Street camping pick-up artist

 

I met a young Latina while I was doing a little street camping in LA. It helps to pick a nice corner and to have freshly laundered linens for making your blanket fort. I had no trouble convincing this dark haired beauty to join me for some quality sidewalk cuddling time under a starless black sky, tinged orange by sodium lamps and the mist from the sprinklers at the Carl's Jr. 

"Shouldn't we be getting out of here?" she suggested, as the mist from the sprinklers began to soak our makeshift linen domicile.

I had to concur. The sprinklers hadn't put a damper on things, though, as I'd managed to free her from a good portion of her clothing while we were camped out there in my street sheik's tent. We'd been making out, and I'd surreptitiously wrangled off her panties, gently finessing them on their trek from the top of the thighs, around the knees and down the calves to her ankles--such a long journey--liberating them, finally, without removing her black high heels. Those were staying on, I decided.

"You're right," I agreed. Our activities had exceeded the limitations of our not so private paradise.

I wrapped her up in one of the nicer blankets and escorted her back to the house that I was sharing with Hannelore Orrick and Carol Carter. We sneaked past the two matrons of the house, and I tucked her into one of the rooms to wait for me. Hannelore was in the shower, and Carol was washing some dishes. I was pretty sure I'd gotten my guest in unobserved, so I skipped the small talk and headed straight for the room.

"I'll just be going to bed now. I'm tired, so that's what I'll be doing," I stumbled on my words, making it obvious that I was up to something as I closed the door behind me. I could never get anything past those ladies.

I knew that my time was limited before my soiree would be ended by an unceremonious knock on the door and some harsh words from our chaperones. I was about to strip and resume our activities, but I realized that I had a bit of sticky residue on my fingers, some dried up soda that had attracted a layer of street grime, giving them the charred black appearance of a frostbitten hobo. This would not do.

Back out into the kitchen I went, hoping to avoid Carol. I just needed a squirt of two of dish soap, and I'd be back in the arms of my sidewalk sweetheart, who awaited me, naked except for a blanket and high heels. But as per dream protocols, of course, that was not destined to happen, and I got hung up in the kitchen washing dishes with Carol and making small talk until I eventually woke up.

----

The pain in my arm is less this morning, and the B cup seroma under my left armpit has only refilled to an A cup after Monday's aspiration. Maybe I've finally hit the plateau that my surgeon tried to convince me existed while I was in the height of my anxious misery last week. Next on my cancer to-do list is a PET scan and a consult with another oncologist regarding immunotherapy. My biopsy results revealed one lymph node with rare cancer cells present. 

I'm strangely not very emotionally invested in this whole process. I just want to get back to the relatively pain free existence that I'd previously taken for granted before submitting to this painful biopsy.