Friday, October 9, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Grapes of Rash (a free form writer's jam with parody in mind).
Jom Toad thought the discomfort he felt would only be temporary but soon the pain became unbearable.
It had begun with a slight tingling then brought the fire of seven hells to his groin.
He shifted in his seat trying to ease his suffeing as he drove the rusty model T toward the sunset. He didn't want to scratch himself in front of his new passenger...a pretty young girl he'd picked up just minutes before.
Picking up hitchhikers; Jom should have known better. The girl he had picked up before was responsible for his current condition. She rode with him for hours then suggested they pull off on a gravel road for some "rest." Yes, Jom should have known better than to pick up hitchhikers.
He shifted again, this time trying to rub his thighs together as he moved. When he did that, his right foot shot forward and mashed the accelerator to the floor then he jerked the wheel to the left. The young girl looked over at him and asked, "What's wrong?"
The sinking sunlight masked Jom's flushed face. "Oh, nothing," he said. "I thought I saw a coyote in the road."
"Hmm," she said. "Uh, would you like for me to drive for a while?"
"No, no, that's alright. I'm fine. I'm still getting used to this car. A man was kind enough to loan it to me so I could get to Calilfornia and I haven't driven one like this before."
"Oh, I see," the girl said. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know, okay?"
"Sure thing," Jom said.
They rode along in silence for awhile, save for the noise Jom made rubbing his buttocks across the rusty seat springs. Finally, he asked, "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't say," she replied, "but it's Polly. What's yours?"
"Jom," he said. "Jom Toad."
"Well, Mr. Toad, do you think I can ride all the way to California with you?" she asked.
"Please call me Jom. And, yes. Yes, you certainly can."
They found out a little more about each other as the old Ford rattled along the highway. Tom was heading to California, looking for work in the movie industry. To his surprise, so was Polly. Both were fleeing depressing home lives in the midwest. Polly's father was an abusive drunk and to her surprise, so was Jom's (well, actually, it was Jom's mother). They talked of things they liked, things they hated and of their dreams of being big stars someday. Before long they had chatted their way into evening.
It was dark inside the car now and Jom was taking full advantage of it. He had stopped squirming to seek relief and was digging in now; one hand on the wheel and one hand in his crotch.
Even though it was dark Polly could hear him scratching (one of the downsides of corduroy pants ) and the guttural sounds that indicated his relief.
It had begun with a slight tingling then brought the fire of seven hells to his groin.
He shifted in his seat trying to ease his suffeing as he drove the rusty model T toward the sunset. He didn't want to scratch himself in front of his new passenger...a pretty young girl he'd picked up just minutes before.
Picking up hitchhikers; Jom should have known better. The girl he had picked up before was responsible for his current condition. She rode with him for hours then suggested they pull off on a gravel road for some "rest." Yes, Jom should have known better than to pick up hitchhikers.
He shifted again, this time trying to rub his thighs together as he moved. When he did that, his right foot shot forward and mashed the accelerator to the floor then he jerked the wheel to the left. The young girl looked over at him and asked, "What's wrong?"
The sinking sunlight masked Jom's flushed face. "Oh, nothing," he said. "I thought I saw a coyote in the road."
"Hmm," she said. "Uh, would you like for me to drive for a while?"
"No, no, that's alright. I'm fine. I'm still getting used to this car. A man was kind enough to loan it to me so I could get to Calilfornia and I haven't driven one like this before."
"Oh, I see," the girl said. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know, okay?"
"Sure thing," Jom said.
They rode along in silence for awhile, save for the noise Jom made rubbing his buttocks across the rusty seat springs. Finally, he asked, "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't say," she replied, "but it's Polly. What's yours?"
"Jom," he said. "Jom Toad."
"Well, Mr. Toad, do you think I can ride all the way to California with you?" she asked.
"Please call me Jom. And, yes. Yes, you certainly can."
They found out a little more about each other as the old Ford rattled along the highway. Tom was heading to California, looking for work in the movie industry. To his surprise, so was Polly. Both were fleeing depressing home lives in the midwest. Polly's father was an abusive drunk and to her surprise, so was Jom's (well, actually, it was Jom's mother). They talked of things they liked, things they hated and of their dreams of being big stars someday. Before long they had chatted their way into evening.
It was dark inside the car now and Jom was taking full advantage of it. He had stopped squirming to seek relief and was digging in now; one hand on the wheel and one hand in his crotch.
Even though it was dark Polly could hear him scratching (one of the downsides of corduroy pants ) and the guttural sounds that indicated his relief.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
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