Stag parties, dreams of being a french spy seducing a beautiful spanish woman on a stone balcony in france, and David's daughters call to say they miss me.
Last night was Tom's stag party, and I skipped out on the bar hopping because by the time I dragged my tired ass home I was losing steam on the cluttered hardwood floors on the way to my bedroom.
John called at 1am to make sure that I was awake and that the guys were downstairs and on their way up.
I pulled on my "I've been fairy bad" tank top that I bought in New Orleans to look just a little tougher (David having dubbed my shoulder tattoo as very manly inspired me to show it off) and kicked myself for not having bought beer on the way in.
We had Italian wine, vodka, the last of my GlenMorangie and the last of my port waiting for the girls to show.
Tom was wearing a one-piece lime-green ski suit with the fleece removed, a mountain biking helmet, my studded collar and black strap-on.
John had promised Christine that they wouldn't have any strippers at Tom's party.
So he hired escorts.
Two of them, very into each other, and very, very, beautiful.
They laid a blanket out on my living room floor and went at it, putting on "un show" until one girl complained that the vibrator they'd brought was too strong. Fifteen seconds later John and I have an array of adjustable vibrators laid out on the blanket, with extra condoms and they're laughing at how equiped we are.
We even had a whole bottle of atro-glide.
Their driver called us back later to thank us for having been such gracious hosts, having plied them with Ben's Grand Marnier, and having impressed them so much with our politeness (which for a roomful of drunks was pretty impressive to *me* although I had made sure that Tom was tied up) and our array of equipment.
Then we sent them off to my bedroom (since the bed was actually made) with Tom who rather unfortunately had had too much to drink to truly enjoy their services.
The brunette touched me on the shoulder as she was leaving and grinned, and I had dreams about her until two o'clock this afternoon.
Then again, we smoked, drank, ordered food and played dreamcast until well past 7am, so despite being late for just about everything today, I have an excuse.
And when big old Rocko (or is it Rocco?) got all excited that Tim (not Tom) and I were lookin' at porn on my machine and I was oooohing and aaaahing John quelched his little girl-lookin'-at-girls uprising with a swift little "She'd had more pussy than you ever gonna have, Rocco " and I felt all secure and protected.
They finally staggered out well after sunrise, after "Dee" (Darrel, I think) had spied the leather manacles attached to my bed and asked if I'd use them on him and Tim had replied rather angrily that "she can't she's being GOOOD" and I sat down right here, to e-mail David about the whole evening.
Then I crashed and dreamed of a spanish woman and stone balconies in french Chateaux and how I was a french superspy and she a spanish one and she was after me but didn't know that my secret mission was to make her fall in love with me by giving her her first orgasm out in the middle afternoon in the open air with a full fledged Bastille-day party going on one balcony down from us that we were supposed to be attending.
I still remember the button on the elevator for the 20th floor, her skirt spread out on the sun-warmed stone, and this tattoo in gothic font of three words across her back.
I can't remember the words, though and it's driving me crazy.
I was far more beautiful in my dream.
I woke up to Kaffeine's voice on the phone, annoyed at myself for having slept so long and sat down to an e-mail from David about his daughters laughing in their sleep and asking about when we were going rollerblading again, and now I'm all warm and gooey inside (figured I'd just get used to them and enjoy the glow) and still wet from the dream.
Strange emotions playing in my head, lust, stress from the things I have to get done today, one doozie of a hangover and that nasty little glow that little girls affections creeps up on you.
I want to feel guilty thinking about sex and caring little girls at the same time, but I can't.
Both are far too beautiful.
Or mabe I'm just too hungover to think.