Zest Lit Issue 2, October 2013 - Page 67

it made perfect sense.) ‘Yes, Macavity was a hidden paw, yes, he was a master criminal, who could defy the law . . . why, you must be just boiling in that flannel jumper.’

Her disrobing was the last transfer on this journey towards The Midnight Cherry Express. But first, The Thompson Twins, Styx, Journey and other fully-mulleted, equally ridiculous bands wafted through the living room; the musical score for our romantic episode amidst a backdrop of burning candles, half empty wine glasses; an escalating excitement of unspoken sensual mise-en-scène we could no longer avoid. My brothers and sisters, on this evening of enchantment, I was the novice junior and she became my instructor. I pushed away my clichéd unhelpful imagery of The Graduate, Dynasty, and Harlequin Romance book covers, and gazed rapturously at those big blue arctic eyes that made me all too aware of my loud heart-beat, now seemed to signal, ‘It’s time.’

She took my hand and we ascended the stairs into the heavenly sphere of that mythic man-woman story, and repaired to Ma Mère’s Den of Menopause, just down the hall from my Lonely Bunk Bed for Only Children. (tf#2) Meatloaf’s loutish incantations mocked me, his melodies accompanied us in my initiation ritual, and being too wrapped up in her presence, I didn’t want to interrupt the exciting oily sex-bath that had just gotten underway with excusing myself to fiddle around with the AM/FM nonsense. So I worked with what was thrown our way. My overactive sweat glands, the nervous shaking, running back and forth to check my helpful guidebook hanging on the inside closet door, plus the projectile vomiting failed to hit the mark and kind of altered the ambiance, especially for her (‘God, I’m sorry, let me wipe that off you.’). The grand build-up with the earlier arranging, prepping and mincing about, my masculine prancing and jigs, only served to make me queasy and unbalanced. An unplanned bout of seasickness combined with too much Triple Sec and other alcoholically-lubricated fruits of passions (‘Shit, that’s gonna leave a mess on mom’s sheets,’ my later concern), left me woozy, muddled, and far too revved-up,