Saturday, April 22, 2006

I was about to submit the jaunty comment "You can't spell 'personally' without 'anally'!" when I realized that, in fact, you can.

posted at 11:42:50 pm
2 commentations.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Late twenties. He sits near the front of the streetcar, always on the left seat of a pair; he will shift his boot out of the way if I stare at it. Tall, broad in the shoulders, exceptional posture. Dark brown hair cut very short, and a stoic, attractive face. By the look of his clothes, he works in construction, or hydro: something bright orange crisscrossed with bright reflective yellow tape, a jacket or ridiculous coveralls; something a drab shade of green, a coat or trousers; and boots peeling over the toes. Now that temperatures have dipped below zero, he's added a baseball cap.

At Queen Station, we part our ways; he heads north, while I wait for the southbound train. It's a little maddening to see a person only a bit at a time, for twenty minutes a day.

I have promised to myself that I will say good morning one of these days. 

I did not. So I wrote today:  

You (hydro worker?) took the Queen westbound car every morning in the dead cold of winter. It was usually the car conducted by the driver with the impressive moustache.

You wore bright orange overalls, and went to the Tim's for a coffee -- a large double-double. I admired the way you defied the severe temperature drops by adding nothing more cozy than a baseball cap to your get-up. Sometimes you held the door open for me; I wish I had done the same for you, instead of less cheekily mumbling "thank you."

I was the Asian girl who boarded at Leslie, made nervous eye contact, and wistfully waited for the southbound train while watching you on the opposite side of the station. I wished I had said something, but by the time -- late December -- I had worked up the nerve, you had disappeared ... for good, it seems. I'm still commuting in the dark, but miss your pants brightening up the landscape.

Might I buy you that morning coffee sometime?

posted at 9:42:08 pm
5 commentations.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

It was mostly a ploy to get him to say "fetish."

Him: It's so weird that every girl goes through that taking pictures of feet phase. Why?

Me: I don't do that anymore.

Him: There's no use denying it.

Me: I can try.

Him: You can try ... I'll just pop my head in to job interviews and other important first impressions and say, "You know she used to take pictures of her FEET??"

Him: Then mouth the word "fetish."


posted at 6:18:34 pm
5 commentations.

Friday, April 14, 2006

That night, I cried over the sink, so my tears would drain neatly away.

posted at 6:26:15 pm
2 commentations.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

It was perfectly round, twice its usual size. Its colour was a pale, buttery yellow so savoury I had a wish that I could taste with my eyes and see with my tongue; and so delicate that it made the white light of the streetlamps look neither pure nor clean, but stark and garish. Racing west, I saw it sank lower and lower, and so low I thought it would certainly smash into the earth, and extinguish forever.

As the streetcar sped along, streaking through the deserted streets like a red snake, we chased the moon, while the city slept and dreamed of the world's end.

posted at 7:07:41 am
2 commentations.

Sunday, April 09, 2006


posted at 7:24:06 pm
2 commentations.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

I was sitting in the streetcar, absent-mindedly glancing over my fellow passengers, the majority of them happening to be male, when the realization hit me. I was surrounded by cock.

Cock swathed in two (or one, for the commando man) layers of cloth, cotton or linen or denim or corduroy or silk or leather ... but it was all material immaterial to me. Warm, soft, relaxed, silky cock tucked comfortably between each man's legs in the car, none of them quite thinking about it, so natural and ordinary was the possession of such beautiful, tantalizing objects.

This was a fascinating development.

I willed myself to look innocent, so sure that if I didn't, one of them would notice my face, point an accusing finger at me, and cry out, "She knows! GET HER!"

posted at 6:23:09 pm
3 commentations.

In Jarhead, when the group of sweaty, overheated Marines ripped off their clothes amid crazed screams of "field fuck!" and began humping and grinding in a simulated gay orgy on the barren desert plain, all to the sweet, humpin' strains of "Gonna Make You Sweat", it occurred to me at that moment, that at some point, my mind must have had quietly ceased watching the actual film and deftly spliced in a spool of my most cherished daydreams instead, just as a surprise.   

Five stars *****

posted at 2:29:55 pm
4 commentations.

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Glo'ri'a'na, noun:
1. An alternative form of "Gloria."
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.


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