WAKING UP WITH A KITTEN

As of this morning, I realize that I really don't know what is up with that woman. When I got home last night she was asleep in what can only be described as the most uncomfortable position - no, I'm not going to describe it; just imagine your own most uncomfortable position and put some pajamas on - and she is currently going through a monthly biological process that I shall not describe either, so she should be drained, exhausted, pooped out, and just plain limp.

Yet she bounced out of bed this morning way before I did, full of bright cheerful piss and vinegar, oppressively vivacious. I stumbled out of bed quite a while later, stiff-jointed and feeling twinges of gout in both feet.
I grumblingly drank my coffee while she burbled.


I have told to her that I shall be at the Folsom Street Fair this Sunday, in connection with .... "education". So she brightly suggested that I should keep an especial eye out for men with hairy cheeks showing through the cut-outs in their ass-chaps.

[The Folsom Street Fair is the biggest leather event in San Francisco. Many of the big butch gentlemen who attend wear skimpy scanty leather get-ups and nearly nothing else. In recent years, more families and women have also attended. I shall be there in an informational function - I do not have leather clothing, and do not own any whips, riding crops, quirts, paddles, studded straps, spandex vests, cowhide diapers, ass-chaps, or buffalo skin tights.]


When I looked up from my coffee and asked her why I should look for such men, she said "because they might be related to you....., you know, hairy buttocks".

"My butt is not hairy!"

"How do you know? You've never seen it, I have."

"I've felt it - it is not hairy!! Not. At. All!!!"

"Sure it is. Kind of like two furry hibernating forest critters."

"Not!!!!!!"

"A pair of hugging hairy trolls, just waiting to jump out at unsuspecting travelers......."


I should mention at this point that Savage Kitten has a rich inner life, and, being of Chinese ancestry, may consider Caucasian skin to be impossibly fuzzy. But she has a tendency towards poetic exaggeration. Which her subsequent speculation on my eventual residence in a retirement home exemplified.

Apparently I shall be a source of constant fear and frustration for Doctor Gumbly and Nurse Twaddle.

"Doctor Gumbly, the patient is hiding weapons in his arse fur! We've already pulled a cleaver out of a dense patch!"

"Nurse Twaddle, use electric hedge-clippers and a rake!"

"I daren't, I don't know what else is still in there! I need a machete!"

"We have no machete! You know they don't allow them in retirement homes since that incident last year!"

"In that case, give me ten-foot pole and a hazmat suit!"

"Godspeed, and be careful! We can't afford another search-party if you get stranded!"


This is the same woman who has previously asserted that I shall probably be rolling after the caregivers in my wheelchair, leering lasciviously and making pervert sounds. Or running down innocent little schoolgirls with my walker and scaring them. A senile delinquent, and a veritable hazard to public order.

I think that all of this is merely her 'charming' way of making sure that I am awake in the morning, and properly riled up. Rhetorical shock-treatment, to startle the toad into a state of goggle-eyed alertness. Surely she does not believe that any of it is possible?

Yet perhaps I should control her caffeine-intake. I do not know how much of this cheerfulness a man is supposed to stand.


Besides, I am not a hairy pervert. As is well known.