by Ron Langston
Journal Section VII: Hot Steel in a Short Dress
A train station in Rome last year. On business. I realized my connection to
Geneva was going to be delayed for over an hour. It was one of those hot
summer days in which my sac was dipping into my sweat-soaked BVDs like a
teabag in a Darjeeling street cafe. It was hot.
Then I saw her. She wasn't local, no. Hungarian, maybe. Romanian. Her tits
rose and fell in the humid midday sun. I was hot, and I could tell she
No sooner did she catch my eye then we were together in a cramped dining car
booth. The fans were broken. She reached into her shoulder bag for
something. It was a cold beer. Big can. Cold. Foster's, I think, or some
other Australian crap -- I don't remember. I couldn't take my eyes off her.
She popped the cap, and its white head exploded onto us both. Without
looking down, she poured two glasses perfectly. Then sensually let the icy
cold empty can roll down her face, cooling her forehead, cheek, lips,
tongue. Slid it down her neck to the front of her low-cut Milan dress. Then
in one motion, her elbows slammed inside like a vise, crushing the can flat
as a pancake between her rock-hard breasts. I smiled. The beer would be
good, I knew.
Next week -- Section VIII: If I Could Walk That Way
(Transcribed by Charles Gulledge)