What's In A Name

Davita Minton

Trans Tales

What's In A Name

    She was drunk again.  And stoned.  And reminiscing.  The evenings 'fshing' expedition had netted zero results.  'Fsh' was something she considered to be clever coding for the word fish.  'Fsh' often appeared in her bi-weekly lists of things to do.  The term had its roots in yet another subterfuge.  A Yahoo email username; 'fshromn'.  Which was another something she considered to to be clever in that it was intended to be an unadulterated mockery of the original meaning of the term.

    As usual she had received several responses to her Craigslist posting.  Two of them were from guys she had met in the past.  "When are they going to stop?''  She thought with frustration.  ''I know those are new pics, but they recognise me anyway.  I guess I'm just that good.''  She concluded with a sly smile and a chuckle.  All of the other responses were either 'one-liners' or 'one-worders'; which she had forbade in her original post, or they were deficient of some or all of the explicitly required information.  A couple of these latter were interesting, just not enough so for her to deign consider lowering her standards.  Thus, with a long sigh, she deleted the post.  Then, in an effort to quickly eradicate a line of thought she ardently did not wish to become mired in; the proposition that in reality she really wasn't into it this evening and that only by dint of habit had she posted an ad and that with greater and greater frequency despite the generally consistent number of responses she made no catch, she turned her thoughts to her most recent conquest.

    "He was not that good.  Thats it for him.  He was correct, however.  The first time he came over, months ago, my legs were unshaved, which ''could'' explain his inability to get an erection.  No excuse this time though.  He's done.  What is it about young guys?  They can't seem to get and or keep an erection with me.''  She mused, in a spontaneous manner.  She did not like the answers that immediately came to mind.  They were too reminiscent of the recent line of thought she wished to avoid.

    ''But what about him?''  She thought, in self-defense, in reference to a nineteen year old African American student she had seen three times, four years ago.  ''God damn!  He certainly had no difficulty getting and keeping a BIG erection.''  She had no idea what his name was.

    ''And what about him?''  She said aloud this time, as she suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair and flung her hand at the empty queen bed.  ''Just a few months ago. Right there!  He was nineteen too.  And rock hard muscles.  Damn!  He never did orgasm though.  That was a bummer.''  She could not remember his name either.  And it did not occur to her, on any level, that it was the least bit significant that their names eluded her.  The gulf between 'four years ago' and a 'few months ago' did, however, occur to her and she froze in her seat and frantically searched her mind.

    ''There were others.  There certainly were others.  Not that young, perhaps.  They all can't be nineteen.  But if only....''  Then the truth dawned on her and she collapsed back into her seat in relief.  Only the 'good ones' and the 'hot ones' and the 'big ones' were memorable enough to come to mind.  But certainly there were other guys; lots of them in fact, that were younger than her that could legitimately be classified as young men.  Early twenties.  Mid twenties.  Late twenties.  Even early thirties.

    ''Oh yeah!  There were those two, of course.  And just a few miles from here.  And that was..... that was..... at least a year and a half ago.  I lived way up on community then.  It was worth the drive though.  Holy shit!  Two, hot, hard, big dicks.  And muscle.''  And as she strolled to the kitchen to freshen her drink she smiled and shook her head back and forth as she recollected how the African American youth; whom she had believed would be the only guy she would meet, had texted an invitation to the other caucasian youth; after first asking her if she would be interested in a threesome, as she was rimming him.  ''Why didn't i think of them sooner?......  Oh yeah!  They wouldn't top me.  Thats why.  It was just a suckfest.  Never would have forgot them if they had.  I'm sure.''  Then, as she retraced her steps back to her chair she audibly groaned and waved her free hand before her face, signifying to herself she was through with this line of thought.  She considered the proposition that she could not arouse the desires of young men, sufficiently debunked.  She was well down the path of memory lane, however, and soon lost herself in its labyrinthine meanderings.

    ''That guy was so passionate.  It was crazy.  How many times?  Three?  IDK.  Whatever.  But that hair!  Damn.  Way too long.  Always in his face.  And mine!  C'mon dude.  Get a haircut.  I wonder if thats why he never came back.''  She mused in a sudden and desultory flourish in reference to the self-actuated supposition that this guy; yet another with no name, had been hurt or angered the last time they met, when in lite-hearted easy-going conversation about the U of I, as they relaxed in her bed, she had mentioned that over time she had had several student and or faculty members as visitors and one of them had the biggest dick.  ''He did have a small one after all.  But I never complained.  It was good.  Good enough.  I told him it was good.  Who knows.  Whatever.  Get a hair-cut dude.''

    ''Wow!  A guy with a name.  'Craig'!  Oh.... what a man.  And he really wasn't that big.  But ohhh what a nite that was.  And only that one time.  Oh yeah!  I remember now!''  She thought, as she suddenly recalled that at the time of their meeting she had suspected there was some kind of connection between Craig and 'hair-cut' guy, beyond that they were both grad-students.  After only two e-mails; 'Can i come over?' and 'On my way.'  Craig was smiling, standing at her door.  As if he knew her.  Moreover, as she recalled now, there were other details or intuitions that had linked the two yet, the passage of time had caused those to evanesce.  ''The stars aligned that nite though.  It was heaven.  That was the first time it ever felt like that.  Average length.  Average girth.  Not very orally pleasing but....  Oh yeah!  Saliva was the only lubricant.  God he was good.  Every which way but loose.  The couch.  Standing.  The bed.  And he was one of those guys too.  His only fault.''  She summed him up, somewhat ruefully.  ''Not a peep or a flinch or... or any emotion when he orgasm'd.  How strange they are.''  And as she reflected upon what she considered to be an incredible concept it occurred to her there were many such men in her memory that stifled themselves in their moment of ecstasy.

    ''But not that motherfucker!''  She exclaimed as she sprang upright in her chair.  ''I thought he was having a seizure.  And what a load.  Holy shit.  Over our heads and against the wall.  Thank goodness he warned me away.  I would have drowned....  Wait a sec...  What a way to go.  And what a fat one!  I said God Damn!  Short.  Yes.  But so fat.  He's got to be the biggest.  Of all of them.  Girth-wise, anyway.  And he was the one to tell me about douching.  I think......  I think I may have thought about it before, but his remarks convinced me.  And he's one of the few I've ever made a date with that far in advance.  Was it a week?  Or two?  IDK.  And wasn't he.......  He was!  He's the only man to ever buy me dinner.  Met in his room for sex.  Went out for steaks and drinks.  Then back to his room for more sex.  He was fun.  He's got a lot of firsts to his credit.  What was his name?''  And in keeping with the concept of 'firsts' she next recalled the first time she used 'CraigsList' to meet a man.

    ''He had a strange e-mail username didn't he?  That's right.  And isn't it ironic that the first guy I met using 'CraigsList' with the intention of having intercourse did not actually fuck me?  Yes it is.  Wow, could he ever rim though.  And blow too.  I was so keyed up.  Maybe that was it?  Because the next time wasn't near as good.  And have I ever done that again, I wonder?"  She mused, for a moment, in reference to how the two had met at a nearby bar, where they had a drink and talked briefly before then going back to her place.  "He also was the first guy I ever dressed for.  Wow!  That's right.  That's a milestone.  It's never occurred to me before; who was the first for that distinction.  But no intercourse.  Been dressed ever since though.  Intercourse or no."

    ''What did that idiot expect?  I'd be out there in the freezing ass cold in my daisy dukes and flip flops?''  She angrily queried the empty room, in reference to the second man she had intended to be dressed for whom she had also agreed to meet beforehand, beyond the bounds of her threshold, albeit just across the street from her home, standing before a closed convenience store.  ''Wasn't I just a little bit relieved when he drove through the lot and kept right on going?  I was, wasn't I?  I was a nervous nelly back then.  Oh those halcyon days.  And to think; that fool had the nerve to email me an hour later pleading to come back.  Jackass.''  And with the memories of the convenience store fiasco and the 'rimming' guy fresh in her mind the memory of her first same-sex encounter bubbled up out of the ether.

         "Now this, certainly, is ironic.  Something you are supposed to remember.  A first.  Something a person should remember.  Something inherently memorable.  But of course, typical me.  I was to drunk to remember anything.  Well almost anything, anyway.  The old 'Nargile'.  How many names did that place have over the years?  And how many different owners?  But it was always a gay bar.  That seems odd.  As always though; back then, I had to be half drunk to even consider walking into one of those places.  The short guy....  The top....  He was tending bar.  That's right.  And the other guy....  The bigger, older guy....  The bartenders lover or roommate or sugar daddy or all three, was just there hovering.  Keeping track of his little birdie.  I remember a little of the conversating and drinking, but how they sweet-talked me into having both of them over, I'll never know.  And I probably would have never known they had 'sweet-talked' me, or that anything at all had happened if not for that ten or fifteen seconds of memory of the two of them in my bed with me.  The big guy was breeding and the little guy was feeding.  Their roles must have been reversed at some point prior to that though.  His dick tasted awful.  I'll never forget that.  That was the first time I ever tasted that taste.  What a dichotomy."  She thought, as an arresting sense of sadness descended upon her concerning the true nature of her first consensual homosexual encounter that cast a pall over the novelty of the experience.  But then the memory of an earlier dark and violent encounter from decades before, that also included two men and alcohol, that she very rarely ever thought of flashed into existence.

         "Fuck that!"  She exclaimed as she sprang to her feet and sprinted for the kitchen.  First, she clicked on the small countertop television.  "There must be sound.  There must be voices."  She thought.  "And ESPN.  And another drink.  And dishes.  And food.  Yeah!  I should eat something.  And then....."

THE END

    

This Particular Instance

Davita Minton

Trans Tales

This Particular Instance

    She supposed she couldn't have been more than fourteen years of age, but not much less than thirteen.  Possibly twelve, but certainly no younger than that.  There had been instances, however, that pre-dated this particular instance yet, very few.  And in her estimation these were much less significant.  And of course, there had also been many, many more instances in the decades since.  Concerning the question of origins, however, this particular instance stood out, starkly, beyond all the rest.

    It had been an absolutely miserable trip from Pacific Mo. to Louisville Ky. riding in the back of a pick-up truck in the summer of 197?.  The trip had begun with auspicious implications.  She was looking forward to the few days away from the crampt, boring and uncomfortable living conditions at her uncles small mobile home.  She loved her uncle.  He was a good man. He treated her like a son.  More so than her real father ever had.  He even took her to work with him sometimes and bought her lunch of rare and exotic fast-food.  She thoroughly enjoyed riding around the city of St. Louis and its environs in the giant 'Davey Tree Company' truck with the frighteningly monstrous chipper/shredder attached to the back.  She also enjoyed the protective little-brother-like attention of the young men that made up her uncles tree-trimming crew.  But on most days during the period of time when she and her older brother and their mother lived with her uncle, her brother and herself were restricted; by fiat, to the confines of the small trailer home.  The arrangements were temporary.  And it was feared that two adolescent boys roaming the trailer park might draw the ire of the resident landlord.  Thus, the refreshing breezes produced by the moderate speed limit that they progressed at early on in the trip, navigating the secondary roads, augored an invigorating reprieve.  It didn't take long, however, upon reaching speeds of 75 or 80 mph, on the Interstate Highway, before she and her brother began to seek shelter amongst the various boxes and bags they were sharing the truckbed with, from the stinging gale-force winds.  By the time they reached Louisville, hours later, both she and her brother had completely buried themselves under the cargo.  They were sore and tired and dazed and suffering from wind/sun burn.  Much of the rest of the trip was unremarkable.  She remembered little else, in fact, except the instance that so haunted her thoughts now.

    She could not remember what had come first.  Had the memory of this particular instance appeared randomly and thus inspired the search for origins?  Or had the search for origins uncovered the memory?

    ''Why am I this way?  Is it organic?  Or have I made myself this way through years of self-indulgence?''  These were the questions; especially the latter two, that more and more often dogged her tormented mind.  She was ambivalent about it.  The questions and answers and doubt of the answers seemed to her like an unending, unbreakable cycle.  There was evidence of organic origins, but there was also evidence of pathology.  And then there was this particular instance.  The nexus of the cycle.  The alpha and the omega.  If she were considering the litany of her self-defined, self-labeled self-indulgent behaviors that she perceived as pathological; that had morphed over the years to what she considered were absurd proportions, this particular instance; or the memory thereof, always silenced such reveries.  Or, if she were considering the alternative organic explanation, it was usually this particular instance; or the memory thereof, that provoked such reveries.

    Alone this time, she was in the truckbed again.  The cargo had been unloaded and it was after dark.  Her aunt 'Boots' was behind the wheel, and her mother was in the passenger seat.  She was seated at the front of the truckbed near the cab of the truck.  After so many years, nearly forty, give or take, she could not remember where this side trip had originated or why or how long they had been on the road but at some point she decided to crouch down to avoid the blinding glare of headlights in her eyes.  Soon after, in a carefree effort to entertain herself she began to move the tips of her fingers up into the light.  It was like they were coming out of water.  Then, one time she put up a peace sign.  Immediately she was reminded of something she used to do when she was younger, and bored; like when trapped in a car on long trips.  She used to imagine her fingers were legs, and she would walk them around and pose them.  She tried it again then and there, walking the fingers of her right hand along the imaginary boundary line of light and dark.  But she thought it looked stupid with her hand and also illuminated so she stopped.  The wheels were in motion though and a flood of related memories cascaded past her minds eye.  Legs, legs and more legs.  Images of womens legs from magazine covers and movie posters.  Without a thought as to why images of womens legs had always captured her attention.  One image in particular stood out in her mind now.  It was the image of a pair of womens legs from the movie poster heralding the Movie M*A*S*H.  It must have been her inspiration.  The image was of a pair of womens legs, seen from behind, with high heels on the feet, with the legs tantalizingly spread apart and incongruously protruding from beneath a hand displaying a peace sign.  Then, completely out of the blue, as she recalled, without a thought as to why or what may come she looked down at her own legs as if for the first time.

    It was summer.  She was wearing short pants.  In those days everyday off the shelf were considerably shorter than contemporary young mens and boys short pants.  She imagined, also, that given that she was seated at the time the shorts probably appeared even shorter.  But again, without a thought or a care, as she observed her legs she began to pose them after the fashion of her memories of images from magazine covers and movie posters.  As she recalled she was immediately enthralled and pleased with what she saw in the semi-darkness.  Always with her toes pointed in an exagerated fashion, she observed her legs appovingly in ever conceivable position, beyond even, what she recalled from popular culture.  Then, by complete coincidence, as she was raising her lower right leg to un-cross her legs the toes of her right foot breached the plane seperating light from darkness and her toes were momentarily illuminated.  Without hesitation, without a thought, she immediately extended her leg again until her toes were once again illuminated.

    At first, her only intention was to wiggle her toes in the light, but very quickly she realized that the dazzling light above her could afford far greater potential for perception of her newfound endowments.  Slowly at first she extended her right leg up until her entire foot; toes pointed skward, was bathed in light.  Then, it was her lower leg, to just below the knee.  Then the left foot and leg.  Then both legs.  Then she lay flat and supported her lower body with her hands and arms and extended both of legs into the light to well above her knees.  She was overjoyed.  And as a natural expression of her joy she began to kick her feet up and down in an alternating fashion.  But then, suddenly and unexpectedly there came a rapid thumping on the truck cab window.

    In a perfectly natural and guilt-free manner she immediately sat up and turned to see what it was that her mother wanted.  To her great surprise and dismay she discovered her mother; who had a look of annoyance tinged with mild disgust in her features, shaking her head left and right in a short rapid style in two quick bursts as she simultaneously mouthed the words; ''Stop that.  Stop that.''

    ''What?  What?''  She said aloud, truly not knowing what it was her mother was referring to.

    ''Your legs.  Your legs.''  Her mother mouthed; placing special emphasis on the word 'legs' as she pointed down.  ''Sit still.  Sit still.'' Her mother quickly added as she also twice spun her downward pointing index finger around.  At the end of each semi-cicular spin of her finger her mother sharply jabbed her finger downward.

    Nonplused she obediently turned around and leaned back against the truckbed wall.  But once again the brutally bright headlights were burning her eyes.  In a huff she rapidly propelled her head and shoulders down out of the light.  But the manner in which she performed this manuvre; pushing down forcefully with her feet while simultaneously lifting her posterior and folding her legs as if squatting, placed her legs in full and close-up view.  She began to look at them again, searching for the qualities from the movie posters that she had only just realised she too possessed.  But they looked better extended.  And even better than that illuminated.  As she recalled now, nearly forty years after the fact, there had not been even a hint of mischevous or rebellious intention in her motivation and desire to resume her regretably interrupted activities.

    What she was about to do was for her mother, not for herself.  Somehow; for reasons beyond her comprehension, her mother completely mis-understood what was happening.  It was dark.  They could not communicate directly.  It had been a long day and a long trip.  They were all tired.  She did not appear to be drunk, but her mother had had a few beers.  Whatever the case may have been, with the sole purpose of sparing her mother any further agravation she carefully slid her body as far to the left; or passenger side of the bed, as she possibly could.  And then, with the innocence of a spotless mind she abandoned herself to her former pursuits.

    The episode of a few moments hence had come as a complete surprise.  The poses she had struck had been modeled after specific memories of discrete images.  Once that discrete image had been duplicated or imitated to the best of her abilities and to as close a likeness as she could achieve she had rapidly proceeded to the next random image that materialised in her mind.  This time, however, she lingered in each pose, taking time to study and fully apreciate her new-found attributes.  

    In the last few years, since the insidious inception of the questions that so haunted her now, she had relived, reviewed and re-examined this particular instance countless times.  And although she was certain the event had occurred; pretty much as she remembered, she was not so certain of the feelings she attributed to the adolescent 'her' concerning the second phase of the event.  She distinctly remembered the feelings of joy and fascination and pride the youthful her had felt during the initial spontaneous phase.  And the dismay and utter surprise at her mothers demonstrative admonishment which, in effect, she perceived, served to calsify the memories of those first indiginous and genuine feelings.  But had she really thought, back then, so long ago, hardly more than a child, as she defied her mother and performed again, that her feet were refined and fair, and that her toes delicate?  And that in there entirety her feet; in the position of extreme plantar flexion, with there gracefully concave arches and near perfectly round heels, juxtaposed against her elegantly slender lower legs, were exquisitely effeminate?  Or, with her legs in the air and bent at the knees that her alluringly full and supple and shapely calves were beautiful in the sublime?  ''No.  I could not have used such terms at that age.''  She thought.  ''But perhaps the centiment or emotion was there.  From the beginning.  And the concepts and words came later.  With maturity.  Or perhaps some or all of it is apochraphal.''

    Suddenly the truck made a sharp and unexpected turn to the right and came to a jarring halt.  At first she was rapidly propelled onto her right side as her legs were slammed down against the bed of the truck.  Then, very quickly, she was violently hurled forward headfirst against the truckbed wall.  Upon righting herself but before she reacquired her bearings she received yet another blow to the head.  This time, from behind.  Administered by her mother.  Instinctively she whirled around and discovered her mother, standing stock still, staring at her, with her features redolent of mortification and anger.

    ''Whats wrong with that boy, Jane?  I never seen such...''  Her uncle Jerry began, in a question addressed to her mother.

    ''Never you mind Jerry.  Jez leave it be.  Come on in the house.''  Her aunt said, interupting her uncle.  Then her mother finally spoke.  ''Get yourself in that tent and go to bed.  And stay there!  Get!''  And as was her wont, she promptly and unquestioningly obeyed.  Only recently had it occurred to her that her uncle, who had pulled into the driveway immediatly after they had, which indicated he had been behind them on the road and thus witnessed her behavior, might have been a source of angst for her mother.  She had probably known it was he on the road behind them.  It mattered little now, however.  Her mother was dead and her aunt and uncle were who knows where; dead themselves most likely.  She hadn't seen or heard from them in many years.  She also remembered nothing else from that trip.  Not even getting into her sleeping bag that nite.  Or how she felt.  Or how she felt the next morning.  Nothing.

    The question of whether she had ever thought of this episode again, prior to its bubbling to the surface of recent, amidst her search for origins, nagged at her occasionally.  She honestly could not remember ever having it come to her recollection before.  The behavior, on the other hand, encapsulated by and originating within this episode certainly did recurr, but not immediately.  There was a lag time of at least one year, maybe two.  ''Why?''  She wondered.  As soon as she began to masturbate, however, she also re-discovered her feminine attributes.  Yet more questions that seemingly had no answers.

THE END

   

   

Late Nite Homecoming

Trans Tales

Late Nite Homecoming

    "What a mess."  She thought, as she doffed both pairs of shorts.  

    "These are going to be absolutely ruined before long if I keep this up."  She said aloud, for the purpose of emphasizing to herself the relative seriousness of the subject.  At issue was the second pair of shorts.  The self-modified extremely short shorts that had been discreetly concealed beneath the other pair of unremarkable normal mens short pants that were forgotten now after being discarded in a heap on the floor.  A wry smile soon evinced itself in her features; evoked by the word 'Santorum' that suddenly occured to her as she peered into the waist opening of the off-white cotton/spandex-blend 'TinselTown Denim Couture' junior misses shorts that she held outstretched in both hands.

    "Humph."  She audibly grunted, mildly surprised that there was no discernable trace of the 'Santorum'; that she could definately feel on her bare backside due to the cooling effect of the swirling ambient air generated by the box fan across the room, on the impossibly narrow strip of fabric that served as the crotch seam of the garment.  Concluding; "There must be something there." as evidensed by the sensations in her nether regions, she carefully folded the shorts and placed them on top of the other shorts that she then folded around and over the 'TinselTown' shorts; once again concealing them, and carefully carried them to the laundry basket where both pairs were unceremoniously deposited.

    "Guilt by ascociation. It must have soaked through onto them as well."  She thought. And this train of thought continued as she switched on the bathroom light in preperation for the clean-up process.  "And both shirts. And my hands. And the steering wheel. And the car seat. THE CAR SEAT! My god! That thing must be a dessicated cesspool; as many times as ive plopped my sullied ass down on that thing after a nite like to-nite.  It has to be permanently imbued with awful."

    Suddenly, her narcissistic tendencies truncated her reveries as she found herself standing nude before the bathroom mirror.  Instinctively she quickly averted her eyes from the eyes in the mirror and began to scan her body. She resisted the almost overwhelming urge to straighten her posture while simultaneously puffing out her chest and sucking in her abdomen.  She was a realist.  Certainly the images of herself she posted online were culled to present to the target audiance only those aspects of herself that she felt, that she believed, that she instinctively knew would inspire the desired effects on said target audiance.  But this was different.  It was just her here, quietly and methodically surveying the ineluctable effects of time.

    "They never see this."  She thought, in regard to the 'target audiance.'  "At least not until its to late, and the action has already begun." And with this thought she finally made eye contact with herself as a wry smile crept into her features.  But then, the insidious voice of her latent body-dysmorphia slithered to the surface.

    "It is not fat!" She proclaimed aloud.  So loudly in fact she startled her somewhat inebriated self.  In great haste she thrust her upper body through the open door as she firmly gripped the door jam and stood stock still in an awkwardly contorted and tense fashion with her left ear cocked towards the uninsulated interior wall that only just seperated her living space from her agravatingly omni-present housmates.  All was quiet.  Relieved, she relapsed into her former pursuits.

    "Its not fat."  She thought resignedly.  ''It is flesh that is no longer supple.  Un-supple flesh.''  And to demonstrate this fact she performed the very actions she so purposefully rejected only moments before.

    "You see? Its gone."  She said aloud, but softly.  "Its just sagging skin.  Nothing more."  She continued in concilliatory tones.  The insidious serpent sensed weakness, however, and rallied to strike again.

    "I have been eating more.  Lately.  Bread.  Occasionally.  And.  Sweets.  Lately.  Every night."   She thought, ruefully, as she hung her head.  For the next moment of so the memories of her last two or three grocery shopping trips, and the oh so few, fleeting instances of wavering resolve in the bread and treats isle flashed through her mind.  Soon, anger began to evince itself there. A multi-directional anger.  There was the wrath she felt towards herself, for her perceived 'instances of weakness'.  But there was also unadulterated exasperation for the very existance of this oft-recurring conflict within herself.  Her mind was awash with feelings of guilt and shame and anger and regret and images of herself with the physical attributes she wished she possessed and the perceived attributes she wished she could change.  And then, amongst the collage of memories flashing through her mind came one of the innumerable instances when she was weighing herself.  It was the instance of more than a year ago when she had finally achieved her long sought after and mythologized and dreamt of 'goal weight'.  It was a powerful memory and she lingered in its aura.  Suddenly a cataract of memories of joyful moments standing before one of her mirrors in form-fitting articles of clothing of myriad description flooded her mind, and midst the bouyancy of their effects came an epiphany.  She snapped her head up and looked herself squarely in the eyes and forcefully exclaimed without inhibition; ''Ah ha!''  Then, as she repeatedly thumped her index finger on the reflection of herself, she thought; ''I just weighed in a few days ago. 162!  Take that!''

    One hundred sixty five had been the 'goal weight' and she was under that. ''I belive we're done here.''  She said aloud, dismissively. There was a nagging feeling, however, knawing at the back of her mind.  There was something different.  Something in her mid-section; the area of her body she was hyper-sensitive to.  There was more there than there had been in the past.  She could feel it.  She was sure of it.  And this area of her body was one of her greatest attributes she thought.  A flat tummy region.  Naturally flat, without being sucked in.  However, if her weight was basically unchanged, yet this area was undeniably larger, something else must be at work.  And again, her thoughts began to spiral down to a place and time she dreaded.  A place and time in aging when nothing could be done to stave off decrepidness.  ''You better believe I'll do everything in my power.....''  She began to think, with a defiant attitude, when suddenly she remembered something that always lightened her mood.  ''Believe.  Thats right.  Everyone has got to have something to believe.  I believe I'll have another drink.''  She thought, as a smile crossed her lips.  In conjunction she also remembered she had taken a few hits off the joint the guy had been smoking as they exchanged pleasantrys on the guys front porch after the consumation of the evenings activities.  Smoking pot often led to episodes such as this, of overly critical and harshly judgemental self examination.  But now the light of reason; or mindfulness of the cause of the negative self-talk at least, had cast the dark thoughts back into the shadows and she was back on track.

    ''To shower, or not to shower.  That is the question.''  She thought, even as she was reaching for the wash-cloth she used earlier in the post douche clean-up which; for all intents and purposes made it a 'fait accompli' not to shower.  This was her wont.  To first repurpose a previously used wash-cloth on the area of greatest concern, which was, without fail, her posterior, to remove the majority of the offending substances presumed to be present as a preperation for a thorough cleaning with a fresh wash-cloth immediately thereafter.  Of course she had cleaned up at her hosts home, in the immediate aftermath of their activities.  On occasions when she travelled, however, she always rushed through the clean-up, instinctively feeling; either rightly or wrongly, that she must hurry so as not to impose too much on her hosts hospitality.  The same held true on this occasion.

    ''What a sweetie he was.  An open, flamboyant, bear top.  Wow!  And what was it he said to me? 'You beautiful man.'  What a sweetie.  What a nite!''  Simultaneously, even as the usual clean-up process progressed and transitioned to the 'fresh wash-cloth' stage, another line of thought co-existed.  ''You should shower.  You should shower.  You know you should shower.  It would get everything.  There would be no doubt.  He had his 'Santorum Hands' all over you....  And wasn't that fun.  I's certainly loves me a man thats into the laying on of hands.....  Focus!  You're never going to get it all this way.  Rinse and repeat.  Rinse and repeat.  Shower!  No!  But he had his hands here and there and there.  On your breasts.  On your arms.  On your neck.  Under your knees.....  Both knees!  On your ankles.....  Both ankles!  Woo hoo!  Arrgh!  Thats enough.  Get that drink.''  And upon forcefully throwing the formerly fresh wash-cloth on the floor into the corner formed by the tub base and the wall, the same place the now twice used first wash-cloth lay, and where there was usually a pile of them, she hurriedly de-camped the small bathroom and strode with a purpose, fully nude, to the kitchen area of the large; fromerly functioning as an attached garage, efficiency appartment.

    Satiated and happy and clean and anticipating the complimentary effects of libations she now unconciously and seemlessly transitioned from an active and self-aware inner dialoque to an unusual and intrinsically one-sided conversation-of-sorts with a wholly imagined, ephemeral and formless observer or observers.   This was her wont of late, after particularly enjoyable unions; especially when in an altered state of mind.  As thoughts and memories of recent events occurred or replayed themselves it was as if she was sharing them with the imagined nameless, faceless and voiceless person or persons.  Heedless of the circumstances their judgements always mirrored her own.  Always she felt rather than heard their sentiments of affirmation.

    ''What to wear now?''  She mildly muttered to herself as she sauntered over to the dresser with the already half empty highball in hand.   Soon she stood contemplating her meagre wardrobe which was wholly and neatly contained in the two, now open, left and right bottom drawers of the flimsy particle board six drawer dresser.

    ''The short shorts or the short shorts?''  She thought, with a smile, and sensed the smile of aproval emenating from no particular location.  Her newly favorite shorts; the pair she found lying in the middle of the beach road just after dawn on the last day of Pride, presumed to be sullied, now resided in the dirty cloths hamper.  Smiles all round.  She wasn't in the mood for a bikini bottom and beach wrap or a mini skirt or a lacy nighty or booty shorts or tights.  Finally she chose her old favorite shorts, but these were so very thread bare and impossibly short that to wear them comfortably and to manifest at least a modicum of decorem an under garment would be required to hold up and conceal certain atributes that would otherwise ruin the desired look.  Thus the search for new favorite panties; also a recent and free acquisition, began in earnest.  She wanted them and no other.

    ''Well where in the hell are they?''  She thought, perplexed, after a thorough inventory of both bottom drawers.  She hung her head and closed her eyes and searched her thoughts but could not remember the last time she saw them.  She hated looking for things.  In disbelief she began to swing her head back and forth.  Then, just as she decided to forego a methodical and possibly protracted and agrivating search and opened her eyes, but before she stopped swinging her head, she saw them.  There they were on the floor, in the dark, a few feet away from where she now stood just where she had dropped them in haste a few hours ago.  The early heady moments immediately following the receipt of an invitation, or the receipt of a confirmation of an invitation she herself had made were always a blur of feverish preperations and unmitigated excitement co-mingled with a certain amount of latent fear and aprehension.  She was not at all surprised she had no memory of dropping them there.

    ''Yay......''  She softly uttered as she brought her hands up before her face and began lightly yet rapidly clapping them together in an affected manner.   Her mood, however, had suddenly shifted.  As her hands came together one last time she lowered her head until the bridge of her nose touched her fingertips and she sighed deeply.  ''Perish the thought.''  She reflected, in reference to what she believed was a useless and anathematical practice her current posture might connote.  It was her panties on the floor to her right which concerned her now.  ''The alpha and the omega.''  She thought, with a wry little chuckle.  She lived for this.  When she dropped those panties on the floor hours ago in preperation for the forthcoming rendevous she came alive.  And now the cycle had been completed again.  ''Alone again, naturally.''

    Upon allowing her hands to lifelessly fall to her sides she sighed again, then paused, then seized the drink from the dresser top in front of her and drained it in two gulps and with practised hand banged it back down and said; ''Thank you sir.  May i have another?  You certainly may.  But first things first.  Cover yourself son.''  And with that she whirled to her right and quickly retrieved the symbolic under garment.  As she was turning them right side out the word 'Smile'; with a smiley face dotting the I in the word, that had been screen-printed in purple on the backside of the pink cotton/spandex blend material became noticeable and she dutifully obeyed.   Additionally, as she was pulling the garment on she noticed the tiny and completely superfluous bow that was attached at the front to the purple lace waistband.  Then, all at once, as a concept perhaps, but not in individual words, it occurred to her that 'they' or 'he' or 'she' or whomever it was she sometimes imagined was with her, had yet to see this recent acquisition.  And as she smiled again, at the unmitigated frivolousness of the little bow she felt their immediate approbation.

                           

                        THE END