queen-mab
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Aug 14, 2001
- Posts
- 176
OOC
This is a private reminiscence of a rather rocky part of my past, in which I am to be assisted by my newfound friend Turk Rakker. (Yes, I know. I tried to dissuade him from registering under a name like that, but you know these biker types. Stubborn as hell. And am I going to be the one to argue with him? Have you seen the size of his arms?)
We will begin (of course) with my trademark zebra-skin shoes.
IC
Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful; You might as well live.
Dorothy Parker
(In those days I had this pasted on my bedroom door.)
~~
She would not usually have been hitching on the side of the road.
She dug her fingers into the pockets of her leather jacket and looked behind her warily as a set of headlights approached. She was not sure whether she was more afraid that it would be another lowslung car full of shouting vaqueros or the cops.
I look like a God-damned whore, she muttered to herself. And she felt like one too, after finding Karl in the studio restroom wearing a groupie like a belt.
Gravel crunched beneath her zebraskin shoes, and she blinked back a flood of hot tears. I will never, ever, give my heart to a musician again. And if I ever again start to fall for the lure of long hair and bulging jeans, kindly remind me of my last date with a razor-blade. She sniffed, and mentally chastized herself for sounding too much like Dorothy Parker.
She had a way of talking to herself sometimes when she was scared. She called it “Interviewing myself for my memoirs.” Sometimes she thought it might mean she was going crazy. But anything was saner than staying around while Karl disengaged himself from his latest load of slut-meat just long enough to smilingly suggest a threesome in the back of the van.
She paused and yanked on her skintight leather skirt, trying vainly to make it cover the tops of her stockings. No such luck. It still was short enough to send a cross-country trucker into a headlong collision.
“God damn these shoes!” she wailed, and furiously bent over to tear them off.
And it was in this most inviting posture that the onrushing headlamps of the Harley caught her, like an image on film.
This is a private reminiscence of a rather rocky part of my past, in which I am to be assisted by my newfound friend Turk Rakker. (Yes, I know. I tried to dissuade him from registering under a name like that, but you know these biker types. Stubborn as hell. And am I going to be the one to argue with him? Have you seen the size of his arms?)
We will begin (of course) with my trademark zebra-skin shoes.
IC
Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful; You might as well live.
Dorothy Parker
(In those days I had this pasted on my bedroom door.)
~~
She would not usually have been hitching on the side of the road.
She dug her fingers into the pockets of her leather jacket and looked behind her warily as a set of headlights approached. She was not sure whether she was more afraid that it would be another lowslung car full of shouting vaqueros or the cops.
I look like a God-damned whore, she muttered to herself. And she felt like one too, after finding Karl in the studio restroom wearing a groupie like a belt.
Gravel crunched beneath her zebraskin shoes, and she blinked back a flood of hot tears. I will never, ever, give my heart to a musician again. And if I ever again start to fall for the lure of long hair and bulging jeans, kindly remind me of my last date with a razor-blade. She sniffed, and mentally chastized herself for sounding too much like Dorothy Parker.
She had a way of talking to herself sometimes when she was scared. She called it “Interviewing myself for my memoirs.” Sometimes she thought it might mean she was going crazy. But anything was saner than staying around while Karl disengaged himself from his latest load of slut-meat just long enough to smilingly suggest a threesome in the back of the van.
She paused and yanked on her skintight leather skirt, trying vainly to make it cover the tops of her stockings. No such luck. It still was short enough to send a cross-country trucker into a headlong collision.
“God damn these shoes!” she wailed, and furiously bent over to tear them off.
And it was in this most inviting posture that the onrushing headlamps of the Harley caught her, like an image on film.
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