Saturday, July 5, 2008


The hostel shared the back parking lot with a tiny, converted garage that housed a recording studio.  While the drummer’s beat pounded awkwardly out of tempo through the open window, the band’s bass player made time with the chunky Brit on the hostel’s porch.  She rested her copy of “The Fountainhead” on the pillowy, purpleness of her tight, spaghetti strap top while the bass player bragged about how different his band was from the gay drumbeat his drummer was slamming.  The Brit didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter.  She wanted a part of the band.  This is the reason she came to America in the first place.  To grab hold of as much dick as she could in her short, two month stint.  The bass player would be her first.  If she could get beyond him, she knew she’d be able to give it up to anybody, even the off-tempo drummer.



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