I don’t know what it is about the clues she’s left for me but Emma Bond has been the melted wax in my chest hair for a few months now.  I find hard puddles of her on me in the morning.  She’s waterproof in the shower.  No matter how hard I work at pulling her waxy spirit off my body I always find a fleck of her hiding on the far side of a nipple.
And just when I think I’ve gotten every piece of her humor and lusty imagination off my brain I go to bed to discover I need to sweep the bits of her off the sheets.
    I remember the first moment she entered my consciousness off the Discussion Board.  She said something simple, sexy and straightforward, as usual, in response to CiCi’s inquiry about whether or not guys wanted a lady’s hair up or down at the beginning of a date.  Emma said, “…Though I’m at a loss to know how one could shag with any enthusiasm and not mess up the ‘do’.”
I did a search and found her site.  I sweated over her talk of role-play and fantasy.  Definitely a brain I could engage with.  Great humor.  No photos of her face at the time but the visuals were striking.  (Leave it to a shrubby looking fella to state he’s not one to worry much about the physical when the lady seems to know the way into my little box of intellectual lust.  The fact that she’s hot is just gravy.  (The fact that I’m not so hot is just meatloaf.  But I like meatloaf and I digress.)
    That nite I go to Emma world:
She greets me at the door of her “Shag-Van”.  We’re on the top of that rock that Meryl Streep kept running around yelling; “A dingo stole my baby!”  How the hell we got up there, I don’t know but this is my world and welcome to it.
Emma’s wearing khaki outback clothes like she’s a big game hunter in “Out of Africa”.  Maybe my head is mixing Meryl metaphors but remember, I haven’t seen Emma’s pretty face at this point so that’s what she gets for teasing me for so long.
    Now I’m a pretty oral guy.  I wanna kiss, nibble and suck any exposed parts of Emma’s person but she pushes me into the “Shag-Van” and it’s quite a place.  Damn roomy.  Mahogany and silk.  Toys were hooked on the wall.  She pulls out some heavy-duty handcuffs and chains me to the ceiling of the van.  She draws her machete and cuts off my clothes and feasts on my lips.  And then my neck.  And then, of course, my nips.  (Sorry to bore you again with my “One True Thing” but she bites Abe & Oskar long and hard!)   She tears open her shirt, leaving her gun sling on, a leather strap over her shoulder and between her breasts.  She feeds her breasts to me and is generously toying with Little Sampson.  Then she feeds me her body, inch by inch.  It’s awfully nice of her.  I’m kissing as the flesh passes me by.  She puts her breasts in my cuffed hands and pushes my mouth onto her clit.  Well, okay then!  Then she turns and guides her bum onto my tongue.  I rim and she’s doing some freaky calisthenics to get her mouth around Little Sampson.  She’s obviously been working extensively with Richard Simmons videos or has morphed into some perverse R. Crumb comic.
    I hear a woman shrieking from way down below: “A dingo ate my baby!”  But it’s not the voice of Meryl Streep…it’s the voice of Diana Rigg and I can tell that she’s referring to ME.  I’m Diana Rigg’s baby and that makes Emma the dingo.  We ignore her.
We do some anal and she uncuffs me for a bit of AUCG.  (My new acronym for something called Australian Cowgirl, which is regular cowgirl, but with long nipple biting and licking while she hums “Waltzing Matilda”)   She has me finish in her mouth so we can do a luscious AUSB (Australian Snowball, which is too sensitive to discuss in this forum.)
    Emma Bond.  “Emma” as in Emma Peel, action-packed, super-sleuth.  And “Bond” as in Teresa Di Vicenzo Bond,  James’ only true love and dearly departed wife.  (The dark grief on 007’s soul.)  Gee, I think Diana Rigg was attached to those projects.  Hmmmmm.
    Now, Australia’s a continent, right?  It’s not one of those neighborhoods near Pasadena?  The utter impossibility of being able to meet Emma hit me hard.  I got those low quirky butterflies in my stomach when I thought of it.  I staggered down Melrose Ave. wearing a black armband.
    I thought, “When my ship comes in I’ll sail it ‘round the horn, ‘round the world, and chug into Sydney Harbor and call out her name.”  But until then the CEO’s and Presidents of small countries will have to go on without me and speak in low, respectful tones when they return to write her down.
    Damn the Internet.  And damn Al Gore for inventing it.  ‘Cause there’s Emma on the discussion board.  Forbidden vixen.  There she is in the Chat Lounge.  Unattainable star.
But what’s this?  What’s that she just typed?  She’s coming to America?  Not Latin America but MY America!  Holy shit!  I…umm…if…that…means…er…ah…I wonder…if I…   Holy Shit!!
    I may need to roll a few drunks by the pier,  I may need to sell my plasma, I may even need to have a yard sale;  But only a small child on a tricycle will stop me from running every red light to meet my forbidden fantasy lady.  My ship seems to be sailing to uncharted bliss on auto-sail to heal my tattered mind and fuzzy body.
Where the hell is a postage stamp when you need one?  I gotta write Al Gore and thank him!
    Hang out the banners!  Tie multi-colored ribbons on the knobs of all the doors!  Put streamers on her jet plane!  Emma’s comin’ to town!
And stay away from the pier, boys!  For your own safety.
    That’s the report.   From the field.     Love,  Jockeypants.