drinking down the world

“we are going to go to europe, and swill french wine, yell with the greeks, barter with the italians, and lick the sunrise of the east... we will conquer the world, one martini at a time.” The Yum Yum Boy

Quit your sniveling and make me a rich woman, or at least send me your questions! guttergrl69.hotmail.com or call me through: www.keen.com/MzConduct

Now that I’ve decided that celibacy is a crock of hooey, butter my buns, I’m on a roll! On my way to workout at the gym, I got stuck on the freeway for an hour and fifteen minutes. I was hornier than a she-devil in heat, it was ninety degrees out (and no I don‘t have air conditioning), I had no ciggies, and only fumes in my gas tank. All of the cars were stopped on the onramp to the bridge and we all had turned our motors off, waiting impatiently. I sat there awhile, then decided to look around to see if anyone was smoking, so I could go bum a cigarette. An Asian couple --old as Methuselah -- to my left, a yuppie woman yakking on her cell phone to my right, some hag of a housewife in a station wagon -- full of screaming children in front of me. Hmmm... my prospects didn’t look good. A glance in the rearview mirror and oh la la, what have we here? A dark haired, handsome gentleman in a white BMW, and, could it be? Yes, he was smoking! I opened my car door and threw my tan legs out to the side, just so he could get a full view of what was coming to him. I sashayed my body over to his shiny, clean car and asked if he could spare a cigarette. He smiled quite nicely and offered me a Benson and Hedges. Okay, so it wasn’t my brand, but beggars can’t be choosers. He brought out a gold Zippo and lit me up, in more ways than one. We chatted for a few minutes and I complained that I was famished and this whole traffic jam was just elevating my blood sugar to no end. He picked up the hint like a naked hitchhiker and promptly asked me to lunch. We decided to meet at a swanky seafood restaurant downtown in three hours, providing we were out of traffic by then. Our dialogue ended as we noticed cars starting to move forward. I told him I’d see him soon and jumped back in my car. I slammed through my workout at the gym, masturbated in the hot tub, and fluffed myself up for lunch with the handsome stranger.

I arrived fashionably late and there he was, sitting at the bar, smoking and drinking. God bless his vices. I ordered a Sapphire martini, three olives, and no vermouth. His black wavy hair was shiny from some sort of goop, but he smelled good and had healthy skin and great teeth. His shoes were expensive and he had a butt to bounce a quarter off of. I ordered lobster, he had prime rib, and then he surprised the thong off me by ordering a bottle of good champagne. At the end of our meal, he asked me back to his place, but I really wanted to just get home. I also really wanted to see what was behind that bulge in his slacks, so we sat in his BMW and swapped spit to a Sade CD. I decided to go for the goods and hiked my skirt up and straddled this hunk of man. When I pulled out his cock and attempted to slide a condom on, it turned out to resemble a cocktail weenie. Holy handbags full of pennies, was I disappointed! I leaned in and kissed it on the tip and said, “You come and see me when you’re all grown up, ok?’’ With that, I thanked him for dinner and wished him on his way. He looked pissed and as if he was about to yell some obscenity at me as I strutted across the parking lot. He must’ve thought better of it and realized that a man with a three inch penis shouldn’t be yelling anything, except maybe “God help me.”

My divorce is final and I feel like dancing behind an electric chair. I will be celebrating forever, the freedom of my true self, the dodging of a bullet, and the lessons learned from falling into a relationship that tried its hardest to control, stagnate, and belittle me. I have won, and thy true self flies into the heat of the wicked night, with the wings of a dirty little dove!

Oh what a night! Greedgirl and I finagled tickets to see, the one and only, Elvis Costello. We purred our kitty selves at the Distinguished Deviant and The Lion King and they fell prey to our soft coats and jeweled collars. Tickets in hand, we paraded like school girls, clutching our handbags, giddy and loud, downtown to the beautiful ballroom where he would play. The crowd was made up of an odd mix of yuppie scum; PTA women with balding husbands in tow, middle aged men in pairs, dressed in Dockers and too-small polo shirts, folks that looked like they were going to the opera, and wine clutching women that seemed to lack enthusiasm for anything but the latest hair product. We felt like bitches, we knew we were, and we didn’t care. We were there to see Elvis and that’s all that mattered. When he came on stage the crowd politely clapped without hoisting their lift-n-tucked asses from the seats. Greedgirl and I lifted our naturally rounded ones and kept them up all night. We danced, yelled, sang, screamed and kissed each other, which annoyed the people behind us to no end. Isn’t that what a rockin’ show is all about, I mean really! At one point the people behind us announced that we were blocking their view. Greedgirl turned around and asked why they weren’t just home on their couch listening to the CD, for shit’s sake. We thought her remark was funny, but apparently no one else did. Like I said, bitches we were, and we didn’t care. We had a blast and Elvis’ last song was my all time favorite called “I Want You”, which brought tears to my eyes and made me get chicken skin. I thought of the Yum Yum Boy and how he has the same effect on me.

The Transient Trollop was asked to leave the motor vehicles department when applying for her license. It seems, while taking the written test, an old school marm of a wench had seen her pull her water bottle out of her purse. Well, her driver’s manual plopped out at the same time and the woman came storming over, accusing her of cheating. She was humiliated enough just to be there -- believe me, you want to clear the streets if she’s driving -- and now in front of a room full of non-English speaking people, she was asked to hand over her test. She’s been banned for a week now and is plotting some sort of revenge, I’m sure of it. The Transient Trollop is hell-bent on getting a driver’s license so that she and I can take a bad girl road trip on Route 66. We plan to spend the night in Nashville getting drunk, and possibly banging the other Elvis impersonators. We’ll also need to get appropriate tattoos. Move over Thelma and Louise, you ain’t seen nothing yet!

Now where is that Deli-Licious Boy and that youthful, mouthful of an appendage he has? He should be arriving soon with flowers in hand, pants full of anticipation and a smile to die for. What more can a bad girl extraordinaire ask for in one night? I must slip into a sassy little garter belt and leopard print stockings and attempt to scare the poor boy’s halo off once again. He removed it last time and I played ring-toss on his weenie. Oh, it’s just so much fun!


Dear Mz. Conduct,

First of all, let me say, I adore you! Now for my question. Is it a good thing not to masturbate too much? I do it about seven times a day and am twenty-three years old. Is this, as Germaine Greer said, harmful, or perhaps just coming from a feminist point of view?

Steady Stoker

Dear SS,

Of course you adore me, you’re young, fun, and full of cum. There is no such thing, in my opinion, as masturbating too much. Now of course, if you’re whacking away in the toy department of Sears, spanking the monkey under your desk at work, or would rather be stroking the man meat instead of being with a partner, then there may be a concern.

I don’t know about the feminist point of view being to blame, but Germaine Greer, who has said she considers herself ‘to be much like Frank Zappa’ may have just misplaced her silicone penis, therefore unable to masturbate to her liking. Who knows? Don’t worry about it. If I had a penis I’d be downright dangerous. Whack on, mister.

Dear Mz. Conduct,

I am nineteen and obsessed with older women. The thing is that I think it started when I accidentally saw my mother with a guy. I don’t think about her so much as just how older women are just so sexy. Once in awhile I see my third grade teacher in a bar I frequent. She compliments me a lot and talks to me each time I see her. I keep wondering if she’s hitting on me and if it’d be wrong to try and initiate something with her?

Canadian Boy

Dear CB,

Nothing wrong with older women, honey. Personally, I prefer my boys to be at least a decade younger than I. Seeing your mother in compromising positions sometimes happens. God bless the glory hole, my son has seen more than his share I’m sure. As long as you’re not thinking about your mother in any scenario then you’re probably just fine. As for your third grade teacher, she’s complimenting you and engaging in conversation, what’s to initiate? Ask her out for coffee. You’ll know what she’s up to when she responds. Inevitably you will learn and appreciate a vast array of things from dating an older woman. Grab those nineteen-year-old nads and shake ‘em up, baby!


© All rights reserved Kim Alvarez