Can You Tabu? The Scent Of Early Risings

So. I’m up at 3:15 am, again, and it seems to be a new habitual. Before today, this time of awakening was for me, as said in Spanish, “Tiempo de perros.”  Most times when I’m up too early it is dog related. And for those of you wondering why I speak so often of my hounds I say, “You, sir, need to pay attention.”

This morning, however, it wasn’t the dogs who awakened me, it was my own fevered brain. True enough, the Squirt was doing her adorable snurffle-snuffle snore dealio, a complex cacophony of puppy sleeping noises that puts a smile on my face and a lump of love in my heart. But it wasn’t that or Yoda’s constantly severe halitosis that awakened me today. It was my own spinning brain waves that kept me wide awake.

My issue, according to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, is that I have a guilty conscience about something, with said whateverthefuck something remaining a mystery to me. The often insightful psycho therapist and former Mrs. Mooner Johnson seems to believe that my early risings are all connected to something about which I feel either embarrassment, or guilt. Because I feel guilty, ipso facto, I can’t sleep.

“It is proven medical science, Mr. Loony Bird. Most insomnia is either anxiety or guilt driven, and in your case, my money lays nine-to-two it’s guilt. You need to spend some time in self-reflection, Mooner. There has to be something you’ve done that’s laying heavily on your crazy mind—you obviously feel embarrassment or guilt over something. Lord knows you’re always doing something that embarrasses me.”

When my psycho therapist say shit like this I start to wonder which of us is the nutty one. “Have you lost your mind, Sammy? It’s gotta be five-to-two, worst case. I haven’t been embarrassed since back to junior high school when I slow danced with an actual girl not Gram or Sister the first time. Accidently dry-rubbed against the silk and taffeta prom gown of who’s her name, and received both pleasure and a slap. She had one of those corsage dealios that girls used to wear on their wrist and I can still see how the air caused the baby’s breath to blow off her wrist as her flat hand headed for my cheek.”

Enjoyed the thrills too much to be embarrassed in the moment even with the slap, but paid the price next day in Sunday school. Offended young lady had to tell Mrs. Browningwell the story with added allegations. True, I did get a boner, and true as well that I left it pinned to her front halfway between her belly button and soft, budding breasts. But I wasn’t moaning. I was counting my one-two-three-fours under my breath so’s not to step on her tootsies. That was the only way I ever danced through an entire song without tripping over everyone’s feet.”

Who’s her name was far shorter than was I, and I was humming my numbered steps with my mouth closed. In reflections, might have sounded like moaning to her virgin ear plastered to my chest, spray-fluffed hair in my face. Oh, and I just remembered that she wore Taboo perfume except wasn’t it spelled “Tabu”? God, rememberating the sights and smells of young first encounters is exhilarating. Remember the first time you sniffed a lover’s sex smells? Intoxicating.

For those of you questioning my grammatical choices, I purposely used  “who’s her name” rather than “what’s her name”, and speaking of dry rubbed, my Gram called me last night to complain about her sex life. OK, she actually called to see if I’d come visit and, as she put it when she told me, she said, “Git yer fuckin’ pig ta stay tha shit out tha garden.” But as always, my Gram’s conversations will hit sex talk at about the ninety-second mark, as in this conversation when she ran out of steam complaining about Rush Limbaugh the pig eating all her squash.

“… fuckin’ Rushie Limberhog ate summer squashies an’ tha Zukkies too. So, there’s this Texas student working down ta tha church—nuclur engineerin’ or sum such a major, an’ doin’ tha Lord’s work with tha kids fer Pastor Browningwell—an’ he says ta me, ‘Mz. Johnson, that’s a mighty nice car you drive.’ An’ afore I can git tha door open to hop him on in, fuckin’ Leticia grabs tha boy’s arm damn near out tha socket. Yanked tha poor kid hard enough ta snap his head off, what with him eyeballin’ the Fee-rarie an’ all.”

And that’s twice now that Mrs. Leticia Browningwell has bothered into a Johnson’s sexual activities in four paragraphs of this word swill. Maybe I can’t sleep because that old bag had so much influence on my life. She’d have boiled me in oil had we lived back in the days of such, and then fed me to the pigs. Told me just that this one time. Maybe that’s likewise why I own 400-plus pounds of piggy meat on the hoof.

Folks ask me why I’m an atheist and moments with Leticia come to mind. In my world, no actual God would allow her to influence so many young lives. Then, and again, no God as a deity exists in my world excepting for my own, quite personal God, a creature of my own divining.

I often wish for a Divine all-knowing, all-being God, as that would make it easier to live life. Using a third party with a God’s power can justify any action one might choose to make, as abdication of our bad deeds to the edicts of a cult grants a pardon to some. No guilty consciences when you can confess your sins to your God for absolutions.

“Dear God. I’m so sorry for being a greedy and bigoted racist lying fuckhead, and if You make me President I promise I’ll be better. Ah, er, well ah, might You also consider making this current bankruptcy go away? Amen. Oh, and the lawsuits.”

Fuck Walmart and Donald J. Trump as well.

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8 Responses to “Can You Tabu? The Scent Of Early Risings”

  1. bj says:

    Cathy Jenkins! Seventh grade. She sat directly across from me. Mr Crabbe(stg – BUCK Crabbe) was our Physical Science teacher and he liked the desks(http://www.davidhinkson.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/Blue-Old-School-Desk-e1462349497232.jpg) arranged with half on one side of the room and the other half on the other side with a runway down the middle. Buck would teach while walking back and forth from his desk in front of the blackboard to the wall of the ‘cloak room'(‘member those?) at the back of the room. Cathy Jenkins sat directly across from me. Girls in those days did. not. wear. trousers.. Cathy was no exception. MOST days she wore a panty girdle and DE-LIGHTED in watching me squirm while I watched HER squirm in that desk seat trying to cover her secrets while I was trying to get a good look. Sometimes, if Buck was nearby, she’d give me the full, unobstructed view of The Promised Land. and stare me dead between my lookin’ machines to make sure I saw, and to make sure I knew she knew I saw. After Christmas vacation she stopped wearing the girdle altogether and rewarded my attentions with panty covered crotch views, which the fellas and I called Beaver Shots. My dick would get hard enough to cut diamonds that second semester. Then one day, during one of our smile trading Beaver Hunt sessions, we had a fire drill. I knocked three guys DOWN to get in that single file line directly behind Cathy – and I mean CLOSE beHIND all the way out to the breezeway that was the Senior Smoking porch. I bumped her hiney( I think the technical term is “frottage”) with my boner all the way outside. At first she looked over her shoulder whispering “stop that” but her smile didn’t convince me she wanted me to stop so I didn’t. when we were outside and Mr. Crabbe was counting heads she reached back repeatedly to push my dick(now harder than Chinese arithmetic) off her delicious little rear and back against me. When the all clear was given Cathy RAN back to the room as I tried to cover my raging hardon and sorta crawfished slowly back to the classroom. When I walked back in to take my seat, Cathy was huddled in the corner with three other girls. As she whispered to those giggling little teases they all turned their heads to stare at my pants(corduroy, I believe) front, all wide eyed. Naturally I was embarrassed enough to die right then and there. Soon, all the little girls in the room were looking me in the eye one at a time and snickering. They all knew. I figured Cathy would have her older brother Barry kick my ass for the rub-a-dub-rubbing I put on her fanny, but she didn’t. And she gave me puh-LENTY to look at the rest of that school year. I asked her to the school dance and the movies a couple of times but she always said no. Politely. and wouldn’t give me the time of day outside Buck’s classroom. Funny thing about that incident that day. I lost my virginity (well, with another, actual PERSON) that summer to Maryann Gill. One of the three girls Cathy had been huddled up with in the corner. and by Christmas break I had nailed the other two girlfriends – and Maryann’s older sister. So the publicity did me some good, and I’m glad I didn’t die of embarrassment that fire drill day.
    To this day I love me some sneaky panty crotch shots and panty girdles, too. Bless little Cathy Jenkins fine ass.
    Hey! Every time you write about Leticia and her fucked up rapist of a husband I think of The Floyd’s ‘The Happiest Days Of Our Lives’:
    “But in the town, it was well known
    When they got home at night, their fat and
    Psychopathic wives would thrash them
    Within inches of their lives.”
    Fuck both the Browningwells, Donny Jabroni Trump, and Walmart.
    with a prickly pear …

  2. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Beej. Me thinks we all had us a Cathy Jenkins in one way or another. For my part in things, I started flashing my bare ass soon after starting school and as soon as my danglies grew enough to, well, dangle, they too would routinely feel the soft breeze freshened with a full moon.

    In high school a girl who is now married to one of my old buddies and shall remain nameless on the pages herein, as her now husband moved to our school a couple years after said little missy stopped her hereafter-mentioned atrocities, would tease me as follows.

    First time it happened I was sitting with Streaker Jones on the steps of school waiting for Gram to come get us. Little missy sits beside me and whispers in my ear. “Got a present for you, Mooner. Close your eyes and guess what it is.”

    Eyes snapped shut, rustle of fabric–eagerness spurting adrenaline into my system–then a wet finger touches my nose. I flinched, then felt I had an idea of what it was and tried to inhale a thousand cubic feet of air in one breath. Another whisper, “Thanks for showing me your balls, Mooner. I wondered what they looked like in person.”

    Thereafter, I received a series of scented visits that culminated with a gift wrapped package containing a pair of white cotton panties, wearing which she had insured I could detect her excretions. Wouldn’t date me–wouldn’t even dance with me at a mixer. But for that entire school year she insured that I would forever remember her.

    I wanna go back. If there was an actual God, we’d be able to go back to those moments. Relive them, say the right things, do the right things. OK, do the wrong things sometimes.

    And with all this fucking shit, the Great Southwestern Prickly Pear is gonna run extinct!

  3. Squatlo says:

    Y’all were some horny fucks… I couldn’t get a girl to give me a second glance, much less a beaver shot when I was in high school. In fact, I spent more of my freshman and sophomore years trying to avoid being bullied by seniors. Such are the travails of the short and small in high school.

    My only real thrill also coincided with the most embarrassing moment of my pre-adult life.

    During our first PE class of my freshman year, we had to walk down the street to the baseball team’s practice field for some running around in the sun. The phys ed teacher was a sadistic prick who had hated my older sisters, and now hated me. During one of our wind sprints I spun around and managed to twist an ankle. Class ended, everyone was told to jog back to the dressing room… and off they went. I limped back, hundreds of yards behind everyone else. When I got to the side of school there were two green doors, and neither of them were marked. I asked a senior (who was standing outside smoking) which door was for the boys locker room. He pointed. I limped over, opened that door, shuffled inside. The door slammed behind me, and I heard someone throw his weight up against the door from the other side. At about that same time I looked up and saw at least a dozen semi-naked young women in various stages of undress, others coming back from the showers drying their hair… naked young women. Then the screaming started. First it was theirs, then it was mine when I realized the door wouldn’t open and I was trapped. For about five seconds I was being screamed at like that scene from Psycho… and instead of looking back to enjoy the view, I was was in a panic trying to escape.

    The asshole on the other side of the door finally stepped back, I ran into the other dressing room to the sound of his laughter…

    Later that day rumors swirled around the school about a guy who had broken into the girls dressing room, and all of the teachers were trying to find out who it was. Suspensions were in order. That guy was toast. Somehow since it was our first day, no one knew who the hell I was, and no one ratted me out.

    And the horror of it somehow mentally erased what was probably a pretty decent peep show for a 14 year old kid with a twisted ankle.

    Dammit.

  4. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Squattie. OK, so what you’re attempting to say is that because we were granted those delights we were horny and because you weren’t, you we Godlike? Pah-leeze. To turn from a roomful of nekid girls at that time in your hormonal development is totally fucking sacrilegious. Blasphemous even. I’d have gawked and memorized each individual sight for later visitations with my personal bar of Ivory Soap–99-and-44/100’s-percent pure Ivory Soap. Taken the suspension and the ass-whipping as well.

    So, fuck Walmart!

  5. Squatlo says:

    Looking back on it now, it’s easy to say that I should have done this or should have done that. At the goddamn time, I was scared shitless. In fact, I’m pretty sure if you locked me in a room with thirty screaming teenaged girls today I might not be any less terrified.
    I’m unable (seriously) to remember ANYTHING I saw in that room. I remember thinking later… “She was naked. And wet. Trying to cover her snatch and boobs…” But then I’d remember the shrieks and screams, and before long that’s all I could remember. Instead of a wet dream, I got a torture scene from Criminal Minds in my head.

    I realize I failed in my man-mission. But you had to be there to understand.

  6. bj says:

    I, PERSONALLY … am still a horny fuck. and will still gawk, opportunity given. Perhaps it was your parochial-esque upbringing that added the shame and horror to what I would have considered a heavenly situation that I only dreamed about – and let’s be very clear, I had DREAMS of being stuck(?) in the girl’s locker room during their shower time(in one very vivid dream I was wearing only my jock strap, smoking a Kool). So FUCK religions and religious mind tortures, too. With a Prickly Pear. BTW if we run out of the Great Southwestern Prickly Pear? We’ll star using the Great SouthEASTERN’erns around here! Plenty of Prickly Pears to go around for one and all that need a good colon cleaning!
    Hey! I just realized another thing we Three Assketeers have in common, besides all being old as fuck, worn out, used up, shells of men born under the sign of Leo. We all grew up with Sisters and no brothers. THAT, in and of itself, will cause early onset and rapidly declining dementia in a muhg.
    and … Give it to Walmart one more time before that Prickly Pear wilts!

  7. Squatlo says:

    Three sisters and no brothers. My dad had three sisters and no brother. His dad had three sisters and no brother.

    Lemme just put it out there. Hand me down bras SUCK as presents.

  8. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Gents. Two sisters I had, and now one. Remembering her death two years ago this month reminds me of some of the why of my mother, another subject laying heavily on my mind. More to follow.

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