• I Had an Affair with Arnold

    May 18, 2011 9:31 am 3 comments
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  • Ladies don't conjugate, they decline.

    “My belly charged with rippled spasms, jagged waves from an invisible pursed puff of breeze across shallow water.”

    It was a crisp spring morning in early 1998. Y2K was all the talk around the office and my retirement portfolio was doing well on the speculative swell of internet IPO’s. I was running late and stopped by a local liquor store to pick up a refill for my desk drawer flask and some clear nail polish for a run in my pantyhose.

    I ran to the office for a quick review with the staff before catching a flight to LAX and a bus shuttle to Pasadena. I slept most of the flight and avoided the cramped, smelly lavatories by declining refreshments from the food cart and tightening the seat belt a little more than necessary.

    LAX is a parade of humanity that must be experienced. Hare Krishnanas offered flowers, men in dark suits with signs displaying names seemed to block exits, and people of all colors and creed walked with purpose and haste down the sun filled concourse. I made it to the shuttle gate only to find my reservation was bumped. Because I arrived a day early, I felt no fury and left without gifting the turbaned man with the red dot a piece of my mind. I could get another shuttle, no worries.

    I hadn’t walked far before I was accosted by a swarthy midget, as we called them in those days, which seemed to know my name. His name was Danny and he wanted to take me to my destination. Since he only wanted $20 bucks for a shuttle to Pasadena and I originally had $60 approved on my shuttle per diem, I was pleased to accept and pocket a $40 profit.

    My Glock was in my carryon, but I wouldn’t have time to load it if the situation became compromised.

    The ride was pleasant enough. I rolled down the window for a cleansing breath, natural air after the re-circulated, compressed fish tank of the airliner. The oily thickness of the city air gave way to salty freshness and then the sun baked earth scent of open skies.

    I made light conversation with Danny. When faced with these confined, one-on-one situations I’ve always proven myself a lively conversationalist. I stuck with my usual topics of gun restrictions for the blind and food ways of the locals, keeping controversy to a minimum.

    Danny was an engaging raconteur. He regaled with tales of a local tavern he favored back east. My attention was completely captivated by the trials and tribulations of the characters. The slow witted bar hand, Woodford, had me gulping for breath. I nearly lost track of time until asphalt became gravel road and we approached what appeared to be a well-tended ranch with outbuildings of some sort.

    Beautiful Barns are America's treasures

    As I walked into the shadowed coolness of the barn, I saw him. His skin was bare and glowed in the pale light. My belly charged with rippled spasms, jagged waves from an invisible pursed puff of breeze across shallow water. I felt drawn to him with insect instinct to soft pollen petals. The flesh of his back was warm to the touch, pinked with fine silken hairs. He made small animal-like grunts of pleasure that reeled the senses and increased my tactile discovery of this new secret.

    He smelled of earth and sky and green and musk. Instinctively, he followed me to a water spigot, his attention locked on my every move. I cupped water in my hand to sluice the dust from his body; the tiny hairs standing up as I felt the length of him, his belly, his mouth, his neck.

    A crate of grapes nearby made my stomach clench with urgency and served to wake me from the bewitching spell. I washed the grapes and popped two in my mouth. The juice was tart on my lips. I could see from his interest he wanted to share. We stretched out on a bench of sweetly scented hay bales, his head in my lap as I fed him grapes.

    That is a bucket of chicken.

    Never had I seen such a beautiful piglet. I always loved Green Acres and the dog like behaviors of piglets, but I never thought I would meet one of Arnold the pig’s progeny. I will always remember that day and our brief time together. His sweet, knowing eyes and little cloven hooves made me rejoice in all of God’s creation. I had a chaste social encounter, an affair to remember.

    I became a born again believer and asked Jesus to enter my heart as my savior from the slavery of sin and alcohol during an alter call that very next Sunday. I owe it all to one miraculous little pig.

    RCA dog
    Goodbye City Life

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    About The Author
    Blanche Beecham "Blanche Beecham lends a soft, learned hand to the fourth estate with incite-full investigations on diverse topics such as Politics, Love, and Lifestyle. Her many years experience as a wife, mother, ladies book club president and financial auditor make her well suited to ferreting out the truth and giving it a sound shake." - Rev. Jackson Lee Whitebelley, Publisher and Editor of "The Incubator" - Follow me on Twitter! @BLANCHEBEECHAM

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