The Virgin Queen Lost His Head
I left my heart in Mogadishu. He tried (to hump) me but I wasn’t impressed by his guts or his display of affection, we were just kids of course. Sneaker pimps.
What ever happened to courtesy and the value of nautical sex? The yacht and the waterbed? The German captain and his crew of muscle men?
I was blinded that night, but not by love, I was too young. I was the only nineteen year-old virgin queen in Queens. Because I was shy I left my Mr. Magoo glasses at home to heighten my senses. Even though I couldn’t see that well I didn’t mind because I looked sexier without them—at least that’s what my neighbor told me.
I was turned on by the possibility of humming. I made friends with witches and woolly mammoths, and a transvestite named Bob. I had a pocketknife and twenty bucks just in case he flipped.
For the imagination of some men is so vivid that they think they see actual figures and appearances, which are but the reflection of their thoughts… such persons are plainly heretics. (From Part 1: Question I. Malleus Maleficarum)
Ever wanted to just run run run till decorum lost its deco and the world was just fucking rum and you didn’t have to consider whether or not you should have written ‘the world was just fucking rum.’ Once, when I was sixteen, I fell off my horse and broke my thumb. Three years later I was Miss Arby’s 1999.
I was in love with Sinead O’Connor. I loved the way she tore into the pope and his henchmen, little blue birds burst out of her mouth, amen. At the time butadiene was big, but during those years (1994 – 1999) I came to the realization I would never be like Busy Lizzie, i.e. no woman’s man.
Love is a kind of radiation, she said, and smacked my back. It burns like giving birth.
