Just Another Soirée


generalissimo jordan c. lubertwat scans the horizon with pinky extended double-jointedly, his belly protuberant and buoyed up by an equally excrescent bottom, his goatee failing to conceal a conspicuous absence of chin. he cuts quite a figure there, silhouetted before the sun, questing avidly for a cricket ball. “constantine!” he barks, “check that patch of grass!” the sunglass shielded youth springs to attention and bends professionally among the shrubbery. generalissimo lubertwat turns to me and seems to contemplate saying something, and spits instead. i take this as a grudging acknowledgment of my cricket skills. i open my cigarette case and offer a dunhill. he waves it aside with a snort, saying “those virginia slim jims are for women. cuban stogies only for me please,” thus implying that real men must satisfy their oral fixations with large objects. i am about to point out the homoerotic logical phallusy of his statement when constantine straightens up with the cricket ball held to the sky. the generalissimo hacks up some sputum and bellows “now you’ve got it, here comes the googly!” and he winds up, his belly wobbling earnestly. his leg slips a bit and he loses his balance just as the ball comes off, tottering comically on his stumpy booted legs. and dammit if he doesn’t bowl a proper googly–in fact, a chinaman i should say, since he’s left-handed–and takes a wicket. the generalissimo roars and brandishes his pistol, blasting it into the air triumphantly. constantine stands at attention, his clean-shaven face immobile and focused. i am for a moment ready to descry the complete luck and lack of skill involved in the matter, but the gleeful sputtering of the pistol in my ear reminds me of the generalissimo’s unpleasant past-time of amassing and applying tools of torture. i take a drag off my dunhill and shrug, thinking of ways to get him back. he sighs and places a meaty arm around my shoulder, and i gather that the game is over, now that he can possess the after-glow of success, like having the last word in a pointless argument. he guides us towards the pool, where the women are laid out, squealing like seals over their shrimp cocktails. “the ways of god are manifest,” he tells me beneficently, “the day may soon come when we shall have to walk about wearing bio-engineered suits protecting us from all evil. may we enjoy our youth and vigor while we may.” “good game,” i say, interpreting this speech as an attempt at good sportsmanship. we settle ourselves with grunts onto the lawn chairs, and i notice lubertwat’s wife groping at constantine as he passes. the generalissimo orders us martinis. “oh, and i just love the way it bolsters up my breasts. i wouldn’t be able to survive without it,” my wife comments shrilly to the generalissimo’s, continuing some conversation which i do my utmost to ignore. a fly settles onto my arm and sits there twiddling its arms against
its head. the generalissimo belches peremptorily and begins a monologue, seemingly directed to himself, regarding the in’s and out’s of the exercising of the pc muscle. i doze off briefly in the sun, only to be awakened by the unpleasant sight of my wife plummeting into the pool, her breasts dangling before her like an udder. i reflect on what must have first attracted me to her, when we were young and her thighs were rippled with toned muscle rather than cellulite. and i am mildly surprised to remember that it was indeed her breasts, which i used to free from trappings like a christmas present in the backseat of my jetta. “here they are!” i would exclaim, bobbling them affectionately in my hands, “liberty to the oppressed! let them dangle free like apples falling from a tree!”, making reference to those first fruits which tempted man away from god. i would then take them into my mouth and suckle on them. then i would . . . well, what is the use in harping on the glories of my youth? those breasts which were once so succulent now hang off her belly like an old codger’s scrotum sack. she rises out of the shallow end with water dripping off of her like some sea monster and comes over to me, her feet slapping wetly against the pavement. all of a sudden i am struck with the urge for revenge, for the chinaman, for the loss of beauty, and youth, and the trivial demeaning of my life which was once so fraught with ambition. i pretend to jerk upright suddenly from a deep sleep and knock my wife heftily onto the generalissimo, who is solemnly engaged in sucking the remnants of juice out of the bottom of his martini glass. “zounds!” he explodes, “get this bovine off of me! my leg is broken!” constantine bounds out of the house and begins the futile effort of trying to lift up my wife with both hands. my wife is lowing to the heavens above, and the generalissimo’s wife comes behind constantine, ostensibly to help, but she seems to be doing more pulling on the boy than on anything else. soon even the pug, which doesn’t do anything other than snuffle and fart all day, gets up wearily and gets in on the fray, yapping frenziedly at them. i take that moment to pee in the pool unnoticed.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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