Saturday is a good dayFollow

I went to work this morning with the thought in the back of my mind. It had been lying there all week, occasionally rising close to the surface and then finding itself roughly bludgeoned back to the murky depths as my secondary creature needs often are when I have a goal in sight. But it was a patient and persistent little idea, and following its patient and persistent little nature it watched and waited for the right opportunity.

There's a nearly cute girl that I work with who has a wonderful personality. I call her nearly cute because that's what she is. She approaches being cute, but doesn't quite make it. She's been overweight since I've known her and she's simply eaten up with acne, which while being normal for many a teenager is simply no longer admissible in a late twenty-something adult. She should get that taken care of. But it's all good, because she makes up for it with personality. She's a perky, happy sort of person. She's also on some sort of crash diet that seems to be doing wonders for her weight. She's dropped about 40 pounds in the last month. If she loses that much more, it'll be time to stop; she won't be overweight by any means at that point.

Anyway, this perky, happy, fat-melting little person cruised through my work area around 11:30 or so and asked if I wanted some lunch. Lunch? My stomach, like some long-dormant leviathan now awakened, began to stir. Acid trickled, a gurgle was audible in the room. Then there came a growl.

I smiled and said yes. I would love some lunch. Where was she going? Wendy's. It would do. My wallet emerges. Tell Wendy she can keep the mayo and pickle. I just want the heat. Diet coke to drink. Here's a twenty. If you'll be a sweetheart and buy John whatever he wants too, you can just keep the change.

A while later, she hands me the bag and our fingers brush. I know that she has a husband and three kids at home. What hell that must be. So, forcing a grin on my face, I tell her how nice her new haircut looks. I wait until she leaves the room and then hunch over my food like a starving dog, ready to defend my territory with tooth and testosterone. As I survey the empty bag, just to be sure there is no secret compartment with an extra stash of fries in it, the idea slips its little sharp dagger head in between the plates of my armor and buries itself in deep.

Have you ever suddenly realized that it's been too long? You know how it goes, I guess. You mean to do it, but there's always something coming up. You're too tired today. There's no time today. You're new in town and haven't hooked up with the right person yet. You just don't know where to go yet when that's what you want. All excuses, but valid in your mind so long as the need isn't PRESSING. Besides, you tell yourself that if it gets that bad, you can always do it yourself. It's not like I haven't done that before. Hell, I can remember one stretch where I went at least a year and I took care of it myself every day in the shower. Just get the water temperature right, lather up that bar of soap and go to work. At the end of that year, the girl I'd starting dating was giving me no end of grief about how badly soap dries your skin, so I wound up not doing it any more. Anyway, today when the idea imbedded itself, that's what it was: it's been too long. I've got to take care of this, and I've got to take care of it TO-DAY.

Almost everyone knows someone that can and gladly will take care of them for no charge when you really need it like I did today. I know at least four ladies that will do me at the drop of a hat. But my problem was that only two of the four reside in this state. One is out of town for the weekend, and the other, whom I work with, was planning to head out of town at 12:30. It would be rude and demanding for me to ask her leave work and to go back to her apartment just so she could do me. I couldn't even consider it. So, I shrugged and mentally bit the bullet. I was just going to have to pay for it. It's not like it would be the first time.

All of my objections to going to a professional are minor in nature, but real. First, you have to find one that's going to do it the way you like it. Depending on how you like it, that may be easy or difficult. Second, you have to pay for it, and some of the girls out there really overvalue their own services. Third, and this isn't so minor to me, every once in a while you run into a dude. I'm sorry, I don't care how bad it is, it's not that bad. No dudes. I just don't fly that way. You can if you want, and I won't object a bit. It's your decision. But it's not for me.

Finally, there's the waiting. If she's any good at all, you're going to have to wait. You let them sign you up for first available and you always wind up with inferior services, in my experience. The entire genetic legacy of Quasimodo is working under the misnomer of "first available." Gee, I wonder why she's available? Could it be that she has only one eye and is missing two fingers? No thanks, I'll wait.

I sauntered into the foyer of the joint, and armed with my brassy attitude, picked out a blonde with curves in the right places and a mercenary look about her. The cute little thing at the sign-up book motioned me forward, and I gave my middle name when asked. (Who actually gives their real first name in those places? It's not like you want to know the people outside of the joint, but you have to give them something to call you by that you won't forget, so I always use my middle name, abbreviated of course.) When she offered the inevitable first-available, I declined and indicated that I wanted oh-what's-her-name-again-she-was-just-right-here-with-the-blonde-hair? Jenny? Yeah, that's right, Jenny. I'll wait on Jenny.

Not caring whether the other patrons think you are cool or geeky for doing it is the only way to look cool when you don an MP3 player while waiting on line. I give so little of a Shiite that I must've frozen them all in their seats. I didn't even notice. Eight songs later, Jenny was ready for me. And I was ready for Jenny, too.

As I followed her to the privacy of her room, Sweet Child of Mine began floating down from the speakers overhead. Jenny started humming along. Yes, today was turning out to be a good day for this.

We made small talk while she did the prep work. She told me that she could tell I had been a while. I answered in the affirmative, smiling because I now knew for certain I'd made a good pick. She took a good measure of the length and stated that yeah, that's long. Knowing that she sees all sorts of lengths, I replied that it was for me, at least. We'd both done this numerous times before, just not with each other so we were laying groundwork with our conversation. She had to go get another protective covering because the first one was too tight on me. I told her it wasn't the first time it's been like that and we talked about how well my build disguises the girth until you actually try to put both hands around it. Yes, broad shoulders and a big head definitely do make it less noticeable, but it's just thick. I think it comes from all the manual labor I’ve done in my life. While all this foreplay was going on, I'd noticed that she used the same hand lotion as the first girl who'd ever laid me. The scent hung in the air and I found it to be calming and restful as well as more than a bit reminiscent of that long lost girlfriend.

I issued the instructions about exactly what I wanted, leaned back and closed my eyes. Now if I were getting this for free, I'd feel obligated to be lively and entertaining, making sure I gave a good tradeoff in value for what I was getting. But I was paying, see? And when I'm paying, it's all about me. Tend to me. I'm paying you; you are doing a service for money. I will be a good customer and not make excess demands upon your time or talents, but just do me and let me get on my way. You take care of me because I'm paying you do it. Besides if I close my eyes and be quiet I've found that it goes faster. Professionals know what they're doing and don't need a lot of noises from a fellow to get about their business. Just let them know what you want and they'll do it for you. Works well for me, at least.

Not 30 seconds into the business, I heard a small gasp. All motion ceased. Eyes still closed, I asked if all was ok? Yes she said. A second later, she amended that to well, almost. There was some blood, but not much. She’d be right back. I heard her leave the room. No more than three minutes later, she was back and went back to work. All business now.

I always get the willies right before the thing touches my skin. It's the vibrating, not the cold metal. I think it makes a microscopic breeze or something. But I feel it before it touches me. I endure because I'm the one who told her to use it on me and it means we're almost done. Oh yes, done.

She strips off the protective covering, and I proffer money. She tells me I can only pay her up front. They would get her if she took money here. Sheepishly, I retract the bills and follow as she makes her way out and back towards the place where I entered. The sun is shining in the window and the bright light hurts my eyes a little. Now up front, I poke my money at her again. This time she takes it. I hand over a little extra, after, just for her, not for the house. I always do. It's good manners, my mother taught me that. Besides, it is worth it. I feel like a new man.

Saturday was definitely a good day for a haircut.

Dats alot of words!!!

My Saturday:

I went somewhere and came home. Wife deicides I work when we get home so I then work. Eat dinner, post this.

You sack of ****... You had me till the last sentence... Bastid!!

I'm assuming this is already at 5.0 (I miss the numbers).

Nicely presented, I could use a haircut myself.

QFT

By this point it would be solid 5.00 so the numbers still mean nothing.

Wait, I'm confused. None of that explains how you contracted the herpes.

Good read, TS, well done sir.

My clients don't bleed, and I've been told I give a very good head rub. So good, I've been propsed to by a few male clients at the sink

Haha. Classic :)

/rateup