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Parallel Universe: Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Capra, Misogyny and the Buffeting Cultural Cross-Currents of Kaypee Middle School, Aromas and Love, and Losin' It. An Essay from The American Century: 1914-2004: From Gavrilo Princip to Guantanamo Bay Sidwell Bauer spent his entire first semester at Princeton pining for Mary Muschamp. Home for the Christmas break, he fully intended to cash the check on which her vow to let him finger her fat, tripled-labiaed twat had been written the prior August. She wasn't the prettiest girl in St. Paul, but then, he, as the heir to a nascent ice hockey supply manufacturing, was not yet the catch that future generations of Bauers would come to be. And as the jitterbug craze had not yet reached the Upper Midwest, Mary's fat, dumpy ass was still logged on the debit side of life's accounting; the idea that it would come to be an asset in the dance-obsessed interregnum of the two great Conflicts would have been a laughable proposition in the winter of 1918. Indeed, the War had taken its toll on the youth of St. Paul, and the Grippe had wiped out many of those whom Ares had deemed unworthy of sacrifice. And so the ledger was largely balanced: Sid's meager fortune and milquetoastian shitassery dovetailed nicely with Mary's slightly below-average physical charms and the general scarcity of young men in the western Great Lakes. She was ripe for a fingering. _________________________________________________________________________________________ Back at Princeton in late January, Bauer was admitted into Flap and Crown, thanks to the mistaken belief amongst the members that he was a scion of the landed gentry of the same surname from the lower Tidewater. Sid had too little compunction to correct this general misapprehension: he had seen some nice trim over the holidays, and now he intended to harvest his share of freshly powdered Eastern cunt, the pedigree and reputation of which had no small appeal to a climber from a city whose debutantes still thought it was de rigeur to use cotton wool instead of Dr. Orlacher's Myrrh-Scented Menses Plugs. Denied the auspices of an Eating Club, he'd have been pulling pud the entire spring semester, and he'd had more than his share of that the previous autumn. Gibbons Connaught, of the Washington Square Connaughts, was the provost emeritus of Flap and Crown that academic year. He had taken a shine to Sid, largely on account of their shared love of the works of Thomas Kinkade. As they took a luncheon of deviled meats and stewed quinces one February day, Gibby informed Sid that his younger sister, Minerva, was coming to town that very evening, to watch her beau, Stowen Mandible, captain the Yale ice hockey team against the Tigers. Minnie had allowed Mandible to pin her at The Plaza the previous October, despite the misgivings of her beloved older brother, whose blood ran orange and black. Gibby couldn't bear the thought of some Yalie jamming two - or three! - of his grubby Eli fingers into his sister's blue ribbon twat. He was hellbent on disrupting the romance and he set on Sidwell as his deus ex machina. Later that evening, Minnie bucked like a wildcat as she ground her pelvis against the rumble seat of Gibby's late model Studebaker. Sid, no prude, but certainly not yet a Man of the World, looked on with a mixture of fascination and disgust. Two hours earlier, while Brother and Sister and Sid were watching the game, Gibby had pulled Sid aside and given him the keys to his car and explicit instructions to take Minnie out of the rink between the 2nd and 3rd periods. Unbeknownst to Minnie, her brother had slipped into her Pisco Sour a Spanish Fly, which he had procured over the holidays on a cross-country driving expedition to Agua Caliente. Unbeknownst to Gibby, on that very same trip, a crew of dastardly wetbacks, whom he had engaged at no small sum to perform a classic Tijuana tuck and roll on the upholstery, had maliciously re-stuffed the cushions with horse manure, rather than horse hair. As Minnie thrashed ever more furiously, Sid sat as if petrified in amber, uncertain and unable to make his move. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ On an unusually warm Candelmas eve, Sid's last night of winter break in St. Paul, he and Mary were saying their farewells on the Muschamp front porch. They sat side by side on the swing, gently swaying to and fro in the falsely vernal night air. Coyly, Mary tugged her dun-colored panties aside, not without some difficulty, the muslin fabric catching on the excess folds and crenellations of her superfluous labia. "Do you want to finger me, Sid?", she practically implored. Sid nodded dumbly, but he knew it was no use. It'd been a rotten trick Fortuna had played on him, mangling his best fuck finger in the primitive and experimental ice-resurfacer that Bauer Manufacturing had been developing in partnership with those filthy Dago arrivistes, the Zambonis. He couldn't get it up. Mary sucked on the digit, stroked it, willed it to tumesce, but Sid already knew the ending to this unhappy story. Attempting to salvage his dignity, Sid rose to his feet, feigning the anger and recrimination of a deceived man, and lashed out at Mary, "How could you expect my hands to get excited for that....that....thing! That's not a vagina, it's an Arby's roast beef sandwich! Without the roll!" Mary's eyes pooled with tears and she dashed into the house. They would never see each other again. Sid's eyes were no longer limpid, either, as he started on his walk home. He tried to kick a stray cat as it crossed his path, but he couldn't even do that right. It's awfully easy to be hard-boiled about these things in the daytime, but at night, it is another thing. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Minnie was ready to pop off, and Sid knew it was time to finger-fuck or walk, now or never. But he didn't think he would be able to perform, again. It was going to be Muschamp 2.0. What Sid didn't know was that Gibby hadn't been taking any chances. He'd also dosed Sid's drink. Minnie's panties were by now totally soaked through. A sweet, honeysuckle aroma wafted into Sid's nostrils. As if on cue, his fuck-finger sprang to life. The Spanish Fly! Sid went at her panties like a wildman. In one deft motion, he tore them asunder and was confronted with a cunt as perfect as Mary's was flawed. The inner labia were a Leonardan study in symmetry. The majora were substantial, meaty. And, oh, the fornix! Cavernous, and yet intimate, it was sui generis. The sculptor had taken desperate chances with the clit. It leapt from the mons with daring and vim - but for a slight slip of the Creator's chisel, this would have been one homely, and insensate, bundle of nerves. But this clit, like its appurtentances, was unimpeachable. Helen Keller could find this clit in a Category 5 blizzard. All of a sudden, Sid shook from head to toe. He knew he was in the presence of the Divine. He had lost his faith after the Zamboni accident, but this cunt re-awakened him. Such perfection could only come from the design of a supernatural entity. And then it all made sense. The accident. A test. Of course. He was reaping the whirlwind, but in a cool way. Meanwhile, Minnie's thrashings were proving too much for the shoddy craftshmanship of Gibby's tuck and roll. The center stitching gave way, and a loamy vein of horse dung erupted from the seam, inches from her flawless cunt, that ephemeral testament to God's love. The subdued fecality of the matured dung raised no alarm among the young amoreux; each assumed that the other's anus was merely puckering in anticipation of erotic attention, and each found the reflex oddly sweet and endearing in the other. Then they both came. Three days later, Mary was in the hospital at Smithtown with a 105 fever and bacterial vaginosis. The next day, she was dead. But Sid had found his Manhood, and no one could take that away from him.
Date Written: May 04, 2011
Author: Mr. Joshua
Average Vote: 4