U … Unrequited


“Counsellor, I warn you that my condition is incurable, I am a hopeless case. Condemned to perpetual suffering, I need solace from time to time. I do not seek treatment, not even your famous blue pills, I only want you to listen sympathetically to my story. Yes, your fee will be the same as for treatment; money is not my problem.

A very long time ago, God still a boy in His bright new world, young creatures frolicked promiscuously in the forests and meadows of earthly paradise. You were young once; you remember. In those pagan pre-Mendelian days genetic distinctions were flexible and blurred, cross-cultural experimentation was widespread. My parents were liberated creatures; so were his; but whereas I inherited a gene-set of hybrid vigor, he was inflicted with a certain dryness of spirit, a small paralysis of the soul.

I’ll not speak badly of him. He was such a beautiful creature, with dignity by the shipload. His leonine features, quietly dominating in repose, exhibited classical simplicity and style. One glimpse of those brooding eyes assured me of his mastery, hinted at hidden depths of mystery and wisdom. And oh! His body! Strong, potent, not an ounce of fat, rippling muscle sheathed in bronze. One glance and I was lost in love, lust, longing. That was aeons ago, maybe he’s deteriorated with age, but that’s how I remember him still. Love, lust, longing, then and now.

I told him my feelings. He showed no reaction but mild astonishment. I exposed my soul to him, poured out my deepest desires, told him time and again how much I loved him and no other; he ignored me, politely but completely.

Do you believe in reincarnation? No? I do. Scores of times, spanning millennia, I’ve been reincarnated, reborn, revitalised. He too. We meet, I love, he loves not. Foolishly, with words of scorn, I cast doubts on his manliness. He is well-hung, I know; I’ve peeked. He seems unaware, oblivious to his endowment. My frustrations simmer, boil over into words of wrath, instantly regretted. He does what a creature of his sort must do; he flees me.

He has that dessicated, self-flagellating spirit commonly found in minor English aristocrats. When he flees, it is to the waterless, empty places of the world, the Gobi, the Empty Quarter. He settled in Egypt, got bogged down, entrenched, up to his neck in the minutiae of the courts and temples. He has never returned to me.

Go to him, you say? Sooner the mountain could come to Mahomet than this mermaid to a desert. It is hard enough for me to get here, two blocks from the beach. You’ve no idea how these heels hurt my flippers, and this ground-sweeping gown I wear is grotesquely out of style. A mermaid visit the Sphinx, indeed!”

She waddled away. The therapist called his assistant. “Who’s next and why?”

“Menage a trois, Mr Trump’s in love with both his voice and his haircut.”



Also find these older posts…
A … Autonomy
B … Bear
C … Corporations
D … Doggerel
E … Elephant
F … Francis
G … Gamechanger
H … Hope
I … Introduction
J … Judgment
K … Kelemenope
L … Liberty
M … Morning
N … Nuts
O … Old Friend
P … Potholes
Q … Quasimodo
R … Review
S … Snoozers
T … Topsy-Turvy
W … Weather
X … Xorxoxa
Y … Yukon

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IP Doorman

Copyright 2016 Flight of Eagles

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Writer of Kern.

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