Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink
PRESENTS :
The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 26
The Harry Potter "7th Book" Special
Edition Chapter 26
Ginger Writes to 'Penthouse' Forum
or
A Fox's Tail©
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 26
The Harry Potter "7th Book" Special
Edition Chapter 26
Ginger Writes to 'Penthouse' Forum
"June 20, 2007
Dear Penthouse Forum,
I confess to being, from the age of 12, an avid reader of letters to the Penthouse Forum who often has doubted such improbably lascivious stories possibly could be true. My Internet friend, a shrewd and intelligent gentleman, says the letters are composed by crack teams of certifiably celibate writers working round-the-clock in 8-hour shifts and cites Jon Stewart and Jim Cramer as famous people who started that way. But now, after my own recent experience, I no longer have doubts. . .such escapades DO happen to ordinary Joe's like me -- every day. Even sometimes twice a day.
Therefore, I'm writing to share my own incredible recent experience with your Forum readers. And as unlikely as it may sound; I assure you every word is absolutely true.
The day started like most others with the sun peeking from the east precisely at dawn in a totally unremarkable way with no portent of future events. I stirred from a satisfyingly sound slumber nestled in a comfy cocoon of silken covers piled deep on a soft, yet fully supportive mattress. On first glance at my surroundings one might have thought it strange that everything was pink. . .but then it is my favorite color, and I was after all in my own bed where the evening before I'd drifted into a peaceful sleep while rereading "Sophie's World." So nothing remarkable so far.
Firmly re-centered in my own world after a couple blinks, I hopped from bed to start yet another "first day in the rest of my life" -- took a shower, did my hair and put on my face (to use the totally gross idiom). While dressing I nearly went nuts looking for my favorite bra and panty set (I believe every day must start on a solid foundation) until I remembered getting an interstellar email on my iPhone from Grandma saying she'd popped in yesterday from Sirius -- actually the transporter makes more of a buzzy "zip" noise -- to borrow it.
My old granny -- who's 30,021; going on fifteen -- sometimes may be a smidge adolescent but is loads of fun. . .Only don't cross her cause she'll tell you to go to Hell; then make you long to be there.
And I can assure your Forum readers that having an ancient Cro-Magnon granny who lives in a time-stasis so she's still nearly your same age and size sometimes can be an incredible pain. Sure she's got loads of Fendi and Prada to share, but so far the outfit exchange has gone only one way and she has an insatiable appetite for my beloved Victoria's Secret lingerie. Worse, a few months ago she just got her tits "done" in a BIG way so now the bras come back all baggy.
I also might add that my new iPhone is GREAT. . .I love it. But I don't love it like this one woman I know of who ELOPED with hers, settled with it in a bungalow on the Spanish coast and raised a big pod of Borg-like kids with her brains and its build. Weird huh?
Anyways, I settled on enveloping my privates in a different Victoria's Secret intimates set (the shear panties felt especially delicious against my freshly hot-waxed flesh), topped my day's outfit off with a Nanette Lepore Ruched Corset Top (in black) and Tulip-Print Skirt off the rack from Neiman Marcus, slipped my feet into some darling hot-pink Crocs (my fav.) and made my exit for a refreshing walk on Manhattan's sunny streets. Of course by "walk", I mean I took a taxi. And by "sunny", I mean shadowy.
Nonetheless, I arrived at my destination -- the Starbuck's at Trump Tower -- full of vim, vigor and zest for Life; blissfully in Grace and at Peace with all aspects of the world (except those parts that ever vexed me. . .you listening, Cornell??). I ordered my usual, paying with a 100 dollar bill I always keep in my right Croc, found a comfy chair that went well with my outfit and, given my prior experience with Starbuck's, observed the tide of humanity (and others) with a warily watchful eye. After an unusually placid twelve minutes with no hallucinations, fits or out-of-body experiences, I decided to hazard a trip to the Starbuck's unisex restroom. Just to clarify (though surely everyone knows) this unisex restroom isn't one of those creepy places like in France where strange women and men stand together and pee in the same dingy trough. Rather it is just a room either a man or woman can use, solo. Leave it to the French to turn the unavoidable call-of-nature into an opportunity to ogle other people's packages. . .but I digress.
Unfortunately, I often have problems with Starbuck's restrooms. It's not a "handicapped" issue so much as a "suddenly-finding-yourself-at-an-unknown-place-and-time" thing. For instance, this time I entered the restroom to find yet another wide plain, framed in the distance by a towering ice sheet, rather than a toilet. And since I also had just stepped calf deep into a mushy manure mound, I knew the obligatory Mastodons were close at hand. Wishing their pooh wasn't always so close at foot, I gingerly extracted my legs, found a conveniently bushy fern and transacted my personal business. . .all the while praying I could find the door again.
If I had a dollar for every time I've rinsed Mammoth pooh off my legs in a Starbuck's uni-sex restroom washbasin, my Croc would be so stuffed with $100 bills there wouldn't be room for my right foot. Actually this wasn't as bad as the time with the Brontosaurus. . .imagine belly-flopping into a meadow muffin the size of a Cooper Mini. And this time I was able to scoot right back to normal because a helpful monkey-thing was holding the door for me (I hoped he'd also been gentleman enough not to peek at me behind the fern). I tipped him a five anyway. After thoroughly rinsing my legs in Mr. Trump's fanciest fountain, I reclaimed my seat and sipped a refreshing Starbuck's beverage while analyzing the fashion prowess of the bistro's clientele.
I'd just spied a pair of Crocs go by in a luscious new hot-magenta color when a stranger plopped down beside me and winked. If I had a dollar for every time talking to a stranger at Starbuck's had led to something really weird, I'd need a branch bank in my left Croc to stow the extra 100's. But then I had spent the prior night in a tizzy drinking cheap scotch on a dirty linoleum floor while fretting about a recent investment in Bear Sterns (that's the last time I invest based on pillow talk from a hedge fund guy) so I was grateful for a little company. In the event, it turned out we had lots in common. . .I anticipate graduating from an Ivy League school, he went somewheres else. . .I'll be a lawyer, he's an engineer. . .I like Starbuck's coffee, he doesn't.
Actually, we were totally different EXCEPT for a shared passion for "Women Behind Bars" movies as typified by those 1930's Barbara Stanwyck films that Turner Classic Movies shows all the time (in case your Forum readers don't know the inside dope, the particularly scruffy women smoking cigars in those films are lesbians).
My new friend was older than me, with a trim physique (nicely muscled but not bulky) from lots of swimming and playing in the surf with a Frisbee all summer. Also, he was incredibly witty in an easygoing, self-effacing way -- And extremely humble. I quickly surmised he was a tiger with the lights off. . . but also gentle and sympathetic, willing to talk about feelings and fashions once the heavy rogering was done.
We talked for a long while -- he was so entertaining that time became meaningless for me. Next to my father (who by the way is NOT popular fiction writer, Stephan King), he was the most fantastic man I've ever known. . .And I found his profound humility romantically endearing. Well into my third coffee, I suddenly remembered about the "Chicks in Prison" film festival in the Village featuring, among others, the classic 30's prison film, "Ladies They Talk About." When I mentioned it, he said he'd love to go with me. So needless to say we had a marvelous afternoon and evening together. . .and an even better night.
BUT I could NEVER share the private and intimate details of what happened after we got back to my place with the demented wackos reading your magazine.
Sincerely,
Ginger Sue Mullins, P.C.
P.S. OH!!! (lol) I almost overlooked the whole point of writing this letter, to tell your Forum readers about my wildly bizarre experience that day. . .the type of thing everyone's dying to read about in your magazine!!!!
Well, before going to the film festival, my new friend said he had to check the appreciation of Apple stock he'd astutely acquired in 1983 so we arranged to meet again later for lunch at the great Italian place a couple blocks over across the street. After he left, I stayed a while to finish my coffee then got up and headed for the exit. I know no one will believe this actually happened, but as I approached the door this scruffy, mouth-breathing guy chewing gum opened it for me and waited for me to pass through -- Can you believe it??? He had Bronx written all over him AND he was polite, even gentlemanly.
I was floored and knew, then and there, I must share that incredible experience with your readership.
Tootles...GSM"
Dear Penthouse Forum,
I confess to being, from the age of 12, an avid reader of letters to the Penthouse Forum who often has doubted such improbably lascivious stories possibly could be true. My Internet friend, a shrewd and intelligent gentleman, says the letters are composed by crack teams of certifiably celibate writers working round-the-clock in 8-hour shifts and cites Jon Stewart and Jim Cramer as famous people who started that way. But now, after my own recent experience, I no longer have doubts. . .such escapades DO happen to ordinary Joe's like me -- every day. Even sometimes twice a day.
Therefore, I'm writing to share my own incredible recent experience with your Forum readers. And as unlikely as it may sound; I assure you every word is absolutely true.
The day started like most others with the sun peeking from the east precisely at dawn in a totally unremarkable way with no portent of future events. I stirred from a satisfyingly sound slumber nestled in a comfy cocoon of silken covers piled deep on a soft, yet fully supportive mattress. On first glance at my surroundings one might have thought it strange that everything was pink. . .but then it is my favorite color, and I was after all in my own bed where the evening before I'd drifted into a peaceful sleep while rereading "Sophie's World." So nothing remarkable so far.
Firmly re-centered in my own world after a couple blinks, I hopped from bed to start yet another "first day in the rest of my life" -- took a shower, did my hair and put on my face (to use the totally gross idiom). While dressing I nearly went nuts looking for my favorite bra and panty set (I believe every day must start on a solid foundation) until I remembered getting an interstellar email on my iPhone from Grandma saying she'd popped in yesterday from Sirius -- actually the transporter makes more of a buzzy "zip" noise -- to borrow it.
My old granny -- who's 30,021; going on fifteen -- sometimes may be a smidge adolescent but is loads of fun. . .Only don't cross her cause she'll tell you to go to Hell; then make you long to be there.
And I can assure your Forum readers that having an ancient Cro-Magnon granny who lives in a time-stasis so she's still nearly your same age and size sometimes can be an incredible pain. Sure she's got loads of Fendi and Prada to share, but so far the outfit exchange has gone only one way and she has an insatiable appetite for my beloved Victoria's Secret lingerie. Worse, a few months ago she just got her tits "done" in a BIG way so now the bras come back all baggy.
I also might add that my new iPhone is GREAT. . .I love it. But I don't love it like this one woman I know of who ELOPED with hers, settled with it in a bungalow on the Spanish coast and raised a big pod of Borg-like kids with her brains and its build. Weird huh?
Anyways, I settled on enveloping my privates in a different Victoria's Secret intimates set (the shear panties felt especially delicious against my freshly hot-waxed flesh), topped my day's outfit off with a Nanette Lepore Ruched Corset Top (in black) and Tulip-Print Skirt off the rack from Neiman Marcus, slipped my feet into some darling hot-pink Crocs (my fav.) and made my exit for a refreshing walk on Manhattan's sunny streets. Of course by "walk", I mean I took a taxi. And by "sunny", I mean shadowy.
Nonetheless, I arrived at my destination -- the Starbuck's at Trump Tower -- full of vim, vigor and zest for Life; blissfully in Grace and at Peace with all aspects of the world (except those parts that ever vexed me. . .you listening, Cornell??). I ordered my usual, paying with a 100 dollar bill I always keep in my right Croc, found a comfy chair that went well with my outfit and, given my prior experience with Starbuck's, observed the tide of humanity (and others) with a warily watchful eye. After an unusually placid twelve minutes with no hallucinations, fits or out-of-body experiences, I decided to hazard a trip to the Starbuck's unisex restroom. Just to clarify (though surely everyone knows) this unisex restroom isn't one of those creepy places like in France where strange women and men stand together and pee in the same dingy trough. Rather it is just a room either a man or woman can use, solo. Leave it to the French to turn the unavoidable call-of-nature into an opportunity to ogle other people's packages. . .but I digress.
Unfortunately, I often have problems with Starbuck's restrooms. It's not a "handicapped" issue so much as a "suddenly-finding-yourself-at-an-unknown-place-and-time" thing. For instance, this time I entered the restroom to find yet another wide plain, framed in the distance by a towering ice sheet, rather than a toilet. And since I also had just stepped calf deep into a mushy manure mound, I knew the obligatory Mastodons were close at hand. Wishing their pooh wasn't always so close at foot, I gingerly extracted my legs, found a conveniently bushy fern and transacted my personal business. . .all the while praying I could find the door again.
If I had a dollar for every time I've rinsed Mammoth pooh off my legs in a Starbuck's uni-sex restroom washbasin, my Croc would be so stuffed with $100 bills there wouldn't be room for my right foot. Actually this wasn't as bad as the time with the Brontosaurus. . .imagine belly-flopping into a meadow muffin the size of a Cooper Mini. And this time I was able to scoot right back to normal because a helpful monkey-thing was holding the door for me (I hoped he'd also been gentleman enough not to peek at me behind the fern). I tipped him a five anyway. After thoroughly rinsing my legs in Mr. Trump's fanciest fountain, I reclaimed my seat and sipped a refreshing Starbuck's beverage while analyzing the fashion prowess of the bistro's clientele.
I'd just spied a pair of Crocs go by in a luscious new hot-magenta color when a stranger plopped down beside me and winked. If I had a dollar for every time talking to a stranger at Starbuck's had led to something really weird, I'd need a branch bank in my left Croc to stow the extra 100's. But then I had spent the prior night in a tizzy drinking cheap scotch on a dirty linoleum floor while fretting about a recent investment in Bear Sterns (that's the last time I invest based on pillow talk from a hedge fund guy) so I was grateful for a little company. In the event, it turned out we had lots in common. . .I anticipate graduating from an Ivy League school, he went somewheres else. . .I'll be a lawyer, he's an engineer. . .I like Starbuck's coffee, he doesn't.
Actually, we were totally different EXCEPT for a shared passion for "Women Behind Bars" movies as typified by those 1930's Barbara Stanwyck films that Turner Classic Movies shows all the time (in case your Forum readers don't know the inside dope, the particularly scruffy women smoking cigars in those films are lesbians).
My new friend was older than me, with a trim physique (nicely muscled but not bulky) from lots of swimming and playing in the surf with a Frisbee all summer. Also, he was incredibly witty in an easygoing, self-effacing way -- And extremely humble. I quickly surmised he was a tiger with the lights off. . . but also gentle and sympathetic, willing to talk about feelings and fashions once the heavy rogering was done.
We talked for a long while -- he was so entertaining that time became meaningless for me. Next to my father (who by the way is NOT popular fiction writer, Stephan King), he was the most fantastic man I've ever known. . .And I found his profound humility romantically endearing. Well into my third coffee, I suddenly remembered about the "Chicks in Prison" film festival in the Village featuring, among others, the classic 30's prison film, "Ladies They Talk About." When I mentioned it, he said he'd love to go with me. So needless to say we had a marvelous afternoon and evening together. . .and an even better night.
BUT I could NEVER share the private and intimate details of what happened after we got back to my place with the demented wackos reading your magazine.
Sincerely,
Ginger Sue Mullins, P.C.
P.S. OH!!! (lol) I almost overlooked the whole point of writing this letter, to tell your Forum readers about my wildly bizarre experience that day. . .the type of thing everyone's dying to read about in your magazine!!!!
Well, before going to the film festival, my new friend said he had to check the appreciation of Apple stock he'd astutely acquired in 1983 so we arranged to meet again later for lunch at the great Italian place a couple blocks over across the street. After he left, I stayed a while to finish my coffee then got up and headed for the exit. I know no one will believe this actually happened, but as I approached the door this scruffy, mouth-breathing guy chewing gum opened it for me and waited for me to pass through -- Can you believe it??? He had Bronx written all over him AND he was polite, even gentlemanly.
I was floored and knew, then and there, I must share that incredible experience with your readership.
Tootles...GSM"
To Be Continued
