THE BERKELEY LESBIANS By Laurence Lasky To Maya, knight of impossible faith CHAPTERS Introduction Knight Lady 3 1. Summer Nocturne 6 2. The Pacific Northwest 14 3. Dog Days 24 4. Letter to a Mistress 29 5. The Age of Amphibians 35 6. The Berkeley Lesbians 43 7. Love Commando 59 8. The Return of M. 73 9. Home Alone 83 10. Sicily 101 11. Return of the Fighting Woman 103 12. The Feeling of Thought 109 13. Prolongation 125 14. North Beach Cinema 135 15. Letter to the Readers of the Spectator 142 16. Wank 148 Introduction Knight Lady My first sexual experience occurred when I was twelve, after a hot afternoon at the swimming pool. There was a teenage lifeguard wearing a black bikini who stalked about, ever vigilant, like a panther. I was reading Ivanhoe later that evening in bed when a storm blew up. I had loved the great adventure novels-- D'artagnan, Hornblower, Captain Peter Blood. She was blond and compact--so sleek and alert, ready to pounce--and sometimes carried a long aluminum pole, for rescue. Suddenly the temperature dropped, and the breeze and ozone drew me to the window. Ivanhoe having jousted the evil Norman Templars was now turning to face the lifeguard. And the fresh, scented breeze, like a soft shock of poignancy, entered, as she stood her ground and knocked him off his horse--with her pole. But the Saxon knight clattering to his feet and drawing his sword. While I had to lie back down. And now the lifeguard her own spiked mace--from what appeared a low-slung, warrior girdle--like Saladin. The battle ensuing in the hot sun. The lifeguard's action-packed arms and legs as smooth as the sky. Clubbing and clanging Wilfred of Ivanhoe to his knees. Golden sweat glistening in the vales of her shoulders. Ivanhoe cooking in his bashed up, borrowed armor. Low down now inches away from the lifeguard's taut navel, just a bit stinky from the heat. Clutching at her solid girl butt. The lifeguard gazing down and smiling--her rueful, blue eyes--ripping off his plumed helmet, stepping back, whirling, and catching him flush on the jaw with a thunderous Kung Fu round kick. And I started to squirt this astonishing, thin pre-come, right through the lining of my swim trunks, hardly doing a thing, just lying there. An innocent bystander, or wait--quickly now the lifeguard's trailing squire, as she rightfully ascends the festooned victory stand, to accept the Chaplet of Honor from fair Lady Rowena, tourney Queen of Love and Beauty. Cuming for the first time, peeing in my fucking pants, while never more than a simple, innocent page, even. At the time I had taken great pride in reading the unabridged classics. Never having imagined anything remotely like this before. Appearing out of thin air, taking full control-- vanquishing my heroes--clearly an evil muse. My parents were both normal liberals, total pacifists. Downstairs preparing dinner, equally, blamelessly watching the news. Right below the squeaky bed springs. My parents are kind, tolerant people. There's only one thing they can't accept: violence. It's a cultural, an American, sickness. There were no guns, toy guns, or rubber knives in our household. And of course Gay people were fine, splendid. But man what was this. The unspeakable. I was like that guy in the hockey mask. Like Ibsen. And right after, it started to rain so hard, and the rain poured through the window screen, so I shut the window, for an important quiet time, of the defining new secret: that bad was actually good, low was high, shame the best, and sex was violence. As confirmed by the hardest, fastest truth: cum itself. Ridiculing all they had ever told me, or ever would. This was bad alright--thank God I wasn't religious. I was badly flawed--how girls were now the coolest cold-blooded killers. So shivery. And sure enough, the next day it happened again, just as violently, with the same winner and loser, except now as Roman gladiators. Thumbs down. How I loved America! Girls had taken on a whole new usage. They were infinite--like what the buffalo meant to the Indians. Though how could I ever look a real one in the eye. I was peculiar, secretive. No longer a strong swimmer and aspiring scholar. Rather some kind of freak--a bookish young pervert. Exiled, me and my berserk imagination. I wasn't homo, a queer, like at school, and that was a relief. But whatever I was, it was pretty bad, you never saw it on television or in the news. You couldn't tell your pals. That tits were actually a diversion, a trick, yet clarions of a new age. Or never your smiling parents. Sitting there like holographs. I knew the word "pervert" all right--those pedofiles parents and teachers warned about. And at night I swore never to become one. SUMMER NOCTURNE Piglet stirred in his sleep. The first time ever after a fight he had managed to fall right off to sleep. But M. would simply not abide it, and so what was this blow job in progress, anyway, but stealth. That Piglet couldn't consciously realize at first because his awakening thoughts precluded the fight. Piglet's first thought was that dreams were the imperfections of sleep. And then came his recognition of the blow job, and what an honor it was. Men are honored by blow jobs. It would be really rude not to pretend to enjoy it. Also, one of her ways of avoiding sex was by complaining that he didn't appreciate her blow jobs. Even though she knew he was practically appalled by them, the very act itself. Reasoning churned along like this forever--the obverse side of ceaseless biochemistry. He began to softly groan, pretending to enjoy the blow job. Then he remembered the fight, with fear heightened by adrenalin, with the excitement of knowing he had fallen dead asleep. It was a clean win--he had slept, and now a victory blow job! Although he'd never get back to sleep in the midst of this adrenalin. It hadn't occurred to him that M. would grab the first available pretext to resume fighting as soon as he was wide awake. M., she could fall asleep on cue, like a medium. Preternaturally--at Yoga class. She was just waiting for him to grow slightly limp and to softly, sadly say: "You don't like it." Just in time he managed to stay hard by fantasizing going down on her. She had about the sweetest pussy on earth. All his life, all he had ever really cared about, his very incorruptibility, was pussy. Sometimes at work he'd just think of M. and feel great joy. Or lying in bed at night, listening to her hum in the shower. The thing is, he loved M., and her lazy, distracted pussy. Some women's clits were way too wet. Or by god talced, powdered. But Piglet loved M.'s sturdy thighs that buckled when he slipped on down there. Sometimes so slowly and gently for so long on a quiet, rainy afternoon. A gradual gathering within the walls--of trust. After all, this wasn't going to be very pretty. Not exactly feminine, when she grabbed him by the hair and adjusted him--his adjustable neck--and used him like a thing. A trusty rudder, upon a flat smooth abdominal sea, now rising. As she started to rock, licking her lips and tossing her head, and he'd try to keep up, or then slow down, although after a while it didn't seem to matter. She be gone. You think of women--they throw a ball funny, they run with their tits bouncing up and down. They can't run, they can't jump, because they're full of sex. Such an upheaval. And how he loved getting her off, more than anything, getting laid, even. Was that bad? As Piglet's thoughts turned more from the fantasy of going down on her to reflections upon the fantasy, he got just a tad soft, and sure enough she said, "You don't like it." When you do get a little soft, it's some awful truth for them--when in fact you could merely be reflecting on how wonderful it all was. "You don't like it," she repeated. The blow job itself was kind of pointless, true, but fine, spread out like a blanket, for a nocturne. When didn't she slow down all the time when he was doing it to her. But she was better, because she didn't much enjoy doing this. This motivated blow job was more altruistic, intent on mending a quarrel, for the common good. Unlike his pussy-eating circus act. "I love it," he said weakly, as just then Piglet realized her trick of keeping him up for the night. He struggled with this feeling--paranoia. But paranoia was an excellent starting point, here in the dark. "No you don't," she said. He hated blow jobs, lying there, accepting this award. He sat up and looked at her and said, "Yes, it's true-- and you know--you knew." M. portrayed her profile drained. "Good night," she said and turned her back, and there he was--wide awake, excited, alone, ready, paranoid. The fight--it hadn't really been a fight--they never had actual fights, over real things--money, drinking, affairs. What was the fight about. Piglet took a blanket into the living room. They fought about stuff involving M.'s feelings. Piglet lay on the couch and tried to reconstruct the fight. He started jiggling his leg. You had to capture, surround, her impressions, like butterflies, at their very moment, before they fluttered away. It was so unfair to have awakened him--and not even finish the blow job! He'd never get to sleep now. It was nearly midnight. So unfair. He stewed. He walked back to the bedroom. Her refined little ideas--why, they were weak and ephemeral-- petty, bourgeois. He decided to wake her up and prove it. Show her the fallacies of each one of her reasons for wanting to leave, one by one, were she to kindly restate them, for the sake of accuracy, the record. But at the bedroom door he saw her lying on her side, face to the wall--her frisky legs sleeping gently curled together. The covers were gone--she slept in her animal heat. In those slightly elastic, powder-blue, cotton panties only. Her wonderful weight lying atop the bright new sheets she had picked out covering his dirty old cum-stained bed. She was a sexually cunning woman who kept herself young-enough always. Piglet stopped dead in his tracks. Whoa. It was like a bedroom diorama, the light sprinkling in from the living room. Her solid little butt, in those savage, little panties. Ever flexed, ready for action day or night, plugged into her spine, cabled to her fathomless brain. Don't you dare fuck with this. Leave well enough alone. How many other men in their 40s had this. Most women M.'s age--their butts had just collapsed, expired, as if someone had let the sexuality out. While M. spent hours churning along in the pulpit of the Stairmaster. Don't fuck with this. Ho, Ho--everything would be fine, so long as Piglet didn't blow it and wake her up. After all, he had proven himself worthy--he had fallen asleep! Her last resort had been to suck him off, like pulling a knife during a fist fight. She wouldn't leave, he just knew it, so long as Piglet let her sleep! He slowly advanced into the bedroom, as if camouflaged as a tree. Not to get too close--she had a beastly sense of smell. Piglet sat down cross-legged on the rug about four feet from the bed, like the front row at the movies. She was lying here on his bed, in his bedroom, the bed clearly sagging a little in the middle. Wasn't that eternally enough! M. turned over on her back and growled in her sleep. Piglet flinched. She was on top, even asleep, and they both knew it. He carefully withdrew. Maybe he couldn't keep track of her tiny impressions. But he never questioned her thinking. She was a great abstractionist--superb--he just didn't believe the ideas themselves were of any importance. The main thing was to test them for quality. Boy, she was really going to leave him. He was a cad. His first wife had done it. Piglet decided to get drunk. In San Francisco you can buy a bottle of booze on almost any corner day or night. Outside the night was clear and the ocean breeze had died. No more M, quite possibly, this time. Alone, once more, at 42. Although what was love, desire, by now, anyway, but an alloy of memory. Piglet recalled those Junior High days, peaking cautiously around his open locker, as Sue Lane's juggernaut butt swiveled by, so simply ruinous, in the waxy neon musk, the butt that had made him permanently sneaky. Yearning lived on, is true, but diabetically, shot up with memory and desperation. Outside the market a homeless young man asked Piglet for a little help on the way out. How homelessness broke your train of thought. Piglet bought a 1.75 liter bottle of Absolut for over $30.00. He swaggered from the store and held up the vodka bottle, as a great silver trophy, of this win over M. August 24, 1996. "I'll give you a blow job for a right hit of that." It was the homeless youth. He produced a mug. "For one single solitary cup." Piglet stopped. The blow job--an inescapable fact of life. Although dogs didn't do them. "I don't need one, right now, but thank you," said Piglet. The frail lad was possibly yet a teenager, sitting collapsed against the wall of the store, like a marionette. "Rarely does one need a blow job, sir. Often it comes as a complete surprise. Like after a failed hand job." He smiled, pleasingly and pleased--unmarred, not a bit slummy. A blond head bobbing about irrepressibly atop a slumbering body. He was asleep wide awake--like a shark. One of those runaways, thought Piglet. On a San Francisco Satyricon. "Well, in truth, I dislike them--blow jobs," said Piglet. "I was just trying to be polite. You being a street person and all." Piglet tried to leave but the boy arose and bravely answered, "I don't think you can dislike them, either, sir. Disdain, dread, fear, perhaps--but no more dislike a blow job, than say, a shoulder rub." "You know," said Piglet, "you step off the Greyhound, suck off a few queers, and that somehow makes you an expert--" "Please, I just need some of that, pretty bad." The boy slid back down the wall into a slump on the sidewalk. "Of that big old jug of liquor, sir." And sat there all wound down. "I'm sorry," said Piglet. Piglet hesitated, then twisted open the cap of the bottle. He continued: "But all my life, I've never really enjoyed, ever much wanted, the standard blow job. I politely decline, apologize, even, right from the start. I tell them, point blank--they know it! "But keep right on ablowing, only harder." "I didn't know, honest," said the boy. "I really dislike blow jobs," said Piglet. "That's fine," said the boy, summoning a funny little cheerfulness. "As if you'll start to like it, if they only try harder, blow with greater feeling. And you have to respect that- -and not disappoint them. And now she's blowing like crazy, while you're lying there helpless, embarrassed--wandering off, for Christsake--basically inattentive." "How true, sir," said the boy. "Uncaring, and getting a tad angry--as she consolidates her gains," said Piglet. Piglet filled his mug with vodka and sat down next to him, against the wall. "This doesn't mean, in no way, that I want a blow job, understand?" "Certainly not, sir," said the boy. "And then you can just see it coming--at work: 'Oh, no, and now for the blow job.' Their $50.00 promotion. A new business card, faster computer. So you can get more done. When who cares? "'Tis so," said the boy, drinking from the mug with both hands, like a bowl of soup. Piglet glubbed from the bottle itself. "But try to turn it down. Go ahead, reject it--along with all their greedy little dreams, that you're trapped in, inhabiting, substantiating. Their carpeted sports vehicles. See what happens--turn it down, at work. Graciously decline: 'Certainly there's a bigger, finer dick than mine, in our highly capable office.' "Go ahead, refuse to be held accountable--for their dreams. Just see what happens--if you think this is bad." "Fuck 'em," said the boy. "They can suck themselves off. "But look at the sky, sir. It's so huge, right? An inconceivable astronomy. Separation, loneliness, on an hilarious scale--a ludicrous proportion. When maybe that deja vu feeling-- you know, of something repeating itself--is simply being aware for a second, of what you're feeling all the time." 2 The Pacific Northwest After M.'s departure, Piglet almost never left San Francisco. There were Lesbian bull-whip societies. Mixed wrestling clubs. Piglet could network. Although try to find one good woman wrestler. You'd think they'd learn a few basic moves. Piglet had wrestled varsity in high school. You'd think a wrestling woman might apply some science to compensate for her lack of upper body strength. But right off she throws the half and you spike her into the next county. And she's either too petite or a gorilla. And even find a trim athlete, a smiling Amazon strong and eager, you might still just as well let sit on your face. Because there's no technique, no licensing. Piglet rented a car and drove to Seattle to visit a friend, for a brief vacation. He drove up along the coast. The weather was fine. Retired government workers aiming video cams out over the ocean. Taking brisk walks through the national parks and supporting the highway economy. At sunset the pink glow from snowy Mount Shasta was everywhere. A splashing river followed him the next day. And then a great nuclear power plant. Astonishing hillsides of trees mowed down like a shaving commercial. Piglet stopped to play golf. The day sparkled. The air smelled like fresh cut timber. His golf shoes gripped the moist grassy earth. He swung, the tee flipped over. The ball rode a rising crest up the fairway to a peak way out in mid-air. When Piglet was a boy, there were woods instead of parks. Once Piglet and a pal came within a yard of stepping on a giant hornet's nest. A perfect paper lantern that they then crunched with a great rock. You could hear the hornets trapped inside, furious. After golf Piglet sipping a drink on the clubhouse veranda in the Sylvan evening. Staying the night at the Thunderbird Motel for $24.00 with Cable, HBO, and remote control. Eating pistachios in bed. Watching Perry Mason late night. Those 50's guys were so massive. While the women were kind of adorable, and totally tricky in their prim suits. Piglet fell asleep. He woke up some time in the morning, and went out to buy a Sunday paper and cup of coffee. He read the paper in a steaming bath. No way would O.J. testify. Not against himself. Nor the Blast Suspects. While The Motorist had testified. And the Unibomber sure as hell would. And the President would testify, but only by video, with the right background. Then Piglet saw a small story down in the corner that made him sick. Teenage girl proves her right to wrestle Candy Jones, Staff Writer. As the last spectators of the wrestling match leave the Edna Hill High School parking lot, Jim Arnold sits alone on the sidewalk waiting for his ride. He is the picture of depression. Jim just got beaten by a girl. Sally Dickson, the only girl on Edna Hill's wrestling team and the first ever in the league, trounced Jim in the third round of their match at the Maplewood School. . ." It was all coming true. Starting to actually happen. Beaten by a girl. With Candy Jones looking on. Smiling an admixture of sympathy and sadism. Candy Jones! Not defeated--but beaten--by a girl. Trounced. Dragged across the mat. Whiff the glandular girl armpit that's pinning you. Her other hand jacking up your crotch. Pinned by a girl! The referee holds up her victorious, nail-polished hand. The Edna Hill cheerleaders bursting out on the gym floor, clapping between their kicking legs. Geeze, their panties. Jim's father looking on. Mr. Arnold is a decent, simple man who doesn't understand this. He drives off. And later there's Jim alone on the sidewalk, dazed. Candy watching from the shadows. Sally Dickson emerges with her friends, the cheerleaders. It takes her a little longer to shower and dress. Her friends are amused. So they all walk over. Good match, Jim, it was close, until the third round. When I rode you with that double arm bar. Broke you down and slipped the half and turned you like a steer. How you almost managed to bridge-out the period. But then you started to tire, your bucking started to weaken-- Writhing on his back, beneath Sally's proud new breasts. And then the moment of final, complete humiliation, when the referee's hand comes down with a terrible shudder. Piglet felt rubbery. A great erection bobbed above the water. It was way too real. It wasn't meant to be, or just barely real. It was meant to be secret, not out there. The whole thing was just a fun secret! He felt poisoned, overdosed, systemically sexual. Reality compounding everything. All borders had dissolved. He levitated in the dense water. His stomach knotted, intestines fissured, legs shook. What he needed was a nice round of golf. Piglet made it outside. And realized that he didn't even know where he was. What town, or state, for that matter, he was in. Washington or Oregon, or maybe even California still. California was endless. Cars whizzed by. What time was it. The air was sticky. There was a highway, motels and restaurants, and lots of telephone poles and wires. Bulky people wearing colorful windbreakers, non San Franciscans, going in and out of restaurants. There was no wind. The sun was hot. Piglet felt like Camus, Sartre. San Francisco hundreds of miles away. Maybe a thousand. As Jim Arnold sits alone head bowed by the curb. Candy the Cruel steps out, kneels down and says, "How does it feel, Jim. You can talk to me." She opens her notepad. If Piglet can barely take it, what about Jim. Piglet's been at this for years. But you can't expect a staff reporter to back off. He entered a restaurant, the Silver Cleaver. Everyone was eating omelets. Dripping strands of cheese from their mouth. And those mounds of wormy hash browns. "Ready to order," said Piglet's waitress. "What time is it," said Piglet. The waitress pointed to a burl clock on the wall with brass hands. It was IV past XI. "I'd like a small bowl of brown rice," said Piglet. "You mean the chili rice." "I'd like a small bowl of white rice," said Piglet. In a few minutes the waitress returned with the rice. The rice made him better. Than the rest of these pigs. Wearing their cool windbreakers. The blue postal workers. Yellow ATF agents. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Fornication. Adultery, Tobacco, and Mortification. He ate to live. They lived to eat. He started to feel okay and remembered why he had felt sick. Oh no. Jim stands up. Darkness has fallen. Where's dad. His dad came to all his matches. Dad, I'll get bigger, stronger--but she won't--or not as much. He says alone in the dark. Give me a year. Six months. I can take her. It was just a stamina thing--we were even through round two. I'll train. Please. The way she jacked his inner thigh. He starts to tingle a little in the dark. A pre-puberty tenth grader. While she was a junior! And girls mature so much faster--he could have taken her in a year. But the fact is, she had trounced him. Piglet began to feel dizzy again. But women were your friend. They're so totally different, all you could do was trust them, lying with them, listening to the rain. Piglet had never known a woman who wasn't really good. Even the Lesbians. He ate some more rice. What he needed was a good jolt of real pornography to get past this, and then back on the golf course in no time. Enjoying his vacation. The rice and coffee cost $5.00. Outside cars whizzed by in the glare. Everyone was gone. They were all at the golf course by now, in their cool windbreakers and saddle golf shoes. Fine. By the time Piglet arrived, the first tee would be wide open. He shielded his eyes and scanned the highway looking for the word "Adult." And it dawned on Piglet that here, roadside, was a true pornographic desert. Not even a newstand, a 7/11. Piglet despaired. Maybe a deck of dirty playing cards somewhere. If he searched the bottom drawers of motel dressers. While the maids were airing the rooms. While San Francisco was a pornographic wetlands. San Francisco was unbelievable. Piglet entered the gas station store where he had bought his morning newspaper. Behind the counter were Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler. Maybe okay for poor beaten Jim, but useless for Piglet, who had acquired an extremely high porn tolerance level. Piglet was 39. By now he needed pictures of naked women drilling guys right through the head with long thick drill bits. Next to the candy was a small magazine rack. Maybe a woman's bodybuilding mag! thought Piglet-- Women's Physique World, or at least a Strong and Shapely. Something synergistic. The idea of a "Woman's Physique World" was a total turn-on. But here, along the road, there was nothing, not even a New Body, or Self. In San Francisco, at least half the stand was devoted to various forms of body magazines. Piglet began to fret. Could Jim ever return to school. What would his girlfriend say. There was no way to ever fix this. They wouldn't wrestle Edna High again until next year and by then Sally Dickson might be in a completely different weight category. Her breasts would be larger. He searched the magazines in desperation until he found one called Wrestling Eye. A weird, hieroglyphic eye peered out above a grimacing, clenched-up Hulk Hogan. These bloated, jokey professional wrestlers--everyone knows they're fake. But were there lithe, little lady wrestlers. Piglet picked it up. Let me see. And flipping through the pages Piglet discovered a rich new vein of exciting perversity. Pages of advertisements for videos of amateur wrestling babes! That's what that creepy eye was all about! Piglet felt a little sick. But it was okay: TIGRA THE CONQUERESS THE QUEEN OF SUBMISSION WRESTLING "Vacationing in sunny Southern California, world champion TIGRA (in her best shape ever--5' 9" 140 lbs.) can't pass up the opportunity to demonstrate her overpowering wrestling prowess on a hapless male photographer." And there she was, flexing in one picture, applying the sleeper to the hapless Paparazzo in another, and her legs squeezing his brains out in a third. What a butt. Strong and shapely. Piglet took the magazine to the counter. He could tell the boy at the register took him for a homo. He hurried back to his room at the Thunderbird. There were undefeated Deena, 5'9" brown belt Karen, and Linda the kickboxer. And the world famous German Mat Club. Bikini Athletes. Some of the pictures were too dark, but it was great. Piglet felt much better. Than hapless Jim. Some day Sally Dickson would end up on these pages, possibly a world champ. Serve her right. Maybe even Candy Jones--she could be a Bikini Athlete--or Shapely Pro. And Jim, too, if he just let go of that silly ego thing. Perusing the dim ads shunted down in dark page corners, Piglet suddenly felt ashamed. At least in their own funny way they attempted to get at something real. Pictured were actual apartments, with modest carpets, and fitted rec rooms. The girls took pride in their fitness. The truth always arrived unsanctioned, wobbly, alone. Wrestling priestesses of the too hard pretend. Piglet arrived at the golf course in the early evening, still time for nine holes. He had the course to himself. The government workers had finished and were drinking on the clubhouse veranda. They waved to Piglet. One mixed drink and they were drunk. Piglet teed off. The evening air was so alive you could blend right into it. Piglet disappeared into the wooded course. Long black shadows, the spirits of tired, buffeted trees, lay down on the soft green fairways in the golden sunlight. The ocean glimmered in the distance. Piglet was alone. No more M. He remembered when he was Jim's age, he'd play golf by himself in the evenings. He went to Europe by himself when he graduated college. Boy, he had been so alone, alone in Europe, wanting so much to share it with someone. This is what happened when he left San Francisco. He missed M., funny sweet M. How she ran into so much trouble with herself. All tangled up, laughing and crying. Piglet started wandering around hitting the ball with a five iron. The hurt radiated through Piglet like a comet in deep space. He sat down in the fairway, alone in the grass and trees. Missing M. so bad. It got dark. Back at the T-Bird, he decided to return to San Francisco the next day. It had been a golfing vacation in the Pacific Northwest. Piglet slept badly. He awakened early and watched the end of Body by Jake, an aerobics show. "Let's bring it home, girls," said Jake. He visited the gas station store for a newspaper and cup of coffee. It was raining. Piglet lounged in the bathtub and read the paper. He carefully screened it for surprises. Women were good and liked unphoney goodness the most. If the globe warmed up, wouldn't fewer animals freeze. Those crystals they grew in the Space Shuttle. Do vacuum cleaners work in outerspace. Cult leaders, the Texas Billionaire. Was this shampoo ruining his hair. Kind of gloppy. Should he use that rainwater stuff. M. used a special green dandruff shampoo that cost about $20.00. Piglet had tried it secretly once, and it set his scalp on fire. She had warned him not to. He flipped through the sports section. Quite a lot he had to hide from M. So as to present his highest person. When what was wrong with that. When there it was, on page D5 of the sports section, right above the baseball box scores. Wrestling Coach Disallows Victorious Girl Grappler Candy Jones, Staff Writer. . . . It had been a hard-won victory for the ninth grader. [Sally's trouncing of Jim Arnold] Sally, 16, has faced major opposition to her choice to wrestle. Boys on other teams hate to wrestle her and react badly no matter who wins. But perhaps the greatest obstacle she has faced has been the East Avenue School coach who feels girls shouldn't wrestle. Coach Gene Anderson refused to match Sally with any of his wrestlers. "I did not think it was correct for a girl to wrestle," Anderson said, of the March 19 match. "You've got wrestling and volleyball. It's always been boys' wrestling and girls' volleyball. . . ." Where all the real men would see it. Piglet could barely read on as Candy Jones made mincemeat of the hapless coach--Excuse me, sir, but isn't that kind of begging the question. Because shouldn't you be your very best, especially for M. I don't beg, young lady--I told you--boys' wrestling, girls' volleyball. Even if it meant being a sneak. Please don't react badly, coach Anderson, I'm just doing my job. Piglet rose from the water, like a green monster. Quickly he dressed, packed, and paid his bill. He drove out of the parking lot and into a long slow line of departing government workers, pulling their boats and off-road vehicles. The rain was steady, but not hard. Although up here the rain continued like this for weeks. In San Francisco, storms were over in a day. What about that boy, Coach Anderson. Piglet searched for something on the radio. Surely you're not afraid of matching him against Sally. The traffic was stop and go. Orange cones and yellow signs appeared. It was just a bitter, bitter pill that Coach Anderson would have to learn to swallow. Women could wrestle. What was Sally's record, anyway, and she's only a junior. It was time to stop being a bad sport and face up to it. 3 DOG DAYS At his day job, Piglet sorted information. By name, date, by code. Every kind of computer report. Except unsorted. Because, delete the sorts and the data came out ordered as originally entered. "Piglet, this wife--did you love her?" His mistress stood at the bathroom mirror wearing powder-blue cotton panties that's all. Combing back her long brown hair, a leaf of grass. Her sharp shoulder blade pulled the smooth handle. Her solid girl butt and round flat heels balanced. Her trim spread legs, as he cleaned the toilet on his knees, were as a Colossus. "Sorted." "How can a love be 'sort a', Pigala? A love between women, my love for Jade, could never be 'sort of'." "Sorted." "Nor could it ever be 'sordid.'" "S-O-R, T-E-D." She pushed his head into the toilet. "Drink, like a dog, lap it up," she said. "Like the hairy mutt you are." A roach was hiding under the seat. Piglet saw it on the way down. A Hindu roach. Wayfaring. Her slender fingers attached to his scalp like a plunger. So strong for such a little girl! The toilet water tasted like spring water. Minerally. "With your tongue, you idiot." She unzipped her makeup kit. Visualize castration. She had so many things, everywhere, in little silky kits and colored glass boxes. Files, vials, tweezers and threads. Silver and gold compacts, and by god a scalpel. Ancient cuneiforms--she was so advanced! Mysterious instruments and applicators in fuzzy velvet cases with scents that could stop and confuse an army. Piglet still had his childhood, Al Kaline-autographed baseball glove. M. had a few strange pins handed down by her grandmother. And a tin box stuffed with old letters and faded pictures of friends and relatives. It was a tin box full of smiles. The pictures were slotted in vertically along the sides while the letters lay flat. M.'s smile was warm and kind and welcoming. She mimicked animals perfectly--a croaking frog, a barking seal. The first time they met she welcomed him right in and they talked and lightly petted. Later he learned how to gently tug just her nipple and not to stop. When at some point he should have twisted them like knobs, and called, "Rangoon, Rangoon, come in Rangoon!" if only to preserve the lightness. "Piglet, what do you mean 'sorted'?" Mandalay! Mandalay! So as not to use up all the lightness. To hold some in reserve, as a place of return, the first place--as a swirling cove. Instead it became an exhibit. You can never believe a single word they say about anything. It was just one place. "Piglet--" He realized he was coming up short, once again. He'd reach a critical point and then it would all go away. Into concluding thoughts like little caps upon and thus assurances of further introductions. While hereabouts was a place of snow. When his mistress told him what to do. When her steady words quietly, like a night snow, fell through the void left by his hibernating will. Words like crystals of snow landing on his soul, blowing over his soul, facets tumbling over the snowy expanse. In fact this coldy coldy place was no place for toasty M., who was gone now, anyway, since he had lost M. Piglet remembered just a glimpse of his Mistress' turreting tits as she grabbed him by the hair and slammed her knee into his chin. Then he was on all fours watching the blood from his mouth splat upon the linoleum floor. These red crowns. God was it a tooth. He felt queezy, nausea. Red checkers--on a linoleum checkerboard. King me. His tongue surveyed his teeth. What a knee. It was a geyser, in his lip. Just a good old fat lip. How you can't lose someone who hated you. And what a relief not to be hated anymore. He imagined what his mistress' hamstring must have looked like at impact. The problem with reality was that you couldn't really see it. She stuck out a wad of tissue and said, "I am not a therapist--understand?" Hated your cautious lightness, your tiptoe fear. She kicked him in the ribs and cried, "Answer me, Goddamnit!" "Yes, mistress." "Your self-pity makes me sick. If only this wife could see her dumped, pining houseboy--licking up every drop of blood." She pointed to the floor. The blood tasted like tomato juice. "She'd laugh--and kick you herself." The doorbell rang. Oh dear it was Jade. So young and impressionable. New to these moments, and to dates with a girl. "Stop bleeding," hissed his Mistress. Her blue eyes were enamel. "Wait here while I get the door. Stop bleeding. No, you get the door. Try this wash cloth. You get the door. I swear, though, if you blow it, I'll never have you back." He got the door. There stood the willowy Jade. Young strippling Jade. "My god what happened to you?" Your girlfriend decked me. Your sweety kicked me in the face. Quite a diesel, that girl. Like your admirers--those brutes down at the Palladium--Jade was an exotic dancer. "Oh it's this sore, it festers. Now and then." Be nice, tactful, and they hate you. Stupid cunts. "Are you okay, Piglet." Jade was so sweet and concerned, dressed up all punky, for nightclubing, bracelets dangling, and Piglet was quickly dazzled. "I'm okay, I'm fine." His mistress appeared, in a toasty red bathrobe. "Go make Jade a drink, Piglet." Jade grinned. He made her a weak vodka-cranberry. Booze made Jade kind of drowsy. He made the drink but paused before reentering the living room and peeked in. They were standing together in the middle of the living room. Four of the longest legs, a copse of legs in a clearing in the living room. Jade was weeping. "It's so horrible. Waving their dollar bills, their sweaty grins--drunk--those creepy little Japanese tourists, pawing at me." His mistress fluffed up Jade's hair and wiped her cheek. "Yes, dear," she said. "But then, that's how they are." "So horrible. Is this really how Sammy Davis, Jr. got his start?" Jade had zero work skills. "All the great entertainers began in vaudeville." Piglet entered the room with Jade's drink. Before they left for the evening, his mistress turned to Piglet and said: "You know, I could hire some refugee maid, some illegal alien, to clean once a week, for practically nothing. And I'm sure he'd jump at the sound of my voice--'Si! Si senorita!'--even not understanding what. You know--" Come on, let's go," said Jade. "Don't be here when we get back. And leave your check by the phone." They left. Good riddance. A hooker and a stripper. Where was that vodka bottle. He turned on the TV in the living room. It was time to play Double Jeopardy. Christine, the law student from Tulane, was back. History for 600 and what do you know the Daily Double. She was so smart, and kind of adorable with that drawl. Using the color on the remote, he began experimenting with her makeup, as the vodka burned a little on his swelling lip. 4 Letter to a Mistress Dear Mistress, 74 days have now passed since I last heard from you. Every day I diminish, down to nothing. I awake in the night, a tingling speck, acutely in touch with all that tingles. I have disappeared into pre-feeling that tingles undefined. Dear Mistress I'm way, way inside here. I have diminished down to a state of pre-sensitivity. It's okay, though, I have shrunk right through whatever sickness there used to be. Feeling all that is about to happen. But wondering: can you get me out of here? I'm not complaining, there are worse conditions for sure, but just to hear your voice again, like the webbing of all the stars and their clusters. Although I know this is right, I believe in this penance, I have faith that you haven't forgotten, Mistress. Although sometimes it's so hard to take this, Mistress, I rebel, like all creatures, like drones and ants everywhere, with orders to march. I know you've reduced me to down to nothing and what more can I ask of you, and why won't I give you any rest, but please bring me back. Or maybe you've simply forgotten. Allow me to explain. The violations I mean. Every day I do as you have ordered, everyday between 1:00 and 1:15, I go somewhere private to receive you. I still do, even though you never come anymore. I still open every pore to you every day at 1:00 even though you never come. I make sure I'm in my office and I draw the curtains and lock the door and lie on the carpet. Mistress, every day, even now, I fast until 1:15. I lie on the floor and pray you'll come as you once did, the way you did at first, all wet hair and drenched in power. Your divine pussiness coursing over me, and I could see your friends unknown watching amused as you pressed me down and fucked me into a woman, until we were clit against clit, cunt brushing cunt, and my breasts had risen in your supple hands. And when you were through I felt as dreamy and sleepy as a little girl. A dreaminess that I never feel otherwise. For at night I tumble off to sleep immediately. And startle awake intermittently throughout the night. But every day at 1:15 after your romp, and the laughter of your wood nymph friends, I would arise from the floor pastorally refreshed and ever grateful. But the violations--I can explain. The first occurred during the partners luncheon seven Thursdays ago. You know I'm not a partner, and if I were of course I wouldn't go. But I have to go-- because I'm not a partner--otherwise they'd suspect. Mistress, you know that I'd much prefer to eat dog food from a bowl at your feet than all their fried filet of yak put together at these luncheons. But if you don't eat, they wonder why. You have to at least nibble. Anyway, they're serving some broiled abomination and 1:00 rolls around. Mr. McCormick, a great big senior partner, is feasting. He's sure to take his wife along, on his golfing trips, for the desert air--she has allergies. "Excuse me," I say, standing. It's okay, you've yet to arrive, I can still get outside to receive you in the sunshine. Mr. McCormick is describing his jewel-encrusted driver, when suddenly there you are, in all your cruel innocence. "Excuse me," I say, standing, and then--"I can see this wife!" as you start to come over me. I see her breathing beatifically like a swami in the desert before a golfing oasis, as clear as a postcard. Anyway, I managed to struggle to the men's room and started throwing up, as you grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face into the toilet. I am so sorry. What did I think--why didn't I step away at 12:50--or 12:55, even. You know why, and you know it was deliberate. You know my purpose on earth is to experience your total, systematic obliteration. Like a man, as it gradually gets worse and worse. As I adapt manfully every day to the worsening conditions you impose. You know I'm insatiable for you, I need you in the most intense way possible, until you pour the gasoline on me and flick the match. And I can't think of anything on earth more intense than your soft, beautiful implacable iron-willed hatred. Next to hatred love is a feather. Hatred is so powerful it's unusable. It's as if we haven't evolved far enough to deal with it, so we stick to the real feathery stuff, which we elevate to ludicrous prominence in order to avoid dealing with the rest. You can pretend all you want that something like love will do, but it just leads to rebellion. Me I'm in a state of chronic rebellion. You must rip my arms right out of their sockets. You must compact me piece by piece down to my essential sorrow. And keep me there forever with your profound unwavering disgust. Anyway, you didn't return for the next one week and two days. But every day I lay down in my office because I had faith that you would. And on the tenth day of lying ever still I saw a lone tree on a hillside beneath a showery March sky of great thunderheads. And I was the Spring warmth clinging to the tree against a cold breeze, as the tree itself clung to the hillside. I was the warmth in the tree. On the eleventh and twelfth days I was the warmth in the buds of the tree. On the thirteenth day you appeared naked over the hill and the breeze stopped. Your breasts were soft and triumphant. You approached the tree, and you began cutting off the buds. But that was okay, there were hundreds of them, and every time you cut one off I felt a paroxym of pain and pleasure. First you'd gently hold one in your hands and then surgically snip it off. This continued through the eighteenth day after the partners luncheon. You were determined to cut off every last bud. And as the number of remaining buds diminished in number down to less than a hundred the pain increased a lot with each new cut so that on the seventeenth day after the partners luncheon I stuck one of those office tension balls they always throw around in my mouth at 12:58 so that no one in the hall would hear my cries of pain so muffled. Biting down hard when you cut. By the eighteenth day I swear you had reduced the number of buds to less than 30, and you took longer now to snip them, you fondled them in your hands, and it felt so good before the snip, the ever decisive snip, that sent me writhing across the floor into my computer. On the eighteenth day you were holding, gently squeezing, it must have been about bud 25, when the phone rang before the snip and I reached up and answered it. Otherwise I'm certain this would have gone on through at least the 23rd day following the partners luncheon because you were taking so long now between snips, enjoying them so much more, and even coaxing me through them. It was Neil, a friend. "Well, are you drinking her piss out of a shoe?" he began. He doesn't like you, Mistress. "Can you blame M.? You know, you're the one who's got to look at that mug in the mirror every morning, pal, and--" My muffled cry interrupted him as you snipped. "What was that? Has she nailed your tongue to the floor? What's going on in there?" This time there was simply no excuse. For not unjacking the phone--at 12:50, or 12:55. And then the way I jumped to answer it. Again, it was an act of pure rebellion. I simply could not take the pain. You have paths of pain, underground streams, down which I cannot follow. My arm shot up to answer the phone--like a shocked frog. My masochism failed you. I was unable to bear up. I'm a groveling submissive masquerading as a masochist. I see your blue, enamel eyes. I see all your tender cruelty staring at me. I see your perfect breasts. It is your right to do anything to me you please, and I answered the fucking phone. You had even begun to coax me. On the eighteenth day you said, "Today we're going to strive for four. Four cuts only. Do you think we can make it through four? "I know how it hurts," you said, fondling the first fuzzy bud, "but think of only four, little boy, and we can make it through, if you keep that goal in mind." The pain exploded with the first cut and I started to cry and you stroked my hair and you were nature calling me back to the wind and the rain. "Only three more to go," you said, caressing the second bud, and I could sense your quiet delight, when the phone rang and I sprang and answered it. There were at least 20 buds remaining, all told--I didn't make it anywhere near the last one, which was at least five days off. I didn't make it anywhere near the final cut, and exposed myself as the rank submissive that I am. I can only imagine the final cut. I can only imagine the denuded tree so weak by the time of the final cut that the last bud simply drops off and lands between your toes. A timeless miasma of female ascendancy, a sickness of spirit and limbs, tinged with orgasm, followed. You hold me at will, and reveal the signs of ascendancy wherever I turned: Lesbian couples on the subway, advertisements for workout centers, the newspaper estrogen studies. I took long pointless walks up and down the hills of the city, feeling sickened and yet pleasured that the tide had turned so inexorably. And that's when the tingling began, at first in my legs. That was the time of the start of the tingling, I believe, although it was barely perceptible then, mixed as it was with sickness and orgasm. How all the hookers in the Tenderloin were really posturing she- males. How men had these pitiful little mustaches while women did such wonderful things to their faces. Women everywhere just seemed so subtle and advanced that I became mired in pornography or else their very wonder would have driven me crazy. Pornography became the anchor of my sanity. There was a woman walking down the street, about 5' tall, but her butt simply deserved the entire Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio. Heap all the trophies, plaques, mounted footballs, and retired jerseys in the dumpster out front. I could feel you Mistress, but ever so obliquely then. I don't know. Maybe you were gone by then. It's just that, sometimes, the sickness felt like a drop of femininity, of poison, mixing in and spreading over and nullifying me. While at other times I was aware of the faintest suggestion of you, moving through me, as if I were being used as some kind of relay, a relay tower, as part of the ascendancy, and as your thoughts and feelings swept by me so fast that I could only begin to acknowledge, much less understand them, and thus that this feeling of you, at times, was like a vapor trail. Then one day while on another pointless walk I saw M. getting into the car. I hadn't shaved in a few days--there was the restraining order. The car was dirty as usual. M. shrugged, as she did when we were together. She has this way of shrugging her face, Mistress. To let me know that everything's okay, somehow okay again. But toward the end, she'd shrug only because she knew I was waiting for it, and then for a while there her face would shrug and shrug as if my face were a broken cigarette lighter. She drove off. And that's when you stopped altogether and the tingling grew and grew and I got smaller and smaller. I tell you, it's not much fun in here. There's not a lot to do. If you could just call, or perhaps answer this letter, maybe I could start coming back a bit. I know, the return envelop must make you furious. Plus the stamp. But what can I do. You're probably so tired of all this. Truly yours, piglet 5 THE AGE OF AMPHIBIANS Piglet could slip into the ascendancy at any time, anywhere, like a panic attack. He was sent to fix a computer problem at a branch office. Airports were the worst for Piglet, a hedonistic nightmare. A bright, dawning realization of the ascendancy like a future civilization, where the men were seedy little cab drivers and docile porters and official servants in blue and red blazers who waited on women hand and foot. Where the women dressed in triumph as their husbands trundled behind with the luggage. Great splendid halls of debuting cowgirls, courtesans, commandants--United Transworld. Airports were the ascendancy. Women can wear anything they want and do anything they want to their faces. While a man might experiment with those Ozark sideburns. Women are smooth and hairless. Men are hairy like apes. Women wear precious stone that goes right through the luggage x-ray. While a guy has to pile his crude heavy alloys onto the tray. That big brass watch like a manacle. The airport staggered Piglet. Robotic he arrived at the office. It was a wiring problem--the band width--the wires were too narrow-- an incurable network deformity. What could he ever possibly do. His only hope was a work-around--the modem. The modem sat there, off to the side, a puzzle box, its cryptic lights smirking. Terra incognito. Suddenly, though, as a robot of the ascendancy, Piglet began to function. On the back of the modem it said "Intel." He dialed 800 information and then Intel. The Intel engineer was Dave. Well, what's the other modem, said Dave. On the modem in the San Francisco office Piglet remembered it said Hayes 28800. 28800 was the baud rate. There was a string command--a redirection--Piglet entered it as Dave dictated. And sure enough, the modem sprang to life--dialing, gurgling, connecting--to San Francisco, the Internet--to information everywhere. Piglet and Dave rejoiced. Back at the airport it was early afternoon, the most sickening glandular airport time, a staging platform for the new primacy. At the one o'clock airport convene the most leisurely perfect midriffs, a galaxy of smooth flat bare tummies and one with an ascendant, latent appearance of muscle these days framing a swirl of sickening navel. A mademoiselle Apache wearing a tied off white Oxford shirt that once belonged to a guy who's now probably scalped containing breasts. A woman can get as hard as she wants and yet always have perfect, or pleasant, breasts and you can see their full shape within a plundered male shirt. As the scalped man lying there in the ditch watches her tightly tie off his former shirt above her pierced navel and then wipe the Bowie knife on her jean leg and stick it back in the sheath on her belt. And pouch his scalp, smiling down ruefully, her face as soft as a cloud, shaded in the silkiest black hair. Once again, Piglet felt hormonally contaminated. How women can wear anything they want but a man puts on a dress and it's a joke or he's a transvestite. How a woman is hard and soft and can get harder and harder and stay just as soft while a guy gets harder and harder until he blows up into an abomination, goes to seed. And a man can never be soft--even if you're Gay--never a softy. And if he could, they'd have to create some new category--Soft Male--or some subcategory--Soft She Male. How all the taxonomy pertained to men. While women were totally free. Drive-free, circumspect, completely bi. Women had been strapping on dildoes without a fuss for years. Then sleeping together like sisters. And what attracted women to men was far more attractive as expressed by women assuming roles in male domains. Donning plain brown UPS uniforms, beautifully loading dollies. And how a woman's trim, agile, hardening muscles were designed for the ascendancy while a guy's were for ripping out tree trunks. Already women were the best golfers and tennis players. So women were hard and soft while men were hard at best. And you could just see that some day women would be just as soft as they currently were while at the same time harder than guys as well. Already there were great women Kung Fu fighters who could beat the shit out of most men. And notice how dildoes were now made of plastic and no longer resembled real pricks, and came in a choice of colors, shamedly large. Stylized purple dildoes--so great and so shocking. Think about it, thought Piglet: the idea that a dildo had to look like a true prick had become a joke, as part of the ascendancy. And how Lesbians were a total turn-on--take Penthouse, Hustler, for truckers, even. Who were too blissfully thick-headed to understand that, lovemaking was woman's work. That the Lesbians had burst right through those pathetic notions of "Women's Lib" and then "Feminism" like lines in the sand, a Nazi tank brigade. That indeed the war was already over, and lost. Piglet made it to the gate and collapsed in a black plastic chair. Outside a plane trotted down the runway, like an ostrich, and took off. He felt as if bitten or stung by a venal insect. Or injected, some serum of the ascendancy, that rendered him docile, yet quivery, a resonating antenna of the ascendancy--a relay tower. He could also act as a cargo handler. Soon all the great cultural centers would be Lesbian. Men would have to fan out, roam the countryside, into small Baptist communities, to ever get laid. A male diaspora. You never heard of strap-on vaginas. You never saw a man addressing a plastic pussy. Again, a woman could buy her own dick over the counter for $10.00 in any true city in the country while a man needed $100,000 worth of surgery at The Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland to acquire a vagina. Women could have dicks but guys can't have cunts, it was that simple. And what was there to understand about a dick, anyway, while a vagina was like a modem: a mysterious black box, like a bomb at the airport. Even women can't explain them. A man sat down in the chair next to Piglet and opened a book. All the seats at the airport were connected and it made Piglet uncomfortable when someone sat next to him. Encroaching on his revelations. Plus, the man was bearded. When women had begun the process of complete hair removal back in the Plethozene Era. He looked familiar--maybe 50--professorial, wearing a black turtleneck that stretched over a large, distinguished gut. But bleary, and clearly no excuse for facial hair. How a well groomed beard was just a flimsy corset. Like some erudite ape--as if that were the goal--80 hand signals. And certainly no one's going anywhere with a body covered with hairs. Hair removal was in fact the first step toward invisibility. A no-brainer. Some men, bodybuilders mostly, were current with hair removal, modern electrolysis, literally tens of thousands of years behind the women. However appalling, bodybuilders were the most advanced males, posing, groping about, attempting to ascend through ritualistic flexing. And the true bodybuilder could in fact succeed, in a fashion, as a perfect example of aberration, with massive doses of steroids, and as a robot of the ascendancy Piglet could sickly approve of this amphibian beginning. It was at least a starting point for when women turned invisible. Piglet could only make out the author of the man's book--E.M. Forster. Piglet liked Henry James. Henry James' women were so cool. The Bostonians. Outside a plane had started its descent in the distance. You could see it drop down before getting a sense of its approach. Piglet's plane boarded. The runway was crowded. Finally, it took off--Piglet reclined his seat, relieved, as it climbed. By flight level all was peaceful. Fluffy white clouds and deep blue sky. Piglet nodded off. Then snacks arrived in flat little packages and weightless plastic glasses. He drowsily listened in on conversations that resembled pleasant language book dialogues, against the droning engines. He suddenly felt silly--non-corporeal, two- dimensional. The flight attendants passed by like the sliding targets in a shooting gallery, like smiling pictures in a children's book. As the airplane magazine depicted life below as the Koran portrays Paradise. Although the plastic windows were actually impenetrable. Outside the still blue sky above took note of the passing white clouds below, and Piglet realized the first idea, the a priori, of a perceiving blue perceiving a perceived white--the main thing going on--the broader abstraction. Another plane whizzed by the other way, like a bullet, providing scale. He rose, and stretched, as a cat does in the morning outdoors. Piglet looked down the rows and perceived an ark of attestors, notary publics, deed records--demographers, census takers, auditors--reading and jotting down notes, taking note. Seismologists. Active listeners, percipient witnesses, the Self Aware. The self contained. And how you couldn't get out. Couldn't step on back and out--no matter how breathtaking the purvey--the ascendancy, even. Then he had to watch his breathing. Because once you sensed the outer idea, your brain might pop--it couldn't withdraw that far, even at this speed and altitude--couldn't separate from matter--transcend. They'd check his pulse and call it an aneurism, a blood clot. Piglet swayed down the aisle. Why was he breathing with his mouth open. Why not turn the oxygen down a notch, the way it was hissing in here. The plane itself could pop--from too much cabin pressure--explode, like a baked potato. That could happen--a mystery wreckage. Piglet lurched through a brief turbulence and came upon the man from the terminal and realized he was reading Ian Fleming, not E.M. Forster, The Complete Stories, and that the man himself was Sean Connery. Piglet focused. He bent down and whispered, "Bond, James Bond." The man said, "Excuse me." Piglet said, "You're Sean Connery, aren't you." "What?" "You're Sean Connery." The man smiled, cautiously, and said, "I'm not Sean Connery. I'm flattered--but no." Piglet said, "Well I guess you get mistaken a lot for Sean Connery." "Never, until now." Sean Connery was one of Piglet's favorite actors. Those James Bond movies in his room as a teenager Sunday nights on ABC. The ever dangerous Bond babes--Ursula Andress in her white bikini with the knife--she could have flayed Bond if she had wanted to. "Look," said Piglet, "It's cool. Hold the autographs--just tell me, who was the best Bond babe." "Look you, I'm not Sean Connery," said the man. He hit the switch for the flight attendant. "Perhaps you can show me some identification, then," said Piglet. "He's not Sean Connery," said a voice. The flight attendant was Dave. He wore a blue name tag. Just smiling, wincing "Dave." Downsized. How males were adapting to new roles of total servility. Piglet moved along. Why weren't there women Hostage Negotiators. It occurred to Piglet that Sean Connery had to be at least 65, way older than this one. Furthermore, the real Sean Connery probably had tons of fake ID. And Piglet was not aware of any short stories written by Ian Fleming. E.M. Forster, however, had written dozens of lousy short stories. Piglet was tempted, for a moment, to go back to apologize, but decided a followup was pointless. It was unbelievable how long these planes were. He could barely see the lavatory off in the distance. 6 THE BERKELEY LESBIANS Piglet's home, Berkeley, California, is a sunny place, of happy Lesbians. Was Piglet himself a Lesbian. Tendencies, maybe, but not. Piglet was actually the best male, beaten by yet a better woman. Defeated in hard, even combat by one of the best Lesbians. He was clearly the best man, and not at all a fem Lesbian. He wrote, made okay money, and worked out, at a gym, four days a week. In the center of the gym was a large cage where the free weights and benches were kept and where mostly men worked out. The Stairmasters and bright blue Nautilus equipment, favored by the Lesbians, surrounded the cage outside. It was an old-time gym, plus a modern one. Step in and clang the cage door shut for some heavy bench pressing. Guys will help you with a spot, push you even harder. Although Piglet didn't need a spot. Men, they work the chest so much, it swallows their shoulders and they lose their "V". Although Piglet could tell that some of the bodybuilders took him for a wimp. Piglet looking out the cage meshing to the 20 or so "V"- shaped Lesbians, strictly working scientific apparatus. He knew he wasn't supposed to. Occasionally one would catch his eye and frown. But how could he not look. Never before in history had women been built like this. The men didn't like it either, you could feel a discomfort in the cage mount when a guy got caught up looking. At the girl with the floppy ponytail, in the modest red leotard, working the shoulder press. At the slender strippling deltoids rolling out along the back of her shoulders never before seen. A new, adorably strong, feminine totality. That men had resisted, fought, under one guise or another, for centuries. Now turning after the final rep, smiling, intent. Sitting, resting, arm on knee. Strapping on a dildo and a line out the door come to suck. Or before the bedroom mirror, trying on different colored dildos, any one that pleased. Let me see. What could be more natural, and perspicacious, than this. Piglet was the first to admit. We send radio signals off into barren space. Overlooking, having forgotten, however conveniently, the next step: a difficult one, a major holdup, waiting there as ever to be dealt with. But the ponytail girl was getting closer, you could tell, from all the curious and unflinching, taking up her smile. A critical interior voice had long suffered Piglet, from early childhood. But now, the Lesbians, justly bestriding the planet, in lissome warrior girdles, had enlisted such fine critics to take up their retinue and fanfare. And what a thrill it was for Piglet, of shame mixed with relief, dismissed, just to see and bear witness. At last, the glory of years of skills training in tiger pup self-hatred--like the funnest lariat. The frequent leopard woman, all rugged and faux weathered, a serious elder, adjusting the leg press--to work her mighty spotted butt. A totally new gluteus grandeur--hard, yet full blown. While men work their chests, women work their butts--their most susceptible part, variously. The butts of the early Lesbians were laughably large. But Piglet gave them credit for coming first. The ridiculed forerunners of now this tremendous, profoundly developed buttock that could outsquat any man. Nestling in under a leg sled loaded down with 800 pounds of rubber plates. The front end of a Honda Civic. A man could never have an okay butt that prominent. The first of its kind, bespeaking a higher, more powerful sexuality. While other women had totally charming complimentary little butts. While a man can only have one good average butt. Sometimes Piglet saw a pretty, trim fem holding hands with some big-butted diesel and wondered why. It was this wholely new sexual superimposition, that only a few chameleon males, like Piglet, could freely and fairly acknowledge. The grunting and clanging in the cage amplified when someone stopped to look. There was dignity to uphold, always, at some level. Piglet knew, but sometimes yearned to give up, give in, to the harsh, unremitting rule of Lesbians. To a complete capitulation that your sickened psyche staves off outside now every minute. Who were loathe to rule, anyway, the Lesbians, savoring, as they were, the irresistible revelation of each serial instant. Time embodied, backed-up, by the taunt of a ponytail's bounce, eliciting Piglet's ever sullied male resistance. And so you lift, lift, heavier and heavier weights, enlarge, swell, although dignity is always difficult, concurrent but separate--slipping, eroding. Impressive gains stand, however, as the crumbling model, the illuminated Parthenon itself, aloft on the clear night. As awakening Lesbians unlocked their ancient inchoate, so troublesome and endless, brand new yet complete, free of gain. While the twin seraphs, Good and Evil, traverse the fading trails of Time's negative unity. Piglet's reverie was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. No, he would not provide a spot. Nor did he desire one himself. "We need to talk. In my office." Piglet followed the gym manager. They sat down separated by a vast metal desk. "I'm Dante," said the manager, smiling. "Sorry to pull you away from your workout. But we've noticed, the last few times, you've been looking a little hard at the ladies. You know they don't like that. How would you." "I guess I wouldn't," said Piglet. Dante was a great blond weightlifter with a sweetly lecherous smile. "Wouldn't you feel a little uncomfortable, possibly even intimidated?" "Yes." "And maybe some of the girls might just be a little self- conscious to begin with, here at a gym, for the first time?" "Yes--especially in Spandex," said Piglet. "That's right," said Dante. He suddenly leaned in, huge and hairless. "And don't you think they're tired of it. I mean the staring. Whistling, catcalls. Late night phone hangups. Stalkers. Wouldn't you be fed up?" "Yes." "I don't know what your story is, but you come here, you don't lift very hard, and you do a lot of looking around." "I'm sorry. I know--I get carried away." Dante sat back. They both were silent as Piglet reflected upon his misdeeds. While Dante was big, good, smooth, and inductive. Then Dante said, "You know, this is a very special gym." "Yes." "And what makes it so special," asked Dante, thoughtfully, "so different from the other gyms and fitness centers." "It's got a huge cage right in the middle." Dante was surprised by the alacrity of Piglet's answer. Expressions formed on his soft thick face like play dough. "And why do you think we built that cage," he asked. How was Piglet supposed to know. Piglet accepted things as they were and went on from there, from what he considered the highest existing point. "I don't know--I'm not Margaret Meade," he said. "Maybe you're a little creep." "I'm sorry," said Piglet, quickly. Dante leaned in again. "Maybe that cage was built when we all got tired of creeps the likes of you. Staring, objectifying, humoring, harassing. And then the rapists. Domestic abuse, the flashing lights, swat teams deploying in the bushes. Slain prostitutes, dumped out of cars. Tawny body parts strewn along the highway. "Maybe we just got sick and tired of it ourselves, as men." "I'm sorry." "And maybe we hand built that cage for a woman to know that here at last was a safe place where she can come to tighten her body, where men are committed to her total integrity: strong, decent men who have respected, appreciated--honored--women all our lives. "And maybe, when a man steps inside that cage, he's saying, essentially, I get it." "When some pervert like you shows up and threatens to wreck everything." Dante sat back, shaken. "I'm sorry." Piglet inspected the desk. Then Dante stuck out his chest and smiled, lecherously. "Say, what's your name, anyway." "Laurence Cloud," said Piglet. "Cloud, let's go back in there and I give you a spot." Dante put his weighty arm around Piglet's shoulder and they reentered the cage. Piglet was careful not to look at the Lesbians. He lay down on the bench press. Dante put on two 45 lb. plates. Then he added two 35s. "Too much," Piglet protested. "I'll spot you," said Dante. "Just the 45s." "You can do it," said another voice. It was almost twice as much as Piglet normally benched, crazy. Several bodybuilders gathered around Dante, the spotter. Piglet looked up at them, helpless, supine, like a surgical team. "Breathe," said Dante, "breathe, then lift." "We're right here," said one of the bodybuilders. Dante removed the bar, let go, and Piglet struggled for control. "You got it, pal." "All yours." The bar descended toward his chest, way heavier than anything Piglet had ever attempted before--crazy. Piglet was about to quit but suddenly caught the weight as it brushed his teeshirt. Dante's steady hands were poised right below the bar, just in case. With a mighty groan Piglet attempted the press. "Do it." "Take it." "All yours." Piglet battled the bar. It wavered, then rose, barely an inch on the right, and then the left. It didn't hurt, it was just phenomenally heavy, as Dante gazed down, fraternally. For once this time Piglet wasn't going to lie there and quit. He arched his back and fought the bar tooth and nail, one single inch at a time. And then amazingly Piglet felt a heat in his shocked arms that he had never felt before, and knew that this was it, what the bodybuilders meant by, "going for the burn." He extended the bar, arms straight, elbows locked. Dante looked down, smiling lecherously, as he removed the bar. Piglet found himself accepting congratulations and not looking at the Lesbians. How did he know they were Lesbian anyway--wasn't that a rather homophobic assumption, on his part. One of the guys, on the slender side, like Piglet, but of a strangely burnt tan, approached and said, "That was great, man. Feel like working tri's?" Piglet joined him at the universal. When suddenly a commotion at the front of the cage attracted everyone's attention. It was time for High Aerobics, and the leopard Lesbian, of the tremendously muscled buttock, had come over to padlock the cage door. A few of the bodybuilders were objecting. As the dyke elder pointed to a notice posted on the cage next to the door. Arms folded, she smiled indulgently, yet unbudgeable. That leotard--was it velour, or actual animal hide. Padlocking was the compromise solution, an accord recently struck, between women and men, to remedy the problem of men reacting badly, creating disturbances, during the High Aerobics class. Now you had a choice: either leave before the class began, or remain caged for the 30-minute duration. "Come on, you all know the deal," said Dante, strolling over, "It's either in, or out." About half the men, 10 or so, left the cage, with some grumbles, and the door was locked. The women took up their step platforms and dispersed about the gym. The spotted Lesbian turned on the tape and tapped at the mike. The lights dimmed and the music came on. It was the heavily synthesized, Euro-industrial sound of the mid-80s--late Joy Division, early New Order, Piglet figured. The marching bass track reverberated throughout-- Bom-bom-bom-bom Bom-bom-bom-bom Bom! Bom! Bom! Against a backdrop of sheer synthesizer, punctuated by swaths of crisp, staccato drum machines. Piglet had never witnessed one of these, a High Aerobics class. The very reason, no doubt, for the many magnificent, marching Lesbians on hand. He marveled. There was just a little girl, practically, dressed in sniffable grey sweat pants, and pink training bra, with the tiniest, tautest tummy--neither muscle nor fat-- something purely sexual--prancing about her platform, as instructed by her marine sergeant, in leopard fatigues. "Lift, now back--one, two, three--kick, return--now straddle!" What could it all mean. The pounding march of pastel tennis shoes. Just her pixie, cat-like nose. "Cloud, now quit it," whispered Dante. "You promised--don't let us down." Piglet remembered. He vigorously worked triceps with his new- found friend. Who was impeccably hairless, as the other men, and in lean, boxing shape, but of a peculiar chemo--orange--color. Smiling eagerly, like Al Jolson. When wasn't there a single, inescapable conclusion. Through the back door screen, the Virginia cicadas of evening, and a cooling delta pussy, set deep within forest thighs. And a strict diet of liquid methamphetamine. Piglet could do that, that Lou Reed heroin thing. Put the spike right through my vein. Piglet was down, entirely, with wasting. But on speed, and orally, thank you, all twitchy. All predawn shivery, cleaning the bathroom floor of a professional Lesbian couple with a hard bristle toothbruth. How you can't find those anymore. In the silence of his grinding teeth. Very, very dry, and so coldy, his dry sweat stuck in his pores. Panting, on hands and knees, for a breakfast glass of enveloping methedrine, and a swift slender kick to the stomach. Stepping out entirely of what goes on. The thought process. And into the arterial process. Be blood--sentient lava. Speed, the anoretic drug of choice. Thickening, quickening. While aging isn't getting you anywhere. So let the Lesbian lead, by the hand. And take you, out, back, into the lining of your brain cells. But you lift, lift. The meager wasted Piglet wearing a plain old red dress. Of Depression gaberdine. Of faith. He half-heartedly took up the tricep bar again when suddenly the lights went off altogether and a green and red strobe clicked on. The music switched to a militant hip hop, rap itself. The women spun away from their steps and collided in the flashing light, bumping and grinding, shrieking, as a male rapper railed on about the hood, the police, the "bitches," 'ho's'"--God knows what. Give it a rest. Piglet focused on an African American Lesbian, about six feet tall, built like a halfback, the way they did that jiggle thing with their dancing shoulders. "Whow, look at that," he commented. Uneasily, of two minds, Piglet's new friend began to look on as well. As Dante, like Odysseus strapped to the mast, paced about and warned against looking--more than, say, a glance, or so, at a time. "The weights--get back to your routines. Stay grounded." It was hard, all right, not to notice the flashing, sweaty, pelvic females: strutting, pounding, clapping to the beat, hands high overhead, and their savage cries, in the flashing dark. Some had formed a Conga line. Piglet discerned that a few of the Lesbians had actually strapped on brightly colored, electric dildos, like fireflies. "Hey, I need a spot over here," said Dante, preparing to squat. Like signals at sea. Not a minute too soon the lights and aerobic music clicked back on. The Lesbians returned to their pedestal steps. "That was close--unbelievable," said Piglet's orange pal. He wasn't that young. He explained to Piglet that the padlock was necessary because recently, during difficult moments of the program, the men would drift loudly among the Nautilus equipment, like foraging bears. The music blasted on, implacably, as the Lesbians marched lock- step about their platforms. Bom bom bom bom Bom bom bom bom Bom! Bom! Bom! How does it feel To treat me like you do To put your hands upon me And show me who you are "Does it matter, anyway," said Piglet's new pal, slumping on a bench, beneath his suddenly falling ebullience. "Who are we kidding. They're gone, they've turned the page on us." His bright tan concealed his age. Closeup he was actually kind of haggard. Ploughing fretful fingers through his wispy blond hair. Piglet sat down, too. Piglet was a kind person, astonished by sorrow. "Yes, I think it's true," said Piglet. "These particular Lesbians do seem to be advancing, I'm afraid. But wait, this is just the top half of 1%." "Who are we kidding," continued Piglet's friend. "I'm going broke, anyway. I mean, the electrolysis appointments--500-watt tanning lamp. Not to mention the night classes. Oh yes, the Active Listening seminars. Regression techniques, Meditation, Massage Therapy. Foreplay training." "Well at least that one must be fun," said Piglet, cheerfully. "You would think," said the highly tanned one. Taught by a $300-an-hour professional sex surrogate. But, you can't even touch her--you have to practice on the other men in the class." "Gee, isn't that kind of embarrassing," said Piglet. "Of course it is! But that's precisely why she makes us do it. So we'll see that men and women have practically the same erogenous zones. Especially the nipple. "And it can be kind of fun, once you relax." "Well, what about pussy-eating," said Piglet, alarmed, "surely you can't practice that on a guy." "Well, she says that cunnilingus isn't really foreplay since it mostly happens after intercourse. "But what's the use, anyway. I still don't get laid--ever." "Well, getting laid is always difficult," said Piglet. "And perhaps a tad overrated? I mean, why at our age, there are plenty of that cheerful, good-companion type to choose from. Hefty, capable women, who can pitch a tent, who you can bring along to Yellowstone, or the Grand Canyon, for example. The Grand Tetons. Only not on a cruise line. "And many others with mastectomies, but good otherwise." "Dante, why don't we have an aerobics routine," said one of the bodybuilders. "We don't do anything cardiovascular," said another. All eyes turned to Dante. He looked around. "Well, first, there's not a lot of room in here," he said. He thought for a moment. "Men have a higher incident of heart disease," said the orange person. "My blood pressure's up." Suddenly the lights went off, altogether this time. It was pitch black. What now. There was a stirring from among the Lesbians. A bustle, and a few playful shrieks. Then the lights of a half-dozen or so strapped-on dildos flicked back on. Swaying slowly the dildos approached the cage, from different directions, strategically. Bom bom bom bom Bom bom bom bom Bom! Bom! Bom! Oh no, thought Piglet. The raiders poked the plastic dildos through the cage and rattled them against the filigree. They were red, green, orange, and blue. Wait a minute, the cage belonged to the men, said Dante. This wasn't allowed-- "Come and get it," whispered the Lesbian nearest Piglet. Piglet instinctively put his lips to the softly glowing blue dildo. "You know--don't you--that this is what you get," she said. Piglet's esteemed childhood friend, now worldly, returning for a visit. "Time for slut-boy training. Here, how does it feel." She reached through the cage, grabbed the back of Piglet's head and rammed the dildo against his throat, again and again, smashing and tearing his face against the cold steel cage. It felt like such a relief, to be sure, such an urgent relief, a passage. "And when it's time to suck real cock, you will. Because we can make you, and you'll learn to like it, love it, the queer little slut-boy faggot you are." After all, attempts at reform had failed, and so what was left but hard, corporeal punishment. No more of the weeney, picky stuff. She was so much higher, and heavier, and lower. "Oomph, Oomph," said the Lesbian. Piglet reached through the filigree and managed to grab onto her flexed, concave butt as she pounded away. Man, the Rock of Gilbraltar. As she grabbed him by the hair and knocked his forehead against the cage. It made him kind of dizzy. Thankfully he didn't have to suck, just keep his mouth wide open. Or otherwise the blue thing would so peaceably knock his teeth out. How you can't fight progress, the inevitable. The advent of a simple biotech procedure: that illumined, plastic blue instrument coming at him, cross-eyed, permanently implanting the national Gay chip deep inside his cerebellum. So peaceful, and yet so urgent and necessary, like a yearning that had managed to stay attached and secretly grow. And maybe all that was so bitter was simply the pang of missing this dark sheltered urgency. "That's right, suck it, suck my cock. And you best get used to it." Remanded, as he was. By all the power fully vested, in the County of Sex. State of Super-Ego, country of Secret Narcissism. Swear this girl in. But it can't be fun, you sick asshole. Well, who said so, clearly the other incessant method had failed. And no way was he homo. How that came up. No way--she was the active ingredient. So strong--just her hands--and no doubt so beautiful. Men were strong, women were beautiful. But beauty was higher, having made herself strong. Beauty was stronger, having wrested strength away. But she's built like a man, you queer. Oh, no, rather something brand new--the highest Lesbian ever! So high--turning strong, courteous men, all around him, into wussy faggots! Wow! Chivalrous men--but it was more trenchant than mere sorcery--more-- The Lesbian removed the dildo, slapped it a few times across his face, and pranced back to her step. The lights returned and the music switched over to a light, elegant Mozart. It was now time for freestyle cool down. Some of the women spread out their mats and did hundreds of tummy crunches. Others performed Yoga or Tai Chi compulsories. The girl in the red leotard pirouetted way up on the tips of her toes. A compact butch shadow boxed. Her pleasant little breasts punching right along, beneath her sweats, like precious remnants. The class ended. The girls clapped happily, and took up their steps and workout bags, exchanging numbers and business cards. The leopard woman approached the cage with the key to the padlock. "Do something, Dante," whispered one of the bodybuilders. "Say, that was great," said Dante. "Thanks," said the Lesbian. Emboldened, Dante flashed a wide lecherous smile. "It's no secret to us that you're a radical Lesbian separatist. But, hey, I think we can deal with it." He offered his hand. The Lesbian laughed. "You mean those asinine Cybele worshippers? No way!" Hands on hips, a ruddy smile, she surmised the men. Her long, relaxed lines and wrinkles were of the sea. She took Dante's hand in both of hers and said, "Look, the girls and I, we can't explain, exactly, what's happening--whether we're separating or joining, for that matter. Only that it is a very exciting time for us. And while we may not show it, we do appreciate the total forbearance you've provided us here, so graciously." 7 LOVE COMMANDO Alone and divorced again, Piglet pulled up at the all- night Safeway. The two security guards let him pass, a harmless night creature. He selected a six-pack of beer and pint of vanilla ice cream, as she had told. The deserted supermarket sparkled, like a radiation accident. He drove off. Through quiet, comely neighborhoods, of happily married men and women. Of blessed, lunar connubial. While he was a roach, served and filed. But go figure the beer and ice cream. His mistress was in fact a national fitness competitor, her physique a shrine to the Goddess. While Jade hardly ate at all. Yes, licensed procreators out there, cuming at the same time for a perfect score. Piglet thought of his mistress' body and began to shake, at the wheel. With the bars about to close, and the highway patrol now out in force. He turned onto her block. He drove up the driveway. He rang the bell. A cold dry wind rattled the trees. His mistress opened the door. "Piglet. Well there you are, aren't you." He looked up, cautiously, and ran smack into her rueful blue eyes, and pretty blond mockery. She laughed, holding closed a toasty red bathrobe. "Do come in." Inside the foyer, she whispered, "Pigala, do you mind if I call you 'Gus'? It's Jade's birthday. She was 23, just one hour ago! I've arranged something special. So go into the bathroom and slip this on." The bathroom was cleaner than ever. Inside the package his mistress had traded for the groceries was a dildo. There was something going on. It wasn't one of those heavy rubber dick dildoes--rather, this upward-curved, smooth, green plastic thing. Some stylized piece with a strap-on. "Gus, Gus--we're waiting." What to do. Piglet stayed dressed but strapped the dildo on over his jeans. He looked in the mirror. The green thing stuck out about a foot, rising cheerfully with holiday spirit. He loved it here. He trundled into the living room. A silver pantheon of posing Amazon trophies sparkled atop the mantle. Jade was bound and gagged nude on the sofa. Lying bowed on her stomach, hog tied, thick white rope coiling about her wrists and ankles. Burnished by the soft red glow of an end table lamp. Jade was a slim girl, but not this skin and bones. A little sack of loose skin swung freely, drained of a tricep. Her long, pretty legs weren't as bad, but, still, were spotted with surface bruises--from vitamin deficiencies, thought Piglet. Jade wasn't eating again. Every so often, Jade stopped eating. She rocked a little--creaked--a perfect ghost ship of bones, bowed ribs, and rigging, covered by a mist of bluish, see- through skin. A rubber ball harness was strapped across her mouth. She had always been nice to Piglet. They had shared secret giggly times together. His heart ached. His mistress looked on. His heart ached. But he was still a bad person. So warm in here, she said. She let slip the bathrobe. Lordy. Ms. Nude Fit Your Highness. Totally naked, perfectly medium, breasts, nestling down upon the softest, hardest muscle, way beyond purvey. Jaguar sleekest. Amused, folded golden arms--a shaft of light! Here in the soft fiery glow with Jade quietly shivering and sweating some on the couch. Piglet reached down to pick up the bathrobe. "Oh get up Piglet--Gus. Be a man, Gus." Her excruciating butt, sweetly wrapped in red silk panties. Jade trembled. The irony of the word "panties" itself alone was devastating. His mistress lit a cigarette and said, "Comfy, dear?" Jade rocked and nodded yes. And Piglet knew exactly what she felt--that shivery sexual call to order, of being beatened, bound, and tortured to death by a beautiful warrior Lesbian. Although Jade could take it even further, awfully far. His mistress exhaled and said, "Piglet. Have I ever humiliated you?" Piglet thought for a moment. The plural of "pant." He had once licked a spot of her stuck shit off the bathroom bowl. But how could anything she ordered him to do be humiliating. "No." "Exactly. And how could anything I order Jade to do ever be humiliating. I can go but so far--pillage, torture. And you see how insatiable she is! You, however, anything you were to do would be thoroughly degrading--now wouldn't it, Piglet. And it's Jade's birthday and she misses you. Don't you, Jade?" "Anyway, Piggy--Gus--here's the plan: it's been three days on the road, and you're going to make it home tonight. You're tired, hungry--hemorrhoidal. You've been dodging those interstate scales. Up there in your big rig. Teamsters make good money, Gus. You, have a big fancy belt buckle. And don't have to take any shit off your woman, Jade, here, Gus. You're one of Country Western's new breed. Tonight, all you want is beer, some grub, a football game, and quite possibly a blow job. Just a basic, good old-fashioned, American blow job. "There had better be beer in the refrigerator. Go for it, Gus." She pointed majestically toward the kitchen and there were veins like lightning bolts between her breast and shoulder. Piglet went on back and opened the refrigerator. A great red roast full of iron sat in a platter like a turkey. Piglet popped a Bud and made a roast beef sandwich with plenty of ketchup on white. He returned to the living room. Jade had been moved to the rug. The TV was on--a repeat of a college bowl game aired earlier on ESPN. USC versus Syracuse. The Trojans against the Orangemen. His mistress motioned for him to sit on the couch. "Relax, put your feet up, Gus," she said, pointing at Jade. Piglet hesitated, then carefully placed his shoes atop the ropes, so as not to disturb anything. It was some secret suburban ceremony. Piglet took a swig of beer, then a defiant bite from his sandwich. His mistress stared. Telekinetically. What to do now. Unlike men, women have breasts, tummies, and hips. Her navel was a vortex, a secret peephole. A magic casement. The dildo waited, patiently. It was bendable--hard, yet remarkably light. Fiberglass, perhaps. Piglet let go--the dildo sprang back and reverberated against his belt. Graphite-- Titanium? "Well, you've had your fill of beer and meat." Three bites, to be exact. And maybe he wasn't in the mood just yet. What with her chaperoning, for Christsake, ablaze, hands on hips. Then she said, "Piglet. I give you the starring role, the best part, in Jade's very birthday pageant, and there you sit--pouting. "Why don't I just frog march you, right now, back to your pals at the sports bar." All right. Piglet responded well to threats. He stood up. He knew what to do. He had seen a porn flick, or two, in his time--the frat and stag parties. He pointed the dildo directly at Jade. "Suck on this, bitch," he mumbled. "The ball, you imbecile." Piglet nervously unhooked the ball from Jade's mouth. She smacked her lips. He had seen it done--the intro dick slaps--the endless oral closeup--and then, finally, the spurting cum facial. Why anyone would want to do that, though, to a tremendous woman--like Jade. "Wait a second." Piglet produced an old condom from his wallet. His mistress watched, perplexed, as he tried to stretch it out over the great green dildo. He tried to roll it out, unfurl it--but Lesbian cock was just too large! While even normal dogs didn't do blow jobs. He yanked--violently--the condom snapped. He shrugged. He sank back into the sofa. A man had to be what he was. "Fuck it," he said. Then, "Go ahead, kick me out. Why don't you. File for divorce--both of you. Every last one of you. Hi, Jade." "Hello, Piglet." "Go ahead, kill me." Things had quieted down. "She can kill herself, if marriage was so 'stifling.' Leave the world a note. 'I was Virginia Wolfe.'" He was ruining everything. He'd resort to anything. "I just had simply wanted for things to be okay--what's so wrong about that?" "Get a grip, Gus. Real men don't use condoms, anyway. Real men--" "No, it's fine, Piglet," said Jade, "Go on." He sat up. "They're the ones with the great important troubles. Wives. Oh, the terrible secrets, of our muddy origins, too horrible to endure alone. So you listen, until things return to normal. "Like catching my older brother's fucking curveball, every sweltering afternoon. Or protecting your clueless parents, with ease. "Achieving normalcy. At which it's fair to say, "now go piss off. "But we went to Europe. Divided hits of acid. Had weird sex. Got close, this time, in every way--I did! Right up next to her recalcitrance, its very base, a base camp." "You see what happens, Piglet. You hated her," said his mistress. She knelt and kissed Jade on the cheek. "Happy birthday, sweetie." She left for the bedroom. Emphatically. Jade lay on her stomach all bound and breathing, licking her lips. She looked up out of one eye, one big sad eye, aimed right at him. "You loved her, Piglet, as best you could, all anyone could ask. Please untie me now." Even ghastly she was pretty, her gentle profile, lank helmet hair, like a precious coin. Where were they, what page was this. All this decision-making was exhausting. He took a trucker's-size bite from the sandwich. He looked around. What was going on. Maybe divorce wasn't so bad. "Wait a second," he whispered. He stood up and said, loudly, "Guess I'll get another brew," and ordered Jade not to move. Piglet returned to the kitchen, turned on the light and popped another beer. Then he tiptoed back to outside his mistress' bedroom. He peeked in. Was she pissed. It was just like one of those horror movies when a hatchet comes flying out. Instead, an arm reached from around the door and pulled him into the dark. His mistress jacked him up against the wall and whispered, "What do I do--what do I do anymore." She kept shoving him against the wall, by his shirt collars, not very hard, but persistently. "Therapy, spas, steroids..." Then as Piglet started to dilate, he saw that she was crying--big round tears, deploying, one after the next. "If you ask me--she needs to be hospitalized," he said. She let go, stepped back, and whispered, "It's that bad-- isn't it? You don't eat--you starve! That singer--Karen Carpenter--the Mormons, even." "Well, the Mormons eat their dead," said Piglet. She lifted him again, right off the floor. Then she let go and started pacing. "Yes, the hospital, of course! An I.V.--hook her right up--check her in, first thing in the morning. Some complete amino fluid. Yes, forced feeding, around the clock. She'll like that. "Strapped down, lost in the Gulag, intravenously. Some huge Ruskie nurse. Jotting down the valve readings. Of course. I knew I could count on you, Piglet. Now get back in there--she shouldn't see me like this. I swear it, though--tomorrow, the hospital--St. Mary's--9:00." "You had better." "What?" He returned to the living room with a glass of milk for Jade and tried to untie her. If she'd only hold still. Jade sprang free and jumped into the red bathrobe. "Aren't you hungry?" he asked. "No," said Jade. "C'mon," said Piglet. "You must be hungry, for something." Jade shook her head. Piglet remembered that Jade loved ice cream. "How 'bout some ice cream?" he asked, brightening. "Milk and ice cream." "What kind of ice cream?" said Jade. "Dryer's Light Vanilla," said Piglet. She considered it, then agreed. They watched the game. An "intersectional" matchup. Jade gobbled some ice cream. It was 2:00. Piglet hit the remote. Again and again--his mistress had about 50 stations-- until he found what appeared to be a game show, "L'Amore," hosted by Luca. Luca came bounding out of nowhere. He looked like a healthy Julio Inglesias, thoroughly continental, in a square suit. Steve and Julie were the first couple. Julie's complaint was that when they were engaged, Steve would take her out for dinner and a movie before they did "it." But now that they were married, Steve just wanted to stay home and do it. And Steve was ticked because now when they did it, Julie required total darkness, a blackout. Thus, they couldn't do it in the morning or afternoon, unless they were in a closet or something. Jade was absorbed and ate steadily. He insisted she drink her milk. Steve called Julie a whore. Piglet felt very happy. The audience sided with Julie. Then Luca got about three inches from Steve's face and told him about the time Luca himself had had a woman with a similar nudity problem. What Luca had done was actually hand make for her, her own soap. From all natural ingredients, that you could get right from stores, at least in Europe. Then he'd do stuff like draw her bath water and later lotion her down. It had worked for Luca, but he wasn't saying that it would necessarily work for Steve. The show ended and Piglet turned off the T.V. Well maybe it was worth a shot. Jade started to babble. After she had lost her dancing gig at the Palladium, Samantha had said that's it and made her move in here. And Samantha confiscated all her amphetamines except a secret bottle, of crank, and made her eat like a pig. And Erica, the Nazi housekeeper, kept the key to the bathroom so that Jade could only go with Erica watching, even to take a dump. Or floss. She'd never get her job back because she was already too fat. But Samantha said don't worry they'd begin training soon. At night Samantha held her in bed and stroked her hair and sang lullabies in her ear and Sam's body made her tingle. She had really a surprisingly pretty voice and the most beautiful body didn't she Piglet. Was it bad just to want to lick her feet and always be Sam's plaything and end up in a pile of discarded toys. It would be fine with her to just lie around with Samantha's old toys. She felt so safe during the day watching tv with Samantha at the gym and on days Erica wasn't there sometimes Sam tied her up before she left. Her favorite show was Lassie. Lassie had puppies in the woods. Jade babbled off to sleep. Piglet tiptoed back to the bedroom. His mistress had passed out spreadeagled on the bed. All was quiet. Piglet felt like a commando, a love commando. His mistress sleeping soundly in the bedroom, Jade sleeping dreamily on the couch. He drove off. Geeze, it was just like old times. His mistress, Jade, and now this Erica. Who ever needed a wife. Maybe he could be Erica's assistant. She'd need a lot of help when Jade returned from the hospital. First Assistant. Assistant housecleaner. Maybe Erica could leave him a list of things to do in the evenings, after work. Night maid. Who knew the possibilities. Parlor maid. Whenever he thought of what was possible, it turned out entirely different. Chambermaid. Up ahead someone was waving him over with a flashlight. Just when you think God is great you get carjacked. The road was partially blocked, by a highway patrol car. Some San Quentin escapee, thought Piglet. Then he realized it was one of those Christmas sobriety checkpoints. No problem, he had sipped maybe two sips of beer. .2 on the meter. He touched his finger perfectly to his nose. The patrolman was polite and professional. In shape--one of country western's new breed. Piglet stepped out of the car and cooperated. The officer shined a pocket flashlight in Piglet's eyes. Piglet looked right, looked left. "What the fuck is that," said the officer. Piglet looked down and saw he was still wearing the green dildo. The officer shined the flashlight on it. The dildo glared back. The officer reached for his gun. "I don't think that's relevant," said Piglet. "It's undecent exposure," said the officer. "What am I exposing," said Piglet. "I know what that is. It's a dildo." "Uh, a common mistake, officer, it's actually a penile symbol," said Piglet. "But isn't this about drunk driving." The officer shined the flashlight on Piglet's face. He relaxed. "You like wearing that, don't you," he said. "Look, officer," said Piglet. "I just forgot to take it off. I'm really sorry." "I could hold you for 48 hours." "Look, officer, I forgot that I was wearing it. It was a pageant--yes--a Christmas fertility ritual. My girlfriend's a Cherokee Indian. Well part." "You mean 'your boyfriend', don't you?" "Well, yes, my boyfriend. Boyfriend, girlfriend." Piglet smiled cheerfully. "You know," said the officer, "it's guys like you why I moved my family to Pleasanton." The officer continued to shine the flashlight first on Piglet, and then the dildo. Piglet hastily unstrapped it. "What do you have to say for yourself." Piglet rushed to apologize again, but stopped. Instead, he said, "That someday, I'm going to take a drive on out there, to Pleasanton. With my symbol sitting right next to me, on the passenger seat. And I'm going to drive right up to the Safeway, right at midday. High noon. Park, strap on old Mr. Green, here, open the car door--" The officer punched Piglet in the stomach with the flashlight. A short, hard jab. Piglet doubled over. He grabbed for the car door and tried to gasp. This was how Houdini bought it. This hadn't happened, his wind knocked out, since he was a kid. "Have a pleasant evening, sir," said the officer. He turned and walked away. Piglet climbed back inside the car and lay down along the front seat. His breath returned in fits. There he was, in the parking lot of the Pleasanton Safeway, dildo strapped on, wives and children screaming, fleeing his advance. Spilling and dropping their grocery bags in flight. The guards opening fire. Bullets clanging off the dildo and ricocheting into windshields. Piglet by directing the Cryptonite dildo making the gun barrels bend straight up. Earthlings, put down your guns, I come in peace. Food has been achieved. Wives, I understand your feelings. Very amusing. He felt exhaustion settling in. Ha, ha, ha. Too tired to figure out what was expected of him. What was the word for that. Put down your weapons of destruction. Why couldn't he move. The patrolman would return and Piglet was too tired to say anything more for himself. Sometimes he felt empty, afraid--a lot even--but, as he got older, he almost couldn't recall what loneliness felt like anymore. 8 The Return of M. M. returns, from New York, subdued, at the front doorstep, with two large suitcases. I carry them in and she goes right to sleep, like a migratory bird. I peek in while she sleeps. It's so exciting. M.'s back! She sleeps in her pj's facing the wall. Actually in this funny blue mechanic's smock. Snoring sometimes--like the Indy 500. She loves our mattress--it's a king-size McCroskey Airflex. Made of genuine goose feathers, as well as all the good modern stuff. It's a South Sea island--Tahiti. M. removing her shoes and flopping on each different showroom bed at the McCroskey Brass Bed and Mattress Center. Founded in 1897. Bouncing, fainting, hand to brow--basking, spreadeagled. She walked right past me through the door. Sometimes I do her shoulders as she falls asleep face to the wall. But not now--I leave her alone, totally. Stay back, give her space. Give the lady room. But, what, she's disgraced to be back. What, I'm chopped liver, am I. She's not really sleeping--she's faking it. It's a test, a space test, right off the bat. I deal with my anger. Just be glad she's back! M. has trouble doing things, completing them, that's all. She's read Middlemarch three times but never finishes it--she loves it so much. Each time she comes 50 pages closer. Stay out of there--she's wired to go off. She carefully constructs a fine, detailed plan, pictures it perfectly, and at peace goes forth into wonder. And then returns flat out defeated. And then it's too hard to talk. That's all. It has nothing to do with you. The fact that she's back. Leave her alone, be a grownup. Be patient--she writes, draws, dances. Plays classical guitar--loves to cook, like a serious chemist. Reads me the Sunday want ads: "Here's one, 'machinist.'" I withdraw from the bedroom without a peep. Mr. Secret Pig. Her face to the wall is mixed. Her mother is white, her father black. That's your first defeat. Just her hair--neither black nor white--this defiant structural thing--Bozo--the Divine Comedy. Trips to the stylist like cutting a hedge. And then, it goes boing the next morning, like Napoleon's Hat. The first time it happened I burst out laughing. How was I to know that she never forgives. She understands hatred and revenge, as well as the next man, but never my spontaneous acts of cruelty. She'll never forgive. When she bravely knits together just a little cautious hope that you smash to bits, accidentally, for no good reason. Because maybe it's simply too fucking hard to keep her happy all the time. You see, it's a trap. She's going to kill me. She follows her despondency, out the door, without goodbye. Out of her life and into the world, where each new panel has its own peculiar interest. From one to the next. Diversion is your only hope. She likes it out there. Keep her occupied. When what's wrong with a little good clean malice, now and then. When she's a waitress, for Christsake. A lowly waitress, you wimp. But at Chez Panisse, and she makes more money than you do. And she's adored, by staff and patrons, alike. She's charming--she's informative. As opposed to "Sales," or "Bookkeeper," "Executive Secretary." And the food is interesting, and has nothing to do with her. She can well explain it--her French is good. And it's nice at the restaurant when she gets depressed, very fancy. And they're always glad to take her back. Her parents are also very fancy, and lowly. M.'s father is an artist, her mother an anthropologist. My dad's a pharmacist. A few of her father's paintings are stored as part of the permanent collection of the Baltimore Museum of Art. He's an intense little scowling drunk. He drinks Port, Sherry, the worst. A notable Black painter--furious. His paintings are often hung during Black History month. He was friends with the Waugh brothers, Matisse's son, and Langston Hughes. No lie--just to name a few. He lived in Spain, a lot, although he was raised the son of a tobacco sharecropper, in North Carolina. He has lots of stories. And read Brier Rabbit to toddler M., with the sleepiest drawl. M. adores him. I don't. M.'s mother has long silver hair like an Indian headdress. In college she dated Philip K. Dick, the science fiction writer. And dumped him. I thrill to M.'s stories of her famous parents. M.'s mother was a Fullbright scholar who graduated with a masters degree in physical anthropology from the University of California, in the 50's. And then raised M. and her younger sister mostly on her own in Big Sur, off in the woods, on welfare. Without complaining--silently, in fact. She's tall with the granite gaze of an Indian chief. I like her, but M. doesn't. She's nice to me. I sit down at the kitchen table, to read. I'm not going to wake her up. Sleep is sacred. You fall asleep, you win, those are the rules. M. is six years older than her sister Geneva and grew up alone in the woods after her father finally left for good. Back then there were woods instead of parks. Her face is mixed--a mystery--people think she's Hindi, or Cajun. There's a soft, round Negro modeling that blends quite sweetly with the high, noble quality of her mother. But then it cracks apart, under stress, like a rashy penitent. She stares at you, cubistically, a work of art. But then, there are other times, quiet, unguarded moments, when nature so gently adores her. This is not to say that a black person can't have high, serene lines. Or is less likely to than a white person. Her father just doesn't, that's all. It's really easy to piss M. off--you have to watch it, constantly. Although broke, both her parents are totally, absurdly noblesse. But M. is an articulate Negro we can work with. Unamused, sometimes, is true, but charming. Staring a tad impolitely, incredulously, in fact, on occasion, just when you relax a bit. A touch of that attitude thing. Reliable, all right, but tough, startling. She's had tons of boyfriends and you're no different. Returning home and now barricaded in the bedroom totally defeated. Don't pour gasoline on this. I will patiently await the All Clear sign--it could take days--the shrug and then her sucking monkey face. When she comes out in her blue mechanic's smock to phone her sister. Catching up with Geneva, laughing over the telephone, at home, at peace--exquisite. M.'s like an older brother to Geneva, although they both speak French fluently. They grew up with those Esselin people down there, at Big Sur. Who were so pleased to find in M. a nearly comprehending Negro. With a frightening stare of incredulity. Big Sur is a thicket, the heath, a no-man's land back then. These were the people who chose to live in the woods during the 50's. Mountain men, deserters, war criminals. Alan Watts, Eustacia Vye. M.'s family were friends with Henry Miller's family. There were murders that went without arrest, and you knew who the killer was. M. would hunt with her dad, for food, for rabbit. There were in-breds living in the woods with shotguns. Her dad left for good after a bad incident when M. was twelve. M. has seen cougars and wildcats in the wild--not from some nature path. Is it any wonder her mom sometimes kept them back. I try to read my Matthew. I want to do what's right, that's all. My Gospel study amuses her. She's back! My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble. I pray to Jesus--please, please cast her down here with me, among me and the demons. You know she's as bad as they come. She makes fun of you--and your father! But of course never the Holy Ghost. But don't go in there. In your patience know ye your soul. She smokes four cigarettes a day, incredulously: why, why was it so surprising when she wasn't a pinhead? Okay, because she's Negro--fair enough. But didn't they know her mom and dad, Ferdinand and Isabella. Everybody knew everybody down there. Okay, Othello and Desdemona. But, was Desdemona black. Days-da-mona. And why did she feel adopted when her mother's Berkeley friends visited down there--or even that sneaky Est crowd? Later in high school with her girl gang you could chase them off by squawking "what!" "what!" And was her mother not really a mom--but, rather, an unstinting anthropologist. Raising her two little black girls in the deep protective forest. The pristine control, of books and no T.V. A cabin fairy tale, for honored guests and criminals alike, to behold. They read fairy tales by Tolstoy, and Indian fables. California Indians. They were poor, so she taught them French. M. learned to distinguish the mammoth's cranium from a mammal's. How to cook beef stroganoff like the French. But when her mom left on a dig, for days and nights at a time, when the neighbors appeared checking in on them, with their gooey casseroles, with every sort of Big Sur weirdo lurking about! As M. did all the laundry by herself in the stream! It was so creepy down there! While mother of course was high above that, that element. M. was the first in her family to obtain a driver's license. But why was her hair so dopey? Life so abnormally hopeless? Why was nigger Jim traveling down the river when his family are in the North? Do you know what it's like being the only nigger family in a hick school room down there? Reading that? Go take your Huckleberry Finn and eat it. I just like the pretty river parts. What a trap that had been. And why are black people, passerbys, complete strangers, so venomous when she's dating a white boy? You see it--you've seen it! Excuse me--her mom is white! As if that had to matter anyway! And why do white boys love to eat her pussy, while black boys never do! But why do black boys fuck her so much harder? It's true--it's true--she says--I can see her bouncing insanely on the airflex, laughing straight at me. How could such a total stereotype be so totally true! She knows I'm bulletproof. I've always been a very slow fucker, I fuck at a retarded, gooey pace. I make love like a smiley woman. She laughs at me. She loves to get fucked real hard. I love to make her laugh. I can make her laugh real hard. She stops everything, gets on top, and fucks me real hard, slapping my face for going so slow. I myself like to get fucked real hard--doesn't everybody. Maybe black cock is what I really need. When I go down on her, she stings my back with a riding crop the second my attention starts to wander. It can be a long hard journey. She's quite a gal. Kinda big, and awful strong--and she's back--hey la, hey la. Once she pinned me against the wall and her pussy knocked my two front teeth loose, for days. She's fucking crazy. She's high quality all the way. It's quite a feat to emulate a perversion the likes of mine. It takes some time, a languid quiet time, a little wander off, to that dark, nameless ground, of black ultraviolet, where basic anger cloaks itself, from the stark cold, in a clear flame of sexual volition. Like the most intrinsic Yogi, liver-contorting swami. She could force me to suck cock. Would I do it if she stood there and demanded it. And then learn to love it, with her standing there directing, hands on hips, seeing it all through, to the bitter finish. I can't tell when I'm a self-parody or not, anymore. It amuses her no end. I actually do know, but she loves her father irresolvably a thousand times more than me, anyway, more than anything. But why he had to do that one icky thing. And we're off, groping: when it was probably her own fault, in a way. Maya, you were twelve. But was she a flirt, old enough to know how to flirt. Maya, you were twelve! Was she instinctively learning how to flirt--practicing at the time--Christ, like some bear cub, out there in the woods. And where was mom, as they tussled--suddenly in the cabin--what, off observing behind a tree, in the drenching rain that day, like Margaret Meade? Jane Goodall? Carefully not interfering? Like a totem pole? Getting soaked? She loved the smell of her dad's paints. She would sit in his lap and apply a few strokes, as he directed her hand. She was 5'3" when it happened and never grew another inch. She could have been an international spokes-model, like on Star Search. His whino breath in her ear--stay still. Maya--stay still, girl--what--like a haircut? A tick in her scalp? Jiggers in her butt? When she could have easily squirmed on out of there--he was so drunk, and frail. But he was her daddy, so she stayed still, on her stomach, incredibly still. And it was all over in barely a minute--for being a good girl--her daddy's girl! It would have been so easy to get away. Maya--M.'s imitation of an ape is the funniest thing I've ever seen. Looking up at me from Middlemarch, sucking her cheeks, rotating her dusky little foot. I just love her so much. I can't help it. I suck her toes. Like coca cola. He was her daddy--who then ran off to Spain! After she had been so good. If she had just run out of there, he probably would have stayed! Maya--and what about Geneva, who was six at the time, when it only happened once, it was okay and technically didn't even happen! But she'll tell you it was all his sorry excuse, anyway, to go off and paint, by himself, in Spain--on the plains--what he had to do--totally for himself, anyway, the plan, all along--that pathetic little drunk--for the greater glory of Baltimore--while leaving her behind as their sad little secret-- just the two of them--the sorry little excuse--Thimbelena. I hear something. He's Judas Iscariat. The house creaks, as afraid of M. as I am. Also, M. snores. I'm Judas M. Scare-di-cat. But no, wait, it's clearly a summons, from the bedroom, a beckoning--I tremble--the dauphin calls, wishes to see me. Oh thank you, Jesus. I won't blow it, Jesus. See, she was faking it--I win! In I go. "Do my shoulders, please," she says, face to the wall. Mr. Piggy eagerly climbs aboard the Airflex snout first. Why can't one single part of her life just be normal for a change, she sobs. It's so sad! While I grew up normally in the suburbs. She knows that. I can feel her silently crying, and I rub her back and shoulders--but not too weird, or low. It's a blessing to take care of M. An honor, again, now that she's back. For me to care for, some more. My very best funny care I promise to always lightly give. Please, Jesus. Forever, although how much more. And pretty creepy--I think I give her the creeps. I know I give myself the creeps. When she could leave again tomorrow. For good. Leaving me free at last to take the cure--turn gay. Change into a self- respecting faggot. A normal submissive, the esteemed catamite, ear ring on the left. On my knees getting ploughed with her picture in front of my face. 9 Home Alone Piglet lying around in bed with M. Super Bowl Sunday morning. The 49ers had made it again! While M. had zero interest in sports. Except for Olympic ice-skating--the twirling little girls. She was spending the day with her friend Elaine in Sebastopol. Reading the paper--Piglet the Sports, M. the funnies. Coffee, bagels--Piglet acting as non-solicitous as possible. Calm, like Joe Montana. Idly massaging her foot. Do my calf, she says. It was still early, not even time for the pre-game analysis. Although maybe Senior Skins golf was on--with Arnie and Jack. An entire day could slip by lying around with M. like this. She had missed plane flights. Her shower alone would take an hour. "What time is Elaine expecting you," asked Piglet. M. withdraws her foot. Now he had done it--raised the responsibility issue. Sometimes he assumed she was a tad irresponsible--although he could swear that she baited his assumptions. M. was devoted to Elaine. Elaine had been assaulted, also. Well, raped. And Elaine was a therapist, and perhaps the highest of M.'s many honored friends. She leaves without saying a word, not even a kiss goodbye. Damn. While Piglet was the only one she was mean to. He turned on the golf. Arnie was fat now, fatter than Jack. Why he had to open his stupid mouth. He could have been useful--had gathered the things she would need for the trip--as she showered--bottled water, oranges, Motrin, brown pantyhose. He could have quietly gone out and done good--instead of insulting her. Damn. Pantyhose was sold everywhere. Although wasn't it her solemn duty to ruin his Super Bowl Sunday without saying a word. A dominance ritual--like on those nature shows. Did he actually think he could watch football all day, get drunk--listen to his old rock albums at full blast--and then maybe beat off-- without paying the price? She knew there was stashed porn. He couldn't be trusted. He was in fact below reproach. As old Arnie and Jack eagerly sized up their Hawaiian putts. Life without M. Oh no not that again please Jesus. But wait, she returns, the slamming door, and takes out the Centurion CR 39 Locking Penis Sheath. "Put it on," she demands. She throws it at me. She says that masturbation robs me of incentive, initiative. She works out, alternating upper and lower body, and then fasts on oranges and grapes. "Look," I say, "sakes alive, do you think I'll need this thing today, Super Bowl Sunday!" "Put it on," she demands. The CR 39 Locking Penis Restraint is made of black patent leather. Mine is 3" long. First, your testicles go into the pouch on the bottom. Then, in goes your penis and you zip shut the actual sheath itself along the top. Then, there are two locking roller buckle straps, one in front of and one behind the testicles. I cinch the straps, and buckle, and then M. applies the steel locks. We're a team. They look like ordinary Silag locks, except in miniature. Once locked in, it's impossible to remove the sheath without also removing your testicles. Inside the sheath around its base is a ring of little burrs, prickly spikes, that don't hurt really, unless your penis tries to enlarge. But any true erection of course is impossible. Although it can get highly uncomfortable-- inadvertently--the interior cock ring. You can go potty, but you can't masturbate. It's a 24-hour chastity. "Is this really necessary, today, our national day of football--" She drops the tiny key into her cavernous purse. It sinks to the bottom. She's so serene, so impassive, a mask of beauty. Aloft on the night, Platonically, her dark clear eyes the very heavens. Strength, a centurion, kneels before beauty, his superior. She interrupts my energy, snips it. The complexity of her sway--all I'm confused, nullified. I suddenly feel a dozen little stings down there. Geeze--I wince. A glimmer of satisfaction seeps in around her mouth, then recedes. She leaves again amidst my protest. Her impervious butt is final, out the door. Man, what a butt, Uranium 237. She's got me by the balls, her digging fingernails. Piglet limped over to the couch. He had to think cleanly, clean thoughts, or this could get worse, even, seriously bad. He felt like Pinocchio. But man, what a woman! Oh no. He was totally whipped--her chattel. Oh no--it felt like baby hornets. Was he bleeding--he could start to bleed--how could you tell. He tried to concentrate on the golf. Lee Trevino was the biggest of all. He could slowly bleed to death, like the tentacles of that killer jellyfish. Nonplussed M. in a naked homicide lineup with Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, and Gary Player. Oow. The way she took his best Oxford shirt and tied it off above her navel, Apache style. Oow. Her taut, glossy tummy--no, don't--perfect, like a contact lens. A skate rink--he found himself musing, adapting--to his own overactive imagination, that's all. You could adapt to so much. The ring was just extremely uncomfortable at times, was all. Just like M. He made it to the refrigerator and popped a beer. The San Francisco Forty Fucking Niners. Gunning for an unprecedented 4th Super Bowl championship. The Steelers were the only other team with as many as two. Joe Montana at the helm, of the West Coast offense, picking apart the Denver Broncos. Jerry Rice, Ronnie Lott, and elephant back Charles Haley. You knew it when Ronnie Lott hit you. The team of the 80's, the 90's, the century. Of nomenclature. He sat back down on the couch. He felt fine again. It felt kind of good, in fact, down there, now, kind of wussy good. The soft tight leather. Although you couldn't get Joe Montana into one of these things. It wouldn't fit--even if you slipped him a Mickey. And even if you could--Joe's erection would smash it to bits. Just try to get any current San Francisco 49er into a male chastity. There was no need, anyway--the team didn't masturbate. Piglet got out some chips and salsa, and it was time for the first pre-game show. He felt great. And could still get plenty drunk. The restraint--it was in fact an honor--M.'s way of trusting him, exactly, to tend her anger. While she remorsed, of rape, with dear little Elaine. Weeping over their herbal tea. T'was so sad! Their tiny, perplexing insights--the stupdifying arrays. Piglet kicked on back. How M. could be in two places at the same time. He hit the remote to Senior golf again. To the shady greens and aloha beaches. But once, he came in upon M. brushing Elaine's long silky hair. That had kind of stuck with him. Did they get so sad, so abstracted, that they needed to cuddle? To soothingly cuddle? M. had the most precious little breasts. Oow. Piglet swilled back some more beer. While the 49ers were 12-point favorites. And would cover, for sure. And it was okay if M. cuddled Elaine. There was nothing wrong with that. Two commiserating friends, was all. Two intimate women, lightly kissing and caressing. Elaine cuddling M.'s Oxford breast. Piglet swelling with love, a love supreme, transcending hurt and pain. A love supreme, a love supreme. While M. never cuddled with him--he was too hairy, and smelled. How today, men practically never got laid. Except for pro football players, the last of the great specimens--a football refuge. After all, lovemaking was women's work--the glory, all along, the very wonder. And as painful as that was--be perfect. In an age of cloning--with masturbation more sophisticated now--on the Internet. Clearly, all the great urban centers, of western culture, were turning Lesbian. Lesbians were artistically higher than queers, even. You had to fan out, into rural communities--small Baptist towns--a male diaspora--to even think about getting laid.