The T&ABC’s of T&A

In JJ Palooka on January 24, 2010 at 2:20 pm
This is from a new hunsecker, Miles Brandt, or JJ Palooka…
Pumping, and pumping, you’ve got about two dollars’ worth of Holy Trinity Body Wash in the palm of your callused hand.


When you shave this particular area, do it against the grain, slowly, and don’t use some Bic disposable; these are your best friends, after all — aren’t they good enough for a Mach 3 Turbo?

Standing in the doorway, Miss Titty is ready to hit the Fox Hole, decked out in her Trussardi suede dress.  Those fringes, they’re about six inches away from where she wants you to be.  Namely?  Taking up residence inside those Hot Property panties, as the Simon mesh undies are now in your pocket, a moist and wadded souvenir of her venereal appetite and your only pretense of control.

Control.  It’s just like what’s-his-name says: “No matter how many churches we burn to the ground, God will always find a way to resurrect himself.”

Yes, well….

This is you being extreme.  This is you lost in a moment.  This is that moment when you try to find a moment when life was simply simple.  This is you listening to that soft vibrant sound from somewhere inside your head, anything and everything that could ever be emotionally rational and damningly logical beaming its to you from deep space, 500 miles away.  This is that voice telling you no such moment has ever existed.  “Baby, why must you take yourself so fucking seriously?”

“Still not ready?” Miss Titty says.  “My God, you’re worse than a woman.”

Yes, well….

Bending over, Miss Titty takes her hands and scrunches her hair the way models do, upside down, and those green suede fringes take a hike up to  those 36-inch hips, to those panties, both personalized and impersonalized.

Bobby’s Bitch, the letters say, spelled out in glittery rhinestones.

How you and Miss Titty met, this is pretty much it, a stitch in time knitted in the fabric of your memory purely by sexual association.

Segue to last spring, to that pumping nosebleed techno, and some beautifully anonymous sylph is inadvertently grabbing your attention by deliberately grabbing your crotch. 

Segue to surrendering.  Segue to looking like a deer in Kenneth Cole, hopelessly stone blind in the headlights.

Yeah, we shouldn’t be there, or here, but at the same time, we have every right to be.  The only warning against our foolishness is exactly what will kill us, and, unfortunately, there’s no hindsight when you’re dead.

Segue to Miss Anonymous sucking on a giant ruby ring and pretending you had a choice.  That gilded cross is bonded to her chest by the sweat of her cleavage, and all you can think about is crucifying yourself.

Segue to her unknowingly quoting the Apostle Paul: “It is a fearful thing,” she says to you devilishly, “to fall into the hands of a [beautiful bitch].”

Yes, well….

Life.  It’s not one thing after another.  It’s the same damn thing over and over.  A sickening deja vu of a sickening deja vu.

Just once, it would be nice if a girl didn’t remind you of God when you were trying to check out her ass.  Just twice.  Just…

Bobby’s Bitch hitting you between the eyes, you say, “Baby, sexuality is a lot like your underwear.”

“Oh?” she says.  “And how’s that?”

And so you tell her, “You should always have it, in case of an emergency, but you’re not supposed to flaunt it.”

And now she’s offended.  And now you don’t care.

Looking in the mirror, you’re as ready as you can be, as you should be, as you want to be.

Black suit and shirt by Canali: check.  Mark Nason shoes: check.  Who Da Man Tongue Spray: check.  That vinyl sprawl ready and waiting: check.

It’s been said before, and it’ll be said again, but if ‘A’ is success in life, then A equals X plus Y plus Z.  Maintaining sanity is X; Y is regalement; and Z is keeping your dick in your pants.

More times than not, the Z-factor is a regular biopsy with a plastic spoon.

Pumping and pumping, that lonely heart of yours is getting really tired of keeping your sanctimonious lip service at a respectable body temperature.

Segue to today, and facing your eremophobia.

Segue to now, this very moment, looking at this girl who just wants to love you, and pretend you have a choice.

Like it or not, God actually is a woman.  A woman with a really big clit.
(Fin, or something)
  1. This has some good lines in it…

    ‘a sickening deja vu of a sickening deja vu.’ probably the best.

    You use second person again, man. Makes it seem like an ad for something…is that intentional?

    Not sure what eremophobia is…

    You have a gift for words similar to our other hensecker, Lawrence. You should check out his two stories here…the Die Hard one and ‘Clint Eastwood Vs Pynchon.’ See if you agree with me. [And I think he used ‘fin’ in his too.]


  2. […] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Cameron Chapman, Daisy Anne Gree. Daisy Anne Gree said: Did y'all read Miles Brandt's excellent story in Gupter Puncher Magazine? What are you waiting for? […]

  3. Always one of my favorites ….

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