Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Tempest Slacker

Tempest Slacker was sleek. Her genes had clearly spent centuries traversing the four corners of the globe. Never mind the fact that a globe has no corners, her DNA had clearly kept all the best parts of her ancestors global meandering. While the eye of this beholder makes that highly judgmental and subjective observation the laws of symmetry always hold sway to visually processed stimuli. Or so I have heard. Perfection oozed from her pores. Shiny black hair that had never known the cruel blades of a shear made high heels a necessary accessory to keep her perfectly split free silky ends from sweeping the ground when the swishing sashay of her fully follicle obscured behind was in transit.

I alone among men knew the treasure that swayed behind that opaque curtain of hair, and was insanely jealous when ever she tossed her head to tease a peak to strangers left agog in her wake. But I digress. Or at least momentarily regress to my more base instincts until I again transcend myself to maintain my coveted title of human being.

But on this day and in this time it is a trifle trying. Tomorrow will be more so. For tomorrow is the day of days. The day when Tempest and I enter The Teapot Dome and tangle with the Gene Rippers one on one.

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Purveyor of paralogical compliance to verbally mediated reality, artisanal smut, with a pinch of full time flâneur tossed in to taste.