I am sitting at Submissivania’s knee. Her fiery hair is a flow all over my dreams & her firm smooth shoulders. I am not real sure how this happened. I am a fortunate old feller. Hallelujah.
This evening when I returned from the Prescott Public Library to my neat little room at the inn, I found her in a miniskirt, knees up, sitting in my chair. She had glass in hand, shoes kicked off, her wiggling toes in command. This is the first time she’s been in here, her room being across the hall, in which I’ve never been. But other men have been there, I know for sure. Midnight dalliances over there do not go undetected by this here secret agent, yours truly.
So she was sitting in my chair. But now I’m in the chair & she’s sitting on the table next to it ~ her toes in my lap. We’ve just finished watching Peeintheair & the paltry news on TV. My secret-agent partner points one of her domineering digits at it. So I click the idiot box off.
“We got our orders last week,” says Submissivania, sipping her wine.
“Nice of you to let me know,” says I, chagrined. “What are they?”
Her feet tap a titillating fandango for an instant or two. It’s a lap dance. She’s killing me. She’s really killing me. She even bumps me in the cheek with her knee. “O wants us to locate & destroy an NRA ammo-dump hidden somewhere in Prescott.”
“Didn’t we do that two months ago?”
“Quite accidentally. With some help from our friends. Yes, Raw.”
I’m so distracted by Submissivania’s legs that I kiss her knee. I can’t help it. It’s only natural. It’s so nearby. This is the most intimate we’ve ever been. And I am getting a bit delirious. She even knocks off my new hat. Then she starts messing around with one of my earlobes ~ pulls it around ’til, like she’s Cleopatra, she gots me kissing her other knee too.
“Mission accomplished,” I sigh.
“I guess,” says Submissivania. “The NRA has secret ammo-dumps all over the nation, Rawclyde! The NRA leaders blame the federal government for hoarding bullets when it’s the NRA who is doing the hoarding ~ thus causing a nationwide shortage. White House secret agents are blowing up NRA ammo-dumps all over the country now.”
“Sounds like insurrection, Submissivania.” My lips move to the side of her knee, which tilts a little bit.
Pillars loom high, supporting the roof of the temple. Heaven’s gate is revealed. There is no veil!
“And there’s no new assignment?” asks I.
“None for now.”
“So you’re going back home? To LA?”
“Yes. And you’re coming with me. I’m moving out of my parent’s house. You’re going to be my butler.”
Pillars move. The subterranean tongue slithers forth. The stairwell of love quakes.
“Yes, Rawclyde! Yes! Yes! Yes!!!”
H R Giger artwork: