“That’s true,” says Miss Buttinsky who has lost touch not only with her body but with the body of most of the known universe to boot. And her fur ball’s still there and stuck forever.
“So I’ll just stuff a towel,” I says. You can’t argue. Five failed marriages will tell you: don’t argue.
“If you have to,” says Miss Treadmill of 1936 and she wiggles a little, like some goofy comical Olympic racewalker; you know how stupid they look; and she strides on out real cool just to throw out another virtual bird my way and score yet another point.
I pedal like hell.
“I think I ought to do Swan Lake,” I says. “It’s well known and I’ve seen the damn thing for at least the last 150 winters.”
“Good choice,” she says, wiping a wisp, a mere hint, an ever so little droplet, of perspiration off her brow.
Oh, oh, that’s a great big huge tell.
Girls from 1936 don’t sweat.
They don’t crap; they don’t piss; they don’t sweat; hell, they don’t menstruate; they eat like tiny birds; they got pure sweet breath and clean white teeth and always smell nice even after consuming huge quantities of bean dip and beer. Most of all, and most important of all, they do not, I repeat, do NOT gross out their fellow man and the entire universe by ugh! actually and visibly sweating.
I sometimes thank the Lord above this sick generation is dying out and going permanently away. After all, where was it written nice ladies can’t sweat? Or fart for that matter? Is that what made them all so mean? Is that what made them so goddam quippy shitty snotty? And always remember, this was the generation that tried to bring grace, dignity, class and charm to the blow job.
Oh, titter titter. Extend the one little pinky finger, cant that gross penis with index and middle fingers whee! just so, wet your lips, look long and deep and into the eyes, smile and chow down like a kid licking a lollipop on a stick at the zoo … Hey, lady, what a waste. Get on with it. Men never wanted Emily Post at this particular soiree; they want Linda Lovelace with her dead gag reflex and a slick deep throat and her bobble head running on a go-fast battery like an insane steam piston. Who cares if she sweats like a pig and smells like a hog and has hair in her armpits? She does the job. Men want her working like an engine horse and sucking up their toes from inside out. Baby, screw the niceties, let’s get it ON.
Instead, Miss 1936 brings along napkins and those damn toilettes wrapped in alcohol.
Oh, sure, that’s memory talking, and bitterness, and more old man nostalgia, and a little quibble too, against the women of my own generation.
Once more, this was before the Sixties and all that was far away and in another land. Paris, I think it was with a little blonde hooker with black hair in the pits and between her legs and rancid as a buffalo. The girl, however, could work. Near Moulin Rouge, it was. But that WAS another land.
O.K., so now I’m contacted to be tutued and blued and gaffed. Old age ain’t for sissies. So now I gotta pick a part. In the ballet, I mean.
“I oughta do The Swan,” I say.
By now, Miss Tread is sucking down some imported French waters and fanning her brow and breathing steady and deep and generally having this sacred little communion with her body, which has betrayed her and dared to sweat. Either that or she’s got gas again. Christ, this lady can clear a room with her pelvic thrust accidental letflys during kitty-kat-arching and sway-back-mare droop fall downs.
FFFFFfffft! And the whole room’s a gas chamber.
It’ll tear your eyes worse than slicing onions.
“Swan’s good,” she says. “A good part for you.”
“Yeah,” I agree. What the hell does she know? I goes on her empty tread, kick up the speed, heighten the elevation, lay in one tough killer cardiac Type “A” personality do-or-die program guaranteed to send you home healthy or off to the emergency room.
And bam! I’m running and Miss Tread hikes over to some rubberband training station which is about as effective as Charles Atlas’ Dynamic Tension. Why, there’s more work unwrapping six Clark bars than in those rubbers.
Which reminds me of stuff back in Paris I’d better skip.
So I continue: “Yeah, The Swan’s the part. I can run with that. You know, I flutter good.”
“Flutter?” she asks.
“What?” asks Miss Buttinski whose arching and drooping.
“Flut,” I shout. “I do good flut.”
The women look at each other. I don’t help. I just keep a straight face. Look real dead serious. Hunker right on down on that killer infarcter program. Also, we’re all separated now and I’m working hard and hearing impaired seniors don’t always communicate well, especially if they are busily tuning into their bodies and communing and such. Which we weren’t.
“Flut.” I shout. “Flutflutflutflut!” I shout even louder.
“Oh,” Miss Butinski says.
“Swans do need to flutter,” Miss Tread calls back.
“Damn straight,” I says.
So it’s settled. She sews; I get tutued; and not so incidentally blued; and when fall comes and there’s local ballet tryouts to fill out the semi pro Swan Lakers who always come to town, I go gaffed up and with my TV tray stuffed down my crotch and two towels plunked in between and all ‘A’ cupped and audition for the role of The Swan in Swan Lake.
