Self-Quarantining With "Men"

Virus

Part 27 of 30

The warnings have been pretty clear, the more we self-quarantine the safer we’ll be. To be alone is safer in the sense of the germs others have not getting on you. That much is common sense. But it’s still up to each of us -- having the virus as a common enemy -- to take care of ourselves while we have a fighting chance.

Of course families have to stick together. Having a family gives the benefit of being able to look after each another, a kind of holding each other to account. I heard it many times growing up, "The family has to stick together." Or as the soldiers used to say, "We need to hang together lest we hang apart." I always heard that, and that's actually one of the biggest reasons I never "served," I didn't want to hang apart. On the battlefield that'd be a lonely death until they came across your carcass one day -- three weeks dead -- hanging apart, and after three whole weeks, very much alone.

In other words, this is serious business. And that’s the way it must be dealt with, 1-2-3, stepping through it, having a certain discipline and sense of perception about the threat. It's no time for half measures or treating such serious business with anything but a serious response. Speaking for those around me, we've taken the serious path, huddling together, watchful for additional threats but for the most part optimistic that we'll make it through. You'd be proud of me. Four months into the pandemic, I got my first face-mask yesterday!

And we've had fun, actually, sheltering in place. I can well imagine such togetherness will have its additional rewards. As, say, nine months from now when the virus has passed and new people will be raised up to replace the old. (None of them will be mine. I knew it'd be tempting so I dipped my undies in wet cement, the fast-setting kind.) But for the others, this is the way of life, holding great promise for tomorrow and -- who knows? -- maybe facing a different virus on a different day. Because if you get one, there could just as easily be another million coming. God forbid, I know.

But not all of us are surrounded by people, friends or family, but instead are alone, the minutes passing slowly as they rouse into defensive posture every time they hear someone passing. "Are the hordes here to steal what’s mine, my toilet paper, my canned soup, or worse, my paper towels? Will they take my life? They may as well. Without my stuff what would I be? Withering on the vine until the grim reaper makes it official, 'He’s dead.'"

Anyway, I meant to say, all this breeding is happening where those equipped to do it are doing it. Meaning we’re just 7 or 8 months away from the dawning of the Q Generation, the Quarantiners in their youth. Their generation marked by the forever compulsion of stocking and restocking, "We never have enough! Take care of yourself with the uttermost caution. Plan way in advance. Anything can happen!"

For those who are about to pass on -- never to see the glorious days of nine months from now, let alone the adulthood of that future generation -- pass me that old copy of “Men.” Even if I'll never be a father, I can dream.

My Invisible Nuts, Her Cleavage

Paranoia

Part 24 of 30

Remember yesterday when I concurred with holy writ as to the creation of woman from a rib? That’s pretty good, since women are essentially beings to be worshiped, and if you're not prepared to go that far, they should certainly be emulated. Which is not a dirty word, by the way.

I can think of my parents, what they were like, one of each. With the man having certain distinctives also, including his caveman consciousness. “I push together rocks [ala the Flintstones] and have a home. In home I keep my rocks safe. And get them off in the privacy of my humble abode. Which I’m abode to do right now if Wilma doesn’t hurry up and get home. Her loss, my loss! But there’s always tomorrow, where I am, way back in the past.”

It all relates to paranoia. Existence is never just equilibrium, it’s always driven by paranoia. But paranoia, being part of the whole, also acts as equilibrium. So in this obscure, cockeyed way of looking at it, existence truly is just equilibrium in action. Catch that, it seems contradictory but really it’s symbiotic. Like if you get sick and need some biotics. They work together in your body to make you well again. Like clockwork the perambulator goes back and forth, measuring the seconds of time and eternity. They then meet in the middle and that’s your life. There’s the spark at your conception then your demise, with the whole middle part being our now. How could anyone not be paranoid? Because they haven’t tasted of the fruit, generally forbidden.

Note: If anyone makes up a religion based on that paragraph, I need my cut. I'll settle for a piece of the holy literature.

Lets take a look at this balance thing, and if it clears up any obscurity in our study so far, I'll be completely surprised. But what else do I have to go with? All the really good explanations of paranoia, gender, and getting your rocks off have been taken. Everything in science and literature are on a first come/first service basis. And there was a lot of coming and service before I even showed up, so I’m working really with the off-scourings of feeble minds.

The device is a combination balance and weighing thing. You can see which thing is heavy (perhaps most important) and which thing is lighter, the opposite. And good grief, what do we have here, a little happiness for the ladies, I’d say. At least two bags full, and I’d make the argument with those hips and the hanging-from-the-hips part, she’s got the whole package! Then there’s our friend, First Father, the caveman with his invisible nuts, weighing really very little. Yet instead of building a shrine to her, he carves out and worships his own representation. But the tide might be turning on that in these latter days. I know just looking at it -- while it causes a certain amount of terrible paranoia to say it -- the side I’m going to take and like a double-barreled chest holster, support.

Evolutionary Line Dancing

Paranoia

Part 22 of 30

After 20,000 years of steadily climbing out of the muck and mire, I regret to say that these current days -- the years since my birth -- have taken a decidedly downhill course. Is this all my fault? My answer to that important question tends to skew toward “No,” then goes for a quick U-turn and says, “Hell, no!,” before reconsidering the possibilities that indeed it could be partially if not wholly my fault.

Which I hate, and damn the luck, that I out of all the generations -- and I hear the 1700s were particularly great, thanks to men wearing wigs -- we had to pick now, my time, to change course so terribly.

It sounds like I’m admitting a lot, but, please, don’t take it that way. I’m trying more to reconcile the situation, that no one generation is responsible for anything unless it’d be to forego breeding all together. Which would have to be across the board, since obviously the current generation is more than me, myself, and I. I have relatives, some of whom I used to see when I was welcome at family reunions. Then, I don’t know who it was that started the rumor that I supposedly said, “This family be damned!” Whatever it was I said wasn’t really all that bad. Everyone has a bad day.

I really wouldn’t mind going back to the dawn of history and having a talk with Ugg or whatever his name was. And to let him know from my point farther down line we believe he had it easy. He had no one really to satisfy, no one to impress. Which is the way it had to work: He was born from someone, but there was a quick break in the line, be it continental drift or the family scattered after bad crops, and he was on his own. Once separated, they never rejoined. So everything he did then was easier. No judgment. Which all of us could use at times.

The eons sped on. And as the social web squeezed tighter and there were no completely obscure places to go, the rest of us had to do our best within an oppressive social environment, and that can be beaucoup pressure. You go to a family reunion and the guys have their "junk" draped out for a little comparison/bragging ritual that for some of them is a lot of fun. One cousin has it especially good, and they were always kidding him about it: “Hope you spool it up at night so no one trips over it!” He pats himself and with a sly grin says something modest, like, “It’s usually too busy for that, if you know what I mean,” before sneaking off with Cousin Agnes to Lord knows where, I guess sharing recipes.

In terms of honoring and shaming then, some guys get all the breaks! But, hey, take another look. I have a decent head on my shoulders -- who am I kidding? We haven’t had a reunion for 10 years, but I still know they’re talking about me, and laughing. They might have set a world’s record for it by now, this constant terrible laughing, leaving me absolutely no break in my imagination. And I’m frankly sick and tired of it.

Nature's Buddy Rubbers

 

Paranoia

Part 9 of 30

This is one of those especially bad days. I hate to admit it gets this way once in a while, but, hey, life obviously runs the gamut in its greater and more despicable extremes. You want to be happy all the time, then the slightest thing -- the winds of change blow in -- and you’re at your wit's end.

Being oppressed like this is an occasional thing, so I'm not trying to drive anyone away as though I’m an escapee from a clinic. Good news for the system, I haven’t escaped yet, but if I could just clasp the key in my hot little hand really hard for three or four hours, I’d have a good enough impression for Dirk -- one of the more resourceful inmates -- to make a working key. Then with enough of a diversion on the south side of the clinic, we’d be out again. Now, if we could only coordinate the escape with the time the train goes by, it’d be a piece of cake. Speaking of which, we might just hide the key in the cake.

Anyway, who among us doesn’t have bad days, whether you’re free to come and go (which must be nice) or you find your permanent residence a little more permanent than living creatures typically relish? And how about this for a sign of the institution’s failure: They know we’re all down and they still make us paint the walls gray! You probably know my theory on this stuff; it’s purely job security for them. So the crazier we are, the less we can see straight -- and with the paranoia and shaking I invented four new dances in the last week alone -- the better off they are.

Actually, I have so many problems that I don’t mind the institution as much as you’d think. Because if I weren’t here, I’d still be bothered with the same problems, only more on my own without the free medicine. On the other hand -- and I won’t get too graphic and thereby reduce my readership beyond the last three or four of you -- the sex is terrible. Although hope springs eternal -- Amen? -- so I’m still packing this condom. Because that’s the kind of guy I am, always wanting the best for all parties, happiness for me, yet being able to deprive the world of my offspring. Who’d be such mental giants, supermen, superwomen, my bloodline no doubt would take over the world! We’d pick up where my Dad left off, and big respect for Dad in Heaven. Hope he’s proud of his old sonny boy.

But maybe he's not that proud. Realizing this is the Creme de la Crap for me. Why do I exist, only to suffer this paranoia, the whole bitter landscape, one problem after another? Because of one stinking guy, my aforementioned Dad in heaven! He should not have gone all the way back when he had a chance, so here I am. Or if he planned to go all the way, he could’ve planned on protection. How hard is it to put a Nature's Buddy on? Then everyone's happy. Next time, step up your game, Dude! Give me a damned break!

Daughter of The Gods

 Paranoia

Part 8 of 30

Hmm, I want to be therapeutic about paranoia. I've had problems with it for centuries and I don’t want the so-called relief to be more of the same, driving me and everyone down into deeper and even more treacherous depths. I'm like anyone, I see a naked lady tied and surrounded by crocodiles or alligators -- aren’t they like one chromosome off? -- and I’m thinking, Pessimistic! She's a goner...

But then I realize, Damn it, you fool, you're giving up on the gods a little too soon! Where's your faith? Where's your patience? Haven’t you learned by now that the gods tend to be on the surprising side? Inscrutable, in the end aroused, certainly not incapable, not quick to yield or cede territory, especially among their own. Is there a pantywaist god among them who'd send his or her only begotten daughter into a world of sickness and sin only to be had, to be a mark, to be defeated? I think to myself, How many questions was that? Then repeat the whole spiel back in my head, counting fingers. Five questions. I quickly answer, “No, no, no, no, hell no...”

Among the gods everything (potentially) has a quick reversal, the rug pulled out from under the enemy’s feet, the establishment of justice, a claiming of glory that was never really lost, and a surprise ending that should be no surprise. They like to get the enemy right where they want him. In the sweet zone for leveling them, flattening them, going nuclear, boom! Of course there’s no real blame for the alligators, so their death is incidental. They’re only doing what’s in their nature, and if their nature says the chick's indeed fit for eatin’ on, that can’t be wrong. But they still must be defeated, because ... this is the daughter of the gods.

Which could be true of any of us. Explaining in terms anyone can understand why it is that bad things simply never come to fruition, but are thwarted just in the nick of time. And certainly any foe that felt it might have it over on the very daughter of the gods, eating her and justifying it lightly, would have to be deluded, or to put a positive spin on it, more optimistic than the situation warrants, given a considered examination of the circumstances. Enough for theodicy, albeit explained in simple terms. The gods wipe the shit off their shoes on the enemy.

How about me -- I'm no crocodile -- could I possibly have the hots for the daughter of the gods? I feel that is too personal a question and a question wrought with potential consequences via-a-vis my continued existence in the world and in the presence of the gods to answer truthfully. So let me answer it by really not answering it, while not quite not answering it: Given the right circumstances, anything is possible if the gods are not offended. If they're happy with a potential son-in-law like me, who first wants to sample the goods, that’s their business. I can only accede to their desires, although I would not be quick to give alligators the same rights. There would definitely not be a joining together of them in my thoughts as a party to any menage a trois, her, me, and them.

I guess what I should really say is, the gods are a psychological help to us, and the daughter of the gods would be a salvific figure, a metaphor, of the communications from that realm to this. As the alligators of sin threaten us -- even raising paranoia in me, and other unfortunate folks -- we desire the sweet and innocent nudity of this precious daughter, bestowing the goodness of heaven to take away our paranoia and allow us to swim free. Just to make everything crystal clear, so there’s nothing left to chance between the gods and us, I want to lose paranoia, not gain piranha.

Big City Nude Parties

The Big City

Part 20 of 28

As the friendly narrator here, I know my place is always to be the voice of conventional morality and decry any slippage from the straight and narrow, basically defined as at least an average life of fair-play, respect for others, and personal and societal reserve. Yes, I can comment on murders but not condone it. I can fawn over newborns but not advocate for them to reject their parents and go rogue. And naturally I can feature hedonists at their parties, groping one another, sucking down the hootch, and getting so “friendly” with each other that they're buck naked, but … what the hell, why can't that be me! But at this point in my life, I'm sure I'd cover my frailty out of embarrassment.

Anyway, how do you even get in with a crowd like that? That’s always the question I have, on the off chance it came to anything. It comes down to this, basically, you need to be born there, or be there a long time, or just insinuate yourself as best as you can. For me, I was already born where I was, with particular people of some fixed morality, so I can’t go back and do much there. As for my lifespan, being so old, I could legitimately live another 20 years, probably, and learn to insinuate myself with some good old fashioned hedonists. But never forget, to insinuate yourself you have to be very bold. I can see you can ease into it by imitation -- looking to a friend with an in -- with the proviso that you might be evicted with the first bold move. Because it's not your natural turf.

Thinking it over a little more, I think I could have two sets of profligate friends. I meet the first set and learn the basics of their lifestyle, but do not insinuate myself. Then I take my findings to the second set, and without waiting to see what they do, merely launch into the behavior, sidling in, nonchalantly making myself at home, etc. First guy with his zipper down! The group might wonder about me but once they've assumed I'm friends with someone, my directness would yield good results. I'm swimming naked in the pool and I'm all hands!

My quick recommendation for others, if you have all the time in the world, look for a natural way of sidling up and becoming accepted. But if you’re old and could die at any minute, just get in there and let the chips fall where they may. Because, well ... there’s lots of reasons. The fullness of life isn’t for the meek. Life’s a banquet, a buffet, and buffets are free-for-alls. Everyone has a lifespan to worry about, but set it aside and make yourself at home. I’ve got two hands, baby, and they’re not doing anything! We’re back in ancient Rome and no one’s going to know! I’ve seen the history books and the authorities barely touch the average guy.

One other observation on the graphic. That’s the Big City “on a slow night”! Picture, then, the average night, or the night that blows the average out of the water, the other extreme. You’ll have stories for the ages, stories you dare not tell. Just don’t catch anything, that’s number one. And if you’re out of good names, name the little hellion after me.

I Fear Molestation

 

The Big City

Part 11 of 28

There’s nothing funny about the fear of molestation. As far as bad-ass crimes go, it’s classified with the hardest to overcome. Just the thought of it gives us the shakes. In part thanks to our upbringing, but of course thanks to our instincts for survival and avoiding pain; we know it has to be a bastard. And it's not just in the Big City, but the same fears are in the small town -- because anyone could jump out and do something and then it’s done. But the Big City has it over the small town, usually, because the threat’s always there, one molester after another.

My usual thought about everything is 'I’ll be OK.' Which I’m reluctant to sketch out, because it'll certainly put me in a bad light for being at my most calculating: ‘Please, if you're going to molest someone, take the next guy, but let an old burnt-out cinder like me pass.’ This is actually one of the glories of old age. By comparison, I am a has-been cinder, burnt out, too old to cut the mustard, and if anyone has choices to make, I’m obviously good for nothing and a reluctant last resort, like if you’re a molester and you’re dying and you simply have to fit in one more before arriving in Hell.

The wrench in the machine, though, is we have to go by the Big City standard. So you could be as old as the hills like me, and crustier than I ever expect to be, and if the perp is hopped up on the wrong combination of uppers, downers, and neutral substances -- vegging out can also put you in this frame of mind -- any creature would be susceptible to victimization. As unbelievable as it is, there’s still the possibility the molester would want me. I'd certainly be good enough if he were already delirious or in the death throes.

The main thing is, whatever it is, to be ready, and that’s why an in depth study of the Big City is so critical. Literally everywhere you go there's someone else you don’t know. Big, little, ugly, uglier. Demented, senseless, wasted, hopeless, ready for anything, rolling up a score, in some jaded state getting it on because he's not himself, and if he were it might be worse.

I'm presenting some good teachable moments in the graphic, which boils down to your stance. “I stand before you hopelessly inexperienced, a virtual innocent, never having pleased a single soul, more often than not given to uselessness, and if the truth be told, if you’re after me, it's bad news, because you’ve fallen low, you have no standards. What a remarkable past you may have had, that even this late in your life -- don’t think of yourself as a has-been, more like still a great person, only confused -- you have the ambition for socializing, but with what? A limp rag like me? You could stand here and do better in mere minutes and be proud of yourself, rather than lower yourself to my level -- a guy not proud but a loser."

OK, somehow I escaped that dreadful fate. But the Big City’s not always so easily swayed. You might have a strong self-image. Get rid of it. It’s better if you look like disease on two wobbly feet, if you want to escape, get on with your life, and share your favors elsewhere in a more gratifying, consensual way.

Yeah, Big City Strippers

 The Big City

Part 5 of 28

I’ve finally got something nice to say about the Big City. They do strippers like nobody’s business, whereas the last strippers I ever heard of in the small town came through when I was underage. A little more on that later.

Concerning the Big City, of course I'm shocked by nearly everything about it. The amount of land it consumes to house it. The great resources pumped into its daily life, seemingly commensurate with the immensity of its population. The nameless, faceless society it’s established for itself, which proves the adage that the more people there are, the harder it is -- even impossible -- to know everyone’s name. Although in some social settings even in the Big City I’ve noticed a few people do call me by name. Get deep enough into the flora and fauna of the Big City and you’ll notice a few debt collectors in every dark alley. Once you get an invitation to check in with them, they receive you graciously, call you by name and seem to know your history, Social Security numbers, etc. The downside about them is it always turns nasty.

So let’s hear it for the small town in this regard. Even the debt collectors back home sleep at night, and they’re happy enough if you give them an occasional fruit pie -- and this goes double if it’s one of Grandma’s recipes you’re exploiting -- to show you a few more days of grace.

The Big City has it over the small town in one regard, as I mentioned, strippers. The last time strippers came through the small town was the centennial, and they were shut down after the wrestling team (minors) held down the entire front row, and finally rushed the stage. But the downfall came when the wrestling coach’s picture was on page one of the newspaper, with lots of kiss marks all over his big stupid face. A friend of mine had a single small red hair that he kept in a jar by the door, a little token of lost love, or love gone astray, or promised love where it just fizzled out. We think it was from one of the dancers, or maybe a hair fell out of a guy's nose. Whichever, it certainly helps recall a night of passion and craziness.

So that's how it is, I’m in the Big City. And whenever I can afford admission, even if it’s a pie I baked for the nice ticket man, I’m picking up a few eyefuls of stripper magic. Ummm, I can see it now in my nicely erect mind’s eye, two of the loveliest (but wildest) performers to ever hit the big stage, Flora and Fauna, one left-handed and one right, but however you shake 'em out, they look the same on both sides. Each side a mirror image of the other. Bodies perfectly proportioned, the top looking as good as the bottom. And the right side equal to the left. Very nasty, perky, responsive, absolutely no shame.

It’s a great thing, and I urge you, if you’re ever in the Big City, this is the best thing we’ve got going --- purrrrrr --- by farrrrrr, all the way! Live a little.

Horny, The Dance of Destiny

 

Knowing Your Destiny

Part 20 of 30

Remember the time I was into “Horny Goat Weed?” (As a reminder, it was about the time Dale nailed Delilah.) Of all my posts and all the feedback I get, of course there’s lots of “Attaboy! for all that. Because a lot of my readers are so sexually hopeless they have to celebrate anytime they hear of anyone's who's had success. And no doubt the weed helps to a certain extent, at least from the psychological promise that it could help. The other feedback I get are desperate pleas for counsel on getting the best strains of Horny Goat Weed, but honestly I haven't kept up on the subject. My advice, find a few satisfied goats and follow them.

In my old age I’m just not into the weed anymore. I burnt some of my last bridges to success when I was down on money and had to cut back. Plus, with age it passes. My family actually used to have goats and they were horny no matter what weeds were available, so I took a lesson from that. We never spent a dime on their upkeep or care and new goats still materialized as if by magic. So, my advice, simply start with what you’ve got in your pants and learn an important lesson from my poor example, don't get old.

These days as I practice my current obsession, being a counselor of Destiny, life is a lot less specific than goat weed, procreation, making whoopee, or any of it. It’s more holistic to look but not touch. And it gives you time for higher pursuits, goals, the meaning of life, and all that good stuff. What's coming up in your life? How are you working on your desires, and how does it relate to your overall destiny as you discern it? And what may the future hold? Maybe you could find success as a hoofed furry bald guy in the forest with a trombone and get lucky with the dancing denizens of the deep. That’s a good thing too.

Look at the concerned furrowing of his brow, critical but perhaps approving at some level. You do the “Dance of Destiny,” keeping pace with the other clients, and presumably at the end of the session you get the good word, “Keep up the good work. Don’t fail to come back for your sessions. And next time remember your checkbook.” Enough sessions like this and he could hire musicians, allowing himself time to examine the dance in a more focused way, and everyone's good.

As the Dance of Destiny goes on for you, wherever you are, I send out the good word, “Keep up the good work!” I’m sure that the good way you’re handling it -- if you’re handling it at all -- means it'll work out just fine. To a certain extent you have something to do with it, and, to a certain extent like all of us you’re just an unwilling participant in a dance bigger than yourself. Do your best. And whether you triumph (in the short-term) or soon stumble and fall into the abyss, you can be comforted knowing your did your best with your destiny, only thanks in part  to my extremely wise counsel.

A Cob Up Everyone's Bottom

Part 20 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

Here’s one that centers on a profession I probably should have followed, the law. I think I would’ve made a good lawyer, since I've always been so worried about doing something wrong and getting in trouble. It would pay — say I memorized everything legal and illegal and searched it for excuses why I didn’t know the difference. People would be coming to me like the legal eagle I’d be. Nobody would get away with anything because I’d be there forever suing for damages and banking the profits.

My dad said he always wanted to be a lawyer but he never got up and did anything about it. Just sat on the chair telling everyone who went by, “I wish I were a lawyer.” Since there’s a law office every other door downtown the places we lived, it was like saying he’d like to breathe. No one else was saying it, so why didn’t he just be a lawyer instead of yammering about it all the time? With the same thing going for me. Now that I’m old and out of live options it’s amazing to look back and see all the options I used to have, which at the time seemed completely impossible and far off. I might look into a lawsuit against those who beclouded my imagination and fogged my sight when everything should’ve been clear.

Here, though, we see our rodeo friend, Omar the Tent-making Clown, standing before a most dour judge -- who obviously had lemonade for breakfast -- and is now either extremely serious about the law and its so-called sanctity or has a cob wedged in a particularly personal body cavity and might actually have lost it sometime in the last day. That’d never happen to me, of course -- body cavities are for natural processes -- but if it did I dare say I wouldn’t have the clarity of mind to render a fair verdict; I would’ve gavelled the proceedings closed at least long enough to extricate it, explaining demurely that World War III was taking place in my pants, and on the off chance I failed, I'd look for a discrete physician to help, someone who thankfully didn’t go into law instead.

Omar’s trouble before the judge — and I’m not judging the judge's choice of personal toys, although something made of plastic or one of the more supple plastic-like materials is a lot better than an actual corn cob, which has a lifespan of what? A minute under ideal conditions? Let alone the heat of a cavity like that, the moisture, peristalsis. The fact that you’re in court is a problem too. You can’t be worrying about something getting lost and working its way upward — I suppose it’s possible, why restrict gravity’s self-defining choices — and making its presence known at an embarrassing point in the proceedings, just as you’ve made up your mind to hang Omar. The gales of laughter would ruin your credibility. And everyone’s appetite!

Well, as it turned out I didn’t save the day legally, but during the three or four recesses I managed to plant enough doubts about the judge’s sexuality — human, animal, or mineral — that Omar's next court date is in 10 years, probably five years past his life expectancy, going by what’s typical for rodeo clowns who've been in legal trouble.

Giddyup, The Night Off

 

Part 10 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

This was the night of nights — Oh yeah, one year like Valentine's Day on steroids— when the oom-pa-pa of the rodeo’s orchestra gave way to the sultry, sexy sounds of Jerry Vale, Matt Monro, and the sexy, sultry sounds of Sarah Vaughan, who taught us in her inimitable sultry, sexy way to love again. That night no crowd’s were poking around, the smell of popcorn was down to a leftover hint, and the ever-present grating cadence of the “Getyer program!” guy was mercifully stilled. How would we know the players without a program? We’d simply have to feeeeeel our way.

Was there a rose at your door or some other personal sign that you had reason to hope, to break into a smile? And on such a beautiful, perfect night, the kind of night the gods only rarely bestow, so out of character for them — February’s usually a bastard — and the gods are normally uncaring and unwilling to give us even the slightest thing. People say we have life and breath, shouldn’t that be enough? No, life and breath's an everyday occurrence and even cockroaches get the same benefit.

Really, what we should do is pull the curtain on the whole thing and never open it to prying eyes. I am so ready to pull the curtain down, don’t think I’m not, because the things that lovers share should be private. I was there that night and there's things about it I'll never confess, even if you tried to force it out of me. "O yeah, baby, that's it, the small of the back's my biggest erogenous zone." And there with the rodeo folk, I could hear a lot of the language of love: “Oh, you can be soooo mean to little ole me. You don’t like me very much, do you? Do you even like me a little bit? Oh yeah, a lot bit?, you dirty boy!”

You know what would be fun? I probably shouldn’t say. But wouldn't it be great if I would've posted on the bulletin board all the expressions of devotion I heard and promises of love eternal? And this would've been a crazier prank, holding some of those Romeos and Juliets responsible for their words and actions with a whole non-romantic blackmail scheme. I could use some extra coin.

Believe me, I knew the ones who were guilty as sin. But, no, anyone who’d do that would be drawn and quartered and fed to a bull. The rodeo always has a way of exacting justice. One obnoxious newbie a different year got an idea like that. And it didn't work out very well. He got a semi-proper burial but that was it. Then Pap suddenly declared “Rodeo holiday,” they pulled up stakes and pressed on.

Not very sexy. And crap, now I lost my buzz, shouldn’t have sabotaged the sexy, sultry mood of that night with my scheming. But, ooooo, what a night. Probably shouldn’t even say her name. Just a hint, she sells popcorn. And like popcorn, when heated up she can realllllly jump. As in "Yowsa, giddyup! This rodeo’s goin’ places!

Death In Them Thar Drawers

 

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've 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.

Always Wash Your Hands

 

Part 29 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Getting toward the end of this series, I've covered a lot of territory and saved a lot of lives. But I still have a pretty good teaching to touch on, and once I touch it I'll wash my hands. That in fact is what the teaching is, the importance of washing your hands. And I know what you’re saying, “I already wash my hands. I washed my hands a month ago today.” Hmm, think about what you just said. “A month ago today?” Friend, that’s not good enough. It needs to be done more often.

Then you might say, “I’ve already learned my lesson, that there’s death in them thar drawers,” and you're thinking you've followed the chaste path. Again, I need you to think through some of these issues. Consider this, for every guy who’s given up all semblance of sex, there’s gotta be 99 who hasn’t. So say you go out in public, you’re walking in town, that means -- the statistics are through the roof! -- you may as well be walking in a minefield! Just as the exploding mines would practically scare you to death, the overwhelming numbers of the sexually profligate infesting our cities far outweighs your virtue and mine!

I hope I'm getting your attention. You’ve never been a sleepy guy, a dullard, someone without a clue. So please wake up and see -- open your eyes for a glimpse -- everything you touch in society has been touched by 99 of them for every 1 of us. Drinking fountains, door knobs, everything. If you’re willing to drink from a drinking fountain, you may as well be down by the piers welcoming sailors home on your knees! The button’s filthy, the sides are filthy, and the water coming out is moving across the spigot which has germs. Have you ever seen a guy lift a kid up to the fountain? The kid’s mouth encompasses it! Making it bad for the kid and bad for you; I'd rather be thirsty.

My honest counsel for you, once you’ve discovered your brain, is use it, don’t shut it off, don’t neglect your thoughts. They may call it paranoia, which I suppose it is, but it’s reasoned paranoia; I’m not paranoid about scary things that aren’t true or not likely to be true. I’m not worried about washing my hands because I think I'll meet a space alien in the park and don’t want to encumber him/her/it with earth germs. OK? That’s not a reasonable concern. I’m definitely more afraid of the park just for the friends I might meet.

You run into our circle of friends -- and this is true over everyone else’s friends -- those guys are polluted. They’re not likely to survive the day, and if they do, it’s an absolute fluke. Then what they're carrying will be on you, then it'll be on me. Which, excuse me, I need to wash again.

Touch & Goo All The Way

Part 28 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Do you still think there’s nothing to it, that all sex and its related acts and conditions and consequences are safe? And that somehow there’s not death in them thar drawers? And that anything and everything goes, and that all things should be accepted, and that the more the merrier, and that-- and that-- and that? If so, you've got a greater tolerance than I, and how you ever lived this long without being in league with the devil is the question of the hour.

Look at this private doctor's room. I can barely stand to look at the scene without being sick. Honestly, I’m on my third iPad, having destroyed the first two with a sledge hammer, and only hope I'm able to write the next few paragraphs without going into even more debt. I get sick easily, I’ll admit that much, but certain things send me over the edge, not in a good way, and I simply can’t continue. It’s something from childhood. I was 14 and my mom taught me the facts of life because dad worked nights, and her revulsion as to the details was so overwhelming that her shrieking stuck with me. The house was closed by the proper authorities for a month when they mistakenly thought we’d come down with the plague.

I was very impressionable, as you might've guessed. Because the overwhelming irrefutable lesson I took away from every despicable tenant of the teaching was “There’s death in them thar drawers,” whether a long and prolonged passing (footsy, puppy love, winking) or something more immediate and obviously fatal (slow dancing, parking at lover’s lane, traveling salesmen trying to scrub away the taint with stiff brushes and lye*). Those were the years when they definitely knew what death was: World War I, World War II, Korea, Friendship Rings. We lost some of our best people, virtually an entire generation, because there weren’t the safeguards we’ve come to expect now on the boundaries of a healthy friendship.

Even today, not very many guys are aware of how their bodies function. But the actual facts are that too much of anything can shut off this valve and open up these spigots, and it just happens more or less on its own when overdone. You're driving down a smooth blacktop and you're bouncing in the driver's seat. And repeated abuse simply means you're asking for it. Too much of anything has similar consequences. You eat too much pie, you’re mortgaging the house to buy more. You can get hooked on water. And with bottled water so common, I fear for the next generation, drowning, etc. And then there’s sex. Please, proceed with caution and stop before you turn on someone who refuses to be turned off!

Anything that is haveit-forming is obviously without boundaries after a certain time. Like in finances, if you over-extend yourself, you have have years of consequences, troubles with debts. Pretty soon you’re dealing with loan-sharks. Similarly, depending what the act is, you might need expensive medical care. Whereas you could even now, before it’s too late, simply zip your pants and walk away.

*Don't try it, it's deadly as rabies.

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!”

Bugs, The Dangers Of Breeding

Part 26 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Have you ever given real thought to the process of breeding? Not just what happens in those hot moments of ecstasy but the whole range of the act from flirting to consummation? And at this point I’m not even talking of what we do as human beings -- trying to keep ourselves under control long enough to stretch it out to the full measure of the time we have -- but of bugs, insects, the sects they form for themselves and the sex they’re doing doing doing, all quite unseen in the walls, under the floors, and about as bad, in the basement.

I seriously go to the basement and realize it's another world down there. So, with winter coming on, please be careful in the basement. The bugs, the spiders -- say you fell asleep down there -- might carry you off to their many lairs. The size they have (or lack) and their ability to carry things even very cumbersome, is enough to give anyone pause. A nuclear accident and they’d possess the world, if they don’t already! They’re creepy, they’re crawly, and they're doing it, popping out new bugs everyday as we speak. Just looking for -- I don’t know what! -- your dirty sheets to curl up in, a disposed rag, flakes of skin, blood, bone. Even chicken bones in the waste-can, meaning they've infested the kitchen. There’s no telling what they might do.

The old Hollywood movies we used to be so afraid of only scratched the surface of what’s possible when it comes to a creature not only willing to breed but actually breeding 24/7, up the wazoo and back again, repeat until nauseated. I’m nauseated, and I know this is obscene at some level, but it’s the clearest call to attention you’re going to get this side of a dirty magazine. What kind of example are we setting?

Certainly nothing so clearly says “There’s death in them thar drawers” as creatures bearing thousands with each thrust. And they’re also meticulous about it, guarding their pile of eggs, knowing by foul nature the exact temperature it has to be, the exact arrangement it needs to be, and the precise timing it takes to go from zero to a million, bringing their eggs to full infestation. We're not that smart! But see them stripping a cardboard box down tiny piece by tiny piece. That’s the fluffy bedding they need. See that tangle of human hair apparently walking itself across the floor from the brush to the basement door? Look closer, there's a purpose!

They’re watching you do it -- don’t think they’re not -- and it gives them ideas, which they would've had by nature anyway. We think we’re the lord of our house. But sit very very still. Try this: Take the battery out of the clock. Listen to the silence. Hear the supposed silence falling away subtle decibel by subtle decibel, a kind of low grinding noise in the distance. There they are! Under the rug! Overwhelming! Your masters! In the next minute they're so big, so fearsome! You need to run screaming from your boudoir, never to return, and, yes, never to return to that way of life. Abstinence is now the only way!

Death At A Swinging Nightclub

Part 25 of 30

There's Death In Those Thar Drawers

It had been a long time since I was out to a swinging nightclub. As much as you think me the consummate cosmopolitan know-it-all, I’m actually quite inexperienced and innocent. I have a hard time talking about anything but the weather. So I don't try anymore. On any given night, instead, I'll put moisturizing cream on my face and let it cake, then hit the bed, reading some old Reader’s Digest hardbacks my grandparents left me when they passed. I’m definitely not setting the woods on fire, nor do I think it’s even a good idea.

Occasionally, though, I drive by a nightclub and survey the whole thing. It’s been about a year ago that I was so worked up about the obscenity of society and the things people are willing to do -- and they get away with it, too, ‘til they’re caught or diagnosed. I was thinking of this series and thought I should brush up on my outrage at society’s ways. So out I went! Parking behind a dumpster and walking nonchalantly up the sidewalk and around the building. The windows being draped, there was nothing to see, so I had to walk in. Right away the head waiter saw me and came over with a limp dishtowel over his arm and serving tray. He told me a table wouldn’t be available for an hour. I looked over and saw people strung out, entangled, arm in arm, pants strewn about, dresses unzipped, and coffee getting cold.

It might not look like a good idea, but I did have a good idea what was going on. Which can be summed up in one sweeping indictment: There’s death in them thar drawers! His drawers, her drawers, and all the drawers that drew them together and sketched out that bleak picture of lust once strong and now obscured in lifelessness, limpness, letting it all hang out, not presenting a good picture, nothing I’d like to be caught dead at, spread eagle like some or more demurely curled up and hidden under a table. The light’s never that great in those places.

I know what happens at these places, and that death is never far away from the participants. With the saddest commentary on the situation being, there’s always someone else just old enough and unwise enough to boldly take those people’s place when they’ve passed. Sweep ‘em out, call in the shadiest undertaker you can find, let the evidence be obscured, no one has to know, and the show goes on! Put in brighter lights if it helps the bottom line. Put in dimmer lights if the body count’s out of whack. Close the bathrooms for “cleaning” if the johns are piled up with the johns . Sweep the floor, and for most of those men’s rooms, make sure you mop it! Those drawers are a mess, and death has come for “them thar” people whose turn, unfortunately, it was.

I'm A Girl-Watcher (Or Boy-)

 

Part 24 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

These are things I definitely like: graceful backs, active muscles, and perfect digestion.

All of us have our preferences, our ideals. My own days of keeping in good condition are nearly over, being old and on the downhill slide. But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up my ideals of what others should aspire to. Our physical appearance and the fitness of our bodies -- whatever our age -- is a big deal. We don’t want to let ourselves go unnecessarily, and any advantage we’re able to sneak in, regardless of Mother Nature, devils, what have you, is a definite plus.

When it comes to fit young ladies, or fit young men for that matter, it’s not really territory that I’m encroaching upon. But of course as long as my eyes hold out, I'm still able to observe what’s going on with people around. I see a few people walk up the sidewalk, or very often in the road itself, and they’re quickly out of sight. But as they go, I naturally see how fit they are, how scroungy, or whatever. They keep coming and they keep going, and for all I know they fall off the edge of the earth when they’re out of sight.

It’s good to take inventory of your own fitness. Because it is good for yourself, your longevity, your social outlook, etc. The more you’re able to rein yourself in from overdoing it in any area of life, the more options you have for health and the all-important love life. The better things are, the quicker you can get your hooks into someone and have an “in” with them, be they rich, famous, or what have you.

This is true because those who are open to you are themselves taking inventory. And it happens fast. The light in my eyes, just speaking of me personally, is virtually extinguished -- I could cross the rainbow bridge any minute -- but as long as there’s even a flicker of light, yes, I’m window shopping. “Hey, baby, let’s get it on,” I’m muttering under my breath for some of the better inventoried passersby. Then there’s the inevitable others, the descriptions of whom would make me sound a coarse observer. Which isn’t my fault. I was raised to make superficial snap judgments.

Touching on the graphic for a minute, these are things I definitely like: graceful backs, active muscles, and perfect digestion. One of the worst things in the world is to be out with someone and have their digestion off, even slightly. Raising up periodically, you know, especially with the boldness people have these days. Some of these things we were discrete about when I was young. Having active muscles is one of those factors for sure. If only half your muscles are active, that means the rest have gone to pot. Not good. And graceful backs are nice. Especially with strength. At my age, with the challenges I'll soon be having, like falling down, any young ladies who’d go with me will probably want a graceful back to hoist me out when I’ve fallen into the ditch.

It’d certainly be embarrassing if we were out and she just left me there. She might say, “My back isn’t that graceful,” immediately disqualifying her. But I haven’t even mentioned her drawers, with the potential danger that’s in them these days. Which definitely These are things I definitely like: graceful backs, active muscles, and perfect digestion.

Undertaker Schemes

Part 23 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

Maybe I should have been an undertaker, known these days as a funeral director. I’m certainly interested enough in it, actually to the point of fascination. I have indeed hung out with a lot of undertakers, breathing in the whole vibe they enjoy, their environment, and their faux sadness and sorrow, all so very superficial, I can definitely say from my in with them.

Which of course is easy enough to understand. They’re not mourners by nature but really technicians, and that includes the time they’ve put on their public display of stolid silence and grief. They’ll be patting someone on the shoulder in rarefied solidarity of grief one minute, then step behind the curtain and flip out the cards the next for a fun game of Pitch. Do they even care? I think they do, but like most technicians they’re personally detached except for doing what it takes to oil or grease the skids to make it through the rest of the proceedings and keep themselves beyond reproach.

I’m not quite as slick as they are, but I'm close to pretty much the same. Making me the perfect candidate to be an undertaker, except I wasn’t interested in it when I was casting about for an occupation that didn’t involve hamburgers. Now I look back and obviously say, Yes, I could’ve gotten in on the ground floor as an assistant to some creepy old man. I would've watched him, observed and emulated him. All the while spiking his beloved coffee with an occasional drop of formaldehyde. Until it was me who at long last was calling the shots, slicing, dicing, then becoming society’s last pillar between the average citizen and their imminent death.

But, alas, when push came to shove, I didn’t think of it. Instead I went the full burger route, till I graduated to delivering pizzas, and wound up my career loading dishwashers, a burying not of men, women, boys, and girls, but food waste, separating meat from the bone, disposing of half-chewed gristle, etc., the same kind of thing without the social perks. I could've made a lot of money. And done it looking so glum, so sad, like society's firm foundation when life gives way in every living creature. With the whole parlor overtaken with pallor and I’m the pal or best friend for the bereaved who may not believe, despite our common mortality, that it’s happened to them.

Then you have the economy of the whole thing. And the unpleasant fact that with modern medicine people can deprive the undertaker another day, week, year, or decade. Not good. We need to get out our Kama Sutras and realize there’s death in them thar drawers, and get people wantonly doing the deed with insistence, like they expect something from it, like it’s going to do some good this time, like it’s going to take hold and yield a blessed event. Which can be taken either way, the blessed event of a baby or the blessed event of someone saying bye-bye. For some folks, that’s also good news.

The 7 Couples Forum

Part 22 of 30

There's Death In Them Thar Drawers

I put out a casting call for models for this graphic -- and I don't put out very often -- wanting only the happiest couples to apply. And I sort of got the happiest couples, but it’s in this sense, they were the happiest I could find. Next, my goal was to get the honest pictures of them down. And some of them need about a hundred shots and this is the best I got. Some of these almost didn’t make the cut, but I had to have something, with the money I forked out (1), and my deadline looming for the blog.

To make an example of them, I deleted couple 7. In complete fairness, they didn’t look much worse than the others, but I was so upset and had to make an example of someone. For one, the man didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. Also, the woman rolled her eyes once too often, they argued between takes, and they threatened to “walk out that door,” so finally I physically kicked the woman out, and with the good help of Garfunkel from couple 5, we had 7’s man’s arm behind his back, with him crying “Uncle! in a very nasty way. I kicked him unceremoniously out of the room, and I believe he fell down the elevator shaft because the elevator's out for repair.

Note, though, what all I went through and how hard it is to find genuinely happy people. I even kept telling myself, the world’s literally full of halfwits, you’d think they'd be happy, a big stupid grin on their face all the time, oblivious to what people with functioning brains are dealing with, money issues, health issues, avoidance of sex, which is usually followed by another round of money issues.

I remember Garfunkel’s partner melodically ruminated on the faces of people, which is a real coincidence, because the man from No. 3 actually is a spy. He looked at me with a quizzical look on his face, that look of “I think I know you.” I recognized him right away but didn’t show any sign of it. I tried to avoid him as best I could and certainly the wife. One affirmation that we’d met before and it’d blow up in my face. I’ve been chaste a long time, friends, and I’m not going back. Certainly not by the tug of an unclean passing friendship (not even that!), which may have seemed like the top of the world long ago but now it’s only sordid, tawdry. I was happy when he left.

It definitely made me think again of my mantra, and I frankly repeated it a dozen times (mentally and under my breath), “There’s death in them thar drawers...” Yes, he’s aged nicely. And I’m not doing terribly myself. Avoidance, chastity, washing my hands, eating the the dullest, drabbest vegetables I can find, it all helps.

Anyway, I kept a smile on my face most of the time with these dear souls -- mostly lost souls -- knowing I definitely had it over them with my personal progress, and that’s what's important. Everyone else may be hopelessly lost in them thar drawers, but at least I’m safe.