The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Twenty-seven Sounds Irridescent Red

Her husband was a successful businessman. I'd actually read about him in some office magazine somewhere. Remember thinking even then that the wife standing beside him in the photograph was well preserved. Way better than him. So I'd mistakenly assumed she was a trophy, not a big game hunter. He'd died since. Heart attack. Two years before. Just like that she went from equal partner in a power couple to playing solitaire and drinking warm milk at midnight. I was surprised what a strong common bond that can create.

And there was her voice. I had never been in love with a voice before. Pre or post surgery. Except maybe my own. And as a former practitioner of the vocal arts myself I thought I had pretty good judgment in that area. But, boy, you should have seen it. And, of course, there was the sex bit. But let's face it, as Stephen Harper might've said, getting laid is a no-brainer. Good for both parties. Only a question of when. Turned out to be the next weekend. I invited her for dinner and she showed up looking so good I almost gagged. And she remembered to bring that voice with her, too. Nice touch.

I'd put on some Internet smooth jazz station, mostly in self-defense. It's the kind of music that I can let pass through my head like a warm breeze. Didn't want any interference patterns with her seductive wavelengths. Only when we sat down did I realize it made me sound like I'd planned some sort of corny seduction scene full of sax. Turns out it didn't matter. She muscled right through the whole thing, gobbled some drinks, then announced with just a hint of a slur that it might be time for bed. God, I love a woman who knows her own mind. And mine, too. I'm a cheap slut so I easily acquiesced.

We were a little anxious to begin with. It'd been quite awhile for both of us. With her tender cooperation I managed to launch without blowing up on the pad and achieved orbital insertion. I was looking forward to what I thought would be just like the once familiar coital sound and light show. And it was going well until she started making these particular sounds. A kind of rhythmic grunting. Nothing wrong with it per se. There was a time when that kind of feedback would have been welcome. Exciting even. But for some reason they produced this disturbing effect in me. Each one was like a brownish black ball of mud catapulting across the field of my mind and smashing against the back of my skull. Good thing I was an associator synaesthete. A projector might have started involuntarily ducking. The result was a precipitous crash and burn.

She was very understanding after. She held me. Stroked my hair. Assured me over and over that it was natural. First time nerves. Better next time. Gentle waves of her voice tried to carry me to consolation for my failure. She was so tender. So sweet. Even though she must have been terribly disappointed herself. I felt awful. Didn't broach the topic of the mud balls, though.