BOOK ONE: I Think What I Will. Chapter One A Couple of Definitions
BOOK ONE: I Think What
I Will.
Chapter One
A Couple of Definitions
“Whiskey
and Truth should both be served straight up, Doctor.”
--- Watkins, the
photographer, to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman
True it is. Straight
up. Those long, smooth – necked, liter –
or – so, wine bottles, usually cobalt blue or iridescent green in color, with
or without the Lambrusco or Lancelotta labels still on them, well, anyhow all
five to six inches of one of those long, cool necks makes the dandiest of
dildos. Empty, of course, and not a
molecule of rubber to them even.
Also empty they are of any DNA helices. So, too, they are free from the glazed glares
of hatred and, with a bottle self - thrusting inside to toe – curling orgasm
instead, not a handful of hair – pulling happening either. Especially alongside the initial queries from
the very darkened and turned – away half of the bed that really have no sought
– after answer, the questions posed that are grammatical but understood by both
the speaker and the hearer really as commands with outcomes already determined,
“How ‘bout some messin’ around?” “Wanna
screw?” “Gimme some Strange, huh?”
No right fist threatening my left periorbital bone, Ike
Turner - style, no ten – year – old eldest, Zane, wobbling and struggling piggyback
– style on his father’s back while desperately grappling with the man’s neck
and shoulders trying to pull him off the mama whom Herod Edinsmaier has easily
pinned against the bare mattress. No
months and months of shunning silence with snide snippets whispered by the
slacker in the driver’s seat to Zane and the second – born Boy, Jesse, “Her
finish the 10K? Finish? Why, ya’know, don’tcha, she idn’t even smart
‘nough to be able to find the track
it’s gonna be run on!”
As dead – deaf as I’ve been in that left ear since the
German measles virus my mother, Mehitable True, continues to disavow entered
her fetus somewhere in the first couple of first trimester months of that
1947 pregnancy of hers, I still heard Dr. Edinsmaier’s words
passive - aggressively slide over the top of the Dodge Diplomat wagon’s tan,
front bench seat, those taloned words calculatingly aimed from Herry’s tongue
to collide not only with his two older Boys’ regard of their mother --- but
also with that one eardrum of hers that did vibrate and transmit meaning. I received again the full blast of Dr.
Edinsmaier’s gist all right. Even inside
that short car ride to the locally held Iowa Games matches on which one youth
soccer team eight – year – old Jesse started, Dr. Edinsmaier continued his soft
and barely heard, but heard nonetheless,
violent vitriol of me, his wife, Legion True, to my sons. His only known other child, also a son,
Mirzah, reading in the backseat next to me Barbara Brenner’s Wagon Wheels,
the true 19th Century pioneer saga about another prairie family, was
also belted and tuned in and busy being seven years old.
A wine bottle penis isn’t the genre of penis I choose to put
into me. If, in my youth, I had had my
‘druthers. Years and years and years
away now from those naïve, innocent steps my three babies, my friends and I all
took into that evil courtroom, one of those sons of mine, all adults now they
be, more or less whines to me even as recently as last month, “You’re not the
same mama I remembered you being when I was little.”
Well, no I’m not.
True that is, too, thank goddess.
He will now learn that I am not the same person today that he knew
then. But not because I, from time to
time, wield, in the manner of condensed Zen sex for one, let’s call it, a wine
bottle penis to satisfy my G - spot, ya’ know, one of those same “spots”,
“needs” they’re sometimes referred to, that a Woman, let alone, a mama woman,
isn’t supposed to have at all but that a Not Woman can have. I haven’t been
able to tell him yet but he will now learn that it is my choice in the matter
of which genre of penis to put into me that has caused me to know, yes, even to value that a wine bottle penis into
my vagina is one a whole lot safer there for me than other kinds of penises put
there are --- a whole bunch of bulk there safer for sustaining my life.
Even uplifting it. Even putting
satisfaction and yes, dare you hear it, happiness into it. Way so much more so than the bunkum that ever
was the slacker’s own penis.
But especially Jesse will now know, also Mirzah and Zane,
too, the one and true meaning of another
word. Unlike the noun, father – fucking,
mother – fucking, the word, is blown about like so much chafe. Like it doesn’t really happen, though. Like the word really, really works, when
thrown out there usually by males, for some such perceived punch as an
adjective so it gets attached every so often, often quite frequently and
repeatedly, as a modifier to an entirely unrelated
matter.
In my Boys’ father’s raw usage, mother – fucking was bandied
about, often sprinkled and punctuated with affectionate nomenclatures or titles
of delineation for their mother because her real name, my name, Legion, Legion True, seems to have, in the fashion of
deliberate and outright shunning according to psychologists, permanently
vacated the speech centers of Dr. Edinsmaier.
“Did you put your mother – fuckin’ mitts on my motorcycle,
Pussy?”
“This time where’d Zane and Jesse stash the mother – fuckin’
Playboy that came today?”
“What’s your mother – fucking father up here this weekend
for messin’ with us again?”
“You say I hang up, walk away, slam doors? Well, watch this one, Whore! Watch the driveway! This is me, too! Mother – fuckin’ drivin’ away! To you, Pussy? My backside!
I’m getting’ me some Strange out there, I am! I’m mother – fuckin’ leavin’ you, Cunt! For good, I am!”
“And I mother – fuckin’ told the Boys I was mother – fuckin’
divorcin’ you!. And you, Twat? You weren’t even mother – fuckin’ there when
I told ‘em!”
“You can see for yourself, Your Honor, just how mother –
fucking fucked up the Bitch really is, can’t you, Your Honor?”
Like it doesn’t really happen. Ever.
As a noun.
Doesn’t really happen in real and loving coitus, a mama with
a papa, sometimes making itty bitty kids somewhere, anywhere.
And mother – fucking certainly doesn’t really happen in the
sloth’s teal - carpeted
Jesse, Zane and Mirzah will know that it is my decision
about which type of penis – attached people I choose to put into the equation
that is My Life at all, let alone, surrounding or into some orifice on my
physical form, and my decision about what kind of persons I ascribe as true
friends, male or female, walking around the World with me down My Road that
will mean, for me, the difference between the formula for being loved and
lovingly experiencing life as accountability, gratification balance, nonviolent
laughter and Truth --- or the formula for experiencing life as …
hypocrisy. As just another mother –
fucking.
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