What can YOU say in six sentences?
“Don’t touch Granny’s play-purties,” my grandmother often admonished, referring to legions of porcelain and plastic pigs, ceramic chickens, rolls of toilet paper over which she’d crocheted some sort of sacred burial shrouds, and gallon milk jugs transformed into black-faced mammy doorstops.
Not that I wanted to.
Climbing the giant magnolia in the front yard and turning…Continue
Jesus has $30.77 in his checking account. I know this because I get his mail.
His last name is printed on the bank statement, but I feel kind of weird sharing that. He uses Wells Fargo, or at least he did when the angels hung out and drank beer on what is now MY front porch.
I really don’t know why he chose this place with it’s poor view, sporadic-at-best cable TV and…Continue
The first time started out nice and easy, fingers and lips exploring unfamiliar topography. Her gates swung open at first touch, but I chose to focus on the intricate and swollen latch.
She straddled and rode me to a rough Ike-and-Tina finish, our moans the harmony over the rhythm of wet and meaty smacking. I’d never brought a woman to such a loud climax, which was alarming until my own burst through like a drowning…Continue
I was awake, watching you through a grate of fine lashes, as you drank me in, smiled and ran a thumb across the generous length of your not-yet-horizontal cock. Seeing it rise from half to almost full mast -- while my own was stabbing the cool linen sheets -- was like seeing time-lapse photography: frame by glorious frame, from beginning to end ... but, please god, don’t let it end.
I pretended to stretch, as much to…Continue
She approaches from behind, sliding her forearms under your breasts, gently lifting them while nuzzling the tender spot behind your ear, lips tugging on baby hairs. As you arch into her, a hand trails down, all the way down, and twirls tight curls until a finger finds the groove and sways from side to side, deftly clearing a path.
You feel her own hair, above and below, on your shoulder and ass, at the same time,…Continue
It was a big canvas, maybe the second painting I’d done with the starter set of acrylics I’d received for my ninth Christmas.
“That’s real nice, son,” he said, “and how much do you want for it?”
Looking down at the floor, flabbergasted by the uncharacteristic praise, I muttered, “Um ... $40?”
“Never mind, then, that’s too…Continue
I molested Pogo in 1973, the year cartoonist Walt Kelly died.
In case you weren’t born or never read the American funny papers back then, Kelly’s Pogo was the Okefenokee Swamp possum whose satirical observations about politics ensured the comic strips’s popularity wasn’t limited to the kiddies (think “Shrek,” only with hair and a red-and-black-striped shirt).…
Green-eyed Randy writes country songs on Post-it notes, the little ones, scribbling away in 10-point block letters at truck stops across North America, yet he’s too shy to sing the lyrics in front of people. I met him at a nudist resort in the Georgia mountains, where shyness is left in rented rooms along with clothes.
It was hard not to stare, and I eventually stopped trying not to. A pastel-yellow square of paper,…Continue
After laying down the last and most difficult 32 words of his comeback hit, the final verse that’s delivered unsung, George Jones reportedly turned to the producer and quipped, “Nobody’s going to buy that morbid sonofabitch,” and then left the studio.
Not only did he lose a $100 bet over how it would be received, but the album also went platinum, and the morbid sonofabitch was country song of the year for 1980. Other…Continue
All the ladies in the darkened cinderblock room became ovulating crucifixes when Don took the microphone, pulled off his Sunday-white ballcap and placed it reverently on a speaker the size of a Frigidaire. With arms outstretched, nailed to the air with cigarettes and beer bottles, they all sought the first man who’d look ’em in the eyes, even the wormy cusses with two left feet.
When the karaoke machine’s familiar…Continue