Brank

Getting There The scenery outside the airplane window was empty desert, punctuated with the equally desolate mountain ranges. The small twin-engine plane was a four seater, with the pilot in front and Darla in the back. After leaving the civil airport in Ontario, outside Los Angeles, she was able to track their progress eastward until they reached the Mojave Desert. At that point she was lost. The landscape below them was a featureless expanse of rock, gravel and sagebrush. There were no roads, either paved or dirt, to indicate anyone had ever been down there. Their destination was definitely off the beaten track, though it made sense since Mr. G’s establishment required isolation in order to exist. ...

The acronym IM is familiar to just about everyone, but to me, it’s my Inner Masochist, who suddenly introduced herself with a vengeance while I was dragging myself through puberty and hit on the brilliant idea of using Nair on my virgin pubic area. No fourteen-year-old ever reads instructions, so picture me bent over in agony, clasping my burning crotch and bawling while my sister beat her fists on the floor in a laughing fit. Fortunately, someone knew about EMLA Cream, which helped put out the fire, but after the initial sting was over I found the pain strangely addictive, like Arthur Denton, the patient and victim of the evil Orin Scrivello, DDS in Little Shop of Horrors. So there, I’ll admit it, I’m wired a little differently from most people. Later, there was an incident involving the infamous Trinidad Moruga Scorpion Chili Pepper Purée, which somehow came into contact with my nipples during a truth or dare session at a sleepover. I suspect that cheap malt liquor, the teen beverage of choice at the time, may have had something to do with it. ...