Day by day, I’m noticing how important it is to speak with friends and colleagues over the phone.
Keeps you in constant contact with the people who are in the same line of work. These people are sometimes much more important than you and can help you in the process of whatever you do.
I mean I guess that’s what facebook is for, but it’s clouded with useless information whatever important thing you have to tell the person you’re contacting will just be collected and lost into a void of other facebook posts.
Email is the same.
It’s something my generation is slowly removing from their activities, while their text messaging plan overtakes their minutes.
I’ve hit yet another brick wall while writing a screenplay. That’s basically the only reason I sign on to this thing. I’ve let go of my facebook, and soon, the same will come of my twitter. Social media and television fries my brain. I won’t be an asshole and speak on behalf of everyone addicted to social media, NOR will I blame social media itself. The brick wall situation is my fault. I just can’t use social media, because it becomes to ulitmate form of procastination.
I’m not trying to rush into things. I just want to get work done. I.I.I.I.I.I. Reason why this blog angers me. me.me.me That’s what everything on this stupid thing is about. Sorry if you’re reading this. This blog is clearly my way of freewriting anything on my mind. Soooooooooo you can stop…….NOW.
Trying to learn the ways of zen and free myself from thought and time.
Jessica turned 18, today. Her father was more animated than she was. He tends to get overly excited. So much, that people think he’s homosexual. Before I could walk into their house, he flamboyantly clapped; overjoyed by my presence. Jessica stood there with a faint grin, her arms behind her back, and her feet pointed towards each other. Jessica’s mother, who was embarrassed by her husband, took my jacket, and welcomed me in. “Uncle Jeff will be here soon. Why don’t you go into the living room and watch some TV.” She said it to me, but it was directed towards Jessica.
Jessica’s parents were quite wealthy. No one in town knew where the family’s finances came from. Her mother’s an elementary school teacher and her father’s the community’s pastor. Both of their salaries combined couldn’t add up to the money they have. Because of their wealth, Jessica had the best education in town. She was homeschooled by the best private teachers and now, attends the most expensive university in town. Jessica didn’t attend many social functions in her youth. I didn’t meet her until last year; when she truly broke out of her shell. The boys her age were very attracted to her, but were too intimidated to talk to her. She’s skinny and soft spoken, has tall beautiful ivory legs, small breasts, shoulder length brown hair, and hazel eyes. I’d be intimidated too, if I was their age.
We met at the country club I worked for in the middle of town. Her parents attended a new membership meeting and, fortunately, she accompanied them. I was a bus boy then; promoted to manager since, but I still remember that day, vividly. Jessica was wearing a floral sundress, and her hair was up to the middle of her back. Her parents didn’t let her do many things. She was restricted from cutting her hair, talking to boys, being friends with girls, and using a computer. USING A COMPUTER? I remember when the only thing that could be done on a computer was write term papers for school, or install floppy disk porn on it. Well, that was another era in time; probably, too early for Jessica to remember. But the day I laid eyes on her, age didn’t exist. It was insubstantial. I approached her without hesitation and asked if she needed a ride. She told me she was with her parents, and I mentioned I had a much cooler ride; the golf cart. Jessica didn’t seem amused, but she smirked and told me I lacked any wit. We laughed, she gave me her home phone number, and told me not to call past eight. It was odd at the time, but the chase felt too right.
While Jessica and I sat in her living room, her father stood in the kitchen having a fit about guests coming soon and nothing being prepared, yet. Her mother, being as soft spoken as Jessica, tried to calm him down, but all I could hear in response were sighs of disappointment. Eventually, the kitchen went quiet, and we heard squeaky noises and faint moans coming from upstairs. Jessica’s skin turned from ivory into a tomato red, and I rubbed her neck for comfort. She began running her hand across my thick beard, and said, “the grays are coming back.” “Uh-huh,” I responded as her hand left my beard and lowered to my thighs. I began to slip my hand under her bra. My hand looked similar to a giant’s, near her breast. Grabbing it felt like I was palming a tangerine. As the squeaks and moans were becoming significantly louder, Jessica reached her hand down my pants, and began to stroke. She was having a difficult time, and undid my pants. There I sat, getting a handjob on Jessica’s birthday. I couldn’t help, but wonder, what made me deserve something so amazing on her special day. I didn’t even get her a gift. Why am I getting a gift? I tried to stop her, but was mesmerized by her tiny hands moving up and down so sensually, almost like a little girl churning butter. She moved slowly, then faster, and then slowly, again. She knew the way I liked it.
We were too deep in our situation that we didn’t hear her parents coming downstairs, until I was going to ejaculate. As we heard the foot steps coming closer to us, Jessica pointed my penis towards me, causing me to ejaculate all over my black Smiths T-shirt. I couldn’t react fast enough and hid my erection behind the blue velvet pillow on the couch. Her father walked into the living room with a huge grin and said, “You kids! You know, back in my day, us kids always did dirty things behind our parent’s back.” He sat next to me and shouted, “Hunny! Remember that time in the woods, when we were 16?” Her mother giggles, loudly. I’m mortified and powerless. Jessica’s father begins to rub my shoulder. “Kid, you are lucky to have my daughter! She grew up to be such a respectful, beautiful, and intelligent woman.” The door bell rang and my shoulder was free. I tried to make my move, but her mother walked in. “You guys needed anything?” She stared at the blue velvet pillow and added, “Isn’t that pillow so comfortable?” I nervously grinned and thought to myself, “I’m too old for situations like this.” Jessica’s father walked back into the living room with his brother, Jeff. He introduced himself to me. He waited for me to stand up, but awkwardly walked over to me, instead. I shook his hand and left some specimen on it. Without any averseness to the odd substance on his hand, he rubbed it on his pants and went on with his business.
I barely write anything on this thing, but after long contemplating on the beach in Paradise Island, I realized I have something to share. This past week I’ve been staying at my parent’s house in Sosua, Puerto Plata, in the Dominican Republic. My friend, Kevin, and I arrived last Friday. When we met up with my parents at the airport the first thing my pops told me was, “We gotta go to Sosua beach on Sunday!” Then I ask, what’s so important about that beach? He replied, “Well, on Sundays, it’s a huge party! All the Dominicans from the cities come down, just drink all day, and party. Lots of booze, food, and beautiful women.” Of course, I was excited to see the beautiful women. Dominican women are fucking gorgeous, but I have a stigma when it comes to them. My older sister and I share the same rule of thumb: No dating Dominicans.
I have a huge Dominican family and saying that is an understatement. Let me explain better! Everywhere my mom goes and she meets a Dominican, they turn out to be a distant relative. It starts like this. They meet, they become ecstatic to find out they’re the same nationality, then the family talk begins, and my mom names one name and it turns out to be the person’s brother, sister, mother, father, aunt, uncle, cousin, or grandparent. This happens 100% of the times my mom meets a Dominican. My pops isn’t very social, so about 50% of the Dominicans he meets are relatives. I’m not big fan of statistics, but those stats are too high and so I stay away from dating Dominicans.
So, it’s Sunday. We’re at the beach. My pops wasn’t fucking around. The beach was a mad house. We speedily walk passed drunken Dominican after drunken Dominican. Hustlers trying to stop us and ask if we want any beach chairs, or souvenirs. We ignore them and continue walking. My pops is cracking up as we watch a family fan a dude who’s passed out from a day of drinking. It was only 12pm, too.
We finally reach my parent’s “favorite spot.” This beach was crowded with FINE looking ladies and I’m just pointing at each one saying to myself, “cousin! Cousin! Second cousin! Aunt! Long lost sister! and cousin!” I don’t fuck with Dominican girls in America. There’s NO way in hell I’m fucking with them here!
As I was looking at each girl, it reminded of the time when I realized I’d never date a Dominican girl. I was about 10 years old and I was at my cousin’s sweet 16. All the adults were rowdy and dancing to merengue; typico dominicano meirda! All night, I was interested in talking to this light skinned girl. She was around 12 or 13. I couldn’t stop looking at her. You’re probably thinking “10 years old? Really?” And Yes! I was attracted to girls when I was 5 years old. I was the fucking Dominican Alfalfa! Every girl my age was Darla! HAH! So, I’m scoping this girl out and I ask my dad, “She’s not my cousin, right?” My dad takes a few glances and responds, “Nope. I’ve never seen her before, but you should ask your mom.” I ask my mom and she tells me “nope that’s not your cousin. I’ve never seen her. She’s probably a friend.” But what I heard was, “Hell NO! Go for it!”
With my 10 year old swag, I approach this chick dancing merengue, acting like I’m dancing with a partner. This chick is looking right passed me, but I ignore it. I blare out, “Dancing like this gets a little lonely. Would you join me?” Chick laughs and says, “I saw ju lookin’ at me all nigh. Is kind of nassie. We cousins.” I turn red, dance backwards, and end up dancing with my mom. I never told any one that story because I’ve never felt so embarrassed. I expect people to react by saying, “DUDE what do you expect? you were at a family get together?” BUT I asked my parents and both of them gave me the same answer. There’s a circle of trust there! It was just my experience meeting a long lost cousin, which I never want to encounter again with a girl that I’m attracted to. When I had that flash back, I immediately stopped checking out the dominican women and focused my attention on the beautiful white foreigners.
Then the rule of thumb came back to my attention, today, when checking out a Dominican woman in Paradise Island. The story came to mind again and then a rule of thumb my cousin always told me.
My cousin loves Dominican women and won’t let family issues get in the way of his game. After his adventures in Dominican Republic, he would tell me about his sexual escapades with Dominican women. Supposedly, it was an average routine most of my male cousins would follow: Go to a club, get drunk, meet a girl( that wasn’t a prostitute), get a hotel, bang her, go home. First, I asked him how he felt if she was a cousin. He answered, “Ricky, I don’t think about it. I just get drunk, make game, then fuck em and leave em. That’s it!” I told him that I envied for that. If I were put in that situation, the conversation that girl and I would be having would be similar to scene in a Woody Allen movie, where I’d be only asking questions about her family, waiting to hear a familiar name.