Now, you might think that this would have been the culmination of dreams.
But it was actually three healthy-looking gals hired to hand out freebie passes to the new Penthouse Club on Broadway ("we have two dollar cocktails, and a gourmet! restaurant!"), and there were very few takers.
Other than the Indian computer engineers wandering up and down the street with perky and happily baffled expressions on their faces.
"Bapribap, ji, vivacious goris here only!"
I'm fairly certain they were tickled by the girls' Bollywoodian dimensions, but totally baffled by the words "penthouse", "two dollar cocktail", and "a gormy restraint".
That's okay, they'll get used to it all.
Vacuous goris are everywhere.
[Gaura: white person, from a root meaning 'pale hued'. Gauri: a female white person.]
It reminded me of a time when, in adolescence, I had been absent for several hours .
Involved in something salacious in the tall grass.
Reading about the indiscretions of a poet.
With one of our cats on my stomach.
You can tell a cat is fast asleep when she isn't stretching her forepaws out and digging her claws into the tender skin of your thighs. While doing that she probably thought to herself "ooh, good, baby, mmmmmm, I smell human pain". And "you know you like it, big boy".
Or something equally, and charmingly, feline.
Once she dozed off, I stopped silently screaming to myself and opened the book.
The indiscretions of the poet were far less interesting than advertised. He had been a rake, a roué, and a soldier of fortune, and his biographer delighted in listing his conquests with copious quotes from the poet's own correspondence. Which painted the man as little more than a dreary sexist with a breast fetish.
No imagination whatsoever. Very pedestrian tastes, too.
I should have known, as the book cover showed two bouncy mammaries in a frontal view.
Not my style - big is SO unrefined - but nevertheless 'inspirational'.
Barely a quarter in I was bored, however.
But I couldn't move.
There was a happy cat on my stomach.
No one wants to move a happy cat. They look so comfortable when they're asleep.
There's a gentle and reassuring hum from somewhere near their mid-section, like distant machinery. People familiar with cats know that cat-happiness contributes to world peace, and must be maintained at all costs.
If you leave the sleeping cat till it wakes up of its own accord, all will be well with the world.
If you don't, they'll drag in a Chihuahua they killed and dump it on your bed.
Imagine the horror of that!
No other choice but to continue reading.
By the twentieth conquest of a well-busted farmgirl with exactly the same milk-maid attributes as all the others, I was thoroughly sick of the poet. What a dreadful man!
The rhymes that had been so charming before had sunk in my estimation to mere doggerel.
An all-round cretin, with coarse appetites, and no morals whatsoever.
And he didn't like cats.
Crap! More than a hundred pages of this tripe to go.
My pussycat did not wake up till after dark.
She wandered off looking for something to murder.
Dead chihuahuas are an excellent way to start the night.
I stumbled in long after dinner.
No one was surprised at my absence.
Nor had they bothered to save me some.
Figuring that I had probably eaten elsewhere.
They were far more worried about the missing cat.
The connection between the young penthouse ladies and that event is obvious.
Breasts. Warmth. Milkmaids.
And gormy restraint.
The girls kept pushing me to take the passes.
I declined without regret. It is unlikely that the Penthouse Club is my kind of environment.
If I can spend six hours lying motionless with a happy cat on my stomach in the warm spring sunlight, you can bet your sweet patootie that my restraint is more than just average gormy - why, it takes gormosity to the very apex of human achievement.
I am by no means a dreary sex pig poet.
I've got sheer tons of gorm!
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