Nosferatunes
Installment Three
Copyright May, 2005 by John H. Baillie
Tell me one truly amazing thing
Phoebe Hush sits and stares attentively at the Mulroney Throttler, giving him the completely false impression that she is actually paying attention to what he is saying. In fact, she’s lazily thinking of a poem she’d like to imagine someone writing for her in a green field before a forest somewhere in the back of her mind.
“the day came
when my love for you
and only you
too enormous to ignore
drove my heart from out my door
and in winter I travelled
on my knees through the snow
to reach you with my lips;
and in springtime
I rose to my feet and ran
at the dream
of my arms soon surrounding you;
and in summer
turning the corner
my heart sang out to you
in your verdant glory
rising before me;
and in autumn
we lay together at last
soaring exultant
into the sunset
on the wings
of your eternal beauty
and my love … “
Phoebe dreams of an enormous autumn sun descending and filling the skies with a rosy effulgence, which suddenly resolves itself into the realization that the Throttler is staring at her silent, blushing, and exasperated.
“Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?”
Phoebe regards the Throttler critically. Push is coming to shove here. It had been evident to her a minute into the conversation this dork wasn’t going to do anything to truly impress her. As a result, she is having an increasingly difficult time concentrating on him enough to maintain the proper mystique back at him. She can feel a crisis building. Something needs to be done.
So Phoebe Hush says to the Mulroney Throttler “Tell me one truly amazing thing, and I’ll seriously consider possibly thinking about maybe going to bed with you tonight.”
The Throttler is elated! A golden opportunity! But his brain stalls, because he has absolutely no imagination; his primary personality traits being ego and testosterone. He hums, he haws, he knows he is beginning to look asinine.
Audrey Always, who has been lurking grinning nearby, can’t resist. She darts in, puts a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder and starts babbling excitedly to the stunned Throttler. “This is really true! I know it is! My Auntie Knuckle told me, and she said part of her thought he would have really liked to have been there to see it so that means it would have happened if the Church hadn’t interfered.
“There was this guy, a really muscular stud, who locked himself naked in a glass coffin and projected his astral body to the other side of the universe. He came back as the only absolute proof of good and evil. His body in the coffin had turned to gold but half of it was blackened and burnt away by some other-worldly, metal-consuming flame. If you don’t believe me, you can read about it on the Fortean Legion Network. Just don’t tell Hanley I said that. Hanley! Don’t you run away on me, little man, I’ve got something to show you!” She darts off after a suddenly panicked passing Info Pusher.
The Throttler stares after her, perplexed. Then he turns back to Phoebe, uncertain, still silent and at a loss what to say.
Phoebe frowns.
“So why can’t you do something like that for me?”
Psst. Pretend he’s not really there and just do your best to keep up
So after Phoebe Hush rushes off to try to drive the Mulroney Throttler to daring and unforeseen heights of new romance, Davis, Gully, and the Sneed are left alone on stage to carry on for the next set without a singer, which pisses them off, and a pissed off jazz player if he’s any good will always invoke the spirit of Miles Davis. And that’s what happens here.
This mean lookin’ black ghost of the greatest trumpet player who ever lived with the possible exception of Art Farmer suddenly appears on stage with his back to the audience, so only the players can see him of course. But everyone in the club hears him without realizing just what or who or how it is they’re hearing.
This is Miles’s personal curse, his own private hell, for having been a heroin junky and a pimp and miserable to his French girlfriend and an all around mean black son of a bitch while he was alive, although he mellowed some towards the end. But now he’s dead and he has to haunt white jazz halls whenever his spirit is invoked, which is practically every night. So he and the band cut into Monk’s “Round Midnight”, which Miles never has any trouble remembering how to play right now that he’s unseen, and the boys are very careful not to catch his eye even behind those shades he still wears, because they don’t want Miles any more pissed off with them than he already is. They just do their best to keep up.
But out in the audience, boB the Poet hears the trumpet clearly even though he can’t see anyone actually playing one. That doesn’t really disturb him, but what does twist his shorts is a sudden yearning to achieve an even higher level within his poetry, a more genuine aesthetic experience in his otherwise crapless attempts at writing. And he knows, he just knows, that if he cannot transcribe that unearthly sound of a ghostly yet immaculate trumpet into actual, concrete words, with meaning and beauty and their own music, his head will explode into a hundred million rapidly expanding sharp and itchy fragments. His pain is palpable.
Miles don’t give a shit.
Luckily, my training kicked in
Lou Moon tries Knuckle Biter’s joint in the notorious side room of Nosferatunes, after being hijacked there during the Audrey Always diversion.
Thinks:
Whoo, she’s right, the effect is immediate and intensely gratifying. She grabs the joint back and inhales even more deeply, the thin roll-your-own is rapidly disappearing. She hands it back to me, her eyes watering. I take another long, long drag, then she’s practically on top of me, yanking it greedily out of my fingers, dragging hard.
She puts what’s left directly in my mouth, says “I blow you,” and puts her mouth over the burning end and puffs hard, driving smoke into my system.
We can’t take having our faces so close to each other by this point. Somewhere the butt of the joint is discarded, and her mouth and body are locked on mine. We grope each other furiously, trying to penetrate and be penetrated right through our clothes, we can’t wait, straining and moaning with the effort –
then she clamps some small, barbed, metallic sucker onto the back of my neck just below my hairline and tries to pull me right out of me. But my training kicks in and I deflect her with a tremendous effort – only just, as a matter of fact – but now I know exactly who she is and what she’s after.
I hit her while she’s down and dazed from the feedback.
“Brain Drainer!” J’accuse!
The recognition is too much for her, she loses control, manifesting multiple personalities simultaneously, slapping, jerking back and forth too fast to follow, each slap and jerk bringing a new, screaming, agonized face to the surface in a silent frenzy. She can’t possibly deny what she is now.
Eventually, she settles down into the Asian female persona again, lying panting and wretched on the floor. She’s not talking anymore, now that I’ve caught her at it.
I twirl my chair around and sit on it backwards, facing her.
“Let’s see,” I begin. “What do we know about Brain Drainers, hmm? Not much. Except it’s rumoured they were created centuries ago by the Vatican, to go out into the world, mingling with select certain members of the general population, you know, normal human beings with normal relatively but not quite empty human minds, still capable of thinking for themselves until you got a hold of them. At which point you suck their personalities right out of them and into your own, and then you fill the gap left behind with whatever message your masters have ordered you to place there. The unassailability of the Church political hierarchy, to begin with. I don’t think anyone ever sent you out to actually bring God to the people. Not that you would have believed in Her, or Him, or Whatever … But you didn’t work for the Pope and the Bishops forever. No, other ‘interested parties’ found out about you, and began to kidnap, hijack, or otherwise enlist you to further their own causes.
“But as time passed and the technology improved, you guys became somewhat shall we say … redundant? Much more subtle methods of emptying people’s brains and replacing their personalities with the desired programming came into place. So you guys fell pretty much to the bottom of the mind-control scrapheap. So only the most desperate and cheapest of small time operators still make use of you. What does that say about whoever you might be working for tonight then? Since you would work for just about anyone …”
I lean over and really eyeball her. She stares back, defiant. Too bad things have gone so rangy. Gotta love those eyes.
“Or just about anything,” I finish solemnly. “From anywhere.”
This scene isn’t over yet.
The Karla maneuver
Despite his utter failure to rise to the challenge Phoebe Hush set him, she nevertheless once more fakes the impression that she is deeply into the Mulroney Throttler with an aching little sigh, leaning into him from the depths of her devious schtick, and he’s loving it, convinced again that women must adore him from every angle.
Funny, she thought. Hanley’s bullshit doesn’t stick to this guy like he’s coated in teflon. But I flicker my eyelashes and he’s certain he’s God’s gift to the female race. Have to remind him his attention should only be on me, not his own ego. I’ll give him the Karla maneuver, keep my head straight, face forward, and shift just my eyes to his beside me – wow, you can see him get hard. Works every time. Now to get him begging at my knees, shouldn’t be difficult –
But the Goth Moth flutters by at that moment. She lifts Phoebe right out of her chair and chatters threateningly at her. “Guy him crazy fuck-eyes no him alone hear right now murder you hot my date no queer you wiggle fanny cords sing sing chickee and strut off or Goth Moth slay little nocurver.”
The Throttler pulls Phoebe out of the big insect girl’s grasp and sets her back down on the ground. Goth Moth darts away again, giggling. Phoebe is thoroughly p-o’ed. Her eyeliner steams off in little clouds of coloured smoke.
“Sorry about that. I guess she sort of thinks I’m her property since I brought her here tonight, but you’re who I’m – “
“Oh, don’t kid yerself.” Phoebe’s been ruffled back to normal, she so hates being touched. “I always flirt my drinks out of the bozos in the crowd, why should I pay? See you again when the moon catches fire.”
She stalks off, back towards the stage.
“No! Wait – I thought we – “
“Hah! Don’t make me laugh. You didn’t think anything I didn’t put in your head.”
“What’re you – I thought we were going to – “
“Yeah, and after fourteen years I bet you really, really want to, too. Well, go get a net to catch your insect honey and maybe you can pin her down tonight. Although I wouldn’t advise it.”
The Throttler begins to fume. “You don’t understand the tension I’ve been living under – “
“Try being the star in a nightmare scene like this one, then talk to me about tension. I’ve got a set to do.”
The Throttler’s eyes start darting madly about and he looks bleakly and unnervingly at the people standing closest to him –
True and legitimate moments of triumph
So Lou Moon has figured out who and what Knuckle Biter really is. But with everything else that’s going on in this joint here tonight, what her motivation is being on the scene is the real mystery.
Knuckle Biter glares up at him from where she still lies, sprawled on the floor.
“I want to be working for myself. I just might be, you know. What value do you think your personality holds for anyone? Ha!”
Moon holds up the soul-sucker she put on his neck, grinning. “You still wanted it though, didn’t you babe? Weren’t taking any chances either. You knew you couldn’t take me with just your mouth, so you brought along this little suck-toy to make sure the job got done right, didn’t you?”
Tears fill Knuckle Biter’s eyes and she does like her name says. “You don’t know what it’s like – the bishops – the factory owners – the politicians – the … rest of them. The Masters. They don’t give a shit about the personalities or where they go afterwards – they just want the mindless husks living off their credit cards, following their gods, zombieing their jobs, watching their televisions, buying their shit, blanking out the truth, breeding with their drones – but the personalities!
“It’s people like me who end up with them stuck inside, constantly living out in our imaginations the choices they might have made, they would have made if the Brain Drainer Masters hadn’t put contracts out on them first. Do you know what it’s like to live with an army’s lifetimes’ worth of mistakes and petty little victories in your head? Do you know how rare it is in anyone’s life for there to be true and legitimate moments of triumph, when it all seems right – and how quickly those moments disappear, leaving just the memory and a yearning for that feeling to happen again eating away at your soul? Souls, in my case, hundreds, maybe thousands of souls!”
“Just how long do you suckers live, anyway?”
She bites her knuckles, doesn’t look at him. “Too long. Long enough to recognize that no one truly wants to act until the freedom to act is stolen from them forever. They never even knew they were alive in the first place … And then afterwards, all they want to do is drive you to do all the things they had always wanted to do but never did, until it was too late. Ha! When a Brain Drainer can never really do anything for herself … Except … perhaps, just one, final act …”
He stares at her. Shakes his head. “In the immortal words of Charles Henri Ford, ‘My turpentine tears would fill a drugstore.’ So what do you want from me? Sympathy?”
Her eyes light up like a vampire’s. She gets up, moves into his lap again, but he’s wary. “I want you, baby, I want you, just for myself. You’re different, you know. You got alien psyche deep in your dick.”
“And that’s where it’s staying.”
Moon stands up, drops her on the floor, walks away. Turns back. “You after Hanley too?”
Knuckle Biter shrugs. “Who isn’t?”
“Piss me off again, and I’m telling the Goth Moth on you.”
She shakes in fear at that thought, and pulls away. He stares at the table, where they smoked the aphro reefer. Now, what about that Audrey Always? Promising name.
He smiles, wafts out the curtain, and heads back for the bar.
The Goth Moth speaks
After Mordecai shot and killed Kirsten Brandi Marinara, the Goth Moth propped her oozing corpse up in a cobwebby corner and proceeded to have the longest conversation she had ever had with a human being, although it was rather one-sided.
“Lick lick, weely lick lick Dikdo butt Goth Moth no nirve to axe Dikdo guf-guf, blark blark! Weely, weely, weely yank him axe Goth Moth guf-guf zits gud Dikdo axe Goth Moth not Goth Moth axe Dikdo guf-guf, lick lick tight? Blark blark. Zo Goth Moth fuvver fuvver Dikdo axe Goth Moth guf-guf four Nosferatunes but Dikdo not axe Goth Moth butt Rooney Trotter axe! Squee-ee-ee!
“Zo, Goth Moth brain ya-hh! Go club Rooney Trotter zen Dikdo wa-ay yanker axe Goth Moth guf-guf fershure morto morto and morto! Sum awe! Oh! Look lock, axe lomation after lick lick oll Goth Moth mouth! Poink! Poink! Poink! Upper larious! Zo night night Goth Moth club kizzy-kizz zooperfeend buhdorable mit pritty ded Kirztin, morto Dikdo axe Goth Moth wayback Dikdo nest and Goth Moth make Dikdo fug-fug seven hunnerd pooks per mo zen after Goth Moth splunge tare Dikdo hed off and yum yum! Teehehehehehehehehehe! Goth Moth luv being gril. Blark blark!
“Buhdorable pot Kirztin stick, yum yum blood, Goth Moth lick lick wings leggies piercers, make personal screem Goth Moth all insect lick lick whooman single-single, look lock Goth Moth blark blark. Whomans all ways look lock Goth Moth Goth Moth killer look lock back, what problem buddy? Whomans zo rood.
“Gud mouth-mouth yew. Die-die zoon again again, right! Blark, blark.”
“Ooo – lite Goth Moth no tranz on yet – “
And she was gone.
Dreams of you dreaming of me dreaming of you dreaming of …
Adam and Lydia stare at Benny Dredful and Luna Damsel, who are still sitting at their table. The two observers can’t agree on anything, and are now angrily shouting at each other across their tablemates, who are stunned by this development. Public scenes of aggression. And they thought they were having trouble communicating. The watchers are doing anything but blending into the background all of a sudden. The result of too many tequilas, beers, and Shreck’s Caresses.
Adam and Lydia catch sight of each other’s shocked expressions. Now in retreat, they shift back five feet from anything that is happening around them. The rest of the bar grows dim, as if suddenly cross-hatched by thin black lines of non-light. All sound, the band playing, Benny and Luna arguing, the Goth Moth laughing, is suddenly hushed, except for the ghost of Miles Davis’s latest trumpet solo, still ringing out clear and true and undying. Adam and Lydia abruptly realize they are, for no apparent reason they can immediately perceive, aware that they are sitting at the same table in the same bar in the same nightmare. They stare at each other, somewhat more in shock. Lydia is the only person Adam can see clearly.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my dream?”
Lydia had to struggle to remember him when he first sat down, but she’s not going to let go of him now. “I used to be your lover thirty years ago, you moron. And what do you mean, your dream?”
“I’m dreaming that I’m lonely, so get out.”
“That’s the typical male logic that broke us up in the first place. I’m dreaming that maybe, perhaps, I’d still like to have a lover. It makes me very sad.”
“Typical female logic. You’re dreaming you want someone but if you find someone it ‘somehow’ won’t be good enough, just like before, so fulfilling your dream will leave you unhappy.”
“Well, if this is your dream, and you’re lonely, and you’re dreaming of me, then you must want me to make you not lonely then, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but if this is your dream and you’re dreaming of having a relationship again and you’re dreaming of me then I must be the one you want to re-establish a connection with, mustn’t I?”
Together: “Typical dream logic.”
Alone: “How do we sort this one out? Without going to war.”
One of those subjects better for everyone if they don’t come up
This isn’t the discussion that makes the women walk out on their men – this is the discussion that leads up to the discussion that makes the women walk out on their men. So it’s just as bad if not worse, therefore. But what do you expect in a bar full of killers, both male and female?
Everyone has had way too much to drink. Hence the men, especially, are exploring some increasingly vague private observations, even for a dream.
Lou Moon is standing on one side of the room, trying to make eye contact with Audrey Always. Audrey is on the other side of the room, pretending that she doesn’t know this but really does and is offended by the attention which she isn’t, while she tries to have a conversation with Hanley the Info Pusher who desperately wants to get away from her. Directly in front of Lou is Lydia and Adam’s table, where Benny Dredful and Luna Damsel also sit. Benny and Luna’s shouting match has toned down a bit, but only because Agent Only and Joni Godiva have taken to loudly offering critiques of their argument from their various points of view and separate tables. The Mulroney Throttler is standing beside Agent Only, one twitchy eye on the Benny-Luna conflict and the other on the stage, where Phoebe Hush has returned, having already walked out on him even though the evening’s barely half over. He’s not a happy Throttler.
Adam muses to the group in general in what he assumes to be a drunken debonair manner: “I was mildly interested in rifles and the world going to hell in her handbasket, creating havoc for her with my finger on the trigger.”
Mordecai, bringing more drinks for everyone, thinks: at least drunks in Nosferatunes don’t slur their words. Only their metaphors.
The women all think “ – the fuck?” but Agent Only is not going to be outdone at what he immediately considers to be his own game. “I served the lace between her legs. Of course, I was an agent of self-destruction, although no jury would ever convict the fertile She-Goddess of All Gun Cults.”
“Zif there’s any other kind of goddess,” Joni Godiva laughs, knocking back another.
Lou Moon is slightly contemptuous of the idea, as he understands it – “But the key there is that I am an agent of all who might offend them, going ‘P-kow, P-kow, P-kow,” taking the blame upon my inferior genes and being extremely careful not to be caught in regularly wasteful testosterone urges,” – but that is how he understands it.
Audrey shoots him a confused look, shakes her head, and goes back to harassing Hanley, who almost got away there.
Benny Dredful eyes Luna Damsel balefully. “While singing a pretty little ditty in any real or imagined manner, the only one so easily coerced by a tender caress is the woman who gave me my taste for violence, firing once in a blind rage and twisting a parasol in all innocence to ensnare the utter and complete eradication of all blame and stupidity.”
Luna stares at him blearily and blankly. “Yeah, you and your mother,” she finally gets out lamely.
But the Mulroney Throttler couldn’t agree with Benny more. “He’s a man, of course he’s violent, he’s been aroused, but every female loves to wear frilly dresses and lacy underpants while laying down a rapid fire barrage.”
The guys all nod. The women are just about ready to leave but not quite yet …
On stage, Phoebe and the boys and Miles’s ghost break into “Time After P-Time”, which usually means Miles is in the mood for a good laugh.
What might have been but probably wasn’t
Suddenly, to everyone’s consternation and embarrassment, Adam and Benny get into a stand-up, shouting whose-is-bigger? fight. The result is a strangely worded draw that might not even really have been said out loud.
“In the truth of our balding glory it might be arrogance, but then again have you ever decided to act upon your lusts, become an appropriate mate for the daughters of gods who look just like you do!”
“We are all Gods of Sex! … In our minds; but what we think might also be the truth! Neither she nor the other one is the Goddess of Death, what have we done to deserve this? Tattoos of skulls and roses appear above ever-descending waistbands, tender white flesh emerging from heavy metal juggernauts armed for war and pasting decals on our balls labelled ‘Danger!’”
“Still, the houris appear on call at our slightest whim, hiplines going to fat straight from skinny, spaghetti strap tattoos proclaiming our doom and firing first because we will not face the mirrors, not the skin thin easily removable types. Young women in tube tops and tanks, their breasts and their armaments both heavy artillery, never ask questions at all!”
“Someone snuck into my bed with barely an eyeblink – in every shape and colour of pleasure I was the Lord Satan of Sex. Such arrogance, with little or no muscle in between!”
“I always knew I was trouble!”
And he was, too.
Mordecai rushes in traysful and traysful of more drinks.
“‘Ti-ime a-a-after P-Time …’”
Women in tight costumes
It really wouldn’t matter when this scene took place, the emotions are always the same. The men are still sitting with the women, but now they’re only talking to the other men.
Benny Dredful starts off the lament. “Emphasizing mounds and tangents, their meaning is never really the words strutting in front of us but never meeting our eyes. Movement has left meaning behind, the real person is nowhere to be seen, so instead we’re all delighted to be doomed by carefully revealed hints melting yearningly to the curvature of beads and sequins, wiggling, flickering hair, thrusts at desire so dense we want to spatter our tension across the cosmos!”
Adam replies. “Women in tight costumes are only compelling images in our hot-wired senses, conjuring any illusion, grifting any con – but let’s face it. How we strain to catch glimpses of those useless gestures by evocative arms.”
This isn’t cheering the Mulroney Throttler up any. “Gold bodies melded on our inarticulate moans, they reel us in knowing nothing else matters but just caging us back to where we’re only allowed to watch, when the allowable becomes the revealed. At some point, only occupying the sightlines is not enough!”
Lou Moon muses. “Is that the problem then? An unhappy tension that might burst into inappropriate action because we can’t tell from the visual cues what’s really expected? Surface says sex, please – reality says no! don’t do that!” He eyes Audrey Always uneasily. She tilts her head and gives him a so-what? grin. You’ll never know.
Agent Only thinks this line of thought is bloody depressing and tries to shut down the flow before it gets too maudlin. “Trying to match the reality to the body we have sought to hold, we yield finally to the unbearable in our minds and in our mouths.
“God, I can’t believe I said that. Garsong! Bring me another round!”
He fingers the pistol concealed in his belt, knowing there is a silver bullet there for the one female he does fear …
But that will require action, not observation.
“Hey! What this joint really needs is a good stripper! Ladies, any volunteers?”
What does the blonde think?
This is it, this is the conversation that finally sends the women storming off to their own table to get away from the guys.
The opening salvo comes from the ladies’ side of the great divide.
“Why is it, that no matter how fat, middle-aged, short sighted and balding you guys get, if a blonde young chickie – and they’re always blonde, admit it – comes flouncing into a room in a short clingy black dress, every damn one of you immediately assumes you’ve got a shot at her because in some goddamned subterranean level of your minds, you just can’t stop thinking of yourselves as irresistible?
“Let me tell you – let me assure you – you’re resistible.”
“Well, that’s your opinion, but what does the blonde think?”
Inarticulate screams of rage.
“How short is the blonde’s dress?”
“You just don’t get it, do you? After a certain age, you men are just as invisible to women as women are to you once they put on a pound or two over twenty-five!”
“Not true! That’s not true … I like a healthy, robust woman.”
“With the accent on the ‘bust’.”
Guffawing male laughter.
“I knew it! I knew it! You guys couldn’t have a serious conversation about male-female relationships for two seconds without bringing boobs into it!”
“What, ‘relationships’? I thought we were talking about what kind of a chance we had with the blonde in the short skirt?”
“Hopeless! You are wholly and completely hopeless!”
“You’re right. Let’s leave them here, and go have a real talk at our own table.”
“Oh, yeah-h. Typical female reaction there. Everyone can have a serious talk about guy-girl stuff, so long as the guys aren’t there! So off you go.”
“And what are we guys supposed to do, left here alone all by ourselves then?”
“Play with yourselves. You’re going to anyway.”
And the women left.
Gender War.
Other fish to fry
-- because after all, how can you talk to a man, let alone five of them at once, so the women withdraw to their own table for awhile, to think their own thoughts and speak their own minds and pointedly ignore their own men. It all comes out rather at once.
“Men have no emotions that will upset my calm.”
“And I know as soon as I step out of town they’re calling for other women like shooting fish in a barrel – they all do –”
“Oh, you said it, ‘Bring on the fish!’”
“Whispering ‘fry me some fish, fry me some fish’ –”
“Sex, sex, sex with any biped –”
“I’d like to fry my own fish –”
“‘That’s what God made sailors for!’”
“He never listens, always going off on wild tangents –”
“Ha! Good one. A reason to go to Church again.”
“He should talk to my mother when I don’t want to –”
“ – heard it in a song.”
“I need him to roll me in the hay –”
“ – deep fried in beer batter –”
“He’s always prowling the streets with his drunken cronies.”
“I’d give myself freely to any strange crony prowling my alley.”
“Women always think men have other fish to fry.”
“ – like icewater, it’s unbearable –”
“If he only had a sex organ that looked attractive.”
“Let’s go shopping, preferably for a new gender.”
“What’s the point, you can’t trust him.”
“ – and most of all, he should know what I want.”
“And what’s with the constant hard-on in his eyes?”
“When I have a problem he always wants to fix it.”
“Doesn’t he realize I like to fuck too?”
“Perhaps something in a darling pastel.”
“ – worst of all, by far.”
“I’m completely secure in my i-i-identity. Sorry, I always stutter when I’m uncertain.”
“Shaped just right to really get me off.”
“ – shouting ‘Fry me some fish! Fry me some fish!’”
“He thinks with his hormones, except he never really stops to think at all.”
“Most important of all, he should take charge when I need him to.”
“What’s all this stuff about fish again? I missed that bit.”
“He never looks at my shoes.”
“I am entirely confident in my role as a sexually active, mature w-w-woman. Damn!”
“Now is that too much to ask?”
“Really what he’s always just waiting to do is insult me.”
“There can be no bridging the gap.”
“He should listen and he should care but God forbid –”
“He can never stick to the point.”
“He never gets the point.”
“Or he just ignores it and says what he wants to say –”
“But I still sneak out at night.”
“ – with two boobs and a fanny especially if she’s a blonde.”
“If she’s a blonde, even with five boobs and three fannies –”
“Ha! Probably thinks he’s getting a bargain.”
“ – instead of being helpful and supportive.”
“Women are not like that.”
“Not too soft but hard enough.”
to be continued ...
See also: Reality Fiction Too! The Oddball Edition
at realficone.blogspot.ca
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