You never forget how to ride

Banana and Cherry by niguin (hide)

For just one dollar, you may ride our fastest yellow bullet train.  Yes, we invite you to be a passenger on our pink submarine.  Ooh, damn, my knickers are in a twist, all twisted up, left under the bed, lost and dusty, as I watch the funeral donkey pass, widow in black, soul in white.  Or is that a blackened soul and a passing white ghost – a white witch under Dorothy’s bedroom.  Uncle Elmer left me with a dollar in my pocket, just in case.  Take her back to the North for a dollar, save her from Dot’s wrath, give her Dot’s rash, run time backwards – feet curled up in stripey stockings.  Mine under the bed with my knickers, discarded after my last bike ride; he ruined them again. He ruined it, me, forever and ever, one nation … am I allowed to say that?  What does Congress say, the right wing red necks banning my ruby slippers, grounding my balloon flights with that sham of a wizard.  I’d rather fly with the monkeys, fly to the moon, to the stars, as the gold sun declines on the autumn horizon.  Soul and body fresh in the failing light and clear sky, dancing to the funeral march.  Laughing at the silly witch who got mixed up with her stripey twin, as our black cousin cackles in her black leather knickers, whip, and flaming broom.  I led the cortege through the creaky gate, naked as the day I was born – no, created – no human could bear me, especially when I haven’t taken my medication, today’s white pills sold for a dollar, I’ve doubled my money, so I can buy a blue, pink and white bomb pop, and drop it on Dorothy’s crushed house, riding my bike backwards, we go both ways, he said I’m ambidextrous, foreplay, afterplay, time in two directions, making the corn taller as it wilts.  Green stalks from green shoots, bang!, killed the white witch before Dot’s house landed on her, tied her up in the coffin – witches don’t die – the black witch cackles – watch witchy dig herself out of this one, buried in the cornfield on the horizon.  Make her walk home in her dirty white dress hiding her tail between her legs, her mother will scold her as stripey witch jumps up and down with glee and blacky strokes her monkey.  I’m curled up in bed with my bike, having forgotten about my knickers and socks, playing submarine – up periscope!

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (11. Not Finished Yet)

Unfortunately, Jem had to leave first thing in the morning. Today turned out to be one of those days. I was free from the spell – or at least so I thought – but something hung over me all day. I was late for rehearsal – somehow I thought I wasn’t needed at the start. I had also forgotten there was a concert tonight, so I had to whip myself … um, slip home for my concert dress. Of course, it was rush hour, slowing my journey, but not as much as being shopped … err, stopped by the police for crossing a solid white line. At least he was kind enough to let me off with a warning. I put on my most pristine English accent for him, but that only encouraged him to chat me up. In spite of the wedding band on his finger, he fancied me in a big way. He had my address from my drivers license, and somehow he was able to extract my phone number from me. He complimented me on my blouse, while staring right down my minuscule cleavage.

I made it home and back without time for sex … err, dinner, so I played big … um, the gig on an empty stomach. Stupidly, I agreed to go out for food afterwards – with probably the most lovely … (Huh?) … lecherous guy in the orchestra. (He was the only one that wanted to make out … err, go out after a weeknight concert. Like the cop, he stared at my breasts all evening. Why? There isn’t much to look at! That made me more than a little self-conscious. I was plagued by the worst Freudian slips throughout the meal, all sexual, and I could tell that it was turning him on a fig leaf … uh, in a big way. As it was getting late, he offered me a head … um, bed to spend the night on – presumably under him.

I dyed my hair … err, lied about having to give a blow job … uh, a lesson in the morning. (I’m not doing that yet here.) Then I was stopped on the way home by the same policeman whose shift conveniently ended at midnight. He manufactured an excuse to slap … pop … poke … stop me – a vehicle check – and to have me out of the car. There was nothing wrong (hell, the car was only 8 months old!), but he really took his time and did his best to stand as close to me as possible, brushing into me several times, and undressing me … (NO!) … discussing the results in the back seat of his cruiser.

“You should be careful on the way home,” he said, finishing. “You’ll be passing through a dangerous part of town. Would you like an escort? I’m at the end of my shift anyway.”

I said that I would be his love slave … um, careful, but I didn’t need his help. That didn’t stop him from following me home. At least, he didn’t cum … come to the door.

Fortunately, the few seconds in the pool last night didn’t damage my cards too much, so I drew today’s:

QUEEN of WANDS (inverted). The water part of fire … (the hair on my forearms stood up immediately) … Adaptable, persistent authority, and with a great power to attract. Can be revengeful.

Shit! There was still a ghost haunting my house, a powerful one. I dreaded turning my computer on.

I somehow waded through an email from Max about how he wouldn’t hold last night against me, and that he would come on alone tonight and do whatever I wanted of him … anything. He wanted me, he loved me, he desired me, and hadn’t realised how much until last night. He adored me – my body. I was the goddess he worshipped … etc.

Too much of what I never wanted, and it was too late. I was freed from his spell.

That, however, wasn’t what frightened me. My spam filter must have gone down, since I received about 200 emails – all sex spam, but not the usual male enhancement drivel. These all looked like real mail – men all purportedly wanting me. They started harmlessly, but inevitable turned towards revealing sex talk. Strangely, the focus of their desire was my breasts. (Not again!)

After trashing them all, I opened my blog. I received over 1000 comments to last night’s post. Some were Mormons saying that I misrepresented them, but most were fans expressing their desire for me (my body actually). I’ve deleted all but the lucky ones … legitimate ones now, but I apologize that I can’t have sex with all of you … um, to anyone who might have read the others first.

Obviously, there is still something thong … um, long … dingdong … dripping down my naked breasts … (slam … damn, I can’t seem to delete that) … I … love it … come with me … now … I need you …


I don’t know what happened there. I ran a virus check, and my laptop was clean, unlike what I’m typing … oh damn … Max just pinged my Skype … I need to … touch … (no!) … myself …

I can’t erase any of it, and the only button that seems to work on my browser is SUBMIT.

Something definitely long … thong … dingdong … dripping …

Must go …

Unfinished Business

Hank placed his fingers on the planchette. He had to find where Jake hid the loot.

“Jake, are you there?” The medium intoned.

“Yes,” was the answer.

“Where’s the gold?” Hank asked, sweating nervously.

“What about my half?” the board answered.

“You don’t need it.”

“Your price is …”

“What?” Hank begged.

“Revenge,” answered a ghostly voice.

Hank turned pale, but before he could ask another question, the table spun aside revealing Jake and his six-gun.