Categories: uncategorized
Date: 27 June 2005 20:57:47
Her name was Lola. She was wearing a light coloured jacket when I first saw her. She was at the library, amongst lots of others but keeping herself very much to herself. I could tell she was an introvert by her body language - she was like a closed book! 'I've met her type(face) before', I thought to myself. I took her home and before I knew it I was under the covers between her covers. Before long her spine was starting to loose all that tension and regain some flexibility and suppleness. The gentle, unfolding undulations of her mid-section held me captive as I ran my fingers over the whiteness of her lines. The roundness of her full-stops begged me to go further. Before too long the mid-section gives way to the wild, twisting, violent convulsions of her climax. Then tired eyes, slumber and the realisation that even now our time is running out. Morning, and the last goodbye, the drive to her place, the cold bureaucratic bleep of the bar-code scanner on her tattooed rear and fragile memories. Maybe Roland Barthes was right about the pleasure of the text being the greatest bliss.
http://www.ocelotfactory.com/hoban/lola.html