Friday, October 1, 2010

Wisdom of a Japanese Shower Towel

I don’t know that you love me

I don’t know that you’ll call

All I know is…

I’m scrubbing with my Japanese shower towel.

It’s made out of nylon

There are grooves all over it

And it smoothes and soothes

And takes out the dead in it.

I’m scrubbing hard in places I didn’t know I had.

Places with dead and sad.

I’m loving and caring now

With my Japanese Shower towel

And who would miss me?

With all those fun things to do

And all those interesting people to meet

I wouldn’t miss me, Why should you?

I scrub my face till its soft

My shoulders my back and my toes

And that place you like to go?

Well, If only I could reach far enough…

And I don’t know that you love me

And I don’t know that you’ll call

Only I’m scrubbing happily

With my Japanese shower towel

If only I could scrub my heart with my towel

It’s not cracked or broken

Just hollowed out

Like a jack –o’- lantern

And I don’t know that you love me

I don’t know that you’ll call.

All I know is…

How soft and tender my inner thighs are.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Three nights after the orgy near Delphi, I.O. awoke in the woods, having seen the oracle in a dream. It was twilight, and a full pregnant moon hung in the sky. Next to her laid a man. Only he wasn’t a man really. Not yet. He had a smooth boyish face, with high cheekbones and soft golden hair. His eyelashes were long and curly, almost womanly. His eyes were bright and blue and he had a soft curve of a nose that pointed gently upward.

He was beautiful; a boyish man with celestial features. Yet, as I.O. soon noticed, this creature was no seraphim. The bottom half of his face was more austere. There was something hard –even cruel about the shape of his jaw line and on his brow a circular mark lay conspicuously discolored and raised causing his smile to reveal a subversive temperament.

He was a strange fellow: both imp and angel, man and boy. But above this paradox, , he was a carnivore. His teeth were sharp. So sharp, he could open a bottle using his only his mouth. He claimed to eat a lot of meat: organs, particularly. “You never would think how good a good set of kidneys dresses up a salad,” she recalled him saying. “Indeed,” he had continued, “a good hardy lung does worlds for my constitution. Without meat, I feel tired and hollow.” And then he had tossed back his head in such a way, characteristic of a feral dog. “I’ve eaten well for the last few days, so at the moment, I’m the quintessence of virility.”

His statement must have given him pause, for he fell silent for a long period and stared at her with such intensity that she was forced to look away. The anxiety of the moment finally broke as laughter bubbled out of them and when it subsided, he and I.O. made sex.

But now, that is all over. Now they are up and walking. I.O.’s chorale is not far behind the two walking through the woods. They do not make themselves known to the man-boy-wolf, but I.O. is keenly aware of their presence. The man-boy walks along with one hand on the seat of his bicycle. The chain of the bike clicks continuously as they walk along together. I.O notices a good amount of dark muddy residue stuck on the tires of the bike and on the spokes of the wheels. The bike had clearly been to many places.

The forest floor on either side of the dirt path is covered in ferns. The chorale follows the pair, brushing through the green fragrant plants. I.O. fears that the man-boy will catch there scent. And now, much to her dismay, a breeze is coming through. There is music hanging on the breeze. The Boy stops and peers over his shoulder, tilting his head slightly and closing his blue eyes half way. A sly grin is creeping across his face while I.O. shivers. They are both stark naked and listening to the sonorous strains of a woman singing.

The music gets louder as they round a corner at the edge of a small clearing. I.O steps on something firm and smooth. Looking down, she sees a vast blue mosaic floor. Her foot has a brown leather sandal pump strapped around it. Looking about her, she realizes that they are no longer in the woods, but a ritzy club in Rittenhouse –the Park Bistro. I.O. is clad in a chic orange tunic-dress that is gathered at the waist with a blue handbag. Inside the handbag is a book. Pulling it out, she reads, “Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms?’’

“Good stuff,” says the boy.

“Good stuff,” says the chorale.

The boy doesn’t hear them. “I will leave you here.” He says. He is wearing white fitted pants, a blue collared shirt and a straw bowler hat. He looks like a dandy, a hard carnivorous one. He still has one hand on the seat of his yellow bicycle. Looking at the hand, I.O notices that a finger is missing.

“But I don’t know anyone,” she stammers.

“You will. Ah look, you could make an onion cry with that face.” He says. “I’ll be back around sometime.”

With that, he mounts his bicycle; clangs open the glass door with the front wheel and zooms out. The bike spills onto the pavement. The host can’t seem to wipe the vexed look off his face. There is a big dark smudge of dirt on the blue floor.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010


How will I know the brow, the intention of my future loves?


Those lovely villains?

How will I know them as dupers?

How will I know them as friends?

For, I do portend, I won’t catch their sardonic gazes from behind.

No, nor will I sense their mischievous whims when they are slyly peering without my knowledge,

Their eyes full of lust and malice, eavesdropping on my movements from a perch over my bare shoulder.

How will I know him?

You know.

The one, who will, much to my chagrin –be the dupe of me,

Without compunction, turn me into an oyster?

A coward, a childlike thing -The proverbial scorned woman?

How will I know him?

Will he be fingerless? Perhaps have a rare disease?

Scurvy, like a pirate, deprived of vitamin C?

If he cannot have a care of himself –he’ll none of me.


And here’s open black and blue for you

In truth, I’ve never seen so many fingers a hand

A hand that loved me.

How many times have I been here to sail?

Now matter how many times I do it, I’m always, always sick at sea

Tallow and yellow bile

Who is it?

Who will put that spoke in my wheel

And fucking navigate this condemned vessel?

A fingerless hand,

A man who has no love for seashells.

But a desire for wanton oyster meat

A passing but tasty treat

He will need sharp teeth if he wants to crack open this shell

-if he wants this flesh.

-That sort of thing.

If that is indeed his thing.

What am I doing here?

What are you doing here

with me?

Somewhere lost at sea.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Vagina in the Rough

Abstract: Previously, on the Vaggie Tales: you’ve only seen I.O. the victim, I.O. the poor wretch, I.O. the poor dear with the amphibian in her vagina, I.O. the girl who is duped and abandoned after a perfunctory meaningless fuck.

Unfortunately, this list above exemplifies the platitudinous existence of many of the feminine variety –a life lived in the state of perpetual disappointment. However, this will not be the case of Miss I.O. and her vagina. Not for long anyway.

What you may not know right now is that I.O. has what is known as a ‘vagina in the rough:’ vaginal power that is dormant or untapped. With the help and tutelage of her attendant chorale; Mr. Frog the resident vaginal pedagogue, Peter the dumb feral satyr, Turner the magic-handed lecherous virtuoso and Gaea the three headed, silver-tongued concupiscent earth-mother-whore, I.O. will discover her vagina’s true power. And after facing many obstacles she will escape this cliché of vaginal victimhood and rise to dominate the men who have tormented her.


I.O. Your obstacles will be many. They will come in many forms. Some will be gifted with the power of persuasion, others with sheer lustful determination. Some will be obtuse and fierce, while others clever and insidious, able to circumvent and beguile your defenses.

Therefore I say beware, dear child. You harbor great power within you, but it is still weak and you are often drunk and too damn horny. You must listen carefully to your inner vag. Heed Mr. Frog’s advice –even though he’s a drunken lascivious rogue himself. If you do these things, your vag shall become blessed and more powerful than all of the penises of the world. They will no longer be able penetrate you, for you shall engulf them. Yea, one yawn from your glorious vag, and every threat you encounter shall become a moth to a flame. Do these things, and do not forsake Mr. Frog. He is your guide.

And every so often, give Peter a tickle on his furry ass. He has so few pleasures in life.

Long-live your glorious vagina.

The Oracle near Delphi has spoken.

Oracle out.

Why are you still here?....

Grow a Vag….


Saturday, July 24, 2010

Turner -Half Man -Half Something Else

Abstract: After having ravaged Io fiercely (prestissimo con brio), the musical trio steps back from her unconscious, languid body. Now once again, they only have each other to amuse. They begin to sing again. The song churns along for a while like a flooded river. But Turner, who is still in his semi-solipsistic state, eyes lightly shut in order to deny all other sentience, diverts their song from its course and leads it into a brief cadenza.

I am Tuner

–Half man –half something else.

My mother called me ‘Stranger,’

Which is a strange thing for a mother to say

Considering that I passed through her fickle vagina

-Half hers -half something else

But I suppose there had been many strangers there in that secret place long before I passed through.

There, in those fleshy gratifying corridors is where strangers become familiar.

I know, for I am the progeny of that strange and profane familiarity.

I come from that intimate distance

Those close encounters without a present

Those loves -discursive and fleeting

That passion that lives in a gaze and dies when the stranger’s gaze turns away.

Monday, July 19, 2010

The Orgy Near Delphi

Abstract: After not heeding Mr. Frog’s didacticism, I.O. travels to Delphi to seek a prophecy from the oracle. Along the way she meets three horny musicians sitting in the woods by a fire.

All night they had been playing. Till this moment, it was just between three of them.

Turner with his long long fingers is plucking the gut strings of his harp. He is the unquestionable authority in the troupe. His fingers, being three feet in length, completely dominate the size of the instrument and dwarf his emaciated little body. He shuts his eyes, needing to use vision beyond their faculty, and like an enigmatical high priest, he invests himself deeply into the music: handing himself over to the custody of a muse who considers herself above time, space and human strength.

Gaea, a three-headed Sumerian, with voluminous breasts a-swaying, carries the melodious tune. Each of her three mouths engages in the song forming triadic cadences. Two of those sensuous orifices sing with teeth a-chattering, lips a-stretching, and tongues contorting to form her dulcet strains. Her third mouth, wraps gently around a pipe. She tenderly fingers the stops and blows in time with the rest, stopping every so often to longingly gaze at her phallic-like instrument.

Peter is a dancing satyr. His job is to keep the time. He canters atop a small wooden pedestal. As Turner allows, the song progresses and Peter’s rhythms increase in complexity. His hooves move faster and faster until all that can be seen of his legs is a swirl of thick mangy hair. He claps his hands, and releases clamoring yelps as he drives the Odyssean cantata in a spiral upwards from Gaea’s opening sentimental and lilting refrains, to an exuberant allegro con fiocco; fast with fire and might.

Io is exhausted from her travels in the woods. She approaches the fire and startles the melodious triumvirate bringing their nimble song to a sudden halt.

No one speaks. Gaea is peering at her with her three sets of eyes, while Turner’s hands begin to stray away from his instrument. His eyes are still closed, however the fingers are somehow aware of Io and now they seem to develop and follow their own stream of consciousness. They begin to crawl toward her. One long index finger laces around her waist and draws her close to the trio. Peter is restless and excited –stamping and neighing at her with lustful enthusiasm.

The real instrument has arrived. The main entertainment can now begin.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Mr. Frog’s Sad Sad Song: A Criticism of I.O.’s Recent Behavior.

I only come when you’re down -an inverted, depraved wretch that calls only when no one else will.

Your desire to exit anywhere -to any place- is the cue for my entrance

Your dithering guest, indignant and impatient,

Drunk on attention, a tinkering green rogue.

A frog. In your vagina.

So, this is what you think of me?

The epitome of irritation?

Is this what you are telling our guests?

Well, let me tell you-

When you are duped, sitting in a distracted mess, who is here for you?

You love me, I always tell you the truth. I’m the very symbol of verity, a nice green change from your forgetful slippery friend.

What was his name again?

You don’t have to tell me your woes. I know them all.

I have here, memorized them chapter and verse.

I am here. I have come to recite them aloud for all to hear.

I’m your sad sad song. You are my device at this moment, my own private theater.

Your labia is the proscenium that I press myself from

Out from the those moist lips, those damp dark wings, that wondrous curtain

Out to the stage!

Clandestine, mysterious Fortune with her beautiful sequestered folds of flesh

Moves like an ocean of regret with an ambivalent tide.

Yes, that’s you.

Dusk, dawn, exit, entrance.

You are my moon, my spotlight: my forgotten sweetheart.

I always return to you.

And how do you repay me?

You turn me from the deserving prince that I am

To a frog that lives in your rejected privates.

I will not be thus put out.

I have rehearsed an air of indifference to test you with.

I light my cigar. I drink my cognac

And continue my soliloquy, all for you.

All for the sake of your slutty, watery transience.

I know what you like. I’ll twist my fat head sideways, forcing your thighs open, splashing thus, rolling back and forth in that sensuous ocean and your… -your eyes are rolling back?

Pay attention my gigantic idiot!

Tell me how late he is again. A tardy, forgetful lad. Well, that’s too bad I say. He must be very busy. He can come and go as he pleases.

And let me tell you something

He’s got other oceans to swim in.

He’s got other moons to bask under.

He’s got other holes to fill.

To be perfectly honest, he may have a hole of his very own that he’d like filled.

And you -you’re busy too.

Too busy.

Coming and going this way and that.

Exit, entrance; the old in-out– and you always choose both.

But I’m your friend. I hang around.

I pop in (–or out rather.)

I understand. I’m here.

What’s-his-face, is not.

You don’t deserve it.

Those colossal waves need riding. Don’t they?

You’re too bothered.

You don’t discriminate enough.

You bang on any coast.

You collapse on any shore.

You dribble along any bank.

And you don’t shop around.

You just expect me to show up here any time you’re down - between waves, between cycles, between moons and tell it like is. Don’t you?

So here am I.


Shop around next time, my darling.

My poor enormous sullied idiot. My forgotten tidal wave of passion,

Shop. Around.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Chapter 1: If John Doesn't Call

If John doesn’t call, or write, or text

I’ll die.

I’ll die an extremely painful, incongruous death.

My death will be non sequitur.

I always knew it would be

Here’s how it will be if John doesn’t call.

First, tears will drip down my face.

The tears will pour straight down and turn into streams.

Their trajectories will tumefy and become heavy.

Their swathe, that bulging tumefaction will cause their marriage,

A most imprudent one.

A rushed one, a do please tell one, a stitched up one, a rapid one, -one with a shotgun

Controversial, yes, but far from surreptitious, for, I knew about it all along.

And their disgusting aqueous progeny will become a heavy gushing river

The river will threaten to drown me, but not before it turns to acid.

Impudent child!

Yes, the brat river of tears will become a river of acid.

I’ll burn in a river of acid if John doesn’t call.

But maybe not. Perhaps instead, my vagina will grow.

Perhaps a frog will protrude from my vagina.

It will not be a birth, for I will mother no one: human, amphibian or otherwise.

It will be a strange, unnatural growth.

The head will grow first.

Yes, indeed. Guilelessly I’m telling you that the head of a giant green slimy frog will protrude from the inside of my labia.

It will bubble and blossom forth and its eyes will swell up and glower at me.

Mr. Frog.

He’ll laugh at me

If John doesn’t call.

He’ll sing a sad, sad song and say, “you silly girl. You knew it all along after all.”

At least I won’t have any problems with bugs.

And he will be right after all. I knew it all along.

Here’s how it will be between us

If John doesn’t call.

A flea will flit by.

The frog will mind the flea.

A fly will buzz by.

The frog will mind the fly.

Then a trench mortar shell will explode

And we will both die in non sequitur fashion

If John doesn’t call.

I knew it all along.

I knew this would happen all along

My dear John

All along.

Intro: Vaggie Tales

I suppose you think this blog is about you? Well it’s not. It’s about my vag.

I hereby decree that the following words are my slaves: slaves of my vag. I’ve captured and mastered them all and chained them -with idiosyncratic grammar- to this virtual space, which is of course, my-vag-space: the space that I’ve staked out for the narratives of my gloriously sensuous vag. My bitch words will collectively and loudly disclose, with cacophonous sincerity, the trials and tribulations, the triumphs and adulations, the copulations and masturbations of my vag. It’s all about me. Me. And my vag.