Tagged: tune in next time

This Was All Very Distracting

  • by jenlying naked in front of an open refrigerator
  • touching a stranger or
  • sheet of hotel stationery
  • suffers the indignity of being accused of
  • one hour each week

Tune in next time part 611      Click Here for Earlier Installments

This was all very distracting. I knew I had important business, but the details were growing foggier by the second. To tune out the bewigged erotic bandits and what they were doing with their hands, I pictured myself lying naked in front of an open refrigerator, my bare feet touching a stranger or perhaps an acquaintance holding a single sheet of hotel stationery, but it did no good. I was in the moment, for good or ill, and in the moment I was in a murky tunnel under an outhouse with a quartet of unusual, glowing, scantily clad women. I’m not a man who gladly suffers the indignity of being accused of easy virtue, but — as they say at the Academy — if the shoe fits, wear it for at least one hour each week.

“I believe he’s ready, Uncle Albatross,” said one of the octopus women.

“I believe you’re right, Uncle Periwinkle,” replied her bikini-sharing partner.

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“We Saw Him First”

  • by Kentcompeting to see whose toolbox was bigger
  • There are rules
  • decided to do it confessional style
  • attempt adult conversation while
  • walking two dogs at the same time

Tune in next time part 612      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“We saw him first, didn’t we Uncle Marigold?” simpered Uncle Gossamer. Between them and the other pair was me, feeling like a birdhouse being assembled by carpenters competing to see whose toolbox was bigger.

“Ladies,” I said, but I couldn’t seem to find my voice. I cleared my throat and tried again. “There are rules for occasions like this.” None of the bandits knew about any such rules, and they weren’t letting me concentrate, but based on what little I managed to recall and articulate we eventually decided to do it confessional style.

I couldn’t imagine how this modus operandi earned them the moniker of bandits, and I had many questions about their customs and costumes, and about the two-dozen discarded wigs a little ways up the tunnel, but there was no reason to attempt adult conversation while our cries of pleasure echoed in the darkness.

“Oh!” squealed Uncle Periwinkle, “where did you learn this trick?”

“College,” I replied. By which of course I meant the Academy, but I didn’t trust any of them enough to mention it. Nor did I think it would be wise to mention just then that back at the Academy we called the trick “walking two dogs at the same time.”

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The Four Uncles

  • by jendrive your dreams!
  • huddling together for warmth
  • enjoyed a few hours’ sleep
  • wipe it on the doorknob
  • just like after a parade

Tune in next time part 613      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The four uncles gathered around me, purring and sweaty. It was a sight to drive your dreams! We did our cool-down exercises and ended up in a pile on the floor, huddling together for warmth. I dropped off and enjoyed a few hours’ sleep, but was awakened abruptly by the robotic facsimile of my true love tugging insistently at my ankle. I wanted to rub my eyes, but my hand was quite a mess.

“Why don’t you wipe it on the doorknob?” the grumpy Tessabot hissed. “Isn’t that what they taught you at the Academy? Like after prom, or after health class, or just like after a parade of debauchery you called Homecoming?”

I crawled gingerly out of the pile of uncles, doing my best not to disturb them. They must be at least as exhausted as I was.

“Why are you so mad?” I demanded. “You’re the one who used me as a diversionary tactic while you made your escape. And what doorknob are you talking about? There are no doorknobs in this tunnel.”

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Tessa Ignored My Doorknob Question

  • by Kentapproaches nonrelatives with similar gusto
  • failed Peruvian rice scheme
  • spicy aromas
  • saying things like, “Nice, nice, nice,”
  • day the blacksmith died

Tune in next time part 614      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Tessa ignored my doorknob question and started dragging me down the tunnel. I had to free myself from her grip and backtrack to collect my clothes. I lingered a few moments over the sight of my new favorite Uncles, dozing satiated in a heap. Apparently in the local dialect an “uncle” must mean someone with whom to share a bikini, and someone who approaches nonrelatives with similar gusto.

I had to lug my clothing because Tessa resumed dragging me away and this time she was not letting me slip loose. When we were far enough away that her voice wouldn’t wake them, she gave me some facts about these so-called local bandits. Her explanation was hard to follow, something about a commune founded on a failed Peruvian rice scheme. The green wigs meant something, it all meant something, but I lost track of it as I hopped and shimmied in her wake to get dressed without falling too far behind.

In another minute I had to overtake the Tessabot and shush her. I’d noticed spicy aromas wafting from up ahead, something she’d be unable to detect. We advanced quietly until we began to hear voices saying things like, “Nice, nice, nice,” unless it was, “Rice, rice, rice.”

When we were near enough to make out the table and chairs as well as the cluster of miniature appliances huddled against the wall of the passageway, we heard a gruff voice say, “Is that stuff ready yet? I ain’t been so hungry since the day the blacksmith died.”

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The Gruff-Voiced Individual

  • by jenI like a good montage
  • I’m like, Hey! A little privacy here!
  • buckle the fuck up
  • the bird in the paper bag
  • his undershirts snap at the crotch

Tune in next time part 615      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The gruff-voiced individual appeared from behind the door of the minifridge and stood to his full height. He was wearing a fluorescent green wig and sharing a palm-tree-shaped bikini with another similarly bewigged man.

“Bandits,” Tessa whispered.

This underground adventure had been going on so long, it was getting tedious. I like a good montage from time to time, so I’ll employ one now.

Tessa gives me a taste of my own medicine by doffing her clothes and pouncing on Uncles Gramophone and Daguerreotype. I use the bathroom (I forgot to do that when I was in the actual outhouse) and get walked in on by a different set of Uncles, and I’m like, Hey! A little Privacy here! and they’re like, This is our bathroom, bub! Buckle the fuck up and get the fuck out! and I hurry out and find Tessa in the position we call The Bird in the Paper Bag, and Tessa tells the uncles not to be jealous because “his undershirts snap at the crotch” and I get so embarrassed I run down the tunnel without her, all the way to Twerkistan, while she just laughs and kisses all the uncles.

End of montage.

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The Tunnel Ended

  • by KentThe sex fundamentals you’re about to learn
  • between musical numbers
  • knowledge of hidden things
  • “It is no longer open-faced.”
  • I’m sorry, I have a cold

Tune in next time part 616      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The tunnel ended at a flap of plywood held shut only by the dense layer of cobwebs I had to fight through to push it open. I got my first look at Twerkistan, and my first whiff of its brimstone-tinged smog.

I had emerged into a narrow alleyway, and all I could see at the end of it was the blazing marquee of the theatre across the street. Moving out onto the sidewalk I read the name of the show: “How To Do It.”

No one manned the box office. No usher asked me for a ticket. The theatre’s seats were all empty, but the performance was in progress on the stage. It sounded like I hadn’t missed much, as the emcee was still explaining the premise.

“The sex fundamentals you’re about to learn — in between musical numbers where the choreography should help to clarify some of the more abstract principles — will arm you with a knowledge of hidden things that will give you a frankly unfair advantage in the mating scene.” He gestured grandly all around, especially up to the vacant balcony. “Oh, and before I forget, I must announce a change from what is printed in the program regarding Antionette’s sandwich in the second act.” He paused, presumably allowing the imaginary audience to thumb through their programs. Finally he delivered the actual news about the sandwich. “It is no longer open-faced.”

The orchestra unleashed a swirl of brass and strings, heralding the arrival of a few dozen athletic dancers. I could discern nothing of an instructional nature in their movements, but so far no “sex fundamentals” had been revealed for them to dance about.

The emcee finally looked directly my way, saying, “It’s time to compare the final digits on your ticket stub to those of the person seated on your left.”

I shrugged.

“I’m sorry, I have a cold,” he said. “Try the person on your right.”

I shrugged more elaborately, making sure it flowed as far as my elbows. “And anyway,” I said with a furtive glance around me, “no one in the audience has a ticket stub.”

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“Say No More!”

  • by jenand things of that nature
  • has a living raccoon on his head
  • witchcraft-induced hair color change
  • losing sleep all week because of this
  • I will come and claim you

Tune in next time part 617      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Say no more!” the emcee chortled with an elaborate wink. “You are clearly a discerning gentleman.” He went on in a highly suspicious British accent, insinuating that I must have elaborate fetishes and fantasies, and things of that nature. It’s hard to take a man seriously when it looks like he either has a living raccoon on his head, or perhaps merely witchcraft-induced hair color change. What I’m saying is, the theatre would benefit from a higher wig budget. But it’s not like I’ll be losing sleep all week because of this, or anything: I’m not a theatre critic anymore.

I gestured for the show to continue, vaguely curious about the amazing sex fundamentals I had been promised.

“During intermission I will come and claim your winning ticket!” the emcee (or his wig) threatened with another lewd wink. “And now, on with the show!”

The orchestra worked itself into a frenzy.

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I Was Unfamiliar With the Style

  • by Kentfell upon it with great delight
  • couldn’t tell my nose was bleeding
  • threw her lipstick at me
  • poses rarely seen outside of fetish art
  • blow the lid off the whole thing

Tune in next time part 618      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I was unfamiliar with the style of the music. I couldn’t even be sure that every member of the orchestra was playing the same piece, but whatever each of them was chasing, they fell upon it with great delight and impressive volume. They shook the theatre, the vibrations making the emcee’s wig writhe, or displeasing the raccoon atop his head, whichever was really the case. I clamped my hands over my ears to protect them from the assault. Another glance around the empty auditorium and I lost all curiosity about any sex secrets that might be revealed in the show.

I headed back outside, where the orchestra’s performance was still oppressively loud. I couldn’t tell my nose was bleeding from the horrendous sound, and so when someone tapped my shoulder and I turned suddenly, droplets of blood flew onto her. She screamed and threw her lipstick at me and ran away, so I’ll never know why she tried to get my attention. The only other people on the street were a pair of old men on the next block, who seemed to be having a type of argument that involved vile name-calling and poses rarely seen outside of fetish art.

One of the geezers suddenly pointed at me. “I told you!” he hollered. “He’s here to blow the lid off the whole thing!”

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I Glanced Over My Shoulder

  • by jenprizes to promote mingling
  • licentious, creative French culture
  • into a leather diaper
  • she will marry a son of Zeus
  • “Hello, Doctor.”

Tune in next time part 619      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see someone else — anyone else — the old man could be talking about. I saw no one. And before I could make my escape, the two of them descended on me with so much back-slapping and hand-shaking it was as if they were attending a conference where the coordinator was awarding prizes to promote mingling.

I gathered from their excited exclamations that they had mistaken me for someone else, an expert in the licentious, creative French culture they loved so much. Something about my horny necromancer getup gave them that impression, although they kept trying to turn my cape into a leather diaper, despite my numerous protestations.

“Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,” I said, “But I need to return to my hotel.” The sooner I got away from these randy geezers, the sooner I could track down John.

“Hotel!” cried the marginally older of the two. “I won’t hear of it! Any son of Zeus Pamplemousse who dares to chance our fair Isles of Bumpengrynd will sleep under my roof!”

The other one nudged me in the ribs and whispered loudly, “He wants you to meet his daughter. The prophecy says she will marry a son of Zeus Pamplemousse, and you’re the first to show up. As soon as you blow the lid off this whole thing, he’ll get the two of you in front of the shaman.”

I had, of course, heard of Zeus Pamplemousse. Who hadn’t? And given my current attire it was understandable that people would mistake me for one of his relatives. It was even sort of flattering. But what my life didn’t need was any more complications. I turned to dart away and ran right into a beautiful woman with a familiar face.

“Hello, Doctor,” she said. “Daddy told me you’d be arriving today.” She hooked one elbow with me and one with the oldest old guy. “Shall we head home and discuss the wedding?”

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I Muttered

  • by Kentor creating a movement language
  • six goddamn marshmallows
  • a very polite way of putting it
  • skin as smooth as a woman
  • Let. Me. Enjoy. My. Snack.

Tune in next time part 620      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I muttered at the woman out the corner of my mouth, “What’s to discuss? You know I’m married already.”

“This is Contrarian soil,” she responded airily. “What in other lands would be called bigamy here is as natural as sneezing or creating a movement language.” She tittered. “And anyway, the warlord’s daughter has had a lot on her mind of late. I doubt she’s spared a thought for her absent husband.”

“… but only six goddamn marshmallows,” her father growled on my other elbow. “Does no good to complain, certainly not worth thinking of a very polite way of putting it when you do. And they know they got ya. They know!”

I tuned him out and turned my attention back to the familiar woman. She wore opera gloves over skin as smooth as a woman who wore gloves all the time. A memory of tinsel, of a train, brought her identity along with it. And gave me an idea for another gambit to get myself out of this mess.

“What would Maurice think?” I asked her.

She merely shrugged, then tittered again.

The old man was still ranting. “After making me wait all that time, ignoring me, now they wouldn’t leave me alone. The nerve! I finally have enough marshmallows and now I can’t eat them for all the interruptions. Let. Me. Enjoy. My. Snack. That’s not so complicated!”

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