Random Frivolity: An Angie & Ella Weblog

by Angie & Ella & Guests

Angie & Ella and their friends share excerpts from emails, snippets of adventures, assorted rants and raves, idle whirls of thought; they trade gossip, advertise preferences, proffer advice, praise and chide and tease.

Angie & Ella are second year associates at a midtown Manhattan law firm. They are now starring in their very own epistolary novel. For more information click: HERE


22ND FRIVOLITY (On Maturity, or the Lack Thereof)

Posted by Steven (from an email to Caroline, second year law student (cc: Angie & Ella)): So, Caroline, some imbecile said you were immature? Well, so what? I've been told that zillions of times, and wear those words like a badge of honor! Yup, I have a few thoughts on that score! It's absolutely true I often behave like a child: I do so gleefully -- defiantly! Here's my theory: if one behaves like a child, then it follows that one also has the emotional freshness and health and vitality of a child. In fact, I consider it my duty as a human being to avoid so-called responsible behavior like the plague.

Listen: at thirty-eight, I've already been around long enough to see firsthand what overmuch mature behavior does to people, how rapidly lecturing self-righteous types age! A mere gap of a year between sightings of such individuals can render them virtually unrecognizable: grossly expanded girths, formless and sagging faces, triple-chins where single chins once were -- the whole shape of their heads has changed! A dull flicker's displaced the gleam in their eyes; they have trouble walking up four flights of stairs; they complain about aging incessantly, say "Wait until you're my age; then you won't be so irreverent anymore!" when (ha ha!) I'm actually older than they are! It's happened far too many times to count!

Careful planners they are -- always think before speaking, lest they fluster an imbecile or two... Well, let me tell you something: nothing eats away at vitality more than being careful -- than in caring what others think! They even walk carefully, thoughtfully -- no quick darting on the sidewalk -- no rapid pace! They dislike people who blow by them on the sidewalk -- dislike energy! Energy's immature, dont'cha know?

I've had slobs glare at me simply because I effortlessly strode past them in the hallway at work! They don't like that my rapid pace makes them look like the life-sapped whiners that they are! "Oh, you ran up the stairs? Why don't you settle down?" Well, listen here, slush-ass: one look at you informs me it's poison to settle down! Follow your advice? end up as resentful and unhealthy as you? Just as soon as birds fly to the bottom of the sea!

To those who would seek to subdue and control me by trotting out snide comments concerning maturity (based on their horror of vitality, as well as resentment at my unconcealed indifference as to what they think), I say: suck dead horse ass, and wither and die! (And yup, true to form, certain stressed killjoys will point out it's highly unbecoming to make such statements: what do I care? Time's working overtime in stamping the passing of the hours on their soon-to-be triple-chinned faces -- their soon-to-be solid gray hair -- their soon-to-be lack of the ability to lift a leg higher than a chair!)

Be immature, Caroline! Play pranks galore, scamper about like an excited little girl! Avoid unhealthy people -- avoid careful people -- avoid boring people! Just laugh and laugh and laugh! And should some care-worn resentful bile-spewing twat venture to express disapproval at your behavior -- should she call you immature; then flick your hair back and wiggle your ass and dance a bit and laugh some more! Being healthy and happy is the best revenge!

Angie's reply to Steven (cc: Ella): So refreshing to see you're dispensing sage advice to the youngsters, Stevie! It's you who are the mature one, not those who blather about maturity! Being mature consists of living in such a manner that one's continuously bouncing off the walls with energy, eager to greet each new day and revel in being alive -- not in being a pusillanimous scaredy cat twit! A child's a person who hasn't been swindled by civilization into being terrified of having fun, and true wisdom consists of remaining a child all one's life! Some people cease to be children before they turn twelve, and that's their loss; others giggle and play all their life long, and that's their strength! Obviously, the former resent the superior health and well-being of the latter, seek to reign them in with, "Why can't you be more mature?" or "Learn to accept responsibility!" or "You need to lose the little girl giggle, if you want people to take you seriously!" or any other pathetic show of shoddy jealousy!

Why should I fail to be joyful because some killjoy's frowning at me? Why should I fail to flaunt my hot-assed figure because a fattie's looking me up and down with scorn? These people busy themselves with judging others because they detest themselves: that's their problem, not mine! I'm not going to cater to their alignment with death and decay!

Ella and I were having a dandelion blossom battle on the lawn in Bryant Park last September during lunch hour -- scampering about on hands and knees, picking them as quickly as we could, flinging them in each other's hair, giggling ourselves dizzy: good clean fun! Plus, of course (tee hee!), teasing the boys with our dancing hemlines -- now revealing nearly all of a thigh, now sliding back to cover to our knees; nor to forget the tops of our dresses periodically hanging down, providing breasts-snug-in-half-cups shots; and the whole laughing frenetic girly thing, the peals of our mirth -- not all that different from a pillow fight in nighties! Plus the semi-transparency of our white summer dresses (mine floral patterned, Ella's polka dotted) didn't hurt either -- nice panty, brassiere, and tops-of-stockings lines!

Yes, two gainfully employed attorney girls behaving like ten year olds -- keeping our complexions fresh, muscles limber and exercised, emotions fluid and fun! Helping ourselves to heaps of well-being whilst providing free entertainment!

Ha ha ha! Ella, you were so divine with the yellow flowers in your black as night locks! I couldn't stop laughing...

And then, when we're done and stand and smooth our dresses down, remove the blossoms from our hair, are merrily prancing back to the office, what happens? Some furrowed brow slob of a sloppy hairdo tourist -- offending all eyes with tacky acid wash jeans (barely containing her flaccid ass!) and ghastly faded orange sweatshirt -- crosses her arms across her chest, puffs herself up in a shoddy intimidation stance, says with supremely ridiculous conceit, "I would think you'd have the decency to act your age!"

Well, the sight of this overweight and badly dressed visitor puffing herself up as if she's the end-all and be-all of authorities on proper conduct... We stop with mouth's agape, just looking at her, for a few moments (I was about to pinch myself to make certain it wasn't an absurd dream!); then... Oh, I just burst out laughing!

Then Ella says, "If we acted our age, we might end up looking like you, and I'd rather be dead!"

And, guess what? No comeback's forthcoming! The fun-hating thing just stares! Hell, as stiff with regard to repartee skills as she is with moving about! She can't believe her arms-across-chest judgmental garbage hasn't succeeded in making us feel ashamed, doesn't know what to say!

So, yes, Ella and I will continue to behave like lil' girlies for as long as we live, lest we start to acquire some of tourist slob's physical and emotional flaccidity! She was probably only in her late thirties, for God's sake! What a disgrace to healthy living!

What will be forever lost on such emotionally rancid excuses for human beings is that true maturity consists of remaining limber in all respects, and not allowing the living dead to drag one down to their level of misery!

Long live the playfulness and delirium that quickens one's wit and keeps one's body limber! Hallelujah hilarity!

Ella's reply to Steven and Angie: Yes, Stevie and Angie, long live the irrepressible liveliness that annoys responsible people, causes them to screw their faces up and spout nonsense! They look supremely ridiculous when seeking to rein us in! Fundamentally lazy and phlegmatic, they only pay attention to others when others are giving the lie to their dead dispositions with gleeful unbridled silliness!

Ha! Who's the most aligned with life, one who races about giggling or one who stands there glaring at the one who's giggling? And wherefore the glares? It's jealously! -- the jealously of those who've fallen by the waysides of nature, and fumble through life resenting those who haven't! -- jealousy that seeks to conceal its motives by dreaming up abstractions such as immaturity! (Alright, so you've already said the same thing: it's just so much fun to have a turn at thumbing my nose at the tedious drones of this world!)

But, Stevie, I gather your friend Caroline was subjected to an unpleasant experience, and lacks the perspective that we have? Law school can be a time when one's very vulnerable to life's naysayers! All the constant cramming to avoid being swamped by the class load, and pressure to excel so's to land spots in the top tier firms! Yes, it becomes tempting to believe one must become a dour killjoy, kiss so-called childish impulses good-bye! I was there, and I understand! (Me a -- ha ha! -- veritable nun in LS, as you two still (highly flatteringly!) refuse to believe!)

Well, I say we -- the four of us -- return to the scene of the crime! Yes, introduce Angie and I to Caroline -- arrange a get-together, say we're going to assist her in righting the wrong that's been done her high spirits! Oh, we won't get her in trouble (if it's a prof that chided her, for instance): Angie and I will be dressed ultra professionalissimo, stylishly corporate from our hair-in-buns to our closed-toe pumps! We'll bandy about where we work, allude to high profile deals, rub it in while giggling our lil' heads off! We'll heap plenty of disrespectful innuendo on the offending party while letting it be known and seen Caroline has friends in high places! Oh, we must! It's our duty to keep the flame of fun alive in the best and brightest, arm them with the perspective they need to survive LS without being turned into frightened humorless toe-the-lines!

Not that I'm knocking LS, mind you -- it's given me focus, discipline, a fine career, and independence in the most glorious city on the face of the earth! And, judging by what you wrote to her, Caroline's a bright one destined for the same! It's our duty to give back, and she'll be a credit to her school! On her terms!

Ha ha, I haven't met Caroline yet but I already like her; and it burns me up that she's been wounded by an idiot blathering of immaturity; and I just feel an overwhelming desire -- a mommy impulse -- to arm her to the teeth! She'll learn to laugh at and pity such clowns, and become adept at dissecting their motives, and won't be dispirited on account of them any more!

All right, enough! Arrange it, Stevie dear; and then we'll have a high ol' time while doing a good deed -- saving a soul!

*     *     *


Posted by Ella (from an email to Angie & Steven): Well, now you've set me off! Music, sweet music! What would the world be without it? A very dull and empty and dismal place, that's what! Meaning: now I've got to do a music appreciation thing too! So here goes:

If I lapse into a shameful state of indifference, or am out-and-out depressed, I can flick on the mp3 player and immediately recover my good spirits by inundating the room with the divine tones of - say - Mozart's Jupiter Symphony, or Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries, or Chopin's Preludes, or Prokovief's Romeo and Juliet, or anything by Monteverdi, Byrd, Campra, Charpentier, Purcell, or... Well, how can I begin to list all the music that's capable of flowing through my nerves like warm electricity, lifting me into blitheness, making me giddily thankful I'm a creature alive upon this earth?

The motion of emotion can be captured in music; the endless shifting of our moods - patterns of our nerve-pulsations - can be echoed in repeating themes of the musical scale; a high note floating above a lower key rumble can mirror imagination's ceaseless efforts to carry us above day-to-day routine! Music's a miracle drug that sweeps through my veins and tingles my nerves and lifts my spirits, such that I'm transported outside the boundaries of my senses and united with a greater whole!

Music's an aural architectural wonder that displaces the nothingness of the air, infuses dead silence with pictures and feeling, charges the atmosphere with sensual depth - an emotion-heightener, catalyst of the imagination! Music's immersion in tantalizing suggestions of sensations I can't put my finger on, a cascade of blurred snippets of images that may or may not belong to lost memories - hints of infinity, a tease! Music never fails to lift the commonplace towards a boundless world!

I often play requiem masses while getting pretty for a date. Am I a gloomy girl? do I habitually smother myself in the anti-color black, layer on gobs of pale makeup, mope about aping melancholic frames of mind? Hardly! - I couldn't be paid oodles of money to deck myself out in drab gloom-girl getups, look like the unburied dead! So why requiem masses? Simple: the original intent of a requiem mass, lost to the present-day sensibility, was to perform an uplifting piece of sheer beauty at funerals for the purpose of celebrating life and naysaying death! Une pompe funebre, composed to demonstrate that us mere mortals will not merely carry on in the face of death, but do so with joy swelling in our breasts! Requiem masses gloomy? Ha! The perception of gloominess is nothing but a modern guilt-by-association conceit! They were composed for and performed at funerals, so they're assumed to be gloomy, never mind that the music itself flagrantly contradicts such a perception! Modern presumption fails to take the stratagem of "masking death by its very representation" into account! Our materialistic civilization not merely takes everything at face-value, it seeks to imprison us in face-values! Surface appearances are extolled above emotional transcendence, and religious rapture's categorized as delusional aberration! If something can't be packaged and sold, it's as good as nonexistent! Our consumerist society seeks to addict us to useless dreck because that's where the money is! But music's refuge in intangibility - sound can neither be seen, touched, tasted, nor smelled! Hearing's the ghostly sense - the otherworldly sense - the perception-of-temporality sense! Hearing's the sense that best whirls us from the feel of ourselves in our flesh and opens the portals of infinity!

So there I am in the bathroom, surrounded by mirrors and bright lights - toying with nail polish and makeup, trying on different dresses, doing my hair this way and that (If a date isn't motivation for experimentation with self-presentation then it's not a date worth going on!) - and the movements of a requiem are electrifying the air, pulsing in my blood, setting my skin ashiver... Well, it's often impossible to resist spreading a fluffy beach towel on the tiling and lying atop it, stretching and twisting, breathing deeply, surrendering to the slipstream of nerve-caressing notes! Yes, deep breathing and stretches: I'm doing yoga as - perchance? - it's the Sanctus that's engulfing me in shimmers and dissolving the walls! Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Domine Deus...! as I swirl free of my body, float above the floor! Hosanna in excelsis! as I swoon in joy while wide awake! And on through the Agnus Dei and Communion (lux perpetua luceat - may everlasting light shine!) and back again to the Intro (I always set the player on "Repeat"!), for another journey through the sequence of prayers of the ceremony as I become the stuff of prayer inside and temporarily relinquish my ties to the temporal world!

Ha! There's a reason why I'm often an hour or more late for dates! I've ended up experimenting with nail sparkle combinations for over an hour while thinking it was only about twenty minutes! Time ceases to exist when a requiem's chorus surges behind the interplay of soprano and tenor and countertenor; when the tremulous beauty of the tones whisks my imagination into pictures of vast steppes, silver rivers, cloud forests on jagged cliffs, or enraptured contemplation in quiet churches in ancient towns! Or into pictures of illict assignations on palace balconies, masked balls in Baroque courtyards, frolic on canopied beds in bright anterooms a la Boucher!

Yes, primping for a date with a requiem playing is both sensory orgy and religious trance, and sometimes it's more memorable than the date itself! Anticipation, after all, can be a tough act to follow!

*     *     *


(As Angie, Ella, and Steven partake of refreshment in a downtown tea room, the following conversation occurs.)

Angie: Uhmmm... White tea, with a vanilla bean stir-stick: the divine beverage stirs me all tingly, such that I feel like causing some randy stir-up somewhere very soon!

Steven (with mock surprise): But how can that be? As it says on this box (he takes a box of tea from her shopping bag): "White tea is like a cup of serenity itself...with its delicate aroma and pure, radiating flavor, white tea has been used for centuries by the Chinese in the most formal tea ceremonies, and described as an almost spiritual experience."* I'm astounded such a beverage of peace and spiritual well-being inspires you with thoughts of mischief! I don't understand it at all!

*From a box of Clipper organic white tea, on the Web at: clipper-teas.com

Angie: Ha! You know very well why Ella and I adore Japanese tea rooms: 'tis so we can regather our forces for further romp-catting! The hushed and solemn atmosphere, whispered conversations as of people discussing secret things; scent of jasmine and rose, incense-infused air... In this temple of brass tabletops and jade carvings and muted light and tea we come to a standstill inside, the better to clear our heads of useless distraction and regain focus as regards our fondness for frolic!

Ella: Yes, the heavenly tea softly filters through our nerves and blossoms into a steady hum - surges into itchiness, desire! Tea's an aphrodisiac for us, sparks electricity! Plus there's the lavender oil I've applied to my throat and forehead that reminds me of, places me in touch with, the excitement and fire I feel following yoga class - all the tension wrung from my muscles in a vigorous sequence of stretching and balancing; all the energy unleashed, such that I'm lifted from the surface of existence, aswim in my innermost churnings of desire! Always, from a state of inner peace does desire flow most unimpededly!

Steven (again with mock surprise): Sipping tea? Yoga class? Again, I marvel at how the two of you extract hunger from communion with inner quietude! Aren't you being sacrilegious?

Angie: You're forgetting communion with inner quietude's an act of rebirth! Peaceful lounging in a tea room, or serene stretching in an incense filled yoga studio: as I've already said, these activities wash the cluttered surface of life from our senses, thereby uniting us with the surge of lust! 'Tis a miraculous contradiction: renewed clarity and force of desire results from meditation!

Steven: Seems to me you're merely doing word-substitution now, instead of speaking rationally: where does meditation come into it?

Ella: As usual, you persist in intentionally being silly! Yoga begins with ten minutes of breathing exercises, to open up one's interior before the stretching begins, and ends with Savasana, or the corpse pose, whereby one lies on one's back and limply surrenders to the energy coursing through one. (Post-orgasm, in a way: it's always as if I'm floating above the floor, suspended somewhere inside my humming body!) And, when one rises from Savasana to greet the world again... God! One's so pure inside, united with one's depths... Well, if that isn't meditation, I don't know what is, and...

Angie (interrupting): Sweetie, we can allow this pest (she playfully swats Steven) to bait us all day, goad us into pointlessly explaining what he already knows, or we can get the hell out of here and do something about scratching our itches! So what do you say? Why don't we hop a cab up to the Carlyle for a flute of bubbly in the cafe, amuse ourselves by teasing the males with our hair routine?

Ella: By all means! 'Tis always fun to go to a refined frou-frou place with our hair pinned in buns, take turns undoing them for each other, and start fussing with the liberated locks!

Angie: It's the perfect excuse for us to neglect to notice our already high hemlines are riding up even higher! A crisscross of our legs here, flinging open of our legs there; and hemmy ends up well above our stocking tops!

Ella: Yes, all done in utter disregard as we busy ourselves making our hair perfect! Nothing like playing at naive whilst filling a place with sex emanations! Every hot blooded male ends up staring at us goo-goo and we're - ha ha! - simply two innocent hair-busy girls who are utterly unaware of it!

Angie: Plus the whole flinging of our hair about thing as its being combed! Every male, take my word for it, has a hair fetish - whether he's aware of it or not! Ella's dark waves and my chestnut curls in perpetual motion - being combed and tossed around, tied up only to be untied again! No male's immune!

Ella: We never can seem to get our hair how we want it; and so there's much tussle and bustle - giggling, squeals, and squirming! Another reason for us to be oblivious of treating half the room to panty shots!

Steven: Yes, very impressive! You get a roomful of men you don't care about salivating for you! What's the point? And, another thing: those that tease often end up being teased themselves: the forces you unleash can come back to bite you! I'm sure you'll be plenty hot and bothered afterwards, end up tasting of frustration!

Angie: Of course we get stimulated plain nuts! That's the whole point of doing it! It's impossible to inspire sex-hunger without coming under its influence ourselves! Teasing a roomful of strangers is pure aphrodisia, giddy foreplay! Ella and I get fired up, then duck into a doorway or traipse on home for cuddles on the couch!

Ella: Or, Stevie, you could meet us afterwards, assist with reintroducing us to serenity: how 'bout it?

Steven: Why don't I just come to the Carlyle with you?

Angie: No no no! You'd be quite superfluous! What would you do, sitting at the table while we carry on? You'd look like an idiot, plus put a damper on the other males' reactions! You'd throw the chemistry off!

Ella: Sorry, Stevie: the tidy-our-tresses game's for girls only! It's Angie and I communing with our femininity, and with each other - indulging in the exhibitionism that's second nature to us girls; giving into our instinct to unremittingly flirt, stir-up, tease! We thrill to the emotional motion of flashing games! 'Tis pure delight to lovingly conspire together, secretly laugh!

Angie: Just a pair of cuties out to hook some males with our fishing lure bodies - reel them into hankering for us, then cut them loose! Such catch-and-release games are a measure of how us girls stand in the natural scheme of things, a mirror in which we glimpse the extent of our skill at seduction and conquest; it's very important that we regularly confirm, via real life instances of males lusting after us, how appealing we are: we wilt without such feedback. Assorted judgmental fools will say such an activity's a shameful excursion into deception; it's not a nice thing, they'll point out, to misuse our God given attractiveness, take unfair advantage of the hankering males have for females to induce frustration in them; but, hey, too bad: it's part of being a girl.

Ella: As a matter of fact, nature demands that us girls constantly do trail runs of the art of seduction, keep our skills honed; that way, should a cataclysm befall our species and we happen to be among the survivors, we'll know how to quickly and efficiently go about inspiring male interest and getting ourselves fertilized in the interests of propagation. A cataclysm of such proportions may seem unlikely in this day, but for most of history it's been a reality - just think of the plague killing off a third of Europe's population. And who knows but that we're living a life of false security, with a new plague lurking around the corner? Nature's always with us; she demands we be prepared; she's not kind, she's efficient. So yes, Angie and I will continue to play our catch-and-release captivation games, bedevil males without mercy! And, if such a cataclysm does befall mankind and we happen to survive it, we'll be the first ones to get filled with the seeds of a new beginning! Ha! How's that for justifying the way we relentlessly toy with the boys?

Angie: Why bother with justifying? Toying with the boys happens to tingle us silly, and that's all the reason we'll ever need to indulge in it!

Steven: Fine, go play your tease-games! And, once you're done, I'll play some of my own when you're begging for ministration!

Angie: Begging? Why, you conceited, insulting, ill-mannered lout! (She playfully slaps him.) How dare you take an after-tease rendezvous for granted! How dare you presume Ella and I need you, when we're quite capable of settling one another down without you! Yes, newsflash! There's no need for you to be in the equation!

Ella: Yes, you've shown yourself to be very arrogant (And, perhaps, a wee bit jealous? How tawdry!), and so I rescind my invitation! Girls like us do not put up with ghastly male assumption! We belong to whomsoever we choose whensoever we choose, not the other way around!

Steven (in a tone of exaggerated courtliness): I beg your pardon, beauteous damsels, and ask your forgiveness! You're lovelier than the dawn of a spring morning - fresh as newly budded flowers, graceful as long grass asway in the breeze - and... God, I was unnerved by your extraordinary charm, and temporarily lost my manners! Of course, your regal bearing and breathtaking comeliness entitles you to on-my-knees supplication (he sinks to his knees) for your favors! Of course, I must declare my utter worthlessness, and hope you'll have pity on me! Of course, your flawless complexions and satin smooth skin entitle you to... My God! The two of you are twin Aphrodites risen from the foam of a restless sea! You're surrounded by the blinding light of angels who've deigned to pay us poor pathetic mortals a visit upon this dreary earth!

Angie (puffing herself up, haughtily tossing her head back): You've neglected to mention my new barrette!

Steven: How could I be so remiss? The twin rows of pearls upon the crescent of silver's truly a masterpiece! And, yet, the pearls pale against the clear crystal orbs of your eyes from which purity of spirit breathtakingly surges - orbs that hint of the very origin and mystery of life! A handful of jewels flung across the floor wouldn't distract from the brilliance of your vertigo-instilling eyes!

Ella (tweaking him on the forehead): You've overlooked my hair ribbon!

Steven: Such an imperceptive dolt I am! How could I fail to swoon at the sight of the crimson streamers, as vivid in hue as they are graceful in motion as they wisp about the back of your neck? And, yet, their grace is that of a crippled donkey when held up to yours! Your innate poise is such as would make a cat jealous! How can I describe the manner in which the way you reach for a glass and bring it to your lips - or simply incline your head - stirs me, makes me gasp with awe? The expression "symphony of motion" doesn't come close to doing your manner of movement justice!

Angie (to Ella): Think he's laid it on thick enough?

Ella (to Angie): As vain a female as I am, I think I might retch if he feeds me more syrup!

Steven: Are my ears lying to me? I thought I heard two females say they've had their fill of flattery! Is such a thing possible?

Angie: Oh, get off your knees!

Steven (standing): And now you two get up (he yanks them to their feet) and haul your asses (he swats the said asses) to the Carlyle, so you can get that hair-fussing-tease-game crap out of your system! I'm getting impatient!

Ella: My place at nineish, OK?

Steven (gesturing towards the exit):

Get thee gone, strumpets - I'll see you after:
We'll rustle 'n' tussle - die of laughter!

*     *     *


Posted by Steven (from an email to Angie & Ella): So, my darlings, how do two adult men - Byron and myself - sow utter chaos in a public place and get away with it? It's easy: all one needs is a spirited dog!

The dog in question's an English Setter, eleven months old: full grown size-wise, but still a puppy disposition-wise - slender, graceful of bearing, cute, a breed that's not often seen outside of dog shows. (The contract Byron signed with the breeder actually requires him to show the dog - a stipulation he's choosing to ignore. After all, what's the breeder, located in Vancouver, going to do about it? And, if it comes to that, forcing a dog as lively as an English Setter, originally bred for hunting, to endure the endless transport cages of the dog show circuit is a high crime!)

So on Labor Day Byron pops down for a visit from Westchester; we take the dog - named Zuke - to Central Park. From the moment we enter the park Zuke's straining at the leash, such that it's real work to keep him from yanking it from my grasp; when I release him behind the Met, he tears off towards Cleo's Needle, wildly darting hither and thither.

Yes, a full grown English Setter puppy: a beautiful creature to see when he's racing free! Zuke's on permanent overdrive, is faster than any other dog in the park; extremely playful, he buzzes other dogs, jumps on them, compels them to chase him; but none can catch him, or even come close.

Another quality of English Setter's is that they love people: Zuke's way of greeting people is to rear up on his hind legs and place his front paws on their chests, often rather abruptly.

But enough prelude - onto the real fun:

We stroll to the Great Lawn and, ignoring the signs that say dogs must be leased therein, allow Zuke to enter the great expanse unhindered. He tears across picnic blankets, spilling bowls and scattering plates; he jumps into the laps of people, kisses them with his big slobbery lips; he interferes with softball games - in one case enters the batter's box and knocks the catcher on his rear; in another case fields a hit in the outfield and races about in tight circles with the ball. And all the while Byron and I, making a show of actually trying to catch the dog and leash him, are having a high ol' time screaming "Zuke! Zuke!" at the top of our lungs.

Many of the people are laughing; others are simply watching with no discernable opinion; a minority are plainly annoyed; but these latter dare not openly express their annoyance because they'd instantly be branded "dog haters" and attract unkind glances! Zuke's a cute graceful child-dog romping without a care in the world: no one's going to voice opposition, as long as Byron and I make a show of trying to catch him, all the while dispensing apologies here and there.

But here's our secret: as long as Byron and I are in Zuke's vicinity, he's not going to come to us; as long as we're closeby it's all one huge game to him, regardless of whether we're screaming his name! It's our canine and human agreement: dog romps and disrupts everything, we pretend to try to catch him while counting on him to pay us no mind!

We chased Zuke about the Great Lawn for full on twenty minutes; he brought several softball games to a standstill, rumpled picnic blankets galore, teased plenty of leashed dogs, even snatched a few morsels of food, and: no one was openly cursing us! Because, after all - as one woman said: "Such a cute puppy-wuppy!" Ha ha ha!

At last, we exited the Great Lawn's south side and headed back towards the Met and Zuke followed - which, of course, we could've done from the beginning, had we wanted to pass on enjoying ourselves!

You've heard the saying about dogs having similar dispositions to their masters? Such is certainly true of Byron and Zuke: they're both happy go lucky pranksters!

Another thing Byron told me about the breeders: they're often exceptionally neurotic women with no man in their life; they're all, without exception, rather insistent (It's also in the contract, along with the "must show the dog" clause.) about male dogs being neutered! Is Byron going to castrate a fellow male simply because it's in a contract drawn up by a sex-deprived old maid? Not likely!

*     *     *


Posted by Angie (from an email to Ella): As for what followed: Ella, it's beyond me how I happened to think of the zoo as we were strolling away. What can I say? A picture of the zoo popped into my head from out of nowhere and I instantly wanted to go there; and the moment I wanted to go to the zoo, a polar bear -- huge, powerful, muscular -- materialized before my mind's eye, and I had to see one! And more: I suddenly knew I wanted to crest while staring at a polar bear! And I well recall what you first thought for a few moments when I revealed my wish, and you were completely wrong! It was not -- and never could be -- any stupid fascination with species barrier sex! What an insult! Such a thing never entered my head, and I'm amazed and distressed you could ever think it would, even for a few moments! Copulation with an animal? Sick! The sudden desire to flood while observing a polar bear... It was an admiration of Mommy Nature's craftswomanship thing, and nothing else! Think about it: such a fierce animal draped in all that beautiful soft ghost white fur! Such a miraculous manifestation of savagery united with grace! I reiterate: it was an appreciation of nature thing, and I don't understand why you didn't grasp that right away! The same as when I stroke myself during thunderstorms: all that stimulating power and chaos in the air!

Anyway (Having got that lil' reproach, which you richly deserve, off my chest!): all the way to the zoo I'm a giggling little girl, delighted beyond measure, like as not to jump out of my skin for joy; and why not? I'm going to be seeing the polar bears soon! What's not to love about that? The predators are, by far, the most popular animals! There's something spiritually uplifting about seeing one of nature's living masterworks -- the sheer strength and unrepentant viciousness of such a creature, joined to more innate grace and balance than a prima donna ballerina could acquire in a lifetime of dancing! Just being in the proximity of such an animal's a privilege! Yes! A wild creature, that knows nothing of civilization's inherent restriction; that gives us an inkling of our primal origins, takes us back to sensations we barely remember, hints at the awe that must have been a part of every waking minute of a typical human day! Imagine a time when being devoured by a predator was a very real danger -- when huddling about fires at night was necessary to prolong one's life! It's something of that distant history of ours that comes swirling back to me when I see a large predator, and that excites me in a very pleasant way!

(Of course, the big cats are the most perfect animals in existence! If they had tigers, lions, leopards, or jaguars at the park zoo I'd certainly be making a beeline for them instead of the bears; but one makes due with what's available; and, hey, a polar bear's quite suitable as a stand in -- very much so! Yes, Honey: cat lover me had to stick this parenthetical paragraph in!)

By the time we arrive at the zoo I'm going out of my mind with lust while laughing -- I don't even remember going through the turnstile! Yes, I'm so silly confused at first that I yank you to the lower level, the water tank view… There's a bear in the water, swimming: see his paddling paws, claws cleaving the water! See his long fur fluff like feathers, flow backwards and forwards like seaweed! I'm gasping immediately, would dearly love to press myself against the glass and squirm as your fingers dance up inside me; but it's far too risky as far as being found out goes, plus children are nearby! Nope, I'm not going to do anything remotely naughty in the presence of children!

So to an unfrequented pocket of the upper level we go, really the only choice; and, hey, it's even the best choice, because another bear's right there, clawing at the ground close to the barrier! Wow! The nearness of the bear buckles my knees, such that I've got to press them against the glass to steady myself; and, of course, you're pressing against me, supporting me. Yes, the powerful limbs -- huge scraping claws -- of the bear! What strength ripples in the beast's muscles; and what ripples instantly tighten my tummy, pull me into the ebb and flow rhythm of rising towards a flood! Authentic wonder grips me; I'm being vouchsafed a hint of the animal view of things -- the bear's utter indifference to human law and order, allegiance only to kill or be killed by starvation! Yes, the whole untamed world of slaughter, feast, and thrive; the whole of nature's way, predator and prey: it all comes swirling in on me at the sight of the bear and flings me well on my way towards communion via orgasm!

Good thing we bought those rain slickers (They're not even bad looking: pale blue!) off the sidewalk vendor before hitting the park: such effective veils! One's tied around my waist to conceal our lustful doings; it drapes to my ankles. I'm full out leaning against the glass, almost seeming to be suspended in air, rubbing against it and breathing deep with you snuggles against me; then you slip your hand inside my dress, place your palm squarely on my muff, commence to vibrate softly: such a pleasure cup of a hand! Such maddeningly subdued foreplay! Such gentle quiver-shivers, crazy stimulating in their restraint!

And you know my body so well, read my moods as if they're you're own! You do a sudden swift entry with a finger (Ooooo! 'Tis like being pierced with wet flames!), such that… Well, I couldn't imagine your timing being better! I couldn't imagine being otherwise treated to that hint of a swoon, verging on vertigo, that's pure freedom! (And, hey, maybe it only lasts a second or two? The world can be reflected in a raindrop; infinities of sensation can be crammed into an instant!) I'm continuing to admire the musculature of that mighty predator when you work another finger inside me and go for the deep, do some maddening slither-slide up and down my inner wall...

Yes, I'm still staring at the bear, watching him scoop huge pawfuls of dirt -- watching the strength course through his massive ghostly white predator's body… Ha, would you believe it? I'm suddenly envisioning myself being torn to shreds with those claws, mauled by the gaping maw of his mouth, crunched by his jaw and teeth, swallowed down! My God, girl! The instant I envision that, I'm putty in your hand! All resistance dissolves; I'm a leaf on a stream being carried along by its current! My ankles turn to rubber and I'm winding an arm about you to remain standing when I flood! I'm still staring at the bear as I crest and gasp and cry! My eyesight's vanishing in the great bear's solid white coat of fur; I've slipped halfway to the ground...

Ha! What the hell's the matter with me? I envision myself in the enclosure with the bear -- see one of his massive paws tear at my waist, nearly cut me in two -- see him crush my chest with his mouth -- see my arms and legs flail as blood spills -- see him mouthing me -- swallowing me -- and am instantly swept into orgasm, doubled over with a flurry of contractions! Suddenly crouching on the ground in blissful agony with you beside me, caressing my face -- feeling pleasingly shattered, limp, dazed!

Fully seated on the pavement now with you tending to me, I'm attracting stares. How many people are nearby? They're all a blur… And then I hear you saying in energetic tones: "She's afraid of the bear…is facing off with her fear! She was attacked by a bear when a little girl, in Yellowstone...the attack haunts her...she can't sleep! She came here to confront the childhood attack...her therapist suggested it! She's trying to get rid of the nightmares! Please! She'll be alright…"

Very good, Ella! Such quick thinking! I'm sitting on the pavement with legs extended -- trembling, flustered, joyful -- and hasten to make your words more believable: I emphatically stare at the bear, flail my hands before my face, gasp, shudder! Interesting how the terror act bears a distinct resemblance to the symptoms of la petite mort! Nothing like ascribing different causes to similar symptoms and throwing people off the scent! Your emotional decoy, our opportunity to sham, is icing on the cake!

"She's had enough for one day," you say. "Her therapist says she won't be cured the first time...more visits are required...it's a long process of coming to terms with trauma. Thanks for your concern...we're going now. No, I can manage, thank you." And then you assist poor shattered me to my feet; I remember that our unfolded parasols were rolling around in the breeze on the pavement, really quite pretty: a helpful soul handed them to us.

As for the bear mauling picture that leapt into my head and sent me over the edge… All I can do is reiterate that nature's violent manifestations excite me. Thunderstorms, as I've said, excite me: I like to stroll onto my terrace during them, get soaked by the rain as the lightning flashes and thunder cracks; and hurricanes too, like the one in the Bahamas last year: that relentless rhythm visible in the steady forceful sway of the palms, the sheets of rain and tidal swell and necessity of boarding up the windows of the cottage when the high winds came! Yes, all manner of natural fury thrills me: the attacked by the bear visualization was simply more of the same! Any suggestion of being immolated by Mommy Nature, returned to the primal churn -- cycle of life -- from whence I came! It's a religious thing! It's the admission that I'm a puny being surrounded by forces greater than myself that I'll never understand; plus it's the knowledge that I'm lucky to be healthy and living in comfort, and that I don't have much time to enjoy it before death whisks me to who knows where! It's heightened appreciation of the gift of life!

*     *     *


Posted by Angie (from an email to Ella): Yes, I'm a wee bit miffed at you, Ella! You say all highfalutin'ly, "Please do not, henceforth, commit me to such things without consulting me first!" And you say that because? Oh, right: it's about us not being able to lounge about like lazy slushheads in the park! Ha, as if lying lethargic on the lawn would've been preferable to our scrumptiously devious doings at Belinda's party; preferable to playing under-the-table games during dinner as the proper Park Avenue people droned on concerning upgrading the security in their building (pure paranoia), the necessity of informing some tenants they shouldn't be allowed to throw stuff down the trash chutes after 10:00 PM because it's noisy (pure petty prissiness), the fascinating dilemma of whether to place decorative or practical use pillows on their couches (pure pathetic)!

Come on! The contrast between the Park Avenue stiffs and us made for a high ol' time; nor to forget Martin and Marcia were there too! To see Marcia doing her little French girl lost act when she isn't even half-fluent made me so proud! Our star pupil's taken to the playact-for-kicks manner of life like an eagle to the wild blue yonder! (And playacting-for-kicks is the wild blue yonder, isn't it? It's the reobtainment of the emotional freedom of movement that's rightfully ours, the reclamation of multifaceted experience in a society that seeks to repress it!) 'Twas belly-achingly funny when she told the dullard duo, Roddington and Flangston, she didn't speak English (Non Eenglais!) and they were hovering close to her all night, doing stupid babytalk (As if babytalk instantly makes a given language comprehensible!) and feeding her at the buffet, competing for the privilege of spooning beluga into her mouth! Yeah, they were very comfortable around her, although self-conscious with every other woman. Why? Language barrier, that's why! They're terrified of women who can talk! If you ever want weak-willed dolts clinging to you, then pretend to be foreign! They'll come running like they're lost in a desert and you're a carafe of water! They're very desperate to feel manly, and they can only feel manly around a woman if they think she's dependent upon them for translation purposes! Language barrier allows them to persuade themselves a woman's utterly helpless, nor does it hurt that they feel she'll be unable to ascertain they're idiots as readily as their countrywomen do!

So Marcia's doing the faux Frenchette thing, making the cutest rolling-of-eyes faces and mocking gesticulations whenever Roddy and Flangy turn their backs. Martin and you and I are mingling, albeit staying together so's we can sneak tush grabs in…

Hmmmm… What should I cover first? Or, rather, what should I limit myself to covering? Because, for sure, 'twould be impossible to seek to tell of all our doings, so thick and fast did they spin into being to keep us short-attention-spanned pussycats amused! Yes, I know: I'm thinking aloud here (Or, shall we say, thinking with the keypad?) when I ought to walk away for a bit and then sit down fresh, resume as soon as I've selected a direction to go in...

Ella, it's nearly two hours later. Why the interval of absence? 'Tis because I curled up to catnappy on the couch: this kitty was in need of some purrilicious R&R!

Anyway, here's my favorite part of the party: we've just sat down to dinner, the table's set in showing-off-our-opulence obviousness. The silverware and china set are, of course, from Southerly's -- came from an estate in Grenoble, host and hostess are careful to interject; likewise do they crow concerning the wine, from the cellar of a retired restaurateur in Brittany. Naturally, the Waterford's on display; and they just had to place a Tiffany table lamp in the center of things – quite silly considering there's a crystal chandelier (Crafted in Venice: where else?) suspended above. The napkin rings? Again, they absolutely must inform us of their origin, authentic Colonial, circa eastern Connecticut, mid eighteenth century. (Papers bear it out: the genealogy of napkin rings!) The napkins? Linen that Grandmama obtained on a trip to Nepal sixty years ago, when she was a "free spirit" (some requisite "tee-hee"s here). Oh, I don't know why I'm going through the list, detailing the props of their conversation piece routine (A bit awkwardly rehearsed, what? They certainly could use some coaching on how to less obviously monopolize the conversation for the purpose of blabbing of their trinkets!): maybe it's because, in a twisted and self-contradictory type of way, I sort of liked the trinkets. After all, if people are going to make some trinkets the star attraction of a social gathering, the least they can do is have museum quality stuff! It's a lot better than those pathetic guys who expect us to gasp in amazement at all their on-the-forefront-of-development technology crap!

That's the scene and I'm getting pretty antsy, feeling stifled. Being cute attorneys at a prestigious firm is a fine thing and it's why you and I have been invited (and why they allowed me to bring Marcia and Martin), but our designated role is to be ornaments like the stuff on the table and, also, to be echoes -- as in repeating half the stuff they say with a tone of astonishment and intense interest, and doing it as questions: "What? They're colonial?"; "Your son's an executive at Piper?"; "Your grandmother lived in Nepal?" So we do the echo thing and are immediately thought of as being very astute, well-bred, and classy young women because of it; and we'll be invited to dinner parties again, count on it, precisely because we do the echo thing as well as it could possibly be done! And what is it about boring Park Avenue parties, anyway? Why are we at this one? Why are we deigning to humor host and hostess, outwardly be the nice lil' inoffensive good girls they want us to be? Why are we taking the trouble to pretend to be nothing more than ornaments and echoes so we'll be invited to more of these gatherings, even though they're insanely tedious? I'll tell you why: it's because it's a social trophy to add to our collection! After all, it is something to have slipped into a Park Avenue exclusivity circle; and it's especially something to have done it when we think it's nonsense! Yes, it's an indication of our social dexterity -- a nice lil' "Been there; done that!" It's also useful in making others rabidly jealous, as when we casually let it drop at work -- to assorted socially aspirational wannabe's -- that we wasted a Friday on a tiresome Park Avenue do! It's like the museum quality dreck on their table: Park Avenue is authentic hoity-toity, instead of the mere imitation of it! So, yeah, I want these invitations -- I'll set aside a Friday for Park Avenue anytime; because, though a bore, it's the upscale of the upscale! Because, if you think about it, a diamond's really just a useless rock -- it only has value because people have chosen to confer value upon it; but I'll take a useless rock of a diamond anytime! And so I'll take a Park Avenue dinner party anytime too! And if you really need some perspective: there was a girl at school from Norman, Oklahoma, daughter of a cop. She met a boy; he happened to be from a wealthy family. He liked her, invited her to one of these Park Avenue things. She told of it at school the next day, completely innocent of it's having the remotest thing to do with social stratum and potential connections. Girls crowded near, with a mixture of jealousy and fascination on their faces. One of the girls said: "It's a triumph for you!" That girl was me, and I meant it; and I could see from the gleaming eyes of the others that they knew it was true. That made quite an impression on me: I've wanted to crack into Park Avenue ever since! It's stupid, I know -- but it's a useful sort of stupidly to have; because, again, never forget: what's just a rock can also be a diamond! And, besides, once one cracks into Park Avenue, one sees it's no big deal -- that it's just a fantasy -- that it's false value conferred upon something that's actually quite ordinary; but few people get to have true perspective like that! True perspective is worth something: it allows one to understand what's authentically important, as in having a good time! And, believe it or not, Stevie shares this mania to crack into higher social realms: he once told me how he routinely attended crème de la crème fetes dans la seizieme a Paris. How did he do it? He rode there on the coattails of some actors from La Comedie Francaise; and he made his own mark, you may count on it, by pleasing some of those well bred Parisiennes!

So where was I? We're at dinner and being expected to be nothing but smiles and cutesiness, relegated to the role of ornament and echo, isn't something that'll suit my mischievous disposition for long! So I drop my napkin ring on the floor and bend to pick it up; then I flick it further under the table so's to have an excuse to crawl under to retrieve it and sneak a reach up your skirt...

*     *     *


Posted by Ella (from an email to Angie): We're alone in Central Park in the storm, bathed in light streaming through the glass doors in that niche near the Egyptian exhibit, between the walls of ivy? My dress is bunched at my neck, and I'm stark naked below? You're hard facing me like a fox snuffling in a burrow for prey? We're absolutely out in the open, for anyone to see should they come astrolling along the north walls of the Metropolitan Museum? All true and, at the same time, the likelihood of discovery is very small! How many people go for strolls in Central Park after midnight during storms? Apparently, next to none. Remember the riddle Stevie once posed for us? He said: "A friend and I once walked outside nonstop for over two hours after three in the morning in the center of Manhattan without encountering a soul: how did we do it?" Well, I thought he was having us on, as did you: it simply isn't possible to stroll about in our all-night town for two minutes without seeing someone else, much less for two hours, right? Wrong! Stevie said it happened because they were in Central Park during a rainstorm: not a single person was encountered! And so we really weren't anywhere near to being as reckless as it seemed! Not to suggest, though, that you and I don't have courage to burn: how many girls would dare go alone for sex out in the open in Central Park after midnight, whether aware of the rainstorm factor or not? How many girls would brave the chance, infinitesimal though it be, that someone would materialize in this minefield of a world to mar their fun?

Not that I didn't have an eye cocked for danger, Angie! Out of the corners of my all-gathering girl's eyes I was surveying the misty rain obscured near-horizon of the lawn: it comes so natural to us females, right? -- just like our hearing! Ha, men whisper in an adjacent room, convinced we can't hear them, and then we -- if we choose to -- astonish them by repeating their conversation verbatim! Men peer at us from around a corner or look us over from behind, and then are amazed when we turn to stare straight at them, indicating we know they've been appraising us! And to what do we owe these eye and ear skills? Why, first and foremost, it's to be aware of distress signals sent by our infant offspring -- an imploring glance for assistance, the slightest alteration in breathing: it's a legacy of motherhood, regardless of whether one's a mother or not! Not to mention the necessity of being alert for danger, as in the -- evolutionally speaking -- not so distant days when our species still inhabited the savannas and forests as hunters and gatherers! The games you and I play, I can't stress it enough, are a means of remaining in touch with these primal instincts; they're a placing of ourselves in situations where they continue to be necessary! Unlike many of our coworkers, who seem to feel that being glued to a television set and regulated to a state of of stupefied passivity is a fine way to spend an evening, we prefer to confront life head on and partake of all the rejuvenating urgency it has to offer! Not for us the hijacking of our animal alertness, being swindled into forgoing the rich kaleidoscope of feeling undiluted existence never fails to yield! As with many things, the truth of the matter of our escapading is the opposite of what it first seems: in a world as overlayered and falsified with pseudo-experience -- technology, pop culture trash, the general protocols of a civilization utterly divorced from nature -- as ours is, the morally responsible way to behave is nonstop pranking, fun wherever and whenever one can get it, the preservation of our young girls' blood-surge! The responsibility of all people is, first and foremost, to remain human; and remaining human is done by inundating oneself with fresh surges of emotion, not by deadening oneself to life via immersion in home entertainment centers! But I'm wandering from our frolic...

It doesn't take long for me to whirly in my tummy and gasp and meowl, what with the abundance of stimulation I'm being subjected to -- the storm alone would be enough to send me spinning into my whirlpool! I'm tightening my thighs about your head, squeezing, twisting sideways left and right to prolong the inner clasp and caress of my flood! We're entangled on the slick wet cold concrete amongst the tattered streamers of ivy, scattered leaves, and I'm gazing straight up the wall of glass above the doors and the bright light's illuminating us in the swirling mist and suddenly I'm picturing us on my white tiled bathroom floor with the shower water turned up high and hot, swirling steam every which where! Hell, I may have actually believed we were in my bathroom for a few moments, so delightedly topsy-turvy was I with abundance of mind-blurring sensation!

Then we're lying side by side, gazing up the glass wall into the lightning flickers and driving rain, affecting fear -- indulging in mock shouts of shock -- with every crack of thunder: what fun to squeal and twist, clasp one another tight, in pretend distress!

In a way, the doorway niche where we were resembled a mausoleum -- there was the white concrete, the marble on the other side of the glass doors, the ivy festooned walls on both sides: I recall noting the resemblance -- recall I was immediately flung into a recollection of my college graduation gift cemetery adventures. Yes, a reference to death amidst our celebration of life -- my usual fascination with contrast! My graduation gift, as you know, was Paris for the summer semester, the Sorbonne's intensive French program. (Just like my parents to intermingle more education with a graduation gift! But I'd had some French in high school and had always wanted to actually learn it, instead of merely knowing it in a dabbling sort of way. I don't do things in a dabbling sort of way: my achievement oriented Catholic upbringing won't permit it!) My adventure? Three words: Cemetiere du Montparnasse! I was residing almost across the street from the cemetery, in old servants quarters (arranged through a friend of the family) at the top of a building situated on a small street, Rue Champagne de Premiere, that angled off of Boulevard Raspail...

*     *     *


Posted by Ella (from an email to Angie): And so, Sweetest, the holidays have crept up and pounced upon us again: it's nearly impossible to get a cab of a morning and we have no choice but to endure the subway every day on our way to work! Yuck! I loathe jostling with the shopping- and see-the-sights-mad tourists for a narrow place to stand clinging to a rail; nor to forget the occasional opportunistic guy who makes use of the cramped quarters to rub up against my ass! (God only knows why: I mean, what, if anything, of the true texture of my ass can a guy sense through the thickness of a heavy winter coat?) And, of course, a subway ride always does atrocious things to my hair (and especially when I just washed it)!

Yes, it's the holidayish time of year again: the big snowflake's suspended over 57th; the windows up and down 5th Avenue are dressed; the firm's a place of frenzy and we're in a state of scamper (that's the word for it!) day and night, spending seventy plus hours a week at the place to see the year's end financial shenanigans through! Our only break from the insanity, means of relieving the tension... Well, 'twas a joy to sneak in a stroll over to 5th while going to pick up the take out and mingle with the gawking-at-the-window-displays crowds. As for the displays: the fashion industry product placement ones are all right; but I'm going to see that stuff in the stores anyway and don't need to see it masquerading as holiday cheer. As for the cutesy artsy stuff assembled by deluded dolts who thinks they're the modern equivalent of Michelangelo: forget that garbage! What I really like are the Rockwellesque ones showing quaint rural scenes -- small town squares, churches, sleighs, fallow fields, iced over ponds used as skating rinks, bonfire picnics in the middle of the woods: like most lifelong New Yorkers, I stare at such scenes as I might stare at photos of a civilization on Mars.

And so it was only natural that, as we were jockeying for viewing room in front of a small town America depiction window (with all the wholesome smiles on the faces of the wax figurines), I chose that moment to reach through the front of your coat and grasp your naked thigh (Such a burst of tingles surged through me at first touch of your satiny skin!) and ease my hand upwards towards your moisture. Yes, tourists to the left and right and back and front and us huddled close and me diddling you under cover of our flowing furs; nor did it take long for you to follow suit! Ha ha, did the big guy in the motorcycle jacket think he suspected something? Well, let him suspect away, for all the good it'll do him! We huddle closer: the thick fur of our coats combines to veil the entrance points of our arms, all is concealed! Everyone's packed pretty tight: no way for others to confirm the two of us are smushed (Is "smushed" a word?) together for the purpose of engaging in mutual twatsie tickling! Yes, I so love being draped in a long mink and scarves galore and fluffy hat in winter without wearing much underneath! Of course, silk thigh highs are essential; but, aside from them... Christ, was it fun changing into skimpy nighties in your office and folding our suits up and stuffing them in our totes (temporary liberation!) and donning the coats and hitting the sidewalk! I've said it before and I'll say it again: nothing beats hiding slut clothing underneath a long flowing fur and strolling about in winter's chill as the cold slides up ones legs and brings about goose bumps and gets the bottom half of one's body shivering as the top half's crispy warm! Something about the contrast of warm and cold... It goes straight to my fertile crescent! My thighs might be freezing, but that sure doesn't stop quimmy-kins from boiling over with heat! Isn't it funny that I've seldom needed a skilled girl finger more than when part of me's shivering with cold? On the other hand, I am a contradictory wench!

And you were greasing my fingers real good, weren't cha, whore? What a priceless playmate you are! I was so going nuts in my sex nerves (Not having ventured outside the firm or dared to play within the firm for twenty-two hours!) that the sensation of your wet heat making my fingers slippery was enough, in and of itself, to have me gasping against your shoulder and smothering my cry by burying my mouth in and biting the fur! (Now, that could've given the game away; but not too blatantly: I figure anyone knowledgeable enough to figure out I was in the throes of release would be the sort of person who'd take it stride, saying to themselves with a laugh: "Oh, yeah, sure your face is cold!")

Part of Angie's response: Yes, let's hear it for the pesky winter breezes that delight in flinging themselves up the bottom of one's coat and betwixt one's pantyless thighs and setting nu-nu on fire! And winter's cold is a sort of fire, isn't it? It passes over one's delicate skin like claws, brings about flarings of the nerves, shivering, twinges; and then one's blood rushes to the place where the cold's attacking and heats things up from inside! So yes, Dollface, I was plenty heated before you touched me with your magic fingers; and how I fell into one of those wonderful states of gasping inner stillness when you did! (Sort of like a version of having a raging thirst quenched: the cool flow of water upon a parched tongue.) But, unlike yourself, I wasn't about to gush in something like sixty seconds flat (I mean, what a brat you are, coming so fast; plus informing me it wasn't my fingers that did the trick, but the sensation of touching me! Oh, well, I guess a girl ought not to be picky as to how she gets her girlfriend off, just as long as she does! Then again, we didn't have time to bring you to a second coming, now did we?; so you ought to have postponed climax a bit so's to make it more complete! Because how in the hell can a quick gush like yours capture much of the tension inside one and dispel it? How can a quick coming untie all of one's knots?)

OK, so you basically came at first touch of me; you flung your face into my coat and bit the fur, and I was saying: "That's it, Honey, warm your face up: we don't need you getting all frostbitten and a priceless complexion ruined!" -- saying it rather loudly and theatrically so's to draw more stares our way; and then looking that one woman straight in the eye and adding: "My friend's skin is extremely sensitive to the cold!" And she's looking at me and then at you and back at me and has that "Something's amiss here, but I can't put my finger on it." look; and all the while, our fingers were in each other! Ha ha ha!

But I wanted a bit more privacy -- I wanted a more thorough orgasm than the one you'd had; and so I yanked you away from that window, intending to drag you to the French bookstore. But the sensation of your finger (only one finger!) inside me as we were walking... Ha ha, I never realized before how much the natural motion of walking dovetails so nicely with an inserted finger; and damn if I didn't violate all of my principles right then and there, and come a lot sooner than would've been required to dispel a tenth of the surge in my blood! (Ha, and I was presuming to lecture you about such things!) But, all the same, 'twas very cute to be flinging my face into the fur of your coat right there on the open sidewalk and biting it as my tummy turned inside out!

Well, naturally, I was hungry for more; but did we have the time? No! We only had time (What? Ten measly minutes?) to race back to 7th to pick up the takeout before being expected back!

But I'm getting all scrambled up, Dearest, (Doubtless because we really absolutely don't have the time to be writing these things now and shouldn't be doing it, what with every blasted attorney more senior than us running us ragged!) and must sign off!

Ella again (an excerpt of her reply to the above): You say I came prematurely? Well, how's a slut to regulate such things? You think I even want to be able to turn off the tap? Besides, it's a good thing we flooded as fast as we did! Did we have time for anything else? Would it have been better not to orgasm at all? I don't think so! What it really means is that we're highly adapable tramps who perform sexually according to the circumstances! And, sure, I'm plenty itchy and frustrated -- I'm plenty feeling teased and unsatisfied and tormented by our brief taste of fun; but, better that than not to have had any taste of fun at all!

And, no, I don't have time to write this, either -- I'm too auto-focused on the stuff on my desk to even be able to think I'm making sense right now! Damn holidays!

Angie winds it up: Yeah, we're being bad girls! We keep coming back to our Email World despite the fact we have oodles of work to do and won't see natural light again until -- what? -- way into tomorrow afternoon! Or are we being bad girls? If we didn't have this secure line of communication (Thank God for remote access to personal email accounts!), we'd be feeling even more abused and run ragged and probably wouldn't be as productive!

Anyway, just think about Tuesday the 23rd, when we'll be on our way to winter wonderland and skiing on This Mountain! Just think about the task we've set for ourselves: how to muffdive on a chairlift without (1) being prevented by the cold from enjoying it, (2) being detected, and (3) dropping our poles on the skiers below! Yes, 'tis certainly a problem that needs to be solved by someone, and the two of us are just the trollops to do it!

*     *     *


Posted by Steven (from an email to Angie & Ella): So an hour ago I pop into Avenue A Sushi for a quick protean fix; my mind's mostly on my meeting with the redhead I told you about: Brianna Ray, remember? The girl with pure Southern sugar for an accent? -- nearly six feet high, with the most perfect legs it's possible for a female to have? And always with the sexy librarian in glasses thing going on? Wool dresses with slits up the side? White blouses worn with lacy gray brassieres? Yes, I pop in for a quick bite and am thinking of Bri and the spanking I'm going to give her and how she'll be giggling her head off; and what happens? Two clowns at an adjacent table are doing their best to get tragic because one of them's turning thirty tomorrow!

Turning thirty? So fucking what? When I turned thirty I was barely aware of it! It was sort of an afterthought kind of thing, as in: "Oh, I'm thirty now. Hmmmm... I guess I'm supposed to get dramatic and wail about getting old and consign my youth to irrecoverable oblivion; but, hey, I really don't feel any different, and it's really just a lot of imaginary horseshit dreamed up by marketing parasites to convince suckers they're obliged to stop having fun and get responsible now and subscribe to some stupid lifestyle magazines and buy half the worthless trash that's advertised in the said magazines and get boring jobs to make the payments!" Well, something like that... Basically, I was far too busy chasing ass and playing pranks and getting in adventures as a cab driver to bother to notice having turned thirty.

I mean, I'll never understand people like the twits at that table! How can a person be so lacking in liveliness as to stoop to whining and getting depressed about some purely arbitrary number of years they've happened to be on this earth? The poor unfortunate who's turning thirty is saying stuff like: "It'll never be the same again," "The dreaded day is here," and "Too bad I didn't die young." The other one's trotting out all the sympathy he can muster, as if the clown's lost his mother: "It's only bad for the first half year; after that, you're used to not being in your carefree twenties. It really isn't all that bad knowing you've got to knuckle down and start planning for your retirement once you actually start doing it. Anyway, I'm here for you."

Well, if suckers like those two wish to consign fun to the past simply on account of having drawn breath for thirty years, then that's their problem! And, furthermore: if they're so willing to let go of their, as they put it, "carefree twenties," then I strongly suspect they never knew how to have fun in the first place and were always boring imbeciles that no well-balanced person would want anything to do with! And who the hell says having fun and making a decent living and accumulating investment income and buying an apartment are incompatible, anyway? Fun renews like nothing else! Think I'm going to forgo gratuitous Fuck 'Em & Chuck 'Em sex adventures simply because I'm thirty-seven? Think I'm no longer going to go rent a car for the express purpose of treating it like an ATV and beating the fucking shit out of it? Think I'm no longer going to remove security strips from merchandise and slip the strips in the coat pockets of assholes so I can have a laugh when they trip the alarm and end up being detained? Think I'm going to stop dressing up in tattered clothes, with axle grease smeared all over, and go to a video game arcade in Times Square and pretend to be a lunatic? Think I'm no longer going to slather Missy's ass with mashed cherries and lick them off while praising the shit out of her muscle tone and complexion? Why the fuck would I stop doing any of it?

Yup, I'm almost thirty-eight: am I going to allow such a thing to prevent me from seeing sweet Bri tonight? Am I going to say to myself: "Well, hey, I can't see Bri after all, because I'm in my thirties! I can't bind her to the bed with silk scarves and tickle her with a feather duster because I'm in my thirties! I can't flip her on her belly later and play the ass mauling game because I'm in my thirties! I can't spank her like she likes and send her into peals of sexy laughter because I'm in my thirties! I can't take her out for a rowboat ride in the park the next day and dip my fingers in her honey on the lake because I'm in my thirties!" Yeah, right, I'm really going to tell myself that nonsense!

To hell with all life-deprived losers who use turning thirty as an excuse to justify being cowardly! Because that's what it really comes down to: they've been waiting to have a rationale for why they're terrified of doing a single thing that involves spontaneity and has an unpredictable outcome!

But enough of those twits! Time to go get some white roses at the Korean store and catch a cab and turn up at Bri's apartment in the role of perfect gentleman. I mean, she's Southern, right? She's big on the courtliness stuff and dating protocol and good manners and, as you well know, I have the greatest respect for that! Just like I have the greatest respect for her succulent ass that I'll soon be grabbing as I shove my tongue down her throat! And the greatest respect for the way in which she'll pull me to the floor and squirm and breathe deeply and coo, "I want cha tuh fuck the dickahns outa mah!"

*     *     *

FRIDAY, JULY 18, 2003

Posted by Ella (from an email to Angie): What's gotten into us, anyway? Are we completely mad? Pretending to be hookers in the lobby of the Marriott during lunch hour, and only stopping short of collecting the cash! My, but that Chuck guy was really ready to be bled dry for a grab at my ass -- ha ha ha! I really ought to go into the trade! Well, of course I won't, already having a good living in the law-abiding, and comparatively pain in the ass free, segment of society; but -- God! How I absolutely adore living out that fantasy! Of course, usually it's all a game in the safety of my apartment and the guy knows full well I'm an oh-so-respectable girl: to do sexy flip-turns and sidle-ups and eye-flutters and tongue-rolls and fast talking date-chat in the Marriott's lobby takes it to a whole new level! And only a few blocks from work! Damn girl, the whole thing made my quimmy so hot so fast! And now I'm afraid it might become addictive and that I'll be thirsting to do it every lunch hour! Well, you've got to stop me! I mean, a taste or two of it, fine; but I'm a law-abiding girlie -- yes, Ma'am! -- and don't really want to know what a night in jail's like: I'm not sure it would agree with my complexion!

But, hey, as long as one refuses the money and doesn't put out, it's all right, right? Not that the firm would look kindly upon two of it's most promising second-year's pretending to be rent-a-girls! Ha ha, but that's part of the kick, right? One moment we're safe in our offices, the next were flashing ass at leering out-of-towners who completely believe we're for sale! Too cute!

Part of Angie's reply: Well, it's simply a logical progression from our flashing of the tourists -- giving 'em panty and tit shots galore -- at Sardi's game; and who knows where this logical progression will end? It's as if it has a life all it's own, separate from us, right? And, honey, you know I won't be held accountable if I do end up collecting the cash sometime, and giving it a for real turn in actuality! Ha! It's so enthralling to feel as if one's on a path to perdition, being buoyed along by forces beyond one's control! Ooooo! A turn on, indeed! Yes, I think I'm going to savor that thought! I think I'm going to finger probe my hot wet flower while dwelling upon my downfall! Yummy-yum!

Yes, I'm so excited now on account of having faked peddling my ass earlier, that... Well, we've just got to repeat the fun tomorrow! Are ya game, girl? Ha ha ha! How's that for me exerting a restraining influence? How's that for me stopping you?

God! I stand and stretch my arms towards the ceiling while thinking of the eye-gropes those guys gave us and how they were reaching for their wallets and -- I kid you not -- it's as if I'm about to come without even touching myself! How the tingles of lust set all my taut muscles afire! And... I mean, do you really believe I'm going to forgo this pleasure! Ha! You know me better than that! Listen: I've already packed my tote bag with the goodies that I'm going to change into in the ladies' at the Marriott tomorrow! Off will come my respectable corporate suit (conservative navy, pure Bergdorf's patented stylish restraint), on will go the overt slut number of a pink one-piece from the punk chic place (What's its name? PinkPutain? SlutaRama? FetishFrolic? Oh, I forget!) on St. Marks! Tight as stockings, this dress is -- hugs me so snugly it's as if it's been painted on! The hemline very high, of course, and irregular: seems some of it goes above where the curvature of my ass begins! Hmmm... And purple fishnets, I think; plus pink heels. And I'd love to do a full out make up number, do my eyes up real cattish: too bad no time for that! I mean, I might be capable of doing a presentable job inside of fifteen minutes (Doubtless with some smudgies and clumsy lines: who cares? It would lend an appealing trashy look and add to the credibility of yours truly as slut for sale!); but what happens when I wipe it all off with baby oil and have to do some touch ups for work again? Not enough time!

But the point is, Dearest: I'm all-senses-afire to have another go at our prostitute pretense game! My pink dressy's packed -- I have colorful condoms to fish out of my purse and wave about and really tease with! Yes, and an ass that's burning to flash its immaculate globes at some poor out-of-towner, get him begging to fork over lots of green for the privilege of grabbing! Damn! I love the fine art of seduction in all its forms! Whether it be running my tongue about my lips while asking a bus driver what's the stop for Saks and getting his eyes to widen; or dropping my keys on the sidewalk so's I must needs bend over to retrieve them and cause my skirt to ride up my thighs because I know a guy's staring from behind; and then -- ha ha! -- I do a cute lil' glance and sly smile back at him while still bent over and get him to quiver! And chest thrusts while innocently asking some boy at the bank whether the ATM machines are working; and... Well, I go through the whole day licking lips, flashing ass, thrusting out tits, brightening eyes, playing with my hair so's to thrill to the tune of the nerve shocks in males these things inspire! Yes, subtle little mind and nerve fucks every hour: I can't get enough of them! And so pretending to be a hooker in the Marriott lobby is simply a logical extension (I said that, right?); and, Ella Honey, you'd best believe I'm going to continue to do it, and that you're going to do it too! (Because, ha ha, I know only too well ya sure want to!)

*     *     *


Posted by Ella: Yup, we've been shamefully neglectful of our Weblog. First, we pester RS to give us one (Hit him with all the girlie arsenal at our disposal, we did: nagged, sulked, pouted -- did the icy detachment, aloof bitch, thing: coldly gazed upon him with unresponsive eyes, only spoke in toneless voices, deprived him of all emotional interplay -- did the chatting animatedly amongst ourselves while ignoring him thing; plus the nicer girlie things: put on seamed fishnets and scarlet skirts with our tits half spilling out and sat beside him on the couch and tongued his ears while cooing, "Please, may we have a Weblog?" "Yeah, I'll get around to it," he'd lazily say, blowing us off. And so we'd blow up and stomp out the door! Such a stubborn bastard, RS!) So, anyway, we keep up a united front and bedevil RS without mercy from all possible angles and he finally relents (of course, he had to!); then, in the flush of first enthusiasm, we do an entry a week for five weeks -- only to (ha ha!) completely laze off about it because we're too busy having adventures to write about them! So now, what happens? RS starts pestering us for updates! Well, we brought it on ourselves, I must admit! But, on the other hand, as brattish frivolous females, we reserve the right to be... Well, brattish!

Angie adds: It's sort of like finally getting the ankle length silver fox I'd been eye-ogling at Bergdorf's for half the winter: I got it, wore it for nine days straight, and now the thing strikes me as being a trifle too heavy for my slender frame to have to carry around! I mean, it's got triple layered silk lining plus all that fur and is so long: wearing it's like doing manual labor! I thirsted for it, obtained it, and now... Well, it mostly sits in the closet, only coming out so's I can drape it in my lap at the theater so's a date can diddle me under it during the performance and no one'll know; and it's also good for cuddles in the park, of course; and for... Well, hell, the coat's alright, as is this Weblog: it's just that I hate being anything's slave! And a new toy can't remain new forever: novelty rapidly wears off! So we'll come and go as we please, right Dollface? RS will just have to realize that he gave this Weblog to us and that it therefore belongs to us and that it's therefore also up to us to update when and if it pleases us to do so!

Ella finishes: Absolutely right: when and if it pleases us to do so, and that's that!

But, as long as I'm here, I might as well play some; and so I ask: is there anything in the whole wide world that surpasses the thrill of love in a doorway on a spring afternoon, spontaneous fashion, in our sweet city? I mean, sure, many things equal it; but surpass? Not a chance, you Wild Girl you!

Last Friday, after we strolled up 5th Avenue after work to 79th... Well, we could've hit the park and relaxed in the shade on Cedar Hill and probably would've done so, were it not for Belinda's dinner party... Blasted dinner party! Which brings an aside to mind: please do not, henceforth, commit me to such things without consulting with me first! I mean, on a Friday, right after work! Think I want to be bothered with more scheduling in my life right after I've had a whole week of it at the office? No, my dearest, a thousand times no! I mean, never mind that we had ourselves some surreptitious pussycat fun in the midst of those class conscious dolts! Never mind that Marcia finally and irrevocably (as if we ever had a doubt!) confirmed herself as being every bit as slutilicious a girl as a girl could possibly be; and that Martin more than distinguished himself in the under-tablecloth-games department; and that... Oh, 'twas indeed a riot at the dining table! But, still, that doesn't excuse the fact you robbed us of some mindless loll about in the park, as the weekend beckoned! Christ! Us there right next to Cedar Hill on a sunny day and, instead of availing ourselves of it, we've got to scamper eastward to your place for some rapid fire freshening up before scrambling to get to Belinda's by eight-thirty, only an hour late! But... Oh, hell! What am I complaining about? We had as fine a Friday as we've ever had, even if being on the runaround all the time! Ha! Please excuse me, Girlfriend! I'm really bouncing about in my head!

Where was I? Oh, yes! All about doorway fun... We couldn't go to the park and were between Lex and 3rd on -- what street was that? 85th? -- instead, and walking fast and... Well, it was so beautiful, when the impulse came upon us! And where did it come from, anyway? From the realm of magic and miracles, that's where! I think it hit me... Well, your skirt suddenly swished in the breeze and the sun caught it and its purple swished in my eyes and, along with that swish, was an electric surge in my nerves; and I sought your eyes straightaway and you were already looking at me with sweetness brimming; and our hands clasped, fingers automatically intertwined -- we were suddenly scampering up those steps giggling, in no time between the outer and inner doors of that building; and your lips were insistent against mine -- our tongues were entangled in mutual darting; I was dissolving right out from the feel of my legs! God, Honey! What a beast you are! What a pretty little insistent hungering kitty beast!

And after you'd made me radiant (as you always do!), and just as we were about to return to the sidewalk... Ha ha, priceless when you buzzed half the intercoms, waited for people to answer, and yelled, "My girlfriend's a slut!" Well, of course it was sort of a silly guy-thing to do! Pretty immature! Never mind that I was dying of laughter! And the workout that all that laughter gave my stomach, combined with the workout you'd already given me... Well, Honey, it was like I was going to come again! Yup, like I was going to come again from laughing so hard! Dying of laughter? Ha ha! La petite mort of laughter!

*     *     *


Posted by Angie (from an email to Ella): Yes, Dollface, this being shut up in my office all day, deprived of any recreation whatsoever, has put me in a rantish mood! Here goes:

You know how Midge has that large picture of her adorable toy collie on her desk? Her dog Rumples, right? Well, just now a couple of those bankruptcy slobs came shuffling close to my door, and paused -- some stupid joking they were indulging in. Know what they said? Something to the effect that if Midge wasn't so hung up on her dog they might have a shot at her! Slobbery guffaws followed -- you know the crude burbling laughter of morons! And then one of them -- that fat bad dresser who always smells of not washing much (I forget his name, doesn't matter) -- says that she named him Rumples because she likes to Rumba with him! Oh, it makes me so mad! -- that kind of stupid, crude, self-satisfied idiocy! Some pathetic losers who resort to that garbage because they can't get any ass! And saying such things about Midge! -- such a cute, spirited, blithe-dispositioned sweetie! Those worthless louts who wouldn't be capable of stimulating a female if their lives depended on it! I mean, what's this world coming to? A truly nice girl can't have a pet without stupid shits suggesting she has sexual commerce with it!

Which brings me to another thing: early this morning, before you arrived (because I had to be here way early on account of those blasted calls that probably won't happen) Nigel and Ralph and some other goof poked their heads in my door and asked if I'd like to go out for a smoke. Well, you know nic fit me! I said, well yes, all right. I mean, I barely know them -- they've always seemed like harmless good-natured things who won't last long here. So what the hell, right? -- I'm a sociable gal, and it never hurts to get to know others better and perhaps even hear an amusing thing or two about the newbie camp; and, of course, I can always use a smoke.

So I go outside with them in good faith, all trusting and cheerful and with my mind made up to be nice (after all, they do work here), and what happens? Instead of talking to me they stand there gawking! -- at first looking embarrassed and unsure what to do with themselves, as if they've been chased onto a stage and are worried about looking inept before the audience. But it gets worse: soon they adjust to this being on stage thing and are glancing at the other guys who are outside; and then they -- these three no-balls juveniles -- are puffing themselves up and trading stupid looks of triumph! And then I realize just what sort of stage they're on: they're on the "We're with a hot girl and you're not!" stage! -- as if the stupid fact that I'm having a smoke with them means I'm also willing to suck them off and spread my legs! Yuuck! Such clowns are a menace! -- them and their pathetic self-preening before an imaginary mirror! Yes, all they want to do is live in the mirror that materializes when they're with a cute girl, the girl herself be damned! Standing there acting like I belong to them simply because I agreed to feed my nicotine habit in their company! -- turning all smug and self-important and idiotic when not a caress has been exchanged between us, and never will be!

Well, a respectable girl never stands for such treatment, does she? This one sure doesn't! I saw George -- the nice married guy -- by himself over by the flowers, and hightailed it over! Yes, George: thank God for him! I was able to leave the creeps high and dry, and they dared not follow! George is so affable! -- a nice unpretentious guy who has nothing to prove and far better things to do than act weird because he's with a hottie! Plus he let me in on an interesting development in the [____] deal that I'll tell you about later…

As for the creeps… Well, they were getting all wounded puppy dog in the distance -- I caught an inadvertent glimpse of them when turning to come back up with George and one of them had the gall to dart me a look of reproach -- some "What did we do to deserve this?" type weepy eyed crap! And what infuriates me the most is that I didn't read them accurately enough in advance to realize they were such dolts!

And believe it, Honey, I sure wish I was able to come to you and dispense joy with my thirsty lil' tongue snake -- it would sure be a far more constructive use of my time! I'm literally in prison now! I'm a wildcat, itching to romp, who's been shut in a cage! -- pacing back and forth, growling discontentedly, hissing and spitting! I mean, don't I have better things to do than recall a silly lapse of judgment and some clowns I was stuck with for a bit?

*     *     *


Posted by Ella (from an email to Marcia): Well, of course I masturbate before hitting the town! Is there a tramp in this city who doesn't? I mean, how else acquire that extra glow? I always want to be surrounded by an aura of lust hunger and have the males sniffing at me like dogs! I always want to have that sexed up look in my eyes! And if the other girls are doing it and I'm not, then where does that leave me? I mean, there's a lot of competition out there! Sure, I'm a nicely proportioned (if I say so myself!) size four and the guys reliably whip their heads about on the sidewalk and drink me up with their eyes; but I'm hardly the only one, and I'd be an idiot to think otherwise! A facial steam bath above the sink, with the hot water turned on high, for a few minutes after applying make up does wonders, no doubt about it: the hot moisture adds additional depth, an inner glow quality, to a girl's complexion. It's a good trick to know and I always make use of it; but it still falls short of the inner steam bath of masturbation! A nice spead-legged session on the couch, that's the trick for bringing the sultry slut look into my eyes! -- the trick to endowing my body with that electric sex quality guys can't quite put their finger on! Yes, a nice session on the couch and I'm instantly steeped in the subsurface currents of desire, magnetic with lust! It's as essential as slipping into a sleeveless one-piece that shows half my tits and has a hemline that flutters around the lower boundary of my ass!

And guess what else, Marcia honey: masturbation comes in handy for attracting attention at departmental meetings! The partners are always sizing us up for involvement on the latest potential windfall (nice bonus and advancement!) of a deal, right? And at the meetings they're doing it big time, believe me. And, well, I take my job as seriously as anyone possibly could and no one's ever going to tell me I don't do the gruntwork like any other ambitious attorney; but there's no harm in covering additional bases and working on the partners on a subconscious level, now is there? So I go to those meetings fresh from a self-stimulation session: I tend to think it makes me more of an attention-magnet, and I know I'm right. And once I have their attention I do my very best to shine with comments that are fully backed up by research done on LiveEdgar, Lexus, and good old fashioned law library books! It's good advice, Marcia, and I recommend you heed it!

Plus (and I'm sure this'll come as no surprise!) I happen to enjoy sending myself off, apart from the practical applications. There's nothing quite like knowing one has Mommy Nature's currents of rapture and renewal at one's disposal: a simple series of finger-flicks, and: magic! I'm suddenly communing with the wellsprings of life!

*     *     *


Posted by David (from an email to Steven): So there's this new girl at work, a real tease; but more complex than the average tease, because she becomes authentically alarmed whenever a guy responds to her teasing. She comes to work in tight-fitting knee-length chiffon things that have slits up the sides, nearly to her ass, and plunging necklines. She wears a great deal of makeup, including carmine lipstick and black eyeliner. She likes to sit with one leg slung over the other, such that the slit in her dress parts and displays the upper leg in all of its symmetrical glory. She does a flirting pout thing all the time and likes to thrust out her well-endowed chest. She flicks her hair aplenty and smiles suggestively while following guys around the office with her hungering eyes. But, again, the moment a guy responds to this and steps up to the plate to ask her out, she instantly becomes a different person: fear creases her features, confusion splinters the light in her eyes; or she becomes out-and-out annoyed, sits there shaking with distaste. So what's going on with this girl? I'll admit to being taken with her, both on account of her beauty and the atmosphere of hunger that surrounds her, but how am I to proceed? I've seen too many guys get shot down to imitate their approach: what should I do?

Steven's reply: Sounds like you've got a tease and retreat wench on your hands; superficially, she might seem to be divided against her interests, in the sense that she's obviously going to some trouble to advertise and then only rejecting. But, perhaps, she's (not necessarily knowingly) trolling for a guy who's a cut above the average where social skills and perceptiveness are concerned, and is waiting for the one who knows how to, so to speak, advertise her back to herself and lead her to understand just how badly she wants to rut and riot.

So you need to go in under her radar -- a direct approach, like that of those guys who come clean and ask her out, is death. Think of it as follows: male bower birds need to construct an elaborate bower to impress a female; male peacocks need to display a fine tail; with a girl like the one you describe, what you've got to put on display is a great deal of social tact and discretion. It's OK (and recommended: all women thrive on such stuff whether they want to or not) to look her up and down appreciatively, but you've got to do it with a lot of respect, not clumsily ga-ga -- and tossing in some shyness won't hurt either. It's also OK to brush against her, as long as you do it "by accident." Never underestimate the effect of an "accidental" brush up: an electricity imparting swish of your fingers across a girl's wrist (watch the surprise, vague astonishment at pleasure, spark in her eyes) or brief press against her thigh or rub against her shoulder: such contact will linger in her memory despite herself and, perhaps, flare into open consciousness of wanting more. What I'd really recommend is that you find out what she finds funny and proceed to toss off such stuff and get her to laugh a lot: women are off-guard when they're laughing and there's no better time to do an "accidental" brush against her or admiringly and shyly gaze deep into her eyes and get her to thinking. The trick is to arrange matters so that she believes she's the one who's taking the initiative; plus you've got to be alert to what the signs of her initiative are, because they're likely to be very subtle -- at least, at first. And, if it seems like a lot of effort… Well, look at it this way: you've got to go to work anyway -- you spend a lot of time in her proximity anyway -- so why not seek to bed her? Hell, sometimes the chase is more enthralling than the catch (not that I've ever been one of those clowns who turns down a wench once I bring her around and she's offering herself). And, again, you're at work anyway; so the whole thing ought to add another dimension to the workplace, and make it a lot less boring.

So go for the doll! I'm, of course, at your disposal for advice along the way...

As for me, I always have several suchlike projects going on at once: even if the dividends in some cases don't pay off, I'm still immersed in an enthralling swirl of emotion and this is what I really live for: it's as essential to me as the flow of my blood.

*     *     *


Posted by Ella (from an email to Marcia): What do I do to calm myself in the midst of a stressful closing when I only have a few minutes? Well, I feel it'll hardly come as a surprise: I hightail it to the ladies' and then, when I'm sure of having it all to myself, I: 1) place myself squarely between the mirrors in the entry area, the ones above the sinks and makeup counter on opposite walls, 2) dance myself dizzy for a couple of minutes, as if I'm on a crowded floor at Webster's, while shaking my mane of hair, and 3) lift my skirt to my waist and do an assessment of my hot little body while exclaiming, "What a shapely pussycat I am! What a hot-assed trollop I am! What a sex-mad whore I am!" It's a pep talk, you see -- a spirit lifter -- moral support! It puts matters in perspective and let's me know why I really work here and put up with some of the idiocy: for the money, darling -- the outrageous salary! The money that allows me to live in style, be a pampered pussycat, be endlessly aswim in sex kicks while maintaining my independence and always being able to call the shots! Yes, a trollop in attorneyville, that's what I am! And I don't need to marry a rich guy to live in a nice place or to have nice things or to go to fun places -- don't need to marry a rich guy and be restricted in my pursuit of pleasure! Yes, I'm a quick-witted, brainy, tactful, opportunistic little girl who also happens to like having my brains fucked out and my muff dived and my wild imagination engaged each and every day! Therefore: an attorney -- a corporate attorney, where the money rains down like it's no tomorrow! -- where it's life on the trickle-down from all those mega million dollar deals!

So welcome to the money, honey! You're a bright sassy little thing, with an ass afire, and you've chosen the right profession! You'll not lack for co-conspirators (such as Angie & I!) and you'll get your pussy plowed aplenty without having to kowtow to any silly husband who thinks you're all his! Yes, welcome to the firm! -- welcome to Slutdom! -- welcome to Kingdom Cum!

*     *     *


Posted by Angie: So minx Marcia comes prancing up to my door this morning -- puts on her little girl mischief look, starts flicking her hair from both sides of her face to give it that coquettish swish, rolls her tongue around the full circle of her lips, yanks her skirt tight against her thighs while wiggling; then she says: "So, are you going to come punish me for this now? After all, I am being a presumptuous brat and, as you so graciously pointed out yesterday, I have no idea with whom I'm dealing! Yes, I'm (how did you put it?) a pathetically naive little thing who's... Uhh... Well, I'm fanning flames in you without considering that the flames I fan in you might just leap out and singe me! That's it, right? (Her voice acquires a trace of a sarcastic nuance here.) Yeah, I think that's it! So, of course, you must punish me, right? You must punish me for daring to tease a woman who's as experienced as you are in the art of teasing and who put the T in teasing and wrote the book on teasing! You must wipe this slut's smirk off my face (an exaggerated smile here) and put me in my place!" And then she flutters her eyes and scampers off!

Ella dear, you would've laughed to see her! I was certainly laughing -- my tummy was nearly aching with it! And, obviously, this will be our little game from now on: Marcia will come around and play at being a tease who's convinced she can bring us under her spell, and then we'll go hunt her down and show her what happens to naive little girls who dare to spark desire in mature, all knowing, women! Very cute and a lot of fun, to say the least!

Ella responds: Well, Marcia's sure learning fast! So bright the little twat is! Only yesterday, she's teasing us in earnest and feeling very pleased with herself about it and has no doubt that we'll be her lust-lorn slaves; so then we disabuse her of this preposterous notion with some good old fashioned physical punishment (not to mention the sex -- oh, the sex!); and now, today, she's already turning the whole thing into a game that we can keep playing! Now that, my dear, is aptitude! No wonder she reminds us of younger versions of ourselves!

Added by Ella: Marcia just did the same thing to me! Poked her head in my door, and said: "Ma'am, may I interest you in a piece of candy?" And then she reaches into her mouth, pulls out a peppermint, and -- while bestowing long licks on it -- continues: "The candy's very good, Ma'am! Sweet, with a touch of tartness, and bursting with flavor! Somewhat presumptuously tart, it is! Oh, tart for sure!" And here Marcia flutters the hem of her skirt and raises it nearly to the tops of her stockings while winking at me. She then pops the candy back in her mouth, and continues: "Yes, the candy's pink and white and very tarty -- sort of slut candy it is, eager to melt in just about any mouth!" And she's there in her (you neglected to mention this!) pink skirt and white blouse and pink scarf -- rubbing her back against the wall now, with eyes half shut, and caressing her thighs, going "Uuuummmm!" And then she opens her eyes and fastens them upon me, and they're bright with mirth -- and her mouth's open, so I can see her flipping the peppermint around with her tongue. And, suppressing a giggle, she says: "Sweet little tart things often come gift-wrapped in pink and white! Sweet little sluts dress in candy cane colors and, boy, do they ever know how to drug a tongue!" Then, no longer able to restrain herself, she fairly erupts into peals of bright laughter, flashes me with with a lift of a skirt up to her waist, and goes running down the hall!

And, honey, all I've got to say is: you'd best believe I'm going to taste the tart's candy today!

Angie responds: Yeah, I forgot to mention the cute pink pleated number of a skimpy skirt Marcia was wearing, and with the frilly hem; and that semi-transparent silk blouse; and the pink heels and cream stockings; plus those ruffled garters: truly a tart piece of peppermint ripe for the licking! And, my, but what's this world coming to, anyway? I mean, it's crazy (tee hee!) what a young attorney can get away with wearing these days in a respectable firm! (So I write while pausing to do an assessment of the purple one-piece I'm sheathed in: if I sit just so, with a leg crossed over the other, the hem rides up high enough to reach the top of my stocking, black silk, and show a morsel of milk white skin! Well, fancy that happening? I must be a tramp! And, well, now I think I'll undo the next button from the top of neckline; that way, if I bend over ever so slightly, a glimpse of my titties nested in their lacy turquoise half-cups will be had! Hmmm... Think I'll also bunch my hair in back, do a Pollyanna ponytail thing, and tie it with a purple ribbon! I make a good Pollyanna, do I not? I'm a goody-goody girlie and I'm going to hunt down trollop Marcia and do a real goody-goody lapping of the honey that seeps from between her soft alabaster legs and keeps her bush well nourished!)

Yes, glory be to the firm's dress code -- I can't praise it enough! 'Tis very enlightened of the highest powers that be (of which Rumsmann, thank God, isn't a part) to allow us to wear our best tease-things and make the guys and gals go goo-goo!

*     *     *


Posted by Angie: Oh, yummy! Our very own Weblog -- about time too! It's not like our attorney workload allows us to indulge in lengthy email exchanges, fun though they be, every day! Robert Scott... Well, I had mixed feelings about him for awhile: he was delighted to publish our email exchanges in Sliptongue, but said they had to comprise full-blown episodes: all our brief, non-episodic emails were going to waste! All our impulses to indulge in a rave or a rant, disconnected from anything else, were being stimmied! And so, FINALLY, after months of pestering him and saying we wanted a Weblog to run wild in, he gives us one! So, yes, he's OK; but, still, what a stubborn bastard he is for making us wait this long!

Posted by Ella: Well better late than never, right slut? We could do worse for an editor, end up with some guy who endlessly quibbles with us concerning content, gets all worried whenever we glorify the wonderful world of Slutdom too much! R.S. just says: 'Whatever girls, as long as I laugh!' Not too restrictive, what? On the other hand, I didn't like the way he was riding us for a special Valentine's Day email exchange. We didn't have the time, and that's that and he'll just have to live with it! Maybe next year -- or, ha ha, maybe not: we're here to have fun, not be bossed around! We're already bossed around enough at the firm!

Speaking of which: do you believe that old witch, Rumsmann? I was in the ladies', adjusting my skirt, when she comes in and stops and just stands there giving me a hostile up and down with those nasty eyes of hers -- those twin smudges of resentment floating in the copious folds of her repulsive face! And then she says the length of my shirt leaves something to be desired -- that the firm seeks to promote a professional environment, and that I'm undermining it! Well, naturally the dour old Queen Victoria double's jealous because she's never owned a pair of legs any guy could possibly glance at without a grimace of disgust! The foul old hag, mark my words, was never young! -- never had an ass less than a cow's width wide! And so, of course, prudishness suits her very well! But, hey, I'm protected: Sturmheld way outranks her, thank God! So all I had to do was look all confused, shy, and scared to satisfy the witch's ego, and toss in an apology. She then does an abrupt huff-off (intended to be some sort of metaphorical slap) and I, when she's out of sight, lift my skirtie and umph! my crotch at her, plus flip her double birds! And then I traipse on out with my skirt fluttering about my ass and get back to work! And tomorrow... Well, I'm going to wear a skirt that's a little bit shorter! And Sturmheld sure isn't going to care, because I know how to get my work done! The old hag can drop dead!

Well, Angie dear, writing that has definitely put me in a playful mood! I do, indeed, thank RS for FINALLY giving us this Weblog! I've no doubt we'll make liberal use of it!

*     *     *

Random Frivolity: An Angie & Ella Weblog
© 2003-2008 by Robert Scott Leyse
All rights reserved.


Random Frivolity is proudly listed at:







Home | Fiction | Illustrations | Epigrams | Romans
Liaisons for Laughs | Random Frivolity | Weblog
| Hightower's Antics | Reviews
Pawtawnee Chronicles
| Poetry | Fiction Archives

| About |
| Submissions | Links

Copyright © 2001-2011 Sliptongue
unless otherwise noted. / All rights reserved. Reproduction
of material, in whole or in part, from any Sliptongue pages without
written permission is strictly prohibited.