a delirious, loud, cacophonic herd of
confused and stampeding young skin.
"(Help me) Tear down my reason
(Help me) It's your sex I can smell
(Help me) You make me perfect
Help me become somebody else"
For a shining moment I was transformed into what I had once
been, or what I had always wanted. Kael, the anorexic young angel,
thrashing and pulsing in an apoplectic fit, everyone around me, all those
people on all sides, all my comrades, friends and lovers. I saw a woman
to my right and behind call "oh fuck" as she dropped her pack of Virginia
Slims. I threw out an arm to force one guy lurching backwards out of the
way. Noticing this gesture she briskly crept down and scooped up her
prize. Adoringly she put a hand on my shoulder and screamed softly into
my ear:
"I love you for that."
***
Chicago. Kind of like Cleveland, only much, much bigger and
infinitely more interesting. I love my hometown, but I sometimes dream of
the day I just pack up and sell everything to move to Chicago. New York
is too big, and L.A. too foreign, but Chicago still has the midwestern soul I
was born and bred with but, my god, just open the yellow pages and look
under "theater".
Every single weekend the place is alive with art, big houses, small
houses, you can shell out thirty bucks and see the latest offering at the
Steppenwolf, directed by John Malkovich no less, or maybe just seven or
ten to sit in a shithole and have people my own age, just like me, ripping
their own clothes off and spewing pointless obscenities. It's all there, this
great gumbo of ideas, opinions and experiences.
In Cleveland it's the one: Big Play House, two: the Established
Alternative Theater and three: us, a pathetic little comedy troupe in a
seedy part of town. And you never get to hear about number three.
Our caravan sped into Chicago through the dawn's early light, and
shortly after six-thirty (central time) we were entering the apartment of two
friends Satch and I knew from the U of O.
"Martin, you great stud muffin," I said, dropping my duffel to give
him a hug.
"Hey," Martin said, "bark for the ladies."
"Wurf!"
Introductions were made all around and we dumped our stuff just
anywhere, five guests in an apartment made for two. I loved these guys,
Martin and Wilson, and it amused me how they managed to live in squalid
splendor as though it were still 1989 or something, off campus,
homemade bookshelves crammed with mix tapes and theater books,
Rolling Stones and Spins laying about anywhere, a few haphazardly
framed rock posters, Crowded House, Elvis Costello...
...God, I must stop sub-referencing to pop stars, who am I anyway,
Brett Easton Fucking Ellis? "The Eagles 'Hotel California' was on the
stereo (you, the reader, supply whatever this means to you and save me
the trouble of bothering to describe what mood I'm trying to set.)" Jesus,
buy the man a god damn thesaurus...
***
The morning and early afternoon was spent wandering around
lazily in the giant familiar neighborhood that is Chicago. We didn't use
our van much, just parked it and walked everywhere we needed to go.
Both Martin and Wilson (who had been a roommate of mine at school)
worked during the day and so we five travelers had a lot of time to kill until
the evening. We could have just stayed at their apartment and caught a
few well deserved hours of sack time, but everyone agreed that could be
taken care of once we got back to Cleveland.
As the morning hours ticked by we would pick a place that had just
opened and stay there until somewhere else did. It was Sunday after all,
the cafe was open all night, the bookstore opened at nine, the health food
store next to it at ten, the mall around the corner at eleven, and so on.
That place has got some of the coolest second hand stores in the
world. There's this huge Army-Navy place which sells a variety of hand
me downs, new clothes, Doc Martens, and, of course, Army clothes. I
found a black vest, which was like this black Army issue jacket with its
sleeves cut off. I modeled it for Satch and he gave me an approving
shrug. And I found this groovy rainbow brocade thing which was meant
as a belt.
I put them on. A black vest. Like the one I had a school, only
better. It fit better. The old one was this suede thing, it was from the
seventies and was made for a woman, so it flared out at the hips. I suited
me well during my androgynous phase back in 1987, but I couldn't pull
that off anymore. I looked too old, it would have been foolish. Maria looks
great in it. But this new thing -- I looked bad. I mean Iggy Pop bad,
straight up and down, black over a white T-shirt. I discarded the beat up
army belt and knotted the rainbow strip over my slim hips and bubble butt.
Looking at myself in the mirror. Putrid, stringy, unwashed, sun
bleached hair, visibly vanishing on top. Huge dark sunglasses resting on
my proud, long schnozz. That weak chin showing the first day of fine
bristles. New vest, black. Cut off pants, hippy dippy belt, hairy calves,
beat-up Chuck Taylors, black, "1988" written in ball point on the side,
sneaks that made it up and down the Santa Monica mountains every
single morning for the two months I was in L.A., they had been tossed in a
box and left there for almost three years.
I felt like the old man in "Death in Venice". This was a put on --
valiantly trying to look the part of some macho grunge monster for my
Tadzu, the little boy who had caught my fancy. She and Ryan were off
somewhere buying groceries so Martin could make us pasta, and here I
was, having my face painted, rubbing rouge in my cheeks, a pretense of
youth.
Would I die of a broken heart, too? We had spent every moment
since the van ride just being our usual selves -- the insults were
noticeably absent, which was a sign of something, it seemed. Was that
our moment? I had to believe it was.
I'm a grown man. I am Kael Goodman. I don't need this shit.
But I bought the clothes anyway.
***
Back at the apartment now, early evening. Jackie sat out on the
porch, smoking, and Gail rested in Wilson's room. Satch sat on the couch,
close his eyes and stopped moving. Martin, Ryan and I sat around in
their weeny living slash tee vee room and talked.
"So what do you know?" Martin asked me. "Any news?"
"News?" I said. "Come on, Martin, everyone we know lives here."
"That's true," Martin said. "Thad doesn't."
"Oh, Thad," I said, intentionally looking thin-lipped. "No he's not
living anywhere anymore."
"No?"
"No," I said. "Sad. Caught a disease no one even heard of."
"What?" Martin said, rocking forward on his hands, and giving me
a big laugh. It doesn't take much to make Martin laugh, I give him my
cheap stuff.
"Either that or he's in jail."
"Ha ha," h said. "Heard from Alex?"
"All I know about Alex is that she's happily married and lives in
Alaska, I talked to her, I dunno, a year ago?"
"But she was doing okay."
"Oh sure," I said, "I'm very happy for her, it's the life she
wanted." And to Ryan I added, "Alex and me used to be a thing."
"They were a big thing," Martin added.
"Big big thing," I said, "way back in 1988."
"Wow," Ryan said, "and I was in fifth grade."
"Of course you were," I said, and to Martin I added, "he's the child
one in our little theater group."
"Oh yeah?" Martin said, "And how is that going?"
"Don't ask," I said, hanging my head. "I am just so glad to be here.
Away from Cleveland, away from the theater, away from home..."
"Yeah," Ryan cackled, "you sure were consoling yourself in
Jackie's bosom last night, you didn't seem to miss your wife at all."
I raised my head slowly to look at him, my face steely placid,
eyebrows raised. A countenance more in anger than in sorrow.
Twin smears of bloody red ran through both my cheeks. I looked
to Martin. He just raised his eyebrows in return and looked back at me.
"Heh heh heh," Ryan said.
"I don't know what to say," I said carefully.
"Well, you could say --" Ryan started, with a childish smile on his
face.
"No," I stopped him thoughtfully, and with a raising of my hand,
"right now I'd rather not say anything."
"Did I say something wrong?" Ryan asked, chuckling.
"How would you know," I said, sternly and evenly, "you don't even
know what you said." I turned back to Martin. "Now what were we talking
about?"
Martin and I carried on our conversation.
***
There is a certain kind of person that doesn't take to being insulted
very well. Maybe no one should. Most people deliver insults out of a
need to feel superior to whomever they are insulting, or perhaps who they
are making fun of isn't really a concern, it's just a need to look clever for
the enjoyment of everyone, and the self-confidence and self-esteem of the
joker. This could certainly be my case. I love being witty. People love me
being witty. I am the life of any party.
I never intended to seriously hurt Ryan's feelings, but somewhere I
did. Whether or not he took my rejoinders about his confusing sexual
preference or his age to heart, or whether he wanted to come off as
charming and eloquent to everyone (to Jackie?) as I did, doesn't matter.
When people choose to play these games, however, and they
begin losing, sometimes it is necessary to really dig in the dirt to find
anything that will stick.
I could make fun of Ryan's toilet habits, and he would be very hurt.
You can't make fun of the size of my penis and expect me to be affected at
all. And so you have to dig a little deeper.
Let's think about this as we go through the day. Do we want Ryan
telling everyone about what happened in the back of the van. No, that
might be hard to explain. Does anyone have the right to know? Do I feel I
need to explain my actions? No. I just needed to find the right time to pull
that little shit aside and tell him a thing or two about tact.
***
Jackie slipped on this eentsy, shocking blue, pinstriped, polyester
blazer she had found at one of the dozens of second hand shops we'd
been to that day. It fit her perfectly.
"Zounds, that looks sharp on you," I said.
"Thanks."
Our bizarre love triangle was sitting out on the porch, squatting on
dirty, broken, overstuffed chairs (my NaugaThrone? Martin did live on the
Boys' Side, this is too weird) or straddling the railing, overlooking
apartment tops and a rather non-descript alley -- except for the fact that it
was a Chicago alley.
I was decked out in KleinWear. Ryan, who worked at one took
advantage of his position.
"That vest doesn't go with that shirt at all," he said.
"Ha ha."
"What did you do," he said, "buy the whole display?"
"Yes," I said, leaning back in the cracked and filthy Naugahyde
Seat of Judgment, "I have more money than you could dream or imagine.
I can do things like that."
"I could have gotten that for half price."
"The point is I don't have to."
"What size is that vest," he asked, disapprovingly.
"Extra Large."
"It's too big."
"It suits me, Jackie say something I'm getting tired of this."
"You two didn't seem that tired last night," Ryan said.
"Huh," Jackie said, smirking and smoking a little more.
"Now, I'm glad you brought that up," I said, leaning forward in the
Chair of Fifty Dead Naugas. "I don't really appreciate you saying things
about my personal life in front of my friends."
"Oh?" he said, his face starting to turn and sitting up rigidly.
"No," I said, with a level form of intensity, my voice never raising,
"you just met Martin, he's a friend of mine, and he's a friend of Maria's,
and what happens between me and Jackie is between me and Jackie,
and when I get home it will be between me and Maria. You don't enter
into it."
"Oh?" he asked again, maintaining an impressive level of dignity.
"Yes," I pressed on, "I apologize if I or anyone else have been
making you the butt of our pathetic little jokes all day, but there are some
things you just don't say. You embarrassed me, and I don't think you
considered Jackie's feelings, either."
Ryan's gaze shot nervously over to Jackie, who just sat there and
shrugged.
"We're spending a few more days together," I said, nearing the
home stretch, "I want them to be pleasant. I will cut back if you will."
"Okay," he said.
"Okay," I said, and let out a huge breath. "Now, who knows what
we're going to see tonight?"
***
We saw "Lepers" at the Strawdog Theatre. I was completely
stunned. Our last excursion to Chicago included a viewing of "Cannibal
Cheerleaders on Crack" which is one of those ridiculously (some might
say deliciously) horrible plays held in claustrophobic and poorly lit spaces
featuring a variety of vulgar and horrifying situations and I believe the
most bodily fluids ever to come together in one show. The only thing they
didn't spray at the crowd was menstrual blood. Thank heaven for small
favors.
The blurb for "Lepers" warned of nudity and adult situations, and I
feared the same kind of attempted assault on the senses -- cutting edge
these days requires a parade of oddly shaped people screaming at each
other, on-stage, naked. No point, no talent, just pubic hair and breasts,
flopping about and calling itself art. But the write-ups were good, and the
price was even better, and the Strawdog has a very good reputation
(Wilson had done a show there).
It was brilliant. An intimate, well-maintained house (eighty seats
perhaps?) a six member cast (three of each) and the first brief segments of
the show featured, scene by scene, each initial pairing of couples in bed,
and highlighting for all of us in witness their sexual hang-ups in detail.
The performances were honest and the writing was realistic but carefully
stylized -- repetition of catch phrases ("Is it me?" a man's line, meant to
get some kind of personal validation just after "failing to perform" as
they say, and one uniquely pathetic expression of impotent hopefulness; "I
can do it now! I'm hard, well...firm.") and one particularly hysterical
scene involving the most narcissistic man in the world, under a sheet, by
himself, talking, bragging, urging himself through what must have been the
single most protracted and enjoyable masturbation in recorded time.
They were all completely nude (as opposed to "nude", which
means the same thing) lying beneath and slipping out from under one
sheet, but they were not self-conscious at all, the way most nude
performances can be ("Hey, I'm nude now! This is the nude bit you read
about in 'The Reader'!") and we all became very familiar very soon with
every small mole, interesting tattoo, width of nipples, those who were
circumcised and who weren't, and soon enough we didn't care. They
were supposed to be in bed, fucking, or at least trying to, wouldn't it seem
silly if one guy hopped out of the sack and was in his boxers?
And, a few scenes in, when they all sat around for a dinner party,
fully clothed, acting like normal, nervous people at a dinner party, that's
when the show really started to take shape.
We've seen you naked! We've seen your stretch marks and we
know exactly how big your dick is! We know your hang ups, whether or
not you're getting any, your sub-text is dead, we know who are you are
and what you think!
It was genius. It was painful and it was beautiful. It was angry and
fast and funny and said more about the modern state of human
relationships and sexuality than any show I'd seen since "Cloud 9", and
that was a long, long, jaded time ago. It was the kind of show where
Maria, had she been there, would have leaned over, dug her fingers into
my knee, and said, "I must fuck you, very soon". Jackie was sitting next to
me, her legs crossed, leaning a little towards me. I wanted very much to
reach over and touch her hand. I think I dug my fingers into her knee at
one point, I don't know.
***
Going to sleep time. We had all looked forward to it for so long.
Some of us managed to doze for a few precious minutes during the day,
but we were all pretty sacked.
"Well," Satch said, "this couch folds out and then there's that other
couch..."
We were all taking our turns going into the bathroom, scrubbing
our teeth and cleaning our faces, getting into our sweats or whatever it
was we slept in.
Wilson was spending yet another night over at his girlfriend's.
We'd seen him for a total of thirty minutes that day. I stood in his room,
just off the tee vee room with the folding couches, changing into my sleep
clothes.
"I'm in here," I said, "I asked Wilson, and he said it was okay."
Satch gave me the glassy stare of premature death. Wilson had this
really sweet futon, big enough for two. I couldn't tell if he was jealous
that I had dibbed it, or because he knew what I was up to.
"It's big enough for two," I said, suggesting that I'd sleep with
anyone else there. I looked at Ryan and smiled.
"I guess I'll sleep with you, Kael," Jackie said, arriving from the
bathroom neatly scoured, her hair sticking straight up in tufts. She sported
a tattered brown sweat suit and a look of sheer exhaustion. She
announced her intent to lie down with me as though she had only just
thought of it, and like she was doing everyone a big favor.
"Cool-ee cool," I said.
We all lay down to sleep, the door between Wilson's room and the
tee vee room remained wide open, and all the lights were put out.
Jokes were made, but not very many, we were all too spent to
have one of those slumber party kind of pillow talk sessions. I rolled over,
next to Jackie, and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. She nuzzled her
face to mine, and lay onto her back.
One by one the few comments there were dropped away, and the
buzz of adult snoring started to kick in. I drifted in and out of
consciousness for a few moments, trying to be relaxed after a day of
consuming a way dangerous amount of caffeine. I rolled over to Jackie,
half asleep now, and lay a hand upon her face. I turned it to mine to give
her a little kiss. It was instinctive, I would have done it for anyone in my
bed. I wanted a hug before sleeping.
She threw an arm around me and began sucking violently at my
mouth. One slender leg was cast about my waist and she hoisted herself
up on top of me. I was thrust flat on my back, we were kissing frantically,
my hands went up and down her back, inside her shirt, pulling down at
her flesh, pulling up on her small behind, massaging and tugging as she
rested all of her weight on her knees, digging into the mattress on either
side of my thighs and she roughly stroked her crotch against my rapidly
elongating penis.
Our kisses were becoming more violent, and she continued to
massage my dick, up and back her pants against mine, dry-humping like
some teenager, I pulled my fingers into her spine and dragged my nails
up her back, pressing them firmly into her neck as I ran my tongue about
the edge of her chin, suckling on and licking her filthy little ears.
She continued to slam away at my dick through those thin cotton
pants, and I was rocking, too, although every additional wave made my
penis more sore and tenderized, the fabric of my underwear biting at its
pained, aroused underside.
"Hah-hah-hah," I panted into her ear, "don't you think we better
close the door?" She leaned over and scrumbled off the bed and swung
the aforementioned door closed. She scrabbled right back on top of me,
sliding into position, ground her exponentially sticky and blazing groin into
mine and squeezed my head in her hands. We continued to pull and tug
at each other's lips.
She reached down with one hand and in less than a moment her
sweat pants had gone. Her naked and twisting vagina dragged fiercely at
my swollen and tormented penis. Hands reached for the elastic in my
sleepypants.
"Wha-wait, ha!" I whispered, "we can't."
"Hmn?" she asked, smiling this demonic smile. "No?"
"Hah, mmn, I wasn't prepared for this."
I gathered her behind in my hands and ran my nails along the tops
of her thighs.
Grind, grind, grind, FUCK, I must be bleeding.
She breathed sharply into my mouth. "We could go someplace
and get them."
"Jackie!" I laughed. "It's two in the morning. We're in CHICAGO."
"There's a Seven-Eleven across the street."
"Ha!" She was right. There was. "Oh my god, you're serious
aren't you?"
She shrugged slightly and continued to shift her hips up and back.
I kissed her slowly in an attempt to calm her down. She bit her sex even
deeper into mine.
"Okay!" I grunted. She smiled and hopped off of me to get her
pants on. "You're fucking nuts, you know that?"
"Whatever."
***
We skulked out of the apartment. Walking through the tee vee
room I could only imagine what all of our friends were thinking. Were they
asleep? Had we been keeping them awake, and they only pretended to
be asleep because they couldn't imagine asking us to shut up?
One bottle of orange juice (mine), one half pint of Ben & Jerry's
Chocolate Chunk Fest (hers) and a three-pack of Trojans (ours).
We settled back onto Wilson's futon and calmly and maturely
began to strip each other's clothes off.
***
"Mnnnnnnnnnnn," I breathed, smiling. Flat on my back on that
strange black futon, the light a half dozen alley lamps cast a pale, cold
glow over the room. I stared dopily up at the ceiling, at the slowly rotating
fan. A light cool breeze came through a crack in the window. My
moderately hairy chest (hair, the great concealer, masking years of
adolescent acne scarring, bumps and craters once glowing red now
colorless and hidden) heaving warmly, a small pale goblin crouched over
my penis, kneeling, small breasts dangling only inches above her own
knees, playful and knowledgeable fingers delicately and firmly pressing
into and massaging my testicles and that bubble gum smile, those horrid
teeth carefully pulling at my cock, her tongue a tunted dolphin rolling
about me, all of my pain and soreness a memory.
Dirty blonde hair, a ball of incandescence, right over it, then
ducking down as her thumb rose up to pad purposefully into just the right
spot, below the hole, her mouth, like some prehistoric sea creature, licking
and sliding around my balls.
It was bliss. It was so good and such a relief after months of
professional embarrassment, marital ennui and, most of all, a nagging
desire to be right here, with her. She lifted her head up and smiled,
reaching for the paper bag.
"Uh-oh," I said.
"What?"
"Nothing."
She unwrapped one and approached my dick. Just as latex hit
skin I began to, oh how can we say, lose that lovin' feeling?
"Ppppth," I sputtered, "put that away and come up here."
She looked down at my thingee and looked up at me, with a
certain degree of awareness and amusement. She put the rubber over on
the bag on the windowsill, next to the unopened juice and ice cream. Her
body stretched out along mine, resting folded hands on my chest and her
head on her hands. So cute, her eyes, marbles of pure cobalt shining
brightly through two narrow openings, grinning with happy front teeth.
"Ahem," I began, "I have what you might call opening night jitters."
"Mm-hm," she said.
"I try not to let it bother me," I said, "I hope it doesn't bother
you."
"Mm-mm," she said.
"And I won't bother asking 'is it me' because it is me, I don't have a
problem with that."
"Mm-hm," she said.
"I mean, I do have a problem with that, but what can I do."
She shrugged.
"Did you want some ice cream?" she asked, sitting up a little.
"Not yet," I said, and considerately flipped her onto her back. I
slid down her body, kissing her navel along the way. Sprig of filthy
blonde hair, not as dark as her natural color (huh, funny) and she spread
her legs wide, very wide, gymnast wide, eat me wide, open. She rested her
head and closed her eyes.
Planted on my elbows I drew both thumbs up the length of her
vagina. So wet, so soft, so pungent. I drew them down again, and back
up, one dawdled on the apex, finding the spot I had managed to discover
with no small degree of difficulty the night before (the morning before?)
and here it was in front of me where I could see it.
It was as large as I had imagined. She was harder than I was. A
tiny finger sticking straight up. I flicked it lightly and repeatedly with my
outstretched tongue and she moaned appreciatively. Thumbs kept
massaging the length of her lips as I batted that little appendage with my
tongue and, every odd moment I would place my whole mouth over it. It
was like a blow job, it so big and available -- all women should have them
like this, we'd never miss it.
***
"Want some of this?"
"Jackie, I'm drinking orange juice."
I leaned against the wall and she sat on one of the pillows.
"That was okay, right," I asked.
"Oh yeah," she said.
"I mean, who else on this trip can say they been brought to orgasm
at least once every night."
"I'm a lucky, lucky, lucky girl."
Another swallow of o.j. "I'm sorry about earlier. That scene with
Ryan."
"Yeah," she said, "that really upset him."
"Well, I don't care, I don't need him spreading shit about me or you
or Maria in front of my friends."
"You sure you don't want any of this?" She offered me a big
plastic spoonful. "It's good."
Big sigh. "Okay." Big bite. "Ew."
"I think it's delicious," she lisped, like a child with a missing
tooth.
***
-- to be continued
***
*Special note to all "Diary" fans: thank you all for your letters, and if you
like my work but have never written me, please do so, because I have a
special announcement to make which I will send personally to anyone
who has ever given me their support.
Mail to: [email protected]
You'll be glad you did.
-- KG
|
|
