Bad Neighborhoods

Yesterday I awoke bright and early with every expectation of a good day. I had to work, but it was light, and I was leaving early to go out to dinner with my family. Hooray.

Only my tires were slashed. Yep. One tire I'd believe was merely an accident, or a slow leak, or something. But two totally flat tires, both of which were working just fine the day before, and tire-slash-itude is the only explanation. I suppose "slash" may not be the term of art, since they aren't exactly slashed open, but punctured certainly.

So I didn't go anywhere, and by not going anywhere there were hurt feelings and fighting and everything just crashed, burned, had its ashes ground up, put into an urn in the shape of a toilet, and was shit on by a succession of hobos who'd just eaten rat stew. Then it was left to bake in the sun all day, was buried in a shallow grave in the desert, and finally was exhumed by archaeologists who classified it as an artifact from a shittier borough of Babylon and shipped it to a museum in New Jersey where it was accidentally dropped by a man named Steve, who concealed his error by altering the packing slip to indicate that it had never been shipped, then dumped the shards into the bay. Whereupon it was eaten by a whale which got indigestion and died, its body washing ashore on a deserted atoll to be consumed by seagulls and crabs, which as we know will eat anything. Not that I'm bitter.

Oh yeah, and I should point out that I live in a smallish town on a quiet street, not in Compton, so it's not like this is the latest in a crime spree or expected by me in any way. Tire-slashing doesn't happen 'round these parts. I bet it was douchebag drunken college students. They puke on my car sometimes too. I wish I had some mace, just so I could spray them with it when they piss me off. If they try keying my car though, joke's on them because I don't give a shit; my paint is already so scratched it doesn't matter any more. Ha ha, fuckers! Ha! Ha!

I don't usually go into the drama, but this was a bit better than most.

So today, in a borrowed car and only too happy to get out of the house, I went to work, where I was forced to sit and feel so incredibly horny I couldn't stand it while various unavailable people cavorted about trying on sexy clothes. To be honest, the clothes weren't even that sexy, but I was seriously wetting myself. I haven't had a cock in two days, and I don't care about anyone else, that's a long time for me. A long, long time.

There are peasant-style blouses involved. I don't know what it is about a peasant neckline, but with the right pair of breasts, it's sexier than topless, in my humble opinion, which at the moment is colored by raging hormones. The gal who wears this peasant blouse is younger than me but already married with children. I sneak looks down her cleavage as often as I can. It's not a baggy blouse; it's fairly form-fitting. It would look so good as it rose up over her belly, then over her pert young breasts, then over her head and off. It would look terrific on the floor, shall we say.

And then there's the lady who is older than I am but must spend all her free time working out or something because she is gorgeous. She wears these track pants all the time, completely obvious pantie lines from behind. I hate to see her leave, but I love watching her go. Sometimes there's no line, and I wonder if she's being naughty or just wearing a thong. I've never had the guts to ask her. She, too, is married and completely unavailable from everything I've heard.

I was doing a bit of harmless flirting with one of the guys in the play too; he's middle-aged and very sexy (I had written "but still" but I realized that many middle-aged men are extremely sexy, despite what they might think). He said, "I'm old enough to be your father," which is just not true at all, but I let him say it anyway because hell, I'm feeling old and anything I can do to feel younger is fine by me. But he, too, is married. He claims he needs to get back into shape; I think his shape is just fine, thank you. I would do him. I'd let his wife watch. Or join in. I've never met her, but at this point she could be anyone and I'd still let her join in. But he feels fatherly toward me, which is just a turn-on to me, but to him it seems to be the opposite. And anyway, married, and I just don't have the balls to go after married men these days. But I'd do him and his wife and a trained pony and the Swedish women's synchronized swimming team all together in a hot tub filled with Cool Whip. Bring it on!

So pent up. Not sure why I'm writing this. I could be masturbating, violently, over and over again until I'm raw and chafed, until I literally cannot cum again, until all of the water in my body has been converted into pussy juice and spilled on the floor, until all the neurons in my brain are firing at the same time and I've burned "orgasm" out of my vocabulary completely, until friction welds my hand to my nethers in a freakish homage to Johnny Tremaine (oh yeah, I went there). That sounded like a good idea earlier, but now I'm just tired and annoyed and horny. I don't want to do it myself. I want someone else to do it, damn it. Is that so much to ask?