We sat and lamestormed the subjects of our upcoming blogs. Pedicures lamenting… lame. Opinions on ink cartridges… lame. Fire ants vs. Firing Aunts… lame. Finally we decided that we’d write something about ourselves that no one knows.
Zi runs regularly. He has repeatedly stated calling what he does running or jogging disrespects every runner and jogger. He describes his exercise as making it 3.5 miles without needing any ambulatory services.
So why does he so torture himself?
He’d throw out health. But that would be a lie.
Weight control. Another lie.
He’s all-male and runs at a busy park near the University of Delaware’s campus. So is it the clench and release of a tight buttocks that he’s following, the swish and sway of the perfect pair of child-bearing hips, the healthy red glow of hearts racing, the rhythmic bounce of pendulous breasts mimicking the runner’s pace held in a sports bra which is one size too large, the soak of sweat making female’s garb cling, the unique and interesting malady of other’s runner’s nipple, or the heavy breathing of wild monkey lovin’ remembered? Maybe. Maybe not!
I suspect it is the writer’s curse. Writers like Hemingway, Poe, Milton, Shakespeare, and Tennyson were thought to find idea-creation beneath the influence of their drug of choice. Zi’s drug is the endorphins released during long distance running. It is called runner’s high. In the wash of that euphoria he finds the freedom to free-float through the landscape of ideas. A happy healthy pituitary gland pissin’ endogenous opioid polypeptide compounds is a cheap buzz. Zi’s a nickel-squeezer about some things. I am suspecting opiates for the creation of a state of well-being may be on his short-list of skinflintery. So after each econo-buzz at the park he returns and sits at the keyboard and recapitulates. Some inspirations recalled are as soggy as his perspiration. Some insights are quite trite. But there are those moments of endorphin spirited brainstorming that float above the norm.
This is all more the conjecture why he runs. It could be the clench and release of that tight buttocks.
The shower scene in KILLER DOLLS came from one of those post runs. It is different. Angelica laughed then said no, we re-word-pictured it, and she was sold that it was complicated, noble, and risqué. A splashy moment of naughty and nice. Let us know if you were teased or tortured.
Unaware that bio-terrorist are using her handcrafted dolls to attack the innocent, Letti Noel finds herself falling for Taut Johnson, an undercover FBI agent. Even as deceit is a growing barrier to their love, it’s the stalking terrorists that are a threat to their lives.
“Why are you asking me so much about Rud?” Her query accompanied innocuous though concerned peering.
“Just curious. I’m a bit of a techie myself.” He thought he had vamped to cover himself.
“I see,” she said, not quite stirring her tea, more toying with the spoon in imitation of stirring. “So, you’re into computers? I mean, just what do you do, other than make
me hot and feed me?” Laughing at her own humor.
He grinned at that and blurted his cover story about being an IT contractor, working for various companies as a troubleshooter.
For the first time since they met, Letti felt uneasy. His words sounded rehearsed. Did he hate his job? Was he really a male stripper, could have been, and didn’t want to tell her?
What? She found herself asking a little too often. Then he reached out and touched her hand, and for the moment she didn’t care.
His next question was interrupted by the ring tone of the song Rubber Duckie
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Angelica Hart and Zi ~ Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
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