One Night in Barstow
Her lips tasted like pineapples and joy. (I guess it could have been her chapstick.)
I cupped her elbows in my calloused hands and swung them gently, side to side. Then, while still swinging her elbows, I placed my mouth to her armpit and made wet, farty sounds for a while. Because that's my thing--that's the thing I do that maybe a man hasn't ever done to her before.
"Blue Eyes," I said to her, with a smile that turned sad even as it began. "Blue Eyes, you're my clear, deep breath in a choking, blood-froth town."
She didn't know what to say to that.
"Shh Blue Eyes, shh." I murmured, sensing she was going to force a response. "Pay no mind the ramblings of drunks or dying gunslingers."
I leaned in close to her nose and started rapidly blinking my eyes, trying to tickle her nostrils with my fluttering lashes.
She turned her face away and discouraged, I stopped blinking.
She seemed to want something from me. What it was I didn't know. Perhaps it was best I didn't know--whatever this angel needed, it was surely nothing I could provide. All I had in the world could be strapped to a horse--a saddle, a bedroll and a gun.
She needed a man who wouldn't be shot. She needed a man with a job. She needed to know her vows wouldn't end with her husband on gallows in front of a mob.
And I couldn’t give her that, I couldn't even begin to try. See, I'm Latigo Flint, quickest quickdraw that ever lived. I'm just a blazing-handed pistoleer born hopelessly out of time.
I gave her another dollar instead, slipped it inside her g-string. It seemed to do the trick, at least for a minute or two. She let me continue tickling her nostrils with my oscillating eyelids.
"Blue Eyes," I whispered. "You're my cool drink of domestic beer in a poisoned well kind of town."
"I'm anything you want me to be baby." She cooed, eyeing my wallet.
I gave her another dollar.
"Blue Eyes," I whispered. "You're my slow dance uninterrupted in an interrupty kind of town."
"Damn right I am!"
Her enthusiasm surprised me until I noticed I'd given her a five, not a single.
"That better last five times as long."
She assured me it would.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 12:06 AM
13 comments
13 Comments:
I know frederick! I think it must be the same one. I wrote a song for him.
Frederick was always in the wrong
they'd tell him that they'd told him all along
Frederick had to do it his own way
and he wreck it, just like they'd said they'd say
But even so he never lost his
enthusiasm
because he knew that one day soon he'd
Loose his cannon
And when that day comes
They'll build a statue in his honour in trafalgar square,
Oh yeah,
And all his detractors will throw their hats up in the air
Oh yeah!
Oops, it is a lot longer when written down than I thought, so I'll stop there and not do the verse where he sails around the world in his bath.
Anyway, it must be the same one because he tried that May Fly line on me.
Those west coast stripp... um, ladies, aren't nearly as thrilled with a five-spot as they are back here in St. Louey. You can practically be married to a girl if you flip out a Lincoln here.
Farty sounds in the armpit gets 'em every time.
There's really nothing like a good juxtaposition of pineapples and armpits.
Still, I'd imagine being shushed by a gunslinger who's scraping his stubble against said armpit while shushing is still sexy, even if you are an exotic dancer.
I fear for you, Latigo. See, Barstow is on the old Route 66 (even says so in the song), and that song promises that you'll get your kicks on Route 66. I suspect this eyelash-tickling thing is going to end badly.
That may be the best stripper story ever. That's better than the time I...
I've said too much...
A wise man once said 'oh darn there appears to be a knife lodged in my spine..' which just goes to show that even the smartest of people don't know everything and that they shouldn't steal apples from angry market stall owners....
As for the angel in Barstow, I think I know her - is she the one with the left hook that could slay a boxer? Cause that's what'll happen if you bring a pot of honey in a squeezy bottle to the club and try to pay her in monopoly money...
But darned if I wouldn't do it again.
- Toledo (Mr Winston and Toby look on ashamed and I don't blame them)
I kept waiting and waiting for your face to be eaten off by dung beetles. But it didn't happen. I guess that was another story.
So I think you have fallen into the answer to your own problem my good friend. You should try placing 5 dollar bills in the baristas' G-string. That should work for sure to get her to fall in love with you much like the stripp... *cough, cough* I mean exotic dancer did.
I hope that making those farty sounds was worth the Hep C, Lats. I really do.
Mmm, farty sounds in the armpits are nice. Just as long as there's no licking involved.
Great story. I'm linking your ass.
Ohhhhhh, I remember you...
That is a spectacular song Helga Von Porno. I know Frederick would have liked it. I wish I could have heard the verse where he sails around the world in his bath.
But my sweet, this post wasn't about Frederick... this one was about me and a woman who loved me, if only for a little while.
Howdy Dave Morris. Good to know. But I don't buy love. Don't have to. Certainly not. That girl in Barstow loved me for me. I just felt like giving her money, that's all--one had nothing to do with the other.
Hey Ghost Dog--that's my thing gol dang it!!! That's the thing I do that maybe no one else has ever done to her!!!
It is Ari, it is. It's dead sexy. Some say it's the sexiest thing ever. And not many step forward to disagree.
You know your stuff Slarrow--just before San Berdoo, just after Kingman. (And everything ends badly, it's all about what you do on the way.)
She loved me for me Amandarama--that she may or may not have been a stripper had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Very nicely said Toledo! That's the one. Her name is Angel. It's in rhinestones on her panties.
Hey!!! You just called me a "shithead" Old Hoss. Oh sure, maybe not in so many words... except that yes--yes in so many words. Now the first thing I'm going to have to do when we meet is shoot you. And that's going to make having a beer together awkward, very awkward indeed. Way to go, jackass.
You think I haven't tried TSP?! I mean... er... What? No. Latigo Flint doesn't have to buy love--Latigo Flint sells love and then forecloses when the girls can't make the payments. That's what Latigo Flint does.
We all ooze Trevor Record eventually--just some sooner than others.
I thought about licking her armpit Randommoments, but decided to play it cool and not let her know how hard I'd fallen for her.
Yeah Cindy-Lou... woke up to the sound of pouring rain, did you?
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