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Holoholo Girl
Plaything of Desire
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March 30, 2006
I thought I might fill you in on a couple of the things I've left out lately. And to do this, I consulted my little book—Bad Girls of Pulp Fiction…
Naked On Roller Skates
Swooooosh! Danni raced down the hill,
zooming past confused bystanders, bending her knees and leaning into
the wind and feeling the warmth of the sun on her body.
"This!" she cried out. "This is what it means to be alive!"
Oh, yeah… heh, heh… This happened a few months ago—it might've been
September or October, maybe. Sasha and I went to Idini's in Wailuku for
last call. We weren't really in the mood for drinking; we just wanted
to wish our favorite bartender, Junior, a happy birthday. I thought
maybe we could stop and get him a card or buy him a lei or something.
But Sasha had a better idea.
"How 'bout I flash him?" she said.
I was all for it. But when we sat there, barely sipping our Jack and
sodas, I sensed that Sasha was chickening out. Being the good friend
that I am, I used guilt and pressure to convince her that she really
had no choice in the matter. We reached a compromise. Something that
would allow her to fulfill her promise, and yet would be quicker and
less painful than her original idea of running naked through the bar.
She would skateboard topless down the street.
So we waited for (nearly) everyone to clear out and for Junior to
close, not yet telling him of our evil plans. While she skated uphill a
few hundred feet for the launching pad, I led the birthday boy outside
and cued Sasha to rev her engine. It was glorious. And there were no
accidents. Except for maybe whatever happened in the pants of the poor
sap who lingered nearby.
Sex-A-Go-Go
Janeen walked to the club and felt
her heart rise up into her throat. There he was! Dick Dynamite—the lead
singer! He was beautiful without a shirt on, just as she had known he
would be. She began to salivate as he strummed the guitar in his lap,
and then her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse, and began
unbuttoning. It was as if they worked with a lust all their own!
Recently, a male musician friend of mine asked me why I bash male
musicians. I apologized to him, and all my other male musician friends
out there. It's a defense mechanism, I think, due to the fact that I
seem to be uncontrollably attracted to men with any musical talent.
And apparently this attraction even extends to karaoke. One
time—coulda been a few weeks ago—I heard this voice of an angel through
the smoke and din of a crowded bar. I looked over, and when I
discovered the voice belonged to the otherwise handsome face of a man
who had obviously met the fist of another man a few times, I was
undeterred. All I heard was sweet, sweet music…
Don't Push Me Around
Temptress Tip: Every woman knows
what she wants, but a temptress knows exactly how to get it. Be bold.
Be daring. Be a little naughty. When going after your guy, modesty is
never an option. Get his attention with a quick glance, but keep him
guessing with a long, long stare. When he goes for the bait, reel him
in like the catch that he is.
I'd seen this one guy at Borders for years. In fact, I'd been so
intrigued by him I could barely look him in the eye without running.
But over the years, I gradually—painfully—began making progress
towards… well, I didn't know what yet. The thought of "what" would send
shivers down my spine.
I would stare at him across the tables of best-selling paperbacks.
And he would inevitably catch me, smile, and I would blush and run away
to shelve my head between Webster's and Random House college
dictionaries.
Eventually, I mustered up the courage to talk to him. Of course, I
did this by waiting for him to get in line to pay for his stuff, then I
would race to the registers, knocking over whatever co-workers were in
my way so that I could—"Next in line, please?"—wait on him.
Oh, did I mention I was working at Borders? Not that it would've mattered, really.
Anyway—I think it was November—I finally initiated a conversation.
He was lovely and warm, and although I giggled and blushed, there was
no running. Then he suggested we continue talking outside. And so we
did, flirtingly smiling at each other, and exchanged phone numbers.
Hurray! Goal accomplished!
But then something happened. All that anticipation led to an
uncomfortable void. Suddenly, I wasn't into it anymore. My fantasy had
become real. And somehow, that was so disappointing.
Samantha Campos has just written her first pulp fiction cookbook entitled, Skillet of Desire. MTW
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