File spoon-archives/avant-garde.archive/avant-garde_1996/96-11-03.013, message 97

Date: Sat, 19 Oct 1996 20:59:34 -0700
Subject: Frenching my British

Frenching my British

 The sea was in torment.  I can never appreciate the nature of the sea when
it is calm.  I have to see it crash on the rocks - or better yet -  a tidal
wave as it wipes out a coastal town on the coastline.

That unfortunately was not the case here.  There was a storm above the sea
causing textural patterns on its surface.  I thought I saw a face between
the waves and the foam in the ocean.  Sort of looked like a happy face -
but, then, to my surprise I found out it was an actual face with an actual
body attached to it.  It was crying for help.  I did not know if it was
crying for help because its features resembled the happy face of the
Seventies or whatever it was in actual danger of drowning in the sea.  All
I knew was that I'd better strip down to my Calvin Klein underwear and get
into that damn ocean and check out the situation myself.

When I  got to the body of the questionable face, I realized it was
drowning.  I took the face by its left ear and pulled it with me swimming
up to dry land.  When I got to the beach I realized it was a young lady
with a questionable face.  The body had no question by the look of her
shapely legs.  The face was not bad (especially close up) but her body,  in
comparison, was an object of beauty and architecture.  Every form and slot
fit perfectly.  The face on the other hand, was average.  It had its
moments, but who in the hell is going to spend time looking at this face
when there is this body made by Hugh Hefner's daydream.  I didn't know what
to do - talk to her or take her photograph.

"Hello my name is Pierre Montana and I am from France." I said.

"France I have heard of" she commented.  "Is that where French films are from?"

"No, I don't think so.  They make French films in Hollywood," I expertly
commented.  "What is your name?"

"Elizabeth Allen Smyth" she said.  Smyth is spelled with a 'y'  because it
is a British spelling"

"Oh, you are British?"

"No I am not."   I am English" she said.

I have to admit I was completely thrown off by this answer.  I thought
Great Britain was close to England - in the way that Scotland and Greenland
(I think) are close together.  What I know for sure is that California and
Arizona are neighbors.  I wonder why they have a border?

"Pierre, your name has a slight English ring to it.  Are you familiar with
The Beatles?"

"Is the Pope a man?  Of course I know the Beatles.  Have you heard of Joe
Meek?  He was a friend of mine" I declared.

"Oh yes, I am a big fan of The Honeycombs," she said.

I had to comment back to her that "The Honeycombs may be the best band he
worked with."

I was beginning to like this woman Elizabeth Allen Smyth spelled with a
'y'.  "Elizabeth I am about to offer you something  I shouldn't .  Do you
know what that is?"

"No Pierre, I don't know what that  is" she stated.

"I am going to take you to my home, and make you a cup of hot cocoa...and
then I am going to show you a film by Zalman King" I slowly commented.

"Oh...I just love the cinema of Zalman King" she breathily heaved.

"Let's go!"  I whispered into her ear.

As we walked towards my home my thoughts were on Elizabeth and why she was
in the ocean. Then in a flash my thoughts changed to what I should wear
tomorrow.  The next second I was thinking about Elizabeth again.  Then the
next second I was thinking of who I like better - Cliff Richard or Billy
Fury?  I thought Billy Fury.  He wrote and sang a great song called "Don't
Jump",  about a man who is about to jump to his death because of a failed
love. Then I thought of Elizabeth, and I wondered if I would ever jump to
my death because of  her...better yet whatever she would jump to her death
because of me.  I mean, she was about to die in the ocean anyway.

I remember reading in the encyclopedia that the world ocean covers 71
percent of the earth's surface. So perhaps it is not strange that I met
Elizabeth in this fashion.  The odds would have been stranger if I had met
her on dry land.  With this fact in mind, I made the decision to ask her
hand in marriage.  The only problem was do you only get the hand or does
the rest of the body come with it?  I'd hate to think that someone else
could get the face, vagina, breasts, butt, torso, legs, and one of the
hands while I will just get one hand.  Plus, at my age, I don't need the

My house is neat.  She was impressed with the garden and the combination of
red rose, white rose, red rose, and so on.  She also admired my statue of
Joe Meek, which also serves as a sun shade when having a cool drink out in
the yard. She excused herself to the ladies room.  I always liked that name
of the bathroom, because since it is in my house - the ladies room is also
my room.

When she got back, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.  As I got into
the bathroom I immediately locked the door and got on my knees to feel the
toilet seat.  It was still warm from her buttocks sitting there about two
minutes ago.  I smelled the toilet seat and started to rub my lips around
the rim of the seat. I wanted to dip my fingers into the water, but
already, there was no source of her liquid or droppings in the toilet.

I washed my hands and left the room.  When I arrived in the living room,
she was sitting by the window looking out towards the yard. I stood by her
and looked outside the window.  What I saw were flowers that changed my
life.  I used to study floriculture when I was in school.  I had a hard
time remembering the names of the flowers, but I could always remember the
exact number of woman who went to the ladies room during class.

"Will you be my wife?", I slyly asked.

"I am sorry, I think it would be impossible for me to marry a man named
Pierre" she said.

"That is where you are wrong, for you see, my real name is Harry.  Pierre
is my code name.  I work for a secret society that doesn't have a name.
Perhaps you have heard of this organization?"

"No, sorry I haven't.  If your name is Harry... then I may have an interest
in you" she mysteriously replied.

My whole life has been on the brink of a promise of pure happiness.  Now
that I can practically taste the exhilaration of Elizabeth on my lips - she
seemed so removed from it all.  After I saved her from certain death, I
would think she would be nicer to me.  My mind was made up that she must
marry me.

"Elizabeth, if you look outside the window towards the rose garden you will
notice the red roses mingle with the white roses.  You see that is how our
love should work.  A chemistry that combines two forces into one - surely
you can see that", I argued feverishly.

"The problem is Pierre, or Harry, is that I love someone else.  I dropped
my body into the ocean today because of him not loving me.  When I mean
body -  that is it.  My mind has already passed away."

"But to waste a mind is a tragedy," I argued.  "But if your mind is gone, I
would settle for your
body," I hopefully suggested.

"You should not compromise Pierre or Harry - I mean, first you should
decide on your name - Pierre or Harry?" she commanded.

I was slipping into my thoughts, which means I don't want to force the
issue regarding my name. Identity is such a sensitive subject, and right
now, I am only interested in seeing Elizabeth naked and willing for my
eager amorous touches.

"What do I have to do to make you understand that I need your flesh on an
almost constant basis?", I pleaded with her.  "Birds hang on for their very
lives on to other birds.  Don't you see I need you night and day.  You are
the one.  It's not the tick tock of the clock, or even the tom tom of the
drums - it is a love that I cannot control."

"Yes, I understand you," she said.  "All my life -including the time I
spent in the ocean - tells me you are the only one I can trust.  But even
with that important fact, your sense of dress is horrible!" she claimed.

I was startled to hear this.  I immediately ran to a mirror and gave myself
a hard critical look.  She was right.  My clothes, and what is worse, the
style in which I  wear them  is pitiful.  I never felt such shame as at
that very moment.  I wanted to shoot myself, but instead I ran outside the
door towards the ocean.  Elizabeth called out my name - but in confusion
and the very length of my two names I was already out of earshot to hear
her.  I kept running with a passion for speed, till all of sudden, I
reached the ocean.

I jumped in and tried to keep my head under.  Just as I was about to pass
out a feminine hand grabbed my ear lobe and started to pull me to the
shore.  My mind was blank and I couldn't
remember anything.  My memory was gone, I had nothing but the future to
look forward
to. My saviour told me her name was Elizabeth. It was at that moment I fell
in love with Elizabeth with an English spelling of Smyth.

Tosh Berman


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