Hobo Hut and the Muse
I arrived at the Hobo Hut shortly after early morning chores were finished to have my usual with a couple mugs of steaming hot coffee. I felt like an old dog stretched out in warm sun rays relaxing in my corner booth; a willing victim of my own routine. At the adjacent Table of Knowledge, as it is so designated with a little plastic card holder, seven other "regulars" swap the latest gossip about high school sports, a bodacious litter of new Lab pups and bitch about not getting into their fields to plant because it's still too wet. I doubt if there's much beyond an 7th grade education among them, but the table is truly surrounded with a considerable depth of knowledge - and hard-earned wisdom to match.
Liz, the anorexic hostess, waitress, cashier, and busser person cleared my egg-stained plate and took a single swipe at toast crumbs just as my Muse dropped out of the mist; quite naked, nipples at attention and vibrating with the anticipation of teasing me with a perfect ending for a story she abandoned me on weeks earlier. She's a lusty wench and would sooner fuck than frolic; but, that's another tale.
That's how it is with her, showing up at the strangest times, often when there's no way to write down whatever ideas she dangles in my head. Given access to a computer, or even a pad of paper, a story could be captured or at least the key ingredients of momentary brilliance she brings forth could be completed later on. Unfortunately, in the absence of these tools a stellar literary moment is usually gone a few seconds later.
She knows that's how it works with me, and it makes her wet to sit across from me and breathe hot thoughts of a most delicious sexual story idea into my mouth. She laughs as she talks to me, eyes flashing with the same wantonness I can hear in her voice. It's always the same - touching, teasing, taunting - and always with that same sultry laugh. It's so powerful sometimes, it literally takes my breath. I've never seen her in the flesh, or as I would expect to visualize her, as some vaporous, ghostly apparition. I have no clue who she is, or more appropriately, who she may have been. One truth I can claim is how hot and nasty she is in whatever state or medium she resides.
Despite never really being there, she makes wicked love to me and demands such naughty things in return - not that that's a bad thing. It all happens at a pace equivalent to my ability to write or type. If I'm not prepared to snare her gift, she shrieks and gyrates those hips with her soon-to-be-lost tale of desire just out of reach, prancing like a dancer promising everything and yet giving up nothing.
She'll slip into my head and her hands - God, yes, those exquisite hands - know exactly how to caress and squeeze me into an aroused state of mind, all the time whispering lusty thoughts and desires. As many times as we've fucked our way through a story there've been as many where I'm sans any means to capture her naughtiness. I swear, teasing me with a story idea makes her as hotyer than losing herself in my keyboard when the world of Fuck comes to life.
This morning turned out to be different; I had a pad of blue-line and a pen. Funny thing - the story she left unfinished in my head is titled "Different Wednesdays" and it's coming to SV just as everyone bolts to RT. Anyway, back to my story...
Half way through my second cup of coffee, I completed the ending. Her lips brushed my ear and she apologized for being so late with the missing pieces. She straddled me and cooed her best dirty sweet coo and rubbed her tits across my face, promising it would not happen again. I knew better.
It will happen again, and there will be other ideas she'll share perched across from me quite naked with both hands in her crotch probing and slip-sliding her way to a private oblivion as I'm forced sit empty-handed and watch, destined to remember only the echoes of what would have been an awesome story.
Enjoy your Wednesday - it will be different soon!
G. Gregory
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