Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Secret Acts of Females in their Rightful and Lonesome (Loathsome) Domestication

Here, for any who dares read, is the beginning of a mock-Victorian-etiquette-manual-esque piece I wrote maybe a year back. I just found it on my hard drive and gave a little giggle. Thought I'd be not-so-shy and share it.

The goal of the personal exercise: To write a beautiful story of diarrhea.

It's unfinished. Sorry for spelling errors, I oddly couldn't update the document.

The Secret Acts of Female in their Rightful and Lonesome (Loathsome) Domestication

The very inscription on my breast pocket alerts me to the fact that I am a lady, and being part of the female sex I must address myself as such first and foremost: owner of galloping mammaries, arbiter of branching hips, tradeswoman of the fearsome triangular dynasty, keeper of the womb.

I must also recognize myself as others do call me by: my dulcet, infantile girl name, the very presupposing and wildly insinuating, Lilly. My dear mother wrangled that one no doubt from the vestiges of Mother Nature herself, hoping in time I would one day prove myself to be as precociously layered and recondite as that bespeckled musty flower. You see, the intricacies of woman lay not only in her form.

A lady is always presumed to look her best. Slinky, form-embracing garbs are a must as well as some proper skin adornments. That is why you could see my figure wrapped in the same such apparel on any given Saturday night—and on this given Saturday night, to be sure. Howard Blake had informed me of his get-together (shin-digs too colloquial and parties too pedestrian) last week and knowing that this night could afford the appearances of many captivating women and some selectively entertaining men, I gave a brief and husky, “Why not?”, propping the phone back in its cradle and sighing towards the barren walls. Felicity was simply exasperated, buttocks barely seated on her chair, when I told her of our impending engagement. I see how my credibility might be shoved off completely by the latter sentence, and I will be the first to admit the atrocious, reprehensible properties of a name like Felicity and all those who would associate with some such names. However, if I may be given warranted reprieve from disapproval for the etymological atrocities of my neighbors, the narrative can continue on in a felicitous manner, as it were. I kept Felicity as a close by acquaintance, dare I say friend, because indeed her amicable countenance was one rarely seen in the dismal, dreary setting of Portsmith. Portsmith, its burgeoning mouth agape to the whimsy transits of commercial vessels, was a wasteland culturally and had barely the muffled heartbeat of social attractions. After surviving the first twenty-two years of my life in such a stifling flutter of a sea port, I found it only suitable to stretch out the rest of my existence in the toil that makes for the poetic lyrics in the shockingly popular shanties of the day. These ladies here, they have no combs, they comb their hair, with cod fish bones. These and other similar lyrics are well suited to the general disposition of the commonfolk here. No, you won’t see Felicity brushing through her auburn locks with the calcified skeleton of deceased marine life, but the women that huddle in their shops selling their respectable goods might certainly find themselves stroking through their stringy, briny hair with the spine of a fish after being so damaged by the hood of stale, brackish air that swarmed the crust of Portsmith.

“Do you think Kenneth Sullivan will be there?” Felicity whined on our way to the door, reconfiguring the gaudy bow on the front of her red blouse.

Kenneth Sullivan and men like him were of the contrary, dullard species that I categorically ignored with an upturned, snubbed nose. He wore the type of tight, squarish trousers that undoubtedly slinked up his backside and left nothing of mystery to the dynamics of his unchiseled, flat behind. His gums receded from his teeth like unobligingly led horses, encapusled in mote-like spit that I imagined had the bacterial fecundity of toilet water. Felicity doted upon such gentlemen.

“He must be. This looks to be his type of gathering,” I suggested.

I rang the doorbell ceremoniously, with a brief hesitation as I entered through the doorjamb. A sudden and achingly swift bolt of pain breached my intestines and I had to graze myself a few courteous seconds before I was to engage in the active duty of dialogue. Something stirred among the depths of my stomach, and having had a modest breakfast and lunch, I wondered at my gustatory disruptions. I carried myself in still, gliding not walking, as most women do in their desired effort to become attractive to the opposing sex. My breasts firmly sheltered in the tightening dress and my protruding and perturbing stomach encased by the skirt, I melted over towards the host to give him his regards and wavered over like the dolloping smoke of a cigarette to a group of unassuming guests.

Harold Glaser, Marianne Shields, Cynthia Trasout, Mark Adams. The faces blurred into a pastel mixture and only the names remained doubled up and lingered over in my memory like overfolded vocabulary lists that an overachieving school girl minds over in the penultimate days before the exam. Cristoff Demarconi, Jane Regan, Randall Furbush. Name plates and gravestones marking people and yet their identities will remain shrouded to my encumbered mind as their tenuous illustrations in my head were spilt away like rained on chalk drawings. Surely there were leather shoes, someone was wearing a sweater, someone a tailored suit, of course pearls, and there might have even been a Trixie that my memory is specifically choosing to omit, but in these situations all there really can remain of such personalities are their monikers. Their figures distort in inkish blots inside my inabsorbant cerebellum, leaving much to be desired, and please forgive me. But had my mind—and oh dear stomach—been in standard functionary condition, I might have addressed to you three swollen paragraphs pregnant with description of bowties and canine toothed camaraderies, but for now this is all I can offer.

Felicity grabbed my black garment from the hip and bent her lips towards my earlobe.
“Kenneth just asked me about Peru. About going to Peru. His company has a branch there. Hmmmmph,” she chortled in a hum of presumptive bliss.

“Well, well. The lower Western hemisphere awaits, the loins of America lay eagerly for you,” I muttered.

Felicity scowled at my jocular pandering, wishing one day that my aspirations would match the tennis-side vodkas that hers leaped towards.

In an instant the doom that slept in the nethers of my belly awakened like a vengeful sea creature. I slid away from Felicity, hoping she would not note the wave of anxiety pelting my forced grin. In the flash of a learned sprinter I traversed the entire room. The Cynthias, the Harolds, and the Randalls whirred in a ferris wheel fashion against the brazen trek to the lady’s room. One should always excuse themselves and pardon yourself by saying you are going to powder your cheeks when retiring to the restroom. But there are times, there are other times when stealth is paramount to the female motional habit.

I locked the door with a deft click and tore my stockings down with the terror of building water against a weakened levee. As one sits upon the toilet, one must be sure to paper the seat to maintain a hygienic bottom. Next, one crosses her legs and is careful to muffle the sound of nature’s calling. A vigorous wash of the hands is urgent upon returning to the given social event. One should linger at the mirror, studying one’s frame, and be sure to have reapplied lipstick in hand when vacating the room. Primping always conceals other tasks the body unforgivingly minds. I sat upon the toilet and felt an urgency so vivid, my legs remained as disparate as the continents on a globe. I sat in trepidation, unclogging my bowels as if I were a mightily established spectroscope probing the innards of the goat subject in question. Yellowish waves of boiled impotence ring out like truths swept from my anus to the ground, the same gurgling breath as warmish tiger lilies bring come spring, only not so sweet, and fragrant, yes, but not in the pleasant manner but dedicated to the scent of repugnance, the sun bakes down along the nape of the neck in such the same manner of the heat that sounds against a distempered stomach, and like the cooing rush of temperature across the genitals moments and instants before the surge to the snowy capped peak of glorious orgasm—then comes too the current of fire from the grumbling belly. Acidic liquid that curls up and undulates until quaking in a tumultuous stream of disastrous stench, and sucks back in when the owner of such fecal tribulations fails to meet the necessitated toilet. I rest on the toilet, warming it with my twenty-minute hiatus. My bowels become generous philanthropists to the moral cause of the toilet, expunging altruistic plops into the awaiting tithing basket.

(to be continued... dun dun dun)

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