22
Sep
06

The Public Fisting Of Sen. James

(prose action)
I first met Jennifer Belle after the trial of Senator Anthony James.

It’d been so widly reported exactly what went on in room 442 of the Ocean Side Motel (much to the dismay of Mrs. James,) that when I was sent to by my editor to cover the post trial I wasn’t in need of much prepatory work. I still, however, ended up in the lobby of the Hilton drowning myself with cheap coffee.

The clippings I had were a mass of conformity. I couldn’t read more than three lines before seeing the same words I had seen thousands of times earlier in the stack. Bondage. Sadomasochism. School girls. All of it was so heavy, and it wore on me that the good Senator didn’t have any imagination when it came to sexual depraivity. It was if the Marquis De Sade used up all the good ideas, and all we had left were the scraps the Japanese were tossing us in their never ending quest to come up with new ways of getting off. When did a good, old fashioned sex scandal become so boring?

I felt sick and tired. The adderall I had begun taking to keep me focused was wearing off, and I was 200 miles away from my supplier. My head drifted back to my father saying “Dex, being a writer seems so damned lazy.” I couldn’t help but laugh when I thought about the strain I was going through. It might be easy to write, but getting focused enough to actually work was like voting in American Idol. I mean, really, who gives a shit? Struggling with the notes was proving harder and hard by the moment, as my eyes glazed over and my skull began to pound. Then it struck me that I didn’t have any cigarettes left. This left a deep sense of urgency that, compounded with the lack of sleep and banality of my profession, caused me to “check out” completely.

So, when I let my head wander, and my eyes go their own way, it’s no surprise that I was staring at the lady of the hour herself without realizing it. Talking about how gorgeous she was has no point – the world already knows. But the first time I first truely saw her charcoal hair, or the curves that most sculptors can’t duplicate, I was taken aback. I remember the first time I ever looked at her in person was right after the public fisting of Sen. James.

I also remember that it hurt to look at her.

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Mike Black is…

A writer, reader, commentator, music lover, art lover, futurist, tech lover, pragmatist, romantic, DepDecoist, and a bastard. Hopefully you enjoy.

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