Posts Tagged ‘hoot island’
Guess it’s been a while,. huh.
You know, I totally meant to call. Really. But with one thing and another, and, well, you know…
Anyway, I’m back up and working on rebuilding the Island from scratch, more or less, so please bear with me while I figure this out. There’s gonna be a short period of messiness, I suspect, while I get everything back online.
But in the meantime, you can go read my short story collection “Giggling Into the Pillow” for free! It’s over at Smashwords, in several different formats for your portable reading pleasure. Not that I’d ever stop you from buying a print copy for yourself, of course…
Thanks for checking back, and I hope to hang around another 10 years.
Ahem. (tuning banjo, assuming proper good ol’ boy position)
Well, we got woke up at the rise of the sun
With a choreographed number, from everyone
All the happy nekkid people, from old to young
The Hoot Island birthday had begun.
They brought us downstairs and they stripped us bare
and they all oiled us up, with loving care.
And you know you haven’t lived until you share
a hundred thousand person love affair. Read the rest of this entry »
Hey, cool, glad you could make it! Great costumes! Don’t you get cold like that?
C’mon in, I’ll get you set up. Mind your step, the fog covers the floor and we’ve already discovered how dangerous that can be around here. Whatever you do, don’t walk around barefoot. I’ve got little latex booties for everyone and you can hose your feet off later if you want. Worth it for the effect, though.
Drinks are over at the bar, leave your keys in the bowl. Food is buffet-style over there. The orgy’s “come-as-you-are,” leave your proof of birth control and blood tests with Marcia, she’s the blonde over on the couch, the one dressed like Lady Godiva’s horse.
Try to keep a sense of style about you if you can, work it so that if you fuck someone your costumes match or at least conflict in an amusing way, like that couple over there dressed as Pat Robertson and the boy scout, or that group trying to make a star. Nice grouping, guys!
Lotta great costumes here tonight. The guy by the punch bowl? Naked guy on skates? That’s Billy, he came as a pull toy. Jennifer, the one with the black gloves and black shoes and interesting trim job, she came as the 5 of spades. There’s at least six or seven human condoms walking around, two sets of testicles, one guy came as Margaret Sanger, and one courageous woman came as a female ejaculation (with hidden hydraulics, careful around her). Oh, and Bernie by the stairs is a dick. What? No, I didn’t notice what his costume is, he’s just a dick. Not many ghosts, though, No spare sheets.
We’ve got lots of party games going on. Out by the pool they’re playing “Bobbing for Boobies.” They float, you see… You can’t use your hands and most of the girls don’t fancy the kind of jaw strength that can grab an apple, so it’s a game for masters. Well, as it happens Sharon is an apple girl, so she only counts as half points, but the rest of them you gotta be more careful.
Let’s see what’s in here… hey, what’s with the lights?
“So I reached out and took her ripe, taut buttock in my hand. Here, pass this around. Feel how full, how sweet it is.”
Just back out quietly. That was Dave, doing the body parts game. Ever been at a Halloween party where they turn the lights off and one guy tells a scary story while he passes around creepy stuff? Like talking about a witch’s eyes and passing around peeled grapes or something? Well, we don’t go in for scary stuff too much here.
In the next room they’re doing the same sort of thing but they’re passing around a flashlight. Under their faces? Not hardly…
For those of you who have always wanted to live a childhood fantasy, the back bedroom is three feet deep with candy. It’s by far the most requested romantic rendezvous room of the evening. There’s just something about the smell of it, the crinkling of the paper… If you’re interested you’ll need to sign up. You can tell who’s been in there already; I had a Butterfingers wrapper stuck to my ass for an hour before anyone told me. The bastards.
Out in the backyard they’re trick-or-treating. Yeah, the backyard. You go up to someone and go “trick or treat” and you get one or the other, usually right there on the spot. Be careful approaching groups, they might all chip in.
Upstairs we’ve got a haunted whore house set up, tours go through every half hour. Ghoulish ladies of the evening, in several sense of the term. You walk through spooky State Supreme Court hearings on sodomy laws, there’s a room decked out like your parents’ bedroom, and I still have nightmares thinking about the Hall of Impotence.
There’s a group experimenting in the kitchen. See, they started out making caramel apples, but they ran out of apples, so they’re making do. They stuff wraps nicely around so many things, you know? And it just gets gooier when it heats up, but then, so do I. Oh, safety note – do not insert candy corn anywhere you can’t shake it out of. We had an incident earlier. Amazing what you can do with a pumpkin scooper when you really have to.
Hmm? Oh, that’s the local witches’ group celebrating Samhain on the roof. Ordinarily this is a time when witches and pagans celebrate the final harvest time of the year, the halfway point between winter and spring, the final turn of the wheel of life, and they put themselves in harmony with the elements of the universe and seek to honor those who have gone before. Our group just fucks, mostly. The Hoot Island coven call themselves Waccans; they’re a bit goofier and more whimsical than your average pagan. Right now they’re raising a cone of power with three cases of aerosol whipped cream cans.
Just settle in and enjoy yourselves, I’ve got more guests to greet. Happy Halloween, everyone! Hey, you folks need another hand in the back bedroom? The candy man can!
Hoot Island is bouncing back from Hurricane Charley, which blew through here a week ago and caused us some minor grief and inconvenience, the most obvious being our lack of internet access. Fortunately we managed to hunker together and get through the rough, powerless days with perserverence, frontier spirit, and six barrels of wood-grain alcohol and a crate of strawberry dacquiri mix.
What follows is my diary of the days before and after the storm, not counting the entry missing from the night of the storm itself which I believe I swallowed while trying to burrow into the rosebed in abject terror. Accounts differ.
Day One: We Getting Some Rain?
Heard about the weather reports while flipping channels trying to find the Nude Olympics in time for the fencing bouts. Those guys are packing some serious weapons.
Seems there’s a little storm out in the tropics somewhere. No worries, they never come here. Make a note to pick up some more duct tape anyway, that always come in handy on Bondage Night.
Day Two: Everyone Knows It’s Windy
One of the Island Girls stopped me during my daily laps and asked about the storm, which is now offical and named “Charley.” I assure her that everyone I’ve ever known named Charley has indeed caused damage, but usually to himself and maybe the nearest television set, and that she shouldn’t worried. She smiled and laid back down, and I resumed lapping.
Day Three: I Am Nailed To The Hull
Okay, okay, it’s a damn hurricane. Everyone keeps freaking out and buying bleach and taping windows. Three of the cabana boys nailed plywood sheets to themselves. We’ll get some rain, no big deal. Geez. You’d think people were really scared about… 120 mph winds? Holy shit! Pull the girls in a circle!
Day Four: I’m Flippin’ My Switch, But Nothin’s Happening
Got through the storm okay, aside from the screaming. We lost the roof off the pool changing room, about half of those funky-shaped pillows, all of our perishable food, and our entire supply of bikini tops. The lack of bikini tops actually helped, as we had to eat the crate of whipped cream before the freezer got too hot, and we didn’t have enough plates or bowls and needed suitable surfaces for the cream. So far I’m not hating this hurricane.
Had some problems from people being blown in different yards, but that’s a matter for the displaced people and their significant other(s) to work out. Some of the cord-based people are complaining about their lack of vibration but they’re just going to have to deal. We have worse problems to deal with: there’s no Internet access. I bore up well for about an hour, but after that I was found drawing crude porn in the sand outside the racquetball parking lot and muttering about the poor bandwidth. I’m better now, I’ve almost stopped looking at my blank computer every five seconds. Wait, was that…? No, still out. Hey, is it…? Nope. Dammit.
Day Five: No Juice, No Service
Have discovered the problem with an island full of horny, hungry people. The simple survival request, “Do you have anything to eat?” invariably triggers a predictable response, which, while distracting, doesn’t help us in any meaningful long-term way. Noticed a number of power lines down. Asked around for anyone who has worked on poles before, got a surprising number of volunteers, some with their own leg straps and power tools.
We were forced to drain the wading pool, but I didn’t want the milk to go sour.
Found Trisha kneeling by the washing machine, sobbing. They’ve become very close these past few months, to the point where she’s almost worn one corner into a smooth curve, and the machine’s sudden cessation has sent her into a severe depression. Also she wants to wash some clothes.
Day Six: The Foraging Begins
No sign of when we’ll have power again, but we’re managing. Fortunately we had a large supply of chocolate and strawberries, and the edible underwear should last another week. We’ve called for protein donors to help out and the lines are around the block. God bless those selfless gentlemen! I had to stop a few of them from donating too many times in a 24-hour period, they were looking a little pale.
I’m proud of the folks here, they’ve managed to keep their spirits up and fuck each other silly despite the barbaric conditions. I’m not counting Ted and Margaret, who have been going at it steadily for about a week now and may not have noticed there was a hurricane. We’ll send a runner over tomorrow.
Day Seven: Making Do
Turns out that toilets flush just as readily with a tank full of champagne as they do with water, although the tingly sensation of sitting on a bowl full of bubbly has caused a great deal of unnecessary potty breaks.
Day Eight: I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Taste
Amazing what you can get used to. I would never have thought that I’d ever be interested in a woman who hadn’t bathed in a week, but, hey, people adapt. I get the idea that interest in oral sex has waned, thought.
Day Eight: Power!
Woke up to hear the happy cries of Trisha hitting the spin cycle. Things are back to normal, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then I coughed a few times and went to go shower before I tried that again.