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The Girl From Westheimer @ Chimney Rock

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Pia

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I remember the drive back in the bus. My head against the window. Strip malls and tattoo parlours and taco shops. Numb.

My room, a jumble of Moroccan throws and half-used tea lights, ochre sun through the dusty window, a tangle of power lines draped in Morning Glory, still in the absent breeze.

Lying on the bed, staring at the star-shaped lamp, trying to comprehend what he’d said. Six months. Three before it really starts to kick-in; a faint reassurance. They could do things that would make it easier. Palliatives. They could run a course of drugs, if my insurance would stretch. It might give me another couple, but at the cost of the three he’d promised me. My choice. That’s what he said. Go away and have a think.

Trying to think with an empty mind. Turning over nothingness, willing the ends to meet. My canvass on the easle, half-finished. A swoop of crimson over Lapis. Half-used tubes, rolled up like toothpaste. Lying there, waiting for an answer.

Two days ago. Dinner with friends near Galleria, and the usual chat. Girlfriends, projects, summer plans. Empty lies. Margarita tears and lipstick kisses.

Remembering dreams. From old days on the farm. Days in grade school, before I headed south. The girl with pony-tails upside-down on the exercise beam, her legs wrapped around. An upside-down smile and her vest round her baby-bra. Friday nights in the cold, cheering for the boys, and sneaked Buds and hands on my waist behind the icy bleachers.

Remembering dreams. Talking with Jo in my room. What we’d be and how we’d be famous and magazines and turn-ons. Crossing our legs together, pulling off our shirts. A smuggled bottle of Jack and a shared glass and stories.
 
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It reminds me of ... short skirts and a halter tops stuffed in the bottom of my bag as I left the house knowing I wasn't going to study with "a friend".

But I won't read ahead. :p
 
jedakk said:
Westheimer at Chimney Rock, passed by there many times! For anyone who doesn't know, that's in Houston, Texas.
Click to expand...

Thanks Jed, I thought we must be in Germany!
 
I remember the drive back in the bus. My head against the window. Strip malls and tattoo parlours and taco shops. Numb.

My room, a jumble of Moroccan throws and half-used tea lights, ochre sun through the dusty window, a tangle of power lines draped in Morning Glory, still in the absent breeze.

Lying on the bed, staring at the star-shaped lamp, trying to comprehend what he’d said. Six months. Three before it really starts to kick-in; a faint reassurance. They could do things that would make it easier. Palliatives. They could run a course of drugs, if my insurance would stretch. It might give me another couple, but at the cost of the three he’d promised me. My choice. That’s what he said. Go away and have a think.

Trying to think with an empty mind. Turning over nothingness, willing the ends to meet. My canvass on the easle, half-finished. A swoop of crimson over Lapis. Half-used tubes, rolled up like toothpaste. Lying there, waiting for an answer.

Two days ago. Dinner with friends near Galleria, and the usual chat. Girlfriends, projects, summer plans. Empty lies. Margarita tears and lipstick kisses.

Remembering dreams. From old days on the farm. Days in grade school, before I headed south. The girl with pony-tails on the exercise beam, her legs wrapped around. An upside-down smile and her vest round her baby-bra. Friday nights in the cold, cheering for the boys, sneaked Buds and hands on my waist behind the icy bleachers.

Remembering dreams. Talking with Jo in my room. What we’d be and how we’d be famous and magazines and turn-ons. Crossing our legs together, pulling off our shirts. A smuggled bottle of Jack and a shared glass and stories.

Boxes of tissues and a sore head and spilt coffee grounds on the floor. I’d called my baby sister, hoping that she wouldn’t answer. Listening to the ring tone, listening to her news. She’d got her place at Columbia, aced the tests and interviews. Law school and a holiday on the Big Island to chill and celebrate her bachelors. I wanted to tell her, but the words were wrong and I hated her and hated myself and said the right thing and put the phone down and screamed into my pillow.

The cool of my shower and a pair of jeans and the drowsy heat of a Westheimer sunset. Shadows as I wait for the bus to Montrose, kicking my trainers and fingering the piercings under my T. I guess I was hoping to lose myself, find someone with no name to lean my head against on the back patio, smoke a joint and drink some shots and slide me into the next day. The shutters on the purple wall were rolled up and the usual crowd of hipsters and poison girls were chilling. A babe wandered out of Houston Ink Society, pushing purple hair from her eyes, glancing up and biting her lip with a smile, her hand scratching her belly under a pale blue wife-beater. I bought her a Shiner, clinking the bottles, feeling my sweat on her arms.
 
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Yeah, Montrose, back up Westheimer to the east, used to be a hippie hangout, then got more of a reputation as where all the homosexuals collected, and now I think people view the area as sort of quaint and weird. Haven't been down that way in a long time.

I have an old friend who moved there after high school in the 60s to live the hippie life. He said there was a band who all lived in the same apartment building and used to come over for spaghetti and to hang out. They called themselves "The Moving Sidewalks" and later became Z Z Top.
 
Dorothy Brown said:
That is usually what my husband say`s after he has unloaded in me.
Click to expand...

Thanks for that image, Dottie!

Takes me back to when I thought I was straight! :eek: :croc::p
 
We went to her place afterwards and spent the night together. We smoked a few joints and drank some more and sat with each other on her mattress and laughed and pulled at each others clothes and lost ourselves in each moment that our bodies touched until we could hardly breathe.

It was late when we woke. A Saturday morning, bright and already hot. We drank coffee and talked. She asked what I did and I told her; that I painted and that I worked some nights in a club to make ends meet. I knew she wanted to know more, and I knew I wanted to talk to her about everything. I told her that I worked nearby, in Montrose. Some nights, just a few a week. Some weeks I wouldn’t work at all. It depended on what Shannon wanted and who the clients were. I told her what a dom was and what a sub was. She looked at me with that tilted-head look that says ‘I’m not really sure that I get this but I’m sort of intrigued’ and so I talked to her about the things that we did there, and the men and the women who’d come and how Shannon would talk with them, politely, before they touched me and tied me with ropes or sometimes with leather cuffs. I guess I liked explaining to her about all this. The things I did that I wouldn’t be able to do for much longer and the pleasure I felt when these people, sometimes in masks, would whip me on my breasts and my belly and kiss the lines they left on my skin. I aksed her if she’d ever been into any of this stuff, and although I knew she hadn’t I knew that she was somehow excited to hear about my life and that made me happy.

I guess we sat talking, although it was mainly me talking and mainly her asking questions, for a couple of hours, or maybe more. She came and sat close with me and placed her head in my lap and let my fingers trace the outline of her eyebrows and the curve of her ears and the dimples in her cheeks and the more I sat with her the more my unbearable sadness grew. Her name was Melissa and I knew that moment that I felt an infinite tenderness for her that would never leave me.
 
pkindenhaag said:
I remember the drive back in the bus. My head against the window. Strip malls and tattoo parlours and taco shops. Numb.

My room, a jumble of Moroccan throws and half-used tea lights, ochre sun through the dusty window, a tangle of power lines draped in Morning Glory, still in the absent breeze.

Lying on the bed, staring at the star-shaped lamp, trying to comprehend what he’d said. Six months. Three before it really starts to kick-in; a faint reassurance. They could do things that would make it easier. Palliatives. They could run a course of drugs, if my insurance would stretch. It might give me another couple, but at the cost of the three he’d promised me. My choice. That’s what he said. Go away and have a think.

Trying to think with an empty mind. Turning over nothingness, willing the ends to meet. My canvass on the easle, half-finished. A swoop of crimson over Lapis. Half-used tubes, rolled up like toothpaste. Lying there, waiting for an answer.

Two days ago. Dinner with friends near Galleria, and the usual chat. Girlfriends, projects, summer plans. Empty lies. Margarita tears and lipstick kisses.

Remembering dreams. From old days on the farm. Days in grade school, before I headed south. The girl with pony-tails on the exercise beam, her legs wrapped around. An upside-down smile and her vest round her baby-bra. Friday nights in the cold, cheering for the boys, sneaked Buds and hands on my waist behind the icy bleachers.

Remembering dreams. Talking with Jo in my room. What we’d be and how we’d be famous and magazines and turn-ons. Crossing our legs together, pulling off our shirts. A smuggled bottle of Jack and a shared glass and stories.

Boxes of tissues and a sore head and spilt coffee grounds on the floor. I’d called my baby sister, hoping that she wouldn’t answer. Listening to the ring tone, listening to her news. She’d got her place at Columbia, aced the tests and interviews. Law school and a holiday on the Big Island to chill and celebrate her bachelors. I wanted to tell her, but the words were wrong and I hated her and hated myself and said the right thing and put the phone down and screamed into my pillow.

The cool of my shower and a pair of jeans and the drowsy heat of a Westheimer sunset. Shadows as I wait for the bus to Montrose, kicking my trainers and fingering the piercings under my T. I guess I was hoping to lose myself, find someone with no name to lean my head against on the back patio, smoke a joint and drink some shots and slide me into the next day. The shutters on the purple wall were rolled up and the usual crowd of hipsters and poison girls were chilling. A babe wandered out of Houston Ink Society, pushing purple hair from her eyes, glancing up and biting her lip with a smile, her hand scratching her belly under a pale blue wife-beater. I bought her a Shiner, clinking the bottles, feeling my sweat on her arms.
Click to expand...
For the purposes of continuity, I've changed her hair to dark blonde. Because she reminds me of someone intensely dear to me and I want to write her into this story... so if I refer to her hair again, you'll know why it's not purple anymore...
 
pkindenhaag said:
We went to her place afterwards and spent the night together. We smoked a few joints and drank some more and sat with each other on her mattress and laughed and pulled at each others clothes and lost ourselves in each moment that our bodies touched until we could hardly breathe.

It was late when we woke. A Saturday morning, bright and already hot. We drank coffee and talked. She asked what I did and I told her; that I painted and that I worked some nights in a club to make ends meet. I knew she wanted to know more, and I knew I wanted to talk to her about everything. I told her that I worked nearby, in Montrose. Some nights, just a few a week. Some weeks I wouldn’t work at all. It depended on what Shannon wanted and who the clients were. I told her what a dom was and what a sub was. She looked at me with that tilted-head look that says ‘I’m not really sure that I get this but I’m sort of intrigued’ and so I talked to her about the things that we did there, and the men and the women who’d come and how Shannon would talk with them, politely, before they touched me and tied me with ropes or sometimes with leather cuffs. I guess I liked explaining to her about all this. The things I did that I wouldn’t be able to do for much longer and the pleasure I felt when these people, sometimes in masks, would whip me on my breasts and my belly and kiss the lines they left on my skin. I aksed her if she’d ever been into any of this stuff, and although I knew she hadn’t I knew that she was somehow excited to hear about my life and that made me happy.

I guess we sat talking, although it was mainly me talking and mainly her asking questions, for a couple of hours, or maybe more. She came and sat close with me and placed her head in my lap and let my fingers trace the outline of her eyebrows and the curve of her ears and the dimples in her cheeks and the more I sat with her the more my unbearable sadness grew. Her name was Melissa and I knew that moment that I felt an infinite tenderness for her that would never leave me.
Click to expand...

"She looked at me with that tilted-head look that says ‘I’m not really sure that I get this but I’m sort of intrigued’"

00028156.Little.Caprice.jpg Like this? ... :rolleyes:
 
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