worked at my zipper, she extruded the pale thing. “Hmm!” she said. I concentrated on the television. Lois placed one of my hands on one of her large garbonzas. She lowered herself, took me into her mouth.
I needn’t go on. It was less than satisfactory, and it was less than educational, as for a long while I thought that sex consisted solely of bee-jays. Eventually I grew to appreciatethe bee-jays, and then I married Fay, who refused to give me one.
Up the stairs, up the stairs, a feeble ascension towards the Land of Beulah. This means I’m going to bed, I suppose, at least into my bedroom. What prompted this course of action, I’ll never know. I’ve been working on the “Song of Congregation”. It’s not going especially well, there is an undercurrent of menace, subtle, yet more than enough to drive the whales away. I think I might be depressed. Watch out.
Down the hallway, then.
Here is a photograph on the wall, one not likely to cheer me any, a picture of Fay and me vacationing in the Bahamas. She is wearing a string bikini, her breasts tumbling out of the top. I am dressed in a suit, complete with watch-fob. Fay is quite an attractive woman, I’ll give her that much. Actually, with the divorce settlement, I’ll give her a lot more, and for the rest of my life. I only glance at this photograph. (Lurking in the background is Farley O’Keefe, my erstwhile probationer and nursemaid. He is wearing a bikini swimsuit, his thick and pugnacious prong all but peeking over the top. I would mention that he is as hairy as an ape were it not for a desire never to offend apes. Look at his big muscles, look at his tiny head. I hate Farley O’Keefe.)
I pass the bathroom. Claire is in there applying makeup to her face. It looks like war paint, heavy black lines across her eyes. Claire’s body is no longer pale, it is quite a rich gold, everysquare inch of her. I thought I had grown used to it, but Claire’s nudity is somewhat unsettling today. I pull the door shut. And into my bedroom. There is a white grand piano. I sit down on the bench, and, because my nerves are ruffled, I draw out a major ninth. A major ninth is a lot like a major seventh, except it not only makes the soles of your feet itch, it makes the hairs in your ears tingle. Then it’s up to the second, the minor, adding a flattened seventh for lushness. The door opens and Claire bounces into the bedroom. “Sounds good,” she tells me. Her hair is piled atop her head, contained there by an ingenious arrangement of bobby pins. Claire goes to the closet. I watch her buttocks, the muscles working hard. She swings open the door and appraises her small collection of clothes. First she draws on a pair of black panties, then she puts on a frilly and feminine undershirt. Up to the third, again a minor, I’m gearing up for the next chord, which is going to be the fourth, a major seventh, except I’m going to cluster all the intervals tightly together. It will sound like God gobbing on the sidewalk. Claire pulls on a pair of leather pants, then a satin shirt, a silver one that reminds me of metal. Here comes the chord, are you ready for this, ooh, I’m horripilated, I’m … my goodness. Do you see what I see? Is that not a bulge underneath my bathrobe? Call Dr. Tockette!
Before I can stop her, Claire sits down beside me on the piano bench. She plucks out a couple of high notes—real beauties, too, the very ones I would have played had my enormous fanny been perched up at that end—and then she glances at me with a smile. I guess I have a peculiar expression on my face, she realizes something is not as it should be. “Well, well,” she says.
“There’s likely some simple medical explanation.”
“I guess.”
“You look very pretty.”
“Thanks, man.” She continues to dabble with the high notes, it sounds like a little girl playing by the side of the ocean, Saturday morning in your pee-jays, Clarabelle on theboob-tube. “You see, Des,” she
I needn’t go on. It was less than satisfactory, and it was less than educational, as for a long while I thought that sex consisted solely of bee-jays. Eventually I grew to appreciatethe bee-jays, and then I married Fay, who refused to give me one.
Up the stairs, up the stairs, a feeble ascension towards the Land of Beulah. This means I’m going to bed, I suppose, at least into my bedroom. What prompted this course of action, I’ll never know. I’ve been working on the “Song of Congregation”. It’s not going especially well, there is an undercurrent of menace, subtle, yet more than enough to drive the whales away. I think I might be depressed. Watch out.
Down the hallway, then.
Here is a photograph on the wall, one not likely to cheer me any, a picture of Fay and me vacationing in the Bahamas. She is wearing a string bikini, her breasts tumbling out of the top. I am dressed in a suit, complete with watch-fob. Fay is quite an attractive woman, I’ll give her that much. Actually, with the divorce settlement, I’ll give her a lot more, and for the rest of my life. I only glance at this photograph. (Lurking in the background is Farley O’Keefe, my erstwhile probationer and nursemaid. He is wearing a bikini swimsuit, his thick and pugnacious prong all but peeking over the top. I would mention that he is as hairy as an ape were it not for a desire never to offend apes. Look at his big muscles, look at his tiny head. I hate Farley O’Keefe.)
I pass the bathroom. Claire is in there applying makeup to her face. It looks like war paint, heavy black lines across her eyes. Claire’s body is no longer pale, it is quite a rich gold, everysquare inch of her. I thought I had grown used to it, but Claire’s nudity is somewhat unsettling today. I pull the door shut. And into my bedroom. There is a white grand piano. I sit down on the bench, and, because my nerves are ruffled, I draw out a major ninth. A major ninth is a lot like a major seventh, except it not only makes the soles of your feet itch, it makes the hairs in your ears tingle. Then it’s up to the second, the minor, adding a flattened seventh for lushness. The door opens and Claire bounces into the bedroom. “Sounds good,” she tells me. Her hair is piled atop her head, contained there by an ingenious arrangement of bobby pins. Claire goes to the closet. I watch her buttocks, the muscles working hard. She swings open the door and appraises her small collection of clothes. First she draws on a pair of black panties, then she puts on a frilly and feminine undershirt. Up to the third, again a minor, I’m gearing up for the next chord, which is going to be the fourth, a major seventh, except I’m going to cluster all the intervals tightly together. It will sound like God gobbing on the sidewalk. Claire pulls on a pair of leather pants, then a satin shirt, a silver one that reminds me of metal. Here comes the chord, are you ready for this, ooh, I’m horripilated, I’m … my goodness. Do you see what I see? Is that not a bulge underneath my bathrobe? Call Dr. Tockette!
Before I can stop her, Claire sits down beside me on the piano bench. She plucks out a couple of high notes—real beauties, too, the very ones I would have played had my enormous fanny been perched up at that end—and then she glances at me with a smile. I guess I have a peculiar expression on my face, she realizes something is not as it should be. “Well, well,” she says.
“There’s likely some simple medical explanation.”
“I guess.”
“You look very pretty.”
“Thanks, man.” She continues to dabble with the high notes, it sounds like a little girl playing by the side of the ocean, Saturday morning in your pee-jays, Clarabelle on theboob-tube. “You see, Des,” she
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