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airJuice - 39 Rows
Column Type #Values Column Stats
id int(11) 39 Column Stats
chapter int(11) 39 Column Stats
title varchar(250) 39 Column Stats
story text 39 Column Stats

39 rows, page 8 of 10 (4/p)
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Export to Excel select * from airJuice order by story limit 28, 4 (Page 8: Row)
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12 The Automatic Secretary She had just been imported for me from Israel.
Without an invitation, just a chance meet.
Or meat, rather.

She was desperate.
I had known the Virginal Objectivist for seven years by then.
Not at all in the biblical sense just yet.
She was a close friend, and a friend of the new import.

The Objectivist threw a birthday party for me.
It felt mostly like one of those rare girl parties where
A Few Good Men are invited over.
In fact I don't remember any other man there.
Logic demands that if that were really the case
I would have remembered that.
And further, its my hormones that decide what
I get to remember and what not.
I know me at least that well.

But The Objectivist was slow,
and my invited advances on her during the party
translated into the three of us just going to sleep there,
dressed, after all the other bodies have left.
My hormones were too fast for this.

When I woke up, only the automatic secretary was there,
The Objectivist had gone to work,
leaving the two of us alone in her apartment.

I woke her up very slowly, gently,
almost hypnotizing her to continue sleeping.
But only slow enough for her to discover that
by the time she was fully awake,
she no longer had a clue where her clothes were left off.
But we didn't do it just yet.
My hormone driven logical brain told me even here
I had better wait for the rubbers to come off her brain.
It took not twenty four hours.
So we did, and did, and did, and did.
And I bought her an answering machine.
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11 The Web Gets Messy So me and the Jazz Guitar player were scouting for doos together.
K., still his wife, was scouting New York.
The Jazz Guitar player was Cupidly scouting the newspapers
for a flutist he later married,
while I was taking the lazy desperate route.
I wasn't that desperate, or at least that is what I was told
by my hormones.
Just targeting desperate do buddies.
Or bodies rather.
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8 The Doors Open That night with the Guitar still white with the base coat
at his place, I called Nitty up to wish her happy birthday.
We hadn't spoken since she was fifteen.

So hop over.

I lowered the phone just a bit, and asked him if he
would like to hop over to his sister's.
I don't think I was conscious of my wanting to know
her response to my query.
Obviously, I had no intention for him to come with.
Its just that my intentions were not clear to me.

Hey, she said, I am just passed eighteen and don't
need the guardian.
Come alone.
I was too young and too stupid to resist.

In her room, she turned on the red light
bulb she had colored
herself, and turned off all the other lights.

She went to the stereo and put on Light My Fire.
At least I think it was.
Could have been Riders in the Storm or L.A. woman
for that matter.
The Doors were not open enough in my
mind at the time to notice the difference.
Neither were my hormones.

As if that was not enough,
she started dancing to the faint red light in the dark.

I was sitting there on the couch, watching the show,
when she pulled the topological bra trick on me.

So on the Matcho side, I was having condescending
thoughts of how cool she probably thinks it is
to show me this old brown shoe trick,
which couldn't have possibly impressed me,
being a math student, and a fan
of topology since I was eight or so.

Luckily or not, my stupid Matcho ego was
helpless against the upper hand.

On the other side, all my hormones could be aware of,
is the fact that she is now bra-less,
and how close she is to the touch,
and how Matcho ego building this experience is,
given I had done, at least to my knowledge,
less then nothing to get there.

So I asked her to just sit down by my side
and relax so that we can talk.

And I did. I started doing the talk thing,
and her brain was frying.
In five minutes she totally collapsed and said:
Talk is tensing, will you just do something already.
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35 The Dead Man in Yossarian's tent The boxes arrived from The States some three weeks
after we came to Israel to live together.
Nitty was long since gone,
safely away in Thailand or something.
The boxes did not have to be opened,
and were neatly organized at the space
by the entrance to our - my now - apartment.

In a short while the random guests were beginning
to query why boxes are still unopened:

And that is?

Oh, that is just The Dead Man in Yossarian's tent.
Ignore it.

Nitty arrived back in Israel some six months
later for some more doos.
She had done Vipassana and was very hungry.

This time around it was very clean, at least on my end.

She used to come over on Wednesdays,
doing me till Tuesday non-stop,
then taking a week and change break
until the next round of doos.

Kruder and Dorfmeister were closely
monitoring the Sessions several times a day,
to make sure we don't stop the Sessions before they do.

After some six months,
by the time the K&D Sessions finished torturing us,
I was ready to teach Tantra to the Governor of Goa.
(I have never to date visited with the Indians.)
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