Neurotic Fiction
(what to do when travel writing dies...)
Bermuda, 1989
Boris had met Elaine in Trimmingham's, he buying a soup to nuts wardrobe and tossing his sodden things into a Trimmingham's bag. Seems the concierge had been right about advising against a motorbike ride into Hamilton in front of the incoming storm after all.
Elaine was pale, petite and here on her own after her fiance had called it all off when he discovered her hammer toes. As long as she kept a pair of socks on under her sandals, Boris could tolerate the condition though he never tucked his chin lower than 85 degrees below the horizon.
Seducing her was easy, his taking her to most of the open conch museums on the island. In a fit of passion, he took her to the lanai, stripped her robe off and laid her onto the lounge chair. Pressing his weight onto and into her, she squealed with what Boris mistakenly thought was delight and soon was corrected in that the strapping of the lounge chair was pinching her pale ass in the Bermuda full moon.
Though called, the island constable on duty did not press charges, satisfying himself with an admonition to the couple and a hail of laughter in the sealed Police Ford Coronet.
Key West, 2000
Lauren let her new husband snooze the evening's liquor off in the Honeymoon Suite of what used to be the Flagler. She put her blue bikini on and a discreet wrap around the waist and walked out into the early night to the piers where you could lean over the side to watch the Tarpon swim lazily, looking for an evening meal.
Boris was there, waiting as he had promised once the Jonathan Winters retrospective was over on Showtime. The hotel had a great cable selection.
He too was watching the Tarpon weave their way in and around the piles that held the marina pier. Boris turned to Lauren and as she drifted into his arms, he received her and knocked the Southernmost Mudslide that he had balanced on the pier pile into the small of her back such that cream, Kalua and whatnot cascaded in small but passionate spurts down her discreet wrap and settling on her ankles and the tops of her feet. Sensing food, a Tarpon leapt up onto the decking which startled Boris such that he pushed Lauren away and into the water.
Toledo Spain, 2005
His flight was five hours late so he endured the scolding of his driver though he truly didn't have the first idea of what he was talking about. After a series of rushed meetings, facilities tours and a guerilla-like drive to his hotel in the front seat of a vehicle that was probably around since Franco had begun to die, Boris was dropped off in the San Juan de Reyes to be checked into a handicapped-accessible room and allowed his first shower in 32 hours. His feet dangling off the toilet scarce bothered him. He was only interested in soap and shaving and sleep.
But he was hungry, ravenous at six o'clock local time in a country where most mainstream restaurants don't open before 8.30 pm. He wandered the streets, shaven and showered but with a growl in the pit of his stomach that he was sure was frightening prostitutes. Not that he was looking but you never know...
He chanced upon a Brasserie that was open and serving beer and Tapas, racciones as many times and as much food as you cared to order and eat. Her name was Margarita and she was sweet but homely with glasses and a protruding chin. However, she proferred food and instantly Boris was in love.
He ate venison stew, asparagus wrapped in salty ham, olives and whatever else he felt he could pronounce and digest. When Margarita quietly said that she was leaving for the evening, he called for the cuenta por favor and asked Margarita if he could walk her home. He could.
She lived in a single apartment in the older section of the city by the Roman ruins. Strolling down the cobblestone incline he risked holding her hand. She accepted and squeezed his just a little too hard to be incidental. They smiled at each other through limited translation and Boris felt at peace for once.
The rumble began distantly and randomly but soon grew to an oncoming roar. In the middle of the cobblestone Boris suddenly realized that they were walking in a main thoroughfare. As the Volkswagen Jetta turned the corner by the El Greco museum, Boris had no choice but to loose his grip and launch Margarita into the stucco facade of the apartment opposing.
London, 2005
Boris and she had known each other through work although they were engaged in entirely different areas of the company. It was only happenstance that they found each other across the aisle of the same Cincinatti to London US Airways flight. They chatted over wine, brie and a flounder that wound Boris up in the digestive mile-high club somewhere over Greenland for the better part of the night.
He was on the fifth floor of the Durand, she on the third and they agreed to meet for dinner where she announced that it was her habit to abandon the rules while abroad and invite her first likely opportunity to her bed. Boris relished the thought of exploring her heretofore tweed and nylon-cloaked nether regions of opportunity. He stood, leaning against the portable butane space heater that warded off an early London June chill and accepted the cigarette from her, that which had been previously forbidden him. Lighting it, he leaned a trifle too heavily into the heater and as it fell off the open platform of the dining area the cigarette ignited the spilled butane.
Fortunately, Kate was a wonderful and caring sister in the burn ward afterwards.
Bermuda, 1989
Boris had met Elaine in Trimmingham's, he buying a soup to nuts wardrobe and tossing his sodden things into a Trimmingham's bag. Seems the concierge had been right about advising against a motorbike ride into Hamilton in front of the incoming storm after all.
Elaine was pale, petite and here on her own after her fiance had called it all off when he discovered her hammer toes. As long as she kept a pair of socks on under her sandals, Boris could tolerate the condition though he never tucked his chin lower than 85 degrees below the horizon.
Seducing her was easy, his taking her to most of the open conch museums on the island. In a fit of passion, he took her to the lanai, stripped her robe off and laid her onto the lounge chair. Pressing his weight onto and into her, she squealed with what Boris mistakenly thought was delight and soon was corrected in that the strapping of the lounge chair was pinching her pale ass in the Bermuda full moon.
Though called, the island constable on duty did not press charges, satisfying himself with an admonition to the couple and a hail of laughter in the sealed Police Ford Coronet.
Key West, 2000
Lauren let her new husband snooze the evening's liquor off in the Honeymoon Suite of what used to be the Flagler. She put her blue bikini on and a discreet wrap around the waist and walked out into the early night to the piers where you could lean over the side to watch the Tarpon swim lazily, looking for an evening meal.
Boris was there, waiting as he had promised once the Jonathan Winters retrospective was over on Showtime. The hotel had a great cable selection.
He too was watching the Tarpon weave their way in and around the piles that held the marina pier. Boris turned to Lauren and as she drifted into his arms, he received her and knocked the Southernmost Mudslide that he had balanced on the pier pile into the small of her back such that cream, Kalua and whatnot cascaded in small but passionate spurts down her discreet wrap and settling on her ankles and the tops of her feet. Sensing food, a Tarpon leapt up onto the decking which startled Boris such that he pushed Lauren away and into the water.
Toledo Spain, 2005
His flight was five hours late so he endured the scolding of his driver though he truly didn't have the first idea of what he was talking about. After a series of rushed meetings, facilities tours and a guerilla-like drive to his hotel in the front seat of a vehicle that was probably around since Franco had begun to die, Boris was dropped off in the San Juan de Reyes to be checked into a handicapped-accessible room and allowed his first shower in 32 hours. His feet dangling off the toilet scarce bothered him. He was only interested in soap and shaving and sleep.
But he was hungry, ravenous at six o'clock local time in a country where most mainstream restaurants don't open before 8.30 pm. He wandered the streets, shaven and showered but with a growl in the pit of his stomach that he was sure was frightening prostitutes. Not that he was looking but you never know...
He chanced upon a Brasserie that was open and serving beer and Tapas, racciones as many times and as much food as you cared to order and eat. Her name was Margarita and she was sweet but homely with glasses and a protruding chin. However, she proferred food and instantly Boris was in love.
He ate venison stew, asparagus wrapped in salty ham, olives and whatever else he felt he could pronounce and digest. When Margarita quietly said that she was leaving for the evening, he called for the cuenta por favor and asked Margarita if he could walk her home. He could.
She lived in a single apartment in the older section of the city by the Roman ruins. Strolling down the cobblestone incline he risked holding her hand. She accepted and squeezed his just a little too hard to be incidental. They smiled at each other through limited translation and Boris felt at peace for once.
The rumble began distantly and randomly but soon grew to an oncoming roar. In the middle of the cobblestone Boris suddenly realized that they were walking in a main thoroughfare. As the Volkswagen Jetta turned the corner by the El Greco museum, Boris had no choice but to loose his grip and launch Margarita into the stucco facade of the apartment opposing.
London, 2005
Boris and she had known each other through work although they were engaged in entirely different areas of the company. It was only happenstance that they found each other across the aisle of the same Cincinatti to London US Airways flight. They chatted over wine, brie and a flounder that wound Boris up in the digestive mile-high club somewhere over Greenland for the better part of the night.
He was on the fifth floor of the Durand, she on the third and they agreed to meet for dinner where she announced that it was her habit to abandon the rules while abroad and invite her first likely opportunity to her bed. Boris relished the thought of exploring her heretofore tweed and nylon-cloaked nether regions of opportunity. He stood, leaning against the portable butane space heater that warded off an early London June chill and accepted the cigarette from her, that which had been previously forbidden him. Lighting it, he leaned a trifle too heavily into the heater and as it fell off the open platform of the dining area the cigarette ignited the spilled butane.
Fortunately, Kate was a wonderful and caring sister in the burn ward afterwards.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Saturday, August 14, 2010
1 Comments:
Is Boris Polish?
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