Seaking of butt, Don’t you love this one? I do. I do… a lot. Yum.

Ladies and gentleman, I present to you Elegant Ass:

Not only is that ass perfect, it’s coated in delicious spring water.

Happy now? Perverts.

Have you ever seen better epic ass? I love my own butt, but damn. Look at it. I want to eat it.

Miniskirts make me sad.

Mainly because I can’t wear them. It all comes down to this: where does a girl put on her gun?

Let me tell you, with a miniskirt and babydoll tee, my favorite outfit in the entire world, it’s nowhere.

I have to put it in my purse.

If you haven’t carried a firearm, I can tell you, putting it in your purse makes you nervous as hell. The absolute best place for your sidearm is on you. Not in your purse.

But Goddess, sometimes, in the summer, I covet the miniskirt. I see them around town and it makes me all covet-ity.

So I own only two for special occasions (like bar hoping). I don’t wear them at home often, if I’m going to change into an outfit, I’m going to change, if you know what I mean.

Which I can totally appreciate right now, because I can’t get the cat to walk across my back, and that stupid body part itches. Maybe if I roll around in some tuna.

One day Goth Girl just couldn’t take my pink any more. She threatened to purge my closet of pink. I think the conversation went like this:

“How can such a twisted little perverted fuckette like pink?”

“That’s part of what I’m selling, baby!”

“How about purple? Or red? Or fuck, white.”

“I’m in a pink phase. You know I don’t give a shit what other people think.”

“What about what I think?”

“I care about that. Okay, fine. I will tone down the pink so your dykie friends don’t make fun of you.”

So the next time I asked her to come over, I wore this:

She never complained about pink again.

Frank: Annette…

Annette: Fuck off, Frank.

Frank: I haven’t even asked you yet!

Annette: I saw Miranda bail and you’re playing hostess. She go off to the abortion clinic to purge your brat out of her womb?

Frank: Goddamn Annette, quit being such a bitch. Jesus Christ. Look, just push your lunch off an hour. Things are going to hell, I need to be in back.

Annette: No! And don’t even think of bribing me with food again. I’ve had to add a mile to my beach walk since working here!

Frank: What? You don’t weigh anything, you need fattening up. Grow some boob.

Annette: Did you just tell a woman she had small boobs and needed to get fat? WTF Frank?

Frank: I wanted your opinion on a new burger, anyway. Want to hear about it?

Annette: …

Frank: You’d like it. It has oysters.

Annette: We already have an oyster burger! And no.

Frank: No, you don’t understand. This is a burger. An Angus beef burger. With fried oysters on top. Not an open-faced burger either, that sucker is between two garlic-onion buns.

Annette: …

Frank: …

Annette: …

Frank: Well?

Annette: I think I just had an orgasm.

Frank: Here’s the waiting list.

One time, I saw a little girl, and she was crying, her eyes big and round, her parents preoccupied with the other children. The sea was too much for her. It was too much. She felt my sea, felt it all the way to her core, it washed over her girlness as if it was never there. It was frightening and powerful, consuming and raw.

It took her virginity and with each crash of the surf, a little bit of the girl was washed away, leaving behind only femininity untapped.

She was surrounded by love yet the ocean for a brief time took that away from her, connected her to the earth, and drove a wedge of loneliness in her that she well never be able to remove.

That little girl is me, and sometimes at night I wonder where she is, but I know she’ll be back. The ocean always brings those girls back. It is her curse. It is her blood.

After all, you never forget your first lover.

Yes, I sold my very first story.

Zombie porn.

SQUEEEEEE!

ps. will this send while I am at work? Let’s find out!

Tabitha, she who is not really named Tabitha but it’s not hard to figure out who she is (think: editor, riding crop, and a mind only less twisted than mine own) calls me G3B. That’s short for Girly-Girl Gone Bad.

It’s liberating blogging under my pen name; I can change all the details, like where I live. I’ve stated I live on the Washington Coast, but really, I could be living on the Oregon Coast. This way, I can tell you all sorts of things without killing off my only living grandma in a fit of WASP shattered-delusion.

Like just how much of a G3B Dorkette I actually am. Let me share with you MY MOST PAINFUL EMBARRASSING MOMENT, an evening so hideously embarrassing I have to describe part of it in all caps: IT SUCKED.

To set the stage of G3B Running Amok, you need to understand my kink.

Now, if you said my kink is I like girls, THAT IS NOT A KINK. Girls are pretty. They are soft, they smile at you when you are feeling down and give you a hug, they have breasts, and if you lick women properly, they make little squeaky noises and say the naughtiest things while pulling the sheets with one hand and your hair in the other.

Ahem. You are supposed to like girls. Those who don’t I find just… weird.

No, my kink is I like to dress up in expensive lingerie, take pictures of myself, and print out my favorite one from the session. Then I finger-fuck myself into orgasmic oblivion while looking at it.

Mild, I know—when I said I was self-centered, I wasn’t kidding. DO YOU BELIEVE ME NOW? Anyway, I love the way I look in sexy clothes. I am the HAWTNESS.

Now, as you may or may not recall, I am a waitress in the summer, which is tourist season here on the coast. The weekends, even Sunday nights, are prime nights. I work the busy lunch shift and the busy early dinner shift. Mondays and Tuesdays are my weekends. I unwind and write.

One Monday night, I drank half a bottle of wine in anticipation of getting my kink on. I had just bought a brand new pair of pumps. These pumps are gorgeous. They are epic spaghetti-strap pumps; FUCK ME NOW heels in all but name only. Spending a small personal fortune on them called for something special.

Thus, I decided to get my drunk on. I even went out and got a pedicure in the morning and now my little sexy toesies were sexy red. In the wine buzz after dinner, I doll myself up. I must have spent an hour getting ready for my finger banging, which is funny because it doesn’t take me that long to get off, really.

So there I am in my pumps looking at my petite self in my full-length mirror and I am getting wet. My makeup with the WHORE RED lipstick and violet eye shadow looks put on by a professional. I apologized to the toes earlier and stuffed them in black stockings, the kind with lace on the top, and a fancy garter belt and my lacy see-through teddy round out the little package that is moi.

Yeah!

I’m so going to blow my mind; the buzz starts in my crotch already. My only singular regret is my boobs just don’t fill the teddy quite the way I want them to, and that is a shame, really. I can’t be perfect.

Well, that and I’m going to masturbate instead of roll around with a lover. Right now, I am LITTLE MISS PACKAGE, and if everybody is too dumb to worship my body, then I’ll just DO IT MYSELF.

Yeah!

So I go back down stairs to get more wine (an Oregon Pinot that makes love to the tongue) in anticipation of taking about a dozen photos. I reach for the wine and feel something brush my toes.

Huh?

I look down.

To a mouse running along the floor at my feet.

Now, if you think I’m just some TOUGH GIRL you are sadly mistaken. I did what any girly-girl does when touched by a hantavirus-virus infested rodent from the nether pits of Hell. I SCREAM.

I scream. Loudly. I also jump, straight onto the dinning table from a standing position with the pumps on, a drunken feat unmatched by even the most nimble of Olympian gymnasts. I knock the wine bottle over and it, and my wineglass, go crashing to the floor.

CRASH!

Now, I am here to tell you of a little factoid I did not know myself until that very moment. I am the Queen of Scream. I put the old Jamie Lee Curtis to shame. I screeched so loud, my ears were ringing.

Thus, with ringing ears and partly wondering how the fuck I got on top of the kitchen table I SEE THE MOUSE AGAIN.

That’s when the STUPID PART OF MY BRAIN, which is, apparently, most of it, realizes that fucker is PREGNANT. It looks so fat I don’t know how it could even move, much less scurry. It’s darting here and there as if she’s on fucking MOUSE DRUGS.

I scream again, when I realize that little fucker is running around my house looking for a place to EXPLODE IN A GORY SPLASH OF SATAN MOUSE BABIES.

 After my second screech, I did what any drunken petite girl standing on her kitchen table in lingerie and heels would do. I pick up a kitchen chair and throw it at the PREGNANT HELL MOUSE.

I miss of course. I did not miss grandma’s favorite lamp. The lamp explodes. The mouse then darts under the living room couch, then back into the dining room.  I pick up another chair.

“Get out! Get out! Get out you fucker! GET OUT!” I scream and throw the other chair.

Crash! I miss again, but this time, I take out the small china cabinet, filled with old depression-era china.

And let me tell you, nothing shatters quite like your dead grandma’s depression-era china.

This means nothing, of course, because that fucker is still running around! Well, I have two more chairs, you, you, you PLAGUE-RIDDEN DEMON MOUSE. I pick up chair number three.

“GET OUT!” I scream again. For good measure, I stomp my heels up and down to punctuate how FIERCE I am.

That’s when my kitchen door explodes inward.

Standing in the door is Betty, wearing untied work boots, one of her cute sundresses, and a double-barrel shotgun in a pretty good defensive position, cheek expertly welded to the stock, double barrels looking the size of 55-gallon drums pointed at me through the kitchen to the dining room.

Betty and her husband sorta kinda have adopted me. I say this only because apparently this adoption thing included the entire town. Which you will see shortly. Anyway, her husband, Keith, doesn’t get around too much, but Betty is spry for a grandma-aged lady.

Spry because she just kicked in my back door!

She lowers the shotgun. “Annette! Where is she?”

The plague mouse scampers into the kitchen, possibly to make a quick exit out my broken kitchen door, but takes one look at Betty and runs back towards me.

“There! There!” I point. “Kill it! Shoot it! SHOOT-SHOOT-SHOOT-SHOOT THE MOUSE!” I scream.

Betty looks at me as if I’m the most stupid thing to walk the planet. “You… this… you scream like you are being murdered because of a mouse?” She puts the shotgun down on my kitchen counter.

“IT RAN OVER MY TOES! KILL IT! I say as I watch it scamper back into the dining room and back under the couch. But hey, since Betty was kind enough to bring a shotgun, I put the chair back down.

Betty bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny! The mouse attacked me! It touched me!” I shudder at the enormity of the violation to my girly toes in my new pumps.

“Oh, honey,” says Betty laughing so hard she’s crying, “where’s your phone? I need to call 911.”

I am confused. My drunk-ass brain struggles with why she would need to call 911.

“Annette, I thought you were being murdered! You were screaming like you someone was skinning you alive, and it sounded like she was beating you all over the house! I called 911 and rushed over here!”

Oh.

Heh, heh, heh, whoopsie.

That’s when I hear the sirens.

The mouse runs around the dining room again.

“See! See! It’s possessed! Kill it, oh my God kill it!”

Betty spies my phone and picks it up. “Sweetie, calm down, we need to…”

That’s when my front door also explodes, right off the hinges and goes blowing down my foyer.  Apparently, today is the day for non-incendiary explosions.

“HANDS IN THE AIR MOTHERFUCKER!” Harold the local cop screams, his Glock .40mm pointed right at my head. Instead of a 55-gallon drum, the barrel is reminiscent of a 777-engine intake.

I do what any drunken gun girl whose toes were sexual assaulted by a mouse does when Harold the cop, essentially a walking barrel of muscle with arms and legs, points his duty sidearm at her head.

I shoot my hands in the air.

And screech, again. It sounds like this: “Eeeeeee!”

Harold lowers his gun. “Where’s the bad guy? Where’s the bad guy!? Where?” he yells very loudly.

That’s when the mouse runs towards the front door, stops, then runs back under my couch again.

“There! There’s the mouse! Shoot it Harold! SHOOT IT!” I start to cry. Why won’t they shoot the Goddamn mouse? If I had my Goddamn gun, I would totally be blasting away at that fucker.

Harold looks at the mouse. Then he looks at me. Then he looks at the kitchen with Betty standing there (hands out front).

He holsters his gun.

“Oh shit, Goddamn it Annette!  911 actually heard you scream over the phone in Betty’s house with a riot in the background! A Goddamn mouse? Fuck!”

Of course, a rebuke from Harold, whom I love like a brother, makes me cry harder.

Harold takes a few deep breaths but the sirens are getting louder. He is shaking slightly, the thought of Harold THE MAN shaking is too much, and I start sobbing in earnest.

He grabs his mike.  “Dial it down, dial it down! False alarm! 10-12! 10-12!”

He looks at me and his face softens. “Oh geeze, Annette, I’m sorry. Hey, take it easy. He walks towards me, boots crunching on all the broken stuff on the floor. Maybe he will step on the damn mouse!

Now the enormity of my girl-tardiness hits me and I just sob. “Har-har-old, get me ou-out of he-here, I hate mice!”

And bugs and snakes and anything that even remotely looks creepy!

In a wink, Harold grabs me, picks me up in his arms, and carries me outside.

Where all the rest of the cops on duty pulled up. Pete and Jim.

Where all the neighbors are out of their houses.

Looking at me.

In my masturbatory fuck outfit.

And new pumps.

OH SHIT!

“Oh my God, Harold, put me down!”

He does, and gives me a dirty look.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Nnnnnnn… yes. Some wine. I didn’t know I would be assaulted by a pregnant plague mouse!”

He bites his lip. Harold, it looks like, wants to bust a gut. He thinks this is funny.

“It’s not funny!” I screech again. I stomp my heel for good measure, and almost fall over.

“What’s going on?”

Holy Mother of God. Chief Wilson gets out of his car. He takes one look at me and his eyes almost pop out of his head. Suddenly, Little Miss No Modesty feels exposed, and I cover myself with my hands.

“Apparently, Annette freaked because she saw a mouse.”

“I did not freak! It’s still in there! Kill it, for the love of God, someone go in there and kill it!”

HONK HONK!

Everyone looks. An EMT and a fire truck are heading down the street towards me.

NOOOOooooooooo…

I look at Chief Wilson. Now he looks ready to burst.

“You called the EMTs?” I wail.

He chuckles and gets ahold of himself.

“No, but they monitor our radio traffic. It’s a small town, Annette; they probably headed out here before Harold called 10-12.”

“10-12?”

“False alarm.”

“IT’S NOT A FALSE ALARM I HAVE A NASTY-ASS MOUSE RUNNING AROUND MY HOUSE IT TOUCHED ME!”

Then a Sheriff’s SUV pulls up.

Please, God, make it stop!

The deputy gets out and I hear barking from his car. He says some gibberish in German, and the dog calms down. He opens the door and puts a leash on the 8,000 pound German Shepard.

Somebody puts a windbreaker on me. Betty. I cover up.

The cops and the EMTs and the deputy and the dog have a pow-wow and then the deputy comes sauntering over.

“Ma’am. If you want,” he says in an easy-going voice bubbling with mirth-i-tude, “Gator and I can go in and get that mouse.”

“Yes! Please! Be careful, there’s broken glass.”

“Thanks for the warning, ma’am.” He opens a pouch, gets out little booties, and puts them on the apply named Gator, who is so excited he (she?) can barely contain himself.

He heads to the rectangular hole where my door used to be, says other German gibberish, and lets the dog off his leash. The dog goes shooting inside.

Soon there is barking.

The deputy is yelling excitedly and the dog is barking and then suddenly…

I hear it.

Crunching noises.

Gator has caught the mouse, and I can hear him EAT IT OH MY GOD THE DOG IS EATING THE DEMON MOUSE IN MY HOUSE!

I am sure it didn’t sound loud at all, but at the time, it sounded like this:

CRUNCH CRUNCH MUNCH MUNCH DEMON MOUSE AND HER DEMON FETUSES ARE YUMMY SLURP SLURP

I give you three guess what happens next, and the first two don’t count.

If you guessed I leaned over to my azalea bushes and puked my guts out, you are correct.

As I am finishing up, the EMTs are right there.

“Ma’am, you should let us check you out.”

“I am not a ma’am!” I wail. Just for good measure, I go back to puking.

When I am done, the EMT says, “Let’s check you…”

“No! I don’t need checking! I’m okay!”

He looks at me. He looks at his partner. He looks at the cops.

“Are you refusing medical assistance, miss?”

I almost scream out “yes!” but the very small sober part of my very small brain gets a clue. He looks all formal. The cop looks all formal. Gator and the deputy look all formal. Harold looks the formalist of them all.

“No, you can check. Sorry. Thank you.”

After asking if I took drugs five dozen times, they conclude my blood pressure is high.

DUH! Of course it is HIGH. MY BEAUTIFUL TOES WERE RAPED BY A PREGNANT WHORE MOUSE right before I was going to finger-fuck myself while looking at my hot, sexy newly printed picture.

Harold and Betty stuffed me in Betty’s guest bedroom, and I pass out.

While I was sleeping, the fire department replaced my doors and cleaned up the mess. I got a bill from the local hardware store for the hardware.

And thus endith my most embarrassing moment EVER. None of which was my fault. If you think this is still talk of the small town, you’re right.

I did learn several things.

One, I love Officer Harold to pieces, and I will not make him mad. Ever.

Deputy Allen and his K9 Gator are my best friends.

That the town thinks of me as their adoptive crazy little sister.

And never, ever, fuck with Betty. She’ll kick in your door and cap your trash with a double-barreled shotgun.

***

Epilogue

***

I hid in my house for an entire week. I only left because I had to buy “supplies” I could not borrow from Betty. Then I hid in my house another week. I called the restaurant and told them I wasn’t going to be in for two weeks. Strangely, I did not get fired.

Exactly 20 days later, I received a bill from the EMTs for $215. I believe I was charged because I was intoxicated.

I could have made a claim with my crap-tastic insurance I get for working at the restaurant.

I did not. I wrote the check and shredded the bill.

I burned the stockings.

I got a cat.

The pumps sit in my bedroom closet.

I have yet to wear them again.

All the men in the neighborhood, and I mean all of them, smile at me whenever they see me.

Fuckers.

I love this town.

Why they love me, I have no idea.

And I hate mice.

This is what RAPED my toesies! I SWEAR!

Take, for instance, the occasional lovey-dovey couple with the pale band of skin on their fingers where they’ve taken off their wedding rings.

Why they don’t leave it on for their particular weekend of beachside monkey business is beyond me. You’re already going to have another man stuff his dick in you. Kiss you. Tell you he loves you, or, at least, he loves your body.

One day, I noticed these couples were the best tippers. They ordered the nice appetizers, the nice bottle of wine, and then would tip on the total bill with tax.

Why is that?

They’ve come to the nice place to eat for their bit of sport, and lo, they get a waitress who’s gone out of her way to look attractive. Not just for the tips, surely, although I’m a greedy fuckette and lovies me my tips, but because people like it when I make an effort. I make an effort to sell a fantasy. It’s not just sex— it’s the package. You pay me; I make sure your dinner goes well. I make sure you notice my swishy little butt. My eyes linger on your cleavage.

I realize now, I’m a small part of their fantasy. A pleasant bit of fluff on their weekend of carnal joy. I’m the dark chocolate mints on their pillow, a bit of eye-candy to start the evening. The aperitif, if you will.

I can dig that. That’s what I love to do with my writing. I like to titillate. To frighten. I don’t want you to contemplate your place in the universe. I want you to read my story and fuck your lover enthusiastically. Read my story and send flowers. Read my story and go get dirty at the beach. Read my story and have to sleep with the lights on.

My intellectual capacity is limited. My appetite for your entertainment is all-consuming.

Honey, leave the ring on. I’m not the only one selling a fantasy.

That’s kind of weird. It’s not like I have something against getting it on in my childhood summer home.

Oh, Gods, I am too young to turn into the crazy cat lady! The cat is a mouser, a barn cat, really!

Must flirt more at work.