the lamps come on in pervert park.

by dorarandom

damn girl

my incredibly sexy grandmother. (on the left….in case it isn’t obvious…)

it’s been almost a week since i talked to you, my imaginary.

it has been eventful. a little more scrounging at my mother’s house—though i went out there to sort through my own books—and on a whim she turned over two big disintegrating cardboard boxes of “family photos” to me. since-you-like-that-kind-of-thing. so i have been reveling in those. reading up on types of tintypes and tintype preservation. communing with my ancestors—an alarming number of whom were saloon-keepers. the men and the women both.

i went out with a new internet man on saturday. i suspended my account out of shame and chagrin and disgust and sackcloth-and-ashes after my encounter with Mr. Unfortunately Repulsive. for about a month. then i realized that i still had to pay for the account anyway, so it was dumb not to get back on that horse. enter new internet man: not old. not short. (in fact, tall.) not uncute, not uncharming. took to me to some cool places. lives in a house (which is his house) surrounded by piles of all kinds of media, guitars, and bachelor toys*. and he gave me a pair of table lamps. i like him.

and i think / rather- fear that he really likes me—but whatever. i don’t have to worry about that today. i know he is really really doubleplus hot for me. hey, what can i say, the sexiness, it overwhelms. i do have big breasts. a lineage of great sexiness. the girl can’t help it. my new internet man wanted to have his way with me on the bar, in the alley, whilst driving, anywhere everywhere as soon as possible.

which makes him sound like a sleazy gross person, which he isn’t. we had plenty of conversation. a propos of something, he mentioned that he is scheduled for a surgical procedure next week—the first of four or five—to correct bad surgery he had as a newborn. apparently it was bad-to-the-point-of-being-botched and has thus caused him all kinds of problems all his life—but only recently did he see a doctor who figured this out. ‘and now this is finally going to be fixed! why did it take so long for someone to figure it out? i was suffering—needlessly!—for so many years!—why?’ ‘you know—weirdly i know exactly how you feel.’

to elide a bit—yesterday morning i got into tentative detail about my affliction—the treatment—tentative, tentative, terribly polite—and he was genuinely interested so i went into greater detail—trying not to disgust—or depress—but he was asking all about my regimen—but. this was because. as it turned out. he was turned on. man, especially when i told him i had to keep a daily log! all happy starry-eyed like he was discovering a fetish he never knew he had. (‘no, really. it’s really weird. you don’t want to hear about this.’ ‘you don’t know that! you don’t know my kinks.’) and when i told him i’d given all my dilators names…well. he wants to come over to my place tonight so i can introduce him to the gang. well okay.

how about we…dilate. it seems a little bizarre. but i’ll take it! i am going to call him Gift Horse.


* like kiss action figures and shit like that.