She said, “Sleep with me,” but that wasn’t the scary part that I warned you was coming last time.
Doctor Belloq was sitting on the floor in my living room. She was surrounded by piles of papers and the papers had my words on them. My words were journals and my words were blogs and novels and ideas and research paper articles. It was kind of ridiculous. All of those words and I’m pretty sure Doctor Belloq had read them all and highlighted the parts she found to be relevant.
And now? Well, now she had upped and decided that I really ought to maybe, you know, sleep with her.
That was not the scary part.
As a matter of fact, that part seemed long overdue. For years, I had been reading Kurt Vonnegut and I had been reading Charles Bukowski, and both of those bastards had assured me that if I kept writing words and if my words were worth a damn, then women who were way-way-way out of my league would be rendered helpless (or at least highly suggestible) in their need to commit physical abominations with me.
Physical. Abominations. With me!
So far, this statement by Doctor Belloq was the only evidence I had that Vonnegut and Bukowski might have been right.
I would have to choose my words carefully here. The words I responded to her with, I mean. The ones I said out loud. The words I say out loud rarely if ever live up to the words I write. There is just no time. There is no delete button.
How in the hell can I be expected to come up with something clever if I cannot sleep on it? If I cannot write out a few variations of my possible responses to see what works the best? Oral communications in general could only be imprecise and embarrassing and I wanted no part of them.
|(Scientifically accurate diagram,
stolen from here.)
Speaking of imprecise and embarrassing, I wasn’t too sure about the whole sex thing, either.
But Doctor Belloq said, “Sleep with me,” and it seemed like I had to reply with something. I took a deep breath and I opened my mouth to speak and I was probably as curious as she was about what words were going to come out.
I opened my mouth to speak but before I made a single sound, Doctor Belloq started talking again, and this time she said, “Are your blogs true?”
Damn it, this woman asked hard questions!
How could I respond to that in a way that was funny and profound and sexy and cool? Burroughs would have said the blogs were all true. Hemingway would have said the blogs were all lies. Any answer in between was just boring.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just write them.”
Doctor Belloq shrugged off my answer. She reached down into a teetering pile of my written words. Down past the Crayola comic book drawings of my elementary school years. Over from the mopey song lyrics of my time in junior high. Behind the optimistic notebooks of “Words I Want to Use in My Writing” from my college days.
She said, “What about this one?” as she handed me the “Plant Life (Parts 1-3)” blog posts from just last month.
I looked at them, I found a typo, and I set them back down. Doctor Belloq had read my “Plant Life (Parts 1-3)” posts, and while that was sort of scary, it wasn’t the scary part I warned you about.
“That one’s mostly true,” I said.
Doctor Belloq had a gleam in her eye now. I had never seen that gleam before. She was excited. She said, “But you were MUCH more scared of the big old grumpy tree than you admitted there, weren’t you?”
I considered this. “Yes,” I said.
Doctor Belloq leaped up and started pacing. “You were scared because the big old grumpy tree wrapped its roots around you and was squeezing you, idn’t that right?”
I considered this. “Uh huh,” I said.
She got right up in my face and she started pointing at me. “And you weren’t sitting Indian style like you said. You were lying on your back, weren’t you?”
I considered this, too. “Yup,” I said.
Her hands were shaking now, flapping around like the wings of some epileptic bat. More blog posts got yanked out the pile. “And you’ve been scared of the dark your whole life and that’s why you knock yourself out with wine and Benadryl every single night!”
I considered this. “You missed your calling, Sherlock.”
Doctor Belloq spread her arms out and sort of danced around in front of me. For a moment or two, I got concerned something was wrong, but her breasts bobbed up and down in a really wonderful way with every hop, so I let it go. Whatever was happening here, events definitely appeared to be coming to a head.
She shouted, “Let me spend the night with you, Katy! I want to see this. I figured out why you have been scared to fall asleep your whole life!”
I considered this. Doctor Belloq had not been using “Sleep with me” as a euphemism for “Commit physical abominations with me,” after all.
I had not seen that one coming.
Vonnegut and Bukowski had left me ill-prepared for a woman like this.
|(Not Belloq. Obviously not me.
Declared relevant by me anyway.)