Hott Lixx: The Last Post, Part One

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Jojo in ‘88Well, since next week is gonna be the final installment of Hott Lixx, and therefore I'll be jobless again in 8 days' time, a couple days ago I took a little initiative and hit the streets of East Colfax to do a little sprucin' up. A little pre-emptive pre-winter spring cleaning for any forthcoming job interviews. Naturally this entailed a little trip to the coiffeur.

Now, as many of you well know, I'm losing my hair. Follicle by precious follicle it decamps my pate with alarming frequency, leaving a flaking, age-bespotted firmament of scalp in its wake. But until this most recent trip to Fantastic Sam's, I guess I hadn't noticed quite how far my hair-star had fallen.

 

I strode in, did a quarter-spin on the heels of my Crocs to do my trademark jacket-drop onto a waiting lawn chair, and approached the receptionist with a fractious wink of my good eye. As I did so, I covertly unsheathed my wallet and extracted my trusty AARP card.

"Welcome to Fantastic Sam's, we hope you're having a Sam-tastic day, sir. How can I help you?" the siren wailed effusively.

"Spare me your sales pitch, woman. I am here for my bimonthly tryst with Julio's golden scissors." I retorted, pertly but with a gentle timbre that reinforced the receptionist's cautious yet palpable sexual interest.

"Um, I'll go see if he can take you. You can wait over there," the receptionist replied, pointing to the lawn chairs by the door, her procreative impulses welling up 'neath control-top stockings. She rose from her chair and turned to enter the stylists' area, a flash of buttock filling my good eye and engendering visions of innumerable putti encircling the two of us, watching us partake greedily in the other's ample flesh atop a roughly 20 foot diameter bed of roses surrounded by a moat of fine sparkling white wine spritzers.

I sat down, my head still swirling with images that even the Marquis de Sade himself would find objectionable.

Minutes passed. I fought to restrain my baser urges and stave off an inconvenient tumescence. I thought of winter in Denver, snow on E. Colfax -- when the fading beauty of autumn makes way for the unforgiving, autocratic winter months. That feeling I know so well, walking against the wind between the Exxon station and the gay bookshop as the sleet smacks across your face and burrows into your acne scars like a million BBs fired by a million punk-ass kids. I thought of the sleet and snow, I thought of that time I got busted cruisin' for sin down in Cheesman Park, I thought of the time the Man Ranch was denied a spot at the Cherry Creek mall because of "age restrictions." I thought of these things, and my prior titillation passed. I felt a wave of relief envelop me like a tsunami of hot sex as the receptionist returned to her post. Sitting down and grasping her cellular telephone, she called out to yours truly.

"Mister, you can go back now," she rejoined, her voice quivering with affection and white-hot passion.

"You got it," I popped back, slowly standing up and allowing enough time for my knees to pop before endeavoring on another quarter-spin and grabbing my jacket, which I duly tossed over my left shoulder as I approached the stylists' sector. I looked at the receptionist as I slowly passed.

"What's your name, darling?" I dared ask.

She looked down at her game of Solitare. "Marleeque," she responded meekly, no doubt awed by my audacity, honed by decades of sexual acrobatics.

"You be good now, Marleeque," I said, winking, although I don't think she saw it.

I approached Julio, my barber. He stood in waiting behind his barber's chair. Julio's foreign, but hell, so is Weetabix, and without Weetabix I ain't regular -- likewise, without Julio, my hair's not gonna cut itself.

Jojo in ‘08"You wanna hair washing?" Julio asked, which I declined with a firm sweep of the hand. I am not falling for that scam again. I sat down, handing Julio my jacket, which he then hung on a small plastic hook beside his mirror. Julio swaddled me in a polyester shawl and sprayed the entirety of my head with water from a little squirt bottle stamped with a fluorescent pink-and-purple lightning bolt, then motioned as if to brush my hair with a tiny black comb, which he extracted from his trusty glass container of Barbicide.

"Uh, Mister, you no hair!" Julio exclaimed, his accent softening the blow of these potentially life-destroying words.

"What?" I asked, my eyebrows arching sexually upward.

Julio turned me to a three-quarter profile in the mirror so I could bespy what the ravages of time what wrought upon my scalp. Sure enough, there was barely enough on the top quarter to qualify as a hairdo at all. A thick horseshoe of ringlets circumnavigated my head, framing a shiny tonsure of tender epidermis. I gasped.

"I had no idea it'd gotten so bad," I lamented, as Julio patted my back firmly but sympathetically. I thought my gentleman cut, also known as a "combover" in layman's terms, was doing the trick, but fine wine, beautiful women, and good times at the Gapin' Crevasse down on E. Colfax had outdone any cosmetic adjustments I could think of. I thought, long and hard. The room was silent, kind of like the inside of a peep show booth right after you've run out of quarters and it's quittin' time for the ladies.

"Julio?" I croaked.

"Yes, Mister?" he replied.

"Take it off. All of it." I declared, a tear welling up in my bad eye. "Take it off."

"Si, Mister," he responded, putting away his scissors and comb and retrieving a pair of clippers.

As he flipped on his clippers and its metal fangs of wrath sprang to life, ravenous for my remaining coif, I felt an electric shock of despondency. As the clipper did its heartless bidding, my once-majestic curls fell lifelessly to the floor like a floozie's undergarments in the back room of a cheap discotheque. As Julio finished up, I shed an invisible heart-tear of melancholy as I set eyes upon my new image. There in front of me sat an aging, bald man, still with a glimmer of rebellious sexuality beneath his rugged visage, but missing a certain detail, like a blue movie without a pop shot.

And with that, I stood, rubbing my glossy cranium and handing Julio a $5 bill. I shook his hand, grabbed my jacket, and made my exit. Slipping on my Blublockers, I passed the receptionist. I nodded at her, still humiliated, but trying to retain my dignity. She swiveled her chair towards me.

"Looking good, Mister" she said, biting her lip in a suggestively passionate manner. I felt sex swell up in my thorax as I pushed open the door and slid my Blublockers down to the tip of my nose. Backing out of the door, I gave her a sly grin and pointed at her with my left index finger, thumb pointed straight up in the air.

"I'll catch you later, Momma-Cita," I announced, my self-confidence growing like a puddle of bum's piss after a long night out. Sliding my specs back up to the bridge of my nose, I rubbed my bald head and walked towards the bus stop. Even sans coif I could still slay 'em, baby. SUCCESS!

 

Marcus “Jojo” Timmins is the lead guitarist of the Denver Metro Area metal band Hidden Valley Man Ranch 2, formerly known as Hidden Valley Man Ranch. “The Ranch” is available for birthday parties, cocktail parties, bat mitzvah’s, and high school dances.

6 Comments

  • 1

    There is nothing more erotic than an old man's bald head. Check out my site www.jizzonmybaldhead.com

  • 2

    Santa Caballa! que tipo de sitio web es un verdadero Culo Blaster! hacer la gente realmente quiere el pop de otras personas de la cabeza calva? ¿En serio? Wow!

    Esta entrada me pensando: ¿y si empiezo a perder mi pelo? Quiero decir, tengo una muy espeso afro, pero esto es después de todo Mexico, y el pueblo de robar nada. ¿Qué pasa si alguien roba mi cabello? El hombre oh hombre, yo sería tan enojado. Yo probablemente robar un banco y vaya a Bosley tout suite! No es broma!

    HoHo, realmente llevar hasta las duras preguntas en la vida. Me alegro de que tienes que atender a la mujer sexy Fantástico en Sam's. Estoy realmente tipo de celos. Mi esposa es tan grasa que apenas pueden bajarse de la cama, y todo lo que come es Frito y las patatas crudas. ¿Realmente son una inspiración, Sr Timmins.

  • 3

    The National Enquirer has published a new political "world exclusive":
    ...Sen. John McCain's wife, Cindy, is caught with another man!
    Not only that but multiple witnesses have caught the pair lip locking on several other occasions.
    "I couldn't believe I was watching Cindy McCain passionately kissing and hugging another man!"
    That's the stunned reaction of an eyewitness who says he watched in shock
    - and snapped photos - as the former presidential candidate's wife romantically kissed a long-haired man who resembles "a washed-up'80s rock musician."

    http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/11/12/inational-enquireri-cindy_n_143...

    Is this why Mr. Timmons is taking a break from his column? To make a cuckold of John McCain?
    How convenient this haircut seems in light of this shamefulness!

  • 4

    Whoa, whoa, whoa, J.F.'s ghost, while I have been known to give a little mouthsugar to women on the other side of menopause in my weaker moments, I most certainly have not met nor engaged in salacious weinertickle-adventures with the lady described in that article.

    But hey, I wouldn't turn it down...

  • 5

    Mr. Timmins, your mojo is magnificent. From the sleet in the acne scars to the Blueblocker glasses. I hope that even if you eventually stop writing for Stevesword, your exploits live on here and elsewhere.

  • 6

    I heard that after reading this article, Rob Halford himself now gets his dome trimmed by Julio. Cuz if it's good enough for JoJo, it's good enough for Judas Priest.

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