The Congener Interludes, Op. 1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No.4

Previous:  The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No.3

I’ve been here before, many times — in this situation, specifically.

Allowing her pink-painted synthetics to take such liberties reminds my pup-pups of busking for Lincolns.

Truest in form, safari in thong — she’s loving all my gyrations. Zebra print presenting the prey: delicious, in the eyes of a cougar.

Her physical prowess is intimidating. But being stalked in an office full of football memorabilia celebrating her as the League’s most efficient helmet crusher is what necessitates the elevated threat level.

I am aware of her hormonal imbalance, and she of my pheromones in all of their glory. Thus begins a delicate dance — one which allows me to take her down easy.

Her hands are soft for gorilla-large, but I’m against putting bandaids inside me. It’s imperative to play it cool — and I do — by casually suggesting the aggression dial down. “Easy, mama. Easy.”

Her snapping my crevice cape is completely expected, it’s her Shwarznegger impression that catches me off-guard. “Grrrr. Thou doth protest too much.”

Sound the alarms, and maintain their silence: It’s critical not to trigger the adrenaline of predators, especially those who’ve spent decades riddled with concussions. Maintaining my composure these next few moments becomes of critical importance.

If I can straddle-walk her chair backwards towards the bamboo thicket corner, I’ll be able to access a defensive vantage — one that comes from hiding in the bush.

My playbook-nibbling her cauliflower ear fails to neutralize the threat. Her claws continue to dig, and I find myself resorting to expert level negotiations while trying to tame her primitive instinct. “What say you let me get Maze Runner-lost in your beautiful labial labyrinth?”

With eyes twitching deep in her skull, she shakes her head, biting her lip. I’m in danger of losing my chastity.

Because this one is feral — and not afraid to show teeth — her seeing me panic is not an option. There is no time not to look sexy, I’ll need a moment to center my qi.

Concentrically circling my own nipples brings decades of extensive preparation to the forefront. My hips position into a stance less-known: She’s forced the unveiling of Grandfather-Clock.

The recall instantaneous, the skills well-honed, you’re now a witness to my handling a live situation. The dangers of this routine go unspoken between the seven of us left with knowledge of how to procure its perfect execution.

From Full-Metronome, I run my pointed finger down her frantic face, making a flawless line from her hairline to her chin — I once spent an entire summer breaking wild chickens with hypnotherapy.

I hop like a bunny backwards and maneuver a half-twist that lets me snap a look over my shoulder and transition my pointed finger into the universal gesture for “Nuh-Uh”.

Her beady eyes, traversing her beak, stare me down, crossed and succinct — I know the look of a savage bird when I see it. She’s far from cooperating. I’m making the call: She’s forced me to overdose her libido.

I attempt to go low, but my splits say no, so I jump with a kick and know that it’s perfect.

I land for a jiggle and then twerk like a doll — my prize-winning cakes looking tasty.

My Backpack Kid is flawless under pressure. There’s no doubt I’m properly fuckin’ murdering this routine.

A young boy’s innocence casts a glance back: Oops, I’ve bitten too hard on my pinky.

That she can withstand this treatment makes no sense, it’s as if her tolerance is bionic. I may be in danger of bottoming-out digging through my bag of tricks. I take a risk and escalate further.

Ten-and-two the ceiling, ten-and-two the floor. From between my legs and upside-down, her look is Considering, behind me.

Spreading my wings to lock her in, I’m trying to land this plane.

Oh, shit.

There’s no mistaking the venomous contact of an acrylic rattlesnaking your anus. It stings, but so does being caught like an amateur by a strike learned at Yellow Belt.

I’ll have time to heal my psyche later. Right now, it’ll take more than that to decommission the Champ.

Sensing the Feminine Mystique poised to strike again — and while notching another marginalisation derived from the work of Betty Friedan– I quick-release the cheeks and return my seat to a safe and upright position.

Inserting my mouth guard and cracking my knuckles, I hear the intent in her voice from behind me. “Would you like the bad news first, Mr. Zamboni?”

A slow turn into her coalmine eyes — there’s no trying to measure their depths. “You bet, sugar. What’s your game?”

“It seems you have an acute case of Benjamin Buttons.”

What the fuck does that mean?

I better play it safe.

Making myself appear as large as possible, I’m fully prepared to show her some pole. “And suppose I told you things aren’t always as they seem?” Ladies love a Copperfield.

“Oh, please. You’ve got the asshole of a twenty-year-old and we both know it.”

She’s got me there. I’ve had my cover blown by more than one A-list stalker coveting the stunt-hole of DiCaprio and Pitt.

From a three-point stance, in her seated position, her knuckles turn white preparing to charge.

I spin for a juke, but I’m back where I started — a curse of my perfect alignment. If it looks good once, it will look good twice — and there’s a chance that I’m making her dizzy.

It takes less than a minute for her to get caught in my orbit. And lost in my twirls, she’s seizuring frothy.

I fear I’ve led her too deep into the Land of Excessive Seduction, and opened the gates of Hell. I can’t bring her back without confronting her demons.

For the sixth time this week, I catholically cross my sweet pecks and thank the Pope I’m Vatican-trained in exorcism.

Any concern of the spiritual battle ahead is comforted by self-affirmation: Nothing a Grand Master of zumba can’t handle.

Step One: Know thy enemy.

Extend jazz hands. Reach for high noon. Sprinkle down the purple rain. Hard slap, right. Hard slap, left. Reverse. Now, finger-cross the forehead and make your demand. “Identify yourself, demon!”


It’s not unusual having them speaking in tongues.

Step Two: Hold firm.

Unsheathing my talisman, her mouth begins to foam. I start a four-count where her Third Eye should be and accompany that with, “I rebuke you in the name of the Lord!”

An arm contorts behind her searching for a heathen’s weapon. Having found a tote on the back of her chair, she reaches high, and in a shimmering flash, captures herself mid-deliverance, ducklips and all.

Before she can Insta, I retrieve the device. Six flashes and a short narrative later, I’ve huckleberried her vanity using the power of transference. But how do I Like my own post?

Step Three: Choose the playing field.

We can expect the djinn to make a request right…about…”CHOKE ME!”

The secret to winning a battle with condemnations is making them think you’ll negotiate. A proper haggle with demons or demigods is served with a smidge of flirtation: one that peaks their interest, helping them meet you halfway. It’s also important to make the case that I’m uncomfortable enjoying what comes next.

Coyly alluding to how hot it would be if her own phalanges were wringing her neck, I’m hoping for a sleeper-assist to make my job easier.

The philistine kindly obliges, and a little sweet-talk encourages keeping her hands where I can see them. “Is that all you got, nutsack?” Even while demonically possessed, a lady will appreciate your replacing gender-biased insults attentively.

She is squeezing harder, but dammit if she isn’t still breathing. With her vision blurred from lack of oxygen, a series of spins around her desk covers the discrete procurement of items: one leftover chicken burger, one watered-down cola, one-half a roll of masking tape.

I’m returned to sender, hydrated, ready. Wiping the remnants of crispy chicken off my face, and across hers, an ancient harbinger sings from behind her grotesquely protruding eyeballs, “FISHHOOK ME!”

I call and raise double. Now temporarily extending her sick and twisted smile, and still pretending we’re on the same team, she’s under the impression I’m folding.

“BEEF ME, GLENN!” Like a slumlord landlady desperately trying to contract an unsuspecting tenant into filling her vacant, unwanted cubby.

“Sorry, doll. I’m callin’ fowl.” I quickly mama-bird a large chunk of unchewed chicken sandwich past her finger-stretched lips. This will help keep her air obstructed.

When her hands shoot up, free from her throat, her watch informs on her pulse: Now pushing mass adrenaline! She’s about to come off of this chair powered like a rocket. Her thinking I’m caught off-guard should let me cinch the flying arm-bar, easy.

I seize the moment, locking it in. But the rest of future I modeled seconds ago arrives still under construction.

Her: Now standing.

Me: Hanging on the underside of her of arm.

Her: Performing a one-handed tracheotomy using a mechanical pencil.

Me: I wonder what Monte’s up to?

Step Four: Is there a Step Four?

Maintaining a centrifugal motion paced to that of a high-speed ceiling fan requires the power of positive thinking.

Observing in rapid rotation what I initially thought were awkwardly shifting color patterns, but quickly realized was the real-time evacuation of my bowels, I spot a picture on the desk I hadn’t seen before. Watching it fly past me time-and-time-again, I’m amazed to see Him in such a pretty wedding dress while standing next to this monstrosity.

So much about Waymon makes sense now.

Maybe I’ve been too hard on him? I can’t possibly imagine everything he’s been through. That picture looks fifteen years old. Factor-in I’m travelling at light speed, and I’ll bet he’s been stuck with this princess of a mammoth for at least as many decades as she has teeth. Maybe it’s time to make amends.

Timing it right, I release my grip, and find the hammer toss-cushion I’m seeking. Bamboo broken, some possibly inside me, I ignore the Filipino fighting sticks to freehand this match’s end.

Her sumo stance projects her move: a mistake you can’t make with professionals.

It pains me to do what comes next. I never thought I’d stoop so low.

A kick to the groin escapes my conscience and defuses her charge. Now stooping low, I begin reciting the verses most sacred: “Now I’ve…had…the time of my life…No, I’ve ne-ver felt this way before…” She’s tilting her head. Anticipating. “Yes, I’s the truth.” Her stupid smile tells me she’s buying this bullshit. “And I owe it all you…”

Abandoning the offensive position, her hands meet and make the platform supporting her chin. Behind her fluttering lashes, dilated pupils constrict, letting me know that she’s in there. Any moment now, she should meet me in the middle.

And she does. “…’Cause I’ve…had the time of my life…And I owe it all to you…”

Goose to Maverick: I’m locking her in!

Next move, the walk: slow and with grace. Meet to touch palms in the middle. Her foot forward, my foot back. She thrusts, I volt. Sweet parry. We pirouette to her right, there is one move left: making the space between us.

Stepping apart as far as we can, my eye contact tells her, “We’re a team. We’re in this together.” I give her the signal, the one that she knows: Come on babe, you and I got this.

Maverick to Goose: Roger that. She’s copying. READY.

Lucifer himself would fall victim to Swayze.

Fluttering across the space between, hitting the mark, a princess is lifted: I find it a shame — from my elevated position — having to transition so quickly from Dirty Dancing to Roadhouse.

The tape makes its second appearance, wrapping tightly around her dome before catching the fan overhead.

he’s sucked right up, eyes wide, smiling, arms fully extended, feet finding a rhythm.

Bless her heart, it’s an encore presentation.

Euphoric: That’s the look of a little-girl-turned-ballerina doing her first neck-suspended spin in front of a live audience, at a job that pays in checks — not singles. I thinking I’m tearing up. Oh, what a feeling — dancing on the ceiling.

Our song will be playing in heavy rotation until maintenance comes and cuts her down. She’s not going die. Not today. But only because I saved her.

That was almost too easy.

Now, if only I could remember what I needed from her office…

Next: The Congener Interludes, Op.1: Sonatina of Intrigue, No. 5

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