Smell my Pineapple!

I’ve been terribly bogged down by work lately. I’ve just about done a Homer Simpson (i.e. made an ass groove into a couch) at this lovely new café I’ve found, resting under the shadow of a posh new office building by the sea. It’s got great coffee and fantastic falafel wraps, all for under 10 bucks. It’s also a fantastic spot to do some white guy executive watching. The Princess and I have a bit of fun when we get bored with Japanese equity by thinking about a different sort of stock. None of them are cute though, but they probably live in that pretty new condo just beside the café… How absolutely convenient.

Mr. Big offered me tickets to the FHM event this Saturday, but there was just no time to meet him before he left the country again. I’ve not been seeing him awhile, and honestly don’t know what to make of it, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too weird to think about it, and it isn’t as if it were vaguely exciting even.

The Princess suggested watching D-Lovely yesterday, and I absolutely recommend it. Especially if you like jazz musicals. I had been feeling a little broke and wanting to eat wood-fire pizza with Ruccola salad on it; so I rang Luce up after that. He’s god-awfully free these days, it would seem, having just quit his last job because his boss was an ass-hole, because he wanted to learn Japanese, and also because of a sudden desire to embark on some no-brainer get rich scheme. He says he wants the money so he can sponsor obscure film directors. I tell him I am glad to have him as a friend. He’s free nearly all the time and likes to listen to me talk. He also spent much of his twenties smoking pot, studying theology, playing the Sax, and reading a great deal of just about everything that was supposed to be bad for him.

We have an odd, mildly sexual relationship where we’d tell each other filthy jokes and criticize religion and it’s treatment of procreation and other relevant activities. It occurred to me a couple of times how interesting things would be if I could just fuck him; I’m not particularly attracted to him in that manner (he kind of reminds me of the Girlfriend’s boy), but he completely stimulates me, and I imagine it.

But I’ve been a good girl, and the perfectly ordinary relationship with Mike has been all there is lately. I was on my way to his place (which is conveniently about 10 minutes away from where I live – I was so bored I timed it) and I started wondering why the hell I was doing what I was. Going to some guy’s place at about a quarter to the Cinderella hour with a pile of bed-things in a huge shopping bag. He just moved out of his old place and hadn’t the time to do up his room, and I absolutely cannot stand sleeping without my own pillow, and since I wanted all the bed clothes to match, I brought along the whole set.

I was tired, grumpy, and wondering why the hell did I asked him to meet me in the first place. Then we got down to it and I remembered why. Because I was horny. Duh, and because the sex was so fantastic. Mike looks fine, a little too tall for me (something like, oh, forty centimeters taller), far too skinny for my tastes, and we don’t really have much to converse about. I talk, he listens, usually.

But he is good sex, in fact, he is fantastic sex. It’s so fantastic I felt myself thinking I could live on it, and breathe it, and would gladly have that sort of sex as the last thing I’d get up to if I were to die tomorrow. Along with that, he’s also one of the few guys whom I can talk dirty with without things turning weird. I’d say cock and he’d say pussy, I’d say jack it in, and he’d say fuck you bitch. And we did that for awhile like some sort of mad game.

I love the word Jack.

I am convinced now that when I feel completely good about the sex, the guy is bound to feel so too. Oddly, the quality of sex with the same person can fluctuate, within a relatively restricted margin, but still. I think I flatter him too much and he probably feels like a sex god now; the Girlfriend tells me to lay off the adulation for awhile.

The next morning we were walking past some old shop-houses and there was this completely blacked out club called 52, or 59 or something of the like, and beside it was a whiteboard that said ‘Smell my Pineapple! $2.95’. I nudged Mike and we started laughing out ass off. It occurred to em after awhile that of course some guy usually sold pineapples right below the spot, but hey, we’d just gotten out of a night of obsessive dry-runs. You know, where I practice how to make little bundles of joy. I’m being very Kiasu about it, I suppose, but one can never be too prepared with things like uh… the future of out nation.

xoxox