Prob'ly

The problem is that I fall in love too easily.
And I pine.
And I imagine.
And have weird standards.
And am easily disillusioned.
And can be, I’m told, difficult.
Just caught myself again.
Like her though.
Blue-green eyes.
Very sexy.
Fun.
Hip.
Gets me.
I think.
Said she misses me.
Hadn’t spoke to her since that night.
Gave her a call.
Just one.
All I ever give.
She didn’t return it.
We’re to meet for drinks.
Prob’ly smoke one too.
And I imagine all these possibilities.
But how can she be that woman?
That I created in my own mind?
Better that she’s not.
Better that she’s somethin’ else I could never have imagined.
No doubt she is.
Hmmm.
The problem is that I fall in love too easily.
What to do with this?
A love letter she’ll never see.
Prob’ly.

-iSenseChange

Soul of a Woman

Enough ranting. Sleep takes hold again, enslavement to the corporeal form overpowers the hulking need to say something, to make some semblence of sense of everything that has gone on and is going on. All of a sudden I'm in a pool at some great big, swanky party, a massive band playing 'the Marriage of Figaro.' I look around.

Total absence of color. Black and white like some old movie. How did I get here? Who are all these people? Judging by their dress I am amidst the upper crust, but the feeling I have is that I am not here for social purposes.

I'm chatting with a large house cat who seems to have no issues with water, pools or swanky parties and I'm trying to get some kind of information from it, the details of which float just beyond my consciousness. Ginger, from Gilligan's Island floats in, her bounteous boobs gloriously bouyant. She sidles up to me, passes me a martini and gives me a little snuggle. That's it: I'm Bond. Nice. I could just have easily become Gary Coleman.

"You're some kind of detective, right?"

"Some kind," I respond, and for the purpose of the dream, become.

"Maybe you can help me, protect me?" She presses her grand peaches up against my chest and I nuzzle her neck, inhaling a delicious scent that I can't quite place. What is that scent?

"You just stick close, baby," I respond, "I'll take care of you." I take a sip from my drink and put my arms around her waist, picking her up a little and she squeals with delight. "You gotta name, or should I just call you Serendipity?"

"I'm Ginger!"

"Of course you are." So smooth, Mr. Bond! "Heh, heh."

"You know, Gilligan's Island?"

"Sure!" I don't care whose island it is. It ain't about "Gilligan's Island" at all at this point, it's all about "Ginger's Peaches" and I'm looking to co-star as soon as possible. Fuck Gilligan, it's MY fucking island. That scent again. What the hell is it? Maybe it's actual ginger I smell and this spicy tiger has the smarts to link the name and perfume. But it's not ginger, is it...no. Somewhere in the distance, a warning claxon goes off, just once.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" she coos at me, tracing a finger down my chest.

"Nothing," I respond as the oversized housecat floats languidly by again, a sly look on its face.

It whispers at me casually, with a wink: "Beware the smart ones," it mews, "nothin but pain..." I splash some water at it, it hisses and paddles off.

"So, what's your concern, Miss Ginger?" I ask her and place a warm kiss right between her bikinied breasts. Another sip of the martini and it seems I'm getting a little dizzy. I'm pretty good at holding my liquor and damn near bullet-proof at it when a dame's in the picture. A warning claxon again, louder this time, longer. The music is changing, another tune, a strange one for an orchestra to play and like that smell I can't quite place the song, though I'm certain it hovers just barely beyond the range of my consciousness.

"It seems," Ginger says, "that my husband has some asshole poking around his concerns."

"Well, if you're one of those concerns, he could hardly blame a fella for wanting to poke around a little." As smooth as can be expected given that I'm barely able to stand anymore. It's no longer so much a sensual embrace as it is me clinging to her for my very survival. Her laugh is shrill as she escapes my grasp and saunters away, her deep eyes still staring into my being over her shoulder.

The music is overbearingly loud and the tune comes to me, it's some impossibly strange version of a Zeppelin tune, my own drugged up mind supplying Plant's lyrics:

"Been Dazed and Confused for so long it's not true.
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.
Lots of people talk and few of them know,
soul of a woman was created below."

With the recognization of the tune my lazy mind finally synthesizes the situation: I'm not smelling ginger or even Ginger, it's almonds. Ginger, that fucking whore, has poisoned me.

"Hey, shit, dude!" I spurt at that damned oversized housecat I'd been chatting with, "you gotta help me! Call the cops! Call the Skipper, would ya! Call somebody, shit, I've been poisoned!"

The cat just laughs at me as I slip under the surface of the water and the last thing I hear before resting on the floor of the pool -I'll just rest for a second, just closing my eyes, really- is that cat's laughing mewl:

"I warned you about the smart ones!"

I wake up gasping for air on the floor of my living room and give my head a shake. Reality takes a beating again as I can still hear that crazy, tripped-out version of 'Dazed and Confused' in my mind in tandem with the real version that's playing on my alarm clock.

A hum-dinger, that one. I fire up a coffee and think about that dream, and, being an arm-chair dream analyst, I come up with what I come up with.

-iSenseChange

Chilled Scotch and a Cocktail Dress

(with all apologies to my Muse, you know who you are.)

You and I go cruising for for our sexy little servant, a servant to our every need and desire that we can boot out into the night once we’re satiated. I’m in some expensive threads, you have the kind of black little cocktail dress that always gets you noticed by both men and women. Alone we’re each something to behold. Together we are a force. People look at us like we’re something different, something more. And we are.

We have our pick of the room and we know it. I leave the choice to you. It doesn’t matter to me, what matters to me is that the chemistry is right for you. And her. And I know that your taste will please me. It always does. You do not disappoint. She joins us for a drink. We flirt. The whole room gets hotter as all three realize it’s on. The two of you are off to the ladies room, I wait, a fine scotch in my hands.

Once inside the washroom, you push her up against the stall, pull her hair at the nape of her neck, your hand between her legs. You know where to touch and how to touch her. You’re both breathing heavy. You whisper her the deal as you finger her Klit with one hand, now pulling lightly on the g-string from the back with your other: she is to be for our amusement. She is to do whatever you or I say. And when we tell her to leave she is to do so. It is agreed. She will do anything we say, wants nothing more than to please us. You could rub her off right there, give her a quick and harsh orgasm right there in the bathroom but you stop short. You tell her we must return, that I don’t like to be kept waiting. And it’s true.

You return to the table and I’m speaking with another girl that I shoo away like a fly as you approach. You sit beside me, she sits across from us. I open my mouth and you insert the finger that had recently been inside her. She knows we have discussed the whole thing before. I taste her Kunt on your finger and approve. So we go.

-iSC