Here is the start of a story. I admit, I was completely drunk when I wrote this. The grammar and spelling is immaculate, but the ideas and situational intentions are about as scatterbrained as a hyperactive rat in a cheese factory. I do like some of it though, so here's the delightful opening sequence of a longer and hopefully more targeted concept (Oh, and additionally, I used pictures in my story to "fuel the fire", but I'm not sure that they'll come out one here. If not, damn, I wish they would!):
“C’mon, man, it’s a chance to be driver to the Stars!” That was the pitch that landed me this job. I never would have been a limousine driver, or for that matter, any kind of lackey, if I had my particular druthers. However, druthers don’t pay the rent, and they also don’t get you invited (as a person holding a space in a limo, way, way far out from the actual event) to gatherings and red carpet events. The wage was definitely nothing to turn down, and the chance to even have one or two well-known individuals as close as the back seat from me was rather thrilling.
So, what do I do? I drive hack comedians from the airport to their “bullshit gig” (their words), and then wait in the parking lot until their two shows are finished; and, yes, back to the airport. The funny thing about comedians is that they generally aren’t funny. Even I can have a conversation where I make someone laugh, or giggle, or even just smile. Comedians are dark-natured people who exist in their own minds and only observe the rest of us as fuel for their twisted sense of humor. A brief conversation with a comedian will allow you to have a glimpse into their true personality. They are angry, helpless, and they are prepared to fire bile at anything in the world to make their own pain stop.
Well, anyway, the best I can do is simply live with it while it’s going on; address them in the most polite way, making sure there isn’t a snarl or any judgment in my eyes. Oh, don’t ever let anyone fool you on that score. “The Driver Who Knows Nothing.” If there is one driver out there who actually doesn’t know the intimate details of what’s going on, not only in his attendant’s lives, but within the very same vehicle that he is trying to operate, then I would like to meet him. Not so much to get to know him, as to get him fired for incompetence.
Judgment begins in the posture, the facial expression, and most importantly, the eyes. You, any of you, can tell in one tenth of one second how you are going to make an impression upon another person based on their eyes. It varies when it is from women and men. The hardest to make sense of is a woman, because she has so many different eye, eyelid, eyebrow, and upper cheek bone-sets that translate into a predetermined condition. I’m not saying that these arrangements of the human muscles and nerves are capable of, well, projecting. They are simply conveying the thoughts which came from the brain, and listened to recorded messages no matter how faint or ludicrous, and thrown this information into a general system-wide posture and unwieldy protection against a previous, or perceived, attacker, and become this seemingly stony presence.
In essence, yes, to the question which is often spoken, but not as a question, rather a nostalgic pondering of all the people one has faced in his life, and, stacked together, the one outweighs the other as a chicken salad sandwich is frequently outweighed by the moon.
“Women are a mystery.”
That night wasn’t terribly special; I simply had to pick up a young woman, considered a “supporting actress”, from a film opening. Her parents, family and friends were all there, but alone it was her pleasure to ride away from the event in a limousine just for her. I wanted to have one last look at her, when I’d begun to pull away from the curb. Everyone was so happy, like those television spots you might see where a cruise ship is leaving its dock. They all looked hopeful.
They all looked hopeful, and they looked happy.
She didn’t realize it at the time, and never would have guessed it or believed it even if someone had told her. It didn’t occur to her that someone might want to do to her what I wanted to do. She had almost forgotten what her stepfather had done to her as a child, though she always feared and loathed him for reasons she didn’t remember. She dreamed, though, and those dreams were frightening, leaving her feeling helpless and scared. Her conscious mind didn’t remember the events from her childhood, but her unconscious would never let it go. When she awoke from those nightmares, she instantly pulled her arms close to her sides and rubbed her arms incessantly, as though ridding her skin of spiders. In the fading memory of the dreams she woke from, a vision of him lingered at times, reminding her of the anger, resentment and fear she held for him.
Shortly following the gala event, Jennifer walked out to her waiting limousine. The door was held for her, and she dipped into the back seat. Bracing herself with one hand on the roof of the car, I was treated to a lovely view of her silky underarm in the strapless dress.
We wove through traffic, then out to a long stretch of highway leading back to her home. I watched her slowly begin to sag in the seat, tired from the evening’s events. When I was sure she had fallen asleep, I pulled off the road to a very remote and private spot. This was my chance, and I was going to love it.
Deftly, I slid over the seat into the back. I very gently pulled her legs apart and tied each ankle to the front in a soft, silken wrap. The same was done to her wrists, so she was unable to move. She began to stir in her bonds, and opened her eyes. She was petrified at her situation, and tried to scream for help. We were so far out there was no chance of anyone hearing her. I smiled and her plight, and marveled at the beauty of her soft skin.
When I looked at those soft, wondrous underarms, and the way her tied hands made them so vulnerable, I knew nothing other than the desire to tickle her, completely, wickedly. I wanted to watch her body react to the tickling, and her face contort into helpless agony. I didn’t want to harm her, nor did I feel the need to mar or scar her features. On the contrary, she was so beautiful that the imperative I followed was to protect and preserve her, wholesome and delicate.
I ran my index finger around her beautiful face, and let it trail down her cheek to her shapely neck, across her shoulder, and then dip into the soft hollow of her beautiful underarm. She squealed in ticklish agony as my finger dipped and slid around her horribly ticklish armpit. I stopped, briefly, and brought both hands up to hover above her helpless underarms. She looked in fright as my fingers began to wiggle over her helpless, hopelessly ticklish spots. My fingers all began to dip, and landed perfectly into her incredibly ticklish underarms. With no hope for rescue, Jennifer began to wail and squeal in absolute ticklish terror. My fingers moved faster and faster while her body reacted in a delightfully helpless way. Her laughter was so beautiful, and her torture was so delicious.
In a final and desperate scream Jennifer arched her back, shuddered violently then passed out into beautiful silence. Using the bonds she already wore, I hogtied her, brought her back to her home, and tied her prostrate to a table in the basement. There she would await my return.
“C’mon, man, it’s a chance to be driver to the Stars!” That was the pitch that landed me this job. I never would have been a limousine driver, or for that matter, any kind of lackey, if I had my particular druthers. However, druthers don’t pay the rent, and they also don’t get you invited (as a person holding a space in a limo, way, way far out from the actual event) to gatherings and red carpet events. The wage was definitely nothing to turn down, and the chance to even have one or two well-known individuals as close as the back seat from me was rather thrilling.
So, what do I do? I drive hack comedians from the airport to their “bullshit gig” (their words), and then wait in the parking lot until their two shows are finished; and, yes, back to the airport. The funny thing about comedians is that they generally aren’t funny. Even I can have a conversation where I make someone laugh, or giggle, or even just smile. Comedians are dark-natured people who exist in their own minds and only observe the rest of us as fuel for their twisted sense of humor. A brief conversation with a comedian will allow you to have a glimpse into their true personality. They are angry, helpless, and they are prepared to fire bile at anything in the world to make their own pain stop.
Well, anyway, the best I can do is simply live with it while it’s going on; address them in the most polite way, making sure there isn’t a snarl or any judgment in my eyes. Oh, don’t ever let anyone fool you on that score. “The Driver Who Knows Nothing.” If there is one driver out there who actually doesn’t know the intimate details of what’s going on, not only in his attendant’s lives, but within the very same vehicle that he is trying to operate, then I would like to meet him. Not so much to get to know him, as to get him fired for incompetence.
Judgment begins in the posture, the facial expression, and most importantly, the eyes. You, any of you, can tell in one tenth of one second how you are going to make an impression upon another person based on their eyes. It varies when it is from women and men. The hardest to make sense of is a woman, because she has so many different eye, eyelid, eyebrow, and upper cheek bone-sets that translate into a predetermined condition. I’m not saying that these arrangements of the human muscles and nerves are capable of, well, projecting. They are simply conveying the thoughts which came from the brain, and listened to recorded messages no matter how faint or ludicrous, and thrown this information into a general system-wide posture and unwieldy protection against a previous, or perceived, attacker, and become this seemingly stony presence.
In essence, yes, to the question which is often spoken, but not as a question, rather a nostalgic pondering of all the people one has faced in his life, and, stacked together, the one outweighs the other as a chicken salad sandwich is frequently outweighed by the moon.
“Women are a mystery.”
That night wasn’t terribly special; I simply had to pick up a young woman, considered a “supporting actress”, from a film opening. Her parents, family and friends were all there, but alone it was her pleasure to ride away from the event in a limousine just for her. I wanted to have one last look at her, when I’d begun to pull away from the curb. Everyone was so happy, like those television spots you might see where a cruise ship is leaving its dock. They all looked hopeful.
They all looked hopeful, and they looked happy.
She didn’t realize it at the time, and never would have guessed it or believed it even if someone had told her. It didn’t occur to her that someone might want to do to her what I wanted to do. She had almost forgotten what her stepfather had done to her as a child, though she always feared and loathed him for reasons she didn’t remember. She dreamed, though, and those dreams were frightening, leaving her feeling helpless and scared. Her conscious mind didn’t remember the events from her childhood, but her unconscious would never let it go. When she awoke from those nightmares, she instantly pulled her arms close to her sides and rubbed her arms incessantly, as though ridding her skin of spiders. In the fading memory of the dreams she woke from, a vision of him lingered at times, reminding her of the anger, resentment and fear she held for him.
Shortly following the gala event, Jennifer walked out to her waiting limousine. The door was held for her, and she dipped into the back seat. Bracing herself with one hand on the roof of the car, I was treated to a lovely view of her silky underarm in the strapless dress.
We wove through traffic, then out to a long stretch of highway leading back to her home. I watched her slowly begin to sag in the seat, tired from the evening’s events. When I was sure she had fallen asleep, I pulled off the road to a very remote and private spot. This was my chance, and I was going to love it.
Deftly, I slid over the seat into the back. I very gently pulled her legs apart and tied each ankle to the front in a soft, silken wrap. The same was done to her wrists, so she was unable to move. She began to stir in her bonds, and opened her eyes. She was petrified at her situation, and tried to scream for help. We were so far out there was no chance of anyone hearing her. I smiled and her plight, and marveled at the beauty of her soft skin.
When I looked at those soft, wondrous underarms, and the way her tied hands made them so vulnerable, I knew nothing other than the desire to tickle her, completely, wickedly. I wanted to watch her body react to the tickling, and her face contort into helpless agony. I didn’t want to harm her, nor did I feel the need to mar or scar her features. On the contrary, she was so beautiful that the imperative I followed was to protect and preserve her, wholesome and delicate.
I ran my index finger around her beautiful face, and let it trail down her cheek to her shapely neck, across her shoulder, and then dip into the soft hollow of her beautiful underarm. She squealed in ticklish agony as my finger dipped and slid around her horribly ticklish armpit. I stopped, briefly, and brought both hands up to hover above her helpless underarms. She looked in fright as my fingers began to wiggle over her helpless, hopelessly ticklish spots. My fingers all began to dip, and landed perfectly into her incredibly ticklish underarms. With no hope for rescue, Jennifer began to wail and squeal in absolute ticklish terror. My fingers moved faster and faster while her body reacted in a delightfully helpless way. Her laughter was so beautiful, and her torture was so delicious.
In a final and desperate scream Jennifer arched her back, shuddered violently then passed out into beautiful silence. Using the bonds she already wore, I hogtied her, brought her back to her home, and tied her prostrate to a table in the basement. There she would await my return.
