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Kael's Diary June, 1994 (2/3)
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.
"Kael's Diary" is copywright 1994 Millennium Productions and is
reprinted here by permission.
This story was originally released on rec.arts. erotica
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Title: Kael's Diary: June, 1994 part two
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, closed 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," he 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 mni, 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 homestretch, "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, talking about furniture and cars and things, 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, what you think, and who's sleeping with
whom! How can you just sit there and talk about that lame shit?
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
grilfriend'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 sleepclothes.
"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 stunted 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 eaned 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
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ON SALE NOW: Kael's Diary #1 -- neurotic erotica for the modern lover
send $5 to: P.O. Box 210034 S Euclid, OH 44121-7034
write to me at: [email protected] for more information.
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