Juggland 1

“hi honey” *smack* “how was your day?”
“i had a hard time with the dragon, but eventually i was able to free my arm from its serpentine grasp and sever it’s thick neck in two.”
“would you like a little mescal, my sweet?”
“aye, that would fuckin do the trick.”
vince settles himself gruntily upon the bench. he watches his wife’s thick haunches sinuous shifting to the cabinet. he’s noticed that her ass seems to have an almost distinct consciousness, as a separate entity, with its own individual outlook upon the world. whilst she is immersed in the activity of unstoppering the bottle and pouring, he can sense it watching him back, protruded whole in his direction, an alien awareness, layered, sandwiched with purpose neither he nor his wife can intuit. he remembers the first time he saw grunhilda at the may fair festivities, glowering in her ruddiness, a butcher’s daughter, at ease around conglomerations of meat. the first thing that caught his attention, out of the corner of his eye, was the rotundity of her nether-regions, glorious in the summer moon light, uplifted in her dancing, quivering with supple eagerness. aye, for they seemed to call to him, and he almost in a trance waltzed within meshing distance, coming up behind her and swaying mesmerized to the beat of the pooka drum. she needed not to look in his eyes, for her buttocks did all the communicating necessary, as they freaked into the dawns early dew.
having been espoused to grunhilda for a good number of seasons now, he has come to observe a disparity between her dumb glutinous hinds, and her outspoken gesticulating tongue. he married one, and has to listen to the other. not that grunhilda is a bad mate, but it’s simply disconcerting for vince at times, when he seems to be having wonderful sign language reveries with one, and gossip mongering verbal warfare with the other. grunhilda herself seems unable to quite control It, and vince finds that a sure fire way to soothen down a sticky situation is to pay caressing attentions to It, to pat It slightly and even murmur sweet and promising things to Its protuberant mass. grunhilda always acquiesces, despite herself–and in this way, they have found a daily treaty in their communal lives, a mediator of disputes.
vince has had such success in this particular harmonizing of his wifely relations, that he has been called upon for advice in the mead hall.
“arrrgh, tha’ little bitch has been snookerin aboot the gadammed village by naw. vince! ya seem to have subdued ya filly right proper. wha’s tha secret, ey?”
“ehem. . . you fella’s ever . . . get jiggy with more than just the sea salt, know what i mean?”
“wha the fuck’s this blarney on aboot?”
“i mean . . . you know, the backdoor and such, in the other way. . .”
” . . . hey jimmy, ah think this pervert’s fucking his lass in the arse-hole . . .?”
so vince becomes a purveyor of anal loving—once appropriately sodden with hops, he delights his rapt rowdy audience with the proselytization of its wonders. they all go home that night and eagerly awaken their sleepy and wholesome wives.
“bessy, tis aboot time we’s tried sometin new . . . ”
“ack, sltpkt, . . . krispin! . . .tha’s the wrong way! . . .”
the wives gather bow-legged the next day, seeming to gravitate to grunhilda, in subconscious subservience to her enmassed gravity.
vince thinks of all of this, now, as she bends to pour. like an other world co-existing within our own, part of us, yet living apart from us, slightly bulbous. an eye that views all of our private, darkest, deepest outpourings with infinite patience, embracing our weariness with softened twin cushioning.

Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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