My First Encounter With a Mute

It’s time again to vent some frustration. Sexual frustration? School related frustration? Consistently dating lame girls frustration? Only A and B? All of the above? Configure your own permutation. I will not rant about dirty hippies again but simply make a sincere request regarding them. Next time you see a hippy (hint: you will smell them before you see them because their stench is quicker than the speed of light or damn near) will you politely slap the stink off their fetid bodies? It will take a huge time commitment, wherein you may find yourself in between slaps asking how many slaps it will take to get them clean. Who knows? You might not succeed, but keep going I promise you will like it. I thank you in advance for obliging the request. No, no ranting this time but rather a story because writing is prodigiously therapeutic for me.

It all began with an encounter with an angel incarnate……..

“How are you doing beautiful creature? My name is E.”
The seconds began their metronome ticking on my mental clock. Uhhhh….was I supposed inform her that this is where she responds? I thought that was common social etiquette. The question is not meant to induce a delay. Is she retarded? Does she speak English?
“I’m sorry, did you not hear me?” I queried.
The silence was deafening. My sublime powers of deduction allowed me to deduce that she was neither a mannequin now a realistic blow up doll because I could see her vacant eyes blinking rhythmically. Most unusual. I employed another tactic by asking the first question again in sign even though if she were deaf she would see my mouth moving directly at her. I can only assume that for most deaf people this is a fundamental cue that someone is attempting to engage you in conversation. Nothing. Oh for three. I gave up. I signed one last two letter phrase that is concisely articulated in a simple gesture executed by extending the middle digit upward and presenting the back of the hand in their direction. My nephew knows that one and he doesn’t even speak yet. Apparently my attempts short-circuited her meager intelligence because they all resulted in the same lifeless, blinking response. I shuffled away expertly defeated to find a safe place to regroup, collect my thoughts and analyze what just happened. My cerebral faculties flipped into hyper drive to try to find an acceptable solution. The silent treatment? Couldn’t be, I didn’t even know her and hadn’t had an opportunity to earn it yet. What was it? In my twenty some odd years of breathing oxygen, I can not recall a time when I have been more nonplussed. My confusion could only be described as majestic. An unusual adjective paired with confusion I know, but like a snobby art critic attentively gazing upon a painting with their acutely refined visual ability, my tangible confusion warranted a few minutes of contemplation to try to make sense of it. The entropic levels reached could have elicited a call to Guinness Book for the highest measurement ever recorded. My bewilderment contained more layers than a bag lady in the middle of the winter. After going over every possible explanation and variation I could think of, I concluded she was a single LDS girl. Pretty much par for that bassackwards course. Bolstered by my suitable explanation, I crawled out of the mental pit of confusion and plotted my next course. Since there were no other notable visually appealing undertakings worth my time I decided to venture on to a more accommodating scene and sauntered over to the doorway. I planted my right foot outside the door with my right hand on the handle the same instant someone not so gently pulled me back inside causing me to shut the door on my leg and cause my head to slam into the doorway. What manner of idiot could have pulled such a brilliant yet insolent maneuver so furtively? Darkness immediately enveloped my inner screen. It was so sudden I thought I was going to black out. The darkness came quicker than disgruntled bowels telling you that you shouldn’t have eaten that burrito with extra hot sauce an hour ago. As I waited for the mist of darkness to dissipate, I distinctly heard a voice laced with lechery say her name was Victoria. Victoria huh? Now I had a name to complete the sentence I most wanted to say. F@#* you Victoria! The move was brilliance embodied in one efficient, fluid motion and I wouldn’t have been happier observing it implemented on someone else. When you are the innocent victim, murderous thoughts immediately engulf the brain causing an electrical storm among the neurons, each relaying their homicidal intentions via neurotransmitters to the next. Little devils join the melee and swim through your grey matter singing sweet little songs about killing people and making it seem so right. So what if it was a girl? Her end would indemnify me. I couldn’t have produced the necessary mental fortitude to overpower the gripping urge to end her existence. The darkness began its leisurely fading. I would soon see who could be so bold as to execute a maneuver that would leave me no recourse but murder. I’ll be damned! It was the smoking hot mute from earlier. Was this part of her strategy? First belittle me by ignoring all attempts proffered to acknowledge me and then publicly perform a flawless execution of the old slam-leg-almost-balls-into-doorway-garnished-with-a-severe-cranial-fracture-via-same-doorway gambit. An antique, but still relevant and funny today. The residual vapor of the darkness that had enshrouded my mind dispelled and I was rendered speechless by her piercing opaline green eyes. They weren’t that way before when she was absently staring at some hidden spot that was anywhere but my eyes. It was probably best that I was unable to command my larynx, tongue and mouth to coordinate together because those little devils were singing another catchy little number and any utterances would have divulged the nefarious plan that was deliciously marinating in my mind. “Death dah dah dah dah such a beautiful thing dah dah dah. Mercilessly, viciously choke her out dah dah dah dah that’s what she would want you to do dah dah dah.” Wow! These guys are good. I wonder if they have an album out. The solitary strategy my now confused mind could summon was to scorpion kick™ her belly. The scorpion kick™ is performed just as it sounds and infinitely lethal. You swing your leg over your head in the same manner a scorpion does with its tail to sting its prey. If I were a superhero or in Street Fighter II, this would be my special move. So what was I to do? I had debilitating bruises and bumps simultaneously forming on my leg and melon. I had a hot retarded girl staring at me like I was the a**hole who had impeded her departure and now owed her an explanation for doing so. Did I mention I think she was retarded? I determined to see what the heck she wanted.
“Did you need someone to dance with darling?”
“No, I was looking for someone to wrestle.”
This was hardly an establishment that facilitates impromptu wrestling matches and she certainly didn’t exhibit a wrestling frame. As she talked I concluded she looked more like talking sex. (Discover your own interpretation of what that means). Her lips curved to articulate each syllable like a professional dancer seduces with sultry, gentle contortions. I momentarily divorced my earlier angst and fell victim to her entrancing mouth. I saw the solutions to all the world’s problems contained within her inviting lips but could only retrieve them by kissing them out of her. So be it. Reality struck me like the business end of a two-by-four. This wasn’t happening. Taking kindly to those who previously ignored me is not my forte. I work with the one strike system. Best put your best looking foot forward or you get no play. You can go from gorgeous to busted horse’s rectum in the time it takes you to utter a sentence. With that said, I had jumped off the fence with this girl but was promptly ushered back on by her lips. I decided to take her lead from earlier and play dumb.
“Sorry doll I have an old knee injury that prevents me from Roman Greco wrestling foreign women that smash me in doors!”
She responds with, “If I were a university I would want to be acronymed F.U.”
That was a new one. Very bold. Nothing obscure there. I vowed to be apathetic and cagey and act like I missed the implication.
“Did you mean University of Florida……U of F? I think your acronym would more appropriately be for any remedial high school rather than undeservedly shooting for an institute of higher learning.”
Yea I said it, sub par intelligence undercurrents and all. She wants to play games. Games it will be. Recalling her recent ignoring and physical abuse provided all the necessary propellant needed to fuel this malevolent woman’s defeat. I will win and then lock those wonderful lips in the most beautiful lust filled exchange ever fathomed.
“Whatever that means, I just want to take you home and make some bad decisions,” she said snapping me out of my reverie.
“How about becoming a meth addict? Know anyone with AIDS you could sleep with? Ever thought of moving back east to Amish country?” I offered.
“What the hell……..? No, what the heck are you talking about?”
“I thought that if I gave you some suggestions of some bad decisions we could just skip the part where you take me home.”
No I am not gay and I am not a moron. I know that I could have said something smooth, or anything really, that would have resulted in making jungle noises with this persistent little cutie. A kiss ass sycophant I am not and I felt no compulsion to satiate her desires after the earlier debacle. To strengthen my resolve, I relocated my blaming of someone else for all the ills that have befallen me in my life to her. She was now the source of any reason I’ve ever felt bad and she needed to lose this game. But man I wouldn’t mind losing and having her pay reparations to me by way of procreation practice. Snap out of it man! That kind of thinking only works against you. I looked down and noticed my balls on the ground. How did they get down there? I thought you couldn’t detach them until you say “I do” and immediately transfer possession of them to your wife. I’ll have to see a doctor about that.
“Not quite the response I had envisioned. I was hoping your response would involve some soft hair pulling and ear nibbling,” she divulged as she slowly batted her eyes.
“Did you get something in your eye?” I asked feigning complete idiocy.
“No that was female Morse Code for take your clothes off.”
I do not disparage ambitious women, especially if they are ambitious about getting me in the sack. In fact, I lobby for all women to adopt this worthy goal. Her direct coquettishness was wearing down my defenses. I am a softy for directness and for women trying to lay claim to one of my renowned bed performances. Upon rereading that last sentence, I would like to mention that my use of the word softy is not synonymous with the flaccid kind of softy. Anyways, most nights I would river dance us both to the sex grounds, I mean bed, but not this night. She was going to have to give me a piggy back there. I wanted her back to ache like a five year olds after a double shift at the sweat shop. Wanting and getting are two separate words for a reason. For those slow folks out there, wanting and getting don’t mean they same thing. At this point, I imagine this odd encounter to end something like this:
I pretend like I am going to make her night by obliging her desires and then walk off amidst her cries for the contrary. I take a few steps, turn around and tell her to clean her tear/mascara stained cheeks because she’s filthy. And then I will say, “Burn,” and sashay my tight butt out the door.
I mightily hope I can remain sturdy and not topple.
“Oh,” I stammered, “I am not versed in that mode of communication.”
“Would you prefer something a little more hands on?”
Oh s*@t!! A crack in the dike, (as in dam, not lesbian that is spelled dyke, I think). Where the hell was that little Dutch boy?
“How about a mammary palpitation to check for cancerous bumps?”
“Not a doctor. Wouldn’t know where to start,” I blurted too quickly. I was rapidly losing my ability to retort with any degree of credibility.
“Right here,” she said as she ripped her blouse open causing a button to hit me square in the eye.
I took a deep breath, looked straight into her eyes, and put voice to the lust I could no longer contain within me.
“Let’s do this. But afterward I get to be the little spoon.”