Notes. From the Upper West Side. A Novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 76.
Chocolate. Cake. On fuck date 2 minus 3 days I met Parp and Riverside Park after dropping Harry off at school. He followed me and Sammy and some of Sammy's little chums into a clearing in the trees, a clearing with flat, hard dirt interrupted by the occasional tree root, a clearing with patches of milkweed and lots of foliage overhead, so it was easy to imagine you were fighting the sheriff in Sherwood Forest, or whatever kids today pretend they're fighting, which is usually some space demon named Darth or Lex.
As soon as we were all just a little secluded, Sammy and his pals said about trying to disembowel each other's virtual cells with their toy lightsabers. One of the disembowlers had a foamy kind of lightsaber that was getting filthy and didn't make a respectable clack sound when it hit the other swords, which were all made of plastic. But for some reason this kid thought he was the special Jedi. I wanted to take him aside and kick his little ass.
It was a nice one day in a park full of single mommy so we can find Mr. Good Daddy whenever they see me out with the boy. I looked the mommy's over and thought, yeah, if I didn't already have a hot babe, wet for the admiral, I'd let you with the tall hair eat my balls. The rest of you leave the kids with Ms.
Jamben Waugh and form a lion. I invited Park to come along that day because suddenly he was my chum again. And why not? If it hadn't been for Park, I never would have heard of St.
Billy's bouncer, the mancagles, miracles in my new world of core muslin, hardons. Paulie, Fern said to me the evening before, it's like you dick got a copa pipe in it. And she was right. It was like the admiral had a backbone made of Superman's chest, a squarish backbone with corners, a backbone I never even knew he was capable of growing.
And I just know the reason St. Billy and the Cacles are a big honking secret is because the pharmaceutical companies are working overtime to keep them from reaching the news. The bastards want to sell chemicals tested on the eyeballs of kitties, so now the rest of us have to run around faking limptych distress to online doctors because we think it's our only hope of getting reliably hard jam-slammers. Wait, Park said when I told him about Fern in the pipeiness of my cock, she specified copper?
Yep, maybe she has plumbing in her background. He was quiet for a few seconds and he said, maybe your dad was a plumber and she went out with him on jobs as a kid, handed him the ball valve. Maybe Fern was a plumber. You think she went from plumber to chamber made?
Maybe she really likes hotels. Maybe she gets better benefits. The mommies were looking over so I had to divide my time between collaborating with Park on Fern's life story and looking like I was tending the adventures of the little bastards a few yards away swinging plastic batons at each other's heads. Takes some vitamin B12 and Korean ginseng.
Park said, helps keep it up, of course. He sneered. That statement has not been evaluated by the fraud and death administration. Uh-huh, I said.
I may have already mentioned that talking to Park about anything means having to endure his opinionated aside. I wanted to talk about slamming my cami. Park wanted to bait me into defending the necessary safeguards of a democratic society. I can't believe Cameron said that about sucking your narcoleptic stump all night.
He said after a few seconds of me not taking the bait, he was wearing the usual compression fit t-shirt. A dark black v-neck. And the also usual round purple shades. I just then noticed that the roots of his hair needed touching up and that the hippie long ends of his hair were tinted brown.
They stood out against the black t-shirt. Huh, I thought. New feature. Hair dying freak.
Probably a ball shaver too. You know, if Cameron actually did that too, your cock would be in the emergency room the next day. I'm too lazy to go to the emergency room. Then I guess you'd be in a hotel bed holding your dick and screaming.
He continued to invade against the unreality of mine and cami's shared dream of an all night blowjob. In a screed, my memory has erased except for the label, general pontification, printed over his lips. When he finished, we finally got around to what I really wanted to talk about. My phone call with cami the next day.
I was pretty sure cami expected me to describe in detail how I was going to deploy my face to her inner and outer lips. So I wanted to be in tip-top creative condition for that challenge. I wanted to center away from the phone call believing I really, really was a practice, clit ninja wen. You know, I really, really wasn't.
Parp as usual couldn't adjust help me out by giving me some helpful tips. First he had to make me feel like a second-class sex-haver. So you really don't want to taste the pink? He said with a tisk-tisk in his voice?
Well, you went to acting school. Do some sans memory. Pretended something you like eating chocolate cake? Yep.
Good old chocolate cake. Freshman year we had this acting teacher, Gar Trembl, who answered every question about acting desire with, It's chocolate cake. Just chocolate cake. This actress that puts you off over half as soon as you actively despise nothing to be done about it.
You can't count on liking someone you're pretending to love, but you can count on loving chocolate cake. A woman you may love for a few years, but you will adore chocolate cake until you die. So look at the actress and make her chocolate cake. Our parents paid tuition for that shit.
Yeah, okay, I've tried that, I said. Not the chocolate cake specifically, but, you know, trying to get into character is someone who craves clit gravy. Someone who thinks it's yummy, someone addicted to it like I'm addicted to nicotine. So what's the problem?
I think to myself, here it is, the object of my addiction at last. But all of that begs the question, why do I think it's yummy? Why would I be addicted to it, you know? You're way overthinking it, he said.
It's chocolate cake. He took off his shades. The sun was in his eyes. I smiled into his squint and said, If you sit back a little, your face will be in the shadow of this big tree branch right over your head.
He sat back and stopped squinting. Thanks, my man. He said, thank you, blinked. Whoa, is that an oak tree in Riverside Park?
I had no idea what kind of tree it was. Notes from the Upper West Side is a work of fiction. The people depicted in this work do not exist. Notes from the Upper West Side copyright 2020 by Dan Wrench.