Kim Whiteman had--and truthfully, one can only speculate as to how much doubt and shame went into that--but Kim Whiteman had told that she wanted me to bust-up a chiffarobe.
In her pants.
Meanwhile, I was writing long books and so forth, screenplays, poetry and so forth about subjects, the few, that I knew so well, so intimately, and had such a complete and profound, absolute grasp.
My own ass.
No other subject matter with which I had license to speak of in such detail.
The breadth, the quiddity, you know, the pure detail, prior history, even some of the pre-history figured into the provenance of the thing, as it were, and "pre-history" was my own term for the speculation in physics of things and phenomena prior to the Big Bang.
"That which was written 'aforetime'(before time) was reading for our learning..."
Of no other subject could I express such variety and scope of both knowledge and experience, that which I kept in my Radio Flyer, that which followed me around, just like my shadow, but not always as welcoming as my stolid shadow self.
To do it, was damnation. To not do it, was damnation, and her doubt and shame, became my doubt and shame, and my career is a young executive was roundly abjectly torpedoed the moment she saw my face in her mind: it was done, like fun was fun and done was done. I was done either way, yet only one door lay open the way to Chuck E. Cheese, to driving her Jeep Gladiator, or scrubbing with emery, the soles of her awful hooves.
It was, asked for sex, as much a put upon, to say one could fly headlong into a wall, and then the other option, fly again headlong into the wall. Just as dead, but does rigor mortis preserve a smile or a thoughtful frown?
Blackface had been banned in polite society, but I was tempted to ask if she preferred that anyway, and I could even rifle through her purse, or get her a matching shirt, like we were college sweethearts. I could ask her to buy me XBox games while I sat at home(see "Far From The Madding Crowd"); indeed, I had a full menu of options at my disposal, though they so much seemed to lead to slight variations of but one same abysmal outcome.
I could have blew it up properly, giving her a butthole lecture after the presentation of said, hoping in vain, begging and giving petitions to the almighty Himself, that she turn away, and that too, a knife to my own heart.
The only way to win, it was said, in the No-Win Scenario, was to manipulate the system, or, to wit, cheat, interfere with the program. It was as Arthur Conan Doyle's gentleman crime solver explained, that eliminating all the sound and probably courses, all we were left with was the unlikely.
Picture it. Sicily, 2010, a small rented villa, my white A shirt and socks, all about my person, and she in the bathroom, spraying parts of her body, and then, kerplewy, door opens, and she makes her own presentation.
And I ask Wayne Brady to show whats behind Door Number Three.
Before time, you know its a Zonk, its damnation or double-damnation, where burning your finger hurts bad enough and long enough that hurting your finger twice in a few seconds tends to be pretty much the same negative outcome.
The only way, to give offense, to in some way burn her finger before she burned my finger, instead.
To do unto Kim Whiteman, either before or during, her doing unto me.
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