Humping with Howdy 2.
“Hello, new hire,” I greeted him. “We do know how now,
don’t we?” I got that same tiny kiss that I’d felt the
night before and let him return his knee against me. I
didn’t open my eyes. Then he’d know that I knew that he
knew. The fun of love is complex, isn’t it?
We’d have lots of time to perfect the foreplay.
Brothers and sisters make a pretty good team at
whatever because we know who’s good at figuring out
what. Lovemaking would be a piece of cake.
I figured (correctly, fortunately) that this was a safe
period for me. Being Catholic, you get an explanation
about when in your cycle. It’s not assumed you’re
always a good Catholic, I guess, because the
information’s left where you’ll find it long before
you’re getting married.
We first saw each other naked in the shower next
morning, but only the visual aspect was novel. I knew
this guy perfectly, just not exactly how he fit
together. I’d first felt a penis last night. I first
saw one this morning. I told him, no way would I do it
in the bathroom, but I was pleased how seeing me made
him ready. Same effect beside him in the airplane that
afternoon. You can throw a little blanket over you if
you’re cold. Coming to Detroit, he’d teased my breast.
Leaving, it was only justice.
Do you suppose Howdy and Heidi ever traveled together
and maybe got booked into the same room because they
were both surnamed “Doody”? Do you suppose that Heidi
ever helped Howdy out of his neckerchief and turned out
the light? On the plane trip home, at least they’d have
been in the same trunk.
“Howdy. It’s dark in here.”
“Yeah, Heidi. The Princess’ gown should work, you
think?”
“She says it slips right off for a quickie.”
“For you to lie on, dummy.”
“I’m not a dummy, I’m a marionette. Anyway, Flub-a-
dub’s in here too.”
“Well they forgot animal part number nine.”
“It would have been interesting.”
DETROIT, SEPTEMBER 1971
We moved to Motown that summer. So did lots of “Black
and Proud” performers.
We’d share an apartment until we found our own places,
we told people. We did better than an apartment, though
— a duplex between our respective schools. The owners,
who lived in the other half, presumed we were married.
We didn’t lie; we just didn’t correct. They might have
thought us weird, brother and sister shacking up.
We weren’t weird at all. Since our trip, we’d made love
pretty much daily and not one time in any uncomfortable
or unnatural position. Who wants to stand on your head
or whatever when you can rock above him and make him
plead for mercy? You want weird sex? Look around your
office, maybe.
We handled the DPS paperwork without evasion, but again
without clarification. Insurance is the only benefit
where having a spouse really matters, but it’s cheaper
for two employees to be individually covered. We had
one form where we ticked “single”, but it was a
mimeographed page related to some forgotten purpose
without cross-reference. There’s no cross-checking of
DPS files unless they suspect you’re unduly claiming
something. We each claim one on our W-2’s and DPS would
never see our two returns, truthfully submitted. Don’t
fool around with a 1040. Not being legally wed doesn’t
deprive any government of a penny.
DPS policy disallows direct spousal supervision, so I
can’t be Samuel’s principal and he couldn’t be mine if
we’re a unit in their eyes. So what? Years later I
heard of a principal who married one of her teachers
and to avoid being transferred, never told anyone. It
wasn’t against policy for them to just live together.
Strange morality.
At the end of the day, people believe what they assume
they already know. If you suggest the contrary, they
just harden their preconception. We’re married in both
the physically intimate sense and the socially apparent
sense, but it would be criminal if we had a license.
Strange morality.
We try to minimize mistruths. My “maiden” name is my
real middle name, Sidney, so my driver’s license is
totally legit. The growing-up stories we tell others
more or less match reality, just that we were each only
children. We just say we’re from Normal, which is true.
Our anniversary is the day of our interview when we
first made love, better than you can say for many
newlyweds. We don’t wear rings, but that sort of
formality is optional these days.
VISITING THE FOLKS
As long as they were with us, Mom and Dad thought it
prudent, their single children sharing the rent while
we pursued Big City careers and found spouses to
provide them grandchildren. We must have just seemed
slow in the latter. Basically they didn’t visit our
way; we visited them, reverting to our childhood rooms
and sneaking conjugal moments when the opportunity
presented.
Once Mom came upstairs when we were sudsy in the
shower. Mom knew that we were both in the bathroom, so
I had to insinuate through the door that Samuel was
behind the curtain and I’d come because I had to pee
really bad. It made more sense to Mom than Samuel
scrubbing my shoulders. We made love on the towels, it
was so funny. (I guess Samuel did have me in the
bathroom, after all.) Everybody has some story about
almost getting caught having sex. My friend Stacy
almost lost her black plastic sheet at a rainy football
game, a much funnier story, but it was just with her
boyfriend.
Then there’s Samuel’s physical fitness story. We were
home for Christmas and Samuel found my Mr. Howdy in a
box and put him on the far side of his bed where I’d
notice. So I snuck in for a hostage rescue, but as I
knew would happen when I crawled over to grab him, it
was a trap. I was ready, wearing my nightie that pulls
inside-out over my head if I resist with my elbows out.
Since he’d tricked me (the clever brother!), he got to
have his way which was pretty fun for a cold winter’s
night, even with my head trapped inside the flannel
while he tormented me.
But I guess beat a little cadence. At breakfast Dad
asked what was the banging about? Without missing a
beat, Samuel said he did pushups every day, but had
forgotten until he was in bed. In truth, he was doing
pushdowns. You can’t do real pushups on a mattress, the
exercise kind, anyway. My kind you could do, though.
BIRTHDAY PARTIES
The big event of the American Bicentennial was my
turning 30! I’d always thought that was so old, so now
I had to change the threshold. We had a Howdy party,
everyone a character. Samuel was Howdy. He said I had
to be Heidi, but I said it was my party and I got to be
the Princess. I’d be Heidi afterwards, I promised, and
wore an appropriately revealing Indian costume. It
revealed under the beaded neckline when I served the
grape punch, anyway. Indian Princesses never wear
White-man’s goods.
Ralph Brownel, my principal, was Buffalo Bob because he
had a great cowboy shirt. He had me refill his punch
cup a bunch, the rascal. My friend Ruth Ann was Mr.
Bluster. She tried to freeze Howdy with an ice cube so
she could fleece his pockets for a magic key. We made
Marian who teaches math be Clarabell. She’s the
chattiest one at school and we only allowed her to honk
her horn. For a little bit, anyway.
Ruth Anne gave me a Howdy silver-plated ice-tea spoon.
Jack and Sandra gave me a Welch’s jelly glass with
Howdy and Princess in yellow clapping for a trained
seal. “Drinking Grape Juice is Seal’s Favorite Act.”
This 30-year-old Heidi’s favorite act likewise involves
a fluid that stains, but not purple.
Samuel was probably a little miffed about my Indian
attire and I was a bit chagrinned how thoroughly Ruth
Anne pickpocketed his jeans (and how red my brother
got). She really tried out a lot of magic words
checking out his right front pocket.
Being such a loyal guy, Samuel felt obliged to confess
before I turned out the lights. Ruth Anne had made him
hard and squeezed all the time she was investigating. I
knew that, of course, from watching. Howdy might have
had a special hiding place inside his jeans, I
explained, so the villain would need to reach deeply.
Or maybe she thought it was a magic key the way it grew
when she held it. I think it’s pretty magic, anyway.
And now Ralph couldn’t fire me, I proposed, because
then he wouldn’t get invited to my next birthday party.
Everybody was just being silly the way a Howdy party
should turn out.
I rode Samuel from the top, slipping him in and out
until we were both dripping. I floated in the air at
the end.
And Ruth Anne is so honest that she told me the same
thing on Monday, that probably she shouldn’t have and
not to worry; his response was involuntary. I told her
that she could keep being Mr. Bluster if it was just at
my birthday parties. Don’t make him come or anything,
though. He’d die. I owed her big for how he proved
himself after everyone left. She was probably the
second one to feel him ever, which she couldn’t
believe. One more than how many guys ever searched my
pockets, I admitted. She said for us to keep it that
way. But that her being number two just meant that it
shouldn’t get to number three, not that she couldn’t
keep being Mr. Bluster. We about cracked up.
We throw Howdy parties still. Mr. Bluster plays tricks
on Howdy that stay right in the living room and seem to
involve something tactile. One time Ruth Anne had us
zigzag boy-girl-boy-girl on our backs on the carpet
with our head on the next person’s tummy and say,
“Howdy” so many times in sequence. Ruth Anne ended up
just a little low on Howdy and Ralph ended up a little
high on my Princess outfit. Ralph just happened to be
standing by me when we had to get down.
Once Mr. Bluster stole all the light bulbs and Howdy
and I had to sing “Happy Trails” without making a
mistake. Mr. Bluster was right behind Howdy and I’m
sure it was Ralph behind me who made me mess up. I
suspected collusion when Mr. Bluster announced that
lights would be restored with enough lead-time for
Ralph to finish.
Before Ruth Anne arrives, Samuel always says he won’t
let her goose him again. Afterwards, he sort of
confesses she did. She confirms that he succumbs
surprisingly readily. When he had to sing “Happy
Trails” in the dark, for example, Howdy seemed to know
where to stand. Her little flirtations tell him that
he’s not a square. We need our little ventures,
constrained as we bind them.
Your brother doesn’t need to know both halves always.
“I always enjoy coffee with Ruth Anne after the party,
hearing about how she goosed you. She must be really
good at it, it sounds. Maybe you and Ralph can have a
beer over how he felt me up.” Samuel doesn’t know about
Ralph’s little tricks, of course, because he might not
understand.
Ruth Anne says that maybe they’ll get transformed into
a two-headed puppet where they share the same cardboard
body tube the whole evening. Howdy’s arms will be
outside and hers inside. Head #1 can whisper things to
Head #2. Samuel won’t know that I’ll know what’s
coming. I’m not sure I should. Yeow!
BEING CATHOLIC
Buffalo Bob and Howdy would tell you to go to church.
That’s what they said, not, “place of worship or
meditation”. If you were a Jewish kid, you knew they
meant synagogue too and didn’t sue.
“Young Marrieds” at our parish in Detroit is a regular
part of our week. We’re mostly professionals, came
because of jobs, stayed because we’re family. Actually,
we’re also ex-marrieds and not-marrieds. Doesn’t
matter. Nobody’s suing.
Mom and Dad were so glad that we went to Mass. We’d
always refer to “our church friends”, not the other
name. All these years later, we’re still the “Young
Marrieds” and the younger clusters of congregants have
to find names like “Seekers”. Sorry, but we got our
name first.
Growing up Catholic is pretty similar wherever it
happens — same Mass, same stories. There’s the one
about the two nuns who always ride their bicycles to
church. One day they take a different route. One of the
Sisters remarks, “I never came this way before,” to
which her companion replies, “Must be the
cobblestones.” Pretty bad, but Catholic boys think it’s
clever. You’d have to really be good to get it on while
balancing your bicycle.
And we all heard the one about the novitiate
masturbating in the nave. Mother Superior enters to
pray. “Stop that, Sister! You’ll go blind!” The girl
whispers back, “Mother, I’m over here!”
We have our opinions about women being excluded from
the Priesthood, but when Caritas needs relief supplies
for Africa, we Young Marrieds kick in. It’s called
being Christians.
Father Thomas’ (accent on the “mas” because he’s from
Mexico) nuptial advice is perfectly sound for couples
of whatever bond: Celebrate your commitment and leave
space for personal growth. If he’d explicitly ask about
our bond, I’d confess and he’d forgive me. He didn’t
boot Anne and Paul for living together; he helped them
make it for life. All us Young Marrieds went to their
wedding. Paul’s family being Czech (East European
anyway), we danced and downed lots of toasts. Samuel
even did, which was really fun! You need a Czech band?
Detroit has them. Great city.
It’s sad that we could never have Father Thomas’ type
of blessing, but what follows the aisle march is more
important. What priest would imagine two parishioners
doing what we do? Maybe Father Thomas would let us live
it out. I would be a tough one for him because he’s
pretty caring.
BEING AMISH
You can fool some of the people all of the time… You
know the rest. Girlfriends figure out pretty quickly
that he’s your brother. We talk too much and guys don’t
talk enough. Basically my friends waited for me to talk
when I felt ready. Nobody says it’s terribly wrong. My
friends that are married don’t tell their husbands,
which is interesting. Samuel doesn’t even know that
they know.
Susan says that she’d have done better with her brother
than the ass who ditched her. She needs to get over her
bitterness first, though.
Susan’s a biologist and says that sibling mating is
genetically OK if your ancestors weren’t siblings too,
if you get the meaning. Too many generations running,
though, have left the Amish with an abnormal degree of
dwarfism. The Amish aren’t as careful about family ties
as they are about electricity. Lots of siblings +
Candlelight + Comfy feather ticks + Rejection of birth
control = More children slipped into the family tree as
late arrivals.
“Why, that Esther all but gets her first baby where
she’s ’bout old enough to start socializing and the
woman goes and has another! Never even looked pregnant
this time. ‘Fraid this one’s on the short side, but
it’s great there’s that big sister to baby-sit when
Esther’s over at her brother’s. Wish I could loose some
weight like that girl did. She was getting right hefty.
And isn’t it something how Esther’s oldest boy is so
sweet to his new baby sis.”
Since Amish don’t believe in zippers, imagine brother’s
buttons getting undone while sister lifts her apron.
“This way we don’t have to wait for Runspringa to learn
with our stupid cousins.” Runspringa is when 16-year-
olds bed in lieu of worldly dates. We learn such
tidbits teaching social studies. Look it up! Supposedly
they sleep fully dressed. What that means, I’m sure, is
that they slip under the covers fully dressed and arise
likewise.
“Hey, Frieda. After such a nice sunset trot, let’s turn
this buggy back to your place so we can sleep together.
It’ll be weird going to bed in these overalls.”
After evening devotions led by Frieda’s father and all
the kids are upstairs, “Be careful, Jacob. I straight-
pinned my frock like they teach us in church.”
And after some trouser buttons, “Oh, Jacob! Our moms
decided right, thinking we should get to know each
other.” “Know'” is a Biblical term, of course.
After protracted rustling, “So’d my sis teach me OK,
Frieda? I know another way, even.” Guys, Amish or any
kind, aren’t too secure about themselves sometimes.
“Well, my brother always makes sure I get there with
him, whichever way we do it. Grossmudder Katie says
that shoofly pie helps guys last. You little kids can
scoot closer up now so you don’t get cold.”
Maybe Harrison Ford helped the Amish gene pool in “The
Witness”. Every guy at the barn-raising probably had
Kelly McGillis’ exact chromosomes. I use the Amish as
an example of American’s multicultural makeup, but
don’t teach about their courting rituals.
Oh my, this is so terrible! But the medical
consequences are irrefutable. I’ll tell you this,
though. They may not be into light bulbs, but when
their Mennonite Central Committee needs a power
generator for a refuge camp in Africa, those Plain
Folks kick in. It’s called being Christians.
KARLA
My friend Karla has sex with her brother, but they
don’t feign matrimony, Karla’s real one being a
formidable barrier. I wouldn’t like the duplicity, but
Karla’s Karla. She screws a few DPS guys as well.
Samuel and I have an open invitation for what Karla
calls an “overnight” when her husband’s gone, which is
pretty often. As she slyly phrases it, “Brothers can
get confused in the dark. It’d be good chance spend
time with the one we’ve known the shortest.” At least
she’s honest.
If Samuel and I aren’t ready, she concedes, it’d be fun
to watch a video and pair up the way we came. It might
be, but I suspect she’d want us four together for the
duration. I can already hear her line, “Let’s all kick
off our shoes and stretch out on our king-size. We have
a video player in there too.” I’ll bet she has some
interesting videos.
Karla’s frankness has helped me be more straightforward
about my own activity, both self-achieved and with my
brother. To say that I put Samuel’s erect penis in my
vagina, that’s what I say. For a long time I’d have
been more circumspect.
She and I agree that the tone of sibling relationship
is set early on. Samuel’s come to respect the way a
woman honors affection. I taught him what I know, at
least.
Karla, on the other hand, came to know sex via her
brother’s adolescence. She says she always liked it,
but basically he raped her since she was little. He’d
give her candy at first. When his friend spent the
night, they’d both visit her room. She knows beaucoup
more about technique and anatomy than do I, but I know
more about the afterwards. No wonder she’s always
looking for another partner.
With her blouses, though, she should wear a slip to
teach English in.
JOAN
Joan, who teaches Spanish and who’s always been single,
had a different reaction. “Lucky to have one, a
brother,” she smiled, drumming her fingers on the
Teachers Lounge tabletop, Doody-vintage Formica.
“Yeah, but he works too much,” I agreed, drumming my
fingers back and humming a few Howdy Doody bars. We
both blushed.
“No choice for me,” Joan admitted, “especially watching
Robert Redford.” This was when he was still married to
his first spouse. Women respect that sort of thing.
When they start sleeping around Hollywood, knocking up
the 19-year-old aspirants, they’re still sex symbols,
but not as special.
(It’s intriguing to imagine the start of Redford’s
career. Him the new boy in town. Starlet Judy Tyler
just a little older. Both knockdown beautiful. Maybe
his first Hollywood party. Her red convertible.)
“Then let’s go see ‘Out of Africa’. Samuel wouldn’t get
why what’s-her-name stayed there to grow coffee,” I
suggested, still drumming.
She unbuttoned a button so I could see her lace. “It’s
hot in Africa, right?” I giggled when she pretended to
undo the next.
We caught it at CineMax, splurged for $2 popcorn and
sat in the back. “Better for the eyes,” Joan justified.
Joan elbowed me during Redford and Meryl Streep’s
torrid coupling. I’d been damp since “I had a farm in
Africa,” just thinking about where the two were
heading. Sydney Pollack foreplays with his audience and
I love it. Joan and I giggled and (not with each other,
mind you, just side by side) touched ourselves.
Flying solo (sorry Joan, “sola”) in a theater can’t be
broadcast, but still works. At home I can sit in my
favorite chair, roll my clitoris and pull back on its
hood. It’s really quick because I can watch. It’s never
Meg Ryan’s “When Harry Met Sally” achievement, a
wonderful enactment (a contended point in drama vs.
reality debate) of sitting up, though.
It was neat, having a friend there, feeling her rhythm
through the armrest. “I can’t believe we’re doing
this,” Joan whispered before she tensed and leaned
back, one hand still busy below, the other on her
mouth, just in case.
“Just you and me and Howdy Do,” I replied, myself a
minute behind. “Don’t need no mouse or kangaroo.” She
held my elbow, which I though was sweet. Afterwards we
bought each other banana splits, not realizing the
phallicness until we got our tray. Did we laugh some
more about that!
The lesbians sit in the back for the same reason boy-
girl couples do, but this is about just regular
girlfriends who retain their panties. Look for us next
time you’re in at CineMax. We won’t stare back daring
you to watch like the butch ones will. If it’s Robert
Redford, the dykes are somewhere else and all of us are
in love with Robert.
Keeping our response appropriate to the film pace is
part of the fun. When Robert takes off his shirt, you
can hear our symphony’s opening bars. If he’s in front
of her and the camera shows her nude back, our seats
sing. Sometimes another couple will sneak a wave at us
afterwards. It’s sort of neat, girls guessing about us,
us guessing about them.
These days if there’s a girlie movie, I call Joan and
we wear our jogging pants and fancy bras. We laughed so
much when we realized how we’d dressed the same. When
it’s safe sometimes, we take our bras off during the
first scene, just to be sexy. We check inside the
other’s top so she doesn’t cheat. Her little nipples
are so cute! She lets me come back later if the movie’s
romantic. Leaving, I can tell that we’re not the only
pair with underwear in our purses.
I really like Joan. I’m her “dulce hermanita.”
JANICE
Most of my girlfriends know how Howdy helped me
discover my body, come to think of it. Guys exaggerate
about cosmic orgasms with centerfold strippers. Girls
talk about good orgasms however they get them.
The few years that Janice (Art and Chorus) is my junior
made her a Musketeer. Too bad. Remember pretty Annette
Funicello who went on to give us “The Name Game”? Don’t
sing it. “My Boyfriend’s Back” is OK, though. The
Afterbeats were her band and Annette later got MS,
which is really sad.
But what I discovered about myself watching a puppet,
Janice figured out watching a rodent. The stories our
sofas could tell! If you see an old couch at a garage
sale, check for wear on the armrest. If it seems
threadbare, have a seat and casually run your hand
across it. If the woman running the sale smiles, you
can ask her how’s business and how long she’s lived
there, stuff like that. Maybe she’s a teacher too,
even.
I’ve never sat by Janice like I do with Joan at
CineMax. It’s just not always easy to ask.
ELLIE
Ellie from church knows me well enough. If I don’t buy
her a coffee, she’ll have to tell the Pope, she warns.
Masturbation’s a sin for guys because they “spill their
seed,” she learned in parochial school. We’re not
exactly sure how that applies to our eggs, so we goad
each other to ask Father Thomas for clarification. Fat
chance of grownup women asking that! Ellie’s own habit
is much more grievous, I point out, because I’ll bet
she always dresses in her plaid skirt like a
schoolgirl. So she has to buy me a coffee. Caffeine
blackmail, we call it.
Using the word “habit” reminds me of those tiresome
jokes about nuns’ habits inside their habits. They can
still be celibate (their choice), so what’s the deal?
You don’t hear jokes about Fathers masturbating, so
it’s sexist. Who wants your priest confessing to you?
Not me and Ellie.
Most jokes about Priests and Nuns and sex are stupid.
This one’s good, though.
The Mother Superior wants to know why Sister Rose is
leaving the convent. “I want to be a prostitute.”
Mother Superior’s eyes grow wide, “Blessed Mary! What
did you say?” “A prostitute,” Rose repeats. Her
superior breathes a sigh of relief, “Thanks be to God!
I thought you said a Protestant”
Ellie knows about Samuel too. She’s glad I use birth
control (sin number three, I guess, but now optional)
because the kids would find out. She’s right. Ours was
the generation where women could choose, at least. And
teaching gives you lots of kids.
HOWDY’S 40TH, NOVEMBER 1987
Thanksgiving weekend, Howdy celebrated his 40th
anniversary on two-hour special. I’d forgotten lots of
the show detail, but it all came back. Buffalo Bob
still looked like Buffalo Bob. In his 30’s or his 70’s,
a hero’s a hero. Afterwards Samuel and I humped the old
way, sister in her PJ’s, brother on top. Sexually it
was pretty rudimentary, but it was absolutely the right
way to culminate the reunion.
Samuel’s so sweet, letting me make him shoot in his
boxers after drilling me a thousand times. Afterwards
when I got him erect again, I goaded him to more or
less rape me, the dominant male sort of conquest. He
didn’t have to force me, of course; I wanted him to.
GOODBYE, BOB, JULY 1998
Born in the Teddy Roosevelt Presidency, Buffalo Bob
died of cancer in North Carolina. Detroit Free Press
says he’s survived by Millie. Roy Rogers, King of the
Cowboys, died the same month. It wasn’t a good July,
but then, it was pretty great how they’d carried on.
It’s pretty precious what they gave my generation. I
was sad, but I was happy too.
I didn’t have any sort of sex for several days. It
seemed right to leave my carnal side unsatiated.
HERE COMES ‘DA JUDGE, JANUARY 2001
What a time for the Detroit Peanut Gallery! After the
show’s demise, NBC loaned the Howdy marionette to his
creator Rufus Rose who promised to give Howdy to
Detroit Institute of the Arts. Then Buffalo Bob
persuaded Rose to lend him the puppet for his reunion
tours. Rose died in 1975 and when Bob returned Howdy,
the Rose family was going to auction him off in New
York, maybe for $1,000,000.
DIA sued and Howdy got locked in a vault. The estate
argued that while Rose thought about leaving the
marionette to DIA, he’d left no such provision in his
will. In any case, the Howdy in question wasn’t even
the original, lost in a fire. Another Howdy at the
Smithsonian was for the public anyway. Samuel and I had
seen it.
A jury didn’t vote the outcome because both parties
rejected the Peanut Gallery option. In January,
District Court Judge Christopher Droney ruled that DIA
was the rightful owner of this Howdy, “original”
enough.
I was so excited! It would be a while before they got
his museum home set up, but that was fine. Samuel and I
drank champagne and he humped me silly. That Howdy
story has a happy ending!
BANQUET, MAY 2001
So now we’re back to the retirement dinner. I started
with “It’s Howdy Doody Time” because my love of music
began with the show. I thought they wrote the
Nutcracker Suite for it.
But I didn’t give my music tirade, harbingering the
for-certain decline of civilization, where a noble
retired woodenhead becomes a defenseless target for
those of inadequate talent. No, I didn’t whine about
the Dickies’ “Howdy Doody in the Woodshed”. I simply
quote,
His hair is red his eyes are green.
He’s like a person that you’ve never seen.
He’ll sing and dance he’s been to France
But he doesn’t seem to stand a chance
That’s when I saw Howdy Doody in the woodshed going
down on Buffalo Bob.
A smarter man would never plan
To have so many splinters in his hand.
And Clarabell would never tell,
‘Cuz he’s afraid that he might go to jail.
Talent-sparse, these losers are poor taste set to loud
guitar. Cheap shots at heroes get notice. Remember the
Dead Kennedys? The Dickies “discovered” by an L.A.
scene-maker? Breaking an ankle jumping off the sound
scaffolding and letting your midget roadie wheelchair
you around the stage takes talent?
So fuck ’em. Howdy will be remembered and they won’t.
Nor was the banquet the venue to put Bush’s Desert
Storm into a Howdy context where it belongs.
It’s Saudi duty time.
It’s Saudi duty time.
I need a piece of tail.
She winks behind her veil.
I’ll stop there, as you get the idea. I’m not the only
one for whom the puppet evokes erotic thoughts, am I
now?
So now we’re back to my retirement dinner. (Stories are
nonlinear.) I ceremoniously cut into large deeply
frosted item. The Deputy Superintendent for Information
Technology presented a nicely framed certificate and a
big kiss.
You know who the Deputy Superintendent for Information
Technology is, I’ll bet — in Howdy code, my very own
“Leumas”!
That’s Mrs. Thornton’s Mr. Thornton to everybody there,
except he’s Dr. Thornton, the “Dr.” being an EdD earned
in summer school. (Here’s how to identify a pompous
ass. DPS has a bunch. “Hi, my name’s Dr. Wolman.” Like
his name’s “Doctor”, not Robert or whatever? Samuel
doesn’t pull that one, I assure you.)
Samuel figured out pretty early that Industrial Arts
was heading south (literally true in the rust belt).
Computers looked promising, so he tooted the Apple horn
into Ed Admin. Popular Science makes you a visionary in
that Reader’s Digest realm. He never supervised me in
the DPS organizational chart, so it’s kosher. I was a
good teacher and he became a decent pontificator.
Father Thomas said never discuss work at home. Imagine
our dinner table if we ignored Father’s advice. “So
it’s really true that we’re going to implement on
benchmark basis an assessment of participatory
multicultural goal achievements celebrating different
enablements?” We had lives.
It was great, that big retirement dinner kiss! He’s
retiring too. How will we ever dispose of two cakes?
Until now could just take one and some napkins to my
classroom for a “reward”. Thirty seconds, not a crumb!
Speaking of Industrial Arts heading south, what about
the other arts?
Why hush my mouth,
I’m heading south.
A journey sweet to dally.
A beckoned stroll,
From grassy knoll,
Into yon shady valley.
I’ll amble down,
To hidden mound,
Yet unseen from the north.
My garden art,
The petals part,
A bloom to be brought forth.
Where touch so slight,
Draws fond delight,
From Venus ever new.
To thus unfurl,
My Dixie pearl,
Now bathed in morning dew.
I writhe. I lift.
Myself, my gift,
Supine without defenses.
In clover field,
Myself I yield,
Succumbed to sultry senses.
For common need,
Implanted seed,
The give and take is fun.
But embers burn,
For each return,
To flames fanned white by one.
As doe, as mare,
(Sans Noah’s pair),
And lioness and vixen.
We join to be,
Sorority,
Below the Mason-Dixon.
‘Neath cotton dress,
My sweet caress,
Those porch-swing bayou rumors.
So y’all take note,
‘Neath petticoat,
I’ve gone without my bloomers.
Detroit people love the south.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
The obvious question is, why did Samuel and I end up as
a unit?
The easy story is that we fell into cohabitation and
didn’t find reason to confuse a settled perception.
Convenience is compelling. It just worked out. Most
couples start off living together these days, so we
just started off really early. Enough years shacked up
and the license question becomes moot anyway. DPS stays
hands off homelife if it doesn’t impact our
performance. Those are the easy answers.
Another answer, pretty simple as well, is that it’s
sexual. Maybe genetically-matched preferences drove us
together. We don’t need to handcuff each other or trade
underwear of anything. It’s an absolute fact that from
the very start we could climax together, so I think
there’s something.
Maybe it wasn’t sex per se that drove us together, but
it sure helped us stick. We make love with everyone’s
blessing. No cheap motels for us, thank you.
Neither of us dated much at home and even in college
didn’t have serious relationships. Maybe I seemed too
studious. Samuel was a pre-geek. It’s OK to be a geek
today because you might become a Bill Gates. Back then
the term was just “square”. Anyway, we could go to
social things together and people thought how we got
along was cool.
For a short period in Detroit even, we even dated
around, casual dates surprisingly understanding of
siblings thrown together by economic necessity. The
city was big enough to socialize outside our normal
circles. Had either of us gotten serious, we’d have had
to end some things, but neither of us found a better
partner. I’ve never slept around on Samuel and he’s
never slept around on me. I’d know.
A deeper reason is that we’re a good emotional match,
better than most marrieds, I’d argue. We enjoy life
together, especially music. Remember Farrante and
Teicher, the easy listening piano duo? OK, they went to
Julliard and we took lessons from Mrs. McKee, but
Thornton and Thornton can still play most of their
hits. Our friends like the tightness of our timing. Of
course we blend; so did the Carpenters. Karen Carpenter
dead from anorexia at 32! The way she’d sing “Close to
you” to her brother at the piano. Princess Summerfall
Winterspring dead on the highway at 22! Annette getting
MS! Oh, my!
And like Father Thomas advises, we enjoy our own lives
as well. Samuel golfs, sort of an Ed Admin requirement.
They probably actually say, “So we’re going to
implement on benchmark basis an assessment of
participatory multicultural goal achievements
celebrating different enablements,” while they tee off.
I play tennis and garden and tell my flowers they’re
especially pretty today. Joan’s my doubles partner.
(Could have been Womens Century contenders, except for
our serves.) If we’re the only ones in the dressing
room shower, we’ll soap each other’s backs. Sometimes
she’ll reach around to be silly. When she does, her
front slides against my skin, soapy slick. I don’t move
so it won’t seem like I’m noticing.
And I still check my undercarriage, an auto town sort
of expression. It’s fine for Samuel to think that
humping him is my sole remaining girlhood fondness.
Humping your brother is really a good way, of course,
but he’s sometimes golfing.
Why would a grown woman masturbate? “Let me count the
ways,” as begins Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
It’s pleasurable and relaxing.
It cures insomnia.
It’s without side effects, disease or pregnancy.
As much gratification as you want, when you want it,
and at your own speed.
No inhibition when you’re your own partner.
The wags like to note that the price is right.
With Joan, it’s even social.
So why wouldn’t I?
(Here’s a thought about Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s
“Let me count the ways” love checklist for the
Victorian Age. The wealthy Barrett children weren’t
allowed to go out and associate with the riff-raff, but
Elizabeth had her 11 younger siblings. The boys were
kept in long hair and even dresses until about 10. The
drowning of her favorite brother made Elizabeth a
virtual recluse until 40 when she finally married.
Between childhood and 40, to whom was she writing and
how did she sustain her fragile sensibilities? Maybe
her poem is about a secret playhouse in the Barrett
attic.)
Being older, we’re better at taking care of ourselves,
even. Rhythmically squeezing my thighs is my best art
form. Start off with however your hand likes, but press
your thighs together for the association. Then pull
your hand away when you’re almost there and let your
inner thighs indirectly pressure your bud. If nobody
can see, I’ll grind my hips, but I don’t have to. Press
your thighs together when you climax. With the
association, you’ll be able to use only your legs from
earlier and earlier. Eventually you won’t need the
manual startup.
Try it. If you find yourself horny in public, just take
care of it with no one the wiser, except maybe those of
us who know how. If you noticed me with legs crossed
and kicking my foot at a faculty meeting, what was I
really doing? Intently listening to the dress-code
exception for Sikh boys’ turbans?
Another thought: The only Sikh family name seems to be
Singh, so it’s simple for Sikh siblings to tell the
Michigan marriage license office they’re not related.
The Amish and the Sikhs both have distinctive dress.
They’re both shrewd in business. I’ll bet they’re
pretty similar on the homefront, too. So we’ll say that
Samuel and I are likewise cross-cultural.
Here’s a better knock-knock joke than Cheech and
Chong’s. Sister Heidi Doody is smiling ear to ear.
(Look at any picture of her. This is why.) Howdy is
looking a bit scuffed. Princess Summerfall Winterspring
sends him off to see a rocket ship and makes sure that
nobody from Doodyville is eavesdropping.
The Princess:
Knock knock.
Heidi:
Who’s there?
The Princess:
Howdy Doody.
Heidi:
Howdy Doody who?
The Princess:
Howdy Doody act to you 17 times last night? My acting
coach can hardly do three.
Heidi:
It’s the one advantage of your brother being whittled.
AND ONWARD
I’m retired and 54 with a life ahead and that’s my
tale.
Thirty years later and I still get the little kiss and
the knee against me afterwards in the middle of the
night. Brothers don’t need explanation. Sometimes a
woman needs both.
Joan’s treating me to “Havana” on Friday while my
brother drives up to Lansing for an early Saturday tee-
time for some educational cause. Guys have such lame
excuses for going to a strip club or whatever they do
together the night before tournaments. It’s good for my
Samuel.
Robert Redford makes love to a Swedish girl, Joan
promises. We touch knees. I hold Joan’s elbow now, or
even her wrist when she guides me to it. She says she
likes how I show her the right pace. When I wrap my
fingers around, the tips even brush against her hair,
just a little. It’s so springy. I shouldn’t think she
could tell, though. Sometimes I move my fingers up
between her knuckles.
I don’t even mind if she cradles my breast at my
moment. I kind of like that she knows. I’ll initiate
some kisses if nobody up front’s turned around.
Sometimes while we smooch, her hand flops over the
armrest and slips into my pocket. She saw Ruth Anne’s
Mr. Bluster at my birthday parties. I don’t mind if the
other girls there in the back notice. They kiss too.
After the movie, Joan says just to sleep at her
apartment so we can claim a tennis court early next
morning. It’s cooler then. We can curl up on her sofa
in our PJ’s and watch our favorite Redford scenes as
late as we like. She’ll make Welch’s wine coolers, as
she calls them.
Just thinking of watching Robert Redford gets me in the
mood to hump Howdy Doody. Which PJ’s would Joan think
were pretty?