My sink was fucked up. No hot water. And while Steve Forceman, P.I. is about as masculine as you can get without exploding into a volcano of semen, testosterone n' beer, he's not, strangely, very mechanically inclined. Well--maybe about some stuff, but not so much plumbing. (Ha ha! "Plumbing.")
So, like, I put in a call to the building management office, & yonder rides Titus, our building super. Titus is a gentlemen of Eastern European extraction--judging by his accent (and Steve Forceman's limited ability to identify it). (Or maybe he's Roman--I mean, dig that name.) A distinguished figure is he, with salt n' pepper hair, a spiffy white shirt (complete with his emblazoned name) that is never less than dazzling--like, if you look at it, you will see nought but prismatic spots for several minutes--dark, ruddy type complexion and soulful brown eyes. I'd fuck him in a NY minute. Fuck that. I'd fuck him in a NY second. Fuck that. I'd fuck him in a NY nanosecond. Fuck that... well, you get the idea.
Anyway, I get the sense that Titus doesn't like me. There's a sourness that creeps into his demeanor when he's dealing with me. And no, I'm not making this up. Nor am I paranoid. I've seen him with others, and he seems, like, substantially more congenial. My intuition is that he dislikes me because I keep odd hours. (And as ol' Steve Forceman is a P.I. who must live and die by his wits, you better believe his powers of intuition are a little more than formidable.)
I think that he thinks that that means I'm some sort of unemployed slacker sort of fellow, and that's flat out horseshit, as I work harder than whatsisface cleaning the Aegean stables. (What the hell was that guy's name anyway? And why do I have an easier time remembering the name of the Aegean stables? Hmmm...)
So he comes to my place and dismantles the whole sink, while I'm trying to type up some really riveting stuff about Hawaii that can be posted at my blog, and he just totally ruined the mood. Who'd've thought of it? TItus? Ruin the mood? I told ya already, that guy is nothing but pure eros.
But still, so he ruined the mood, and then had the audacity to bitch at me for washing coffee grounds down my garbage disposal. I mean, what the fuck's a garbage disposal for, anyway? Last time I checked, it was for the disposal of garbage. I think.
He really pissed me off, Titus.
Titus.
Titus licks his mother's pussy. Titus ricks his brother's kussy. Titus likes men in little leather panties. He likes to fondle their packages and bathe in his own sperm. Titus will eat a flower right off the end of yr. dick. And for today, at least, Titus is controlling my life.
Titus reeks of goat milk. Titus peeks at rote kilts. Titus Titus Titus. Tight ass tight ass tight ass. Titus, don't smite us! (Or bite us, for that matter.) Titus, light us a ciggy wiggy. Titus might as well go back to Serbia (or whatever fine nation he hales from). Titus should write book blurbies.
I bet Titus eats cat feces. I bet Titus bleats bat pieces. He fucks 'em and sucks 'em for fun and for sport. He chucks them and mucks them, Oh! how he cavorts!
Titus is an ancient Greek philosopher, greater than Plato or Aristotle, but this is not known, because all of his works were lost in a fire at Halicarnassus ca. 300 B.C. That's when he's not being a handyman, obviously.
Titus lurks amongst cats tails and mud, at the edge of the marsh and pond. Clutching dirt thing, Titus waits.
Titus has a head cold. And syphilis.
Titus wants to love you down. (Even if it takes all night.) Titus gwines ter shove you down. Ooohh you make him feel so tight. Titus pukes up miles of back road. Titus inhales an entire tank of oxygen in one gasp. Then he lights a cigarette and explodes. Then he eats an orange sherbet push up in the backyard of the house where I was born. Titus feels nothing but scorn. Titus has bad corns.
So you understand my dilemma.
More about Hawaii soon...
