Steven Hunley
01-23-2010, 10:54 PM
Wonderboy Tells the Truth
By
Steven Hunley
Then came a day of magic. It wasn’t planned to be that way, few often are. It was planned to be an afternoon at the beach. They left too late, forgot half of what they intended to pack, and were totally unprepared for what weather would greet them there. On the way out she said,
‘Where are we going anyway?”
“To Torrey Pines,” he said, “it’s nice there.”
And when they got there, so it was.
They parked the car and got out. The wind was up as it is there at times, coming in clean from the Pacific. It smelled of salt and seaweed. The sun was low and over the water just a bit. Cumulus clouds welled up along the horizon promising a sunset of incomparable beauty, a sunset almost beyond human comprehension.
“Looks good to me,” he said.
At this she smiled in agreement.
The beach was long and stretched its arm beneath tall sandstone cliffs. When you walked down aways you were surrounded on both sides.
“It’s surrounded and cut off,” he thought, “It’s a good place for thinking.”
“It’s cut off and surrounded,” she thought, “It’s a good place for loving.”
They were both right. It was a place for and thinking about love. That’s what caused the later words.
The wind swelled up again so he gave her his coat.
She took it with a smile, ‘cause she knew, as a girl always does, that it would require them to sit close later if she were to be quite the lady he obviously thought she was.
The sun got lower, the sky pink and gold. The only sound was the scream of plummeting gulls, and the wind kissing the waves’ white-laced necks just like in Tales of Brave Ulysses. So that’s who were there; just them, the sky, the waves, and the sand.
“Let’s sit awhile,” she whispered, so not to break his thoughts, for he hadn’t said a word.
They picked a place at the base of the cliff to give themselves a view. He pulled a joint out of his pocket and tried to light it. The wind wouldn’t allow it.
“It’s OK,” she said, “try this instead,” and gave him a kiss. The kiss was softwarm and wet, and carefully delivered. So much better it was.
“You must be cold,” she said and snuggled up close. It was only too obvious to her he had something on his mind. Women know such things because they can cook. She knew he had a thought baking. She could tell by the smell of him.
He looked at her face. He knew that she knew. He knew they’d come to the point between them where it might be said with impunity. And he was guilty of the thought, so it was time to confess.
The sun dipped lower, setting flame to the clouds. Cumulus rims then turned gold. The heat spread, setting the night on fire. Jim Morrison roared his roar. He felt it was time. He entered the confessional of sand wave and cliff. He said to her ear, so afraid of seeing her face,
“I love you, you know?”
“It’s OK ,” she said, “Don’t worry. I love you too.”
He let out a breath and looked into her eyes. And when he was satisfied she wasn’t lying or saying it just for form he squeezed her real tight to protect her against the cold. But one thing he needn’t do now was protect her from the cold. For his coat did that. What he really needed to do was protect her from himself. He was a man who didn’t know what was within himself, or what he was capable of. But it was too late. He’d already said the words. But then something unexpected happened. He suddenly seemed to take a chill, dropped his arms from around her and clasped them to himself as if for warmth even though that wasn’t it. She took off the coat and blanketed him with it as if he were an autumn leaf trembling with the sudden awareness of it own mortality. She fell over him, covering him up. She heard him say, though it was more to himself than her,
“This isn’t going to be easy.”
“I know,” she answered calmly, her breath in his ear,
“I know,” she said softer to herself.
When they left the beach at dusk, their tracks in the wet sand, with each stepping step, glowed with the sparkle of florescent diatoms which were disturbed by the pressure of their feet. They had been caught there by the ebb tide and were busy dying.
Their relationship freely entered would be caught there too, trapped by the very words of love they there uttered, captured in their own poison red tide of love, tangled by the love-knot she’d plaited in her hair with her own two hands.
When they got in the car and drove away the sand, the cliffs, the sky and waves faded off into the distance, which is where they had been all the time, and were as forgotten as easily as words spoken in dreams.
So there you have it. Our wonder boy has finally said the magic words. How much are these three magic words going to affect his behavior by their mere utterance? Not a whit. For Wonder Boy is good at making excuses. He is good a discounting bad behavior of all sorts. In the field of social interaction with women he is no different than many other men. How’s that you say? I say, that in matters concerning women he fully intends to lie, cheat, or steal his way to the top of the pile, even if at the end the pile isn’t discernable from the ones in the gas chambers of Auschwitz, which took some clawing and pushing aside to make them stay. His curiosity about women, his never ending prying into their vary natures, is as unslakable as a Bedouin’s thirst. For him, one drink of woman-water will never be enough. He won’t stop until he’s hung uncountable numbers of beautiful scalps on his totem pole like a Comanche warrior, or carved their fallen virginities on the handle of his Colt 45 like a gunfighter, one that fights the very Comanche within him. He will never look back, have few regrets, and soldier on no matter what cost to life and limb, no matter how many bodies pile up, or whose bodies they are, just to satisfy his curiosity. He has no real excuses. He only has his reasons. Some people, my dears, are like that. They never learn anything.
I don’t know why. But what’s worse my friend, I don’t care. When people nowadays refer to their partners as freaks… in reality… they haven’t got a clue. But to tell you the truth and to be fair in our evaluation I must say this. For a man who is undoubtedly an *******, he isn’t quite so bad. I for one rather like the fellow. He is in my opinion childlike, curious, single-minded, and fun. And he is vulnerable. Oh yes, this fellow is the King of Vulnerability. Women nowadays will fall for him in an instant with all their talk of vulnerability. So like a Russian spy he is a kind of secret wrapped up in an enigma hidden inside a conundrum. I don’t think any of us can figure him out, least of all himself. All this time I believe that he is spying on himself, but coming up with very few clues and even fewer answers. What can I say that I haven’t already said? Nothing of any value.
By
Steven Hunley
Then came a day of magic. It wasn’t planned to be that way, few often are. It was planned to be an afternoon at the beach. They left too late, forgot half of what they intended to pack, and were totally unprepared for what weather would greet them there. On the way out she said,
‘Where are we going anyway?”
“To Torrey Pines,” he said, “it’s nice there.”
And when they got there, so it was.
They parked the car and got out. The wind was up as it is there at times, coming in clean from the Pacific. It smelled of salt and seaweed. The sun was low and over the water just a bit. Cumulus clouds welled up along the horizon promising a sunset of incomparable beauty, a sunset almost beyond human comprehension.
“Looks good to me,” he said.
At this she smiled in agreement.
The beach was long and stretched its arm beneath tall sandstone cliffs. When you walked down aways you were surrounded on both sides.
“It’s surrounded and cut off,” he thought, “It’s a good place for thinking.”
“It’s cut off and surrounded,” she thought, “It’s a good place for loving.”
They were both right. It was a place for and thinking about love. That’s what caused the later words.
The wind swelled up again so he gave her his coat.
She took it with a smile, ‘cause she knew, as a girl always does, that it would require them to sit close later if she were to be quite the lady he obviously thought she was.
The sun got lower, the sky pink and gold. The only sound was the scream of plummeting gulls, and the wind kissing the waves’ white-laced necks just like in Tales of Brave Ulysses. So that’s who were there; just them, the sky, the waves, and the sand.
“Let’s sit awhile,” she whispered, so not to break his thoughts, for he hadn’t said a word.
They picked a place at the base of the cliff to give themselves a view. He pulled a joint out of his pocket and tried to light it. The wind wouldn’t allow it.
“It’s OK,” she said, “try this instead,” and gave him a kiss. The kiss was softwarm and wet, and carefully delivered. So much better it was.
“You must be cold,” she said and snuggled up close. It was only too obvious to her he had something on his mind. Women know such things because they can cook. She knew he had a thought baking. She could tell by the smell of him.
He looked at her face. He knew that she knew. He knew they’d come to the point between them where it might be said with impunity. And he was guilty of the thought, so it was time to confess.
The sun dipped lower, setting flame to the clouds. Cumulus rims then turned gold. The heat spread, setting the night on fire. Jim Morrison roared his roar. He felt it was time. He entered the confessional of sand wave and cliff. He said to her ear, so afraid of seeing her face,
“I love you, you know?”
“It’s OK ,” she said, “Don’t worry. I love you too.”
He let out a breath and looked into her eyes. And when he was satisfied she wasn’t lying or saying it just for form he squeezed her real tight to protect her against the cold. But one thing he needn’t do now was protect her from the cold. For his coat did that. What he really needed to do was protect her from himself. He was a man who didn’t know what was within himself, or what he was capable of. But it was too late. He’d already said the words. But then something unexpected happened. He suddenly seemed to take a chill, dropped his arms from around her and clasped them to himself as if for warmth even though that wasn’t it. She took off the coat and blanketed him with it as if he were an autumn leaf trembling with the sudden awareness of it own mortality. She fell over him, covering him up. She heard him say, though it was more to himself than her,
“This isn’t going to be easy.”
“I know,” she answered calmly, her breath in his ear,
“I know,” she said softer to herself.
When they left the beach at dusk, their tracks in the wet sand, with each stepping step, glowed with the sparkle of florescent diatoms which were disturbed by the pressure of their feet. They had been caught there by the ebb tide and were busy dying.
Their relationship freely entered would be caught there too, trapped by the very words of love they there uttered, captured in their own poison red tide of love, tangled by the love-knot she’d plaited in her hair with her own two hands.
When they got in the car and drove away the sand, the cliffs, the sky and waves faded off into the distance, which is where they had been all the time, and were as forgotten as easily as words spoken in dreams.
So there you have it. Our wonder boy has finally said the magic words. How much are these three magic words going to affect his behavior by their mere utterance? Not a whit. For Wonder Boy is good at making excuses. He is good a discounting bad behavior of all sorts. In the field of social interaction with women he is no different than many other men. How’s that you say? I say, that in matters concerning women he fully intends to lie, cheat, or steal his way to the top of the pile, even if at the end the pile isn’t discernable from the ones in the gas chambers of Auschwitz, which took some clawing and pushing aside to make them stay. His curiosity about women, his never ending prying into their vary natures, is as unslakable as a Bedouin’s thirst. For him, one drink of woman-water will never be enough. He won’t stop until he’s hung uncountable numbers of beautiful scalps on his totem pole like a Comanche warrior, or carved their fallen virginities on the handle of his Colt 45 like a gunfighter, one that fights the very Comanche within him. He will never look back, have few regrets, and soldier on no matter what cost to life and limb, no matter how many bodies pile up, or whose bodies they are, just to satisfy his curiosity. He has no real excuses. He only has his reasons. Some people, my dears, are like that. They never learn anything.
I don’t know why. But what’s worse my friend, I don’t care. When people nowadays refer to their partners as freaks… in reality… they haven’t got a clue. But to tell you the truth and to be fair in our evaluation I must say this. For a man who is undoubtedly an *******, he isn’t quite so bad. I for one rather like the fellow. He is in my opinion childlike, curious, single-minded, and fun. And he is vulnerable. Oh yes, this fellow is the King of Vulnerability. Women nowadays will fall for him in an instant with all their talk of vulnerability. So like a Russian spy he is a kind of secret wrapped up in an enigma hidden inside a conundrum. I don’t think any of us can figure him out, least of all himself. All this time I believe that he is spying on himself, but coming up with very few clues and even fewer answers. What can I say that I haven’t already said? Nothing of any value.