I met her at the slug fest. She was wearing a fairytale
sandwich board featuring Snow White and Rose Red and she said, "Hey you
there, Limacine dream man. Come hither."
I thought I must have misheard her.
Seeing my befuddlement, she grabbed me by
the balls and led me to her river.
She said, "I'm nuts about NOTHING and men
who look like Eric Clapton when they're reclined against their electronic
keyboards and going on about the pair of legs in oil that they have hanging
over their stereo equipment. Now, PLEASE, take my breast in your mouth
right now and suck me off before I DIE of embarrassment."
Well, it was all a bit much. I declined
indignantly, naturally. I am a man, after all.
I need a coy gal, someone who plays hard
to get, maybe you'd call her a line ball. Aren't they hard to get? In
tennis they are, I know that much.
Next she donned a yellow woolen cape and
jumped out at me from the bullrushes down by the old mill stream after
the barn dance out in back of Coot Hill. I slipped out from beneath her
fingers like a Texas oil slick, quick as a wink. She stormed off in a
huff, saying, "What in tarnation does it take to get a man to bait a beaver
trap around here, that's what I'd like to know!"
"Try a little mystery," I snarled at her
through my clenched teeth.
"If you think subtlety is my strong suit,
you are mistaken!" She hissed.
If only she were married, I thought to myself,
and not a free spirit, I might be enticed. But seeing as how she is free
to love me and being such a slut about it, I really cannot be bothered.
That's what I thought all right. Well, for
about one nanosecond, anyway. Because in the next nanosecond, she tossed
me into the garbage bin in order to enlist my help in recycling all her
trash, which seemed to be of topmost urgency in her mind. I couldn't help
but be a little turned on.
Still, I dug in my heels and resisted after
the first couple of kisses because, well, like I said, I like my gals
to be delicate flowers and a little afraid of the wooing, not sockdollaging
MAN EATERS like this one. My god! She even wanted to suck my DICK without
my even having to grab her by the braids and press her head to my throbbing
groin! The outrage of it all!
Women. They just don't make 'em like they
used to, I muttered. Petticoats and all that.
So what does she do next? Comes prancing
in wearing petticoats nice as you please and just like that -- like a
quick change artist, without missing a beat, and she even had a pretty
little bodice on with tartan ribbons like out of another century and a
mouth like an angel and she looked about 17 is all. She screamed, "Look
at my mouth! My lips are so red, I don't even have to wear lipstick! And
I have a tiny gap between my front teeth and you know what THAT means!"
It was unbelievable, the transformation,
because when she'd first appeared to me, she'd looked like a hag, and
I'm sure that was the real reason I had been resisting her all along,
because first impressions are so important. But I was starting to get
the news and overcome my initial shock and well, what do you know? I decided
to roll her.
But she kicked me off and jumped straight
up into the night air and grabbed the tail end of the silver sliver of
the new moon and swung herself out into the heavens like a nymph form
a Maxfield Parish painting and I couldn't touch her up there. She'd gone
celestial on me!
I yelled, Get back down here this instant.
I demand a rematch!
But she just laughed and said, "Come and
get me, Squirt!"
Well, that really burned me up and I could
feel the horns on my head popping out and the tip of my sword busting
through its holster and I felt a great need to stick my arrow in her quiver.
I said, Let me turn you over like Cupid and see your heart-shaped ass
so I can make of it a Valentine.
"O, Okay," she sighed and dropped like a
ripened pear into my lap.
by Andrew Penland