Mona Lisa Saps My Libido

 

Part 27 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Welcome to my office, the inner precincts previously never broached by visitors or curiosity-seekers, till today. And really I’m kind of proud to be welcoming people in for the first time, except for the cleaning lady; she’s been here before. Naturally, I’ve been well-behaved around her, although like everyone, I hear stories of other bosses, bold to say the least. That doesn’t go on here.

Which you can thank my vows of chastity for, since keeping vows to me is just as natural as breathing, actually more wholesome than breathing, since breathing, like sex, is just a lot of in and out, over and over, in and out. The only time you’re chaste breathing is at that tiny pause between the two. Which if I’m not wrong, is mentioned in Asian spirituality, like the Tao Te Ching, a sometimes go-to crutch I’ve consulted over the years, truth that keeps me limping along limply, contentedly.

And not to put too-fine a point on it, but would you rather be limply or empty? Think about it. One is a state of being, the other the end of a process. A state of being, you can merely be in that state, zoned in, zoned out. The whole thing of emptying is a process, and as processes go, it's quite the taskmaster. These are some of the thoughts I have in my desk. Notice I keep my desk pressed up against the wall, taking away space for chasing the cleaning lady or her chasing me. And you see my hands are on the desk, making them otherwise occupied.

The only sexual object I’m allowing is a new addition to the office castle, a gorgeous likeness of the sexiest woman alive, Mona Lisa. You might guess what I had there before, a still-life of a potted plant, and not even that colorful a flower, always worried as I was in those days of temptation. Say it were a red rose; it’d only give me thoughts of a lady called Ramblin’ Rose, and the nights we’d be ramblin’ out for tea, perhaps stronger drinks, then her place, my place, or maybe back to the office to be chased around the desk. And there’s death in them thar drawers...

Mona Lisa actually does me a lot more good. It stands to reason: Leonardo da Vinci painted the original -- what? 5 or 600 years ago? -- no doubt she's gone on to her heavenly reward. To me she's a calming influence. Anytime I get the least bit randy, say I'm performing the Heimlich Maneuver on a choking waitress, I return to the office and take a look at Mona Lisa, dead and decayed, a study in the some somber browns, her smile barely there. Makes me think of my own grandmother, also passed.

Yes, for me, (singing a little), “Life’s a wonderful path of no-sex no-sex no-sex, all the live-long day!”

Impregnate Enough Women, You'll Pay

A guy told me the other day I was old, true story. It hit me hard, since I can’t see it in a mirror. And the guy’s a friend, whom I’ve backed up a bunch of times in the past, so I don’t think he’s lying. But he’s old, too.

His history’s an interesting one, which is coming out increasingly now that we have genetic testing and Facebook. A bunch of people looking for their roots with DNA have zeroed in on him as their actual father, and now they're trying to connect with him on Facebook. All this was a big surprise to his wife of 40+ years!

As for me, I’ve essentially been chaste over the years, so there’s zero kids showing up, and any that ever would would have to be frauds. In his case — I don’t know if his basic problem is the roving eye or simply the way his conscience shuts off after a couple beers — his claimants are not frauds. DNA’s a calling card you can’t deny.

So far he knows he has 56 secret kids. Several of these he’s known of for years, since a bunch of the women were from this area. Others aren’t known at all. But he's had hookups at Silage City for years. He and I used to camp at Silage Lake, and he was always going out for "midnight walks," leaving me alone in the tent with room to spread out.

“Why don't you use a rubber?” I'd ask when he confessed his walk had an amorous end. “It cramps my style,” he’d say, along with a bunch of other excuses about passion at its highest can’t be ruined. I have to say — brag a little about myself — my Sunday School upbringing saved me a lot, both on rubbers at the time and on newfound relatives of the engendered sort showing up unexpectedly. There aren’t any!

OK, as for his wife, naturally she’s pissed. If this doesn’t kill her, nothing will. So far she’s still alive, so now he’s stuck with her and her fabled bad temper forever. She might take the house if they split. But I don’t see an old guy and an old woman splitting up. They have too many accounts, Social Security, various insurance payments coming in in common to screw with it.

If she asks my opinion, I’m not going to back off my condemnation of Ralph for living a completely profligate way. Is he a nice guy? Yes. Is he a bastard? He can be, and more so than most. But should the wife be surprised? I don’t think so. She knows how horny he is and how he’d come home from a camping trip totally sated. Can’t tell me she wasn’t putting 2 + 2 together. Not suspecting me, of course; my morals are widely known throughout the Midwest. You see my license plate CHASTE and you know I'm much better than most.

I might have a talk with her. The best way to put big numbers in context and minimize them is to use bigger numbers. Yes, he fathered 56 children, but it wasn’t 156 or 256 or even 356. If he had 356 kids with other women, imagine how so completely horrendous that’d be compared to a minuscule 56. You have 356 kids, you may as well just go for 400. Or a complete ream, 500. That’d be sinful in anyone’s opinion. But impressive in terms of world records.

I’m glad his problems aren’t mine. The wife's always on his case, and all these kids are reaching out to him, even making a Facebook group, "The Known Children of Ralph B—". Chastity’s the best policy, if you can manage it.