(CLOCKS , , , by coldplay . . . Lights go out and I cant be saved Tides that I tried to swim against Have brought me down upon my knees Oh I beg , I beg and plead . . )

(SHIVER . . By coldplay . . . I will always be waiting for you, So you know how much I need ya, But you never even see me, do you? And this is my final chance of getting you . . . Dont you shiver, shiver, shiver . . . )

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(~~YOU HAVE GOT TO BE ***** KIDDING ME~~~ I thought to myself as I looked out the back patio door walking into the kitchen. ~~MOTHER ***** DOG, DEAD MOTHER ***** DOG~~).

It was Sunday, *****-all-over-the house Sunday, my favorite day of the week Sunday and I was in no mood for what was about to happen. I had just spent several hours reading Fan Fic stories, getting caught up, getting stirred up, getting mushed up and getting sexed up by all my favorite authors.

Gawd I love them, love them all – I want to write like them — to be able to spin a tale of Bette and Tina like them – – I want to be them – to experience the joy of being able to convey that addicting sense and source of unconditional and everlasting true love – I want to sling mush and purvey *****-like ***** scenes to hook the readers and make them crave the L — gawd I love these authors. I dont want to be cured.

Once again all three of my early addiction dealers had posted stories which left me in a personal crisis – an impossible quandary – in a state of unbelievable mixed emotions. The good doctors assignment over these past two weeks had been for me to pinpoint the source of the addiction – the time, the place, the culprit, the reason . Dishing on my pusher was something I did not feel comfortable about doing – something I did not want to do – did not see the point in doing. SHE was mine, not to be betrayed, not to be shared but to be worshipped and thanked for leading me to THE OTHER ONE and # 3. The emotional tug of war I was experiencing was taking its toll on me and the sight I witnessed as I joined K for breakfast was not helping my mental stability.

I strolled over to the double glass sliding doors wearing only my Tasmanian Devil shorts sans underwear and a tank top, white of course. Leaning against the frame and looking out to the street, I scratched myself like a baseball player in the on deck circle, shaking my head at the scene approaching me. K sat at the kitchen table reading the paper, a bowl of oatmeal and fresh fruit before her, oblivious to the mayhem about to occur.

Being Sunday morning, most of the accepting yet conservative neighbors of ours were in church with one exception – Richard Smallwood. I felt a little tightening in my chest as I watched Richard walking rather briskly toward our house dragging my perverted dog Elvis by his collar waving his finger and talking wildly to the unresponsive yet seemingly cooperative mutt.

Dressed in only a pair of brown sued leather chaps with matching leather vest and g-string loin cloth, my barefoot neighbor was definitely not happy with Elvis and whatever he was caught doing.

Richard was a very excitable queen, an enigma to say the least. His tan, sculpted body and short, spiky blonde frosted hair made him an Adonnis of sorts to be hold. His atheletc good looks were just that – looks — the only thing that ***** could throw around was his weight and nasty verbiage. The g-string covering his package hung loosely and could have used some bubble wrap or packing peanuts – thus no surprise at his nickname Little Richard. And god forbid you call him ***** – he maybe a pansy but he could ***** slap you into next week if you dared to call him anything but Richard.

K, come here babe. You have go to see this, I said to her.

See what, hon? she responded without looking up. Reading the paper was a ritual not to be disturbed by K on Sunday, but this was an emergency.

Just come here and check this out, I again said to her as I continued to watch Richard pull my dog behind him – walking shoeless on his tiptoes – his white ***** nekked and exposed through the back of the chaps. The dog appeared to be smiling as his eyes seemed to be glazed over – that satisfied look a pervert gets when he has seen an unspeakable act. I was getting scared now.

K put the paper down and set her bifocals on top of it. Grabbing several pieces of fruit, she ate a piece of melon as she approached the patio door feeding me a piece of banana as she stopped behind me to look at the spectacle nearing our driveway.

She leaned against me, putting her chin on my shoulder and attempted to help me scratch myself as we both stared wide-eyed out the door. I slapped her hand away knowing she best not start something she couldnt finish at this moment.

Stop that, I teased in my meanest Sunday morning voice. What the ***** do you think is going on?

I dont know and dont care – hes your dog – you take care of it. She slapped my butt before she returned to her seat at the table continuing to eat and read.

Why is he always my dog when he is bad and your dog when he is, is, is, . . . I hesitated with the next words knowing what he is.

Hes what, babe, good? That dog is never good, thats why he is yours and yours alone.

I turned to shoot K a nasty glare when I was knocked off balance as Richard swung open the patio doors unannounced and uninvited.

Morning Richard, K spouted from her position at the table, never looking up from the pages of the paper.

Karen, nice to see you this morning, he responded. Beach I wish I could say the same to you but unfortunately your dog as made our meeting here a bit unpleasant. He still had a good grasp on Elvis collar and refused to let go.

Richard, why dont you and I go outside and chat and well let K take care of the dog,
I suggested looking at Elvis with disgust and disdain.

Fine, lets go, he agreed. His grip on my dogs collar released, Elvis trotted to K and jumped on her lap licking the bowl of oatmeal. Without looking up K stroked his neck then spoon fed him more Quake Oats. Those two needed a good stooge slapping and I was more than willing to oblige when I retuned. If I had my supersoaker they would both be wet and dead.

Again I felt a small tightening sensation in my chest as I followed Richard out the door. Confrontation was not my strong suit and I was not about to be berated by some half-dressed western wannabe at 8:00 am on a Sunday morning.

No mincing words here Beach; I am cutting right to the chase and holding no punches. That ***** mutt of yours was staring in our front living room window – paws up on the sill and covering his eyes as if he was trying to see in. He was licking the window and panting and I swear moaning or making some sort of bizarre sound. This wasnt the first time and it has got to stop. Do you hear me missy, it has got to stop!

Richard, is it true that when you were born the doctor slapped your mother?

My attempt at humor to disarm my neighbor was a resounding failure as he huffed and puffed and nearly blew my head off with his next tirade.

Listen here you mental miscreant. The whole neighborhood knows about your seeing a shrink and I suggest that you take that perverted pup of yours with you to your next session. And keep his mangy mongrel mutt ***** out of my yard.

My neighbors reference to my visits with Dr. Addiction hit a nerve, but I did my best to stay calm and placate the angry urban cowboy. I glanced in the house to see if K was listening, to get a feel for how Richard knew of my sessions with the shrink, but she continued to eat, read and pamper that dog.

You know, ***** that Elvis only looks into windows of people who are having ***** or engaging in some type of sexual, usually unorthodox sexual activity. So I must assume here that you and Javier were playing ride the pony and giddy-upping all over your living room for him to stay and watch. What the ***** is that all about on a Sunday no less.

I could see his face redden with embarrassment and swore a little red streak appeared on his bright white ***** as well. He stuttered and stammered but managed to spit out a retort.

What my husband and I do in the confines of our own home is none of your business. You just better keep that flea infested dirty dog away. He was shifting his weight from one leg to the other with his hands on his hips trying his best to be indignant and defying.

He was a ***** moron.
So does that mean K and are arent invited to the cookout today?

Richard was quite an accomplished violinist and played in the local orchestra; his husband Javier was a chef at a popular Spanish cuisine restaurant. Neither job could support their lavish lifestyle so they bought a 100 acres of land just outside the city and opened a nudist camp – family oriented nudist camp. On the weekends the place hosted a volleyball tournament and barbeque -Javier cooking. Richard donned a different hat of sorts at the camp letting his hair down so to speak and brought a fiddle supplying bluegrass and country music to the event. It was always a fabulous time.

Of course not, you silly sister. You two are always welcome but leave the dog at home. I have said what I had come to say, now just keep control of that thing and we will all live happily after. Love you girl, tell K goodbye for me.

See ya Richard, Really am sorry about Elvis, but he cant help himself. Takes after K, you know. She is the pervert in this family.

He waved over his head as he tiptoed back toward his house, his bright white ***** blinding me as I watched him go. I shook my head and struggled to breathe despite having resolved this situation without violence.

I took a deep breath and struggled a bit as I exhaled, most likely from the sheer amount of energy used to once again cover for my dog. Couple that with the exhaustion I was feeling from reading, re-reading and taking notes on my three favs from Fan Fic, I felt I needed to sit down, relax, have a bowl of Fruit Loops with chocolate milk poured over them as well as a Dew and a couple of powdered donuts.

As I slid the glass door open I felt a little twinge run down my left arm and all I could think of was what a drag it is getting old – and I was old – older than K – a lot older. I approached the table and saw that K had already poured my Fruit Loops and surrounded the bowl with little donuts – she is just so thoughtful and good to me – what I ever did to deserve her I will die not knowing.

I walked to the fridge to get the chocolate milk and yelled at Elvis to get out. He could tell I was angry with him so he jumped off Ks lap and took a seat at the edge of the doorway to the living room – a quick get-away path in case he incurred my wrath once again. He also had quite a good view of the table, anticipating more sexual activity for his overactive sexually perverted brain.

Do I embarrass you, babe, I asked K as I retrieved the milk for my cereal and grabbed a can of Dew. Without looking up she said, YOU dont embarrass me, hon, but I must admit that you have done some questionable things in our time together that make me laugh. But no, of course not, I love much more than you could EVER embarrass me.

Not even that time at the Aids fund raiser last year, I asked as I sat and poured the dark brown milk over my Loops.

She started to giggle at the thought of what I and some of our bicycle club friends had done at the high brow affair last spring. She closed the paper and took off her glasses and I could tell her mind was recalling the event.

Despite knowing how stupid I get when I drink, I began to imbibe, heavily , at the party, because it was dull, boring and completely dead. A couple of riders and I had decided to spice things up a bit by going around asking people to pull our fingers and lifting our legs slightly in a mock ***** position when someone obliged us. Of course being the moronic drunks we were hysterical laughter usually followed a pulled finger and many of our request-ees were simply not amused. By the time K had realized what was going on, I and my fellow bikers had found a group who not only pulled our fingers but challenged us to a burping contest as well. The noises coming out of us and that section of the room were uncouth to say the least, and I soon found myself being dragged out of the party by my ear.

Before she said another word, K motioned for me to come sit with her and bring my bowl of Loops along. Suddenly I wasnt really hungry and dropped the bowl in the sink as I got up to go sit with my lover. She knew I needed emotional support and reassurance and sexual healing and she knew that I knew she knew. I needed her more than the air I breathed and that was no exaggeration.

She moved her chair away from the table and patted the seat between her legs inviting me in. I sat down after tussling her hair and whispering thank you in her ear. She pulled the chair closer to the table and pushed me gently forward so my forehead was resting on the newspaper she was reading. In a matter of seconds her hands were making their way under my tank, massaging my back and neck. As she pulled the chair even closer to the table, I spread my arms across its width and grasped the edges, my forehead still embedded in the Food section of the Gazette.

My mind wandered for just a few moments as I recalled how many of our Sundays started out this way, at the table, us sitting together just like this. But today it felt different, it felt better than ever, I felt connected to her in a way I hadnt for some time. I exhaled slowly as I gave in to her touch. One of her hands had left my back and managed to wiggle its way up my pant leg and into the reservoir of anticipation that had been building for most of the morning. I spread my legs a little further apart, gripped the tables edges just a little tighter and kept my head buried in the newsprint.

K was leaning into me, her chest molded to my back, whispering the words I needed to hear – how much she loved me, needed me, was proud of me, proud to be with me, and so on and so on and on and on and on. I loved to hear her talk to me when we made love, and most of the time I didnt care what she was saying – just as long as she was saying it to me.

With her fingers deep inside me and her thumb firmly on my *****, she methodically increased the rhythm of her strokes and I knew, being Sunday and all, – a day of worship and praise – that I had to give God his due. And as I came I cried out Holy ***** Christ, good God above, Jesus Mary and Joseph have mercy on my soul, amen and hallelujah !! I figured that should do it for this Sunday.

After a few minutes of recovery, we disentangled ourselves and K invited me to join her in the studio as she had a lot of work to do. As tempting as that thought was, I declined and said I would join her later because I wanted to work on my assignment for the good doctor. I felt inspired, thanks to her and was ready to tackle the tough project.

It was such a beautiful day that I took the laptop to the porch where I had an excellent view of the Gulf. To my one side was Ks studio and I could see her occasionally walk by the window, hey eyes covered with safety goggles. I could hear Christmas music playing and the sound of power tools and I knew I was in heaven and in need of nothing more. I was loved, content, and filled with a sense of peace.

I smiled to my self as I popped the top of the computer and logged on to the site. I started taking notes to tell the doc . . .

I knew exactly when I became addicted and I knew it was an accident that I will never regret having. It was mid May and I was interested in obtaining a copy of the L-Word music cd from season one. I searched the web and ended up in a world I never knew existed – a world of writers and readers and sellers and buyers and story tellers and chatters. I was mesmerized, enthralled, intrigued and wanting to learn more.

I surfed my way to the Fan Fic site and began randomly reading some of the postings. I was surprised to see they were about the shows existing characters – nothing really original — except maybe what they were doing with the characters I didnt like what I was reading – I was not impressed or amused. I thought I was wasting my time, until I scrolled to HER – a chance meeting – stopped because I was intrigued with the screen name.
SHE had posted several chapters and I began reading them one by one. I hated what I read, but I continued. And by the third chapter I couldnt believe how much I wanted to keep reading. I was hooked on her style, her story, her BnT. I was disappointed when I finished what she had already done and hated the fact that I had to wait sometimes for day for another fix. Nasty little twit.

Her delay in writing lead me to wander, to roam, to read others. Again, I didnt like most of the storylines, nothing compared to her unitl I read THE OTHER ONE. And soon I was becoming accustomed to the style the authors were spewing and was actually liking everyone I encountered.

I stopped typing my tale of addiction long enough to sip a Dew. I wasnt feeling very well, that tightening in my chest reoccurring and a little stomach ache – probably indigestion from the donuts and Loops. I decided that K was due for a little Beachnut lovin about now and went to stand up. But as I did the tightening in my chest gripped my whole being and a numbness down my left arm just didnt feel right. I sat back down, set the computer on the ground and lay down, never getting up again.

If I had known I was having a heart attack I might have called out to K or ran to get an aspirin or two. I am glad I went quickly and quietly because I would not have been able to bear the emotional pain of seeing my life with K slip away and not be able to do anything about it. Its amazing that even in death I miss her so much, but I know she will be alright because she is young and she has my dog to keep her company.

I will miss HER, too and the new story she is working on. Its a shame I will never know how it ends.





THE END of my career as well – it has been fun but it has to end . . . The addiction is just too overwhelming to perpetuate . . .I dont want to be cured but I have to try . . . . . . . . . . .