slick glutes, buttocks you could bounce a quarter off of and washboard abs – though, this only served to bring an unflattering comparison and grim image of the gentleman’s hermunklan snaggletoothed troll, now balloon-thighed and hefty-shouldered counterpart at home, drunk and doddering about, catatonically-scrubbing their laundry on a washboard. Shame.
My hectic hustle during the big day foreshadowed a racy bout in a stellar but all too brief upcoming cuddling session. There’s me, prepping for even just a moment of something as yet imagined; a sensed and longed for promise of transcendence. I was setting the stage for an event that would leave an indelible mark on the rest of my romantic life.
While I was cleaning up the family home, carefully placing props here and there for the event, I thought about how very little I really knew about just what went on down there with a woman. Now, I had seen the occasional pop-up picture in biology class, joining in with the typical, locker-room-type chatter concerning women’s womby confines that occur in alcoholic, less-than-articulate fashion in guys’ gathering places. I believed the femme-fatale-locale-of intrigue was a warm, exotic place – muffinish and unknown – maybe like Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn? My awkward and fruitless fumblings in the backseats of cars at drive-ins and the groping of cousins at family funeral after-parties hardly qualified me to comment. I’d heard tales and dreamt Audrey Hepburn-like cinematic fables; I gathered the whole deal would be an epic outstanding adventure I would always remember,when I finally got an opportunity to step up to home plate, that is. I was beyond eager to visit this phenomenally foreign place