The Course of True Love 2

Red haired young Willie's lefthand’s freckled fingers were stretching his blue, white, yellow and green tie, while his right thumb nail was scratching at a frilly tie flower figure on it—he hated wearing ties—specially girly ones—but they wore them at work, and this particular one was a gift for his 21st birthday, two weeks ago, given him by this sweet, precious Irma, who loved him once but was now just sitting down the coach from him in icy silence, down the faded green sofa here--lovely, desirable, sexy and sexier Irma, so far down--the distance was growing further between them like reverse binoculars.

He’d been tenderly caressing her soft birthday present tie all day, even kissed it once, when no one was looking—its sweet soft silkiness reminded him of Irma’s softness when she wasn’t testing him again, as she was now, and he didn't care nothing about everybody kidding him, even about it looking faggy at lunch because he was so worried.

So worried he’d hardly been able to swallow his ketchupy hot dog from anxiety about Irma being mad at him—then the undigesting hotdog had bounced around inside him and now was making a rumbling fartknot in his agitated stomach of flatulent gas.

But he’d worn Irma's tie in memory of their love all day, and wore it tonight too—specially since Irma herself wouldn't talk to him, maybe the tie would speak for him.

But he’d got hotdog ketchup on it, his thumbnail was now scratching at it, the tiny shinny ketchup stain on one of the tie’s frilly yellow flowers.

He had a hangnail on his thumb.

And there, down the dusty sofa was golden-haired, dimpled Irma: oh her very kissable but very distant dimples. He could even feel her delicious cheek dimples under his lips in memory. His authoritarian mother had dimples.

He and Irma should be kissing right now.

Would they ever kiss again? The doubt scared him and made him worse flatulent, swelling his stomachgut, just like when Ma was mad at him, the knot was getting painful; making him sweat.

Irma’d hear him if he let it go in her toilet, “I can’t believe you came over to my apartment to stink it up, Dude, that is so uncool” the noise and smell—he have to leave her toilet door closed, light a match in there, except he didn’t have one, have to ask for one, Maybe go outside or make some excuse… .

Irma’s distant cold emerald eyes were still turned icily away, certainly they’d never look at Willie again this milenium. She hated his smells anyway, saying things like, “When did you shower last, Dude? That testosterone smell is really awful.”

He liked the way her body smelled.

Her confederate, the also cold-faced grandpa clock in the corner, swung its mocking arm, thock, thock, making the cold silence silenter, Eddie's hangnail more annoying and Eddie's heavy heart 10 lbs. heavier and that growing gaseous interior stomach-knot was growing. Just like when Ma was disgusted by him. His father had disgusted her too before leaving.

Irma looked down now, became a bug scientist examining—what was she examing? Her handkerchief? Tripping on her handkerchief? Spreading it like a science specimen of a extinct spotted owl species on her knee? Those large deep greeneyes, that could become so soft when she forgot to be disgusted at him, were now examining every thread microscopic close.

Willie cleared his throat--no good, she didn't look up, “Wanta beer?" remembering not to be too controlling, not to let himself sound too…too something.

"Nope," she said, "none in the fridge anyways." Still examining her handcherchief.

He even remembered to metrosexualize his voice up higher to a less threatening, more girlish key, not be what Irma called, “So testosteroney and objectifying” to not remind her, she said, of her macho father that she passionately hated. All the dudes that had not given up, if they wanted to “hook up” even in one night stands, which is what they did with chicks these days, had to be softy girlish, even duck their heads, be ashamed of being aroused. Be like a gal pal.

“I better go down to the store... ." he then would be able to relive himself outside, beyond earshot when she couldn't hear him fart.

"Too much hassle," said Irma, “nooooo, don’t wanna hassle you, but really, thanks egregious—so very cool of you, supercool--I extremulate you being so very extra cool. Thanks."

Ohhh, thanking him, always a terrible sign getting him into some position to do some penance for???

She now switched from handkerchief to hand.

"Chill out,” Willie said, with a very pronounced effeminate non-threatening lisp that all the girls liked so well, “you’re just thanking the thiit out of me.” He instantly regretted the "thiit," bad habit. There were so many hoops… .

At least the ketchup spot was getting scratched away.

"Oh," Irma, a college dropout, said, "obtund me with a fornicating spoon,” she loved using college words that made her feel superior when she was working on him, “egregious sorry if I, in any jejune way, bummed you Dude—I know what it feels like getting bummed, in private or public, specially public—but I can’t process somebody ‘shitting’ me just for saying, 'thank you'.”

Her blonde bangs hung down in front. There had beentoo many controlling men in college.

Willie said, "I didn’t… .”

"Ooops, didn't?" She said, "my bad, guess I'm having auditory hallucinations," comforting seeing Willie confused, completely abject--revenge for daddy ignoring her, "I thought you did, I thought you just… .” she was now languidly smoothing her long blonde hair, he loved her hair, it turned him on. She would first put him firmly in his place just to be sure he was not controlling her and she was boss.

“Look, sweetie poo," said Willie, now probing for just the right, non-threatening childish endearment, "I just was wanting to beer you, nothing to get your shorts in a knot about,” shouldn't have said that last. He bit his thumb hangnail. His inner urgency was growing, he couldn’t stink up her bathroom.

"My shorts?” she said, “Oooooh, that’s the uncoolest, sexist expression, objectifying women, I ever heard onna adult dude; sides, sides, who’s getting my…whatever? I'm positive I wasn't hip I was getting…saying I wouldn't dream of hassling you. You're biting your nails regressively again.”

She now had tightly wound a strand of her lovely golden hair around one finger and was tugging on it, with one elbow back over her head to turn him on, pulling her shirt tight over her chest.

"Okay,” Willie said, “so then do me the big favor of letting me beer you.”

"Gadzooks, comrade you gotta go, dude? Somebody waiting, don’t let me harsh your high. Pa-lease, you got your action legs going you better move, you’re free Dude,” here she smacked the sofa arm hard for emphasis, raising a considerable dust cloud, “you’re…" coughing on the dust.

"Ah, give it a rest Irma,” he was so angry heforgot to lisp, knew he was lapsing into testosteronyness and throwing caution to the winds, just recklessly, in misery, biting hard on his hangnail, peeling it way back so it bled.

Irma said, "Don't you dare tell me…”cough cough “what," cough "to do," cough cough, you sexist control freak. The days of tyrant men controlling women are over I can tell you that right now, we have women boxers now, dude, that are just as strong as men. We have a woman Supreme Court Justice that knows how to deal with white men in a wise Latina way. We have women action heroes. We’ll never allow ourselves—men are now gonna be controlled… .”

"Irma, what's going down here?"

The piece of cuticle skin had peeled off in his teeth bringing blood.

"Zero nada nothing’s going… ." she said. "And what you're doing's really disgusting."

Willie said, "You're just saying this stuff, all this...this,” looking for a place to hide the little piece of bloody cuticle, at the little bubble of bright blood on his thumb and feeling the air burning on its wounded raw place. These sessions when she went through all her feminist, new age, pc crap were right at the edge of not being worth it.

Irma said, "I really won’t stand for that testosteroney controlling language. Too bad you’re bummed, sexist! the whole world’s been suffering from you controlling men forever.”

Her eyes still watering from coughing on the couch dust, "so do it, go get unbummed. Gotta be lots cooler spots than this living room, but you shoulda told me, lotta dudes, maybe even women wanted to see me tonight. But no big egregiod to me--much rather you bail…whereever and party. Doesn’t feel good you trying to control me," cough cough, "me sitting here feeling you’re bumming some dude and him trying to control you. God, when will she let women be free?"

“I'm not bummed! don't wanna go noplace! Come on sweety poo won't you tell me what's freaking you? Please?"

"I haven't the micro infinitesimal idea what you're talking about," but now Irma was making Willy one of their mutually agreed on signals, signals she always made and he always recognized when she felt she had gotten him properly in his place, during their fights—she now let her eyes tear up--displayed her tears, even turned her head slightly so the lamp light would catch those pearly tears she had squeezed--it made a nice effect, "I’m cool,” She said, a self-pitying tearful little kid—it always worked with when she wanted something from her home-only-on-weekends daddy, "Don't know what you mean," she went on in a very small wounded, poor me, child's voice.

Willie saw the opening, "Yes, you do," he said crooning a little, the croon was a recognition of her submissive signal.

He very carefully slid down off the couch without compressing his stomach and inadvertently expeling his gaseous lump—thought longingly of going outside for a quick one, but this was the crucial moment of humiliation that he’d—she’d been working toward, if he didn’t respond to her signal all the rest of the torture game might have to be repeated. This was it if he wanted any kissing this evening, so he kept his part going, "Something’s gotta be the trouble. What’d old mean me do?" taking full responsibility for who knew what because Irma herself couldn’t never admit being wrong--just wiped her out, just like with Willie’s Ma, she had already trained him to admit to whatever silliness. He had to do so now if he wanted to kiss those unbearably kissable lips, not argue. Ma had conditioned him to always be wrong. His father too, before leaving, had always been eternally wrong: insufficiently attentive, smelled bad.

"Goodness," she said, "there's none of it's no big thing to me, anything you do anyways irregardless of nothing.”

"Please don't, Irma," he said, "Will you, please?" She wasn’t going back to it now? Not fair, reinstituting the war after her white flag declaring a truce?

"Don't what?” She said, to affirm who was IN CONTROL here even though she knew already she had him where she wanted.

"You know what I mean," he said, "same stuff like on the phone today too--really well you know."

"Excuse the living feces out of me," she said, banging the couch hard again, raising the dust of war again, "I don’t know? You opinionated woman objectifyer? Who’s trying to get control of… ."

"Hold on, hold on, sorry, sorry, sorry, didn't mean it. You got me so I can’t track nothing no more." His gaseous lump, he was down here on his knees and couldn't get up now from his knees without the compressive effort doing something very indelicate that she would never forgive him for. He must get to the door.

"Well, you sure got me egregious wrong dude," she said, "I'm a pretty equal lady. Trying to objectify and control me like that. Besides you're using double negatives and your finger's bloody. Eooh," now back in full cry again. Although she herself, really just wanted kissing and holding, but at a price.

"Told you I was sorry, didn't I?" He remained on one knee now, estimating the knee crawling distance to the door, "Honest, sweetie poo, didn't mean it. Please forgive me? Please?"

"I’ll take it under advisement," she said, "cripes, don't feel you gotta apologize to me so disgusting simpy, like you're a bad little boy and I'm your mommy.”

Should he just make a break for it? Hope he got the door open and outside before… .

"It’s just totally obtund,” she went on, as he began edging doorward on his knees, “me having some cat come over and rank on me, that's all."

"Ok you win," he said, running out of sphincter resistance, " better let this sit tonight you’re just gonna stay pissed at me."

"Me pissed? Get up off your knees," she said, "what in the universe stuck that jejune notion in your brain. Me pissed at you?”

He was nearing the door, still on his knees not daring to get up. Would just turning the knob… .

He said, "I was freaking all day.. ."

"Oh no, wait a minute," she said, "don't you dare lay that on me, that’s not me I know lots of evochicks do that, in revenge for centuries of masculine oppression and tyranny, but that’s not me.

"I better bail," he said, "this is just freaking you more?"

"Do whatever moves you, dude, don't stay here wanting to be with somebody else. Go right over to Betty Johnson’s, right?" So that was it? The epiphany even penetrated his abdominal pain, "that’s where you’re wanting to go, right?“

“Betty Johnson’s! That dog?" Forgetting his effeminate affectational lisp again, "Betty Johnson eats Alpo."

"What a typically sexist and very objectifying a thing to say, Betty Johnson was totally cool to you at the party last night: I was embarrassed for you, Dude,” he now put one hand on the doorknob, “climbing into her lap that's how uncool she was to you last night."

"Climbing? I didn’t want to talk to her at all."

"But you think she's beautiful, liar." she said, "some tasteless people say she’s cool. I hear she’s very popular among the blind. Or did you just think it was a good chance to humiliate me and control me in public."

"Cool? like my fat Aunt Ida with a moustache, I tried talking to you, you just walked away."

"Me?" She said. "Oh, that's a hemorrhage dude. That’s the best. Can I laugh now?"

"Laugh yourself silly, but you walked," he tightened his grip on the doorknob.

"You sprained your ankle getting to her like she owed you money. I thought you two’d be happily ever after with grandchildren by now, you were so obnoxiously aggressive and testosteroney, like death till you part, slobbering all over her."

"Irma! That loony swooped down on me with a deathgrip before I could even get a breath."

"You weren't trying.”

"Me there, with my bare face hanging out? chewing my tie trying to talk to you?"

Here he pulled it for emphasis, "And you walking away. And then Bessy, Betst, Betty—bow wow--the Queen of the Dogpound. Dracula’s aunt with that black goth lipstick and breath that’d make a cockroach puke." Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, his buttocks tightly compressed.

"For sure," she said, "anybody can see that, but I don't know, some dweebs say she's egregious cool."

“Not alongside you,” he strained to be romantic, lyrical.

"She has got that gigandahuge shnaze," Irma said, "I totally feel sorry for a girl with a egregious proboscis like that."

"I seen smaller at the zoo," he said, "course you got the most lovliest little nose in the whole world. Least I’ve ever seen."

"Me? No way," she said, “me? You’re just… .” ah, she was giving in… .

Now seeing his advantage, "Gosh and beautiful hair and a sexy mouth, And beautiful hands. Let me have one of the little hands, look atta little hand! Who's got the prettiest lips and dimples in the world? Who was the sweetest girl in the world?"

"I don't know," she said, now pouting one lip out, "whom?"

"You don't know!" He said. "Oh yes you do."

"I do not, who? Betsy Johnston?"

"Oh, Betsy Johnston, you freaked about Betsy Johnston! A girl like you getting freaked about a dog,” another slip, “like Betsy Johnston!"

"I think you're just perfectly hydraulic," she said. "I was not freaked! You’re tripping dude.”

Here hydraulic Willie pulled the doorknob, still kneeling hoping to whip open the door and thrust himself outside but suddenly there it was, a terrible noise and odor. A great flatulous expulsion.

"I guess you think that's very masculine," Irma said flatly, "coming into my house and farting!"

© Pierrino Mascarino