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In This Issue

• loving miss maple
• iTouch [Myself]
• Babies Compete for Brangelina's Affection
• Toshing It Around with Daniel Tosh
• CCSC Proposes Species-Neutral Housing
• "Frozen" Director Warms Up to The Fed
• The Belgian Corner
• Extension Emails: What I Wrote vs. What It Meant
• Ergonomic Sex Tips for the Female Engineer
• the morning after
• hipster in cc
• They Watch
• Letter From the Feditors
• The Staff of the Federalist

The first time I saw her, she was sitting on the shelf, her motionless form shrouded by a cloud of dust. The room was crowded and dimly lit. To the undiscerning eye, the whole lot of them might look like flat and lifeless objects. But to me, at that moment, she stood out. As I parted the fog away, our eyes met. Above all others, she had a youthful energy that belied her age. There was a radiant glow insider of her, just yearning to escape. All she needed was a nice polish.

***

We sneak into the shop and lock the doors. We fumble around in the darkness, the red glow of the exit sign our sole source of light, my lanky profile next to her long graceful form. We roll down to the floor. It is covered with sawdust. My fingers run up and down as I glide along the contours of her lines. The texture of her skin alone has me aroused, and I’m nearly overcome with excitement when her sinewy body presses against my bulging cock. I desperately want to screw her.

I pull out my box of screws—I always keep 100 in my pocket. Then I whip out my tool. It’s big and black. I’m so turned on. I can’t help but show it off to her—the beastly roar of a fully charged DeWalt 18V Variable Speed Reversible Drill echoes off the walls.

I place her up on the table, rotate her to her good side. She has a quilted surface on her back that is a beauty to behold. I forgo the pilot hole. She likes things rough. I set everything in its place, when I realize this is the first time she has been penetrated. She blushes in that red light.

The motor gently whirs as I keep a light touch on the trigger. I slowly enter. I smell a wisp of our energy of friction. As I go deeper, I reach resistance. I press down on the trigger. The screw slowly rotates. As I press further down, she yells out a delightful squeal. It is a sonorous melody. The resistance dissipates, and I can now drive into her long and fast. Forward! Reverse! Forward! Reverse! I pause to change up the bits. She loves it when I go metric. My being is channeled into the spurts of power coming from the electric vision of my mind. I whisper into her knots, “je t’aime, ma chérie”. I turn her over and enter her from behind; the fit is even tighter, but the sensation is exhilarating. I drill only for a minute before I knock over a bag of nails; I’ve made a mess.

***

On rare occasions, we use latex paint. It is a complicated and messy production. Gallons and gallons, not to mention primer and paint thinner. But we really get into it. Sometimes, I’d splash buckets onto her face. The latex paint just drips everywhere, the delicate nudge of gravity leaves monochromatic dew in every crevice. I pinch the elongated drops protruding from her body and feel her wetness between my fingers. Her entire form screams to me: I can’t take it any more, take me now. I comply.

***

Nail guns. Stains and varnish. Dremels. Hammers. Every moment opened up a new set of sexual awakenings within us. Cleaning up after painting ourselves silly was pain and pleasure—we inflicted our charged bodies with sandpaper until we were both dry and bleeding. We never reached the nuts and bolts group—they were just too intimidating. More for me than for her.

I still dream of Maple—in the dream, she’s with her sisters in a forest. They stand stoically in the night as the the midnight blues their forms - and in between them, you can see the stars. It’s a dream of a fool, but go ahead and call me a fool—heaven had sent me my fortune. Anytime I open a wood door, I need to resist the urge to fondle myself. What I have left is my memories of what once was. The sawdust in my mouth. The splinters. The pegging. Well, maybe not the pegging.

***

“I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest,
Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.”
— Joyce Kilmer