I will vote for the candidate who promises to standardize the color coding on milk cartons, I think to myself, as the wife complains I got skim milk instead of 2% again. Oh well, last time it was 1%. At least I’m heading in a healthier direction, I said, it could have been half and half. It could have been chocolate, she said. I thought about making a soy milk joke, but she’s from Wisconsin.
I’m reminded of a story.
A couple decades ago this band we used to know (a brilliant band called God’s Gift to God) had a rather eclectic following including a pair of Japanese exotic dancers/escorts/maybe actresses. They were keeping their career options open. Neither could speak any English, not that it was a job requirement. They giggled instead. Lots of giggling. The little one, I remember, was sexy to die for and the other, a bigger girl, had some very impressive tits. Big things. Huge. Very unusual on a Japanese girl. She was also lactating–not sure how, but she was–which made her quite popular in some circles. One night after seeing God’s Gift To God at a place in North Hollywood I walked out the door of the club and there she was on the sidewalk–this was on Lankershim right in front of God and everybody–standing in front of a rocker dude down on his knees. He was nearly writhing in ecstasy as she squirted her milk into his mouth, all over his face, in his hair, all down his leather jacket. He was a sopping mess. He kept begging for more and she seemed to have an unlimited supply and could really aim, I mean three or four feet. Like a firehose. The crowd around them was in hysterics. Finally he had his fill and she turned around and there was a beautiful shiny Harley parked there and without missing a beat she squirted the seat, filling it with a little puddle of snow white milk that must have mystified the owner completely when he returned. As I passed by her exhibition I remember thinking please god don’t squirt me. It would have been sticky and I hate sticky. She didn’t.
A week or two later both girls were deported back to Japan.
Personally I’ve never had the urge to be sprayed with the milk of a Japanese stripper. Not even one with huge bazoombas. Though I doubt the opportunity will ever arise again. And it’s funny–when I began this story I said to myself I can’t post this, it’s dirty. But it’s not dirty, it’s just weird. Weird and sticky. And I hate sticky.