He's checking me out as I walk by.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Another of Mine From Dreams of William Shatner
Sorry, monkies. I'm just not writing fan fiction lately. Actually, I'm not writing any fiction, dammit. The only thing I've been able to manage is snarky comments on Gawker and tweets. Read this while I wait for inspiration.
Dreaming of Bill
I'm sitting on the edge of a bed pulling on the cowboy boots that I used to wear with everything back in the early 80's. I realized that my whole outfit's kinda cute--short white prairie skirt, wide red patent leather belt, brown tube top and a lime green grandpa cardigan--and I think, in my dream, "That's so 2008, Urban Outfitters, trailer trash chic and I used to dress like that when I was an undergrad at Cal State Long Beach in 1982".
Anyway.
I look back, and Bill's laying on the bed, naked, watching me get dressed. He is solidly into middle age, just starting to get thick around the waist but still fit and lushly muscular. He'd seemed embarrassed about how hairy his body was until I told him that I liked it and that it reminded me that I was making love to a man and not a boy. I'd also made him take off the ridiculous toupee and was surprised to see that he wasn't bald, but that his hair grew in short wisps on the top of his head. I didn't tell him that he looked better without it. The only thing about his body he seemed proud of was his dick.
And rightly so.
He smiled at me and I rolled my eyes.
"What?" he laughed.
"I told, you man. We're only doing this once," I said.
"I heard you the first time."
"Don't be calling me all the time, trippin' and shit."
"I won't."
"And don't tell Leonard. We kind of have a thing."
"I know."
"Just, you know."
"I'm going to leave my wife," he said.
"Women leave you, honey," I said.
Dreaming of Bill
I'm sitting on the edge of a bed pulling on the cowboy boots that I used to wear with everything back in the early 80's. I realized that my whole outfit's kinda cute--short white prairie skirt, wide red patent leather belt, brown tube top and a lime green grandpa cardigan--and I think, in my dream, "That's so 2008, Urban Outfitters, trailer trash chic and I used to dress like that when I was an undergrad at Cal State Long Beach in 1982".
Anyway.
I look back, and Bill's laying on the bed, naked, watching me get dressed. He is solidly into middle age, just starting to get thick around the waist but still fit and lushly muscular. He'd seemed embarrassed about how hairy his body was until I told him that I liked it and that it reminded me that I was making love to a man and not a boy. I'd also made him take off the ridiculous toupee and was surprised to see that he wasn't bald, but that his hair grew in short wisps on the top of his head. I didn't tell him that he looked better without it. The only thing about his body he seemed proud of was his dick.
And rightly so.
He smiled at me and I rolled my eyes.
"What?" he laughed.
"I told, you man. We're only doing this once," I said.
"I heard you the first time."
"Don't be calling me all the time, trippin' and shit."
"I won't."
"And don't tell Leonard. We kind of have a thing."
"I know."
"Just, you know."
"I'm going to leave my wife," he said.
"Women leave you, honey," I said.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
From Dreams of William Shatner
I wrote this in Nov 2008. Brought over from Dreams of William Shatner:
I dreamt I bought a house across from the Nimoys’ in the hills but didn’t know we were neighbors until Bill hopped out of his Mercedes convertible and rang the bell at their gate. I was working under my 1970 Volvo 1800-E—one of those little sport coupes—but slid out when he drove up. He’d done something to his engine and it rumbled loud enough to rattle the loose chrome on my car.
I stood, wiped my hands on a rag and watched him. He had his TMP hair but his Search for Spock body and he wore brown cords with no belt and a black tee shirt that was loose at the waist but stretched across his chest.
He was also wearing Tevas, but what’re you going to do?
He glanced back at me then did a double-take. I could see his eyes beneath his lashes travel over my bare arms and legs. The Beach Boys sang “Help me, Rhonda” on his radio. He grinned. I nodded at his Mercedes. He said something I couldn’t hear. He reached in his car and turned off the ignition.
Leonard came down his driveway and opened the gate. This was Leonard circa 1967, still slender but getting soft from not having to do night work, starting to drink too much and unhappy with his life. His Spock haircut had grown down to his eyebrows and his hair was full and parted in the breeze without all the pomade. It was a warm evening but he wore a dark v-neck sweater, black slacks and square-toed shoes. I could see the woman who is his wife now watching from a window, drinking a glass of wine. She squinted at Bill then at me and turned away.
I leaned a hip against my car. Leonard lit a cigarette. Bill plucked it from his lips and took a drag. He handed it back and they both started across the street. I laughed and motioned toward the engine block hanging from a hoist over my Volvo. Leonard and I steadied the block while Bill cranked the winch. Bill kept up a steady stream of chatter filled with really bad puns and chuckled at his own jokes while he checked out my ass. Leonard studied me quietly.
We bolted in the engine block, moving around the car, brushing against each other, fronts to backs, backs to fronts. Bill pressed against me briefly, gently, letting me feel his erection. Leonard breathed warmly on the back of my neck and softly stroked a thumb across my nipple reaching around me for a wrench. I could smell Old Spice and Right Guard and Prell, engine grease and the tobacco from the pack of cigarettes in Leonard’s pocket. They circled me, switching places. My dogs started barking in the house. Bill slid his hands up my ribs and squeezed my breasts. Leonard lifted my chin with a knuckle and kissed me deeply and for a long time.
Then my dogs woke me up barking at a catfight in the street.
Miserable mutts.
I dreamt I bought a house across from the Nimoys’ in the hills but didn’t know we were neighbors until Bill hopped out of his Mercedes convertible and rang the bell at their gate. I was working under my 1970 Volvo 1800-E—one of those little sport coupes—but slid out when he drove up. He’d done something to his engine and it rumbled loud enough to rattle the loose chrome on my car.
I stood, wiped my hands on a rag and watched him. He had his TMP hair but his Search for Spock body and he wore brown cords with no belt and a black tee shirt that was loose at the waist but stretched across his chest.
He was also wearing Tevas, but what’re you going to do?
He glanced back at me then did a double-take. I could see his eyes beneath his lashes travel over my bare arms and legs. The Beach Boys sang “Help me, Rhonda” on his radio. He grinned. I nodded at his Mercedes. He said something I couldn’t hear. He reached in his car and turned off the ignition.
Leonard came down his driveway and opened the gate. This was Leonard circa 1967, still slender but getting soft from not having to do night work, starting to drink too much and unhappy with his life. His Spock haircut had grown down to his eyebrows and his hair was full and parted in the breeze without all the pomade. It was a warm evening but he wore a dark v-neck sweater, black slacks and square-toed shoes. I could see the woman who is his wife now watching from a window, drinking a glass of wine. She squinted at Bill then at me and turned away.
I leaned a hip against my car. Leonard lit a cigarette. Bill plucked it from his lips and took a drag. He handed it back and they both started across the street. I laughed and motioned toward the engine block hanging from a hoist over my Volvo. Leonard and I steadied the block while Bill cranked the winch. Bill kept up a steady stream of chatter filled with really bad puns and chuckled at his own jokes while he checked out my ass. Leonard studied me quietly.
We bolted in the engine block, moving around the car, brushing against each other, fronts to backs, backs to fronts. Bill pressed against me briefly, gently, letting me feel his erection. Leonard breathed warmly on the back of my neck and softly stroked a thumb across my nipple reaching around me for a wrench. I could smell Old Spice and Right Guard and Prell, engine grease and the tobacco from the pack of cigarettes in Leonard’s pocket. They circled me, switching places. My dogs started barking in the house. Bill slid his hands up my ribs and squeezed my breasts. Leonard lifted my chin with a knuckle and kissed me deeply and for a long time.
Then my dogs woke me up barking at a catfight in the street.
Miserable mutts.
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