June 2004 Archives

A night of unease, spent drinking a zinfandel that seemed more acid-trip than grape-ape, amusing the art afficionadoes, and amusing myself--trying to get a slender art student into the loo for a blowjob, and getting discomfited by 'the one who brought me to the party.' And I kept remembering the old adage about who one dances with...

...then home, on that surreal busride, the last number 10 to Marin City--a complex route through Geary, Laguna, Lombard, and Alexander--stop signs galore and events going on, but all through the window (and less real thereby). On to my sleepy hollow, a cove by the bay. There I sit, horny and feeling wierdly unsated simultaneously with unheeded heart.

In bed, masturbating--I knew I shouldn't have taken so many vitamins--jet after jet of cum erupts from me, 'til I am wondering if I will end a skeleton. And off to sleep, some Juvenal beforehand--Satire XI is a boon to the tired artist, and I am grateful for my venues, my peoples, and my hands--to create and to cum.

Now, second coffee in hand, I scrape the filing cabinets to avoid the boss's eye--treading down the hallway, thinking about sex with the various cubiclerats I pass along the way, each lasting about three seconds--a pretty realistic expectation I suppose. My agent has admonished me--I left the party early, even if with my patron--and the sales were astonishing, after I left, but not for my work. "How could an artist not be at his own show?" Declaimed one wag, a style maven for the mavens of shopping-while-hubby's-working set. Add to my demise, stumbling and willomying from the boat to the office.