S T R E A M # 3 5

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She didn’t want to get out of bed. She wanted to remain in bed for the duration of the storm. She didn’t care about work. She wanted to quit. She was sick and tired of it. She wouldn’t suck up to her boss, not one day more. And she enjoyed listening to the rain and to the thunder. She enjoyed the unpredictable flashes of lightening which lit up her bedroom. She wished she were in a boat. She didn’t care about the dangers of being at sea during a storm. She could sleep much more soundly under such circumstances. She accused everyone she knew who suffered from motion sickness of being weak, of being cowardly. She could sleep in an active roller coaster car. Once, in fact, she HAD once fallen asleep once whilst riding the Demon at Marriott's Great America, in Gurnee, IL, USA, Planet Earth, Milky Way, once. But just that once. She had, indeed, fallen into the most peaceful of sleeps, once, whilst her boyfriend feared she’d passed out. More than once, she fell asleep during sex. She liked sex, but she required thrills. (Thrills the likes of: sex on the Demon.) She ran through many boyfriends; they couldn’t fulfill her constantly shifting and escalating desires. She liked to have her tummy tickled. She liked to eat cream cheese out of her boyfriend’s belly button, but only after he thoroughly washed it out with anti-bacterial soap. She loved to be coated in clover honey and have him lick it all off. She did not, however, enjoy getting clover honey in her hair, however. She tried it all. She didn’t hold back. She was a free spirit. She would not be caged. This infuriated many men. I knew all of this when I got involved with her. She had a reputation. But I was on a mission. I would not be deterred. I would lure her into my lair. I would make her my muse. I would dominate her and she would enjoy it. I would not allow any sass from her. I was displeased when she wanted to eat cottage cheese out of my valise. She ordered me to speak only in Portuguese. But I only knew how to swear in Portuguese. She only spoke English and German and Spanish and Yiddish and French and Chinese and COBOL. She spoke fluent COBOL. When we made love, she’d love to shout out structured code: “Oh! Oh! Identification Division! Program-ID! Author! Author! Yes! Yes! Environment Division! God! Shit! God! Data Division! File Section! Working-Storage Section! 01 Num1 PIC 9 VALUE ZEROS! 01 Num2 PIC 9 VALUE ZEROS! YES! 01 Result PIC 99 VALUE ZEROS! YES! PROCEDURE DIVISION! Calculate Result! ACCEPT Num1! ACCEPT Num2! MULTIPLY Num1 BY Num1 GIVING! GIVING! GIVING! Result! Ohhhhhh… DISPLAY ‘Result is = ’ Result. STOP RUN.” I have to admit, it was stimulating. It was something I’ll never forget. It was the sort of experience men live for. It was not for the faint of heart. It was time for me to leave. It was time for me to learn a new language. I still have a hard time getting my head around Visual Basic. I love the erotic forthrightness of old, standard, non-visual Basic. Bottom reached. Happy Fourth. 

3 July 2008

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