Intimates: A Journey Towards Sacred Sexuality

by Francis Kroncke

CHAPTER D

  "Cat and Mouse," March liked this; how he looked at the Smith girls: mice. Furry, cute - but at their best at that moment of instant death: trap snapping shut! He laughs. Goes over to his regular spot at the end of the bar, where he can see who’s in and who’s out - No surprises!

  :catholiccatmormonmouse: "Boilermaker. And keep ‘em coming, Stan!"

  Xer didn’t like the Smithys. Didn’t like anything which made him feel worse than he does when he stands naked - Pathetic! - computing the negatives of his self: bodily, socially, economically, intellectually ... "Shit!" If he had ever believed in a God, he would have stopped now. Or, at least - laughing just a mite at the cursedness of it all! - "At least, I’d know He’s a jokester." A Cat, but not a Good Cat: "Alley-cat" is how he puts his life down ... small, an inch or two: "Might as well be a foot!" shorter than average. Puny muscles. ("Muscles?") A face which just couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to keep: a nose, not a slope but a thing slipping - "Towards your ears," he almost whimpers as he flaps his ears. Flags of imbalance: he has tried to balance them out too many times; knows it’s impossible: "One’s just smaller," was his mother’s kindness; others were less charitable. To top it off, he never had money - "Do now!" he rebuffs - okay, never as a kid; but you still don’t have brains! "Not a bookman," he throws away, as if of no great concern ... Shit, being a Cat tops it all off! Like shit floating in a toilet bowl! He abruptly spins about: mental flushing.

  If he had known they called her "Prissy" he would have not hesitated that mite of a moment which he did. "What is a Priscilla?" had chased down several shots and a beer. It wasn’t odd, but it was uncommon. He knew that if he had asked a Smithy - "Know a Priscilla?" that he’d have saved himself some time, but that would have been exposure - of his interest, of her snatching of his interest: Reputation! and another shot and a long guzzle.

  Xer almost knew why he is after her. Almost. It wasn’t that he wanted to firk her. Who didn’t? It wasn’t that he wanted the guys to envy his dick? Hell, nothing will make that bigger! He’d take whatever would come - even their hatred, but, "That’s not it," scratching his head, not his balls.

  He wanted to die: but it came out, "I just want to live!" Just once. Once, be alive!

  "Whisky. Straight." Like she’s said it before. Like it was her usual.

  At this point, March doesn’t care. He was doing fourths, but Who’s this? got him before he even realized he was two-steps towards her and beaming in, fixed on her with eyes unblinking: Being reeled in like a fish! flashes: the hardened warrior within him bolts to sober alert .... freezes his step, turns towards the bartender: "Stan," just a flick of his left and he points to the right of this girl - Girl?! - so, as he sits down it’s as if he’s just arrived, though he knows that she knows that he knows she knows ... Steady! from deep inside ... her neck: like a pillar of dancing white-fire in desert darkness - Goddam! as he sits, sweating the tiniest beads of alcohol sweat: feels them as large as small pebbles dripping down his face ... only the bar mirror saves him: Cool!

  How many guys must’ve asked the waitresses? Even The Box’s owner? How many must’ve staked out the back-door? How many must’ve followed some waitress just to find a good night’s pussy but not her? How am I gonna do this?

  They were both mirror perfect. He - suffering the benefit of practiced drinking was not sweaty; did not slur his words; had not a tipsy dip of his pinkie finger. She - just didn’t know what else to do!

  Cool! He plays her against the glass. Not dealing with her in his space. Not drawing her into his: just glancing at her through the swooping bar-long mirror. Drawing himself to full size: even seated he loomed over everyone else nearby. Against him she was but a slight reflection. He, an Olympian God! Feels it. Nods to her, winks, as he tosses down his shot. Pauses. Just a nanosecond to catch her glance: Does she? A twinkle from her eye? ... Taking time with his beer: as if all he has is time. Random time. They meeting by chance. Ha.

  She has not moved. Not smiled. Not twinkled. Only her innocence is camouflage: showering her with a softness unmatched by any doe caught in a hunter’s spotlight!

  Half a mug. Empty shot.

  She pushes her shot of whisky towards him.

  Priscilla!

  Does she live at The Box? Is there a room there? A master of disguise? Wigs? Anyone leave in a wheelchair? Any pregnant women - Christ what an idiot ... Gotta think. But not like thinking. Something he’s learned from dealing blossom. Not that it was illegal and his the criminal mind, but that it was "So Cat!" meaning it was only done by Catholics, not the Mormons, not even the fallen away ones (which Xer has never met, but thought he’d like to - unexpressed: Those sorry-ass bastards! making him feel superior to someone! For fallen away Mormons were considered Bad marriages for Catholics - even if he’d never known of one such marriage.) Naturally, Xer didn’t make it a point to say he was Catholic. He did make it a point of only firking drunk girls - and he’s had a Smithy or two, though it nags him that they might have been lying: each time he had tallied a missing quantity of blossom at week’s count. Firked?

  "Be obvious," what his older brother had told him - a master dealer and one whom no one ever thought actually was a Catholic. "Why? I’m obvious, that’s why. I deal right in the open, under everyone’s nose. No one can believe I’m actually doing it. So, when I say I’m not, they believe me!" Xer was impressed. As he dealt blossom, he tried it. It worked for him, too. ... But for catching Lacy Lily?

  "She’s so obvious we’re all overlooking her!" A clear thought, but a hard one to put into action. At times he wished that he, himself, did do a smidge of blossom; heard that it sharpens the senses. "What are we looking at but not seeing?"

  Priscilla. All of a sudden he’s eager to speak her name, but something is choking him - strangling him from inside, squeezing his lungs. A moment of fright!

  "March Forbar," words which lift him, raise him, to another level of reality: "I’m Priscilla Young."

  Just like that. Did she really speak? He feels a sharp pain in his heart. He knows that all of his teeth have shattered and are falling in pieces onto the bar-room floor.

  She reaches over and touches his left arm. Not skin on skin. Not a tug or a pull. Not a pressing or a squeeze. She alights! He senses her like a great tree receiving: branches a hundred arms vulnerable, defenseless: receiving a flock of heavenly birds - but it is just one avian messenger: her ... following her, drinks left: stranded, to a booth: flying there, hovering above the crowd, gliding beyond everyone, weaving in and out, up and down on astral thermals: heart-fired: erotic sighs: no one can see them, this he knows, no one turns, no one greets him: She alights!

  Xer is struggling to do the impossible - be there when Lacy Lily performs, but, then, not be there! To not be swept up by her charm, her fascination, her seduction .... he has come every day this week - and Failed!

  Yet, each day: Progress. But he’s not really sure. He’s taken to stuffing cotton in his ears. To wearing dark sunglasses so as not to see - "Just one look!" he could have written that ancient lyric - her theme song: all that it means: bawdy - and, now, what it doesn’t mean - but, just one look, even one blurred and out-of-focus, "Just one look!" and he’s like the song predicts: ball-and-chain lock-step, trudging towards the gallows!

  Friday. For some reason, she doesn’t perform on weekends. Maybe that’s it? But what the hell could that mean? He puts the observation in his mental file.

  Since he’s not gotten anywhere, he decides to do the opposite. To look at her. To hear her. To look as others have not looked. To hear as others have not heard.

  "What is she when I look at her but don’t see her look?"

  "When I listen but don’t hear what she wants me to hear?"

  Slam-damn, Martians rotting in the belly of hell! Insight. Clue.

  Xer has a plan. "How obvious!"