the Last Buffoon by Leonard Jordan

Author:Leonard Jordan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

At two in the morning I have to take a piss. Aching everywhere, I roll off my waterbed, put on my thonged sandals and gray hospital bathrobe, tippy-toe to the door, and open it silently, for I don’t want to disturb my little wife.

I enter the living room and see her sleeping tummy-down on the sofa, moonlight streaming through the window onto the lower half of her body. She’s thrown off her covers and her nightgown has risen high on the leg closest me, revealing its beautiful strong shape and the bottom of white underpants. The palms of her hands are on the pillow, her face turned away and covered by a profusion of black hair.

In the bright moonlight the scene is enchanted. Gingerly I sit on the old leather chair facing the sofa and feast my sleepy blackened eyes upon my wife as she slumbers, air sighing in and out her mouth and nose.

Is my little Argentine gypsy dreaming of Dr. Sidney Siegel striding across the heavens in his white coat and stethoscope necklace, or perhaps of the pampas at midday, horses grazing on yellow grass? Might she be wrestling with an old goat, symbolic of her new husband, or is the Lord telling her she shouldn’t have violated the marriage sacrament for a paltry green card?

It’s strange, but my desire isn’t specifically sexual. I want to do more than merely hold her in my arms and stick in my cock. I want to dissolve my entire body into hers, mix my blood with hers, unite with her beauty, and become beautiful myself.

My bladder distracts me. Arising quietly, I pass through the darkness to the bathroom, turn on the light that momentarily blinds me, and close the door. Taking out Charlie, I piss into the bowl. There are no traces of blood in my urine; I appear to have survived the vicious beating with no more than superficial bruises and pains. Five hundred years ago they burned people like me at the stake, but now they only beat us up once in awhile. Things are getting better all the time.

On the way to bed I’m halted once more by the sight of Mabra in dreamland. She’s moved into the fetal position with her bare kneecaps toward me and her face still hidden by the tangled net of her hair. She’s sort of loveable with her mops and brooms and Latin bullshit; her beauty surely indicates merit won in past lives. Sleep well, my princess of the pampas.

Silently in the moonlight I bow and gently touch my lips to her hair.

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