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december twenty three | nine thirty post meridiem
No Lunchmeat for Debbie, or How Her Hair Got Did: A Travestry in Sex Acts
Black is the New Latin, from Late Latin, from Greek, from -phobos fearing, from phobos fear, flight, from phebesthai to flee; akin to Lithuanian begti to flee, Old Church Slavonic bezati.
Bezati was a hottie. Her tears gave off steam the moment they touched her cheeks. You could comfort her and clear your sinuses (sinii?) at the same time. They said it kept her skin looking like the skin on a peach. I said no, it's the hair. The unruffled dust of bloom sprouting from her pores, all over her face. You could pet her as if she were a cat, which she was. Her voice had the enunciation and timbre of a meow, which it was. She had pointy ears, but that part of her was actually purebred wolf. On full moon nights she'd turn into an ichthyosaur. On half moon nights it was a sausage. It's hard to stand up when you're a sausage, is what she'd tell me. She'd whisper it into my ear as we huddled close together, the pretense of trying to stay warm in the chilly night air covering for our unspoken desires. I'd take her sausage chin in my palm, and look deep into her sausage eyes, stroke her smooth sausage cheek, nibble on her sausage earlobe, and lick the leftover sausage bits from between her sausage teeth. Then we'd do it. There was this one time when we did it while watching Tony Blair on the telly:
"Who among us can know the savageries which lie dormant in the heart of Man? Who among us can deny that we have often wondered, in the dead of night, whether it might not be fruitful to reach down into them, to stir their muddy entrails into a creamy froth, like butter -- sinful, black, evil creamery butter. Who among us has not wanted to butter our entrails? Did Our Lord and Savior, suffering on the cross, not ask the Roman sentinels to butter his ribs? He who hath not butter in his soul, is no friend of mine, and doth appear to me as mine enemy. Pip! Pip!
"And where were you, Mr. Kibaki, yes you, on the night the butter classes rose up and stormed the buttered barricades of Paris, sticks of butter in their clenched righteous fists and pats of butter moistening their innocent eyes fixed on buttery heaven? No really, tell me, I'm curious. I tried calling, but you wouldn't answer. Why won't you take my calls anymore? Is it the excessive folded and droopy skin on my head, the way it catches even the slightest breeze like a sail and carries me off to the West Indies? I told you, he was just a boy they sent to fix up the room, I didn't touch him I swear. Except for the sodomy. But it's not cheating if you use protection and don't look and plug your ears and sing LALALALALALALALA. Pip! Pip!"
And that, Senator, was the biggest fruitfly orgasm I ever ate.
Curtain