Life in a group home for the unrepentantly mentally ill has its rewards. The headmistress of our home for the divinely touched summons me to her office. There is a young lady dressed too casually to be staff. Ms. Kate says, "Paul, this is Laura. The police found her sleeping under the interstate. There were no beds available in any of the female homes. I'm going to ask of you something I wouldn't trust any other man here to do because you are a sterling gentleman. Please, say you won't mind her being your roommate for a while."
I say, "Ms. Kate, I'll treat her like my very own sister." The young lady smiles at me. I teach her the ropes of this place and help her with the chores.
She asks me, "What landed you here?"
I say, "I was crazy since the day I was born. In a madhouse contest, I'd be the looniest of them all."
She replies, "Oh you're kidding me. You've got all your marbles. Me, I was camping under the interstate. With the economy on the skids, I couldn't find a job. Fortunately, I had a diagnosis as a bipolar. Otherwise, I'd be in jail."
The next morning I wake up and take a shower. Afterward, I browse one of my men's magazines while standing over the sink. I left the door unlocked but figured she'd hear the shower and know not to come in. But to my surprise, she bursts in. "Paul, what fascinates you men about those women in the girlie magazines?"
I cover my pinnacle of rock with the magazine. She says, "Too late, I caught ya!"
I say, "I was just taking in some eye candy. I'm fully in control of myself."
She smirks and points between my legs. "It looks to me like your tart popped out of the toaster."
I hear the staff calling names to the boys for breakfast. She must too because she dashes out leaving my timber even stiffer.
Around noon she is out of sight. The door to the powder room is cracked open so I figure it is safe to enter. There before me, she is posing naked by the sink looking at my naughty magazine. She says, "Why get your thrills gazing at those hotties when you have me here? I can pose just like them. Look at the picture and compare it to me. Is not
my pose exactly the same?"
I approach and glance from the image to her. "Yes, my dear. Your poise is even more graceful than the floozy. I could say you are art in motion."
She says, "No one has ever said that about me. You have touched my heart. Let me turn for you. Describe what you see."
"Your complexion is pale as a noon moon."
"What about my bottom? Put that into words for me."
"Your derriere is chiseled like that of a marble statue. It is proportioned in perfect symmetry but with the fleshly suppleness of a model Renoir might have done a study on."
"And what about my nose?"
"Delicate as a rosebud encased in snow."
"I wish I could stay here with you. You sure do wonders for this gal's self-esteem, but one last thing. How would you describe my breasts?"
"Not mountainous but rather hillocks, standing proud and rising with each breath into the softness of gentle clouds."
She says, "Let me give you one more stance with me on the bed with the curtains wide open."
"We can lock the door. But the farmers out here already think we're nuts. If they saw you through the window posing for me it might drive them through the roof!"
"They're taking lunch now and what they might see won't hurt them. Am I hard on your eyes?"
"Good point." I lock the door.
"What do you see now?"
"I see my wife from a previous lifetime in Pompeii just before Vesuvius erupted, lying on our bed about to make love to me."
"My Eggs Benedict with a mimosa is yours to enjoy."
"Let's not tempt fate."
"Well, there aren't any volcanoes around here but what if a tornado swept us away? Wherever your soul migrated to wouldn't you regret having turned down a luscious lass like me?"
I roll her up in her blanket like a tamale fresh from the oven but am careful not to get my fingers burned.
"This blanket is really uncomfortable and unneeded since it is summer. Mind if I take it off and sit up?"
She doesn't wait for an answer but throws the blanket aside. "It was an unnecessary impediment to the flow of our conversation," she says. She tells me, "If we're going to do chit-chat, we need an icebreaker. So, God do you remember your high school teachers? My school days seem eons ago. Yet, I remember Ms. Heidi Goebel. She would slam your willy into the wall if you didn't watch your grammar. She was a bitch Goddess."
She elaborates, "Then there was Mr. Sanders my American history teacher. He was the bomb. Of course, you're a guy so you won't understand. But to me, Mr. Sanders was a gorgeous Sheik. I used to get off on him in the girl's room after class. He just turned me on, I don't know why."
I tell her, "I grew up Catholic with all that guilt about sex."
She puts her hands in her lap as her legs fall open. She says, "My father and mother are strict Catholics. They have really old-fashioned religious beliefs. They're even more conservative than Baptists. They act like they're living in the Spanish Inquisition. My father spanked me if he caught me with condoms. If he suspected I was having sex he told my teachers to monitor me. I can't tell you how humiliating it was. He even made me do pregnancy tests and show him the results. He also made me take ovulation tests forbade me to leave the house when I was ovulating. I felt degraded. I love my heritage and my people but I couldn't tolerate this."
"Every sperm is sacred was our mantra."
"While we're on the subject, I found your latest erotica book in the drawer by the sink. But I admire men who get turned on by reading."
"I read Virginia Woolf too."
"Yes, but I bet you don't get off on her."
"My risqué reading is purely mental gymnastics for when I meet the right woman."
