Pottery and Peterson
That was my Saturday. Oscar induced a near-trance state perfect for speed-painting the three mugs shown at left. I was apparently somewhat entrancing myself, to the well-dreaded male half of the store staff. Observing my “contra pasto” (?) stance at one point, he inquired: “Do you dance? I do. And I stand that way sometimes.”
Ah, the famous “Do you dance?” Usually an indicator of interest, that one. Have I told ya’ll the story of the first time someone asked me that? I can’t remember now if I’ve told you of the porn career that wasn’t. I know I’ve teased it, but have I told it? Well it’s a good story, anyway.
So one night not long after buying the famous “I [heart] nerds” T and the even-trashier hot red pants of Bill Murky and Palo Alto tumble fame (both from Charlotte Russe, a store Best Friend in principle disparages), she and I take in some music at ye Honky Tonk.
The tunes are good, so I’m gettin’ down a little. Not in dirty fashion, mind you, but I tend to like my music. Which abandon men apparently infer applies to other things as well ... like the way I need my bread dough, perhaps.
Well, anyway, we call it a night and leave the bar. As we’re crossing the street, some guy catches up with me. He’s apparently followed me out of the back room, out of the bar, onto the street. “Do you dance?”
“Just for fun,” I say.
“Do you act?” By this point things start to sound a little shady. He tells me he’s in “film” and looking to cast some people. He gives me a card that has a weird action-figure-cum-sumo-wrestler sketch on it, and a Hotmail address.
The following day I work up the nerve to call him, just for the hell of it, but Mr. Seize-It Films never calls me back. Suspiciously his name didn’t turn up on Google either.
Ah, well. Porn’s not really my thing any more than Australian brothel blogs are. I’m a retrosexual woman, damnit!
Ah, the famous “Do you dance?” Usually an indicator of interest, that one. Have I told ya’ll the story of the first time someone asked me that? I can’t remember now if I’ve told you of the porn career that wasn’t. I know I’ve teased it, but have I told it? Well it’s a good story, anyway.
So one night not long after buying the famous “I [heart] nerds” T and the even-trashier hot red pants of Bill Murky and Palo Alto tumble fame (both from Charlotte Russe, a store Best Friend in principle disparages), she and I take in some music at ye Honky Tonk.
The tunes are good, so I’m gettin’ down a little. Not in dirty fashion, mind you, but I tend to like my music. Which abandon men apparently infer applies to other things as well ... like the way I need my bread dough, perhaps.
Well, anyway, we call it a night and leave the bar. As we’re crossing the street, some guy catches up with me. He’s apparently followed me out of the back room, out of the bar, onto the street. “Do you dance?”
“Just for fun,” I say.
“Do you act?” By this point things start to sound a little shady. He tells me he’s in “film” and looking to cast some people. He gives me a card that has a weird action-figure-cum-sumo-wrestler sketch on it, and a Hotmail address.
The following day I work up the nerve to call him, just for the hell of it, but Mr. Seize-It Films never calls me back. Suspiciously his name didn’t turn up on Google either.
Ah, well. Porn’s not really my thing any more than Australian brothel blogs are. I’m a retrosexual woman, damnit!
<< Home