Nov 5, 2016

Balloon-dog shorts --- This is heaven --- Teaser (15)

"Balloon dog" -- Jeff Koons. Picture by Jason Yoon

(This teaser is completely out of sequence, but we found these pictures  that we need to share. This is Chapter 33 in its entirety. Them boys---John, Alex, Maurice---had a very rough day, and they finally repaired to Godehart's quarters, assistant DA Trevor Howard in tow. Enjoy:)

John, why couldn’t you, at the end of a page-turning, adverb-filled day of unparalleled heat levels---why couldn’t you just down the third ‘fortification’ Godehart (“call me Gohard”) was handing you and chuck your dirty shorts one more time and let the sex slave fix the Magic-Mike collar around your neck (I’ll explain later)---in view of the advanced hour we’ll keep the strip-tease to a minimum---shed your drawers to the dutiful applause of the sex-starved men on Gohard’s lustlager---and now the typical complication of a hinterland orgy, the sex slave refitting us with lime-green boxers of glossy balloon-dog material, more foil than cloth---balloon-dog bulges reverberating in the starry ceiling lights---Alex downing yet another flute offered by the lady of the house (half the bubbly spilled)---Alex putting in a belly dance to a tango from Gohard’s Bose box (tango?)---the tune shifting to slithering, quartertone harem-rock (Paint it Black)---Alex taking the hint and taking me from behind (clean good fun)---Alex dry-humping with the tipsy elegance of a pubescent raptor (or cobra, or alpha-pup)---whispering to my ear (“are you ready to ditch me?”)---adding (Alex) that he couldn’t do this after four cum-episodes unless people were watching---(four?)---the sound shifting gear again---Alex testing the waistband of my balloon dogs (“snap”)---Alex briefly on his knees, testing my balloon-dog-bulge with his lips (I hate this)---Trevor stroking Gohard, Gohard stroking Trevor---more of this---Gohard going down on Trevor, cool---we’ll be left to our own devices here on the dance floor---and now Maurice’s getting into the act---clapping me off and taking Alex’s arm---tango again for a misleading moment---Maurice’s glandular needs bursting forward (I skip the details)---balloon dogs shed---inches inching forward---harem rock resuming (quarter tones composed by Muslim Obama)---I’m standing there, transfixed in inner space, wondering needlessly how Alex will pull it off---Maurice grunting---Alex grunting needlessly---Trevor grunting, Gohard grunting, the sex slave grunting serving condoms, needlessly---the infallible stir of a climax in the making (“Yeah, fuck”)---and I retrieve my dirty shorts and grab my dick and put it back into my shorts and run away.

Forgot the name of the movie, she-devil Roxanne departing from Gohard’s suburban mansion with a question mark on her face---fireworks grunting behind the curtains, the garage door bursting, the main door, the porch, the entire structure going up in flames and through the roof, Roxanne still ambling away and grinning like Lolita. I’m not making this up even though I don’t feel like grinning, not at all.

I have been stumbling through the streets of nightly Georgia Beach with enough time on my hand for a few panic attacks. Now I have another one. This fit is so bad---I find myself sitting on the pavement, legs stretched out like a bum on 24th Street in the Mission District, San Francisco, impeding the pedestrian traffic that is striding past the Neighborhood Eatery where they serve Cilantro and harem rock to Alex.

An eternity later I’m back on my feet. I should go home now. I’m shortcutting through the ghetto, walking along the canal, underpacing the bridge, and the outline of the condo comes into view against the nocturnal sky. Not a single light is on.

I still have the keys to Alex’s place. And I could walk there, thirty more minutes of night air would do me good. And I could wait there, and when he comes home we could talk. About what? We’ve talked enough, didn’t we? But not about Juliette, or Romeo, or Maurice, or Alice, or all the other people with whom he could fall in love.

(Along those lines. Needs work, this sort of thinking, but if you’ve ever fallen in love you know what I mean.)

So I’m staggering up the ramp and trot along Route One, turn on Miller Road, then on Airport Road, until I hit Landing Road. His Prius is nowhere to be seen, hinterland orgies take forever. The lonely dog that always barks barks. I fumble with the keys, climb the stairs, enter his rooms, activate the A/C (yes, he did fix it) and recline on the single twin-bed. I cannot sleep. It’s too hot and too cold. And we still haven’t talked about the sex slave.

Are you still there? Then you may like the GREEN EYES. The first part is out, available as Kindle book on Amazon, under this link:

Night Owl Reviews

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