Bad One Nite Stand and In Pursuit of Passion with my Pussy

Since I am a Quirky Uncontrollable Immature Middle-aged woman, I can act like a QUIM anytime I want; thus, I am rather QUIMMISHLY brazen, flamboyant, spunky, and scandalous about using the word, Pussy, and I don't CARE whether it is a taboo word or no.

Some people think it's vulgar or morose or over-the-top or bizzaro or whatever, but it works for me and what I'm trying to convey and write. Pussy: I think it's a FUN word. I am altogether uncertain as to use it in my novel; nevertheless, here is a scene about it that I wrote a while ago. It's fun and quirky and I hope you like it. Besides, there's a cat in the scene - a Pussycat! Ha!

Here is the Pussy Scene:

Oh shit.

This is a reverse Goldilocks moment.

Who the fuck is that next to me in my fucking bed? Because Goldilocks in reverse means that there is SOMEONE or SOME THING that is pierced and young and weird and smelly, complete with nappy-rappy-crappy hair, who smells very bad (am sure I mentioned that already but its fungus-sy and the wrong kind of seaweed putrid) STILL IN MY BED, WITH ME!

At this point the cat stretches and sniffs ruthlessly. “Hmmm. We haven’t had THAT smell before,” Winston thinks lazily and happily. “This is a damn fine one. I wonder where this one came from?”

The cat jumps up onto the bed and climbs over to me and purrs loudly. I grimace at Winston, who is idyllically happy and purring, oblivious to my turmoil. As usual. The purring grows ferociously louder, almost ominous.

I just don’t understand my cat.

And I don’t understand or remember a damn thing from last night.

At least, not after those six tequila-me-upchuck-into-the-toilet shots.

Oh gawd. I look at the lump under the bedding next to me but I can only see the nappy hair. I have to plug my nose to avoid the stench. I am assuming it’s a he, not a she, but I just can’t tell at this point. It could even be dead.

I poke it, gingerly. It moves every so slightly and the bed creaks creepily. I think I’ll throw this bed away - if or when I can get the creature to leave.

Which reminds me - I hope he doesn’t wake up and I hope I didn’t...at this point I have to look down at Miss Purdue (my pough-pough) to see if she got some unwarranted, uncontrollable, unremembered action. Miss Purrfection, Miss Penelope, Miss Pussy-go-lightly-tread-this-year-at-least. Miss Purrcatmonger-jonger-wronger. Miss P-diddly-riddly-quiddly. Miss PDQ Bach-little-music-little-romance-get-down-tonight...uh huh. Miss Piquant-tonight-hot-n-spicy-mama. Miss Priss. Miss Prissy. Miss LMNO...P. Miss paraded-then-jaded. Miss Practice makes Perfect. Miss Pleased-as-Punch and on a Purple passionate ex-Plosion of Cloud Nine. Okay, maybe not that last one…

Oh, she is sad, but that means I am happy. So nothing happened. She was not even rubbed down, needled or bumped into, not even accidentally and I am so relieved. NO redness, no atrophies, no wilting, no blooming — just nothing but neglect. Good. I apologize to her (for the umpteenth time this year for her having NO action).

Let’s flashback to last night and the parts I do remember...

Okay, so Jazhette and I are sitting at the Upswing Bar and this guy comes up with three shots of Tres Generaces tequila...

“Argghhh!” The thing in my bed is now yelling, grunting, and moaning with the wrong kind of moan. Not the blissful moan that SHOULD be happening in this bed.

Winston steps back a foot in horror, then retreads to pounce on the thing in my bed. He lands, all four paws and claws on the lump of the smelly thing on my bed.

“HAAAAAAA!” it screams. The dawn of the living dead rises. Or the waking of the dawn of the living dead. The creature tries to shake Winston off, but Winston is stuck, like a prickly cactus on the buttocks of something huge, living and scary.

The blanket falls off. I gasp in horror.

Clad in a mildewed pink ballerina costume, half-ripped and half-grogged out by a green slimy sewage stuck to its forehead, is a man with scary stick-up straight hair and blue and black makeup sliming down his teary-eyed, sweaty face. He is big, bad and ugly.

This is my nightmare risen from the remnants of last night? It is! Oh gawd.

“Jara? Is that you?” His oh-so familiar voice creaks out crisply into the clean morning air. “Oh Jesus, what’s that smell?” He frowns. “OH shit, I think I was mugged last night and thrown in the sewer!” He looks around. “They stole my purse!”

His purse is missing? My mind is missing! I cannot think for the life of me who this is. He is a warbled scary big smelly creature who has come to life from my worst nightmare. Ferocious smelly nightmare come true.

He stares at my blank leer at him. “It’s me, Oscar. From art history class. Der!” Now he knows I know. He and I have been friends since birth. One of my oldest friends. More of a flamer than flambé at a fancy restaurant.

“What ARE you doing in my bed?” I ask.

Winston starts swatting at the seaweed on Oscar’s face.

“We left the party together last night, sweetie. Don’t you remember? I knew you were drunk, but Jesus, Jara...you don’t remember anything?” He throws up his hands and steps off the bed, bending over to pick up feathers from a bright pink lame-excuse-for-a-boa that has fallen off him.

So I am wondering to myself, again, now sober, why did I have those shots? I do not normally do tequila.

“Man, I’m sore down there.” He looks down his pants and rubs Mr. Ya-Ya Brotherhood. “You’re one wild woman!”

Oh shit.

You have GOT to be kidding me!