I only had two drinks last night, and about half way through the second one, a wave of YUCK overcame me.
My slight frame only amounts to 92 pounds these days and I'm a hypoglycemic that has to eat constantly, which is dreadfully boring. I ate before I left, but not enough, I guess.
After releasing a portion of what I drank into the unfortunate pipes that delve below the Castle, I just stayed in the stall, leaning against the door feeling that foggy urge to pass out. My head pulled down as my eyes fluttered in defiance, but the thought of sleeping right there, where I stood, felt like velvet somehow.
Until I thought of how many other faces that may have squished upon this very door; possibly less hygienic faces, or even other malodorous body parts and…fluids.
I immediately jerked back to the far wall where I imagined a CSI person snapping on the old latex gloves and black lighting said wall, nodding as they said "Oh yeah this place is just coated in jizz. This particular sample is from a 27 year old Goth named Shane, but he goes by "Dark Dildon't" in his social circles. We can tell a lot more from the samples with today's technology. We're working on DNA GPS systems, and when that's up and running I'll be able to track someone from their spooge stains".
I thought of the fetish nights at the Castle, and how many riding crops get accidentally dropped into the toilet, and how painful that would be to be fishing it out whilst donned in a whalebone leather corset (they aren't known for their flexibility).
I don't know a lot about fetishism, I have many acquaintances that are into all that, but I've never peered behind that curtain. I really love that song by IAMX though, "Spit It Out". It's one of the few songs that I know of that isn't industrial, but does sort of touch on violent proclivities in the sexual wonderland.
I would be a disaster in that world, I mean, I think I'd look ok in the garb (Do they make leather hoods in extra extra small?), but I'm a wimpy goofball with a low threshold for pain and claustrophobic to boot. I could inflict it, I guess, given the right circumstances (ball kicking available upon request?).
I previously wrote something to this effect in a sarcastic series I posted elsewhere for one of my voyeur stalkers that I guess hates me (whatever, and yes I have no life) , but I tried to turn it around and make it humorous as if he didn't and that I'd do anything for him, including the following :
"If YOU wanted me to beat you raw, I would. If you want me to roll an egg down a dark hallway with my bare feet whilst singing the national anthem, I will. If you want me leather clad and chopping onions on your back with a strobe light on, it's done. If you want me to scream Russian obscenities at you while tenderizing your giblets with a flatiron, I'm so there. If you want me to dig the fingernails of my right hand (left hand has stumps – it's a guitar thing) into the base of your scintillating scepter, then I'm your girl. I can't promise that I wouldn't laugh the entire time, but I would do your bidding whenever, wherever."
I'm serious about the latter bit, the laughing. I wouldn't be able to straighten my face in any capacity, so unless there's cackling dominatrix's abound, I best stay on the side of the fence that doesn't require any "safe" words (the Kama Sutra can be just as interesting as a ball and gag, if things get tedious in that department).
The bathroom stall – the stories it might tell (or scream). Actually, they seem pretty clean, compared to most places (CBGB's facilities were unsuitable even by third world standards), but I have a wild imagination. It's a wonder I can even check out books from the libraries, as what possibly touches them before you mentally ingest their words, might drive you to drink.
Currently listening :
Release date: 2008-05-06
THANK YOU, STEEL CHINA
10 months ago