Friday, February 18, 2005

IT’LL ALL START after you notice that I’m wearing a smock, a smock I use to lure in people that I’d like to have sex with, like you. I forestall any questions you may have by saying, “I’m a messy painter.” This obviously makes you hot and we make for my Ford Taurus with that self-assured pre-sex élan that for me is always frenzied.

“What a daft baby I’ve been,” I say because I can’t get over not being molested as a child.

You say, “The way you touch me is redolent of a Humean existential quandary.”

“Stick to the script,” I admonish, “I’m not paying you to ad lib.”

“Agreed,” you say.

“You are a black French rapper named Bete (pronounced Betty) Noire and we are vacationing on the Riviera,” I say, “Put on this wig and stop crying.”

You say, '(Pretend like you’re rapping in French).' I say, 'Those are stage directions. Notice the parentheses.'

I attempt to cheer you up by rejoining with, “If I had a nickel for every time… you know the rest.” You smile and we both guffaw at my sexual absurdity. Shortly after we get our chuckles at my expense, I slam my hand on the car horn with great zest and say, “Playtime’s over.”

You eagerly pick your script back up and begin reading, “I grew up near a small river and used to eat daffodils as a child.”

I soothingly whisper, “Remember when I told you I’d show you the Riviera, Bete? Well there it is.” I point to a shopping cart out in front of Nordstrom’s. “Ah, my sweet, rap to me in French. You know how I love to listen to you rap in French.”

You say, “(Pretend like you’re rapping in French).”

I say, “Those are stage directions. Notice the parentheses.”

You then festoon me in aural delicacies. You tell me nervously that you haven’t shaved in a while to which I say, “Hush, child,” following it up with a thesis on my favorite ABC Sunday Night Movie, Fluppy Dogs, my fingers wild in the thick of your flesh. I tell you that I can almost see God but leave out the fact that He’s solemnly applauding me.

After all this foreplay I always need something, anything by Buffalo Springfield. “Feed me, Buffalo, lend me your power,” I murmur below your range of hearing. A Vietnam song is just what I need to sign this fucker on the dotted line. Fait accompli, “For What It’s Worth” is sonorous and commanding. We do not stop though, we do not look around at what’s going down. This is what’s going down, you and I are going down, if you catch my drift, Bete.

All in all it’s beautiful. I remind you that I’m not always so rigidly stylized when it comes to coitus. I’m flexible about certain things, like sometimes I’ll leave out the part about my exegesis vis-à-vis the denouement of Fluppy Dogs and how this relates to my father’s wainscot-related death. I also remind you that maybe one day we’ll even see each other again. And if you’re good, next time I’ll even do my Garry Shandling impression.

Chris Granger is the one-kidney wonder of a loving family and select group of hateful friends. He would like to dedicate at least his prurient writings to Sarah Beth Cole. At the moment, everything he’s ever written has been prurient. He’s also a researcher par excellence of Pentecostal glossolalia.

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