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Message-ID: <50693asstr$1110719401@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} A Girl That Looks Quite like You {Gamera} (no sex)
Lines: 200
Date: Sun, 13 Mar 2005 08:10:01 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                            Disclaimer

Sir or Madam or Crap for Brains, whichever applies in your
case. This post consists of this disclaimer and a sex story
which follows. You shouldn't read the sex story. Sex
stories are bad things that will rot your mind and corrupt
your soul (quit laughing; I'm being serious here). Sex is a
wonderful thing that is meant to be between two people in
love (no, this is not satire). Like eating, sleeping,
drinking, and other bodily functions short of taking a nice
dump, it has been perverted into some soulless activity
that more often destroys happiness than creates it (and
quit laughing, damn it!).

I own all rights to this disclaimer AND the story.
Especially, I own those rights that involve making any
income (ie. money, $$$, cash, dough, and even Canadian
quarters), not that anyone would want to buy the story).
Would you like it if someone stole the fruit of your labour
and charged people to buy it or forced them to look at
advertising or close annoying pop-ups to see it?  Of course
you would, provided they gave you a check, too.  So, read
it, but don't sell it or in any way, shape, or form
republish it until the check has been cashed and spent at
the strip club. By the way, I own it because I made it up,
the story and the characters and everything else hereafter.
Praise, hugs, and snuggle bunnies to suzeeq and illion for
reading the drafts of this story.

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
turtlemeat69@hotmail.com

www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera/www
http://storiesonline.net


                 A Girl That Looks Quite like You
                                by
                          Kenny N Gamera

It is a warm and sunny place.  Or would be normally.  The
sky is clear if quite a bit black, which is due to the lack
of sun, which, in turn, is due to the night.  The stars
shine and the moon sits as a dark presence within them.

I sit on a beach of clean white sand, much of which found
its way into my shorts.  The sand also clings to the bottom
of the whiskey bottle that I held in my right hand.  Waves
crashes against the sand and ground the grains of shattered
shells together, making it much finer and rounder.

The sand lacks the quality of the sands of home.

I drink from the bottle.

I am alone.

There is also no one on the beach.  I sit in isolation with
the waves, the sand, the stars, and the new moon above.
Somewhere, a stereo plays old classic rock.  I hear it
between the charges that the waves made against the
shoreline.  On occasion a giggle mixes with the music.  It
rings musically.

I drink from the bottle.

I have grown accustomed to the starlight.  I can make out a
few features in the ink black of the ocean, mostly the foam
of the wave tops as they start to break against the bottom.
The almost line of the horizon beyond where sea meets sky
may be the last remains of my imagination.  The beach of
white sand stands out easily.

I drink from the bottle.

I am not by myself.

There is a girl there.  Young, as I should be young.  Too
tan for the amount of time that she could have spent here,
but that is not uncommon.  She wears her underwear, which
again is not uncommon, or maybe a swimsuit.  I can't tell.
I don't really care to tell.

She stares at me as I sit in the sand that crawls up my
shorts.  Looking back to the sea, I sigh and retreat into
the soundtrack of my mind, clinging to a few chords of
blues guitar and the black images in the dark back corner
of my mind, where unhappy things dwell.  I sit absorbed
into the mantra of the night waves.  I sink into the
nothingness...

"Hi."

I grunt without looking up.

"I'm Erin."

I grunt without looking up.

"Whachu doin'?"

I shrug without looking up.

"Whachu got there?"

I offer the bottle without looking up.

She took it.  I hear her cough as the liquid burns her
throat.  I had gotten used to it long ago.  It is cheap and
rotten and the perfect thing for what I want.  She gives
the bottle back.  I accept it.

I drink from the bottle.

The girl called Erin sits next to me.  I watch the waves as
they continue the basic process of mechanical weathering.
I was centered and hope the waves will bring me back.  She
watches me.  She hangs over me.  I sigh.

"Whachu doin' out here alone?  There's a party up there."

She points into the dunes.

I drink from the bottle.

"Wanna go?  To the party?  Up in the dunes?"

"I am alone."

"Yeah.  Come on up to the party.  There's a lot of people."

I turn to her.  She is cute more than she is pretty.  A
heart shaped face framed by curly, long brown hair and set
off with big brown eyes.  She smiles at me with a white
smile of slightly buckteeth.  I turn back to the waves.

I drink from the bottle.

"Won't help.  I am alone."

"There's people.  You're kinda cute, someone will--"

"I am alone."

"Okay."  I can hear her shrug.  Or I imagine I do.  "So,
whachu doin'?"

I watch the waves.  I try to hear the waves and blank out
the suddenly loud music in the dunes.  The laughter.  The
giggling.  I concentrate on the crash of the water against
the sand.

"Well?"

I sigh.  I turn to look at her.  I want the bottle.  I
want... I want a lot of things, but I all have to want
right now is the bottle.  I look into her eyes, and I want
the bottle badly.

"Feeling sorry for myself."

"Oh."  She waits.  "Why?"

"No one else will."

I don't know what I want.  No, I want the bottle; I want
the beach; I want the chunk of... not peace... but
something I had before.

"Oh."

I shrug.  Some things only happen once.

I drink from the bottle.

I sit in the sand.  She sits in the sand.  Waves crash.
Sand becomes rounder and finer.  She gets up and leaves.

I drink from the bottle.

Even her name was Erin.

Some thing should only happen once.  Some things shouldn't
happen at all.  Some fuckin' things...

I drink from the bottle.

It is empty.

I toss the bottle in the air.  I snatch it and take hold of
the neck.  It is like a German hand grenade.  I pull back
and cock my arm.  I fling it with all my might.

It flys weakly through the air.  It lands in a wave with a
splish.  It bobs a second as the breaking wave curls and
descends.  It bounces on the beach and flows back with the
wash.  Then the thin plastic bottle advances forward with
the next wave.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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