May 15, 2004

• Taking time out to catch y’all up on the news as I sit on the balmy screen porch with Thea’s laptop, listening to the freeway zip between the thick stand of eucalyptus trees beyond.    Basically everybod’s working on their final projects.   I finally got the courage one day out of the blue to walk proudly into ____ Hall and formally declare my major:   Mass Communications.    I think it covers just about all my interests, from journalism to advertising.   Cokie’s just about gone.   (She always leaves gradually, like the last vestiges of Winter.)   Brett’s still out of school and having as much fun as humanly possible with the old gang before the summer.   Tonight we’re heading down to Javier’s again for a small dinner party with the guys and their girlfriends, maybe shoot some pool downtown afterwards.   Melissa’s pregnant and will probably marry Taylor soon.   They’ve (‘cept Mellie, of course) been riding high on the Absinthe craze, making their own bootleg version of “The Green Fairy” and selling it around for $5.00 a 6-ounce bottle.   They keep pressuring me to try it (Javier:  “It’s just the thing to get you divinely inspired, Tina!   Why not join the ranks of your fellow authors and dive in?”), but I don’t want to get addicted to anything that murderous to your liver.

  
  

  It’s been just like new love all week with the boy and I helping out at Mr. Olson’s latest remodeling job, a nouveau Mission-style home for sale in Beverly.   Nobody’s being able to foot the four mil asking price, the owners cleared out last month for Europe so the construction crew could install the must-haves:   a new granite kitchen, marble bath, and bell-shaped fireplace for the family room.    The wife is a prominent plastic surgeon and left a real skull down in the basement.   Every time we stop by after hours to make use of the accommodations, we discover Mr. Olson’s moved it to a different location, like the oven or dumbwaiter; you never know where it’s going to loom its creepy head next.  He’s got it on a serving tray for effect.   It’s uber spooky, and naturally designed to scare some decent morals into us–especially approaching the steep circular drive with only a couple dim lights shining through the gray glass stairwell windows and all the furniture draped in ghostly white–but only serves to fuel our ardor as we cling to each other for safety, more out of fear of intruders than the vengeful dead.

  
  

  We even follow each other into the john, which has resulted in quite a few ultra erotic experiences.   I stepped out of the luxurious steam shower last night to find my love perched nude on the commode, his honey tan skin gleaming like soft leather against the white plush seat cover.   A huge hard-on twitched high against his tight belly.   As my eyes fixed upon it, he grasped it firmly at the base and ran his hand up to the tip, squeezing out a bead of clear fluid.    My womanness started pulsing as I longed to take him inside me and feel our hot juices marry into a magic liqueur of our own. 

  
  

  “Sit on it,” Brett commanded softly, taking me by the shoulders.

  
  

  I gladly obeyed and straddled him, his lips grazing my breasts.    The commode being the perfect height for a steady foothold as well as the ideal penetration, I was able slide slowly up and down, up and down his slick warm pole until we both gasped in a simultaneous climax.   Thursday he had me on the kitchen island.  It’s been totally radical.

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