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(Staff
members have generally elected to relate an anecdote from their
past or provide a hint of their personal philosophy, in place
of more conventional biographical information.)
Bill
Bergendahl (Editor/Webmaster)
Heather Hathaway (Editor)
Edward Haven (Illustrations Editor)
Blangis
(Illustrator)
Horace P. Hightower
(Writer)
St.
Fond (Epigrammatist)
Louisa
Turlington (Writer)
W.T.
Zumm (Writer)
Bill
Bergendahl (Editor/Webmaster)
Always fond of a prank,
Robert Bergendahl has chosen to recount an early instance of such:
"I
spent most of my childhood summers at my grandparents, who had
a house that fronted Lake Hamilton in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Here's
a prank I played at that locale, when I was twelve:
"First,
a couple preliminary items: 1) in Arkansas one may legally operate
a boat without adult supervision at twelve years of age; 2) my
grandfather had a trim fiberglass fishing boat, powered by a seventy-five
horsepower Mercury engine that enabled it to attain to highly
entertaining speeds.
"One
afternoon the neighbor kid and I interrupted a water skiing session
to stop at the fish hatchery and watch them feed the catfish --
a detour always worth taking, as the catfish were over four feet
and extremely competitive during feedings. They'd open their wide
mouths so that their upper lips were above water as they swam
in rapid swishing circles, vacuuming up the floating food; they'd
make greedy squawking noises, have territorial disputes -- savagely
dart at one another, frantically thrash.
"The
feedings seldom lasted longer than fifteen minutes; generally,
we'd promptly hop back in the boat and resume racing about the
lake. In this instance, however, our attention was arrested by
a man with a rifle a few ponds away. Further investigation revealed
he was shooting water moccasins and tossing their carcasses onto
the pathway. The man was an excellent marksman: a small twenty-two
caliber hole was in each dead snake's head. We collected the snake
carcasses and tossed them in the bottom of the boat.
"As
we roared over the wave crests at full speed the snake carcasses
were being bounced about, writhing on the bottom of the boat as
if alive: if we didn't know they had bullet holes in their heads,
we'd have no reason to believe them dead. It immediately occurred
to us we could make use of their lifelike appearance to fool others.
We each seized a carcass, held it as we would a living snake --
by the back of the head, with its length coiled about our arms,
taking care that its mouth was wide open to display the telltale
white, as well as the fangs. We gleefully held them aloft while
passing close to other boats -- were most gratified by the looks
of amazement and alarm the spectacle inspired.
"We
entered a cove where about a dozen middle-aged people were gathered
on a party barge. At the sight of us youngsters -- myself twelve,
my friend thirteen -- holding the snakes, seemingly unaware of
how dangerous they were, they burst into cries of alarm. We laughed,
informed them the snakes were "friendly as could be."
I yelled, "Good try, but you're not going to ruin our fun!"
We began calling them names, making desrespectful gestures. Torn
between concern for our welfare and annoyance at our misbehavior,
they weren't quite sure what to do. One woman told us to stop
being "ignorant know-it-alls and listen for a change";
another man informed us the "harbor patrol would know what
to do with us." My friend, overcome by an "Enough of
this rubbish!" impulse, dropped his snake carcass onto the
bottom of the boat, yelled, "Uh-oh!" and dashed towards
the motor. I chimed in with, "Hit it with the fire extinguisher
before it bites me!" The people on the barge were hanging
on the railing, shouting. I, after gesturing for my friend to
sit, thrust the acceleration lever down hard and our boat bolted
from the cove: sheer euphoria! My friend and I were aching with
mirth!
"Emboldened
by the success of our adventure with the party barge people, we
approached a boatload of college age
girls and came to an idle adjacent to them. "Check out our
snakes!" we shouted, stretching our arms -- about which the
snake carcasses were intertwined, be it recalled -- towards them.
They immediately realized what sort of snakes they were and began
squealing with apprehension. One of them urgently pointed out
we were holding cottonmouths and that they were aggressive and
poisonous; she told us to toss them overboard before we received
bites and died. We answered that we knew full well what they were
and weren't afraid; that a violent death with plenty of foaming
at the mouth and convulsions might be fun: the looks of bewildered
disbelief that assailed their faces as a consequence of this pronouncement
were priceless to behold! And then I -- eager to be the primary
prankster this time -- yelled, "Here, have one!" and
threw my dead snake into the bottom of their boat. How they screamed
and scattered! One girl dove overboard, the others climbed onto
the prow of their boat. All were too frightened to even think
of scolding us. We were absolutely dying of laughter, doubled
over, nearly in pain. Finally my friend, while still bowled over
with laughter, managed to inform them the snake was dead -- ha
ha ha! the torrent of rage that descended upon us pleased us to
no end! "Faked you out! Faked you out!" we kept yelling
with glee. Finally, upon hearing the drenched one express a desire
to tan our bratty behinds, we called out "You're gonna have
to catch us first!" and full throttled the motor, not neglecting
to treat them to a flurry of mocking gestures and faces as we
sped away. They didn't bother to give chase.
"Sunset
was approaching and we weren't permitted to operate the boat after
dark; being desirous of preserving our virtually unlimited daylight
boating privileges, we always obeyed this rule. Upon docking,
we tossed the four remaining snakes onto the lawn, and stood for
a few moments wondering what to do with them: for such treasures
were certainly not to be wasted. I'm unable to recall which one
of us hit upon our subsequent course of action; but I do remember
it was embraced with transports of delight, and immediately carried
out. Quite simple: we visited the doorsteps of four neighbors
who were less than enthusiastic about us playing in their yards
-- assorted humorless dislikers of children who'd on various occasions
rather uncivilly informed us to vacate their property; yes, visited
each doorstep and deposited one of the snakes thereupon, carefully
coiled into striking position with its head facing the front door,
not more than a yard away. How we laughed to think of the expressions
that would convulse the faces of these joyless souls the instant
they opened their doors in the morning! Such a shame, we commented,
that we wouldn't be present to witness these responses!
"Yes,
it bothered us a great deal that we wouldn't be there to watch
panic crease the features of the boorish faces of these killjoys
-- our annoyance was threatening to dilute our delight in the
joke. Finally, it was decided it would be impossible for us to
sleep soundly without ringing the doorbell of the nasty young
couple who outdid the others in rude shoo-aways, and concealing
ourselves in some nearby pines to observe the result. So we rang
and hid -- oh, priceless the hysterics -- outright shrieks --
of the wife, quick slamming shut of the door! We didn't press
our luck, were soon racing parallel to the street while crouched
low in a shielding ditch, smothering our mouths to prevent our
mirth from becoming audible. Minutes later, we strolled into my
grandparents' dining room: catfish, okra, and black-eyed peas
were on the stove; hush puppies and cornbread were in the oven;
a pecan pie was cooling on the counter. There's nothing like a
home cooked southern meal: what a fitting reward for our labors!
My friend and I kicked one another under the table throughout
this dinner and exchanged provoking glances, in attempts to get
each other to burst out laughing. Later that night we gave free
rein to our sense of accomplishment, proudly recounted the highlights
of our day again and again..."
Bergendahl
resides in Manhattan, frequently visits Paris, and enjoys sowing
confusion in public places with the assistance of undisciplined
dogs.
Heather
Hathaway (Editor)
Heather Hathaway grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts
and attended Yale, after which she obtained employment at a bridal
magazine in New York, where she met her good friend and fellow
Sliptongue staff member, Louisa Turlington. Like her friend, she
was dismissed from the said magazine for indiscretionary behavior.
"Well,"
comments Heather, "they really didn't know what to do with
us; on the one hand, we were workaholics who wrote articles and
provided ideas for photo spreads -- novel settings, mostly --
that went over well with readers; on the other, we neither dressed
nor acted the part of what was generally expected of an employee.
Again, we were both strict vegetarians who shunned drugs and alcohol
and never called in sick a single day; at the same time, we were
sex mad Goth girls who were often out all night dancing at lesbian
clubs, bondage clubs, punk clubs; both of us went through more
guys in a month than anyone else at the magazine probably did
in a year. Our nicknames for each other were 'slut,' 'cunt,' and
'bitch'; I was singing one or two nights a week at various dives
about town in a halfhearted attempt to launch a singing career
-- mostly, I was just having fun: getting on every comp list,
meeting a lot of crazies, becoming a fly-by-night name on the
Goth underground party whirl. Louisa had a dancing gig at a biweekly
Darkness & Angst fest; she'd deck herself out like an eighteenth
century countess in a powdered wig and low neck billowing ball
gown with several rips in it all the way up to her waist so that
her legs flashed intermittedly and guys would be straining for
a glimpse of nu-nu only to discover she was wearing a skimpy flesh
toned G-string after all.
"One
evening we were the last two at the office, having been determined
to complete an assignment well before deadline so as to both be
able to take a week off at the same time. A couple dozen wedding
gowns had been sent on loan to the magazine by a department store
in the hopes of obtaining a review (i.e., to provide the subject
matter for the review they had paid for) and they were arranged
on a long wheel about clothing rod thing in the hallway close
to our cubicles. The two of us may have found the idea of matrimony
silly and preposterous, but we couldn't deny the gowns were stunning
-- the billowing folds of linen, silk, and satin cried out to
be caressed, rubbed against one's cheeks, tried on. One thing
led to another and, by the time we were exiting the building shortly
after one AM to get in a few hours of dancing at some fashion
fetish place, we were each resplendent in one of the gowns.
"Well,
girls, I can assure you there's nothing quite like hitting the
town in a six thousand dollar wedding dress -- frills and flounces
flowing, lacy ruffs about the neck from the sides while cut low
in front -- and the most flattering tuck-in at the waist -- but
without the train, which would have been an obstacle on the dance
floor. Yes, indeed, dress in an unexpectedly novel manner, take
people utterly by surprise with some top-of-the-line getup other
women don't have access to and your night's assured! I swear we
could've been unattractive drabs instead of the cuties we are,
and still the guys would've been pushing each other aside for
a chance to dance with one of the girls in a designer wedding
dress! We were the toast of the night, loud cheers greeting us
from all sides. Towards dawn we were posing at the bar with light
bulbs flashing, champagne glasses raised in toasts by those surrounding.
That's when we incriminated ourselves somewhat, on account of
all the bubbly spray showering around. The dresses became somewhat
stained, from that and some purple spray dye that missed our hair
and went on the frills -- the stuff was impossible to remove except
by dry cleaning, something we hardly had time for. We got the
gowns back on the racks before the office opened and hightailed
it home. But when we reported to work at noon the blemishes on
the satin had been duly noted and few had the slightest doubt
as to who the bad girl culprits were: such was the first serious
strike against us at the magazine. It remains for Louisa (see
below) to describe the extra special violation of accepted behavior
that led to our expulsion."
Edward
Haven (Illustrations Editor)
Edward Haven spent part of his childhood in suburban locations,
where he "indulged in a great deal of fantasy, occasionally
enacted, so as to combat boredom." He continues: "There
was a period in early grade school when several of us were obsessed
with the 'Man From U.N.C.L.E.' reruns on cable, as well as James
Bond. We lived in a new neighborhood on the outskirts of town,
surrounded by ongoing construction. One weekend afternoon two
friends and I were investigating a house-in-progress -- the frame
and most of the siding was complete. We found an architectural
blueprint by the fireplace, unrolled it on the floor, and entered
a fantasy spy-world that transformed the blueprint into top-secret
plans. And then, would you believe it? On the mantelpiece of the
fireplace we found a book of matches with one match remaining.
It was but an instant after the discovery of this lone match that
one of us -- I forget which one -- shouted, "Let's burn the
plans!" The suggestion was embraced with emphatic enthusiasm.
We were shortly huddled about the blueprint. One of us launched
into a speech about how the enemy was nearby and our lives depended
upon the rapid destruction of the plans. We all flung ourselves
onto our stomachs, aimed imaginary weapons at the corners, opened
fire on those that appeared to kill us. Amidst the gunfire one
of us very carefully lit the match (after all, we only had one
chance) and set as many portions of the blueprint ablaze as the
life of the flame would allow. Then we climbed out the front living
room picture window space while continuing to annihilate the enemy,
prevent any from reaching the plans in time to salvage something.
But then a very real non-imaginary dark green pickup truck pulled
into the driveway and a relatively harmless looking man -- rather
short and chubby, close to retirement age -- emerged to enter
the house. When he exited the house, however, there wasn't the
slightest suggestion of harmlessness. From a distance we saw him
(we'd, of course, already commenced running with frequent backward
glances) furiously glance in our direction, and leap into the
truck. He rapidly circled around to the next block on the other
side of the half cleared lots in which we were ineffectually hidden,
thus blocking us from reaching safe harbor in one of our houses,
and commenced shouting from the passenger window -- something
which struck authentic terror into us, lest one of the neighbors
(all of whom knew us) hear him and see us and put two and two
together. So we ran between the two streets straight towards the
unpaved and well-wooded hills. We had, say, fifty yards to go.
Realizing what we were about, the man leaped from the truck and
gave chase on foot. I vividly remember the moment when we reached
the creek embankment that separated the building lots from the
beginning of the woods -- the leap I took, my stumble and fall
on the far side: I was absolutely bursting with joy! -- picturing
the angry man giving chase while rapidly scrambling to my feet,
dashing into the enveloping cloak of the woods, laughing! There's
nothing quite like that special emotional transition point when
heartfelt apprehension gives way to an uprush of relief -- when
a perceived danger becomes assurance of safety; and when coupled
with the sensibility and excitable imagination of a child -- well,
it's just pure bliss and wonderment! We had a grand time that
day wandering the woods recounting our exploit, reenacting the
high points, mocking the man in the pickup, assuring one another
that we were future secret agents for certain and would live wild
lives fraught with untold dangers we'd always manage to surmount."
Blangis
(Illustrator)
Blangis (pronounced Blahn-jeess) is a native of Paris,
France and presently lives in old servant quarters on the top
floor of an eighteenth century building in Montparnasse. He occasionally
works as a cab driver to make ends meet -- or, as he prefers to
say, "so as to have plenty of play-around money." What
variety of playing around does Blangis indulge in? He hints at
whips and tie-up games -- a fondness for large seafood platters
-- he's been known to slather girls in olive oil and squash oysters
on their chests. He was once arrested for organizing a dance in
the catacombs, the official charge being, "improper use of
a historical site." He enjoys concealing himself in cathedrals
at closing time, remaining within all night, and emerging with
loud shouts of "Thank God you came along!" when the
doors are reopened in the morning.
Early
training? As a child, Blangis illustrated scenes from the Marquis
de Sade on the basement walls of his grade school. Needless to
say, he was disciplined by an unappreciative teacher, forced to
write "I will not deface school or other public property
this year or any other year in the country of France" one
thousand times. As a teenager he conducted many serious anatomical
studies, after bribing a school acquaintance to allow him entrance
into his uncle's mortuary after hours. Blangis was expelled from
college on account of having attached life-sized caricatures of
the authorities to the walls of the entry hall.
It
will perhaps be noticed Blangis does not sign his illustrations:
this is because he prefers to ejaculate upon the backs of them
instead. In his own words, "After all, does a mother sign
her name on her child? Of course not! But her child emerges from
the womb covered with birth-slime! Well, such is why I ejaculate
upon my illustrations: it's birth-slime!"
Horace
P. Hightower (Writer)
Boulder, CO native Horace P Hightower has chosen to relate
an anecdote from his college days: "Finally, in my junior
year of college -- having fulfilled the annoying two-year obligation
of residing in a dormitory -- I was able to move off-campus, into
a building famous for the funloving disposition of its inhabitants.
Nor did it hurt that the superintendent was an attractive thirtyish
woman who enjoyed availing herself of the willingness of male
students to show her a good time, and gratefully turned a blind
eye to student shennanigans. There always seems to be a killjoy
in the mix, however, and my new building was no exception.
"Three doors down from me resided a short, prematurely balding,
already pot-bellied, thick-spectacled lout who disliked just about
everyone on sight, and ceaselessly complained and threatened,
and occasionally summoned the police. He walked in a hunched over
monkey like manner and was incapable of passing anyone in the
hall without darting them a hostile glance. One afternoon a girl
-- sweet-tempered, in the second semester of her freshman year
-- was playing music in her apartment, and the lout stormed into
the hall, screamed, 'I've had it!,' and began pounding on her
door with a hammer. Her next door neighbors -- two Brazilians
on the soccer team -- came into the hall, sarcastically asked
him if picking on a girl made him feel like a man, and offered
themselves as someone to pick on instead. The lout had yelled,
'You're all sick!,' stomped back to his apartment, and slammed
the door. On another occasion he barged straight into the apartment
of the two girls who lived above him just as they were leaving
for class, and raced to their bathroom. When they caught up with
him he was on his hands and knees examining the base of their
bathtub, shouting that he was fed up with the fact they never
used a shower curtain, and were constantly flooding his apartment.
When they truthfully stated they never failed to use the shower
curtain (which, after all, was there in full view), he called
them irresponsible lying sluts and said he wasn't fooled by the
fact they'd mopped up their floor to conceal the evidence (another
'fact' that was a concoction of his imagination). Only when they
threatened to call the police did he finally leave, albeit while
yelling additional insults.
"By
the second semester our patience was exhausted: we were students,
after all -- for the most part barely emerged from our teens --
and we were going to play music at all hours as loud as we pleased;
and we were going to use the whole building as the boundary in
endless games of tag and water-balloon and firecracker wars; and
we were going to have weekend parties in which the doors of several
apartments were left open in welcome with kegs in each; and we
were going to ride the mini-bike up and down the halls and play
soccer in the halls; and we were going to purchase cheap electric
guitars, play them badly at volumes loud enough to make the whole
building shake; yes, we were going to do all of these things despite
this clown who stubbornly refused to move to a building more suited
to his preferences.
"One
Friday the lout heatedly announced to a couple people in the hall
that he was going away until Sunday night to take a break from
us 'animals,' and stormed out the front door with a pack strapped
to his back. Later that night three of us were joking about doing
something unpleasant to his apartment; before long, we decided
it would be disgraceful not to replace joking with action. The
unpleasant something we decided upon was the following: Saturday
morning we obtained a bucket of blood and mashed entrails from
a butcher across town, lined a large cereal box with a plastic
bag, and poured a portion of the bucket's contents into the box.
Then we pressed the sides of the top of the cereal box together
so that it could be pushed under the open space at the bottom
of his door. Once the top of the cereal box was worked under his
door, we jumped on it, thereby propelling its contents into the
interior of his apartment. We repeated this process until the
bucket of blood and entrails was empty, taking care to angle the
box in a different direction each time and splash as much of his
apartment as possible.
"By
Sunday afternoon, it being warm spring weather, the lout's apartment
was reeking of rotten meat. That evening, we placed a few strips
of yellow Police Line: Do Not Cross tape over his door
and also attached a sign that read, Homicide Scene: Keep Out
and awaited his return in my apartment. Naturally, the lout didn't
believe the tape and sign were real and instantly tore them down.
But when he opened his door and perceived the bloody mess within,
as well as whiffed the stench, he became utterly unglued. Nonsensical
wailings, verging on out-and-out terror, were heard. He exited
the building, but wasn't gone for long. When he returned he was
screaming -- always to an empty hall, with no one venturing outside
their apartments -- that he'd called the police and they'd disclaimed
all knowledge of the matter and had not put up the tape; that
he knew he was the victim of vandalism; that the police were on
their way to make a report. Nothing, of course, was ever proved.
"Suffice
to say the killjoy finally realized he was unsuited for life in
our building, and that we were rid of him by the following Wednesday.
A celebration was held on Friday -- our first and only toga party,
billed as The Balls Out Bacchanalia of the Century, replete
with flowers and cuttings of ivy taped up and down the hallway
walls, chariot races (dollies with girls astride, towed by guys
with ropes wrapped about their waists), wild animal hunts (baggies
of water-soluble red dye flung at guys in gorilla suits), a Miss
Rome pageant (the catwalk a row of tables placed side by side),
champagne in place of beer, Orgy Here! signs above the
entryway of every room, a hacking-to-pieces in effigy of a reproduction
of the departed lout (a large sheet stuffed with straw savagely
beaten with pool cues), and -- lastly -- Roman candles discharged
up and down the hallways."
Hightower
now resides in New York; his favorite activity is "forgetting
what day it is by whatever means available."
St.
Fond (Epigrammatist)
Epigrammatist St. Fond hails from a small town in northern
Alabama, not far from Memphis, Tennessee. "The quintessential
southern small town," he writes, "a picture perfect
place to die for: two 19th century churches, one Baptist, the
other Presbyterian; a number of regal mansions from the plantation
days; well groomed gardens in every yard; Spanish moss festooned
oaks three centuries old; a town square flanked by the county
courthouse, jail, police station, assorted merchants; a cathouse
-- Fisher's Bait Box -- in the nearby swamp. Such an appropriate
name for a cathouse: those talented girls do indeed fish with
the bait of their twat boxes -- fish quite charmingly, with the
assistance of lacy frills and flounces, immensely stimulating
perfume, wild piled high hair, fresh magnolias pinned to their
temples, the sweetest purr voices, smiles that promise all and
more than deliver! Oh, Southern womanhood! I do declare I'd die
of an unmoved heart in the northern states, where southern belle
fixes would be few and far between!
"Yes,
indeed, here's something that no Yankee will ever encounter in
his home state: I dash into an all-night supermarket in Memphis
for a bottle of juice and box of crackers after one AM, and what
greets my eyes at the check out? The comeliest brunette is operating
the cash register. She's wearing a short white summer dress with
red lace borders, white heels, a perfect jangle of silver bracelets,
pearl earrings; her hair's half fastened at the top with an oyster
shell claw clip, half falling about the sides of her face in perfect
curls; her makeup -- eye shadow, lipstick, mascara -- is impeccable;
she's penned in a beauty dot just to the upper right of her mouth
and has wrapped a scarlet choker about her throat; but -- oh,
her crowning glory is the large white floppy petaled hibiscus
attached to the side of her head: only a southern girl would think
of that! And, furthermore, a bit of chit chat reveals she's a
student who only has time to work two nights a week; in other
words, Yankees, she's not dressed thus for a date or any other
occasion; incredible as such may seem to you, Yankees, she's simply
a girl at work -- a girl at work in the most lovely glorious south!
"Yes,
I pity you, Yankees: we are accustomed to such uplifting sights
and warm personalities and easy laughter and kidding and -- oh,
just wordlessly soul uplifting charm! -- in places where only
badly dressed drabs are to be found in your states! Our women
know how to bring a bit of heaven down to earth; they dress the
part and are the part, charm incarnate! Our hookers have more
social tact and discretionary finesse and tender generosity at
their disposal than your most popular debutantes; our belles make
your haute couture prima donnas look like the clumsy fumblers
they are! I couldn't be paid ten thousand a day to live in your
dreary towns! I'm a southern man, and damn proud of it!"
St.
Fond now resides in Atlanta; he has a magnolia tree in his front
yard and happily allows the neighbor girls to help themselves
to all they require for decorative purposes.
Louisa
Turlington (Editor)
Louisa Turlington grew up in Danbury, Connecticut and
attended Vassar, after which she obtained employment at a bridal
magazine in New York, where she met her good friend and fellow
Sliptongue staff member, Heather Hathaway. Like her friend, she
was dismissed from the said magazine for indiscretionary behavior.
"Heather
has given some general background information regarding the two
of us and told a story of one of our naughtys (see above); it
remains for me to tell of the final indiscretion which led to
our expulsion from the magazine:
"So
we were alone at the office again late at night; unlike in the
instance cited by Heather, however, we'd blown off a deadline
instead of being eager to meet one ahead of time, just like students
writing term papers on immensely tedious subjects the night before
they were due: such is the reversal in attitude towards the place
we'd undergone in under four months. Yes, we were bored -- more
than bored, out and out disgusted -- we no longer really cared
if we continued to be employed at the magazine or not; the more
we attempted to whip up some meager amount of enthusiasm between
ourselves, commence working in earnest, the more we relapsed into
cynical comments pertaining to the inanity of our responsibilities.
After all, what did we care about ceaselessly grinding out maudlin
articles about every conceivable aspect of the wedding ceremony,
manufacturing endless romance novel fantasies, enveloping our
readers in fuzzy rose-tinted auras of false expectation? Our present
assignment concerned churning out a series of write-ups about
assorted manufacturers of wedding invitations -- covering the
design options available, waxing poetic about what such-and-such
a motif symbolized -- all really nothing but a lot of advertising
disguised as a feature article -- nothing but the veiled pitching
of the services of a number of businesses who'd paid for the privilege
of being written up in a flowery manner.
"'It's
a living,' we attempted to inform ourselves for the zillionth
time. 'It's the rent and food until we decide what to do with
ourselves -- all told, not a bad way of supporting ourselves while
we play about like the irresponsible youngsters we are.' But on
that night we just weren't inclined to wholeheartedly feel ceaselessly
putting on an act -- being considered up-and-coming representative
spokeswomen for the marriage ceremony industry -- was something
worth tolerating for much longer in any shape or form; at the
very least, we were beginning to feel the whole shoddy business
was going to be conducted far more on our terms: our employers
could take us or leave us, we wouldn't lose any sleep over it
if they decided we were more trouble than we were worth. Yes,
the Devil-May-Care was steadily building a home for himself in
our discontented hearts -- there's really nothing quite like the
feeling of having achieved a certain amount of distinction in
the professional world, constructed a nice career, and rather
cavalierly going about the business of sabotaging it, flinging
the whole mess away!
"No,
we weren't going to get any work done on that night: why not just
chuck the assignment, and hit the town? -- why not log on to that
hot club site with the jealously guarded password, find the latest
stylish sleazy manner to while away the nighttime hours, some
private floating party where kinkiness reigns? But, no! Why not,
it suddenly occurred to us, log on to the same site and bid the
town come to us? Yes! Why not schedule a fling on the following
night at our place of employment? It was a Friday, no one would
be at the office again until Monday morning: we would be able
to summon some decorator friends, caterer friends, set up a bar
and buffet table in the extensive back storage/photography studio
area, put on an impromptu Web site and word-of-mouth advertised
dance -- we would be the destination of the ultra hip and discerning
for this one Saturday night! Suddenly our lethargic turn of mind
disappeared; all the enthusiasm we'd lacked when confronted with
our work assignment rushed to animate us, enfever us. We absolutely
pounced on the phones; no sooner would we call a key person than
that person, in addition to providing their own assistance, would
volunteer to call someone else; thus, within roughly two hours,
just about everything was arranged: the following night after
eleven (just to be on the safe side) over a dozen people would
turn up to assist us in transforming the studio area into a party
zone.
"Suffice
to say that by two AM Saturday night (technically Sunday morning),
people were buzzing the intercom and providing the requisite password
-- 'Aphrodite' -- to be admitted. What a time we had! The premises,
as it turned out, were ideal: there was a catwalk and stage for
the presentation and photography of the latest wedding gowns,
complete with lighting and sound system; and plenty of room, once
the clothing racks were wheeled away, for a dance floor. By four
AM the festivities were at their height: school girls and transvestites
alike paraded up and down the catwalk while bathed in swirling
purple, orange, red, and blue light -- the latest gothic and industrial
music blared -- the dance floor was so crowded an objective observer
would have no trouble supposing a group groping session was taking
place -- alcohol flowed, sushi sustained the level of physical
expenditure -- rolls of colored crepe paper were being flung,
howls of joy and approbation pierced the hammer-beat of the music,
couples conducted mutual pleasure-explorations alongside the shadow-draped
walls.
"Well,
eleven o'clock Sunday morning arrived with none of us being much
aware of it -- and certainly the revelry would've continued well
into the afternoon, even into the following night, were it not
for an untimely interruption. Would you believe it? One of the
magazine's owners -- one of those people seldom seen but always
heard from by way of policy implementation, cost-saving measures,
public relations campaigns -- decides to treat her teenaged niece
(visiting from Atlanta) to a tour of the place. My-oh-my! The
spectacle that greeted them! By that hour most of us girls were
topless -- lovers were entwined on the catwalk, stage, portions
of the floor -- the lights and music were swirling and pounding
full force -- debris littered the floor. Well the niece, I must
say, appeared to rather enjoy the surprise and very likely made
a resolution right then and there that she'd attend college in
Manhattan so as to be able to participate in gatherings such as
ours as quickly as possible. Auntie, on the other hand, was less
than impressed. 'Who's in charge?' she rather heatedly demanded
of several people, 'Either tell me or the police will ask the
question instead!' Heather and I, taking the woman at her word,
stepped forth and attempted to mitigate the situation. We succeeded
somewhat: provided our friends took their leave immediately, the
police wouldn't be involved; further, provided we took it upon
ourselves to restore the room to its original condition, nothing
would appear on personnel records. Alas, our resignation was also
required: we would remove all belongings from the premises and
not return again. All things considered, not an entirely unreasonable
way of being dismissed from employment, considering the number
of rules we'd violated. And people were quite accommodating with
references afterwards: after all, no one had ever disputed the
quality and popularity of our work."
W.T.
Zumm (Writer)
W.T. Zumm hails from a small town in Wisconsin, located
on the shore of Lake Michigan. "Rather similar to the Pawtawnwee
of my column," he laughingly admits. "And no, we were
never treated to the fine circumstance of a Chicago Madame setting
up shop and considerably altering the inclinations of some of
our residents -- as a town not too far away was fortunate enough
to experience -- but there were many surreptitious, beneath the
veneer, goings-on which flatly contradict the common conception,
by non small town residents, that little out of the ordinary occurs
in such places. Yes, the human spirit will out! The primal urgings
common to all of us will not, in all cases, permit itself to be
forced into the background at all times by the assorted morals
and codes of manners steadily promoted by the church, chamber
of commerce, and town newspaper. Civilization is an attempt to
keep nature at bay, but nature is the source of our body temperature
and blood flow; small town public opinion is an attempt to see
to it people lead lives unlikely to attract attention, but whispered
gossip is secretly thankful for those who've strayed far enough
from the norm to provide some engaging entertainment. And it's,
quite simply, impossible for all individuals to resist supposing
they're the ones who are entitled to 'get away with it'; just
as it's impossible for others, urged on by a trifle too much accumulated
desire, to avoid becoming resentful of and bored with the community
spirit variety of behavior; and, well, sex is a fact of life --
and sex wears many costumes, encompasses many subcategories which
steadfastly avoid open admission -- and, hey, a beautiful woman
is a beautiful woman, regardless of whether she's married to the
mayor -- and, sad to say, those united in the common cause of
town stability and prosperity may not be inordinately fond of
each other personally and, before they're half aware of it, scores
are craving to be settled. In short, people can't help but have
an uneasy relationship with contentment; despite themselves, they've
generally got to do a few -- or great many -- things during the
course of their lives which they dare not tell to many others
or any other or even to themselves. Small towns are not exempt
from human nature. And so, without further prelude, I shall provide
an example of socially discouraged behavior from my town:
"Half
the kids in grade school knew that the wife of the most successful
builder in town routinely stripped and stimulated herself before
the large picture window in the living room on the first floor
in the back of her house at approximately eight o'clock while
her husband remained at work. She was fond of wearing rather conservative
dresses of mid-calf length and it was immensely absorbing to watch
her raise them to her stomach, above her breasts, up over her
head, and cast them aside; the contrast between the staid image
such dresses presented and the black lace panties, garters, and
brassieres underneath was quite striking and heightened the impact
of her nakedness far more than if all her clothes had been of
a risqué nature. Of course, that was nothing compared to the ripe
voluptuousness of her body; I never tired of watching her sultry
curves emerge from the frumpiness in which they'd been intentionally
concealed; a variety of stunned awe would overcome me -- which
I don't mind admitting, being as I was in but the fourth grade.
The smooth glistening white of her complexion, ample breasts,
dark patch of fur between her firm symmetrical thighs: such was
the stuff my daydreams were made of for the good part of a year.
And when she undid the tight bun of her hair, shook her head until
that long cascading mane of curling darkness splashed over her
shoulders!
"Yes,
indeed, we received quite an education -- such as how brassieres,
panties, garters, and stockings are unfastened, slipped off, rolled
down -- such as how a pair of firm round laughing breasts sit
on a woman's chest once the brassiere is removed, their slight
dip downwards, engaging bounce in time to vigorous strides across
the floor -- or how those same breasts flatten against a woman's
chest when she stretches out full length on a couch and arches
her back -- or how a woman goes about stimulating herself, the
finger ticklings and probes; and the aspect her features assume
when she's approaching climax -- the rhythmic tightening and relaxation
of her stomach, closed eyes, open mouth -- the breathing that's
forceful enough to discern visually, convulsive tautness -- and
then writhing, gasping; her arms suddenly fall limp at her sides,
spread thighs suddenly close; she lies blissfully absent for a
spell: yes, indeed, an invaluable education! -- extremely pertinent,
life-altering, information for children of grade school age!
"One
night a man in his early twenties, relatively new in town, who
worked as a substitute teacher, house painter, and charter fishing
assistant was chatting with our adopted schoolmistress on the
couch we knew so well. We assumed she'd summoned him indoors to
discuss some fine point pertaining to the paint he was applying
to the house. Perhaps she had; in addition, she obviously hinted
at another variety of service he could provide. He stood rather
abruptly, seized one of her wrists, and yanked her upright in
a manner that didn't seem to be kind; but she was laughing, playfully
slapping at his waist. They circled to the rear of the couch;
he suddenly grabbed her by the nape of her neck with one hand,
bent her forwards over the back of the couch, pulled her dress
up to her shoulders, removed her stockings and panties, and crouched
nearly out of view behind the couch while continuing to hold her
in place. When he stood upright again he had a shoe in his free
hand, with which he commenced to spank her rather fiercely; he
appeared to be yelling; she was writhing, grasping the couch cushions
with convulsive hands, tearing at the fabric with her nails, all
the while displaying a face that appeared to be wavering between
exultation and abjection. His arm continued to flail; far from
lessening the force of the blows, he seemed to increase them;
from our hiding place in the shrubbery, we could see the twin
white globes of her beautiful buttocks changing color.
"We
were none too pleased to see our beloved educator being treated
thus; we were tempted to race to the window, rap on it, and yell
in an attempt to get the man to stop. We were dissuaded from intervention,
however, on account of the audible cries of pleasure which were
soon absolutely bursting from her lips: "More! More!"
she was yelling amidst deep throaty wails of delight, "Harder,
my champion! Harder! Beat your bitch!" Well, I must admit
we were divided as to how to feel about our Goddess reveling in
such treatment. A couple kids appeared to be under the influence
of authentic revulsion and horror; others were blatantly amused;
I, if I remember correctly, was utterly fascinated: a spanking
produce so much overwhelming pleasure, how could that be? But
our teacher's pleasure was beyond dispute; and how lovely she
was when twisting against and clawing at the couch and exhorting
her partner to hit harder! How heavenly the look of rapturous
absence which overcame her face shortly after the spanking commenced!
Certainly she was far happier with her new partner than when stimulating
herself alone, with only her hand for company! Yes, I remember
very distinctly thinking I must be gazing upon the most beautiful
woman in the world and that she had the most magnificent look
in her eyes that it's possible for any woman to have: my admiration
was redoubled. And how I envied that man!"
Sliptongue
Staff Bios
© 2001 by Sliptongue
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