My Dearest Prunella,
For your apprisal regarding the Hormone Replacement Therapy, and the general health of your betrothed, I send the information here enclosed.
Sunday, I think it was, or possibly Saturday, the medication seemed to surge in me, a wild river of it, comparatively speaking, and I did jack myself like a monkey, Prunella, three times that day, and did mightily enjoy every stroke of the meaty cod, and I came each time shudderingly and with great bellowing gasps and groans, deep in my chest and quite beyond my control.
No police officers came knocking, so I infer from this that my neighbors—cretinous imbeciles that they are—must have concluded that no real person would go on so, and that the blaring cacophony was simply a typic, though exemplary, blast from someone’s goddamned television, the center of these peoples’ pathetic existence on this great earth, I tell you true.
Oh, but then, Prunella, on the following day, be it Sunday or Monday (the days here meld together like globules of tinker’s tin), the medication failed even to surface at all, despite my ogling and praying before a shameful-but-oh-so-hot “slide show,” a despicable thing I created in an hour of uncharacteristic but sensual profligacy—an almost endless PC showing (whilst for background music, Clapton and Page played a drunken duet of “Draggin’ My Tail”) of young women in every conceivable twist and contorted pose, shorn entirely of all proper clothing—yes, nude, Prunella, so please do not tell Father.
What’s to come of today, whether the medication shall rise in me or hold to the bottom of my carnal stream, I know not. Understand, however, my darling, that I do long for it. The memory of lust, that day of hearty hard-ons hardly two days ago, it is almost enough, Prunella! The memory alone is nearly enough to rouse me, but nay. Nay, though perhaps—perhaps—if you were here to prance before me, naked and nubile, perhaps an unnoticed drop from that subterraneous stream might serve as a siphon!—and that as a rivulet, and that as a river, raging then with rump-ramming rigour, Prunella! It could happen, I tell you it could, it might, it may…oh why do my spirits drop, with you down there, with me up here? And I’ve miles to go before I sleep, and my little horse is a fucking queer, lost here in someone else’s woods. It’s snowing outside, Prunella…a lovely sight, but a metaphorical chilling to the marrow, indeed.
I must drink a great quantity of coffee now. In to-morrow’s post, look for another letter—perhaps further apprisal, perhaps news of my death. Oh, that’s a joke, Prunella, my dear! A joke, a jest and just a jest, nothing more, nothing less. Alice went down the rabbit hole. And just on the cusp of her heels crawled a big, fat, juicy penis, uncircumcised and its head wagging and jutting forward like a turtle’s. The analogy of the hole made Alice hot and wet, and as the penis approached the hole, Alice lay propped on a pile of dirt (there surely weren’t any pillows down there!), fingering her curds and whey and muddying horribly her hot sweaty arse, but she cared not. She moaned as if dying, and then—no! Yes, alas, the big fat juicy penis (head like a turtle’s, wink-wonk) would not FIT down the rabbit hole! Too big, too fat—of course the “juicy” would surely have facilitated the insertion, indeed the whole issue with the hole, had the thing not been quite so big and quite so fat. And to make matters worse, the turtle-headed tom-tom was a patient of my doctor’s, from the clinic ‘cross the street, and was lately driven buggy by artificial hormones, and it could not, would not, back out of the hole, and alas, corked it up. All that poor Alice knew was the pitch black darkness that suddenly pervaded the rabbit hole. And there, reclined on a heap of dirt, with a muddy arse and a funky finger, she died of suffocation.
Do you think the medication could be eating my brains?
My love to you, my darling Prunella,
Your cousin,
Oswald
Originally published December 2008