The Pawtawnee Chronicles :: Sliptongue Magazine

The Pawtawnee Chronicles / Chronicle No. 2

by W.T. Zumm

Pawtawnee (pop 2096, located on the shore of Lake Michigan, Wisconsin, USA) is undergoing changes: a cathouse (Messalina Saph's Kitty-Kat Lounge) has sprung up in town: this is an ongoing chronicle of alterations wrought in the personalities of the residents as a consequence: oppression and Puritanism persist, to be sure, but no longer hold absolute sway...

Chronicle No. 2: Reverend Themsley discovers the wilder side of pleasure. "Give me pink love-flowers, slippery flesh-petals, moist bushes! Permit me, please, to water those bushes! -- to part wide the petals, thrust deep with tongue, lap up all the nectar!"

Click for: Chronicle No. 1 or No. 3.

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The condemnatory views of the good Mrs. Naughton, mate of the prominent county judge, and her attendant circle of respectable wives have not prevailed. Despite the rather stridently voiced concerns of these worthy naysayers (would-be dictators of public opinion and town policy, several of whom had adamantly urged Ms. Saph be none too kindly compelled to quit the town), "Messalina Saph's Kitty-Kat Lounge" has opened on schedule.

"Never mind, Bertha, the shameless hussy will find out soon enough there's no living for her in our God-fearing community -- it won't be long before she hightails it back to that sin city where she came from," Mrs. Naughton's close friend and confidant, Mrs. Thurston, wife of the town butcher, had assured her with utter conviction -- not neglecting, however, to keep a close watch on her neighbor's house, inhabited by one Tyler Dalston, a younger man of forty-three she considers something of a philanderer, on account of his having once had the good fortune to regularly relieve the nervous tension of an attractive school teacher, Carolyn Billings.

For different reasons, some of Messalina's Chicago associates had chided her with regard to her latest venture: "Do you really think you're going to squeeze a single dime out of a Bible licking hick town like that? The guys up there pray to be trampled by cows if they so much as look lingeringly at a schoolgirl's tits!" from one. "You'll be so lonely up there, dying for just one conversation that has nothing to do with farm equipment and bake sales!" from another, continuing, "Even if you do make a good living (which I doubt, but suppose you do) will it be worth it? What are you going to do for amusement? I know what you'll do: you'll come running back here and beg us to kill you if you ever think of setting up shop in a backwater waste place again!"

"You're such prejudiced snobs!" Messalina had countered, "As if a mere alteration of scenery is going to suffice to quench urges common to all! I know people, and I respect them -- respect them enough to be certain a rural as opposed to urban upbringing isn't going to rob them of their humanity! The social environment might be somewhat different, respectability might be slightly more lauded as a means of achieving more equitable public relations, moral convictions might be more often voiced from the community podium; but, underneath all the preaching, the blood continues to surge! Ha, you've no idea how wrong you are! No one's going to tell me that, given the opportunity, country people will be loath to give license to the licentiousness that seethes deep in the bloodbeat of every healthy citizen! Procreation cannot be trodden under! Kinkiness will out!"

And Messalina's entrepreneurial instincts were proved correct, despite not having the option of placing advertisements in the local paper. After all, word of mouth is a far more effective news medium in small towns, such that any resident paper is almost always scooped, not to mention commonly disagreed with when it chooses to castigate assorted alternatives to boredom. Yes, come they did -- almost always through one of the three back doors, one of them being a cellar window fitted with hinges; come they did at all hours, whether it be in broad daylight during a prolonged lunch hour or one AM following a late shift at the house wares plant; come (in a slightly different use of the word) they did quite copiously, whether in the company of Lucy, Georgette, Amelia, Carole, or Chastity, to name a few; come they did, by means of a surprising variety (even Messalina remarked it) of preferences -- whether it be the hair fetishist in Linda's golden locks or the nursie/nun man who located the uniforms in the well-stocked wardrobe room or the squash bugs guy who panted and clawed the floor quite heatedly as voluptuous Sheena trod upon grasshoppers and pill bugs with the heels of her stilettos ("Grind the heel!" he would shout while seeming to verge on the edge of an epileptic fit) or the gentleman who preferred blue -- blue stockings, blue nighties, blue lipstick, blue anything.

Some or all of the above-cited individuals will be named and elaborated upon in future installments of The Pawtawnee Chronicles. For now, we shall content ourselves with discussing the case of the upstanding Reverend Themsley, pastor of the Lutheran church. The good Reverend had never believed in seeking to frighten his flock into coughing up alms by berating them for what little fun existed in their lives -- not for him garish portrayals of the torments of hell, fire and brimstone thunderbolts of admonition. He'd always felt gentle renderings of the benefits to be derived by honest simple living was the best approach to gaining the devotion of his congregation. He'd always stressed that sentiments of hatred and envy result in unhappiness for those that harbor them -- that loving one's enemy is a practical approach to life, as it results in peace of mind for the person harboring such love. "Why would one want to waste precious time wishing ill for others when the immediate consequence of such behavior is to make oneself miserable? Emotional balance is beyond price and it is within everyone's grasp; like health of the body, health of the spirit is something that cannot be bought. What good are untold riches is one be bedridden with illness? What good is the capacity for happiness if one be consumed with hatred? Look after yourselves, banish rage from your lives, and God will look after you. The rewards of equanimity of disposition speak for themselves." Such was the gist of Reverend Themsley's teachings, and such is why he was admired and beloved by his flock.

And so one evening this good Reverend, utterly lacking in prejudices, is strolling downtown when he glances towards the scarlet canopy of Messalina Saph's Kitty-Kat Lounge and decides to go have a friendly chat with the working girls, with the aim of adding them to his congregation. He enters, is warmly received -- Messalina and several girls gather around him on the "love couches," hear his spiel, and assure him they will drop by on a Sunday when time permits. Messalina grows so fond of him that she says, "My good Sir, it's only right and proper that if you invite us to your house, we invite you to take a tour of ours and serve you dinner afterwards. Please, Sir, will you do me the honor?" -- so saying, she stands, offering her arm.

The good Reverend, not in the least taken aback, replies, "Of course, Ma'am -- far be for me to be an ungracious guest."

"Call me Messalina," she replies while smilingly leading him down the crimson-carpeted hall.

But what happens once the tour of the ground floor is ended and the two of them are rounding the banister at the top of the stairs on the second? An extremely sweet-dispositioned girl, by the name of Angelica, mistakes Reverend Themsley for a customer, warmly grasps his free arm, and says, "Oh Sir! We are, indeed, well met! I'll show you the best time ever! If I don't make you forget every other woman you've ever been with, my name isn't An-gel-i-caaa!" She obviously likes him apart from mere business matters -- her eyes are absolutely abrim with joy.

Messalina, at first inclined to shake her head at the girl and bid her depart, notices the Reverend's smile -- the general manner in which his whole body quivers with pleasure -- the fact he isn't resisting the grasp of the girl -- and decides to wait a moment. Her instinct is confirmed when she finds the Reverend is wriggling his arm free from her and sees him turns towards her with a half-apologetic look and reads the question, "May I?" in his eyes. She immediately smiles assent, informs the good Reverend that Angelica obviously likes him, and watches them disappear into a nearby room with an amused shrug of her shoulders. She can't get downstairs quick enough to inform the other girls of what's happened, at which they're all much entertained, liking the Reverend more than ever.

We feel Angelica and the good Reverend are entitled to their privacy and will content ourselves with describing what transpires a few hours later, at approximately two AM. Will we be believed? One moment all's silent in the upstairs hall as a small number of customers, it being a weeknight, are being entertained behind closed doors; the next moment the door of Angelica's room bursts open and Reverend Themsley appears in a rather advanced stage of inebriation, dressed in a manner somewhat different from that of when he accompanied her therein: in place of his black suit and white collar is a pleated dress, indigo with purple floral patterns -- a long flowing emerald scarf of shimmering silk is wrapped about his throat -- black stockings sheath his legs, matting down the prevalent thick hair thereupon -- he wears no shoes, apparently having been unable to find a female variety in his size -- crimson lipstick's smudged on his lips and chin, a copper shade of eyeliner frames his eyes in iridescence, blush highlights the contours of his cheeks.

The Reverend's obviously been amusing himself to no small extent, as is attested by the lubricating gel that's smeared on the front of the dress, the fresh scratches that crisscross the exposed portion of his back, and the three or four love-nips that shine purple-red on his throat. A look of exultation's spread over his face -- he begins to hastily stroll towards the steps, glancing over the hallway banister as he does so, while shouting "Messalina! Messalina!" as if he has something important to impart to her that won't wait. But then he suddenly stops to glance about with bleary festive eyes, distractedly says quite loudly, "Cross-dressing, I never would've thought, never! I… I, gentlemen and ladies, sexpots, floozies… I wish to announce, all and one, that I've evidently undergone a change, found a discovery -- I mean, discovered something of fun! I may safely say… And, God Almighty, but these stockings feel good against my shin and skin, they… They, I do insist, send sparkles up my thighs! -- they, of course and undoubtedly, jumpstart my pecker! -- they, beyond questionably, point the way towards the true and sincere meaning of the mysteries of love! Ha! Ha! Ha! Long live dress-crossing! And long live the lovelies that, unlike us poor men, are allowed to wear dresses in public! -- hail to the slippery pinklings between their luscious legs! Yes, by God, yes! Give me pussy-kittens, sultry lust-smittens! Give me pink love-flowers, slippery flesh-petals, moist bushes! Permit me, please, to water those bushes! -- to part wide the petals, thrust deep with tongue, lap up all the nectar! Goddamn! I…" The good Reverend lapses into silence for a few moments, seems to be struggling to catch a thought; and then he apparently catches it, for he yells, "But what am I doing out here, away from Angel-Puss? I… Oh, that's right, Messalina! Well, Miss Messy can wait! More Angel-Kitten puss is for the taking -- for the savor-sucking! More cattish pink in flaxen blond bush fur! Angeliiiccaaaa!" he calls while about-facing towards her door. "Angelica! Honey-bunny!" he continues as he jerks the door open, steps inside for the second time.

"Yes, come on back, sweet thing!" is heard from Angelica inside. "You can tell Messalina all about your discovery -- and show her the becoming dress -- later…"

Such is how the good Reverend Themsley, in his zeal to find additional parishioners, became a convert to the religion practiced inside the plush rooms of Messalina Saph's Kitty-Cat Lounge instead. "Tolerance" was the declared theme of his sermon the following Sunday, and it's widely thought the good man reached new heights of eloquence and sincerity while delivering it. Pawtawnee's resident priest, Father Dexter, was said to be quite jealous, even worried that a Catholic or two might decide Martin Luther wasn't such an upstart after all.

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Click for: Chronicle No. 1 or No. 3.