"the look"...which apparently no longer works
'K, so it's Easter and as these two haven't gone to church since they were being diddled by the priests, not much of a religious nature is going on here. Oh! sure—lots of food and chocolate, but—of course!—not so much as a solitary fucking lollipop for yours truly, the twats. (In fact, when I tried "the look" when they were scarfing down steaks, Skeeter just told me to "knock it off; you know I don't fall for that anymore.")
But I did get a bath and, as you know, I so love all that warm water shooting up into my various orificii, and then there's the soaping and massaging and let's not forget the drying...
...unhhhhhh...
I even sort of like it when Skeeter talks dirty to me: "You're enjoying this, you little fucker, aren't you! Tell me how much you like it, you dirty little pig dog!" Except that this time he started getting a little verbose (and explicit) and I told him to knock it off.
Anyhoo!
It's nice to have the two boobs on an even keel, if only for a day, 'cause it's been like living with two time bombs. Skeeter is a biological bomb, threatening to explode in one great splat! of bacteria and infection all over the walls, the furniture and us. T'other is a psychological time bomb because it's term's end and his students are playing him like Ashley MacIsaac's fiddle (but without the water sports). When he's not moaning over his computer, he's staring out into grim space. If anyone should be on anti-depressants it's him. He's also on a very short fuse. Yesterday, while he was passing the vacuum cleaner, it was more like he was beating the walls and body-slamming the furniture.
With all the rage, thumping around and sheer risk of being here, I realize I'm living with the least sissyish queers in history; sorta like being in a homo version of "Hurt Locker" (though that was pretty homo sometimes—that fighting scene? puh-leeeeeeeze!).
Aside from all this, I am no getting e-mails from Mr. C, Cate's dog. The little queer is trying to cozy up to me, fully realizing, I think, that when I see him I'll kill him. You see? Dogs understand simply from the vibes of their mistresses and masters. Often you don't even have to say anything...
...like Happy Fucking Easter.
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