C
crushed roses
Guest
So, Morrissey was on a busy street looking in shop windows, and no one was bothering him, so I knew that I had to grasp the moment by the testicles and wring it. I skipped up to him and smiled. He recoiled briefly and adjusted his hair.
"This is for you," I said, and I gave him a carrot.
His eyes grew moist. "I've been doing this for so many years, and no one has ever done this for me. I've been waiting for you so long," he said.
I munched thoughtfully on my carrot. "When's the last time you had applesauce?" I asked him.
Morrissey gazes heavenward and thinks. "I can't say I remember. Let's eat applesauce and ride the ferris wheel."
So I link my arm through his, and off we go. But somehow we forgot where we were going because as we round the corner, there's a parade going on. It's a gay parade, but all the beautiful gay men are lining the sidewalks looking pissed. And trudging down the center of the street are midgets and dwarves with banners and picket signs. Morrissey stops by a short muscley man that he knows, and the two of them eskimo kiss. "What's going on?" Morrissey wants to know.
"It's the little people," the guy says. "They don't think they get any respect or distinction from us tall gays." I laughed because this guy was almost as short as me (5'4"), and the guy makes a face at me.
"What the hell are you doing with her?" the guys asks Morrissey.
Morrissey chuckles, "She's my favorite waitress."
I'm surprised to hear this since I've never been a waitress in all of my life. Morrissey suddenly gets very silly-happy and runs out into the street to pick up a dwarf and toss him around. After jostling with the by now very upset dwarf, Morrissey plants the little man down squarely, looks him in the eyes, and squeezes his reddening cheeks. The little man kicks him in the shin and runs off. Morrissey limps back to me with a huge grin.
"Right then, I have to show you this movie that I love at my house."
So I follow him down the street to this huge white columned building. It's a mansion, but all the other houses on the street are destitute and rundown little shacks every where you look. We go up the stairs and Morrissey fumbles for his keys. Just as he finally finds them, the front door swings open, and there's another short muscled man, this time with a shaved head. He is completely naked, except for a pink flowered apron and he is dragging a vacuum cleaner (one of those new neat cyclonic ones that don't use vacuum cleaner bags.) He also has an erection, and it makes the bottom part of the apron stand out at a funny angle from his body because his dinkle is crooked.
"This is Herman," Morrissey says as he steps past him.
"Who is he?" I ask.
"The best boy," Morrissey says.
Herman offers me chocolates off a white enameled plate, and disappears, his crooked boner flopping with each step.
"I love Saturdays," Morrissey says. I think to myself that it is Wednesday. This thought gets me excited because EastEnders comes on at 10pm on WLIW on Wednesdays. So I tell Morrissey this, and explain that our episodes are about two years behind. Morrissey sighs.
"I suppose this means that you don't like custard," he says. Then Morrissey has to go to the bathroom. He proclaims that it is time that he has his first dump of the day. But I can talk to him through the door if I like. I tell him no because I am eating chocolate.
While he's away, I wander around the house and look at his stuff. It isn't modern; it's very old, with lots of little crystal things. And Morrissey's cats keep jumping up on the tables. I'm getting bored, so I go upstairs.
I find Morrissey's room, and EVERYTHING in it is the same shade of burgundy. I wander into his closet and start trying on his clothes; I take his burgundy silk boxer shorts out of the dresser drawer and press them to my cheek and roll around on the bed. The telephone rings, and i know it is room service. Morrissey's house has suddenly become a hotel. The front desk is ringing me to say that my husband will be up shortly. Then Morrissey comes on the line and asks me to get a bucket of ice because these "Four Seasons bastards" are trying to keep the ice from him. I ask him why they would do that, and he says it's because they're all gay and they're upset that he's married. But then he assures me that it will all be okay eventually, and that I shouldn't leave the hotel because "they" will try to throw darts at me. I ask him if he likes being married, and he says, "no, but you knew that I wouldn't, didn't you? But, I have to get the green card."
So he tells me again to get the ice, and don't let anyone know I was getting it for him, or they'd never let me have it. He tells me he'll be right up to the room shortly, and that I have to be back by five because the "green card people" were coming then to watch us make love and be assured that the marriage was legitimate, not just some ploy for him to get his green card. "I hope it doesn't take long," Morrissey says, "I want to take you shopping."
So I hang up and leave the room. I have a white skirt and jacket on all of a sudden. I'm wandering around the hotel room clutching Morrissey's burgundy silk boxer shorts in one hand and a brass plated ice bucket in the other, bothering every idiot in the universe for ice. NO ONE ANYWHERE has any ice. I'm very upset because I know Morrissey will think that people had ice and they were just keeping it from him, or worse yet, that I was just trying to keep the ice from him to be mean.
I get on a glass elevator and get squished to the back behind five OBESE Japanese business men. I go up and down on the elevator for what feels like forever, feeling sick to my stomach, and unable to get out. The Japanese men think it is hilarious to go up and down, up and down. When I throw up, they think it is even more hilarious. I hold the boxer shorts up to my face and pray that somehow I'll get out of this. I check my watch. It is almost five. I have to get back...
Then I woke up. Trust me to wake up before I get laid (typical.) I'm sure this all means something. I'm almost afraid to speculate what. Oh, well.
"This is for you," I said, and I gave him a carrot.
His eyes grew moist. "I've been doing this for so many years, and no one has ever done this for me. I've been waiting for you so long," he said.
I munched thoughtfully on my carrot. "When's the last time you had applesauce?" I asked him.
Morrissey gazes heavenward and thinks. "I can't say I remember. Let's eat applesauce and ride the ferris wheel."
So I link my arm through his, and off we go. But somehow we forgot where we were going because as we round the corner, there's a parade going on. It's a gay parade, but all the beautiful gay men are lining the sidewalks looking pissed. And trudging down the center of the street are midgets and dwarves with banners and picket signs. Morrissey stops by a short muscley man that he knows, and the two of them eskimo kiss. "What's going on?" Morrissey wants to know.
"It's the little people," the guy says. "They don't think they get any respect or distinction from us tall gays." I laughed because this guy was almost as short as me (5'4"), and the guy makes a face at me.
"What the hell are you doing with her?" the guys asks Morrissey.
Morrissey chuckles, "She's my favorite waitress."
I'm surprised to hear this since I've never been a waitress in all of my life. Morrissey suddenly gets very silly-happy and runs out into the street to pick up a dwarf and toss him around. After jostling with the by now very upset dwarf, Morrissey plants the little man down squarely, looks him in the eyes, and squeezes his reddening cheeks. The little man kicks him in the shin and runs off. Morrissey limps back to me with a huge grin.
"Right then, I have to show you this movie that I love at my house."
So I follow him down the street to this huge white columned building. It's a mansion, but all the other houses on the street are destitute and rundown little shacks every where you look. We go up the stairs and Morrissey fumbles for his keys. Just as he finally finds them, the front door swings open, and there's another short muscled man, this time with a shaved head. He is completely naked, except for a pink flowered apron and he is dragging a vacuum cleaner (one of those new neat cyclonic ones that don't use vacuum cleaner bags.) He also has an erection, and it makes the bottom part of the apron stand out at a funny angle from his body because his dinkle is crooked.
"This is Herman," Morrissey says as he steps past him.
"Who is he?" I ask.
"The best boy," Morrissey says.
Herman offers me chocolates off a white enameled plate, and disappears, his crooked boner flopping with each step.
"I love Saturdays," Morrissey says. I think to myself that it is Wednesday. This thought gets me excited because EastEnders comes on at 10pm on WLIW on Wednesdays. So I tell Morrissey this, and explain that our episodes are about two years behind. Morrissey sighs.
"I suppose this means that you don't like custard," he says. Then Morrissey has to go to the bathroom. He proclaims that it is time that he has his first dump of the day. But I can talk to him through the door if I like. I tell him no because I am eating chocolate.
While he's away, I wander around the house and look at his stuff. It isn't modern; it's very old, with lots of little crystal things. And Morrissey's cats keep jumping up on the tables. I'm getting bored, so I go upstairs.
I find Morrissey's room, and EVERYTHING in it is the same shade of burgundy. I wander into his closet and start trying on his clothes; I take his burgundy silk boxer shorts out of the dresser drawer and press them to my cheek and roll around on the bed. The telephone rings, and i know it is room service. Morrissey's house has suddenly become a hotel. The front desk is ringing me to say that my husband will be up shortly. Then Morrissey comes on the line and asks me to get a bucket of ice because these "Four Seasons bastards" are trying to keep the ice from him. I ask him why they would do that, and he says it's because they're all gay and they're upset that he's married. But then he assures me that it will all be okay eventually, and that I shouldn't leave the hotel because "they" will try to throw darts at me. I ask him if he likes being married, and he says, "no, but you knew that I wouldn't, didn't you? But, I have to get the green card."
So he tells me again to get the ice, and don't let anyone know I was getting it for him, or they'd never let me have it. He tells me he'll be right up to the room shortly, and that I have to be back by five because the "green card people" were coming then to watch us make love and be assured that the marriage was legitimate, not just some ploy for him to get his green card. "I hope it doesn't take long," Morrissey says, "I want to take you shopping."
So I hang up and leave the room. I have a white skirt and jacket on all of a sudden. I'm wandering around the hotel room clutching Morrissey's burgundy silk boxer shorts in one hand and a brass plated ice bucket in the other, bothering every idiot in the universe for ice. NO ONE ANYWHERE has any ice. I'm very upset because I know Morrissey will think that people had ice and they were just keeping it from him, or worse yet, that I was just trying to keep the ice from him to be mean.
I get on a glass elevator and get squished to the back behind five OBESE Japanese business men. I go up and down on the elevator for what feels like forever, feeling sick to my stomach, and unable to get out. The Japanese men think it is hilarious to go up and down, up and down. When I throw up, they think it is even more hilarious. I hold the boxer shorts up to my face and pray that somehow I'll get out of this. I check my watch. It is almost five. I have to get back...
Then I woke up. Trust me to wake up before I get laid (typical.) I'm sure this all means something. I'm almost afraid to speculate what. Oh, well.
