New stuff...4

Here's some new stuff I've been working on--well, since yesterday. I've been pretty busy with my other writing responsibilities so it's hard to find any time for this project. If you're new, skip down and start with the July 10 posting so you know what the hell's going on...this is a continuation. Remember, the beliefs and actions expressed do not necessarily follow those of Indulge Moderately. Thanks! And again, the fine people at Indulge love to hear feedback.

The Frontier

Great erections rise from the heart of downtown and stand like great columns of industry. Clouds engorge their peaks like labia lips in the air. The sun fights through the clouds with a stream of light blinding the people as they head to work. I see my reflection in the windows downtown but the sun's glare blocks my view causing me to question which side I'm really on.

Women with big heels and larger hair dance to the sound of the commute--black hole-eyes trapping all light from escaping they stop and read the funnies. Homeless men with signs pleading "Everyone Needs a Drink" with the black man's music in the background confessing he sold his soul to speak through the guitar. The business man sits in traffic with greasy hair and a crooked eye yelling "Somebody better be fuckin' dead!"--is what they all say.

Downtown is now only a reflection as I follow one of the six lines leading me away. Old money abandons the poor industrial area leaving mazes of empty buildings and signs of fortunes past. They glare at me like eyeless skulls as I pass them apathetic. Hustlers play on the corners yelling to all known "gotta a pocket full of dope and a fistful of hair--choose your side, brotha's."

I travel west...

The winds moan off the Blackland Prarie like feminine screams of ecstasy misleading the frontiersmen saying, "she had it comin'." Burnt orange sky gives hints of the upcoming dawn. Lines are drawn and divided with the cunning use of signs and wire--10-gallon hats arrive to stake their claim.

Phallus shapes rise in the air as the pelvic gyrations rip through the virgin mother, erupting its seed all over the woman. Industry is grown and people hoard to nurture from its ripe fruit. Farmer's wife stands and smells the stench of burning seed, "She will die for our sins...". We start again.

The vivid dream continues. I appear in a dark room with smoke at my feet as Joey stands nearby. We dance like two MC's to the beat of "Yoshima Battles the Pink Robots." Joey wears a loose tie and a large clock around his neck as I bounce in my Living Fish shirt to the beat.

The spotlight beams on Drake sitting in a throne sipping from a chalice. He stares at me with his discolored eye ever sipping. The blonde and red haired strippers from the club dance at his either side rubbing his torso and never taking us out of their glaze.

I notice out of the corner of my eye man-baby nursing a beer and clutching a cigar in his hand. He looks on at me in gest.

The red-head reaches her hand to caress her inner thigh as her eyes turn violent red as fingers play. She clasps her other hand around Drakes crotch as he snickers and sips. She flings her trinity-tipped-tongue out as it wraps itself around Joey's neck ripping off his clock. Joey follows the tongue back to her mouth and pleads, "but I need more time!"

The blonde wraps her slink torso around Drake's neck and clasps her teeth on a small piece of skin. She rubs his torso then digs into his neck with cat-like nails then purrs in his ear. Blood drips from the side of his neck as he grins and sips. She licks him clean.

The curtains part and the room illuminates as Carolina strolls out with a purpose. She walks toward me wearing nothing but a graveyard tan and a sideways smile never losing my eyes.
She sticks her finger in my mouth and slides her mouth to my ear, "not in front of the baby," she whispers hooking my mouth and turning my back towards the child. Carolina falls to her knees and unzips my pants.

*****

"What's up homo?"

"Nothing. What time is it?" I responded to my cell phone next to the bed.

My dreams are becoming more visceral every day. I've never been much of a dreamer--or should I say I never remember them--but lately they seem to haunt me.

"It's Sunday mornin'," Denny said over the phone, "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm burning--my face feels like it's on fire."

"Suck it up you big pussy, I'm comin' to pick you up--we're goin' to the driving range today. Remember?"

"I'm not sure if I can make it," I responded massaging my forehead.

"I'm in your neighborhood already--two blocks away. Be outside in 15. Later," Denny responded ending the phone call.

***

"Damn, dude! What happened to your face? I thought the softball only hit your eye," Denny questioned from the driver side of his pick-up.

"I'll explain later," I answered throwing my clubs in his bed.

"What'd y'all fags do after the game Friday night, anyway?" he asked as I hopped in the passenger seat in my wrinkled khaki shorts, t-shirt, and backwards baseball cap.

"New truck, huh?" I changed the subject.

"Fuck yeah, broseph. Took it off the lot yesterday. V-8 hemi--probably big enough to fit your little rice-burner in the back," he said slapping my chest.

"Yeah, probably,"

"Roadie?"

"Na, still feel like ass from Friday night," I responded while he cracked a beer driving in my neighborhood.

"Come on ya big pussy--lil' hair of the dog never hurt."

"Alright, twist my arm," I said cracking a beer.

"Hell yeah! What you need is a little Pantera!" he said cranking the volume as the death metal poured out of the cab like the juice from the tobacco he spit from the window.

"Lovely," I said holding my head and feeling the razor-infused- beer cut my throat as it went down.

"Beats the shit out of scrambled eggs, don't it?" Denny said as tobacco spit collected on the soul-patch of his goat-tee and beer dried on the fat-roll crease on his collared, green shirt.

****

"I would've busted-a-cap in his ass," Denny said in disapproval.

Denny still uses the same nineties gangsta rap terminology we used in high school. He's like a walking Smithsonian exhibit for that time period. He curls the edges of his sleeves, wears long, spiraled belts which he ties off, and adorns a swoosh symbol tattoo on his bicep.

"You would've busted-a-cap?" I asked like he was lying. "So you think I should've pulled a gun on some crazy bi-colored eye pimp after he just smacked that woman in public?"

"'Boom-Boom, goes the cannon!'" he sang swerving a finger-gun in the air, "I would've at least laid-the-smack-down on that hoe," he said hitting a perfect shot down the fairway on the driving range.

"Damn it!" I said as my 4-iron shot dribbled five feet. "Even so, it's not like I had a gun anyway."
"Man you should always stay packin'--I got a nine in my glove box right now," Denny said as we heard a 'TTSSHH' after his ball hit the cage on the golf ball collector's cart.

"You have a gun right now?"

"Hell yeah."

"Just in case some angry pimp attacks you on the back-9 because you forgot to yell FOUR?"

"You never know when the shit's gonna go-down."

"Maybe you should get a machine gun in case a gang of angry pimps attacks you."

"Yeah, ya think...you're being a smartass aren't you?"

"Layin' it on pretty thick," I said chuckling.

"Homo. You're a homo," he said shaking his head.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" I yelled in frustration as the ball somehow managed to go backwards.

"BOOYAHH!" he yelled after hitting a solid line drive.

'TTTSSSHHH'

"You're just frustrated," Denny said as we both cracked beers, "You know what you need? A piece-of-ass," he said not giving me a chance to respond.

Denny always talks-a-big-game about having sex with other women like it's a cure-all for our boring lives. He always mentions this when his wife is not around. I honestly think he might--but I don't think any other woman then his mousey wife would have sex with him.

"Dude, come-on. We're both married," I responded.

"Sir? Would you please refrain from trying to hit my golf cart?" the oily-faced teen golf ball chaser asked trying to sound professional, "It's really not funny and those things can really hurt," he stated as his voice slightly cracked.

"Yeah, sure man. No problem," Denny answered nonchalantly.

"They're like these little white torpedoes," the boy added.

"Okay, man. Gottcha." Denny responded. "So whatcha need, Bobby...is a little tuggie," he told me.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"A little tuggie, dude--a little tugg-tugg."

"You mean a hand-job?"

The last time Amy gave me a hand-job my penis looked like a swollen red popsicle. I looked down on the bed as Amy's un-lubed hand violently yanked like she was trying to start a lawnmower while her other hand was flipping channels with the remote. I remember the excruciating pain of the chaffing, pubic hair flying like a visit to the barber shop, and the agonizing frustration of wanting to cum to end this hideous medieval torture.

"Yeah, dude. A tugg-job," he confirmed striking the ball.

'TTTSSSHHH'

"Bastard!" I said hurling a clump of turf with my pitching wedge.

"Yeah, there's this great oriental massage place down on Harry Hines," Denny said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, place is called 'The Happy Hand'," he said slicing a hard grounder.

'TTTSSSHHH'

"Their small hands make my cock look huge," he added.

"Dude, golf boy's really pushing the gas on that cart--he's really movin'," I observed. "Looks like he's comin' for us. What does he want?"

"Aahh, whatever. But you should check this place..."

"He's getting pretty, damn close, man!" I interrupted.

Golf boy was charging at us like General Patton in his tank. He violently slammed over potholes and hills sending golf balls flying like a popcorn machine. He charged on.

"Shit, man grab your stuff! Move!" I yelled.

"No time! My beers!" Denny yelled as we dived away as golf boy plowed into our cooler and side swiped our clubs.

We laid for a moment in the mildewed grass surrounded by exploding beers, broken tees, and mangled clubs. I looked at Denny who had a small piece of turf caught in his goal-tee.

"You're not gonna pop-a-cap are you?" I asked.