Let’s talk consummation

For Smart Bitches Day, I’ve decided to cede the stage to Bare Rump. For her last SBD, my lovely Tromatopelman gal introduced you to her favorite author, Bronwyn Webweaver. I wonder what she’ll write about today?

Just in case you don’t remember the salient details of Bare Rump’s appearance, here’s a picture of her at a cast party for All My Children. She’s a big, BIG fan.

***

You know what I find most puzzling about your President Bush? He’s so old. On my world, males rarely live more than three years past their sexual maturity. At first, I assumed he had to be a virgin, but then I learned he has two daughters! How mysterious is that?

At first, I thought: Laura, you devil!

Of course, when I met President Bush’s lovely wife, it all became clear. Of course! He’s had the old girl defanged.

We’ll get back to “Dubya” in a moment. Oh, how his nickname makes me titter! Among my people, “Dubya” is a male who enjoys — oh, dear, there’s simply no polite way to put this — a male who enjoys having another male shoot poo into his mouthparts. *Shiver*

Anyway, I really did have something to say about the human romance genre.

Something my people know like the backs of our cephalothoraces, but you folks seem to fumble with, is that sex and eating go together like silk and spinnerettes. I had begun to despair of ever finding sensible human romance until last Thursday night, when Bravo had their marathon of food sex movies — Tom Jones, 9 1/2 Weeks, Last Tango in Paris. And then, last night on HBO, I saw Bram Stoker’s Dracula with that handsome Winona Ryder woman, and I thought: you almost get it! You almost really do!

You see, that’s the problem. In your literature, I see far too much of this:

Have them switch places and you’d be on to something, but as it stands, this is deviant. It’s . . . it’s dubya, you know?

Recently, I called one of those all-night adult video stores and told the nice young man what sorts of things I wanted to see. “Oh,” he said, “you want The Joy Suck Club.”

“Suck,” I said. “Yes, that sounds right. Do you deliver?”

“That depends.” His voice deepened a notch. “What do you look like?”

“I’m a big girl –“

“I’m a big guy.”

“I dunno. Most hu–” I stopped myself. Calling you folks human to your faces provokes the most curious reactions. “Most men aren’t big enough for me.”

By now, my young man was breathing funny. “Tell me one thing. Do you shave?”

With my hind legs, I felt my poor hairless abdomen. I flick hairs when I’m nervous (hence my name), and I fear that on your planet, I have been very nervous indeed.

“Oh, you could say I’m smooth down there.”

“On my way!” he squeaked, and didn’t even bother to hang up the phone. In the distance, I heard a customer ask, “Do you have Good Night and Good Suck?” I could kick myself with all eight legs — I wanted that one, too!

The poor dear was a bit disappointed when I opened the hotel room door. They usually are. Fortunately, he dropped the video when he passed out, and soon I was enjoying — not! — The Joy Suck Club.

I threw open the hotel room door, determined to find that duplicitous video store employee. I practically stumbled over him; he was still at my door, shaking his head and patting himself all over.

“You lied!” I said. “No one’s eating anything.”

He stammered unintelligibly, but at last managed, “Scene three. Kimi Oh and Rod Hawt. Scene three!“

“She eats him?”

“Swallows every last drop!”

Needless to say, I eventually realized that I was the victim of an innocent linguistic misunderstanding. I went out to apologize to the young man, but he had already left.

Which brings me to Laura Bush. Dubya (hee hee!) gave me less than five minutes of his time before dumping me on his fangless wife. More about my meeting with your President some other day . . .

“You girls get to know each other,” said the Leader of the Free World. “I’m sure you have just lots and lots in common.”

Hmm. I had my doubts about that, but I kept them to myself. Actually, I hoped the power structure might bear some resemblance to the situation on my world. Perhaps Laura did decide everything of importance. Perhaps she put her husband forward to take the brunt of what had to be a risky occupation.

“Mrs. Bush, I hope you can help –“

“More tea?”

“Yes. Thank you. As I was saying, my people are dismayed by the portrayal of eight-legged creatures in human cinema. We need –“

“Oh, you mean spiders? I hate spiders. Snugglelumps crushes ’em for me. He is such a dear.”

Crushes them, eh? I suppressed an urge to give those delightful secret service men a spot of work. No, no; I had to be diplomatic, even if every fiber of my being screamed for me to be ME.

“Mrs. Bush, my experiences here on your planet convince me that if our people are to be accepted by your –“

She leaned in so quickly I almost batted her head away with my pedipalp. “Tell me, Miss Rump, is it true what I’ve heard about your romantic liaisons? That you eat your menfolk?”

“Well, we try our best not to –“

“Oh, I know, I know. I hate it when Snugglelumps asks me to do, ah, that. I thought maybe you could give me some advice. Something that would make it more tolerable.”

If it weren’t for my recent miscommunication with the young man from the video store, I might have been adrift at this point. As it happened, I understood her perfectly.

And she had interrupted me so many times, well . . . Dear me. I’m afraid I put myself up to some mischief.

“Mrs. Bush, if you finish the job, you’ll never have to do it again.”

“What do you mean, Miss Rump?”

So I told her. By the gleam in her eye, I think she understood me perfectly.

I do hope I haven’t broken any of your laws.

BR