|I guess she forgot about my allergies!|
My heart felt as if it might come squirting out my ass. (Actually the floor was a little damp already from the liberation a few drops of pee pee in the nerve-wracking buildup to what surely was to be a joyous feasting on each others flesh there, naked on the cool hardwood floor.) Joyous with expectation, I let my fingers take a jaunty little stroll up the wing tips, pausing now and then to do a little chorus line kick. This is fun, I thought, lying on the cool hardwood floor absolutely ridiculously buck naked pretending my pinkies are a junior chorus line on what I hope are Asha Rajaratnam's wing tips. I grin, very very quietly and with my lips closed so as not to let the glare of my synthetically enhanced pearly whites illuminate the room.
Now I am thinking of the lovely note she has sent me. The note that so affectionately and warmly uses that lovingly romantic salutation from the hill country of the Poonjabb:
Namaste, (There's nothing quite like words of love in Poonjabber)
|No leftovers for my Poonjabbi Princess!|
By the time I'm finished recalling every luscious word of her entreaty to me, my hands are up around her thighs, and I have clearly gotten to the point where my little Poonjabbi princess stops shaving, for now it feels like I am caressing the legs of a young wooki. And, though I admit I wasn't paying very close attention when I was lost in my reverie of everlasting love, there's no way these linebacker legs could belong to the girl I've seen in pictures attached to the Pillsbury Poonjabi Raj "Rubber Face" Rajaratnam.
If they are not the legs of my new and truly beloved Punjabber Weenie Grabber, then whose are they? Then, consistent with the entire parade of cruel juxtapositions I've been victim to ever since someone knocked upon my door, I am overwhelmed by the smell: a virulent, acrid strain of eau d' WD40 that puckers my nostrils and sets my anus on fire.
It is at this moment of weakness that I hear a chuckle, soft at first, then slowly growing louder. I look up and see that indeed I am holding the hair of extraordinarily beautiful Punjabi Princess - her real hair, the hair on her head which cascades down her back, so long that I have mistaken it for steroidal pubic hair. She smiles and whispers "I have a BIZ to do...with you" and bingo: there's that dampness again. But before I can leap into her arms a voice comes from behind:
"As do I, my ignorant, disrespectful American blogger. As...do...I..."
Oh for fuck's sake, I cry out loud. When this BIZ ever going to end and by the way would somebody please turn on the fucking lights?