Tag Archives: fantasy

Hancho, Make This Real!

If you run a bakery, wouldn’t it make sense that your customers support you by buying pastries, breads, and other baked goods? If your answer is “no,” then I can’t help you. Not sure who can.

When it came to Bella and her romantic life, she expected Hancho to meet her partway. Not just by offering his gorgeous physique, but at the very least checking in on her.

Here’s a fantasy that often crossed her mind: she’s on her way home from work. Every passerby reeks like rotten eggs. Maybe she smells that way too.

The stairs up to her apartment feel like thirteen miles. She opens the door, and a woman Bella has never seen before has a massage table propped open in the living room.

“Bella, dear,” the woman says. “Hancho will be back any minute, but please hop in the bath.”

She locks fingers with Bella and leads her to the bathtub. The room is dimly lit with lavender-scented candles. Rose petals are tossed here and there. The bathwater is the perfect temperature.

The woman offers Bella a glass of champagne and tells her to take her time. When she’s done with her bath, she should wrap herself in this gorgeous pink robe.

Instrumental flute music plays in the background. Bella’s muscles ease. She almost falls asleep, but then remembers the massage.

She lifts herself out of the bath, dries off, and slips into that wildly soft pink robe. She shuffles to the massage table, lies down, and this time does fall asleep.

Each time she woke from this fantasy, she knew something had to be done. Either Hancho had to step it up, or she’d have to leave.

Above is a link. If you click it and buy that stunning robe, I’ll earn a teeny tiny profit.

Minimalist At War

If I were an architect, all homes would resemble a high school gymnasium. In my home, I’d remove the basketball hoops and the bleachers. Covering the windows would be a black-curtain that would close at 9:00 pm and then gently open as the sun rises.

There would be four pieces of furniture: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and desk. Everything would be made of wood to match the floor.

Homes in the Hudson Valley are not designed this way. They are rickety. A magnet for horders. They scream “Look at me! I’m unique”.

I pondered all this while vaccuming my bedroom carpeting. If you ever used one, or been around anyone has, you know those machines can be loud. They scare the shit out of domesticated animals.

Once finished I heard my phone vibrating. I’ll give you three guesses who it was…

The postman? No!

Architectual digest offering me a gig? Guess again.

Hulu wondering when I’ll resubscribe? You’re terrible at this game.

Doug! Good old Doug, huffing like he just summited Mount Everest. “Been trying to call you. Please get over here now. The Amazon guy needs help.”

The Amazon guy needs help! Oh my God! Stop everything. I raced over there like it was Doug’s last breath…yeah, right?

Once I finally got there, the Amazon guy, a young, relatively muscular man panted while resting his right arm against a box the size of an average walk-in closet. “This thing’s a monster,” he said.

“What it?” I asked.

“Massage chair,” Doug replied on the other side of the box.

Nothing against Amazon but you’d think they’d send at least two men to deliver such a thing. Between me and the Amazon guy it took us fifteen minutes to get the massage chair inside. No breaks taken.

Inside this monster box, we quickly discovered the chair was in pieces. Required assembly. There was no way I was gonna let an eight-two year old man do this all on his own.

The instructions were straightforward enough. About an hour later it was ready for use.

The massage chair looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Put an eight-two year old man in there vibrating so fast you can hardly see his face, you’d think it would de-age him.

Watching someone on a massage chair looses its appeal after twelve seconds. I nearly left but Doug insisted I give it a go.

While on the chair I amended the list of items that would go in my future-gymnasium style home: A bed, armoire, a set of chairs and a desk. All made of wood to match the floor.

Then, sitting of to the side, made of leather (maybe), meteorite (without a doubut), would be this massive massage chair. It would be vibrating non-stop as I would never want to get off it.

I sell my minimalist soul to the affiliate link embeded above somewhere.

The Oysters Attack? Doubt it!

Thursday at 3:30 a.m., my phone rang. Apparently, I’d forgotten to turn it off. Thought it was the alarm, but no—it was Doug.

“Get over,” he insisted, then hung up.

I nearly called him back with a “Fuck off, who are you to call me in the middle of the night?” but then remembered: Doug’s eighty-two. Something in his voice—panic mixed with acidity—alerted me that he was in desperate need.

I threw on my sweats, a torn pair of sneakers, and three minutes later stood at his front door. It was left slightly ajar. Through the crack, I called for him.

“In here,” he mumbled.

Never in all my visits had Doug’s house looked orderly. There was always some pile of crap here or a box that needed to be sifted through over there.

That night, I caught something from him—it seemed he’d invited an organizer over earlier in the day. I almost asked if he was selling the place, but once I found him hunched over the toilet, conversation was limited.

He wore a raincoat and was probably naked underneath, but I didn’t dare ask.

“They served these oysters at the opera and now I can’t get up,” Doug moaned.

He wouldn’t answer a thing about the opera—where it was, who he went with, how he got back, or why he was wearing such a fancy coat while hunched over the toilet.

“Tell me I’m gonna be alright,” was all he said to my inquiries.

I didn’t care to lie, so I said, “My hope? You’ll be fine.” Then I suggested a trip to the ER might be to his advantage.

“No, no,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Doug stood up, thanked me for coming, and escorted me out.

Here I am, a few days later, shuffling through my house like my knees had been glued shut. I want to cry but worry the aching that’ll come with any trembling. How I managed to compose this entry without reaching for a pain killer is beyond me.

If you dare to see the coat Doug wore, there’s an affiliate link in this post. Click it? Okay. Don’t click it? Also okay.