toxicating.com

Well, after a year away from any type of writing or reading (except for work-related froth), I think I’ve lost any knack for story telling I may had had in the distant past. My weekdays have been hijacked by the banality of the fast-paced, panic-driven, supercilious and, above all, meaningless investment “management” world. No room for creativity, illusion, nor pleasure Monday to Friday. Nor Sunday given its proximity to Monday. There is only Friday night and Saturday to look forward to; and this will not change.

Deane has made us an agenda for this coming Saturday. February 7, 2009; remember the date. We’ll go to a spa somewhere in Westlake Village for a couples massage, then a romantic dinner I don’t know where in the valley, after dinner, we’ll visit a strip club and have a couple of lap dances (I love seeing her get excited touching and being touched by those girls), and finally back to her place for a good two or three hours of love making. She is not the typical girlfriend, I may say, and I love her for it.

This morning, I was picturing the sequence of events and I was stuck in the couples massage matter. I understood that this is a refined spa and nothing sexual is involved, however, it could be sensual, couldn’t it? I asked Deane if the masseuses would be wearing bikinis or underwear, and she said of course not, are you nuts? Then I asked how long would the session last. Fifty minutes. So, Deane will be lying next to me, she and I naked, and then the two masseuses (both female) wearing masseuse clothes, not lingerie nor bikinis. For some reason I feel pressured to talk and entertain them for the full fifty minutes.

I joined a novel writing class this January. I just wanted to write about my life; the stuff that happens that I cannot tell to people without sounding odd. I didn’t want to write a dystopian post apocalyptic novel as my classmates did. No, just humble reality.

The class is still going, we meet once a week, the instructor gives us homework. The assignment last week was to turn in the first page of our story, double spaced. I was happy because I had only written the first page; scribbling is arduous for me.

The instructor read my first page to the class, it felt awkward to hear my words spoken by someone else, but I liked it. Yes I did. She asked the class what the name of the main character was.

“Asshole?”, someone muttered from the end of the table.
“Jerk?”, another girl grunted.

I had to say something.

“Hey, this character is a person, is a man who has feelings; indeed more sensitive than any of you”, I defended.

“Sure”, the girl said.

I looked at them all.

“It’s just fiction!”, I sniveled.

Deane’s son is 10. I am always uneasy around children; they have their own set of rules and one never knows what’s coming out of their mouths. But he likes me, I am mom’s cool friend.

He has a PS2 at Deane’s and a PS3 at his dad’s. When he isn’t around, I play this car racing game, Need for Speed. I want to be a great mad driver, so I don’t lose my coolness. Plus, my VW GTI is in the game, it’s awesome!

Last Saturday I wanted to show off my skills, we turned on the PS2 and started browsing through the Lamborghinis and Porsches and then I stopped at my Volkswagen, pressed “select” .

“What are you doing!”, he yelled.
“What?”, I asked, but I knew.
“That car sucks!”, he declared maniacally. Then he looked at me and saw something.
“That’s the car you drive, right?”, he said, his tone had turned meek.