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Friday, Jun. 07, 2002 / 2:35 p.m. ~No Business Getting Wet At Work!~ I'm sitting here in the cube, 1:36 p.m., skipping lunch, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, we could add one more, waiting, to find out when we get to leave. The phones are insanely slow. I've just pulled off my headphones to take a call, and left them off. I was listening to "18". I could hear it every day. I almost do. Hear it every day. I was fantasizing heavily about having sex with Moby. It goes like this: I go to his show, here, and this part is real - he is coming here for a solo gig prior to Area 2 (no Area 2 in my city) - I chat up a roadie or two, find a way to get backstage, I meet him, tell him how intensely attracted I am to his music, to his writing, to his humor, his intelligence, his spirituality, his physical being. He probably lowers his gaze, says, Aw shucks, or something, and I ask what he's doing for the rest of the evening� Of course he has plans, but I am invited to join, and I let him know I really, really want to have sex with him. I have condoms. Oh, crap, that's as far as I've gotten really, aside from picturing what it would be like to actually have sex with him. I've been sitting here imagining kissing Moby, feeling him touch me, feeling him, "throbbing manhood" sheathed in latex, enter me and imagining me groan with pleasure. Me and Mo. Mo and Me. And the thought occurred to me, of course, that I'd be just another slutty groupie, but I don't think I would care. I would have sex with Moby knowing that I'd never see him again. Mo is someone with whom I'd welcome a one night stand. Of course I'd dream about him, want him again, but I know he'd not be available to me. He'd be long gone. I wonder if we could exchange email? What if Moby could not get me out of his head? Wouldn't that be too cool? Moby pursuing me, writing me love letters, sending them electronically, writing songs about me, about his intense desire for me� Hey, I said I was fantasizing. It's healthy. Fucking waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting� ad infinitum. I'm seeing Hermione and Lilly if I can get the hell out of here. They're here in town, from out West, and she called me first thing this morning, here at work. I want to go. Bad. Later, I see B., and did I nickname him Branford already? Let's do that now if we haven't. Branford and I have such a complicated history. But I will be visiting him at his groovy Midtown pad this evening, to share a bottle of wine - at least that was the offer, we'll see how it really goes. We haven't seen each other in maybe a year and a half. Maybe two. I remember it well, but I can't possibly say when it was. Let me get back to Moby� I wonder if he'd have sex with me in his hotel room. It occurs to me I'd probably have to get in line behind all the other women who'd be wanting to do the same thing. And he might just prefer to go to his hotel room alone, to try to sleep. Maybe he'll have to head out to another city the next morning. He has insomnia, he'd stay up late anyway. Would he choose me? No, I think he likes young women, not older women, but then again, I look awfully young, and I'm sure, assuming I get a ticket, and I go, of course, I'll wear something youngish, something revealing, something I can dance in, something fitting, perhaps, something which doesn't move around a lot, which stays in place when I move. For the sake of the fantasy, we'll say Moby is awestruck when he sees me, he can't believe his good fortune in that I want to sleep with him, well, not sleep, but have sex, and that I have condoms so we can get started right away. I'm already hot and sweaty from dancing all night, and he is too, he's got that "just played a great gig" high going and he is ready to have fun. You know he'd have a smashing hotel room, some Suite downtown or something. He has to be staying the night. Has to be. Maybe we could take a bubble bath in his huge marble tub with whirlpool. Definitely, the cleaner the better, the more parts that are super clean, the more parts that get licked and sucked upon, all over. Yes, I can see that. I'm fucking here at work, stuck in this fucking cubicle, skipping lunch, waiting, waiting, waiting, for them to tell us to go home, Now that's pretty funny. As you see, I didn't get to finish that last sentence, and you may ask why, and the answer would be, "Because the Manager (M) came by to tell us all we'd be leaving early and since I left last yesterday, I got to leave first today, much to Veronica's dismay.", and here I am. Home. So I get to see Hermione and little Lilly, little 3 1/2 year old Lilly. And then later I see Branford, and we drink. And tomorrow I see Mark and we go to a movie, or something. And Tuesday night I see Jon. And in July I fuck Moby. I cannot wait. Cost of the War in Iraq
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