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Out of Her Hair

Flash Fiction Friday – Aka, my attempt to overcome crippling perfectionism.

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She’d wash that man right out of her hair.

She stood under the torrent and let the heat work it’s magic on her tense shoulders.

It didn’t matter if his face was absolutely perfect. It wasn’t her fault he was basically her idea of pure masturbation candy.

She didn’t have to put up with it: the unreturned calls, the no-shows.

Christ, if he were just a smidgen less hot, she could ignore him. If that smile didn’t make her want to rip her panties off, she wouldn’t be so upset. If he weren’t so good with those hands. If his hips hadn’t been so deliciously bitable.

If the showerhead weren’t removable…

If his hands were on her thighs, his voice whispered in her ears. His weight pushing her back against the shower wall.

If his tongue hit that spot.

Yes. That was the spot.

This was an entry at Rebecca Grace Allen’s Sinful Sunday Contest.

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Many Years Ago

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For real, the only time I’ve ever been in a bathtub like that, it was at, and I quote: “The Freaky Freezer Dude’s House.”

Seriously.

Dude had a whole room full of deep freezers that he kept padlocked.

We decided it was Y2K storage.

Later, in 2002 or so, he burned the entire place to the ground.

I never said I was smart.

I swear, every time I went to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Freaky Freezer Dude would magically appear in the hallway in sad, thin boxer shorts.

At the Freaky Freezer Dude’s house, spiders used to fall out of the ceiling on me while I listened to French house music and avoided the deranged cannibal landlord (who had opened bottles of Maker’s Mark FUCKING EVERYWHERE. Seriously. All over the place. It was crazy. And, he used to bring these sad women over, so as to ply them with Maker’s Mark. Jesus.)

Despite the spiders, I would sit and people-watch the whorehouse across the street.

It’s really was less cracked-out than it sounds.

…Kind of.

One day I did totally see a guy that had obviously been fishing in the downtown sewer ditches make his way back home with no catch.  And, there was this endless battle over stolen shopping carts between men that squatted in the old Victorians.

That area is totally gentrified now.  At the time it was about 4 blocks from my regular club, and 2 blocks from where the luxury lofts had just been developed.

Stories like this are why I salute the delay of the adoption of smartphones (PDA’s as they were called back in the day in the East Asian market) in the states.

It’s one thing to tell the story.

It’s another to have photographic evidence.

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The Burning Lotus

I found this picture on tumblr:

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The Burning Lotus — “I got my first tattoo when I was 37 and it was a birthday present to myself.”

I thought, “Is that gray hair? Is it a filter washing out someone’s blonde?”

It’s gray.

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“I am an exhibitionist with a streak of voyeurism and a heart of gold.” (Click through.)

From her FAQ:

I take pictures of myself. Sometimes others take pictures of me too, but I tell you that in the caption of the image. But mostly it really is me and TBL. And I’m not sure which is the photographer and which is the model at this point.

There are a number of people doing mostly nude self-potrait projects on tumblr.

She’s the only 54 year old I’ve run across.

If I look like that at 54 (which is absolutely NOT going to happen; I am overly fond of cake and cream.) I’ll take a zillion lovely self-portraits, too.

I promise.

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I am pretty sure I can’t even do this at 33. (Click through.)

Her totally NSFW tumblr is here.

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