Is Horny, Baby

I wish I had reason to keep a diary; moreover, I wish that every diary entry ended with the words "and then we had sex."  Like you, I lead a life that isn't generally worth writing  ( or blogging ) about. Yes, believe it or not, nobody wants to hear about your yummy vegan brownies, bland as chicken feed polenta patties or your other culinary "innovations."  I don't care about your child's confusion over the reality of Transformers, and your hackneyed politics is boring, provincial, and and pre-packaged. The internet is also saturated, steaped, and dripping with the hot, oily words of erotica writers as well. I'd unfairly malign them as well, but most of the foul-mouther tramp talking cyber harlots I've met have been much more literary, sweet, and interesting than the average Jane. It stands to reason. Humans fixate on sex. Sex is interesting. I've seen all the silver screen celebrities fuck, but what my neighbors are doing is far more interesting-bedroom walls are the last boundaries in some ways.

Certainly, I don't like pornographic material very much, and much of what passes for erotica is low-grade smut-to me, the personal revelation is interesting-the mechanics are sticky and unappetizing. Gentlemen never tell, but their diaries (not mine) do.  A few summers ago, working out east at a resort in the Poconos, my friend young Mr. "Harold" had quite a summer. Harold was thin then, with thick, curly hair, at a time in his life where he didn't say much, and his Uncle lent him a convertible for the summer. He worked as a waiter, and he mostly worked with Eastern Europeans who either waited tables or worked in the kitchen. The convertible hinted at wealth, survival, the dumb corn fed looks hinted at citizenship. He had a good summer. Most of the time, he said nothing, but alcohol soaked Mustang runs down bumpy country roads were an attractive prospect to young women who'd been on their feet all day serving fat, rude New Yorkers Swiss steaks and Budweisers. Oh hell, my point is he fucked a lot that summer. He fucked a lot of women he wouldn't been given the time of day from otherwise, and most of these women had not mastered English idioms, articles, or any other nuances. Mid-coital malaprops, here we come!
    Heard in the throes of passion was, "I'm chickenhead, baby, I'm chickenhead. Wery bad girl!" Equally as tasteful were some play referencing home countries. One woman, while removing her top, one "cup" at a time said "I'm from two countries, Czech (one breast revealed) and Slovokia (another breast revealed).  The other woman guilty of poor world play was from Hungary. I'll let you speculate on her pun.
Another occasion, there was some grumbling between two lovers over the Slavic tempress sharing her milkshake with all the boys at the bar. Exasperated, she exclaimed, "Oh yes, he bought me a drink so I gave him a head."
  This is as graphic as I want to get, but at one point, taking her from behind, she yelled out "Yes, take me like tiger, baby, tiger." Things got a little more bizzare when, for unknown reasons, Ms. Bulgaria yelled out "hit us harder! harder!"
  Finishing up, an appropriate enough transition, things would get even better. "Oh, my cat is happy, sweety." Yet the very last garbled, misapplied idiom is the best in my opinion. With the earth about to move, she yells out "I think you're coming on to me."

                         Good night, Kids.