there's a time for telling of tales and a time for letting go: we are here now. i was but a young lass, hardly schooled in the ways of love when impetuous young ivanovich took me in his arms. my will said no but my heart said go, who among us can resist the scent of russian cigarettes mingled midst vladovodstokian musky dusky sweat? i did not then know the word tsunami, but it was upon all my lips.
he led me to my hotel room, hardly pausing as he kicked the door to splinters and carried me above the debris. ivan, i tried to mumble, but all i could say was i want i want i wannt. and he did want me too, as a ravenous hyena does consume the fallen gazelle, he delved into me with a ferocity matched only by the violence of my thrusts. for a moment i worried if his head would lash like a whip, it was as if his skull were appended by a thick strand of virgin alpaca.
speaking to the girls (and really, i ask the men and boys to momentarily step out of this room) may i ask if it's common to come upon impact and thereupon continually if not consistently to come in a rhythmic crescendo reminiscent of ludwig von beethoven? he wrote the ninth symphony upon my gspot.
by the time the kgb burst in our dams too had burst: the penultimate orgasm, the lost behemoth of the big o tribe, was just as my mother had always promised, the fourth of july and may day combined. we were tangled ragdolls savoring the supreme essence of substance never casked nor decanted from oaken depths. our tongues finished at the place whence sauvignon begins. the men's brutal kalashnikovs were laughably flaccid to my eye, i couldv wrung their droopy barrels with my smallest digit.
in a cinematic blink of an i was seated before the american ambassador; an f-16 scrambled for my departure. murmurs of international incident and hasty security counsel verdicts blent with the coriander cologne of my marine escort. he said his name was ian, he was just a mossad proxy. oh but a girl never forgets her first jew.
for the next few days i was under gentle arrest in an east wing suite. ian. bless his heart, did debrief me so gently. the passion of ivanovich did not vanish so much as ebb; i was adrift in a salty sea, gently buoyed up by ian's supplicant hands. when it was time to leave, time to return to the drab dreariness of my box monkey existence, i shed many tears, but he kissed them off my cheeks. he said a woman as glorious as i should never risk dissolving her beauty, i think that's what he said, though he may have spoken of evolving duty.
long long time ago: i still remember when. did you cry for his widowed bride, or faith, youth, so little pride, did you reveal your teary eyes the day, magic got aids? ten years in one place, a generation lost in space, do you remember how we raced, the day, the music died?
Well, that tears it. No more relaxing midnight snacks of absinthe and Butterscotch Krimpets. I wake up with no recall of what I’ve done the night before. Now there’s a big gaping hole where my kitchen used to be, Lloyd is curled up in the bathtub, in the fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably, and apparently I’ve felt compelled to deskeletonize my closet in the strangest of voices. Childrens, let this be a lesson to you all: Do not combine wormwood-based spirits with industrial snackfoods. And for the love of Mike Nelson, be careful where you leave your housekeys.