First, a shout out to Audrey X for correctly Googling, I mean answering the previous obscure movie reference "A Clockwork Orange." She even said it was "easy." "Vanity thy name is woman." The alluring Audrey will receive her bonus points plus five White Castle coupons honoring the return of GOT.

And now...The Adventure Continues

I'm Emma Gravel. You might know me from such Lush stories as, "I Found My Heart in San Francisco" and "Put on Your Easter Bonnet." For the uninitiated, I own a revival movie house in San Francisco. This weekend we're showing classic comedies: "It Happened One Night," Bringing Up Baby," and "Mac and  Me." However, I'm going away for the weekend and I know my two, dear movie aficionados, Vanessa and Shannon, are already conspiring the ole switcheroo and showing only the Sleepaway Camp sequels plus "Zombeavers."  

I was taking my current girlfriend, Katrina Waves, to ill-fated Seattle in an attempt to rekindle our meteoric romance and celebrate 420. It burned brightly (the romance, not the weed) for two entire weeks before crashing back to Earth, like The Walking Dead's ratings. Kat blamed it on my jealousy. But, hell, how did I know that decrepit woman was blind? I thought she was staring wistfully at Kat's ass and I was being chivalrous by threatening the old hag. The joke was on me when she floored me by swinging her white cane like Kevin Costner swung Wonderboy. I'm the victim here. She said this trip would be our cocoon, us separated from the world. Of course, she would say that. She will emerge a beautiful butterfly and I'll be a gruesome moth with a cotton panty fetish.

We were nearing Seattle when I began exposition: Seattle was hit hard by the recent "Hipster Flu Epidemic," losing almost half its population but still vibrant unless you have the dreaded hipster gene. Oddly, the Flu didn't kill per se, but did lead the main hipster to leap to his death from the iconic Space Needle and soon his followers (aren't all hipsters basically followers, like lemmings?) followed him right off the edge. Even the omnipresent Seattle rain couldn't wash away the stench of death. Such a waste of skinny jeans, expensive oxfords, and vape pens. The flu also caused them to walk about like mindless zombies, which was their normal state so the condition went unnoticed for weeks. Ironically, it was Trump's wall that kept it from spreading to the ripe breeding ground of Portland.

Trump first surrounded the Emerald City with the huge wall because a single Mexican family was seen riding the Great Wheel in broad daylight. Not on his watch!  Instead, the doomed were now trapped inside like Clint Howard in a remedial acting class. Despite the tragedy, the tourist destinations were still available so I was optimistic about our weekend. I was fighting for our relationship. (Hopefully better than I fought against that feisty centenarian). We approached the wall near twilight. We would have been there earlier if I had only taken that left turn at Albuquerque. But, we still had the entire night ahead of us. Being Caucasians, had no trouble passing through the checkpoint and our night of revelry could begin. Our first stop was anywhere loud.

I heard live music coming from a seedy joint. A local band was playing a cover of Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane." I was home! But it was not to be, sadly. Katrina, my Dancing Queen, had her heart set on tripping the light fandango so we went next door to Mount Olympuss, a lez club.  (Yes, I'm pussy whipped, I admit it.) The club was overrun with lovely ladies dancing and making out,  but I was too preoccupied with my growling tummy to even throw my panties into the ring. We hadn't eaten since I fired up a blunt crossing the state line, so I moseyed up to the bar and asked my lover what she would like to snack on.

First, she looked at the clock and then said, "Nothing for me.  I don't eat after seven."

"What are you, a fucking gremlin?" (Later, I discovered she didn't eat later so her food could digest by bedtime. Besides, were she an actual gremlin I couldn't get her wet and 50% of my weekend was shot.) After looking around, I grabbed the garlic fries and asked, "Where to, Miss?"

She whispered in return, "To the stars." I could still cling to relationship hopes like Bernie Sanders clinging to his Presidential aspirations. Those minute hopes were rapidly dashed, however,  when she looked into my red eyes and uttered two words that pierced my soul, "Let's dance."

"I'll give it a try," I said shamefully. I am the only dancer alive who Elaine Benes feels genuinely superior to, but at least the DJ played "Love Shack," a jaunty tune that makes even me happy. 

"NO, try not. Do or do not... there is no try,"  she informed. (Damn, give this bitch two drinks and she turns into Yoda.) With this sudden turn, I expected to see Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan saunter in because it could be a long night. However, after finally getting a slow song we could dance to, she seemed to have forgotten, or forgiven, my numerous shortcomings (I once watched little people porn with that exact name.) She leaned and whispered, "When we get to the room, I'm gonna fuck you to death!" ("Death where is thy sting?") Immediately calling for our check, we ran to the nearest hotel for the long-awaited sex scene.... thank you for being patient.

Once the door closed, I began celebrating 420 again, disrobed my tall lover and eased her onto the water bed, (am I classy, or what?) popped some Dramamine and jumped into the fray as we kissed like newlyweds. I deftly parted her toned gams and began licking every inch of her inner thigh. The heat emanating from her pussy was so intense I had to apply SPF-50 sunscreen. Maneuvering my way between the tastiest legs outside of KFC,  my stiff tongue found her engorged clitoris  (dispelling the myth the clit is only an urban legend, as most men believe). Kneeling before mecca, I began chanting and licking like a cat with a Tender Vittles addiction. I knew I was effective when my sophisticated, professional woman began spewing words like, "eat out my cunt!" What did she think I was doing, searching for my lost water pipe?

Parting her outer lips carefully, like a heart surgeon examining the aorta, I quickly speared my fluttering tongue inside and began lapping like Jeff Gordon at Talladega. My neck was cramping so I switched to plan B, which entailed the always risky scissoring maneuver. It isn't my strong suit since it requires coordination. But, Katrina was worth a potentially torn hammy. (that thought made me crave "Moon over my hammy" from Denny's...stay focused, dammit, Emma!)  As our pussies kissed like Romeo and Juliet on prom night, our juices flowed freely, like au jus sauce over a French Dip. I was tingling but ALMOST as important, I was in love. 

Holding her left leg at a 90-degree angle, my nails raked down her soft skin, leaving thin, red trails. Then contorting myself to the sound of creaking joints, I twisted her foot like Hulk Hogan and began sucking on her toes, oblivious to her howls of agony.... it's pleasure AND pain, floozie! With our hips thrusting in the rhythm of lust, I suddenly felt my boobs and incredibly beautiful face sprayed as if by a firehose. I didn't know she was a squirter nor did I know her four-inch red heels could puncture a water bed. I choose to believe it was a combination of the two. I also hadn't ruled out a weak bladder.

Undeterred, I needed her release as well as some oxygen so I plowed away, looking into her eyes and her jiggling almost B cup boobs (I grade leniently). Leaning into my girl, we were once again lost in our cocoon, making love unabashedly, vigorously. This would be toe-curling. We timed our mutual climaxes with the precision of synchronized Olympic swimmers. The bellboy, who still awaiting his tip, even gave us a perfect ten. Although he did deduct a point when I began sobbing ... cathartic, happy tears. After giving him a generous fifty-cent tip, Katrina and I kissed goodnight, snuggled desperately and slept the sleep of the satiated. I even dreamed I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen.

After waking and baking, I led us to Pike's Market, a tourist haven where they throw fresh fish like malodorous Frisbees. Naturally, the fish smell was strong ( Don't look at us, jerk!  We showered. We're Zestfully clean.) The last time there I was checking on fan mail from some flounder and was accidentally beaned by a tossed halibut, giving me a haddock ...sorry. But the salmon was fresh and delicious and we strolled hand-in-hand to the Seattle Museum of Pop Culture, my favorite place on Earth... surprise!

Inside, I was able to sit in Capt. James Tiberius Kirk's command chair and talk in quick, broken bursts of conversation. Not only that, Monty Python relics were plentiful... nudge, nudge and a large Jimi Hendrix display (a Seattle native) made me want to "kiss the sky!" We even lounged at the display of Japanese kaiju, where Kat screamed, "Look, it's Godzilla!" causing hundreds of Asian tourists to flee, screaming into the mist. Now if we could only avoid Mothra. After seven hours at the Museum, we decided on a Seattle hot dog, much to my favorite nutritionist's displeasure. Their hot dog comes smothered in cream cheese and is so much better than it sounds. After smoking primo Washington state herb, that dog is practically orgasmic, which is why I order two. For dessert, we hit Moon's for homemade ice cream, but before finishing my third dip, the sirens sounded, warning hipsters had been spotted nearby. It's a common occurrence so I didn't panic.  

Instead, we skipped to the gorgeous Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum, since she has an art background. It's a majestic place with huge multi-colored glass blown by this Chihuly character. It's beautiful, but would it kill them to sell a bong or two? As we exited, the double blare of sirens greeted us, meaning imminent danger, a definite rarity. The hipsters who survived the first wave of Flu had mutated into "Goofballs," who feed on riboflavin, but a bite could still be fatal or cause a nasty rash. Suddenly, we all froze  hearing three chilling words (No, not "there's Courtney Love?")

The words?... "who's that goofball?" spoken by an elderly extra. We turned as one and were relieved to see, not a menacing hipster, but instead, a male member of Heart, begging for spare change on a street corner. Our gaze was interrupted by a large, frightened crowd running at us. My first thought was, "Krispy Kreme's HOT sign must be on!" I was wrong. Instead, the unruly mob was fleeing two Goofballs, looking straight out of the Thriller video. ... back in the day when there were music video's (Now, merely a relic of the past like pay phones and newspapers.) They were moving slowly so I sat on the curb and ate creamy fudge from Fran's, losing all track of time until I heard a recognizable scream. It was Kat!

Leaping to my feet, wiping my mouth and finishing my delicious Fiji water, I strolled in her general direction before seeing the infected ghoul in pursuit. Yelling, "Here I come to save the day!" I ran into a leather store, grabbed a 10' bullwhip, a fedora and a double pack of Ding Dong's and began my rescue mission. Running through the gawking crowd, knocking bystanders flying like bowling pins (until coming across a 7-10 split that slowed progress immeasurably), cracking my whip like Indy at a BDSM gathering, I inadvertently struck Katrina across her delightful buttocks.

She yelped (without a good review, mind you) turned and glared, "I'm telling you for the last time I AM NOT into that!" Before I could strike again, the Goofball clutched her shoulders and bit down hard, causing screams of agony to resound in the damp night air. I fell to my knees, looked up into the rain and screamed, "Noooooooo!" Then, after polishing off a box of Little Debbie cakes, I ran toward my fallen angel.

She lay there, her breathing shallow, skin ashen, mouth contorted in a Dr.Phibes snarl. I felt lost, empty and scared, screaming to no one in particular, "Game over, man! Game over!" From the crowd, emerged a man wearing a lab coat and latex gloves, the spitting image of Bunsen Honeydew. He approached tentatively as the Goofball  fled the scene, laid a hand on my sagging shoulder and said in a lovely southern drawl, "Don't give up hope yet, little lezbo."

I looked into his eyes, asked if he had a Milky Way, then, "Are you a doctor?"

"No, little muff diver, I'm Beauregard Hamhock... (mmmmmm hamhock.) I run a mobile enema service called, 'Tear you a New A-hole.' Business has been kinda slow since our latest name change, but back to your problems, little carpet muncher. All you have to do is suck the hipster toxins out of her, and she's good as new. She might need an enema, but I can bill you for that later."

"I have to suck toxins from  that ghastly thing?"

He continued, "I wouldn't call her ghastly. She's quite attractive, actually, for a pussy gobbler."

I saw red! "Listen, you homophobic quack, I meant suck toxins from her wound?"

His response, "Oh that. No for the purpose of plot development, you can suck it from any orifice (cue dramatic music).

That was, finally, all I needed to know. Throwing my slender lover over my shoulder like Richard Kiel in "Eegah," I carried her back to our room with Hamhock following closely, enema bag in hand. It was vital I didn't bend over quickly because I had yet to see any lube. Along the way, he told me it was imperative I restrained her to simplify my mercy mission. I was already way ahead of him on that front.

At the room, I quickly tipped the pizza delivery boy and began the matter at hand. Lying Kat on her back and stripping her in near-record time, leaping over her, restraining wrists and legs to the bed like it was a rodeo event, all without setting down the steaming slice. For privacy, I threw the sheet over her, then crawled under it like a miner sniffing for fresh air... and I was sniffing! Reaching her treasure trove and putting on a bib, I put my classically trained mouth to work, humming Bach's third Symphony for Tongue and Lips. Hamhock's voice drew nearer, warning me to not be overzealous or I might contract her ailment.

But I didn't care. With all she had done for me, there was no sacrifice I wouldn't make. I was thankful, especially for the kegel tongue exercises she gave me for my birthday. Now, I can lift a ten-pound weight by curling my tongue which also led to lengthening it to Gene Simmons' proportions. (I'm now incredibly popular in certain circles.) I dove in with great crowd support and began sucking mightily, like she was a Wendy's Frosty and I was the straw. Her moans were my first signs of recovery. Just to be certain I continued for another forty minutes, or as long as it took Hamhock to return with my Frosty. I also had to surface for air, but the crisis had passed. 

We kissed passionately and her near-death experience had given us a life together.  As she gained consciousness, she asked, "Where are we?"

Being in the Emerald City I had no choice. "I've got a feeling we aren't in Kansas anymore." (Although she did have a chest comparable to the Kansas flatlands.)

(Today's bonus points question is.. "Where to, miss?...the stars.) I really wanted it to to be "I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen" But decided it was too easy. I love the late, great Warren Zevon! And real life Katrina, as always I immediately retract any unkind statements uttered about you. I must have been hacked..again