cait collins - march 2000click on photo for larger view
charles bukowski
1920 - march 9th, 1994foreplay:
hey! this page is under construction! plus I didn't finish all of my stuff but, I'll tell you this much:
the spigot to the garden hose is outside, beneath my bedroom window. my bedroom is also my office and my office and my bedroom are my den, kitchen, living room, personal library, glorious porno gallery and mini-amphi-theatre. also, it's a sleezey motel room occasionally. this is where I spend my time when I am not out there. I live the compact life and there are not many complications.
when I am in my office, on the other side of the room, at the left bottom edge of the bed, I stoop on my chair at my desk and I pull the shade up to the middle of the window and push the window open. the window is the type that unlatches from the center and opens far out, not up, and the pane is flush with the top of my desk. there is an overhang at the brink of the roof that prevents rain from raining in. there is no screen.
it's a great spot! I am fortunate. I have a wide view of all of the day's activities that go on along the boulevard in front; postal, ups, fed-x deliveries; people strolling and/or horseback-riding by and the monstrosity of mountains background the whole scenerio from anywhichway you look. each day surely is a phenominal filmstrip in the desert valley.
then there's the group of, o, say, about a half dozen beer-buddies that hang-out in and around the garage area. mosttimes they gather at night and on a daily basis. a couple of them are mechanics. the others are just pals. they are all about 40something or so. this is where most of the action resides. yea! and here is one I wrote about the other day: (listen up!)there is a man outside my window and he is washing his hands using the garden hose. it is raining. he is washing his hands with water from the hose and the rain, mixed together, with no soap. his hands have grease on them. he is repairing a car; his own, I think. he fixes cars and trucks and 18 wheelers. he fixes them in this driveway. tho he lives down the street, he does his mechanical work here everyday and partway into the night.
his hair has been straightened flat against his head from the rain except for the ends along the nape of his neck that have flopped into a tiny flip. I surmise he is a very good mechanic and a very clean person, particularly today; this is the third time he has washed his hands with the garden hose and the rainwater, minus the soap, in front of my window.
he sprayed his hands with the hose, dropped it to the ground, rolled and twisted his hands around and around, then rubbed them up the arms to the elbow. the grease moved to different places and directions.
I got off of my chair and onto the desk. I knelt on all fours; my knees in front of my printer and my hands holding onto the windowpane, the top half of me protruded outside under the rain and I said: "hey buddy, ya need a hand?"
he looked up and smiled, still rearranging the grease on his hands and arms and replied: "what do you have in mind?"
then I recalled the former week when anytime I went out or when I returned, whether getting into or out of the car, passenger or driverside, he was the one that closed the door for me and I'd kid with him about stupid stuff. and one day when I was cleaning the car, removing empty wine cooler bottles from the back floor from the previous nights' party, he came over, took them from me and trashed 'em.
"a bar of soap? a shower? a spin in the dryer? cell-phone sex?" I suggested.
he laughed and walked the other way toward the garage with his head down, shaking it from side to side.
"HEY," I shouted. "why don't you shake yer other head? huh?"
the others laughed and taunted him. he went about his business and ignored them. his face was red. he was a shy person. I could tell he was infatuated with me and my wit but was hesitant to 'make the first move'. I crawled backwards back in and went about my own biz.
the next day he was out there before the rest. early in the morning. he was under the hood of a car. I didn't pay attention to what kind of car it was. I walked past him, down the driveway to the mailbox, slid the envelopes into the box and walked back up the driveway, passing him again. when he looked up at me anytime, he had a smile on his face.
"hey you," I said, "ya wanna cup of coffee?"
"sure." he said and he came out from under the hood with a carpart in his hand.
"how do you take it?" I asked, lifting my left eyebrow.
"black." he replied.
"hmmm," I said, "all right, I'll be right back." and I walked into the house, into my bedroom, office, den, kitchen, living room, personal library, mini porno gallery and amphi-theatre, opened a drawer to my dresser, grabbed my little massager with the wooden wheels, poured coffee into a mug that had a lid on it with a mouth-opening and I poured one for myself too. I went back out. he was in the garage. he started explaining what was wrong with the car, what the part was all about.
"forget that," I said and I took the straightforward approach, "what do you like to do for fun?"
he chuckled. his face reddened a little, his eyes never left the carpart.
"I don't know," he said, thinking, "I haven't had any fun in such a long time. but I know this place in Hollywood. they play music and they dance."
I bypassed his suggestion and I went on: "do you like wooden massages?" I asked and I moved close to him.
"wooden massages?" he asked with surprise.
"yea." and I rolled my little wooden massager down his back, down his ass, across his ass, up his ass, down his thighs and back up. he stood there laughing at me and I snickered back and then I did the same thing up and down the front of him, through his clothes, across the zipper, up and down, down and up.
he wasn't sure what to do next so he started talking about what was wrong with the car again.
"stick a filter in that thing and see if that works. why don't you take me for a drive after work?"
"where to?"
"anywhere. how about a rock?"
"a rock?"
"yea, a rock."
"well, there's plenty of rocks around here, that's for sure." he seemed more relaxed now but wasn't sure of the whole situation.
"you're serious, aren't you?" he asked.
"as a heart attack." I replied.
"hahaha, as a heart attack...hmmm, why do you want to go to a rock?" he asked.
"I've never seen one up close."
"then what?"
"I can show you fun at a rock."
"how can you possibly have fun on a rock?"
"maybe not on a rock but whatta bout up against one?"
he started laughing like I was kidding. then a friend of his pulled up and that ended our conversation. for then. I walked toward the door to the house and I said. "you got my number, you know where my window is. tonight."...
and this, my readers, shall be continued. NEEENER!
a.ok...here's my index stuff if yer too lazy to scroll the rest of the way down.
