So, of what do I write? It has kind of been the same-old-same-old here, lately. I have no joyous news to convey. But!
I do know this: If'n I ain't exercisin' the Writer Gene, it's-a goan shrivel up n die. And who the fuck wants that?
It was one of those word-verification thingies on a weblog. I had to type it in to make my (assuredly) salient point visible to the Blogo-Whirl.
I got to thinking. Just what could be a "gonatess"? To me, it culls images of a priestess, albeit with a goat's mug. And a goat's horns? Maybe. And, perhaps, a goat's cloven hooves? Yes. But the inner beauty/body of the goat priestess? Allllll woman. Replete with 34C breasts and a teeny waist and a couple of slender kickin'-slims.
I am chuavanistic. Hear me meow. [roar]
Once upon a time, there was a small village in Hungary. The schoolchildren were warned at an early age to steer clear of the last house on Mulberry Street. See, there was a gonatess that lived there. She lived off of government funding and rarely left her house, but the people of Ursk were convinced that she was Devil-like. 'Cause of her goat-head, don'tcha know.
Here is what the people of Ursk did not know: Glenda (that was her name) was actually a very gentle soul. She fucking hated her head and her hooves. but, through the love and learnings of Jesus's teachings (and her own genetic predisposition) she was able to channel her self-hatred into, well, Love.
She never made much ado about anything--she was far too self-conscious--but, early in the morn, when all the other Urskans were sni-zoring, she silently and carefully partook in random acts of Kindness. She cleaned chicken coops, she used her hooves to jerry-bust rusted padlocks, she...she...she. She just loved the town, man.
The town that hated her? Well, yes. She turned that Hatred, Ignorance, on its head.
Every once in a while a man named Igor or Victor or a woman named Suzie or Greta would exclaim to their mate (or, if single, the blue sunny skie), "My Lord! Who--how has this been done for me?! It must the work of Your angels, Lord!" They'd cross themselves and then, if, perhaps later they saw Glenda, they'd turn their hearts into rapiers, slicing and dicing the freak, the Gonatess.
To each? Their own...but.
But: There was an Urskan who was blind, had been ever since a bleach accident when he was 6. His name was Vlad. He had suffered from insomnia [ugly word, huh?] since his late-teens. He also possessed a sexual problem; perhaps that factored in to his insomnia.
Sexual problem? Let's just call it a problem of self-love. He could not get it up because he hated his blindness. He saw himself as a fri-zeak. Masturbation could go only so far. And? If one loses one's eyesight at the squeaky age of 6? Well, that just confounds the shit even more. How in the hell can a young man find any microfiche in his mind if he has not been able to see since the age of 6? Sure. Rubbing one's genitals often feels okay, but if one does not have a virtual library of pornographic images in one's mind..? Rubbing? It gets a little old.
Vlad had insomnia. He couldn't whack it, he couldn't put himself to sleep by watching MTV or Crason Daly; he couldn't sleep, but for an hour or so a night. Misery.
As a result, the young strapping Vlad took to early-morning walks; his calves were like barbells. He walked--no dog, no cane--along the sleepy cobblestone streets of Ursk.
As Fate would have it, he, one night, brushed against a breast of a--hold it now-- a woman. Her name was Glenda.
So Vlad and Glenda met. Through the brushing of a breast, a tit, a bazoonga, a gun. [There are worse ways to meet.]
It was early. Three-thirty or four if it were a twelver.
Vlad said, "Oh! Excuse me! I'm blind. I--I'm sorry. Are--are you hurt?" His erection throbbed.
Glenda said: "Blind? Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't see you with a cane. And I see no dog, here, either." She gestured vaguely 'round her head. "Oh, me," she said, as she watched Vlad watch the tree to her right.
"I use no dogs and I use no cane," Vlad said defiantly. "I use this." He jabbed a finger to his temple. "My brain has told me for 17 years which way to go, what feelings to trust...what smells to trust... I'm sorry. Where the heck are my manners? I am Vlad. What do they call you?" His gaze searched the tree.
Glenda considered for a moment. "My name is Glenda," she said. "Hello, Vlad. It's nice to meet you."
"You, too," he said. "Imagine. You, a beautiful girl--"
"I'm not that pret--"
"You," Vlad overrode, "a beautiful girl--who smells like Heaven, I might add--being out here, on the sidewalk at three or four, just happening to walk into my fly-zone. Amazing, huh?"
"Is that what you call it? Fly-zone? Sounds...different, Vlad."
Vlad smiled at her midsection. "My momma called it that, God bless her soul. She'd told me since I was 7 that life would be different, there'd be...you know...."
"Bigotry?" Glenda said. She sighed. "Yes, Vlad, bigotry is rampant. It's evil. It's all around us. It's ubiquitous. It is...."
"Omnipresent?" he mumbled.
"Yes!" She flashed a toothy grin at him. "Yes! So, Vlad? Would you like to walk with me?" She clasped his hand.
Vladimir Roscoe Popillzar accepted her hand. And the smell? Well, she smelled purty, all right. His erection, regenerated, thrim-throbbed against his waistband. "Yes," he said. "I would love to walk with you, Glenda."
She hugged him, then, careful to both keep her goathead out of his "fly-zone" and also to press her beautiful breasts into his chest. "Let's go..." she breathed.
And they began to walk, hand-in-hand, down the dusty four o'clock street.
Click-clock click-clock click-cloc--
Vlad stopped. Turned to her. "You wearing heels?" he asked. "They sound kind of...funny."
Glenda stroked his shoulder. "Let's just say I dressed up for tonight. It isn't often that you meet someone.... Someone with whom you cli-zick. I like you, Vlad. Isn't that enough?"
"Sure," he said, squeezing her hand, "I guess that is about as good as it gets, Glenda. I just met you, but I like you, too. You smell real good."
And they walked, the Gonatess and the blind man, hand in hand, into the yawning darkness.
[You know what they say about goats? That they'll eat anything? Truism.]
Happily ever after.