Garth and his Redwood Cock

I was going to strip and spread my legs, nothing wildly enticing--just pissing out my anger at Garth the investment strategist who has been my lover on and off these past twelve years. So I put on Last-FM to help ease the flow. I wanted to listen to something ragged, maybe Amy Winehouse. And up flounced "Kala," a track by Ali Ibrahim “Farka” Touré to which you can't be fist-flinging angry; instead you settle yourself in a gentle sunny spot with your name sparkling in the sand, and you open your arms, wide wide, embracing even your enemies. Which is not such a bad thing, given the world's political and social climates, and aren't the two intertwined like an old married couple who have been together forever, bickering every waking moment. Winter takes such perverse pleasure in striking out the tropical sway from warm weather lovers.

Damn! Firstly, in all our years together, the man has never fucked me plain old missionary style. And hell, to feel his cock which is redwood thick, but not as long as Jimmy Bob's indigo wonder - there's something about wrapping your legs around a man's back so he can plunge his way to the end of your cunt and beyond, to the heart. I gasp every time in delight and wonder. Thing is Garth weighs 428 pounds. OK, he's 6'3" but when he lies down, his stomach is a low-lying mountain and when he lies on top of me, it feels like there's a solid ocean between us.

Bottom line is he wants to borrow three thousand dollars from me. A man who refuses to part with his comforting girth, who has labeled my mentally-ill daughter "an abomination on God's earth," who sits with his balls sliding out his old flannel shorts as he pictures millions flowing in from his state-of-the-art financial site, whose son knifed him in the shoulder and has yet to apologize, and who was bashed on the head with a metal motorcycle helmet and taken down (not out) by a local pusher pissed off at the same wayward son. The mammoth ex-bouncer with an Artic heart fell to his knees, his measured builder's strut replaced by a game leg that capsizes without warning.

But I've got the sweetest heart. A home to bees and needy folk. Garth wanted to borrow three G's and I said no. I didn't want him to depend on a broad twenty-two years older than he is. There is that entitlement thing in abused children who make it through to become men with pricks and cascading balls, such as Garth's. I'll do it. Spot him three bank-fresh notes. Although I wish he'd wind his way to my part of town once in a while, whirl me around for a night on the music town which I adore, and keep me company when my Caroline sits talking in diagonals or not at all.

He's the center of his universe, Garth is, and he believes he's destined for greatness. And perhaps he is. Life seems to take such detours; it's hard to know what route you're on or where you're headed. And so my only guideline is the old lady rocking and rocking. When you stand before her, she smiles graciously (like the magnificent Katherine Hepburn or maybe Jessica Tandy) at you, her younger self. That's the time - when you're standing there in your bare-and-nakeds and asking her, "What would you do?" and she slips her life-long crochet shawl around your shoulders and tells you. Straight out. You only have to listen.




Copyright Janice Colman 2008