Full Moon Amok

I thinkI have a hang over from this week's moon, which would explain why I am listening to Madonna's latest single and have a not so subtle itch to dance my ass off. At the height of the moon's tumescence I engaged in some safely saucy behaviour (hey, what the hell is a matter with blogger, why can't I make a paragraph) Oh well, Proustian it is. Safely saucy. I replied to a Craig's list add, bolstered by several spicy slugs of zinfandel. I am experimenting you see, I am thinking that after two years of shrinking violethood, I should get back on the dating train before I reach my dottage and am too wrinkly and desiccated to give a flying fuck, let alone have one. I love trolling the ads on craig's list, it is deeply satisfying to know there are some truly depraved and demented souls out there. I could cackle from my armchair, and very smugly mock the idiots and the poorly pixellated pictures of borrowed cocks and fairly frightening pleas for some kind of company. That is until I went and joined the ranks of the demented and replied. Oh and such fun! I had an explicit bilingual exchange heaving with innuendo and fraught with bad grammar, mine in french, his, in english, via IM, with a purported 34 year old frenchman. Plus words I can do, I can contort verbs and modifiers to simulate my delight, and I'd like to think a have a budding talent for the piccaresque, in person I only stammer and blush and choke on my desire, or worse, I become a 3o engine runaway freight train, barreling towards the last depot, Abject Humilation. There under the full moon, brighter than the street lights, with the windows thrown open to warmth of the evening, while the nutcases were barking at the moon and shouting at parked cars, I was fanning a perfect flame. It is entirely possible that I was chatting with a basement troll proficient in French, the internets are a strange universe indeed, you've got to take it on faith and a shot of rock salt and veracity is amorphous. Because he's disappeared into broadband ether. But since, even when fortified by several slugs of spicy zinfandel, I have pretty accurate recall, and since I do internet research for a living, it didn't take long for me to piece together the clues he had dropped to track him down, it's likely that he is not a basement troll. I will do precisely nothing with that, I like sleuthing, and have not yet become a freaky stalker. Next week on Emma, craig's list amateur porn junkie and depraved stalker -- tune in! As to the photo he sent me of his purported manhood, sadly not google cached, smart cookie, that. I can neither confirm nor deny. But as B said the following day, after I had recounted my adventures in Instant Message Imaginary Non-Coitus, as we were on our way to hit balls in Marin, "everybody on the internet has a big dick."

look I can make paragraphs now!

yes, that's right, I am back on the courts. Tennis the Mennis, ankle braced and totally graceless, with a flagging forehand, only my backhand has survived these months. It's comforting to know I can still stick as many skritchy balls in the short shorts of my tennis skirt. My ass as chipmunk, source of endless good natured ribbing.

But I had such good dreams the other night, so technicolor solid, that I swear I reached out with my leg and my toes curled around an illusory heel that was blood warm and pulsed, and I awoke in the forgotten part of morning muddled in my sheets and reaching for a dream.

So when I am old and in my dottage, wizened and milky-eyed, cobwebbed in house slippers, am I going to be the oldest living craig's list lurker. A purported 34 year old blond, with tits out to there, cooing over my key board to some soft susceptible young thing with a huge dick (they all do on the internets, dontcha know)

I've been asleep for too long, and while I was sleeping they went and changed all the rules, I've got no bearings, everything is strangely coded and transgressively baroque. And so very fleeting.