Rubber Panties (Foto, Coz)

Dear Coz,
° Remembrance Day at Trattoria Coloreproibito. Gaily printed Hawaiian shirts and shorts on all the staff. Tiki torches lit. Wovengrass roof over the bar. Beachballs and surfboards galore.
° Jean Petit, after long absence, returned all tricked out in Owen Wilson beachbum blondness.
° Leggero asks do I want a lay, then drapes a lei around my neck. It bears the medallion of S. Eustachio, the antlered deer with Cross--for me a remembrancer of Mentorella, the sheep, the mists, Santo. The babas au rhum, the French--o well . . . .
° Almost unasked, Leggero prepares my first Sex on the Beach, all pinky girly peachy. Effective. Quickly effective.
° On the monitors an old episode of Sex in the City.
° Well, I never had sex on the beach or sex in the city or surfed or startled giant antlered deer with luminescent Crosses sprouting from their foreheads--but I did have that one ascent to Mentorella, Santo driving like a madman . . . .

sexonthecherrybeach
sexonthebeachsex
onthebeachsex
onthebeach
sexonthe
beach
sex

§

° Fresh from a nostalgic viewing of Lipstick and Dynamite, like The Fabulous Moolah I tagged in (while the referee wasn’t looking) and continued Leggero’s conversation with Derrico.
° After five scotches--I was still in the upper third of Beach Sex, Samantha was already in overtime--Derrico expressed himself.
° “I wish I could get away sometime.”
° I said what was required to open the floodgates.
° “No, seven days a week, 5:30 every morning.” He’s principal--that is to say, sole--caregiver to two family members. One, still continent, but frail, has some chance of having his proteins recycled bimeby. Malignant diabetes, stroke.
° The other, still young, is profoundly afflicted.
° Can do nothing for herself but occasionally have “accidents.”
° The more disagreeable of the two possible accidents.
° Won’t wear Depends.
° Can’t be left alone for a minute.
° Fixing to be cut from the State’s haemorrhaging Medicaid rolls.
° Still young, entirely healthy.
° Apart from being profoundly afflicted.

§§§§§

° Socialism has a solution to the problem: a dab of extra taxes from everyone to insure everyone against the mischance of being trapped into a lifetime of slipping on rubber gloves and running a really hotwater and bleach and doubledip soap wash everyday for the rest of his natural life.
° Patriarchal Judaeochristianislamism has a solution: dump the task onto some selfless female, preferably an old maid or nonsecular nun. (Though for important people, like the former Bishop of Rome, the solution is to pull the plug on the dialysis machine. Mischief managed, problem solved.)
° Cats, birds, fish, wolves, earthworms, cows, the entire unperverted animal kingdom have a solution: Sister Turkey Buzzard.
° ((And to tell the truth, Death Most Holy did cross my mind, I just barely stopped myself from directing Derrico to the Shrine with a propitiatory candle.))

§

° But in the end, Reason triumphed.
° The solution is--

Tic tac tic tac tic tac tic . . . .

° The solution is--rubber rooms, nudism, heat lamps, soapy warm water from overhead showers rinsing the creature and flushing the floor at intervals. Everyone happy as happy can be.
° Well I’m Pisces, if I’m warm and wet, I’m happy.

° Glad it’s not me, glad it’s not you, your Cousin Giac.