dont ask why.

she knew i was busy writing my thing, but life is like that.

this is a girl who makes sure that every hair is in place at all times.

i was banging away at the typer, getting up, pacing, eating, drinking, smoking, trying to be a good host, and she was saying that i was making her nervous.

she didnt say it to me directly she said it to her reflection in the mirror as she redrew her lip line outline.

brazilian girl. tall. dark. handsome.

lots of things going on above the neck: jangly earrings, highlights, teasing, arched eybrows, fake mole, crazy blueblack mascara, insane green eyes, lip gloss, blush, sparkles, tounge pierce, perfume… exactly everything that i dont need when im trying to concentrate on baseball and writing.

once she was satisfied with her look she plopped down on the couch and flipped through tivo. then she browsed through my magazines. then back at the tivo. then she bounced up and looked at her see-through genie pants in the full length mirror.

she picked at the imaginary lint. she took a wrinkle out with a wipe. she twisted her torso to check out her ass.

its looking good from here i tell her.

she doesnt listen.

i wonder who all this primping is for if not for moi.

but its for moi.

moi is plenty happy, but would be more happy if she just sat down and chilled.

so i offered her a cigarette, which she accepted which ended up being a big mistake because then she realized that her nails were in need of a filing, and then a dab of polish, and then a star, and then one more file, topped off with a blow from her dazzling lips.

done yet tony?

it was midnight. she had a point. i was done. i shoulda been done. i was done. was i done?

just a few minutes i tell her and read it to myself seeing if i laugh at the jokes and before i could finish i see that she has taken off the genie pants and she is standing there in the door jamb bottomless except for a gstring and heels which shes tapping on my hardwood floor.

shes smoking the end of the cigarette and blowing the smoke into the air.

the smoke does what i should have been doing which was surrounding her and floating down the length of her shape and taking its time.

the glow around her looked like top gun.

she turned around to give me a different look, and thats where i saw two things that have always confused me about todays modern woman.

the g string panty is one of the finest creations introduced to this planet. my compliments to the man who not only invented it, but the sheister who convinced the ladies that it was not only comfortable, but in many cases vital.

but the one thing that baffles me is that so many women, even last night’s loveable lass, allow the tag to ruin the view in the back.

theres a triangle of wonder that barely covers the tailbone in most sitations, and maybe 3 square inches of thong material. now i can understand a tag being there at the store so the woman can know what size it is and what the material is made of, but why isnt that tag removed after purchase?

you cant tell me that women dont know how to take the scissors to their clothes as i have yet to see a tshirt on a young lady that has had its arms cut off or neck trimmed before the ink on the receipt has time to dry.

so why not the label on the g string? is it sacred? is it protected by law like those on pillows?

and whats up with bra labels sticking out?

heres a girl who’s every eyebrow hair is in place, every everyhair was either trimmed or removed, and yet miss hottie hot hot hot spins around on my dirty floor and the thing that catches my eye isnt what should be catching my eye, but two unpretty labels hanging on to the taut skin of my unknowing visitor.

perhaps the ladies of the world can educate me on this phenomenon. or maybe not.

i did my best to ignore it since there were other things to pay attention to,

and since soon i was the only stray pressed against her ultra soft skin.

wormhog + now is a good time to catch up with splink + shenaniganz