isnât?
Tell me where you went the day you leftâstart there.
PS: For your reference, my sheets have a purple-and-white floral pattern. I wasnât planning to show you the sheets, though. Up against the door would have worked just fine for me.
----
TO: laciegracie93
FROM: jake.holt6239
RE: Hoping you didnât scam me
Against the door? Christ.
Inconveniently, Iâm more than a thousand miles away, so I canât confirm whether youâre all talk or not.
No school for me, other than the hard knocks one. Never found a reason to bother, I guess. But I like that you think of me as a smart guy.
The day I left? Uncle Rick drove me to the Greyhound station in Langston and bought me a ticket to anywhere as a graduation gift. The first bus out was headed to Portland and that seemed like a good enough reason to go there. When I got off the bus in downtown Portland, that was the first and only time I ever wished I were back in Crowell.
Bus stations are always filthy and full of people you shouldnât make friends with, but I didnât really know that. My understanding of everything down and out was theoretical. Things I gleaned from reading Burroughs and Bukowski. Before my mom dropped me like a hot potato at fifteen in Crowell, we did our time in the âburbs of everywhere, so I stumbled into skid row sorely lacking in actual street smarts.
I thought about you a lot. Kept me warm at night, as they say, even when I was sleeping under a bridge or tucked into a dark spot behind some nasty strip-mall dumpster enclosure.
I can practically see your jaw hanging open as you read that. . . . Donât fret. It was a long time ago. I survived.
After a few months, I found some decent people who pointed my dumb, brave, idiot self toward something that might give me a future instead of an arrest record. And no, it wasnât Jesus or anything like that. Just a job as a greenhorn on a crab-fishing boat.
In the end, being scared shitless in Portland was good for me. I was able to see how getting lost in the world usually leaves you with nothing. Junkies and alkies are lonely, miserable people. And seeing that life close-up is depressing as fuck.
Tell me what happened when you came home. Did you go straight back to The Beauty Barn or do something else first? Wait tables at Deatonâs? Haul feed at the co-op? Work as a dancer at the strip club in Langston? Iâm crossing my fingers for a detailed description of an act where you were dressed as a wanton Catholic schoolgirl or something. Please donât disappoint, I beg you. Make it up if you have to.
5
A s it turns out, Jake hasnât sent me a single political rant chain email or forwarded any cute kitten videos. Instead, his emails have become the highlight of the last month for me. Heâs usually funny and sometimes heartfelt, but always manages to make even the most inconsequential anecdote worth reading twice. A fresh email from Jake is better than the latest issue of Vogue, a blog post from The Pioneer Woman, and a new Nora Robertsâall rolled into one.
But the email I woke up to this morning is . . . confusing? Seductive? Not sure.
Right after I read it, I consider a phone call to respond, but that might be harder. Especially if that phone call takes place in the daylight. If it was midnight and I was under my covers, with the shades drawn, all the lights off, and the sound of Jakeâs voice in the dark, maybe that would help.
TO: laciegracie93
FROM: jake.holt6239
SUBJECT: Your porch
Since I left you on your porch, Iâve given a great deal of thought to your ass.
Do I have your attention? Good.
Iâm about to say a few things that might cross the line, but just bear with me . . . these things need to be said.
Your ass in my hands was almost enough for me to lose it on the spot while you were moving yourself against my leg. Smooth, firm, plenty for me to grab hold of, but not so much
Tell me where you went the day you leftâstart there.
PS: For your reference, my sheets have a purple-and-white floral pattern. I wasnât planning to show you the sheets, though. Up against the door would have worked just fine for me.
----
TO: laciegracie93
FROM: jake.holt6239
RE: Hoping you didnât scam me
Against the door? Christ.
Inconveniently, Iâm more than a thousand miles away, so I canât confirm whether youâre all talk or not.
No school for me, other than the hard knocks one. Never found a reason to bother, I guess. But I like that you think of me as a smart guy.
The day I left? Uncle Rick drove me to the Greyhound station in Langston and bought me a ticket to anywhere as a graduation gift. The first bus out was headed to Portland and that seemed like a good enough reason to go there. When I got off the bus in downtown Portland, that was the first and only time I ever wished I were back in Crowell.
Bus stations are always filthy and full of people you shouldnât make friends with, but I didnât really know that. My understanding of everything down and out was theoretical. Things I gleaned from reading Burroughs and Bukowski. Before my mom dropped me like a hot potato at fifteen in Crowell, we did our time in the âburbs of everywhere, so I stumbled into skid row sorely lacking in actual street smarts.
I thought about you a lot. Kept me warm at night, as they say, even when I was sleeping under a bridge or tucked into a dark spot behind some nasty strip-mall dumpster enclosure.
I can practically see your jaw hanging open as you read that. . . . Donât fret. It was a long time ago. I survived.
After a few months, I found some decent people who pointed my dumb, brave, idiot self toward something that might give me a future instead of an arrest record. And no, it wasnât Jesus or anything like that. Just a job as a greenhorn on a crab-fishing boat.
In the end, being scared shitless in Portland was good for me. I was able to see how getting lost in the world usually leaves you with nothing. Junkies and alkies are lonely, miserable people. And seeing that life close-up is depressing as fuck.
Tell me what happened when you came home. Did you go straight back to The Beauty Barn or do something else first? Wait tables at Deatonâs? Haul feed at the co-op? Work as a dancer at the strip club in Langston? Iâm crossing my fingers for a detailed description of an act where you were dressed as a wanton Catholic schoolgirl or something. Please donât disappoint, I beg you. Make it up if you have to.
5
A s it turns out, Jake hasnât sent me a single political rant chain email or forwarded any cute kitten videos. Instead, his emails have become the highlight of the last month for me. Heâs usually funny and sometimes heartfelt, but always manages to make even the most inconsequential anecdote worth reading twice. A fresh email from Jake is better than the latest issue of Vogue, a blog post from The Pioneer Woman, and a new Nora Robertsâall rolled into one.
But the email I woke up to this morning is . . . confusing? Seductive? Not sure.
Right after I read it, I consider a phone call to respond, but that might be harder. Especially if that phone call takes place in the daylight. If it was midnight and I was under my covers, with the shades drawn, all the lights off, and the sound of Jakeâs voice in the dark, maybe that would help.
TO: laciegracie93
FROM: jake.holt6239
SUBJECT: Your porch
Since I left you on your porch, Iâve given a great deal of thought to your ass.
Do I have your attention? Good.
Iâm about to say a few things that might cross the line, but just bear with me . . . these things need to be said.
Your ass in my hands was almost enough for me to lose it on the spot while you were moving yourself against my leg. Smooth, firm, plenty for me to grab hold of, but not so much
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