Nothing much doing.    Returned from my last geography class yesterday morning to find every door and window open, Thea vacuuming, and a pleasant surprise waiting on the nightstand:  a bouquet of spring flowers, with a small ballotin of raw chocolate stacked like bars of green hotel soap.    Next to them was a note from my boyfriend proclaiming his love.  "See ya tomorrow!" he added.   Sweet.   Which reminds me, gotta work on his graduation present.   Maya was hiding in the closet.   Wolverine (Donna: "Sounds like her pussy!") left a long encouraging message for Ashleigh on the answering mx.   And, now, off to the library to listen to some tapes I've been putting off all quarter.

It's a beautiful day, but all but totally wasted.   After we stayed up all night watching the late comedy shows, Brett and Maya woke me up at twelve rough housing in bed.   There was a terrible growling and whining, and then a surrealistic red horse head appeared before my sleepy eyes as if out of a carousel dream, only to pop open in a cloud of stuffing as it was fiercely gouged between the eyes.  

"Christ!"   I yelped, rolling over to find Brett making another laughing advance on Maya with the hobby horse.   From the sound of her aggravated vocals, she just hated the thing, and lunged at it so hard the head fell right off the stick.   Then she dove at Brett's hand as if feigning a miss and nipped it.  

"Ow!   You little medwick!"   he cried, shoving her off the bed.

"Watch it!   She's delicate.  You can't just throw her like a cat."

"I heard,"  he murmured, flippantly examining the welts.

"We really freak at horse heads in bed,"  I teased defensively, worried about the dog's future.   "Especially after last weekend.    Don't you know we're Italian, here?"

"Really?"   he breathed, playfully pinning me against the mattress with all his weight.   "I thought we were French."   He gripped both my wrists with one hand and pulled my arms back above my head, holding them down tight and forcing my neck to arch to either side passionately.   Hey.   Gentle rough kisses assaulted my face and neck as his other hand roamed under my gown.  

"My, aren't we--"

My jesting protest was cut off as he covered my mouth again, ending the long, twisting kiss with a quivering tongue thrust.   He rubbed each nipple until they peaked, then lit a flaming trail down my heaving chest to suck one hungrily.   I felt my red hot clit jut guiltily against my snug nylon panties as he rammed his stiff knob between my thighs, saying, "Yield, lady." 

Okay.

He yanked at my lace neckline, ripping my negligee down to my thighs.   "We can dispense with such frippery, for now, Mademoiselle,"   he pronounced like a real knight, tossing my ruined gown and panties to the floor.   "Open."  

I was commanded to lie still, spread my legs wide and keep them down.   I shyly obeyed, wedging my stockinged feet between the edge of the mattress and the cool wood of the footboard.   Then he was inside me, swift and hard as if defeating my maidenhead, then slowly and fervently, like a wood cutter working away at a large tree.   I felt like the dutiful lady of the manor as I silently took each thrust.   After a few minutes he absently let go of my hands, and I held him loosely as we rocked to and fro.   He feels a little badly about this, I thought.    This......rape.    He was sweating, gasping, taking a long time.    At least I knew I was unsure.   The fantasy's rarely like the reality; real players' scripts never match.  There's far too much doubt in the way.    And I was too tired.  

I let out a low, practiced moan, more out of fatigue then insincerity, and he gratefully picked up the pace.   I should've resisted the urge, for I almost went into a true climax as he quickened against my cervix, ejaculating fully into me with several short, deep thrusts.   

By the time we were done, it was almost two, so I didn't demand the favor.   Class ends this week, and it's about time we all submit to the blue book doldrums.   Instead I retreated into the john to reflect and pee, the familiar smell of washed down cum wafting up like pollen on the wind.    The toilet paper was mildly stimulating to my slick lower lips, so I decided to finish myself off anyway with lightening fingers.

I guess it's what comes of shopping sprees and witches' Sabbaths; yesterday we girls accompanied Cokie on a five-hour Wiccan workshop one of the High Priestesses was giving at her large Bohemian beach house in Newport.   The breeze was lively, the music was loud and the tea was hot, and Rubenesque middle-aged ladies were rapidly shedding their silk caftans to pair off behind ornate folding screens and seek their pleasure on one of the many "feather beds" covering the wide hardwood floors.   Tres sinful, indeed, but not for us; hearing a rumor last Fall that the whole house is rigged with hidden video cameras, we wouldn't so much as intercept a reefer (though the "Green Man Cake" was passingly good).   I don't know where Ashleigh was during this time.    

After a light take-out dinner of assorted whole grain finger sandwiches and fresh lemonade, we gathered in the yard, a big overgrown vegetable garden overlooking the sea.  While the fog rolled in and the night cooled down, Wolverine walked from girl to girl, lighting our sweetly scented beeswax candles with hers so we could each practice calling down the moon.   It was neat.   Filled with the spirit, I finally took off my top and tied my batik skirt up at the hip.   Cokie, who along with Chelle had gone sky clad from the outset, volunteered to lead the Harvest Dance later.  Wolverine was very impressed, even more so when Ashleigh claimed she'd been overtaken by the flaring blue light force of an Indian Warrior during the closing meditation.    I didn't dare tell the young Priestess, who was on fire about Ash's joining the coven, that big sis would totally forget her by next weekend, to be off pursuing her next passion, but I would've liked to.  Somewhere along the line she'd really learned the Brentwood sell, even though she never dug L.A., and is only into impressions, not commitments.

I feel like I've adopted a wee baby.   There she is, sound asleep on my own pillow.   My little shadow.   Ever since we brought Maya home, she's never left my side.    When Brett was here and we had to put her on the floor, she crept into one of his shoes.   Quivering little flower.   She's so affectionate!   And she hasn't gnawed up one thing.   I just want to kiss her smelly little face.   (Poor thing has ear mites extreme.)   But "Arrrrrrrrrrrh-arrh-arrh...ACK!"   she complains in her high-pitched vibrato growl.   (Ginger:   "Remember, we're small.  You're not supposed to kiss near the head.   You're big and might eat us.   Kiss means 'eat.'")    No, we won't kiss.    We know you're not used to us yet.  Oh, stinky poo!   We'll get you into shape!

Sunday was the haps.   After getting a tour of the outdoor kennels, we retreated poolside to discover Ashleigh making the rounds.   Yeppers, Big Sis just had to check out the connections upon hearing key words "author," actress," and "architect."   And she was just Marsha's cup of tea.   I was almost dozing off in a solar wave reverie when Coke's fav expression "One hand rubs the other!" snapped me out of it.   Jeezus Sleezus, she's already hyped the lady into a deal.   When shall we ever be rid of her?    

Thank God, the Olson's kept their reserve.   But Jon's old money; he'd rather put up with this horny flip of a girl fooling around all night with his son than her ultra-sophisticated thrill seeker of a sib. 

One of the guests was a horse breeder who just lost his best Thoroughbred stallion and wants to sue his onsite farrier.   Put to pasture three years ago for health problems acquired on the track,  Mogul Mongo II, a descendent of Fakir, was standing stud when doc decided to give him a good run, see if the old guy still had it in him.   He was already exhausted and foaming at the mouth when they led him into the covering shed to do his limit of two mares a day.    A real crowd pleaser, he dutifully did his job with his best girl waiting in the wings to fuel his ardor.   Maybe, with a little assistance from the staff, he could breed just two more.   Mog could handle upwards of seven in his heyday, and a really fussy maiden mare was finally primed and couldn't wait.   He was interested, but breathing hard and unable to mount.   So doc stuck him a good shot in the rear.   It had always worked before, and seemed to be just the boost the old man needed now.   In no time he was up and thrusting away from his ground position at her side, wrapping his lovely arched neck around her withers to steady himself and spewing them with drool.   He never did mount her.   It must've been at the climax when he shuddered and began to go down with a long, agonizing groan.   His big brown eyes seemed to stare off into space as if struck with beatific vision.   Then he gracefully rolled over on his side, his back legs slowly kicking in a cardiac arrest.  From the looks of it all on videotape, the poor dude had bite the dust right on her.   At only fourteen years of age.   It was just too much for him.  

"How can I do that to my ex husband?"  a lady joked.  

"That's Mog II in the picture," the owner said, handing her his photo clip.  "We never show the sire.   Too feisty."   Heinous.     

We had Thai BBQ at seven, followed by the inevitable grilled Sara Lee pound with whipped cream and fresh strawberries in Grand Marnier.   While we relaxed over Long Island iced teas, Marsha passed around some extra goodies she'd cooked up herself:   chocolate truffles, wedges of crisp toffee, almond bark.   She came up to each one of us personally, pointing out our particular treat on the tray.   She must've landed a part for a maid or something.

The night was warm, but overcast with a dusty tinge.   At sunset we all drove up to ____ Field, a private landing strip where Jon got his pilot's license, shared some smoke, and watched the planes landing and taking off with the last slivers of light glinting on their wings.   Then it was back to campus with Maya riding on the floor in her carrier, where we're instructed to put her later should she decide to act out.   So far, so good.   I think I've found a friend.   Something to keep me company during lonely times when my honey's away, I can hear Brett thinking.   Then he laughs.

We might be getting a dog!    A man who bought one of Marsha's chihuahuas gave her back.   He's never around, and she's gotten into some destructive habits like chewing for want of attention.   She should feel right at home with all the traffic we get here.    She's champagne colored, only three years old and spayed.   Real big ears.   A real Taco Bell dog!    Brett and I are driving up the coast tonight.   Since we're having such primo weather, the girls are holding a big BBQ and pool party tomorrow.    We can't wait to see Maya and get to know each other.

SUGARPLUM MUFFINS

With real sugarplums. Now, hush!

2 cups (about 8 oz) cake flour, sifted if lumpy
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup lightly packed pitted prunes, cut into quarters with scissors
2 large eggs
1/4 cup cooled, melted butter or bland vegetable oil
1/2 cup milk (nonfat okay)
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1/2 teaspooon butter flavoring
coarse granulated sugar, for topping

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. and grease (or coat with nonstick cooking spray) 6 Texas-sized muffin cups.  In medium mixing bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.  Stir in prunes, making sure no pieces are stuck together.  Make a well in center of dry ingredients in which to add eggs; beat lightly, then stir in butter, milk, and extracts.  Incorporate dry ingredients, stirring until just combined.  Fill muffin cups with batter 2/3 from the top.  Sprinkle generously with coarse sugar.  Bake until golden brown on the sides and tops are rounded and spring back when lightly pressed, about 25 minutes.  Remove from pans and serve hot with plenty of butter.

We're finally getting a breather from Cokie, after "trying to help her find an apartment down here for a tax write-off" all week, to the detriment of our grades.   Yeppers, Jane Athlete's out bungee cord jumping.   After hearing her past experiences with the sport, we just had to decline the invite, even at her treat.   "Awww, com'on!  Be brave people!"   Not!   No one's moving any back drops so this girl almost hits 'em on the way down!  

No, I'd rather stick to more grounded activities like jogging for the time being.   Ash and I've been running several afternoons a week at the high school track, and I'm always way ahead of her.   It's one of the few feats in which I reign supreme over my sister; just to rub it in, I stretch my legs out as far as possible, affect an upright pose with my hair streaming in the wind, and make like a race horse,  my feet barely touching the ground.    So good.   I can't help it.   I can do three, four miles that way in this weather, while Coke is lucky to huff and puff her way through one.   Poor Sis.   That's what she gets for chronic smoking.   Plus, she has five years on me, not that it should make any difference.    Naw, must be the drinking, too; she always has to wind down at the local bar.   She's certainly not overweight. 

Funny, this morning I had a long dream about us on the expressway all day.   "I thought we'd never get out of the concrete Turkwaz," I said to Ashleigh in the dream.   What in fuck are cement Turkwaz?!?   Freeways, of course!   Silly.  When the alarm went off, she was gone.   All right!   Must've been inspired by our getting low on gas Friday.   Cokie wanted to use a credit card and the station didn't accept any.   Cokie, ever in a hurry, was insistent.   The poor attendent was up in arms at what to do.   He just stood there, wiping his greasey hands on a handiwipe towel as my enterprising sister tried to work out some arrangement.   "Asshole!" she yelled out the window as we breezed away.

So Brett's here and we've got the other bedroom all to ourselves again.   He's been such a doll.   He knows I'm sad about him and won't say.   It's in his fleeting concerned gaze and protective embrace.   A sudden deep respect for my opinion, a quest for my delight.   "Look, Tina, they've got your such-and-such."    Don't cry.   No.   And don't say.   I'm trying.    Screaming silent voices, holding on tight as we fall.   I can hear them when we make love.  Get pregnant!   Now, while you have the chance!   The temptation's strong.

By the way, I'm not Cathy or Jennifer.   People keep asking.

(Is this towMOTTOy enough?)

Paul says to me yesterday after morning class:   "Your sister reminds me of Sandra."   (His brother Bud's spoiled fat princess of a girlfriend who always tries to run everyone around.)

Wanting to hear more, I said, "Why?"

Paul shot me an exaggerated scolding look, tched and said,  "Be-coss."

We both broke out laughing.  Sandra has a slight lisp from childhood she just can't hide when she's upset or onto someone.   A real Because-I-Can chick, "because" is her habitual response to anything she doesn't know or you've no business asking.   It's plain hilarious, and I couldn't wait to do Cokie like Sandra as soon as she walked in  yesterday.  Maybe it's mean with all the speshuls, but I just had to.   For copping Thea's Hello Kitty toothbrush.   For asking if we had a "spare" vibrator for the guest room.   For coming onto Saj at the party as if Donna were an ugly old cow.    For acting like the smoothist chick on Earth, then taking a big grunting crap over the phone and telling me about it.   (Me:  "What are you doing?"  Coke, all cutesylike:  "Poopin.'")   Grosso maxo.

It was right before the evening movie when  Cokie, unable to sit still for more than five minutes, inquired, "You guys want anything at the store?   I'm about to motor."

"Yeah,"  I yelled like a cat-calling construction worker.   "Gimme a missile."   I grinned over at my roomie, spaced out in front of the TV with a wrinkled brow.   "Chel-lee!  Hi-hi-hi!    Ashleigh's going to the store."    Start.

Chelle:   "I wanna tamale."

Coke:   "What kind?"

"A big hot beef one I could stick between my legs.   TWO.   They come frozen."   

Cokie, unlfinchingly, like a substitute high school teacher in a bad neighborhood:  "Thea?"  

Just when we needed her, and talk about feisty!   "Yo askin' MEEH, girl?   Oooh!   I think I'll have one o' thame knockwurst from the deli, oozin' with exter maynaise an' melted cheese.   Hwite cheese.  Anduh pickle, one o' thame beeg warty DEEL one from the glass jar.  Make sure thatsa hweat bun.   Oh, anduh ass cream--"

"Excuse me?"

"Some-ice-cream.   Jamocha almond fudge, one pint.   Thanks, sista.  Um, hmm."

It was Donna's turn.   "I could really dig a meatball sandwich."

Cokie leaned into her leather memo pad, repeating the words as she scibbled.  "Meat-ball sand-wich......"

"With BIG meatballs and lotsa toMAtoe sauce, or you can forget it."

"Yeah, we always demand big balls around here,"  I chimed in oily.

"Shut up you perve!"

Thea:  "I think we're irritating her."

Me:   "No, she's just teasing."   I turned to my sister, busy yanking on her coat and purse to dash out the door.   "Awww.   You're a girl, Ash.   You know how us girls can get when left......unattended to."

"Sure, Tina."

"ASH!  Wait, I've changed my mind."

She hovered in the doorway, pursing her lips in an expression of utter tedium.

"I really want some moanies.   It's too cold for a missile."

"Moanies?  You just made fuckin' macaroni and cheese!"

"Yeah, but not gourmet.   They've got the three-cheese kind there, with gorgonzola."

SLAM.

I should title this "Big Sister Goes To College," even though, after our huge shopping spree and party at Saj's, Coke's been largely off on her own except to touch bases at the house occassionally for a shower or freeway directions.   Last week, not knowing what to do with herself in the middle of the quarter, she accompanied me to several classes "to get a taste of college life."  

"Oh, isn't this exciting!" she exclaimed, rubbing her chilblained hands furiously together as we walked along.  "I'm a regular student now!!!" 

Of course, being Cokie, she has to introduce herself to the prof at the end of the lecture like we're Very Important Persons.   Just like she has to come on to the pimply faced kid behind the pastry counter at the mall--exactly like she did with the hearse driver at Grannie's funeral.   Charming.

I could go into this further until there's nothing left but a shred of her leather coat, but I'm all kissied up with "speshuls."   "Cuz you're my own darling little sister, I have to treat you extra speshuls."    At least, 'til her supply of good feelings runs out.   Thanks to Cokie, I now have two extra ear piercings with solid gold diamond chip studs to match, a new sexy leather thong,  a $40.00 bottle of my fav expensive cologne, and several flavors of gourmet coffee beans to last a month.    Plus all the stuff we're sure she'll forget in her absent-minded way when she leaves.    (Brett put the DVDS just slightly out of the way, to make sure.)   Don't I feel guilty?  Not a chance!   Last time she visited our folks, she took off with all my recipes and Winter clothes I had packed away, including my best Pendleton shirt.  So it's Even Steven.

NO-I'M-NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Explain later.)

I can't believe it!  (But what should I expect?)   Cokie's HERE.   Since Sunday.  

"I had to stop by L.A. to visit some old friends, and wouldn't feel right if I didn't buzz my own little sister," she said, standing in front of the open fridge, sampling this and that, pulling off a big hunk of the artisan French bread she'd bought with her teeth, shaking her well-made up head like a poodle playing tug-o'-war, smacking her lips, eating burnt raisin lipstick like jam.   She's always so fuckin' feasty.   "Mmm.  How are you, baby?"   Suddenly she was behind me, hugging, squeezing, and I was enrobed in her musky scent of cigarette smoke, perspiration, cologne, and something like stale dollar bills.   Like having my nose in her Gucci purse.   "Oooh!   We're so tense.   Relax,"   she purred, kneading my perfectly loose shoulders.   And then, instantly distracted, "Wow, what a place......"    She snapped open Donna's new "Alien" toaster oven and coyly peeked inside the projecting inner cavity as if something more might appear.  

We don't know how she stays so slim.   Must be the super high energy; burns more calories.  

As if reading my mind, she stood over the sink and spewed her toilet water all over the dirty dishes like a professional coffee taster.   "Ugh!   Remind me to get some decent coffee for us later."

I smiled sheepishly.

"Where's that cute guy of yours?"

Why?  Is that what you came for, to split us up, Sexiness?   "I dunno,"   I said flatly, sounding like a sour forty-year-old housewife.   I can never be myself with my sister present.   "Probably out serving the community like all good fraternity boys."   

Since Thea's never around and Donna's over at Saj's place, Chelle and I have been able to entertain in separate bedrooms.   Now that's over; by the time Coke leaves, it'll be midterms.   At least there's one thing I can console myself with:  shopping.   Coke is the very meaning of Big Spender, and likes to treat when she's in a good mood, such as lately.   I'm cutting afternoon class again for lunch out and the mall.   Talk to ya later.