Part 30 of 30
There's Death In Them Thar Drawers
We’ve been together this month on an important journey. Me in my incredible wisdom sketching out, probing, the many seamy implications of our imperative toward breeding, pairing off, “being there” for one another, but always with an alternative agenda, selfish in the extreme but still plopped out and used. Then you’re up, washing away the incriminating evidence, refusing to look one another in the eye, all quite sad. Maybe you leave that place, only to drift into your own world of terror and careen out of control and crash into a tree. A tree that’s been there solid for a hundred years, yet prepared for your individual fate.
I know the feeling and am compelled to sketch it out one last time -- your last warning before the end -- that There Is (not maybe, not might, not sometime in the distant future) -- There IS Death In Them Thar Drawers! Which might appear in the guise of a cute little number, a pair of pink frilly panties, always a favorite to the profligate mind. Some stout underwear might've been more serviceable for general wear, the cloth more durable. It might not be quite the same turn-on but it'd be more practical and economically wiser over the long run. It might even be a girdle. Men wear girdles all the time, I hear. I'm actually heard a girdle on a man is sexy. It cinches the bottom and makes the rest protrude to the point of being indecorous, yes, but this appears to be quite welcome in the height of the rut.
You’re quite turned on by this, I assume. Which I'll take as a plea for help. Consider it, this is your plea for help. OK? Now that we’ve established and proven that point we can move on. The mere fact that you didn’t know it before just now admitting it is all the proof we need to demonstrate that your present lifestyle, your present approach to life (and feeling “good”) is innately self-defeating. Naturally -- and I’m proud to say that in my career I was one of the first to suggest that these things aren’t complicated, any idiot can understand them, for which conclusion I was denied tenure -- you have numerous excuses, a rich variety of excuses, such as, “Even Jesse James wasn’t hung like me.” In the end, however, both of you have been up for swinging, Jesse by his neck and you by your other neck.
Once you’ve convinced yourself of that -- and here’s where it gets dangerous -- you turn to bolder activities. A little booze in your system, a little fire coursing through your blood, a partner up for the ride, you’re at the cheapest, sleaziest motel in town. It all goes uphill, then downhill fast. Everything you see puts you in a racy mindset. Until you’re down with whatever comes up. Reading between the lines, delving deep into the subject, and reiterating your point with intensity and wild abandon. To and fro. To and fro. Frolicking, frolicking, frolicking, then toys break the monotony, a fitful diversion. To the point of swift repetition, petting, nasty to be sure, but with such bold insistence that the heat of the moment makes it seem OK. Yes, yes! You go on until your mind shuts off and you wake up several hours later, alone.
The next day there’s talk around the office. And you only confess reluctantly, under pressure, admitting two points, 1) You took some comfort there, and 2) Recalling the thesis of this series, Something was decidedly nasty, death in them thar drawers, and with the sad termination of your ecstasy, unfortunately, you are finally spent.
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