Tagged: doily

I Explained My Proposition Bluntly

  • by KentSo a Spanish lady one time
  • only a hunter of the eider duck
  • plenty of myopic, gung-ho investors
  • out with friends
  • was a very funny man

Tune in next time part 93                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

I explained my proposition bluntly, knowing Fleur didn’t have any reason to mind what I got up to with her sister. Isolde fluttered her eyelashes with a playful smile.

Fleur also smiled, but it was chilly. “So a Spanish lady one time found that her nephew was also her son’s half-brother. Shortly after that the boy was an orphan, so she adopted him. I always admired how that Spanish lady behaved.”

My doily settled onto my lap.

Isolde laughed and left the tent.

Fleur laughed as well. “You are only a hunter of the eider duck, so leave the swans alone.”

It was an old Contrarian expression, usually applied in financial contexts but apropos here as well. In the 1970s, plenty of myopic, gung-ho investors lost their fortunes on Contrarian pillow futures.

“Father’s waiting,” Fleur prompted. “He grows impatient to be out with friends, in with enemies.” Another old saying from her homeland. “I can’t wait to show you Grandfather’s mausoleum. He was a very funny man.”

She stared me down, waiting for me to realize she meant to pack me off to Contraria with her.

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My Doily Levitated

  • by Kentthis referee with a weird little beard
  • with this hottie laying right next to you
  • first impulse was to tell her of my love
  • We should get married more often
  • one writhing, festering, pulsating blob

Tune in next time part 91                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My doily levitated above my lap as Isolde ducked in through the tent flap. She greeted Fleur with an embrace, showing no notice of my magic trick in her honor. When my turn came for felicitations, things would surely become awkward.

I had no idea. Behind Isolde came a rotund man in traditional Contrarian riding garb, including the fluffy boa and the tufts of pink fur at the tops of his glossy green boots. The thing that made him notable, though, was his facial hair. Equestrians of Fleur’s homeland usually wear muttonchops, but his formed a corkscrew on his chin. He stood over me, this referee with a weird little beard, and said, “It could get distracting with this hottie laying right next to you, so my job is to help you focus on answering the questions.”

Isolde had by then stretched out on the ground alongside her sister, so I wasn’t sure which hottie he was referring to. I looked Fleur in the eye, and my first impulse was to tell her of my love for her sister. Faking a sneeze to cover my agitation, instead I said, “We should get married more often.”

Isolde batted her lashes at me. “Let’s begin. My pedicurist is holding an appointment for me and I can’t be late. So, I have only one question: identify this.”

From an inner pocket of her diaphanous gown, she pulled a small round box which she dumped out onto one of the silver platters. The contents slid out and landed in one writhing, festering, pulsating blob.

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The Warlord Turned to His Daughter and Said

  • by jenthat’s kind of for your gynecologist
  • looked vacantly upon the crowd
  • with the slavish tenacity of a lapdog
  • bump around awhile
  • rallied in an instant

Tune in next time part 90                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The warlord turned to his daughter and said, “Fleur, replace your doily please. My servants will be bringing refreshments in a moment and,” he waved his hand, “that’s kind of for your gynecologist.” He looked at me. “Or your husband.”

Fleur replaced her doily in her lap and only then did her father turn off the sappy music. A small parade of teenagers, male and female, dressed in traditional Contrarian garb entered the tent bearing platters of honeyed fruit and small casks of wine. Fleur looked vacantly upon the crowd of servers while they gazed at her with the slavish tenacity of a lapdog.

The warlord clapped his hands and the teens all filed out of the tent. Before following them, Fleur’s father said, “You two have a little snack, and then bump around awhile. The next Question and Answer session will be conducted by Isolde.”

Isolde! At the thought of my nubile sister-in-law, my flagging genitals rallied in an instant.

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My Second Drugging In Less Than 12 Hours Brought Back Vivid Memories Of My Wedding

  • by jen“You don’t have to eat it.”
  • We’re going to make it look accidental.
  • the site of an extraordinary event
  • so soft and so elegant
  • stern, judgmental, and bossy

Tune in next time part 86                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

My second drugging in less than 12 hours brought back vivid memories of my wedding to Fleur. Her family made liberal use of narcotics and paralytics in all of their ceremonies.

You might think that the days of marriages arranged to strengthen political ties were long gone, but you would be wrong. During my mother’s second term as president she desired an ally amongst the stern, judgmental, and bossy warlords of Contraria, and so Fleur and I were forced to marry. I was assured that she would be so soft and so elegant, so unlike her father. I was lied to. Fleur was indeed elegant, but she was not soft. And while she did not resemble her father much physically, she was his protege in matters both political and temperamental.

I tried to convince Mother that my twin Jason would make a more appropriate groom, but she insisted that he had to be available to rap throughout the fortnight-long reception. And so for two long weeks the White House lawn and rose garden were the site of an extraordinary event, a bombastic celebration that resembled Burning Man more than a state wedding reception. Fleur and I exchanged our vows wearing only the floral headdresses of her people. Upon consummation of the marriage, our first Contrarian tribal question and answer session was broadcast on C-SPAN. Through the haze of drugs I overheard my mother and Fleur’s father plotting the bombing of Contraria’s eternal rival. “Don’t worry,” Mother assured the warlord. “We’re going to make it look accidental.”

Everyone knows how that worked out, of course.

And now, even after that debacle, and the sex scandal that killed my father and removed my mother from office in disgrace, I was still wed to Fleur, still subject to the violent traditions of her clan, still expected to produce an heir.

As the blowgun poison wore off I became aware again of the stuffy tent and the scratchy doily adhered to my groin. Fleur stood before me with a giant cicada pinched between two chopsticks. My punishment for getting my first question wrong.

“You don’t have to eat it.” My father-in-law fixed me with a smirk. “But the alternative is even worse.”

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Fleur’s Father Settled on the Satin Sheets

  • by KentWe’re living in the golden age
  • even without feathers
  • and now so am I
  • God I love you. You’re so pretty.
  • trembling with paralysis

Tune in next time part 85                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s father settled on the satin sheets between us, clipboard in hand. He smoothed the curling points of his mustache and then plucked a quill from the crest on his turban.

“True or false,” he began. “We’re living in the golden age of calligraphy.”

“False,” Fleur said confidently. Her father chortled indulgently and marked her response with an ironically elaborate symbol. Penmanship remained the most vital way for warlords of their clan to command respect, and any aspirant factional leader learned how to fashion suitable styli even without feathers for quills. Learned young.

He looked at me sternly for the next question. “You’re full of blank, and now so am I.”

I found myself unable to think of anything except the responses I should *not* say out loud, until finally I stammered, “C-cracker crumbs?”

The leathery face of my warlord-in-law leaned closer. “God I love you. You’re so pretty. But, no. That’s wrong.” One of his bodyguards raised a slender tube to his mouth and I felt the blowdart’s sting on my neck. “And as you’re fully aware, incorrect responses must not be permitted.”

I sat there, nude, with a doily on my lap, trembling with paralysis and dreading the penalty I must pay.

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As Dictated By the Customs of Her Clan

  • by jenthe sciences which keep men alive
  • producing a special voice for the occasion
  • wrist and knee
  • expression of the most abject and hopeless misery
  • the organic kind

Tune in next time part 84                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

As dictated by the customs of her clan, Fleur chanted passages from an ancient scroll entitled The Sciences Which Keep Men Alive while I made love to her, producing a special voice for the occasion. I concentrated my caresses on her left wrist and knee to increase our chances of producing a male heir. Neither of us wanted to face the expression of the most abject and hopeless misery her father would wear if a girl were born instead. It did not bear thinking of. Existential misery made him dangerous.

Soon our tent was filled with the organic kind of scent that comes from vigorous sex in hot climates. Fleur sighed happily and rang the gong. We barely had time to cover ourselves with the ritualistic doilies before her father strode in, flanked by his bodyguards.

The post-coital question and answer period was my least favorite part of this entire weeklong ceremony.

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