Contributor: Barb Folger
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Homoerotic baloney laid sexily over aching, spread-eagle bread: and breakfast? Forget about that meal for the rest of your life. Chilled was the syrup: and it poured languidly, lazily, down a long, velvety trough of green plastic which could be guided over plates and silverware. The shade was intoxicating, a haven for barren women who had absolutely nothing holding them back from the hottest peaks of self-indulgence with a field of strangers.
“I have been alerted to certain technical difficulties going on with my chauffeur, Mr. Andy Canglemeyer, which have forced me to exert myself on other duties.” Her lies sizzled on the April wind like a naughty child baking in the oven, and the challenging hands that reached out to grab her by her gingham dress were bejeweled with elegant gems from the whole world over.
The reverberating laughter of the senile hostess filled the racquet-ball court at the end of the sidewalk, meanwhile grills burned platefuls of pickled gourds like incense as the chefs passed around a bottle of Jack Daniels underneath a chestnut tree. Heated political discussion belched forth from two elderly men in double-breasted gray suits, and they tossed tiny cups of gravy at each other from a well-stocked silver plate placed between them. The mess on each man’s lap and shirt-front sent up that tangy sausage smell in waves of circulating steam, caught by the wind and carried halfway to Bermuda where our next life awaits us.
Shells of bird-shot were carefully opened and then emptied into the waiting hands of thirsty children. Then they were cursed and sent back to their table on the other hillside, all in the same fashion: “Go pray to your lord, you imbecile!” Then a joyous pistol blast would kiss the sky, and everyone in sight would be hopping on one foot. The time was kept not on a clock or with a metronome, but by a platoon of hermit crabs timidly crossing the surface of a shuffleboard doused with cream and oil. People who tried to leave early were refused: people who arrived with bedding underarm were sent to bed immediately, forced to remain within earshot of the evening’s reverie until they finally went to sleep.
It was that crowd who fell in between those two types–those who were not quite guests and not quite staff, and weighing a very certain amount of kilograms as well, who tasted a bliss far better than that which is given by my large vibrator (shaped like a silo–with a little farm scene etched around the heavy base where the nine volt battery goes in). Yes, these lucky fools stripped to the bone and were offered shots of tequila by the butlers; they were then arranged by name on the rickety wood of some homemade stands like those around a softball field; and then without warning, they were sprayed with Dayquil and dusted from above with cocaine. Each was given fifty dollars, but asked to smell the bill first and see if its odor satisfied the recipient.
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Barb Folger was born in Calcutta in 1932. Now retired from the civil service, she spends her time writing stories which are edited by her grandson Dennis. She lives in New Orleans and hosts the Thursday morning "Coffee Splatch" at the Latter Branch Library.
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Homoerotic baloney laid sexily over aching, spread-eagle bread: and breakfast? Forget about that meal for the rest of your life. Chilled was the syrup: and it poured languidly, lazily, down a long, velvety trough of green plastic which could be guided over plates and silverware. The shade was intoxicating, a haven for barren women who had absolutely nothing holding them back from the hottest peaks of self-indulgence with a field of strangers.
“I have been alerted to certain technical difficulties going on with my chauffeur, Mr. Andy Canglemeyer, which have forced me to exert myself on other duties.” Her lies sizzled on the April wind like a naughty child baking in the oven, and the challenging hands that reached out to grab her by her gingham dress were bejeweled with elegant gems from the whole world over.
The reverberating laughter of the senile hostess filled the racquet-ball court at the end of the sidewalk, meanwhile grills burned platefuls of pickled gourds like incense as the chefs passed around a bottle of Jack Daniels underneath a chestnut tree. Heated political discussion belched forth from two elderly men in double-breasted gray suits, and they tossed tiny cups of gravy at each other from a well-stocked silver plate placed between them. The mess on each man’s lap and shirt-front sent up that tangy sausage smell in waves of circulating steam, caught by the wind and carried halfway to Bermuda where our next life awaits us.
Shells of bird-shot were carefully opened and then emptied into the waiting hands of thirsty children. Then they were cursed and sent back to their table on the other hillside, all in the same fashion: “Go pray to your lord, you imbecile!” Then a joyous pistol blast would kiss the sky, and everyone in sight would be hopping on one foot. The time was kept not on a clock or with a metronome, but by a platoon of hermit crabs timidly crossing the surface of a shuffleboard doused with cream and oil. People who tried to leave early were refused: people who arrived with bedding underarm were sent to bed immediately, forced to remain within earshot of the evening’s reverie until they finally went to sleep.
It was that crowd who fell in between those two types–those who were not quite guests and not quite staff, and weighing a very certain amount of kilograms as well, who tasted a bliss far better than that which is given by my large vibrator (shaped like a silo–with a little farm scene etched around the heavy base where the nine volt battery goes in). Yes, these lucky fools stripped to the bone and were offered shots of tequila by the butlers; they were then arranged by name on the rickety wood of some homemade stands like those around a softball field; and then without warning, they were sprayed with Dayquil and dusted from above with cocaine. Each was given fifty dollars, but asked to smell the bill first and see if its odor satisfied the recipient.
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Barb Folger was born in Calcutta in 1932. Now retired from the civil service, she spends her time writing stories which are edited by her grandson Dennis. She lives in New Orleans and hosts the Thursday morning "Coffee Splatch" at the Latter Branch Library.
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Barb Folger
