Date:  July 17th, 2004       Time: It’s fxcking’ dark out.

    I’m writing this from a booth at the sophisticated Twain’s all night diner in the Valley where the hash-browns and gravy are nirvana but only if you order them after 1am.
I like it at Twain’s because in order to be hired there you have to have the most amazing face in the world.  Also: in Twain’s, at 2am or 3, someone always looks me in the eye as if I’m the sexiest guy living.  It stops my heart when it happens.  Usually the woman has been lost in the eyes of the actual guy she’s drinking coffee with and her gaze drifts and lands on me.  So it’s secondary affection at best but I take what I can get in this world.

     I went to a party this evening.  You ever go to a party where you know only one person and even that person is gonna need your nametag clearly visible?  I thought it was gonna be a party like that.  Everyone at this gathering had the unique distinction of being either a provider or a man who respects providers.

     So this is Nettie’s 2nd annual TER party.  Frankly, I was expecting NetMichelle juggling frozen pizzas trying to single-handedly entertain 10 bloated old southern gentlemen who looked like Colonel Saunders.  But it wasn’t like that.
I arrived to my Nettie.  She had just moved from the little space down the hall to this bigger space.  Her bleached locks have been cropped (but not so much that you don’t have something to grab on to during oral sex.)  She was wearing a mini skirty kinda Venice Beach casual-chic thing.  Once during the evening she reached over from a sitting position to grab a beer and either she wasn’t wearing any panties or they had worked their way, irretrievably, into Nina Simone never to be seen again.

     She gave me a hug and said, “It’s nice to meet you”.  Well that’s an awkward opening statement considering I slept with her a month ago.  I should’ve anticipated her not recognizing me right away but I forgot.  Totally my fault.  I shoulda taken off the cap and been ready to blurt out “Hi, I’m Jockeypants, we met about a month ago at your vagina.”  She told me to come in and introduce myself to the gang and I did.  “I’m Jockeypants” and the three other guys shook my hand.  She made out a nametag for me and as she put it on she gently said, “It’s so good to see you again!” officially negating the “nice to meet you”-thing, which I accepted with relief and a special understanding of this remarkable woman:  Michelle’s my friend because of who I am in my head, not my rather ordinary mortal coil.  She’s literally spent more time with the “actual-me”, reading my stuff off the computer, than with the “physical-me” in our one session.  She knows me better than some that call me friend and she likes me more too.  It’s actually the same relationship that you, the person reading this, has with me.  Believe me, I’m prettier on the page.  But it’s a Cyrano thing.  I’ll sure as shit be Cyrano if Nettie’s my Roxane.  And when I can afford it I get to be Christian de Neuvillette too!  Nice set up, actually.  (Until I can afford the repeat visits I’m doomed to the mists of the memory.)
     It was sweetly shocking to me, in a related issue, how similar all the gentlemen at the party looked to me.  They were actually quite similar in style and build and were all pretty cool dudes.  How so many guys can have the exact same look of kindness in their eyes has to be the result of something.  We should get Jane Goodall in here to conduct a survey.  Maybe the U.S. Post Office should use Nettie’s screening process over the shoot-‘em-up test they give now.  I promised to make us all sound erudite and good looking so here it goes:
    A manly burly fellow looking like Pierce Brosdan in casual wear introduced himself as “FreedomFighter”.  His delightful enthusiasm and frank wit made me like him immediately.  Quiet in the alcove was CAGuy69 who looked like Walker Texas Ranger, tough, handsome and ready to kick the shit out of evildoers.  I met Stumpy who is Harrison Ford’s body double and was a kind, mild fellow with wisdom hanging off him like mistletoe.  Stumpy is obviously catnip for the ladies.  I looked more like Roy Clark from “Hee Haw” but that was more of an unfortunate wardrobe choice than anything else.  What makes a party like this exciting is twofold:  First, that even though everyone is talking about the usual shit and has the usual calm demeanor we all know for certain that we’ve all had jungle sex recently and will again soon; And maybe with each other.  Secondly, that the odds are much higher at a party like this that someone gets in to putting handcuffs on you and spanking your bottom with a box of pasta.

     Freedom was on his cell guiding a woman into a parking location.  CAGuy and I talked with Nettie while Stumpy nibbled on a Dorito, admiring the beach at night.
I asked Nettie if I could see the new color that had been added to her tattoo and she said it was a “scratch and sniff” piece of art.  (I did.  Nice smell.)  Then the lady that Freedom had been guiding came up.  Anya.  She could’ve been Nettie’s sister.  Down to Earth.  No bull shit. Funny.  Seemed preoccupied.  She needed to leave early for a date but she stuck in my head for her no nonsense class and brains.  I wanted to be the date she was headed too.  (She’s got a review on TER and nice photos on her site.) So it’s Anya and Nettie and the boys.  Just when you thought this was gonna turn into a two girl pizza juggling affair the re-enforcements arrived.

     Brooke Butler (newly located in Long Beach from Atlanta) came in with Kylie of San Diego.  Kylie and I had introduced ourselves in the chat lounge just a few days prior so we recognized each other’s names.  What a sweet Anglophile she is.  She has a tight sexy bod and a flirty California girl tone with hair that continually looks like she’s in the act of a massive sexual encounter.
Brooke was dressed to kill in a form fitting casual Lucy Carmichael dress.  She was like a sleek Magnolia blossom, full, sensuous and warm with every black hair in place and those eyes of lightness.  She showed me a photo of her sweet boy.  He’s seven and drop dead cute.  Nettie wanted to bed the boy when he got older and Brooke gave her a dirty look.  But then Brooke pulled up her dress and bent over to show us her new tattoo on the small of her back.  Ooops.  No panties.  Okay.  I wanna date Brooke too.  And Kylie.  

     Then I talked with Lauren who lives near Nettie in Venice Beach.  Lauren was….  Ummm…she was…how can I?….  (Okay.  I’m hot for Lauren.  Fine.  I said it in front of God and everyone.)  She’s got that whole Scandinavian Goddess via Texas thing going.  She’s a diver and who knows what other forms of exercise she partakes in to look so foxy.  She had twinkle and intelligence and a way with words  (I particularly enjoyed watching her face brighten when she said the words: “Pee Wee Herman”.)  I must find her website as soon as I get to a computer again.  (I did, I finally found the right Lauren.)
  (continued in next thread...part 2)


-- Modified on 7/19/2004 2:19:48 PM