BigJimsWornOutTires
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June 19, 2015
Eau Claire, Wisconsin
It was her eyes that captured my curiosity.
Seated on a black metal deck chair adjacent to a round glass side table and matching chair in front of a downtown cafe, among the multiple shops lining the road, a blonde was sipping a novelty drink with her legs crossed. Thirty at most, she wore red sandals. A thin black dress affixed with a corset exposing much of her pale legs tinted with sweat from the heat of that day stuck to her skin, revealing the braless breasts. She looked tipsy, probably from that drink. Her eyes caught mine.
I stood the other side of that road as I placed my quart of Colt 45 down on the urine-stanched ground. I then cried out to her, "Yo, you wants to sell that booty, ho? I knows I can gets you at least a bill!" Ugh. Quickly she retrieved her phone from the table and stood up in a bitchy manner. So I tried a different tactic. "Yo, ho, you knows you selling that shit fo real! I can get you better Johns, Miss Fine!"
She disappeared into the cafe rushing through the glass doors. "Aight, aight, then you on your own, Miss Jones!" I shouted to where she once was.
Ugh, I began pondering to myself. If I only had a heart. And so that mull triggered that very song as I sang out loud and skipped my feet along the sidewalk, jiggling away as other pedestrians scattered in a hurry. ♫ I'd be tender, I'd be gentle. And awful sentimental. Regarding love and art. I'd be friends with the sparrows. And the boy that shoots the arrows. If I only had a heart.... ♫
As I was about to begin the next verse, a black woman I passed interrupted from behind, "What do you think you're doing?"
I revolved and faced her, replied, "I'm singing and skipping along the sidewalk."
"No, hold on, that's not what I mean," she says, then gets all up into my business. Now inches apart as I look down, noticing that black cleavage bursting out of the white blouse she wore. "I heard you shouting over there like some lunatic. You do know you're not black, right?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm whiter than a snowflake."
Her eyes get big as her brows rise. "You're not that white. But white, yes. Not black. So stop bullying white folks as if you're black."
"Hmm," I replied, indicating pondering when in fact, I was thinking about getting that black booty bouncing on my smooth snowflake balls. "And what if I was white? What is it to you?"
Rolling her eyes, she says, "You have a car nearby?"
"What if I do? What business is it of yours?"
"Well," she recoiled and scanned my muscular body and halted on my package contour along my leg, seeing an excellent potential workout for her black vagina. Her eyes quickly rush back to mine. "If you do, it'll be worth your wild. Or," she grabbed my hand, pulling me. "We can go to my SUV. I'm rich."
So there you have it. Call it shame—call it trophy material—call it being humbled—I rather not show my face due to a highly probable inbox explosion of male-larpers. Lesbians included, sadly.
Yes, I'm a pansexual transducer for women only. Well, I used to be anyway. Ugh, those were the days. Getting together with a lesbian friend shooting shots of tequila, and before you know it, I fucking her from behind as her head thumps against the wall. Half of the hour later, she said, "Please, Jim. I mean it. Don't tell anyone about this." Those very words once were spoken with a husky scratchy feminine voice.
Eau Claire, Wisconsin
It was her eyes that captured my curiosity.
Seated on a black metal deck chair adjacent to a round glass side table and matching chair in front of a downtown cafe, among the multiple shops lining the road, a blonde was sipping a novelty drink with her legs crossed. Thirty at most, she wore red sandals. A thin black dress affixed with a corset exposing much of her pale legs tinted with sweat from the heat of that day stuck to her skin, revealing the braless breasts. She looked tipsy, probably from that drink. Her eyes caught mine.
I stood the other side of that road as I placed my quart of Colt 45 down on the urine-stanched ground. I then cried out to her, "Yo, you wants to sell that booty, ho? I knows I can gets you at least a bill!" Ugh. Quickly she retrieved her phone from the table and stood up in a bitchy manner. So I tried a different tactic. "Yo, ho, you knows you selling that shit fo real! I can get you better Johns, Miss Fine!"
She disappeared into the cafe rushing through the glass doors. "Aight, aight, then you on your own, Miss Jones!" I shouted to where she once was.
Ugh, I began pondering to myself. If I only had a heart. And so that mull triggered that very song as I sang out loud and skipped my feet along the sidewalk, jiggling away as other pedestrians scattered in a hurry. ♫ I'd be tender, I'd be gentle. And awful sentimental. Regarding love and art. I'd be friends with the sparrows. And the boy that shoots the arrows. If I only had a heart.... ♫
As I was about to begin the next verse, a black woman I passed interrupted from behind, "What do you think you're doing?"
I revolved and faced her, replied, "I'm singing and skipping along the sidewalk."
"No, hold on, that's not what I mean," she says, then gets all up into my business. Now inches apart as I look down, noticing that black cleavage bursting out of the white blouse she wore. "I heard you shouting over there like some lunatic. You do know you're not black, right?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm whiter than a snowflake."
Her eyes get big as her brows rise. "You're not that white. But white, yes. Not black. So stop bullying white folks as if you're black."
"Hmm," I replied, indicating pondering when in fact, I was thinking about getting that black booty bouncing on my smooth snowflake balls. "And what if I was white? What is it to you?"
Rolling her eyes, she says, "You have a car nearby?"
"What if I do? What business is it of yours?"
"Well," she recoiled and scanned my muscular body and halted on my package contour along my leg, seeing an excellent potential workout for her black vagina. Her eyes quickly rush back to mine. "If you do, it'll be worth your wild. Or," she grabbed my hand, pulling me. "We can go to my SUV. I'm rich."
So there you have it. Call it shame—call it trophy material—call it being humbled—I rather not show my face due to a highly probable inbox explosion of male-larpers. Lesbians included, sadly.
Yes, I'm a pansexual transducer for women only. Well, I used to be anyway. Ugh, those were the days. Getting together with a lesbian friend shooting shots of tequila, and before you know it, I fucking her from behind as her head thumps against the wall. Half of the hour later, she said, "Please, Jim. I mean it. Don't tell anyone about this." Those very words once were spoken with a husky scratchy feminine voice.
