Tagged: clothes

“I Must Make Myself Beautiful for Harry”

  • by jenblocked nearly all the sunlight
  • very well-defined chin
  • annoyed at the tone taken by anthropologists
  • “Bingo.”
  • stirred his volcanic, untamed heart

Tune in next time part 353      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I must make myself beautiful for Harry,” Isolde announced. “He is waiting at the docking spire.” She fluttered off to the bathroom on her toes like a ballerina.

Jim continued to steer the zeppelin, and I handed the infants to Fleur so that she could feed them before we made fast. Ten minutes later Isolde burst from the loo. With her hair freshly brushed she looked quite lovely, but what made her stunning was the fire in her eyes. She thrust a plastic pregnancy test at me and said, “It’s positive! Harry and I conceived our wedding night baby! The auguries are quite auspicious!”

“How long have we been on this zeppelin?” I asked in astonishment, but was roundly ignored.

“When I told Harry on Facetime just now,” Isolde continued, “it stirred his volcanic, untamed heart so much I thought he was having a coronary. His face got so red! But it was simply unbridled joy.” She unclasped the gold chain about her neck and fed it through a slot in the end of the plastic test strip, then hooked it again so that the thing hung between her breasts like a pendant. “Bingo.” She sighed happily. “Now everyone will know my good news!”

“Congratulations,” Fleur said with a glare at me. “It took my husband several years to get me pregnant. Your Harry must be much more ardent.”

You know how everyone gets annoyed at the tone taken by anthropologists at museums when they tell you to stay out of the caveman dioramas? Well Fleur’s tone was even more annoying than that. And where did she get off complaining? She only had the children because her father insisted it was her duty. And it was her idea to make me Harry’s proxy for Isolde’s wedding. And wedding night. This was all on her. I blew her a kiss.

“Hey big brother,” Jim drawled. “You need to take the controls for the landing. I need to put my Panda suit back on before we dock. Can’t have the general public knowing I’m here.”

The women watched unhappily as my brother hid his bare torso away inside the blue furry costume. They each gave a sad little cry when his very well-defined chin disappeared into the headpiece.

I had to turn off the signal jammer to talk to the control tower, but we docked without incident. Fleur strapped both children to Jim’s panda chest, and then the four of us paraded down the gangway and into the spire’s rotating restaurant.

Waiting there was the toad-like Harry, Isolde’s legal husband, and the legal father of her unborn child. His face was still alarmingly red, and to my eye it looked more like fury than joy. Isolde squealed and ran to slather him with kisses. I turned to walk the other way and ran right into an immense figure who blocked nearly all the sunlight. It was Heinrich Hunter.

Heinrich was larger than I’d ever seen him, and then I remembered that he made a habit of carrying Svetlana around under his clothes. And then I remembered that Svetlana was pregnant. With my child.

“We need to talk,” said Heinrich. “Now. In the bathroom.”

Wanting to avoid the irate Harry, I followed the Heinrich/Svetlana/baby turducken into the men’s room.

“I’m in labor!” Heinrich’s belly said in Svetlana’s voice.

“She think’s it’s twins,” Heinrich’s mouth said in Heinrich’s voice. He began to unbutton his shirt.

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I Had No Intention of Following the Seagulls

  • by jena variety of lovely agonies
  • Right?
  • meeting him for the first time
  • because she was wearing a tiara
  • entirely muffled in scarlet silk

Tune in next time part 339      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I had no intention of following the seagulls, or the commands of my intoxicated wife. “Let’s put ourselves in a holding pattern until she comes down,” I said to Jim, gesturing at the controls.

Jim buckled himself into the copilot’s seat and his face finally took on a serious expression. Behind us I could hear Isolde voicing disappointment that he was no longer flirting with her, distress that she could no longer admire his physique, and a variety of lovely agonies along those same lines. Jim threw me one last smirk. “Women. Right?”

For our whole lives it was like this with Jim. Women meeting him for the first time fell immediately under his spell. Apparently he expected sympathy from me over it.

Isolde elbowed her way between me and Jim and thrust a baby into my arms. The twins looked an awful lot alike, but I knew this was my daughter because she was wearing a tiara on her tiny head. I scowled and plucked the tacky thing off. Isolde, now entirely muffled in scarlet silk, handed me my son as well and began a swirling, twirling dance to remove her diaphanous wrapping.

Fleur’s own drug-induced choreography brought her close and I saw fury in her blue eyes. She was going to attack her sister if I couldn’t stop her.

“Hey Jim,” I said in a loud, deliberate voice. “Aunt Xylona told me that Mom had at least three kids with the Warlord of Contraria. And since you, Jemma, and Jemima are the only triplets in the family…”

“Aw shit,” Jim said. “You think I’m your wife’s half-brother?”

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“You’ve Forgotten the Man You Married Just One Day Ago?”

  • by jenI got my eye on you
  • two urchins upon their knees
  • all the stains matched
  • also many gulls
  • their hideous noise increased

Tune in next time part 337      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You’ve forgotten the man you married just one day ago?” I asked Isolde. “I am shocked by proxy.” I unbuttoned my jacket and handed my daughter to Fleur.

Fleur flashed a devilish smile. “Perhaps I should make you Harry’s proxy again, and while you’re tending to Isolde I can make Jim your proxy.”

“But you’ve just given birth!” Isolde cried, holding up my son as proof. “You can’t make proper use of him!”

“I got my eye on you,” I said, pointing at Jim. Turning back to Fleur and her sister I said, “He’s married to UnderDuchess Esmerelda of Svenborgia, you know. Probably in league with that dick Arlo.”

“At least you know I’m not hiding a jetpack,” Jim drawled, flexing his naked torso.

“A Svenborgian by marriage?” Fleur said. “Show me your papers.”

Jim hooked a finger into the pocket of his tight jeans and pulled out his diplomatic credentials. It featured the Svenborgian crest, an etching of the country’s first king and queen at a nude beach, sitting crosslegged on either side of a sandcastle, the two urchins upon their knees a spiky warning of Svenborgia’s maritime prowess. Most countries use intricate stamps and raised seals on their official documents, but Svenborgia prefers smudges made from a rare green coffee that is grown and brewed exclusively along the Svenborgian coast. Looking at Jim’s passport, all the stains matched the expected color, but the only way to be sure was to taste them. Fleur’s delicate tongue emerged from her mouth and flicked quickly across the uppermost green smear.

“It’s authentic,” she declared. “Yum. I’ve always loved that flavor.” As an aside to Isolde she said, “The viscount always let me lick his whenever we were together.”

I’d heard rumors that Svenborgia’s green coffee had hallucinogenic properties, which might explain what my wife saw in Arlo.

As the sisters continued their study of my brother’s credentials, I decided that someone needed to fly the zeppelin. I looked through the window and discovered that we were surrounded by seabirds. There were terns and albatrosses, and also many gulls. Many, many gulls. Soon their hideous noise increased so that their cries could be heard inside the gondola.

“Where exactly are we headed?” I asked Fleur.

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The Brunette Man’s Tight Jeans Were Sweaty

  • by jenseemed to me, judging from his fingers,
  • like sunny springtime afternoons come to life
  • on live television for five hours
  • there is liquor aboard
  • this creepy incognito turtle

Tune in next time part 335      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The brunette man’s tight jeans were sweaty, his torso bare. It seemed to me, judging from his fingers, all wrinkled and pruny — and of course those sweaty jeans — that it must have been a veritable sauna inside that panda suit. Fleur and Isolde didn’t seem to notice his dishevelment. Or perhaps they found it attractive. They looked at him like he was a vernal deity, like sunny springtime afternoons come to life. I knew he was used to that reaction. I saw him talk about it on live television for five hours on at least two occasions, and in person innumerable times. He was my brother Jim, and women really liked Jim.

Fleur smiled coquettishly at him and said, “Welcome to my zeppelin. There is liquor aboard.”

“What are you doing here, Jim?” I asked. “The last time I saw you was in Dr Belladonna’s subterranean rocket surgery.”

“What was I supposed to do? Leave my niece and nephew unguarded when I saw the viscount putting on this creepy incognito turtle costume?”

“It was an armadillo,” Isolde said, batting her eyelashes.

“How did you get on my wife’s aircraft carrier?” I demanded.

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My Son May Be Small, But He Has an Iron Grip

  • by jenfreaky, furry phenomenon
  • Five or six times a day
  • with each passing hour
  • but there’s a hitch
  • you and I have nothing more to say

Tune in next time part 325      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My son may be small, but he has an iron grip. It took a full minute for me to work his chubby little fingers loose from the object he held, which turned out to be an egg-shaped remote control with a single button.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

My son didn’t reply. He merely stuffed his fist in his mouth. The blue panda whose chest he was strapped to saluted me and gamboled back to the sliding board to begin another slow climb up the ladder. I stuffed the remote into the pocket of my fancy dress pants and sauntered over to greet my daughter by the see-saw. Her armadillo steed stood patiently while I cooed at the infant, but the turtle mascot stomped away to Fleur’s side.

Viscount Arlo’s voice came from inside that green, freaky, furry phenomenon. He whined at Fleur about being exiled from her boudoir, and she laughed at his terrapin costume. I was unable to follow the rest of their argument because Isolde stormed into the room with fire in her eyes.

“Harry!” she cried, racing up to me. “Why aren’t you in the chapel? We have not yet been married for 24 hours!”

Fleur had directed me to be Harry-by-proxy for a full day, but she had also brought me here to see our children. I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

Isolde went on, “I shackled you for a reason, Harry. Five or six times a day is the optimal number of times to make love when you’re trying to conceive. Now that I have rested I’m ready to continue, but I’ve wasted so much time searching for you all over this ship! My window of fertility is closing with each passing hour. We must return to our honeymoon, but there’s a hitch.”

The hitch turned out to be the old incense woman who had attended the birth of the twins. She was something of a Contrarian fertility specialist, and Isolde demanded she coach us through the next few rounds in order to guarantee conception.

We concluded our final session with simultaneous shouts of release, a mere ten seconds before the timer went off, announcing the end to my term as Junior-Baronet Harry. Isolde’s passion evaporated in an instant and she turned her back to me, saying, “You are not my husband, so you and I have nothing more to say.”

I barely had time to pull on my underwear before she shoved me into the corridor.

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This Ceremony was Much Shorter

  • by jenFrench breeding — but
  • “Hold your tongue.”
  • some grade Z porno film
  • various techniques and “octopus etiquette”
  • without all the fanfare

Tune in next time part 323      Click Here for Earlier Installments

This ceremony was much shorter than the one when I’d married Fleur, much to my relief. Isolde locked the door behind the officiant and turned to me. “I have seen several illicit magazines and movies about French breeding — but I’d much rather employ the American method if you don’t mind, Harry.”

“I don’t mind at all,” I said, doffing my top hat.

Isolde shrugged out of her ceremonial robe and arranged it on the floor under a large vulture skull. We stood upon it together while she, gloriously naked, undressed me. It felt a little odd to be continuously called ‘Harry,’ but no odder than anything else about Contrarian court life. If this was how the Warlord’s daughters wanted to conduct their marriages, there was no point in arguing.

“Open your mouth,” Isolde commanded.

I complied. She peered in at my fresh, golden tattoo.

“Hold your tongue.” She demonstrated with her own fingers how she wanted me to grasp it. I took over, and she studied the arcane markings for a minute. Then she swatted my hand away and kissed me.

We sank to the floor on top of the robe, and got down to the business of consummating-by-proxy Isolde and Harry’s marriage. The freeform jazz record was still playing, which made it feel like some grade Z porno film. That feeling only got stronger when Isolde introduced various techniques and “octopus etiquette” moves she had learned from the Contrarian version of the Kama Sutra, and Fleur’s browser history. It was physically taxing, but I was having a great time without all the fanfare and press attention that had accompanied my wedding night with Fleur.

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I Was Not Alone With My Wife For Long

  • by jentongue was similarly decorated
  • just an hour and a half later
  • lifelong search for love and affection
  • wrapped in many layers of oiled sailcloth
  • The result is awesomeness.

Tune in next time part 319      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I was not alone with my wife for long. As soon as the prickish viscount left the birthing chamber, with John on his heel, Fleur picked up a bell from her nightstand and rang it. Immediately, a stream of courtiers flooded in, each with their own ritualistic function. While an old woman waved incense around, and a trio of pubescent girls chanted something in Olde Contrarian, Fleur received a foot massage, and I was dressed in a morning suit, complete with boutonniere and cane.

The incense woman blindfolded the chanting girls, and then Fleur disrobed. The warlord’s personal calligrapher got to work with his needle, tattooing the ancient royal symbols in gold on her tongue. Next my tongue was similarly decorated, which I was assured was a great honor, but it was one I would have been just as happy to skip because holy hell it hurt.

And then, just an hour and a half later, the children were born, one right after the other. The first was a girl, which brought back all of my fears about being martyred as the prophecy foretold, but the second child was a boy which put my mind at ease. Until Fleur chuckled deviously and said she couldn’t wait to give them siblings.

I had never thought that I wanted children, but my lifelong search for love and affection came to a sudden halt when the midwife handed over the infants. They were wrapped in many layers of oiled sailcloth per Contrarian tradition.

“We have always done it that way,” Fleur said. She gestured to herself. “The result is awesomeness.”

“What are their names?” I asked.

Fleur laughed heartily. “Silly man! We won’t know that until the naming rituals are complete, which can’t happen until I’m halfway through my next pregnancy!”

“But then how does the youngest child in a family ever get named?”

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My Aunt Wore a Leather Aviators Cap

  • by jenobvious ridiculousness of such a request
  • contemplate how much hairstyles have changed
  • breaking up their canoodling
  • I can bring a wild duck
  • misty and foggy and the rain started

Tune in next time part 313      Click Here for Earlier Installments

My aunt wore a leather aviators cap, and little else besides the goggles over her eyes. I remembered John saying she would only carry naked passengers and marveled at the obvious ridiculousness of such a request. But it was her plane and I really wanted off this damn island. I tried to keep my eyes on her face, but it was hard not to contemplate how much hairstyles have changed through the years in regards to intimate female grooming.

Xylona peered through the goggles at John and myself and said, “Wipe all that greasepaint off. I don’t want it all over my plane.” She tossed us each a rag. John happily complied, while I kept throwing looks back to the temple hut. I thought about racing back in to Tessa and Jove, breaking up their canoodling, and making her get on the plane with us. I’d been searching for her for so long, it felt like madness to leave her behind now. But she’d made her choice. For all I knew she was on an official mission. I cleaned the greasepaint off my chest with angry swipes of the rag.

“Does anyone have refreshments for the flight?” Aunt Xylona asked.

John glanced around the clearing. “I can bring a Wild Duck…”

“It’s called Wild Turkey,” I corrected. “But whatever you want to call it, bring at least two bottles.”

Our trio made our naked way to the nearby airstrip. My aunt’s plane was an old fashioned biplane, with two cockpits. That meant John and I had to squeeze in together in the front seat, and made me miss Tessa all the more. I’m not sure there would have been room for all three of us, but it would have been fun to try.

The weather since I emerged from the sewer had been misty and foggy, and the rain started as we began to taxi down the runway.

“Why can’t we wear clothes,” I demanded, as John planted himself in my lap and started fumbling with the seatbelt.

“Where we’re going we won’t need roads!” Xylona cried. “Or clothes!”

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Wearing Sweaty Jodhpurs

  • by Kentjust 113 kinds of atoms
  • the crime of performing a protest song
  • like pumpernickel bread
  • the lies he told and the photographs he took
  • “Magnificent!” I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm

Tune in next time part 308      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Wearing sweaty jodhpurs two sizes too big is unpleasant, especially when it’s someone else’s sweat. But had they been less sweaty, they’d have been incinerated in the torch flame.

Jove spluttered, and Carla boggled. I ignored them and stuck my arms into my stolen boots. I waddled out of the hut, my damp, warm, floppy pants slapping my hamstrings with every stride. As I came into view of the horde outside, I raised my arms to present the dusty soles of the shiny boots.

It’s quite amazing what can be cooked up using just 113 kinds of atoms. The residue on the soles of Jove’s boots was just a byproduct, but those outside recognized it. They felt its radiation and knew what it meant, and they cowered before it. To challenge the boots was as bad as the crime of performing a protest song. These boots had trod the assembly line where things were… assembled. Complex things, like pumpernickel bread. Good things, also like pumpernickel bread. And powerfully bad things, like the lies he told and the photographs he took when Jove overthrew the island’s previous baron.

The Fire Eaters bowed low, and the TechnoPagans covered their eyes.

One of them spoke, asking, “How go the sacrifices?”

“Magnificent!” I replied, with a good imitation of enthusiasm. “Magnificently,” I amended. “Now it is time for launch!”

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Carla’s Enormous Red Clown Shoes

  • by jenI want to examine them
  • robbing a grocery store
  • Come on, say it! Say “April Fool!”
  • does not actually go into the fire
  • torpedoing your most intimate relationships

Tune in next time part 307      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Carla’s enormous red clown shoes flopped and slapped against the ground as she gamboled with her husband. Jove’s shiny black riding boots made him much more nimble. There appeared to be something unusual stuck to their leather soles. I got Tessa’s attention, and through the nimble movements of my eyebrows and the use of the Mexican Painter’s Code, silently indicated his boots and said, “I want to examine them.”

She wriggled her eyebrows in agreement. It felt good to be on the same side as her again, like that rush you get when you’re robbing a grocery store pharmacy.

At long last, Jove allowed himself to be cornered by Carla. He had his back to the bubbling mud pit and raised his hands in surrender.

Carla aimed the oversized flower in her lapel at him and said, “Say my name, bitch! Come on, say it! Say ‘April Fool!’” She waved the flower menacingly.

Tessa’s eyebrows said, “April? I thought her name was Carla.”

My eyebrows shrugged.

Below us, Jove was whimpering “April Fool” over and over, and stripping out of his ringmaster garb. As he doffed each piece of finery, his clownwife scooped it up and tossed it into one of the flames of the ceremonial torches in each corner. Until he got to his hat. He removed it reverently from his head and said, “Remember, this does not actually go into the fire,” and placed it atop her rainbow wig.

As she pulled a tube of greasepaint from her pocket and squirted a healthy portion onto her hands while eyeing up my naked brother, I decided I’d had enough. I dropped down from the rafters, and said, “Pardon me for torpedoing your most intimate relationships, Jove, but I think your boots are my ticket off this island.”

I scooped the patent leather footwear off the floor of the hut, and the jodhpurs, too, when I remembered that I was naked.

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