Post by aliceofwonder on May 3, 2010 20:54:21 GMT -5
Haven't been on the site for quite some time. but i have a new story that i was just itching to share with you all...
They always have to know don’t they? I thought as I watched yet another too old, too desperate, drunk, cougar saunter back off to the bar. Mitch just shrugged them off and downed the last dregs of whatever drink was previously sent over. I doubt if I was in his position I would be able to do that. Hell, if I were in this position I would be 6ft deep laying in a pine box still oozing Endone.
It was just another Thursday night and I was catching up with an old friend over a few drinks and a lot of embarrassing stories. “Hey do you remember that time we where at the Regatta and you got kicked out for being drunk, but you thought they were giving you a prize?” Mitch smiled across the table waiting for me to get embarrassed then call him a stupid name, because I had already pulled out all the dirt I could think of about him. That, ladies and gentlemen, is real friendship right there.
Mitchell Levine and I had known each other since we where in junior school and met at a Club Med one Christmas holiday. Teens club, we called it, and there where about fifteen of us in total; but Mitch and I were the only ones who really keep in contact these days, it has been eight or so years. And fuck-me-sideways a lot can happen in eight years. The first thing that hits you when you meet Mitch is the chair. Nowadays I just look past it, but that 6kg or so of titanium, fibreglass, rubber and whatever else does really grab you, three years ago it used to make me feel like I wanted to puke in my handbag. For me, I guess that one of the first things that you would notice if you stared over at my direction would either my curly auburn hair or my slightly too large tits. But at least people don’t ignore me for those attributes, just like the dozen or so waitresses whom have been incapable of taking Mitch’s order or the retail assistants who could not possible find the pair of jeans he asked for, nor the change room key. Once you look past his chair, which I am highly aware is no easy feat for a normal member of western society; with our widespread fear of the outsider and mixed in with out paranoia about remaining politically correct.
You would find, sitting across from the girl with highly voluminous hair and accidental cleavage is a very attractive, well-dressed, strong, tanned young man with short dark hair and green eyes that you can’t say no to.
I began to contemplated wether he was better looking now or three year previous. In 2006 Mitch had been finishing school and planning an audition for Le Grande Cirque a new highly artistic circus troupe. Back then we called him Inmate Mitch, due to his scruffy long curly hair and constant residue of last night’s stage make up around his eyes, he had the air of a total thug. Thinking back I am pretty sure static trapeze was his thing, and he was lean, super fit and ripped with sinewy muscle. A totally different body shape to now, with bulky shoulders, strong biceps and forearms, a broad chest, which tapers down to a toned ribcage and midsection. But that is pretty much where the gunshow stops from there on everything is either soft or gone. I am still mildly distressed by his atrophied legs that to me resemble pictures of prison camp POWs, and his feet that when unattended to point or flex in strange and uneasy angles.
But its true, they always have to know; they have to hear how it happened, the accident. It is as if they feel that by knowing that they will know everything about him. Most of the time I think that people just like to hear a good story, provoked by the long painful monologues of fallen heroes on television, wanting to be the ones to though their arms around him and hold his sobbing frame to their breasts. Well at least at bars like this one.
They always have to know don’t they? I thought as I watched yet another too old, too desperate, drunk, cougar saunter back off to the bar. Mitch just shrugged them off and downed the last dregs of whatever drink was previously sent over. I doubt if I was in his position I would be able to do that. Hell, if I were in this position I would be 6ft deep laying in a pine box still oozing Endone.
It was just another Thursday night and I was catching up with an old friend over a few drinks and a lot of embarrassing stories. “Hey do you remember that time we where at the Regatta and you got kicked out for being drunk, but you thought they were giving you a prize?” Mitch smiled across the table waiting for me to get embarrassed then call him a stupid name, because I had already pulled out all the dirt I could think of about him. That, ladies and gentlemen, is real friendship right there.
Mitchell Levine and I had known each other since we where in junior school and met at a Club Med one Christmas holiday. Teens club, we called it, and there where about fifteen of us in total; but Mitch and I were the only ones who really keep in contact these days, it has been eight or so years. And fuck-me-sideways a lot can happen in eight years. The first thing that hits you when you meet Mitch is the chair. Nowadays I just look past it, but that 6kg or so of titanium, fibreglass, rubber and whatever else does really grab you, three years ago it used to make me feel like I wanted to puke in my handbag. For me, I guess that one of the first things that you would notice if you stared over at my direction would either my curly auburn hair or my slightly too large tits. But at least people don’t ignore me for those attributes, just like the dozen or so waitresses whom have been incapable of taking Mitch’s order or the retail assistants who could not possible find the pair of jeans he asked for, nor the change room key. Once you look past his chair, which I am highly aware is no easy feat for a normal member of western society; with our widespread fear of the outsider and mixed in with out paranoia about remaining politically correct.
You would find, sitting across from the girl with highly voluminous hair and accidental cleavage is a very attractive, well-dressed, strong, tanned young man with short dark hair and green eyes that you can’t say no to.
I began to contemplated wether he was better looking now or three year previous. In 2006 Mitch had been finishing school and planning an audition for Le Grande Cirque a new highly artistic circus troupe. Back then we called him Inmate Mitch, due to his scruffy long curly hair and constant residue of last night’s stage make up around his eyes, he had the air of a total thug. Thinking back I am pretty sure static trapeze was his thing, and he was lean, super fit and ripped with sinewy muscle. A totally different body shape to now, with bulky shoulders, strong biceps and forearms, a broad chest, which tapers down to a toned ribcage and midsection. But that is pretty much where the gunshow stops from there on everything is either soft or gone. I am still mildly distressed by his atrophied legs that to me resemble pictures of prison camp POWs, and his feet that when unattended to point or flex in strange and uneasy angles.
But its true, they always have to know; they have to hear how it happened, the accident. It is as if they feel that by knowing that they will know everything about him. Most of the time I think that people just like to hear a good story, provoked by the long painful monologues of fallen heroes on television, wanting to be the ones to though their arms around him and hold his sobbing frame to their breasts. Well at least at bars like this one.
Think they're pretty good.
Oh how I envy you. I'm only one year in. I can't even see the light at the end of the tunnel! But good for you. Sounds like you deserve it.