"I think she's serious," Bob said, taking a break from his banging to look at me. "I mean, what kind of sick chick wants to get banged by a blind man?"
I wanted to say, 'But Bob, in so many ways you are blind.' Instead I said, "Put a blindfold on the next time you crawl in bed--maybe that will get her hot."
"I suggested that," Bob said, getting back to banging, "but Joni says there's more that comes with the blind package than the lack of sight."
This cleared it up for me; what Joni wanted--when it came to sex--was less hardball, more slow pitch. Cleverly, she'd used the sensitivity of the blind to spell it out. But bang-bang Bob had taken her literally; thought what she wanted was sex with a blind guy.
Out my side window the world was blurring by--the perfect mindset for the writer preparing to write. Oh, no, I knew what wise words might inspire base Bob, here, to grow. What I didn't know, was whether it was wise to stick 'em in his ear. Why? Because personal growth had a way of exorcising the fool out of a guy, and where there's no fool, there's no sidekick.
I looked at my sidekick. No, my old soul work down here--inspiring individuals to take the next higher step--was a tough row to hoe, and I needed all the kicks I could muster to go on fighting the good fight. And if that meant sacrificing fool Bob, here, well then, that's the way he'll go.
I got back to the world blurring by. Then, again, there was the age old question we old souls kept asking: Was every individual capable of growing? Answer: Hell, Gabriel could blow in Bob's ear, and the bonehead wouldn't get a clue.
Relieved, I raised my horn, blew a clue custom-fit for Bob's ear.
"Jeez, Bob, I think Joni's onto something, here; seeking out the blind to satisfy her. I mean, look at you and me. We seeing-eyed males get caught up in visuals--beauty. We search for beauty, spy beauty, want to consume beauty. And if we're lucky enough to get our hands on beauty, we consume beauty like we wolf burritos at the ball game--huge bites, chased by gulps of beer. So caught up in wolfing burrito, we never consider the well-being of the burrito we're wolfing. But the . . . the, ah . . ."
Damn, I'd lost my train.
Bob came to the rescue: "The blind, Bonehead; why a girl prefers the blind."
"Ya, see Bob, the blind man can't see. Which means he can't see beauty. Which means he's immune to the blindness beauty causes in the rest of us seeing-eyed losers. No, really, Bob, close your eyes and envision that blind man making sweet love to your Joni. Is he wolfing? No, he's purring. Is he hammering boards to the wall? No, he's lovingly hanging wallpaper."
Bob didn't say anything.
I gave Bob the stern I'd lifted from Trent. "Braille, Bob, braille. That's the way a guy satisfies his girl."
"Pecooliar," Bob said. "Plenty pecooliar."
"What's plenty pecooliar, Bob?"
"You." And banging away on my glove box door, he stuck it to me. "I can't believe you. I finally get you to talk sex and chicks, and what do you do, but cough up some garble about some wimp disabled guy, all fingers and no hump. See, Anton, I know what women want. They want to be taken. Sure, all the chicks say they want some touchy-feely kind of guy, some blind man with a slow cane, tapping his way around, learning the lay of the land. But that's society talking. What women really want, deep down, is to be taken down."
"What's plenty pecooliar, Bob?"
"You." And banging away on my glove box door, he stuck it to me. "I can't believe you. I finally get you to talk sex and chicks, and what do you do, but cough up some garble about some wimp disabled guy, all fingers and no hump. See, Anton, I know what women want. They want to be taken. Sure, all the chicks say they want some touchy-feely kind of guy, some blind man with a slow cane, tapping his way around, learning the lay of the land. But that's society talking. What women really want, deep down, is to be taken down."
"Downtown?"
"No, you moron." And banging all the harder, he went on. "I know women. What women want is a man who will drop 'em where they stand, pin 'em to a pile of laundry, or an upstairs' step. Or, better yet, shove 'em in the closet and bang 'em on their shoes. Bang 'em like they mean it. Bang 'em hard enough to make up for all the limp wimps they've had to put up with year after year while they withered."
Bob quit banging, returned the stern I'd just given him.
"No, you moron." And banging all the harder, he went on. "I know women. What women want is a man who will drop 'em where they stand, pin 'em to a pile of laundry, or an upstairs' step. Or, better yet, shove 'em in the closet and bang 'em on their shoes. Bang 'em like they mean it. Bang 'em hard enough to make up for all the limp wimps they've had to put up with year after year while they withered."
Bob quit banging, returned the stern I'd just given him.
I looked out my side window at the world blurring by.
At the risk of acquiring a complex, I recalled a girlfriend of mine from years ago. Kat was her name. Kat's recurring criticism of me was my sensitivity. Was this what Kat was getting at; that she wanted me to do her like callous Bob, here? After all, that Kat of mine did have lot of shoes. Ya, maybe that's why she broke up with me; to find a guy who had more insight into the true use of that closet of hers--paved with shoes.
Bob had gotten back to his banging, back to taking me to school on how to satisfy a girl. Presently, he was recounting all the places he'd done his women. "It's true," her was saying, "it's all happening at the zoo. It's all those big game animals pacing behind bars. See, Anton, a girl needs tension--a build up of tension. But that's hard work; as hard as foreplay. So what you want to do is to get caged animals to do that work for you. Once the drudgery of tension building is out of the way, you drag her into some zoo shrubbery, give her what for."
Yes, just listen to the old soldier. Sure there was conquer in his voice, but for all his girl-slaying, there was no joy in his voice. What I heard was tired old soldier straining to convince himself of his womanizing creed.
I got back to my side window; back to my study of the world blurring by. That's what I liked about the blur; there were no specifics, everything's a whole--equal. Ya, and with everything equal, there is no one thing, no someone. But, wait; I just noticed something--some kind of gold rod had blurred by.
Omen.
Let's see. Gold rod. Gold road. Gold rule.
At the risk of acquiring a complex, I recalled a girlfriend of mine from years ago. Kat was her name. Kat's recurring criticism of me was my sensitivity. Was this what Kat was getting at; that she wanted me to do her like callous Bob, here? After all, that Kat of mine did have lot of shoes. Ya, maybe that's why she broke up with me; to find a guy who had more insight into the true use of that closet of hers--paved with shoes.
Bob had gotten back to his banging, back to taking me to school on how to satisfy a girl. Presently, he was recounting all the places he'd done his women. "It's true," her was saying, "it's all happening at the zoo. It's all those big game animals pacing behind bars. See, Anton, a girl needs tension--a build up of tension. But that's hard work; as hard as foreplay. So what you want to do is to get caged animals to do that work for you. Once the drudgery of tension building is out of the way, you drag her into some zoo shrubbery, give her what for."
Yes, just listen to the old soldier. Sure there was conquer in his voice, but for all his girl-slaying, there was no joy in his voice. What I heard was tired old soldier straining to convince himself of his womanizing creed.
I got back to my side window; back to my study of the world blurring by. That's what I liked about the blur; there were no specifics, everything's a whole--equal. Ya, and with everything equal, there is no one thing, no someone. But, wait; I just noticed something--some kind of gold rod had blurred by.
Omen.
Let's see. Gold rod. Gold road. Gold rule.
Hard to read an omen. Was it about simple Bob, with his hard-on for money? Was it complicated America, with its hard roads paved in gold? Or was it the incomprehensible universe, with its easy golden rule? I didn't know. But two things I did know: Hard to know how to be a man when it came to women, and this nether earth plane would be a lot less nether if we randy males could see fit to get more up in the way of golden rules.
****
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