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‘Naked Dominance’. Photograph by: Eddie.
What you are viewing is a masterpiece, pure and simple. Not a masterpiece of photography. It goes far beyond that. This is a masterpiece in art, and of art. I don’t come lightly to using the word ‘masterpiece’, for it is a rare thing to achieve ‘in deed’; but in this image the deed was done. Her name is Petra Morgan, and rarely do all the planets align; however, in this rendering they have. It’s all here – A most beautiful woman, a point of view (POV) that is staggering in its power, and rare beauty, and can only come out of the mind’s eye of a great artist; the decision of using the cold elegance of the black and white medium; and finally the obvious respect and love shown by the photographer for women. The photographer goes by the name of: Eddie, and the title he gave to this photo is: ‘Dominance’. His ‘DA’ Site is: wandereringsoul. He has just honored me by giving written permission to display this stupendous work on my site. When I commissioned an artist to do the three ‘Gladiatrix’ pictures I sent him an example that has already been uploaded on this site titled: ‘Naked Perfection’. After they were completed did I blunder into this photograph. Had I done so earlier, I would have had one of those pictures take the stance of this image. But no matter. I am well satisfied with them and all three are hanging on one of the walls of my house. Anyway, to the point. Both photographs have that rare combination of all strengths and no weaknesses. I've taken the liberty to alter his title a bit and renamed it: 'Naked Dominance’. Now, 'Naked Dominance' and ‘Naked Perfection’ are masterpieces, naked or not, each in their own way. And as such should be viewed by the various astute visitors of my ‘DA’ Site. I also might add that each rendering is a different photo by a different artist and yet somehow these two different artists can have the same vision that has resulted in two stunning pictures that are remarkably similar, yet totally different creations.
‘Nuff said. Drew.
Except to add, here is the link to the DA Site of this remarkable photographer: wandereringsoul.deviantart.com…
And here is the avatar of the logo of this great artist of photography:
Here is the 13th uploading of chapters from the novel: ‘Carnal Combat’.
The traffic was light as they headed toward downtown Atlanta. He turned on the car’s Bose stereo system and let her find the station she liked. They sat in silence as both listened to the rock and roll emanating from the multiple speakers. In about a half-hour he was able to park on Ponce de Leon Avenue; a half block away from Mary Mac’s.
As they walked to the restaurant Naxos remarked, “It’s murder getting into and out of that low slung car. I’ve come to realize that you don’t sit in a Corvette, you literally strap it on. With that seat belt and shoulder harness holding you down, and that seat holding you in – Well it’s a whole new experience strapped into a car with your ass about a foot away from dragging along the pavement.”
“It’s low alright. That’s why on a flat surface, it’s impossible to roll the newer Corvettes.”
“Hum, fancy that,” was the last thing she said before they entered through Mary Mac’s doorway. When they reached the dining room is when Naxos took over. She requested a booth next to a wall, and both were immediately seated where she asked. This offered a modicum of privacy until the waitress handed each of the diners a menu and placed a pencil and order pad in front of Harrison.
“Anything to drink?” she asked.
“Naxos answered, “Yes, two punches,” as she reached over and retrieved the pad and pencil.
Harrison nodded his agreement. After the waitress left he said, “Sitting with you, your saying double punches gives the statement a whole new meaning.”
“Trevor, can we put the fight game aside for awhile.”
“Good. Only on the punch am I ordering for you. Because of the heat in the South, the locals have concocted a multitude of drinks, from the mint julep to sweet iced tea. On that list is Mary Mac’s punch.”
“I defer to you Miss Naxos on the ordering of southern food and drink. But I am looking forward to this pot likker of yours. Really, what is it?”
“Well, pot likker is sort of thought of as Dixie soul soup. It’s turnip greens and a cracked hambone, which are simmered for a long time in a pot. Its color is dark-green and only the brew is dredged from the bottom of the pot, no solid particles allowed. Guaranteed to put even more hair on your chest.”
“Just what I need, an even furrier chest. By the way, do you ever drink the stuff?”
“And what did it do to your chest?”
“Doubled it in size, Trevor. No chest hair though. But who’s complaining.”
He shook his head. “If that concoction could double the size of a woman’s chest, this place would have bottled it already and made a damn fortune.”
To change the subject, Naxos picked up the pencil and order pad and started to write. “The dinner comes with two side orders, so let me order first. Guess I’ll have the old reliable, a southern fried chicken dinner of drumstick, breast, and thigh. Also mashed potatoes with chicken gravy and you know what else.”
“Correcto, mister ragman. Peas.”
He questioned, “No pot likker?”
“Almost forgot. One pot likker for milady. And one for the gentleman. It comes with a couple of cornbread muffins and butter.”
“That’s a lot of food, Elektra. But I think I’ll match you with the same. Including those damn green peas.” She snickered as she wrote down both of their orders; and when finished held up the order pad. The waitress immediately retrieved the pad and headed toward the kitchen.
While waiting for their order to be delivered the Greek-American inquired, “Trevor, how come you drive a Corvette? There’s the Mustang, and all those German, British, and Japanese jobs. If you don’t mind my asking, why the Corvette?”
“Don’t mind at all. It’s a number of reasons, such as a fiberglass body that doesn’t rust, the availability and low cost of Chevy spare parts, its maneuverability, anti-skid brakes, never having to change a tire again, but most of all its advanced fuel injected engine.”
“By the way, what is the difference between one of those old carburetors and fuel injection?”
“That’s one of the things I talk about in the novel.”
“Oh really?. Then tell me about the novel that’s being published.”
“It takes place during 1959 and 1960. My main character is an engineer who works for Lockheed at the Marietta plant. The name of the book will kill you.”
“It’s the cluster of coincidences. You see the title of the book is: ‘Electra’. Spelled the English way with a c. Not the Greek way with a k, which, of course, is the way your name is spelled. The central female character is Electra. Not only that, the airplane, which the whole novel revolves around, is also called the Electra.
That’s why I love your Elektra name. I’ve been writing it for several years, although with a ‘c’.”
“You’re forgiven, Mister Harrison for your error in the proper spelling.”
“How about Lockheed, they spelled their airplane with a ‘c’ too.”
“I feel generous. I also forgive them.”
“Well, I’m glad we got that out of the way.
“So Trevor, back to carburetors.”
“Ah yes. At one time it was almost a matter of life and death.”
“Really. My main character, by the name of Adam Smith, was stationed in England during the war and flew a P-51D Mustang fighter against the German fighters. In a conversation with Electra, he explains about the superiority of the German fuel injected Daimler-Benz and BMW engines in their fighter aircraft. His Mustang has a Rolls-Royce engine with a carburetor. Believe me, that engine in a Mustang was a magnificent piece of machinery. It was called Merlin, and was named after King Arthur’s personal magician.”
Just then the waitress placed two small cups of pot likker on the table. Harrison pulled one of them over. “How do you drink this stuff, with a spoon or sip it out of the cup?”
“Either way. Make it easy on yourself and sip it from the cup.” He picked up the cup, took a tentative sip, scrunched up his eyes and swallowed. Then relaxed his face and took a bigger sip. This time he was smiling when he swallowed.
“This is a potent brew, Miss Naxos. It grows on you. Fast. I can already feel the hair growing on my chest.”
She took a big swig. “You’re right. It feels like hair is growing on my chest too.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“I bet you would.”
The reporter blushed a bit, “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know, silly.” The Brunette was pleased with the way she had taken control, pleased with the taste of the likker as she continued to sip, and pleased with the attention she was getting. Simply put, she was pleased with herself and the situation, and as such urged the novelist to continue with his story with a wave of her hand. He immediately complied.
“Well, the engine was aptly named because the Merlin was a flying wizard of power and endurance. However, it had one limitation, which was its carburetor. Under certain conditions it would starve the engine of fuel for a few seconds whenever the plane was pulling certain heavy g forces. For instance this occurred whenever a Mustang pilot pushed the control stick hard forward into a steep dive. Or no g forces at all, like when flying upside down for more than a few seconds. Because of this shortcoming, both maneuvers were avoided, but during aerial combat those proscribed occurrences would occur, more often than any combat pilot would care to recall.
It’s very disconcerting when your engine starts to stumble at the same time a German Messerschmitt BF-109 is on your tail and shooting in your direction with cannon fire and machine guns. Adding to this is the knowledge that the German’s engine will deliver uninterrupted power, due to it having positive fuel flow pressure at all times because of its fuel injection. On top of all this was the Mustang pilot’s worry about the strain on the engine when the fuel started to flow to the cylinders again, forcing the Merlin to rev up from a near idle to maximum horsepower in a few seconds. You can break an engine that way.
Well as luck would have it, and luck had a lot to do with it, my fictional pilot never broke an engine nor was ever shot down. Although he was fictional, what he went through during World War Two was based on actual experiences that I researched.
“Sounds like exciting times.”
“Naxos, you are the master of understatement.” They both chuckled at that, then he continued, “Those were exciting times to say the least. But that was then and this is now, and I’ve got an engine with great fuel injection. Besides, it’s more efficient, which negates having to push the engine to its breaking point in order to deliver sufficient emergency power. I’m no hot rodder, but it’s nice to know that a nudge of the toe on the accelerator will get you out of many a tight spot.”
“Trevor, are you saying the company that builds BMW cars supplied engines to the aircraft of the German Luftwaffe during World War Two?”
“Sure did. Next time you see a BMW up close take a look at its blue and white emblem on its nose. That’s their symbol of a whirling propeller, signifying their history of building aviation engines.”
At that moment the food was served and for a time he fell silent and concentrated on what was on his plate, not on who was sitting opposite him. He did not dwell in his mind nor confess to Naxos that it was not in his nature to strain relationships nor machinery to the breaking point. No matter what type of plane he was in, when taking off he would never push the throttle all the way forward for maximum takeoff power. It would always be 90 to 95 percent of maximum, for he was willing to trade using up more of the runway than risking engine failure during takeoff. The same went for cars. He wasn’t a purist in pursuing the maximum horsepower out of an engine, instead, he moderated potential risk and inconvenience down to mere happenstance. Both in engine repair and convenience of maintenance. And in people.
“Elektra, the crust on this chicken is exquisite, and the meat succulent.” His comment broke her concentration on what was being lifted from her plate to her face. She shook her head in agreement for her mouth was quite full. For the moment his wasn’t. He pointed to a number of golf ball sized brown lumps residing inside a small basket that had just been placed in front of both diners. “I forgot what you call those things?”
She swallowed, then answered, “Hushpuppies.”
“That’s right. Hushpuppies. Wonder why they’re called that?”
“Ever try one?”
“Yeah. They’re nothing to write home to ma about.”
“Try a Mary Mac one. Trust me, you’ll like it.” He picked one up and took a bite out of it.
“Not bad. But there’s no resemblance to a dog. How did they get the puppy name?”
She smiled. “Well, the expression is almost two hundred years old. Way back when, during the slave days, the plantation kitchen was often separated from the main house. Cut down on the probability of fire burning down the house. When things were cooking the yard dogs would get wind of it and start milling around the kitchen, making a general nuisance of themselves as they barked or whined, begging for scraps. To quiet things down the cooks started rolling cornmeal into balls and frying them. When done they would throw the fried cornballs to the dogs to hush them up. Since a number would be young dogs, the puppies would be hushed. Ergo, hush little puppy.”
“Hush little puppy, and don’t you whine.”
“You got it, Harrison. So it was shortened to: Hushpuppy.”
“What a charming little story, Elektra. I don’t believe a fucking word of it, but it was charming anyway.”
Taken a little aback by him swearing at her, she replied, “For what’s it worth, the explanation is true.” Then in a stern face and voice, added, “This is a rather genteel place. I would appreciate it if you’d not swear in public without cause.”
The reporter wasn’t in a belligerent mood and immediately acquiesced, “Sorry, won’t happen again. I was just trying to be a wise-ass.”
“I understand, fully. It’s just that there are those around us that wouldn’t.”
“Okay. It won’t happen again. I certainly don’t want to embarrass you around all these old biddies.”
“Trevor, you’re not being fair. Most of the customers here are around our age. It’s a tea room in name only.”
“You’re right, I can see that now.” He leaned forward, glanced to the side to see if anyone was looking or listening. His face now had the look that he was about to share a dark conspiratorial secret, and said in a low voice, ”By the way, Miss Naxos, this is the best fucking southern fried chicken I’ve ever eaten.” Then he took a big bite out of his drumstick.
She was about to put a forkful of that combination of mashed potatoes and peas into her mouth when he swore. She pitched the fork and potatoes onto her plate in exasperation. All the while he continued to chew his food and smile sweetly at her.
Then she realized that he was making a point. She smiled and replied, “Okay, Mister Harrison; I can be a stuffed shirt at times.”
“Like right now,” he replied sweetly.
“Like right now,” she chuckled. She then turned her concentration to the meal at hand, or in this case: At bird. The Brunette was used to the marvelous taste of Mary Mac’s chicken, and the comments by Harrison about the chicken made her look with new light, or to be strictly apropos, renewed taste.
In his case it was new taste, and what he was savoring was a dark golden crust that was a perfect balance between crackling crunch and firm chew. The crust was thick without a trace of sogginess, which is quite a trick considering that the meat it enveloped was so moist and tender that it dripped juice when the crust was pierced. Which was exactly the case when he bit into the chicken breast. The juice ran down the sides of his mouth, which necessitated him to periodically use a napkin to dry his lower face.
Then his eyes brightened as he said, “I just thought of something, dear. You never hear of northern fried chicken. Nor northern hospitality. Nor northern comfort.”
“If you want to play that game my little Californian, who ever heard of the terms southern pot roast or southern ingenuity, I ask you?”
He shook his head in agreement, “You’re right about that. Come to think about it, there’s no such thing as the southern lights.”
“There really is such a thing as the southern lights.”
“Don’t give me that Elektra.”
“There really are. As you know, in the northern hemisphere such lights are called: Aurora borealis. Well, in the southern hemisphere they also have such disturbances and are called: Aurora australis.”
He looked at her in wonder and jested, “You are a fountain of information.”
“Yeah, always spouting off.” Then she added, “There have been times when the wind is blowing wrong that, like a fountain, I’m all wet.”
“Don’t put yourself down like that, my dear. Seriously, I admire both intelligence and moxie in a woman. Besides, where do you come up with such things as the southern lights?”
“You’re the one who first mention lights of the southern persuasion. As concerns the rest, I read a lot.”
“Yeah, seems some of it is pretty esoteric. My god, aurora australis.”
“As I said, I read. And have a knack of remembering everything. Speaking of things southern, we had a writer named Thomas Wolfe, who bragged that he remembered everything he read and experienced.”
Harrison brightened up, “Wolfe, one of my favorite writers. Yeah, he sure could recall everything he read, saw and did. And put all of it into every one his gargantuan manuscripts.”
“So I’ve heard. Thomas Wolfe, an editor’s worst nightmare.”
The rest of the meal was spent on discussing Southern writers.
All too soon the time arrived when they would have to leave. As he was waiting for the check, the writer casually mentioned, “Speaking of writings, a few days ago I was reading about some new translations from the Dead Sea Scrolls that are not in the current Bible.”
“Oh really. Any revelations?” Naxos leaned forward in anticipation.
“It seems that the expression ‘It will cost you an arm and a leg’ is a lot older than we thought. In fact it is of divine origin. I’ll have to paraphrase, but what was translated goes something like this. In the Garden Of Eden, Adam, a distant relation, I might add......”
“Very distant”, she inserted.
“You’re right about that. Anyway, Adam was grousing to The Lord about not having a human companion to help him around the Garden. By this time Yahweh realized that Adam was getting spoiled by everything being supplied to him without cost. Consequently, he decided that Adam would have to pay the price in the granting of his next wish. Especially one of this magnitude. So he made the following expensive promise.
Yahweh said, ‘I will create a helpmate for you and she shall be called: Woman. She will be as beautiful in face and figure as any of my angels. Equally angelic will be her perfect disposition. She will make your life on earth more of a paradise than it is now. She will obey you without question, will never nag, will be an excellent cook, and both a lusty and joyous lover. However, for such a woman, it will cost you one of your arms and one of your legs. But you won’t miss them because she will take care of you until the end of time.’ That’s pretty much what God said.”
Naxos interrupted, “Cost an arm and a leg. That seems like a pretty stiff price to pay.”
“That first Adam thought so too. He countered by asking the Lord, ‘What do I get for a rib?’ Much to his chagrin, he found out the next day.”
For a moment there he thought she was going to hit him with some punch, or punch him with a hit. To his great relief she put down the glass of punch. Then she exploded with laughter.
After recovering she snapped, “You are a sacrilegious heathen.”
“You’re half right on the description.”
“Because I’m Greek Orthodox, I take Christian religion sort of seriously. What you said boarded on blasphemy.”
“Come on Elektra, it was meant as a joke. Did I offend you?”
“Of course not. I thought it was quite funny. It’s just that I feel guilty about laughing at it.”
“As you told me in the gym, one should never bring up religion.” As he paid the bill he continued, “Now down to business. I still want that interview.”
“They have a bar in the next room. We can have some drinks for dessert. That way you can get me all liquored up, and then I’ll tell you what I really think.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that you are pretty reticent in expressing your opinions.”
“Uh huh. I’m about as shy as you.”
“In your case, are you sure that isn’t spelled sly?”
“No Trevor, I’m really not. I hate mind games. If I say it, I mean it. So let’s get talking.”
“Fine.” With that they both got up and walked into the bar. They sat at a table instead of at the bar proper; this in order to insure that the bartender didn’t overhear their conversation. There were other couples sitting at tables close by, but they all were fully engaged in their own conversations. Consequently, none of the other couples would be interested in what the writer and female pugilist were saying to each other.
Or so they thought.
The cocktail waitress was right there. The writer asked, “Um, what for you?”
She looked up at the waitress and ordered, “A glass of any kind of red wine.”
“Make it two,” he added. That said, she silently departed.
Then he gave the Brunette his full attention. “You’re rather knowledgeable. How much college have you had?”
“None,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“None. I read a lot, that’s all.”
“You’re still pretty young. Have you given some thought to going to some college around here?”
“I probably will. Right now I want to make some money, and boxing may do it for me. If I’m good enough, maybe some big money. I think the sport of female boxing is going to explode in popularity soon, and I want to be on the ground canvas when it does. Standing on the canvas that is. Not much money stretched out on the canvas. That position is for losers.”
“In more ways than one.”
“Don’t I know. My first big test was against Maria, and I lost. Bad.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Elektra.”
“I know that. Don’t be so sensitive about my feelings, Trevor. I fought the good fight, and I lost. I aim to limit my losses to one.”
“I believe you will. Now, let’s get started. When did you get the urge to take up this sport?”
“I found out that I had the will to fight and the gumption to go on, even when hurting bad, when I was seventeen.”
“This sounds interesting.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t at the time. There was this episode with another girl my age, when I went absolutely berserk. At the time I was a junior in high school and it was during the final rehearsal for that evening’s school bash we were putting on for the entire school and parents. It was mainly made up of the drama students, and the theme was a series of songs and dances of Paris in the gay 90’s. 1890’s that is.”
“Yeah, back then when gay simply meant happy.”
“You got that right, Trevor. Anyho, one of the members of the troupe was this girl who was born in Hawaii, but lived in Atlanta because her father was in the military and stationed here. He was White, which I found out is haole in Hawaiian; and married a Hawaiian-Chinese woman he met in Honolulu. So their daughter, Lani, is half Caucasian and is known as a hapa haole – Half White.”
“Eurasian,” added Harrison.
“That’s what we would call her here in the States. I have to admit I was a bit jealous of her looks. She was blessed with a combination of the best features from both races. Long straight jet-black hair, a complexion with a permanent tan, slim boned so she had a narrow waist and medium hips. And big tits that she inherited from the Hawaiian side of her mother. Her straight nose, round eyes, and five foot, eight inch height she got from her father. Well, the eyes weren’t exactly round, more almond shaped.”
“She sounds very exotic.”
“That she was. And my bitter rival for a football player I was gaga over. He was an eighteen-year-old senior and was dating both of us. Dating hell, he was fucking each one of us in turn on alternate weekends. Or is it alternating in fucking each of us on the weekend? All I know is he was in the sack with me one weekend, and Lani the next.”
“You’re half right about describing him – And he really was on that score. Meanwhile, back at the ‘Gaite Parisienne’ bash. There’s this final number put on by eight of us, and it’s the cancan. This is the show’s piece de resistance and I mean we give it the works – Recorded music of Jacques Offenbach, all of us in a chorus line, legs kicking high in the air as we lift our multi-petticoated floor length dresses. The finale is a collective moon by us, showing off our ample butts covered by ample ruffled bloomers. It was more than a little risqué because about one minute into the opening of the number we all turn our backs to the audience and slip off our dress straps. Then we all turn around and pull down the front of our dresses. Underneath, each one of us is wearing a low-cut bustier. We then take a collective forward dip, just about shoving our half-exposed tits into the soon to arrive faces of the front row audience.
Previously we all went to an Atlanta costume rental shop and got high-heeled just below the knee boots that laced up the front. Every girl wore a different colored bustier, mine was white, to denote my purity. Un huh. Lani’s was red for the scarlet woman she was. A real un huh on that score.
This place rented everything, the petticoats, the down-to-the-floor dresses, the garter belts for the black mesh stockings, elbow length gloves, those tall boots, and the ruffled bloomers. The only personal thing we wore were our own thongs. That way we didn’t have to worry about a full panty being exposed along with the bloomer. The only thing we had to buy from the rental store were the mesh thigh-high stockings that we attached to that lacey garter belt.
Let me tell you, Lani was jealous of me too, because I have a great voice. I beat her out for the show’s big vocal number. A solo singing part. She had to settle with doing an apache dance with, guess who?”
“Right on. Well, when we get to the final number Lani and I are next to each other in the chorus line. Every one of us has to extend our arms out to the girl on either side of us and they do the same. With those high heels and kicking as high as we do, takes a lot of mutual support. It’s the wrap-up for the dress rehearsal and everything had gone fine ‘till then. Each of us has to use a lot of upper arm strength to support the adjoining dancer. It’s one of the last high kicks and Lani lets the arm supporting me go limp. I fall flat on my broad ass, which of course stops the routine. The jocks, including our hero, are sitting in front of us, and all of them burst out in laughter.
My shared boyfriend acts like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. I’m furious at Lani, because I know she deliberately went limp on me to show me up. I roll over and grab her by the ankles and pull her to the floor. Then I’m on top of her, gabbing her hair and slamming the back of her head against the stage floorboards. She then grabs my hair and yanks me sideways. That’s is when the drama teacher steps in and breaks it up. Then he suggests the whole cast take a break, and for us to cool off.
Let me tell you, there’s no cooling the two of us off. I’m still furious at Lani, and she’s just as pissed at me for clunking her skull against hardwood. We don’t even say a word, but both of us know that we are going to settle things right then. And every one of the student cast members knew it too.”
“As they say in the more genteel circles: ‘We repaired to an appropriate chamber in order to partake in a resolution that was deemed apropos.’ In other words, a vicious catfight between the two of us in the men’s shower room, which was located in the adjacent gym.”
That last comment broke Harrison up completely. When he recovered he said, “That was great. You can be a wit when you put your mind to it.”
“Thanks, Trevor. Back then I only had half a wit. And at that particular moment I was not in a joking mood. So almost the entire cast of ‘Gaite Parisienne’, including our gridiron hero, crowds into the men’s shower room to see Lani and me duke it out. There’s this expression in our high school we use when two girls are about to have a catfight: ‘Kick off the high heels and slap on the Noxzema.’ I was boiling mad and so was she, and we wanted to get it on right then and there. No one had thought to bring any Noxzema with them, and we weren’t about to take the time to unlace those knee-high boots. Besides, I had sinister plans for them.
We faced each other and had the presence of mind to remove our earrings. But first I had to remove those long gloves to free my fingers. Then we realized the dresses were rented and quite expensive. They could get ripped, so friends of ours unzipped the back of the gowns. Then, unaided, we peeled them off. The same with the bulky petticoats. As well as the ruffled bloomers.”
“Sounds like it was a lengthy strip show.”
“It sure was, and no one was complaining. My god, what a buildup from that peel down.”
“I can understand why no complaints. During that time both of you two were apeeling. That is, it must have been quite a sight to see two attractive young women in a peeling off of their clothes.”
When she finished with her groan, Naxos continued. “Each of us left our bustier on. There wasn’t anything else underneath. So there we were, stripped for action in bustier, thongs, garter belt holding up wide meshed black stockings, and boots that reached almost to the knees.”
About this time the newsman buried his face in his hands as he giggled, “God-o-mighty, I can see it now.”
“Yeah, we were a pretty sight. But not for long. We messed each other up real bad before we were through. A regular debacle.”
He sat up and cackled. And not meaning to. He then looked around sheepishly. That is when he noticed the couple sitting next to them were silent and staring down at their drinks. He saw that they were wearing wedding bands, so he concluded they were married. He just wasn’t sure if to each other. They were in their mid-thirties and both were nice looking. He got this wicked gleam in his eyes and said, “Hold the story right there dear. I want to take some notes.” He pulled a little notepad out of his shirt pocket along with a pen and started scribbling. When he was finished he handed what was written to his drinking partner. The following is what was written:
‘Don’t say anything or look around. The couple next to us are listening to everything we are saying. So let’s have some fun with them. Speak at your current rate, but when it gets down and dirty, drop your voice. Then bring it back up when you get to the regular descriptive parts. Raising and lowering your voice will yo-yo them to distraction.
Make sure to embellish everything. We’ll drive both of these voyeurs nuts.
Are you game?
Don’t reply yet. Wait till I ask.’
He looked at her seriously, “Do you agree with what I’ve written?”
“With every word,” she solemnly replied.
I WAS ONLY LOOKING FOR CUSTOM BOX SCROLL THINGYS AND THIS COMES UP
I would enjoy it much more with some texture, as this image is not far from a digitally rendered texture imho.