For Some People, Work Is Romance

Not for me of course, but from what I understand, many romances have there beginning in the workplace. I’m not a particular fan of the whole “selfie”, however I do see the humor in it all because we all know what is on our cell phones is safe and secure. We also all know that our emails only go to the intended recipient. In the end, we put our faith, no, our trust in the powers that be, that anything we do with devices which replicate and record will not be shared maliciously with the rest of the world. Okay, y’all see thru my veil of sarcasm, you got me. But how often is this kind of shit on the news? After a little research I found that only 1% of 1% of these instances are actually reported, which leaves a whole lot of untold yet equally entertaining stories that are told as rumors and little secrets in dark places. I mean let’s look at this a moment, then I will get the story which was submitted to me to tell here, unfortunately I can’t copy and paste this one, it is really scattered around, so I was asked if I would do it as a first person teller. Many put their lives out there for the world to see. Perhaps one should scan Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr, people’s blogs, and so forth. Yea, I post shit here and on Facebook, but go back and look at those posts, nothing about my sex life, or drug habit if I had one, or any other intimate details that are nobody’s fucking business. With that, lets explore how an office “crush” turned into office “stalking” and a mess that could not be cleaned up. As a reminder, all the names and places have been changed, which is good because I don’t think any of the people in this story read my blog and if they did they would just blow it off as a coincidence or something.

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This all began with Stacy and her new job now that she has graduated from a major university up north. She moved back close to home to be somewhat close to home, close enough to visit regularly but far enough away that people have to call first to make sure she is home. After getting settled into her apartment she begins her job hunting. She immediately gets a few interviews and a few of those led to offers and she takes the one at a large company pretty far down on the food chain. College degree plus no experience equals earning a better position later. Not her dream job, but it will pay the bills and let her live a life without ramen noodles. Stacy left a serious relationship up north, one she had invested 3+ years into. Unfortunately, when they graduated she wasn’t ready to get married, settle down, have kids, and do the whole white picket fence thing, so she broke it off by just leaving like a thief in the middle of the night. Once she got into her new place she called to patch it up and things looked like they just might work out for the two of them after all.

One night she was working late on a project and got an idea of how to get her long time beau to remain interested in only her. After making sure the area was clear she went to the copier and entered his email address. This was right before she stripped of her skirt and sat on the copier, this was going to be a quick reminder to him of what he was missing now. However, apparently as she climbed up on the copier to get a good copy of her ass her hand hit the cancel button without her paying attention, so when she pushed the send button it was on the selection of “send to all recipients”, meaning she just found out she sent a picture of her ass and more to everyone in the entire company. At first she was horrified but the realized that the email was sent from the copier with the copier’s email address so no one could possibly know its her ass in the picture. Plus, she wasn’t at her floors copier because it was not working properly, so she was two floors up doing her dirty little deed. Also, she knew that there were 50 plus other women who were still working, so she was confident she will get away with it. She went home, had a hot bath, a few shots of ol Jack, and spent a few hours talking with the boyfriend, never bringing up what has happened.

On Monday she went back to her office, made way to her cubicle, and when she opened the desk drawer to put her purse away she sees a plain white envelope. When she opened it she finds her picture with a note that read “I know this is your fine little ass, you need to let me get balls deep in you or I share your secret”. At first she is confused as hell, should she be flattered or afraid. At the bottom there were instructions, she was to take a post-it note and put a smilely face on it and put it a plain view area that everyone could see if she wished to be compliant. If not then she was to do nothing. Yes, her first thought was sexual, she wondered ” balls deep” where exactly and it might be ok if he’s now hung like John Holmes. But she didn’t want to complicate her new job by having sex with someone from the office, there had to be another way, there had to be a way to turn this whole thing around. After some deep thought she decided to play the game and put the smilely face up for whoever to see. When it was time to go she was disappointed because nothing happened, all the cloak and dagger bullshit and nothing happened.

Following her regular routine in the morning she opened her bottom drawer to put her purse away and there was another envelope. This one was instructions, this one described what was going to happen next. She was to go to the motel listed, using the address provided, check in as Mrs. Smith, go to the room, totally undress, and lay on the bed waiting for him. She thought at first she would just turn this over to the police but really feared the investigation would expose her as well. She went to the motel three hours earlier than instructed to scope the place out. She wasn’t impressed. She went up to the counter to check in and do decided to do a little digging on her mystery date. The girl at the counter was more than happy to help Stacy after she was told this fantastic sex game was about to go down. He registered as James Smith but paid with his personal credit card. After a quick internet search she finds out Mr. Smith is married with two small girls. Stacy asked for the credit card number and information because she didn’t have her card on her and it was given to her. Stacy contacts a male escort service, pays the $1200.00 with his card. Her one request is that he be bisexual because there was going to be a threesome. When he arrives they have a quick meeting and he agreed to the entire plan.

Shortly after getting set up in the room Mr. Smith let’s himself in. In the shadows he could see a naked ass purched in the air as he hears Stacy’s voice telling him he only gets to fuck her ass. Acknowledging that was perfectly fine he strips and begins to go to work. Surprise! The lights come on and a fully dressed Stacy stands as she takes a few pictures of her own. He has the stunned deer look on his face as she explained that she knew who he was, his wife was, his kids, their cell phone numbers, and where they lived. What now he asks? She informs him that her new friend there on the bed that he is poking in the ass is going to repay the favor now. She films the whole thing, being sure to get a close up of the male escort pulling out just in time to make a nice mess on Mr. Smith’s face. She decided to leave, but not before delivering her own message which was if he ever mentions her picture again or ever sees it anywhere she will hand deliver this video and pictures to his wife.

She never actually had seen this guy at work in the past, she still didn’t know who he was, but she has yet to ever see or hear anything ever still to this day.

Girls Just Wanna Have Jack

Speaking of Jack, I had a good friend email me asking why I have done a couple different glamour tributes here on the blog but NEVER to the Jack Daniel’s girls. She has taken it upon herself to send me a small portion of her personal favorites and asks of me to please post them for her. So, I plan on doing just that, but before we begin, I want you to read my favorite part of her message to me.

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“Seriously, I’ve been bartending for several years and I wanna smack the piss out of every fucking girl who has me make them a fucking amaretto sour or a damn melon ball (etc.). I actually blew an otherwise successful job because I refused to let this wack job girl order a fuzzy navel. What a waste of time and money to drink fruity concoctions, have it straight up and have Jack. I believe if you are going to drink, drink with purpose and with pride. A girl that can handle Jack straight is to be held above others. I’d be damn proud to sit down and drink with you. So here’s to you “Jack Daniels drinking chick!”, you have my respect.”

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Retired Resort Employee Explains

I can personally relate to the information that, if you so choose to do so, you’ll read in a few moments. I have traveled a bit in my life, either professionally or personally, and I have always had questions about how “friendly” the resort staff really is and why it is that way. I will use our last vacation to Florida to visit Disney World where we stayed in a Disney resort. Lets just say the behavior of certain staff member was a little strange, although appreciated. I’ll tell y’all what, I will make my next post about that vacation adventure. I wrote allot about it in the past, but never explored this aspect of it all. It was happening all around us as well as to us, read the next post and you’ll understand better.

Anyway, this email comes in to me to explain the sexual side of everyday resorts. It was mentioned that he worked at the same resort for 20 years, starting out at 16, and has since retired from the tourist industry. I won’t ruin it for him, I’ll let him tell it as it was emailed to me. All I ask is that you think long and hard about all your past resort vacations and probably what to look for on your next resort vacation.

—————— Begin Email Message ————–

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Greeting Mr. Scorpion~

I would like to share things about resorts and the people who work there as well as the people who stay at them. I worked at the same one since I was 16 and now 20 years later I have fully retired. Resort guests are the absolute reason I retired, the tips, other money, and the sex made my tenure there very appreciated. So, let’s explain why shall we.

Your daughters, your girlfriends, your fiancées, your wives, and other members of staff ALL tend to pay with sex. Resort workers put up serious weekly numbers. Exotic beaches trigger single women from around the globe slut’s instincts. If she arrives alone its almost too easy. If she arrives with a partner it takes shockingly little effort to get her separated, naked, and on her back. Not to worry, the men have the same opportunities as the women, but most men are usually looking for it anyway, resort workers just make it easy.

Resort pay typically ranges from poor to abysmal so access to a continual stream of cute guests is seen as a crucial benefit if indeed not the main one. This arrangement is fully condoned by management; resorts know they can get away with lower salaries if workers are “wifey-ing up” and happy about their overall working conditions.

All guests, male or female, are for our benefit. During activities and excursions I have guests introduce themselves to each other with names and backgrounds. Innocent questions like hometown and favorite Disney movie are interspersed with more ulterior ones like stop light color (relationship status), celebrity crush (mate preference) and tattoo ownership (slut indicator). We use this information to more efficiently select targets. Kickball, volleyball, red rover and something called “the beach game” turn X-rated quickly. We’ll make up rules that may seem spontaneous but rest assured they aren’t—they’re designed to get women naked and fucking in the shortest time possible.

I know one particularly well-endowed co-worker who had an effective tactic with couples and large groups. First, he would take them out on the boat to play a few drinking games. After the women were sufficiently inebriated he would institute a clothing-off policy in order to continue playing. Since the men were out on a boat with nowhere to go they had little choice but to play along or be deemed pussies by the rest of the boat. They would stand around timidly with their comparatively small penises while the women swooned over his massive member. One or more women would always come find him later that night.

As mentioned previously the financial component of our compensation is rarely much above poverty wages thus rendering us childishly appreciative for laughably meager sums. I still remember my first tip: two friendly Canadian guys handed me the equivalent of 5 dollars after a guest activity. I proceeded to introduce them to every cute girl in the hotel until they clicked with some hotties. I had the bartender send them free bottom shelf shots at the first lull in conversation. They didn’t sleep alone for the rest of their stay.

Bartenders write ad nauseam about the wisdom of taking care of servers; I would argue resort staff are a better allocation of resources because it takes a much smaller sum to impress and our ability to enable a bang is better (we have a more fun and intimate relationship with guests and we’re free to wander the resort to introduce people and take groups up to rooms, secluded balconies, staff quarters, etc.).

We can ruin your vacation in any number of ways. This is sound advice for all customer-employee interactions but nowhere else have I experienced such a profound influence over customer experience. If you are a dickhead I can make sure you won’t get laid. If you are an entitled little princess I will go out of my way to make you feel unwanted and humiliated. This can range from the morally neutral (unfavorable seating/pairings during meals and activities) to the morally wrong (subtly letting it be known to the other guests that you are a creep) to the technically illegal (fighting you when I am drunk enough to not be held responsible).

Because pay is so low, management has little weight to reprimand its workers so more often than not complaints will fall on deaf ears. By accepting the unusual payment arrangement management has acquiesced a degree of authority over worker-guest interactions. Unless what I do is blatant, unambiguous and against the rules, management will most likely turn a blind eye to my behavior. They’d rather keep me hidden until you leave and let me continue unhindered then find and train a new employee. Because 99% of customers leave satisfied this is a deal they are more than happy to accept.

I can only speak for employees typically in positions like hotel reception, surf instructors, tour guides, and housekeepers. The guests are the reason we’re here. People at beach resorts are unsurprisingly a congenial lot and it’s impossible to dislike such a pleasant demographic. I’ve helped many hundreds of cool guests get laid, both guys and girls. In my estimate 90% of guests are great, 9% are neutral and maybe 1% are assholes. It’s only that 1% that would ever get detrimental treatment.

Sharks. Dolphins. Boppers. Cherries. Obviously many professions use code to describe customers: car salesmen have “tire-kickers” (non-serious buyers) and flight attendants have “spinners” (people who can’t find their seats), but due to close customer proximity and our relative youthfulness it’s more prevalent in this profession than others. It would be useless to explain actual terms because they vary from place to place but if you happen to overhear a worker speaking cryptically pay attention. It’s really not hard to decipher and you will benefit from their seasoned assessment. Also useful for locations: “nowhere,” “the dungeon,” “the bat cave.” If you know where we’re talking about then you will know where the party will be.

We get to meet large numbers of women from all over the world and develop fairly accurate mosaics of slutiness based on where she’s from and where she chooses to travel. There are a few combinations that consistently produce rates at  the high end of the bell curve:

American women studying abroad (bonus points for those who choose South America) Southeast Asian girls who choose tourist hotspots (Bangkok, Phuket, Bali, Boracay) American women who frequent the Caribbean.

It should come as no surprise that America is ground zero for whores and sluts who vacation with a constant wetspot in their g-string, and it becomes easy to see why Caribbean guys are so laid back—they have a never-ending supply of rich white girls flying down for sex. Side note: I only know one girl who studied abroad in Africa and she was almost a school-wide joke for the amount of dick she took. With such a small sample I can’t draw conclusions but if you have wider experience with this demographic please get in touch, I’m curious if my suspicions are true.

Planeloads of cute little jaw-dropping sluts from all over the world arrive weekly during the season and if you only speak English you are at a major disadvantage. Being American is not impressive in any way to many foreigners and is in fact often detrimental. Europeans, Asians and South Americans have seen too many of our drunken frat boys and whoring, slutty co-eds to have any respect for us just off the bat. That is until you tell them about the drink specials and ask them how their flight was in their own language. Then suddenly the table of pouty, teenage dreamboats straight off the plane from Madrid is at your full attention. Your value has just increased tenfold and eight eager little smiles greet you whenever you walk up to them. Virginities will be taken before the trip home.

The model quality Prada-toting 18-year-olds from Paris open up her legs pretty wide after you drop some French and wine knowledge on her. And by open up I mean they open it all for the taking. You now are in control of every orifice she claimed to own. If I could do college all over again I would opt for the highest-level language courses available and switch out my electives for a second language.

Not every resort is like this but the crazier ones certainly are. If you haven’t worked in one I would recommend you give it a try for a season. Also, I wouldn’t advise guys to allow their girlfriends to go to these places alone. If you do accompany her, don’t go to bed early if she’s staying up because odds are she is having her cage rattled a few times.

—- Rolando

————— End Of Email Message ———–

Next time you go to a resort somewhere in the world pay attention to the people around you, especially the employees of the resort. They just might be trying to tell you something and you might even like it. This is a fun game for me no matter where I’m at, people watching gets better the older I get. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this tiny inside peek from one of thousands of resort employees. Having a few friends in the cruise ship industry I need to get ahold of them and ask them if the same things are going on, which I can be very positive it is. So, that’s it for now, get busy and plan your next resort vacation, remember me because you know we want to hear about your adventures and see all your great pictures.

The Night I Don’t Remember

 

As we know, I do my best to share the stories of my readers. This one really has no direct category to be placed in, but I will add it to the collection of great stripper and strip bar stories. The reader who submitted this story asked to remain unidentified for professional reasons. No, I don’t know what is meant by that, but I always abide by requests and people see it when they read stuff here. I have seen this happen in real life more than once, like every day. One would be amazed what people leave at a strip bar. One would be surprised the efforts people go through to get their stuff back. And, yes, unfortunately it is kinda like talking with a giggly five year old when you call a strip bar, its always been that way because she is never hired for her people skills on the phone, she is hired to be the first thing you see when you walk thru the doors so you go DAMN! let me in. When one enters a strip bar it is like walking through the portal to an alternate universe, often one needs to pinch themselves because the world is cruel outside the doors. So, allot of weird shit happens in a strip bar, but then again a strippers job is to separate a visitor from as much of his/her money in the shortest amount of time, every time. With that being said, read the email.

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Begin email———————

I went to the strip club the other night…allegedly.  I’m not sure it counts though because I don’t remember being there, much less remember driving home.  “Oh the humanity Grayson, the humanity,” I hear the voices saying.  “How dare you drive home black-out drunk; you could have killed someone!”  Shut thefuck up right now and let me finish you interrupting ass-hag!  I didn’t quite drive home drunk and I do specifically remember one incident from the night…being woken at 3:30am by a security guard(?) while passed out in my truck in some establishment’s parking lot.  Whose parking lot it was…I was totally and completely unsure of.  After that, I am wholly unaware of the events except for the fact that I slept for the next 26 hours straight, missing work and occasionally waking up from some pretty twisted dreams of disembodied heads, parallel universes and ex-girlfriends wanting to “give it another shot”…again; then dumping me and shitting – both figuratively and literally – on me and my life.  I mean, this heartless cheating cunt had the audacity to…wait, what the fuck was I talking about?  Oh yeah, right…blacking out at a strip club and not remembering; I’m the good guy.  Anyway, it was like the movie The Hangover, minus the ‘wolf-pack’ and a whole lot more depressing.  Like our lovable characters from the film, I was (possibly) drugged with GHB and had to follow vague clues I’d unknowingly left myself in order to find, not a lost friend and groom for an imminent wedding the following morning, but my debit card and driver’s license.  So yeah, a completely sad version of the now classic comedy.

The entire night started with an innocent trip to a bar, not to drink, but to sit way back in a corner booth with my notebook (actual paper-type book you write in with pens; not a computer…I ain’t fuckin’ rich folks).  Yes, I said that shit with my nose in the air like some pretentious hipster at Star Bucks; feel free to punch me if you ever see me.  Anyway, how I got from said bar to, what I later found out to be Cabaret East, I have no fucking idea; but I figured my notebook might have a clue, since I’m always leaving myself notes.  I had 20 pages of some seriously fucked up and twisted shit written in there that I am proud to say I loved, and don’t actually know when I wrote it that night.  When I got done high-fiving myself and making mental notes to write shit-faced drunk (or drugged) more often, I noticed 2 phone numbers on the last page of writing.  One had the name of a tattoo parlor and the other was for a person named Corrin.  Intrigued, I picked up my cell phone ready to dial her(?) number until I came to the sudden realization that I had to have used my GPS since I surely had no idea how to get where I went or how to get home.  Sure enough, my GPS was the last app I used that night.  I searched the ‘recent addresses’, plugged that shit into Google Search and voila, Cabaret East.  I got the phone number, called that bitch up and what follows is the conversation, verbatim, I had with the receptionist…as much as I can recall days later anyway:

Girl – Cabaret East

Me – Yeah, hi.  I believe I visited your fine establishment Sunday night, and whether I left by my own accord or was forcibly removed, I’m not sure, but I believe ya’ll might be in possession of my ID and debit card.

Girl – Um…what?

Me – I think I walked my tab.  Do you have my debit card?

Girl – Uh…I dunno.

(Silence for ten seconds)

Me – (irritated at this point) Can you…I dunno…look?!

Girl – Oh yeah (giggles), sure, one sec.

Me – Wait wait wait!

Girl – What?

Me – Don’t you need my name?!

Girl – (giggles again) Oh yeah…of course!

After talking to this brick wall of human intelligence for what felt like an eternity, I was finally able to extract from her that, yes, they did indeed have possession of my shit.  I hung up the phone, triumphant that I CSI’d the shit out of my situation,  while also ashamed-beyond-words at the same time because I still don’t know how my shit got there in the first place. I will be fucked until my literal day of recollection.

Later Tuesday evening, I went up to the titty club to retrieve my shit and was met by a big, burly, black mother fucker who looked like he’d choke me with my own intestines; who also happened to remember both, helping me to my truck as I vomited along the way AND waking me up at 3:30 in the AM to send my hobo-ass packing.  I thanked him for telling me about such obviously proud moments in my life, then  I swore to him that I’d been drugged; in return he handed me a bill with a smile…for just under $350.  I fought back maniacal fits of laughter, tears and the intense urge to vomit.

I wasn’t sure if I was playing out my fantasy of a poor man’s Hank Moody from Californication or if I was literally just fucked up enough to get myself into such shenanigans; because I don’t generally share much about my actual personal life other than the intense anger that I feel in general towards society, but I’m pretty sure some people at this point would consider a negative bank account due to a – for all intents-and-purposes – fake night of debauchery, as rock bottom; for me…it’s just another Sunday night.

As for Corrin…she is a stripper, who had as much recollection of me as I had for her; we will not be in touch.

End email————————–

I like this man’s references to movies and life in general. I have the answer he seeks. It wasn’t drugs, it’s deeper than that, its more mental than that, it was out his normal element if you ask me. Plus, writers are fucking out there in their own world anyway, no offense to y’all writers, but it’s true. People often overthink shit too, which is death to our brains, then add in strippers, titties, alcohol, a strip bar, blacking out, and one can see where the imagination just goes ape shit. Not to mention the movie reference, because those were some pretty fucked up movies. Neither here nor there, he solved his dilemma. Too bad he doesn’t remember what went down. Or does he? Maybe its his mind blocking shit that isn’t in his norm or his mind knows that if he recalls anything that he will be in mental disarray. Who knows.

Encounters Of A Dreamer

I will always welcome stories from anyone who is willing to take the time to sit and write a story. I say that very collectively, y’all have seen what gets posted here on this blog and y’all know what I don’t personally post. Yet, the field of opportunities for what gets posted is as vast as the Great Plains of The United States of America, which coincidentally, is where this story comes from, all the way from the outskirts of a little town called Gettysburg, a little place located in the central region of South Dakota. Why is the location of this particular submitter important you ask? It’s simple, for me at least, as I would think people would be less inclined to do allot on the internet in a very rural town of just over eleven hundred people. When she graduated GHS in 2014, she was one of 20 some odd graduates. Seems small to me, I graduated in a class of 667 seniors. I’m just saying. Into the now, now, she is a student here in Texas attending Texas A&M in hopes of attaining her Biomedical Sciences degree. So, in my humble opinion, she has one hell of a brain to be in Texas A&M to begin with, and as y’all will soon see, what her mind sees and how it sees is amazing as well. How did she come across me? Oddly enough she was doing some surfing looking for the big city papers in South Dakota to read some local news, and multiple entries lead her here. Again, I will stress the importance of tagging blog entries. Now, at first she didn’t really want to start reading my blog, but said she was drawn in by many of my stories, she reluctantly admitted “binge reading” all night not too long ago and found herself inspired to “share” a dream she had recently with me and hopefully with the 3 people who read my blog pretty regularly. She expressed that I have a new fan and a new member of the mysterious Scorpion Army. Also, I just want to mention that she also let me know she has a few nice tattoos that I might like and she wouldn’t “mind” seeing them in the tattoo section or as a post here. Interesting, very interesting indeed. And, per her request, I will keep her identity my little secret, so for the express purpose of this post she will carry the alias of LabRat. The picture is credited to her friend who took it for her and has given The Sting Of The Scorpion Blog permission to use it at will. Without further introduction I give y’all the story she has sent me, she explained to me it was a very vivid dream she had and has yet to begin to understand.

Mr. Scorpion Sting ~

First of all I just want to tell you that, eventhough I found your blog by accident, I don’t regret a single moment I have spent there reading and looking at everything it has to offer readers. I never thought I would be writing my dream down for anybody else to read. But I am now, because I think it will help me better be able to explain it’s meaning afterwards. I’m open to the opinions of you and your readers if you care to share. By the way, I hope you don’t mind, I’m now a follower of your blog as well as have requesting to be a part of The Scorpion Army. My dream felt and seemed real, as if the memory I have is of something I actually did. I had to look into dreams and what they actually are, the simple answer is that dreams are a series of sensations, images, and deep thoughts that happen in a person’s mind during sleep. The question I fail, repeatedly, in answering is why I had the dream I did in the first place.

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The first thing I remember is sitting at the edge of my bed, stretching, feeling the coolness of the air in the room as it touches my body. As I wander around a house I don’t know I see myself moving quietly in the nude, as if I’m trying not to wake someone. I began to run a hot bath, the steam was billowing out like that of an old steam engine train, I could feel the heat and moisture of the steam but when I stepped into the water I could feel nothing. I continued to stand there under the water, letting it pour across my body like it was rinsing off what I did the night before. I bent down to turn off the water, letting the remaining water drip from my hair, as it ran down my back I could feel a coolness on my skin. After drying myself off I wrapped my hair up with the towel and walked back down the really long hallway back to the room with the bed. The curtains on the windows were pulled back now, lighting the room up with vibrant colors from outside. As I listened to the birds courting in the trees I sat in front of my mirror and put on my make-up, I dried and styled my hair, painted my toenails and fingernails a blazing red, misted myself with a sweet perfume, and when I was done I pushed in the chair and left the room. I watched myself walk, from a corner in the hallway, stalking myself, watching the way I moved, and could feel everything I touched, every step of my bare feet, every breath inhaled and exhaled, and even the smells of fresh squeezed orange juice as they passed along my path.

Soon enough I was walking out the door, still nude, still bare, but as if that didn’t matter, as if it was meant to be, and as if this was the way it was supposed to be. As I passed through the front yard I looked back to see the house I just left fade into the distance, as if the yard was a great distance, but then I am at the streets edge, there are other people walking by, or jogging, and even walking their dogs, none of which paid me any attention. I even kneeled down to pet this man’s small dog, I spoke to him but he didn’t answer, and then he continues to walk away from me. I felt his shirt in my hand being pulled away as I tried to stop him, I screamed “look at me asshole” as loud as I possibly could, yet he pulled away. I chased him, I ran as fast as I could, while he walked he soon disappeared into the distance ahead of me. I found my self at the intersection of a very busy street, waiting with others at a bus stop, I listened as they spoke around me, but never to me. Out of bravery or out of ignorance, I reached out to this woman standing there, busy looking at something on her phone, and I knocked her phone out of her hand with a violent slap. Nothing, she merely has a look of disgust on her face as she picks up her now shattered phone. The other people around her began asking what happened and her only reply was that she must have just lost her grip and dropped it. Ahh, too bad I said to her. She looks right through me to smile at the man behind me who had passed on his condolences for her now dead phone. Wait, what in the fuck is going on! Why cant people see me? Why cant people feel me? Why cant people hear me?

On the bus I sat next to a man doing a crossword puzzle in the paper, when he didn’t know the word he would cheat by looking it up on his phone. I never liked cheaters. I took his bottle of water out of the seat, opened it, and began pouring it all over his paper and his lap, but what people saw was him pouring the water everywhere, very casually, and without thinking twice about it. What is going on? Who are these people around me but so far removed from me. I recognize some of the faces, this is my route, this isn’t my first time on this bus taking this trip. I will see where it leads, I will see where to get off when I know where to get off. But how will I know? I don’t even know where I’m going or why I’m going there. When the bus stops it is in front of a very large and tall building, it blocks the bright sunshine seen around me, everyone exits the bus, most of them heading inside the big building, passing through the doors, until I was all alone on what seemed like a deserted street corner. I feel very alone, scared, emotionless, and decide to go into the ominous building myself. When I get to the doors there is a man standing there in a guard’s uniform, I watched as he opened the doors for each of the people that had come before me but he was standing there like a statue before me, motionless, expressionless, seems very unhappy. I walked up to him, inches away from him, until I was pressed up against him, until I pushed myself closer, I began kissing him on his neck, caressing his chest with my hands, I let my hands slip to his zipper which I undid, holding his very limp member in my hand. I squeezed him, I dug my nails into his flesh, and he had not a single reaction. Then I feel myself being pushed forward by him, he is leaning in to pull the door open for yet another person, one which I snuck inside right behind. The marble floor was extremely cold on the bottoms of my feet, I needed to be someplace else.

I stood in the line where the people waited to walk through metal detectors, have their bagged searched, and a wand passed across them, as if to give the appearance that they really do care. My turn at the gate, nothing to put in the basket, no bag to be dug through, nothing to declare, and no magic badge to identify myself to the guards. As I passed through the metal detector it went off, there was a man 10 feet in front of me and a woman about the same distance behind me, but this thing’s sirens and lights are going nuts. The people around, to include the guards are bewildered, they are talking that the equipment has malfunctioned. No dumbasses, it didn’t malfunction, I don’t think at least, come get me, I’m right here, I feel you touching me as you come closer, but you don’t feel me, see me, smell me, or hear me, your fucking loss, I’m going in. Going in? Going in where? Follow the herd, they are all going somewhere inside this building, just follow the herd. I get on an elevator, packed so tight it was like being in a grinder at a meat market, the smells of 20 people all melting together to make one very bad smelling elevator. So much heavy breathing, it was like listening to an orgy in progress, bodies grinding, rubbing, moving, and the “ding” sounds the start of the mass separation, I’m forced out with a large number of the herd, so I just go with the flow. The moved like ants, all following the scent trail to their destination, one by one they dropped off into offices and cubicles leaving me out, I was standing there looking at people work, looking at people surfing porn on their phones, and even one woman I had followed to the bathroom because she looked suspicious, who sat in a stall, alone with her tiny little vibrator that she put to quick work. She had to bite into the flesh of her arm to contain her moans from her coworkers, faster and faster she went until she almost collapses. She wipes down the still dripping vibrator, slips into her purse, wipes herself down too, then it is over, as fast as it started, without washing her hands she touches up her make-up, tusses her hair a bit, and away she goes.

Bored with this floor I catch a ride on the executive elevator, we’re going all the way to the top floor. These men and women quickly load into a boardroom, get their coffee, muffins, and waters as they all try to find the best seat. When the big cheese enters they all stand, as if to show respect, but only thinking about their chair pushing away as they sit and making an ass out of themselves in front of the boss. Why else would they cling to their chairs? Fear? Speed? When they sit and he begins to speak I find myself on the long table, walking back and forth, looking at the view of the city out of the window. I found it fun to fuck with people’s hair, a little messing up of the different heads here and there never hurt. Then one man, as he brushed his hair back into place touched my hand, he looked right at me as if I had just been caught, stared into my eyes for a moment and then it was over. Did he know I was there? Did he know I was squatted down on the table in front of him, so close I could feel his breath on my stomach? Could he really feel me touch him? Did he really just touch my hand and feel it? Answer me motherfucker! Out of frustration I licked the side of his face, starting at the chin and ending at his forehead, he tasted like a woman. I wonder if that was the taste of his wife. Or was it his mistress? Or is he a sick pedophile fuck? Who are these people anyways? Why am I here? Needing a break I excused myself from the meeting and found myself in the office of one of the kings of this corporation. He’s living large, his office is huge, decorated with some very fine things from around the world. Probably all tax loopholes of some sort. His giant antique leather chair was very chilling to my flesh when I first sat in it, soon after I began to feel the wetness of my legs and ass on the leather, I was perspiring as I sat here, it was very warm, it was making me very sleepy. I cleared a space on this big desk to lay on it, I curled up and fell asleep right there. When I woke, it was dark in the office, dark outside, dark everywhere. I needed to get out. I find he has an elevator which goes straight to the parking garage, how convenient, so I took another ride.

The parking lot was empty, I walked around looking for a way out, then I see a car, a very nice car, with the lights on, as I approached the car I could hear it was running. When I peaked inside I see nobody, the door was open, and I got in. I put it in drive and just stepped as hard as I could on the gas pedal, I was going very fast in a short amount of time. I found the exit of the garage and headed towards it, the gate opens slowly and the guard looks at me in the car but cannot see me because the windows are tinted very dark. Then I just started driving, I drove all around the city, a place which is very different after dark, there are different people out, people who see the world in a different way. I started thinking, wondering about my day, this bizarre day which has also been fantastic. I drove that car fast, the speedometer stopped at 220mph but I kept going faster, every light on the street was green, I just kept going like there was no end, before long the blur of the city lights were far behind me, but I just keep driving. Everything comes to a dead stop, the car is halted by something, I am thrown forward through the windshield of the car, thrown so far I cant even see the car. It’s very dark, I’m very cold as I lay motionless, laid in a shallow puddle of water, face down, only hearing the sounds of the wind and rain. I wasn’t able to move or didn’t want to mover a very long time. I could feel the heat of the sun that came up in the morning, the sting of the sun as it blazed down on my back mid-day, and how I could feel relief as the sun would set again. I the final night I felt this for the last time.

The first thing I remember is sitting at the edge of my bed, stretching, feeling the coolness of the air in the room as it touches my body. As I wander around a house I don’t know I see myself moving quietly in the nude, as if I’m trying not to wake someone. I began to run a hot bath, the steam was billowing out like that of an old steam engine train, I could feel the heat and moisture of the steam but when I stepped into the water I could feel nothing. I continued to stand there under the water, letting it pour across my body like it was rinsing off what I did the night before. I bent down to turn off the water, letting the remaining water drip from my hair, as it ran down my back. I began walking, passing the room I didn’t know, walking wet, walking somewhere, walking anywhere. I went outside, sitting on the stairs of the porch, looking at the car that had been crushed into the giant tree in the front yard. I began walking towards this mangled car, remembering a car similar to this one from somewhere in time, there was blood everywhere, the interior was bathed in blood, the windshield laid a distance away from the front of the car, blood pooled on the hood and ground. I walked forward, seeing something in the distance, something glistening in the light rain, there was a nude girl’s body laid face down in a shallow puddle of blood and water. She looks peaceful, she looks as if she is part of the land, I kneel down, whipping the hair from her bloody face when she opens her eyes, looking into mine. She smiles at me, she whispers to me to that I am feeling no pain, I’m suffering no longer, she takes my hand into hers, pulls me closer until we lay together, together in peace, together forever.

When I woke up in the morning following this dream I remembered as if it happened. The girl was me, I watched myself during the entire dream. I, too, sat at the edge of my small bed, dripping in sweat, wondering what in the hell just happened. My friend and room-mate explained to me that she was woke up by me during the night when apparently I had the bath running at about 3 in the morning. As she watched me walk around the house naked she says she stopped me at the front door because I was trying to go out side for some reason. She took my hand and led me back to bed, where I was tucked in and watched for the remainder of the night. When I saw her when I first woke up she had a very scared look on her face, it reminded me of my mother’s face when she told me my grandmother I was vey closed to had passed away. I told my room-mate about my dream, it freaked her out a little, but she was there for me, held me, and brought me hot tea while I took a very hot bath to soak my aching body. She remained at my side, helping me scrub my back, then drying my hair for me, and eventually we just went down stairs, curled up on the couch and watched movies the rest of the day, old movies from the fifties, seemed like that was all that is on at that time of day. After we talked about my dream that first morning it has never been discussed again. I want to talk to her about it again, I want her to read this thing after it is written on your blog. I appreciate your willingness to share my dream with your audience. Maybe, just maybe someone out there has an explanation. Thanks again, yours truly LabRat.