The Ept, The Ane and the Fantile

“That was great.”

“Did you really…?”

“I really liked it.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“I’m not just saying that.”

“Me too.”

“Did you ever think…?”

“God no.”

“But I’m relieved.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We both…that is, neither of us….”

“Of course.”

“You know what I mean?”

“I think so. But, really. I’m serious. It was quite…”

“Go on.”

“I was just going to say it was this unexpected intensity in an otherwise…”

“Yes.”

“Explosive.”

“Like…”

“Like the sun exploding.”

“Yes.”

“Like the sun exploding behind my eyes.”

“I’m still…”

“Me too. Shaking.”

“No guilt?”

“None.”

“That’s good.”

“Good. That’s not…”

“I know. Good is hardly…”

“I just hope it’s not. You know. You know? That we never…?”

“Do it again?”

“Exactly.”

“It’s more than that now.”

“But what will we tell people?”

“You won’t believe this…”

“But you only just thought of it now. I know, I know; same here. I was so…”

“Obviously. We were too…”

“It’s understandable.”

“It’s perfectly understandable.”

“We’ll say she fell.”

“Why don’t you put that away before you do something you regret?”

“You mean you’ll regret.”

“I mean both of us.”

“Have I already mentioned that one of the things that always pissed me off about you is how you like putting words in my mouth?”

“Okay, I’ll regret. I’ll regret it.”

“Think so? Only for a moment or two. And then you won’t give a damn. I promise.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Was I trying to be?”

“Maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought.”

“Maybe not.”

“Can I at least put on my jacket? I’m cold.”

“Will your feelings be hurt if I say that your comfort isn’t my priority at this particular juncture in time?”

“I need my glasses.”

“No you don’t.”

“I can’t see where I’m going.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll say duck when there’s a low branch. Trust me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Is it much further?”

“Patience patience.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Oh wow: that’s perfect. Perfection itself. You don’t remember? It wasn’t long ago that that was my line. Why are you doing this? Remember? Hey, don’t tell me you don’t remember because that would really piss me off. Just joking. Funny thing is how not pissed off I am, to be honest. It’s all suddenly very clear to me, you know? Not like before. Before I was a mess. But this new me is just like boom boom boom, from A to B to C, just do it. Very matter of fact and in control is how I would put it. The first day of the rest of my life and so forth. I sound like a motivational tape.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Oh my God how glad I’ll be to never have to hear that question again!”

“I’m not allowed to worry about you any more?”

“Keep walking.”

“Just asking.”

“See, in all fairness, I think you’d better save all that worry for yourself? Or haven’t you noticed that things have taken a definite turn for the worse during the past forty five minutes of your life?”

“So bitter.”

“So enjoying this.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t believe that. You want to hear the strange part? I mean the really strange part that deserves to be in a movie?”

“Okay.”

“I dreamed all this. All of it. All of it. But before. You know what I mean? When things were good, so-called, I dreamed this, exactly how it’s happening, and I woke up in tears…maybe you don’t. You don’t remember? You said, hey, what’s wrong, but I wouldn’t tell you, I was afraid to fill you in on the gory details because I was afraid you’d, uh, you know, think I was a little crazy and I didn’t want to make a bad impression and that used to be so important to me, didn’t it, making a good impression and bullshit of that nature, which is why, you know, blah blah blah. Anyway.You tried your best to pry it out but you couldn’t. I wouldn’t. All I would say was I had this terrible terrible nightmare and it freaked me out because it was so real. And you know what you said? Seriously?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, it was beautiful. Trust me, I heard violins. You said, maybe nightmares are the subconscious mind’s way of showing us how good life really is.”

“I said that?”

“Indeed you did. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

“How so?”

“Keep walking.”

“I just want you to explain to me what’s so ironic about it.”

“I said keep walking.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Turn around.”

“You’re nothing.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you’re nothing.”

“That’s what you said in the dream.”

Setting:
a chat room

Dramatis Personae:
Ann Ominous-a recently divorced Academic (34)
O’Sirus-a bisexual serial killer with an interest in Celtic murder ballads and Egyptology (43)

OS: I like you’re profile pic

AO: To the extent that you’re willing to ‘believe’ (i.e. suspend disbelief) that the picture is A) ‘me’, B) recent and C) un-photoshopped, I thank you. What is it that you ‘like’ about the image, specifically? (And please don’t respond with, ‘your eyes,’ since we’re all aware that references to the ‘eyes’ are always coded symbols of everything *but* the eyes in the context of online transactions of desire and power). It would be refreshing, I confess, if a man, just once, were to answer the above-stated question bluntly, with, for example, ‘the size, shape, and elevation of your breasts’ or ‘your truculent, fellatio-evocative pout’, though, I’d qualify this confession by saying that a man gets ‘points’ (a currency calibrated in what units?) for somehow reconciling the ability to be ‘refreshing’ (transgressive) with some degree of elegance or suavity. That is to say, a contextually ‘hermaphroditic’ presentation interrogating the vitality of ‘male’ aggression with ‘female’ strategies of mimesis-in-play (‘play’ as equal parts ‘agon’ and performance) might prove to be a delightful synthesis. Not that I’m advocating a totalitarian approach to the aesthetics of persuasion, though Henri-Levy did, of course, once quip, “The only successful revolution of this century is totalitarianism.” However, lest your eyebrows remain raised (*emoticon of mirth*) at my referencing such a camera-ready poppinjay as BHL, I will “raise my stock” (as traded on what FTSE of sexual metaphor?) by appropriating the gravitas of Levi-Strauss instead: “If the composer withholds more than we anticipate, we experience a delicious falling sensation; we feel we have been torn from a stable point on the musical ladder and thrust into the void.” Substituting, of course, the terms “cockmaster” for “composer” and “pleasure arc of masturbatory chatting” for “musical ladder”. Not that I expect (hope?) that this last ‘revelation’ (obfuscation?) will ‘up the ante’ (referencing as this colloq. does the ‘game’ of ‘poker’ and the demotic pun it redeems) in our ‘chat’.

OS: ?

AO: 551 275 1585