September 12, 2010; Secrets and Payments

It's nice that Pastor Fuckknuckle decided not to burn the Qu'rans like he said he would. Mind, it probably wouldn't have made a difference one way or another...some people burn the American flag and scream in the streets simply because it's a long-established tradition; bred in the bone, so to speak.

Meanwhile, during the morning walk the day after I shot my mouth off to Boo, Skeeter said, "So when are you going to tell him?"

"Why do I have to tell him?"

"Look, it was bad enough when we were both lying to him—I'm not going to have him questioning his sanity. With all the fucking stress in his life now, his mental health is hanging by a thread."

"Let me think about it."

"Don't think to long. Of course, if you're as profoundly stupid as you were last night, this might all take care of itself."

I thanked him for his remark by squatting and having a shit on the sidewalk at the exact moment a little family was coming out of the adjacent house. Mommy shuddered and Junior shrieked, "That's gross!" As Skeeter bent over to pick it up, I ran about him, tangling him in the leash as he tried to bag my offering, and then did a little dance for the audience.

Big mistake.

Later, after the afternoon walk, I was feeling the first mild autumn chill and thought I'd curl up next to Skeeter while he fiddled with his iPad (surfed porn, posted imbecilities on his Facebook page, Tweeted details of his life not a single person in the world gives a flying fuck about). The curl-up is especially great as the winter approaches. Skeeter's unbelievable mass gives off heat like a foundry and being squeezed next to him is better than crack—I just joyously haze out. He was tapping away on his gadget and I was slipping in and out of consciousness, utterly blissed-out when he said, "I wonder what your little friends would think if they saw you."

"Hunh? Shut up, I'm snoozing," I mumbled.

"I wonder what Slicer or one of those other animals you're always trying to beat up—the ones you act so tough with—what they would think if they saw your curled up here next to me, purring like a pampered pussy."

"—you wouldn't—"

"—Oh! I so would, Mr. Shits-on-the-sidewalk-just-to-humiliate-Skeeter!—"

—I swear to all you believe is holy I will never do that again!—"

"DOING IT ONCE WHEN YOU KNEW HOW I HATE IT IS ALREADY ONCE TOO OFTEN, YOU FUCKING LITTLE COCKSUCKER! I SHOULD HAVE KICKED YOUR FAT WHITE ASS UP AND DOWN THE STREET!"

"I swear! I swear! I'm so sorry!"

"You know how much I already hate picking up after you and especially when there are people around—"

"—Listen to me—" Oh! dear readers, I was peddling like I have never peddled before. "—I will find a way to make up for it. I swear. You never say a word about our thing here and I'll do something extra special for you."

He was intrigued. "We'll see." But I had no idea what I would do.

On our walk this morning we saw Shutup, the lab I have a lot of fun abusing, and my dick withdrew into my body I was so scared what Skeeter might say. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease," I prayed to him as we approached the other dog who mewed with fear of me. Skeeter hummed ominously, but then we just walked past the idiot dog. I thanked Skeeter over and over again for having kept his mouth shut. He said, "I better get payback pretty fucking soon, Buster."

And then all became clear to me. We were coming back to the apartment when I saw Babette sitting out on her porch while one of her owners sat beside her reading his newspaper. Two things: this particular guy loves me to pieces; Skeeter has got a full-metal boner for him. "Watch this," I murmured to Skeeter.

Ignoring Babette I went tearing over to the guy and just started jumping all over him. He fell back from the step he was sitting on and just hugged me and held me and I licked his face all over. He was wearing shorts and his muscular, hairy legs (just like Skeeter likes them) went flying all over the place. He was laughing his fool head off, and calling me "Sweetie!" and "You cute little thing!" as I just went to town. Babette barked, "What the hell are you doing?!" but I didn't stop until the guy was a sweaty mess, his shirt half-open and -off, exposing the kind of chest Skeeter dreams about.

Skeeter pulled on the leash—oh-so-half-heartedly—and I went back to him. "I'm sorry," he said to the young man. The guy, still laughing, said, "I am crazy about your dog!" Then he stuck out his hand and said, "I'm Claude." Skeeter shook his hand and may have said his own name. I can't be sure he actually said words because his voice was flutey and all over the place as his body wobbled about and a blush rose from his balls up to the roots of his hair.

We walked home, his legs barely holding him up. "Okay, we're even," he said.

"You fucking bet we are," I said.

Now I desperately need a bath to get rid of my whore-stink.