BOOK ONE: I Think What I Will.
Chapter One
A Couple of Definitions
“Whiskey and Truth should both be served straight up, Doctor.”
--- Watkins, the photographer, to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman
True it is. Straight up. Those long, smooth – necked, liter – or – so, wine bottles, usually cobalt blue or
iridescent green in color, with or without the Lambrusco or Lancelotta labels still on them, well, anyhow all
five to six inches of one of those long, cool necks makes the dandiest of dildos. Empty, of course, and not
a molecule of rubber to them even.
Also empty they are of any DNA helices. So, too, they are free from the glazed glares of hatred and, with a
bottle self - thrusting inside to toe – curling orgasm instead, not a handful of hair – pulling happening
either. Especially alongside the initial queries from the very darkened and turned – away half of the bed
that really have no sought – after answer, the questions posed that are grammatical but understood by both
the speaker and the hearer really as commands with outcomes already determined, “How ‘bout some
messin’ around?” “Wanna screw?” “Gimme some Strange, huh?”
No right fist threatening my left periorbital bone, Ike Turner - style, no ten – year – old eldest, Zane,
wobbling and struggling piggyback – style on his father’s back while desperately grappling with the man’s
neck and shoulders trying to pull him off the mama whom Herod Edinsmaier has easily pinned against the
bare mattress. No months and months of shunning silence with snide snippets whispered by the slacker in
the driver’s seat to Zane and the second – born Boy, Jesse, “Her finish the 10K? Finish? Why, ya’know,
don’tcha, she idn’t even smart ‘nough to be able to find the track it’s gonna be run on!”
As dead – deaf as I’ve been in that left ear since the German measles virus my mother, Mehitable True,
continues to disavow entered her fetus somewhere in the first couple of first trimester months of that
1947 pregnancy of hers, I still heard Dr. Edinsmaier’s words passive - aggressively slide over the top of the
Dodge Diplomat wagon’s tan, front bench seat, those taloned words calculatingly aimed from Herry’s
tongue to collide not only with his two older Boys’ regard of their mother --- but also with that one eardrum
of hers that did vibrate and transmit meaning. I received again the full blast of Dr. Edinsmaier’s gist all
right. Even inside that short car ride to the locally held Iowa Games matches on which one youth soccer
team eight – year – old Jesse started, Dr. Edinsmaier continued his soft and barely heard, but heard
nonetheless, violent vitriol of me, his wife, Legion True, to my sons. His only known other child, also a
son, Mirzah, reading in the backseat next to me Barbara Brenner’s Wagon Wheels, the true 19th Century
pioneer saga about another prairie family, was also belted and tuned in and busy being seven years old.
A wine bottle penis isn’t the genre of penis I choose to put into me. If, in my youth, I had had my
‘druthers. Years and years and years away now from those naïve, innocent steps my three babies, my
friends and I all took into that evil courtroom, one of those sons of mine, all adults now they be, more or
less whines to me even as recently as last month, “You’re not the same mama I remembered you being
when I was little.”
Well, no I’m not. True that is, too, thank goddess. He will now learn that I am not the same person today
that he knew then. But not because I, from time to time, wield, in the manner of condensed Zen sex for
one, let’s call it, a wine bottle penis to satisfy my G - spot, ya’ know, one of those same “spots”, “needs”
they’re sometimes referred to, that a Woman, let alone, a mama woman, isn’t supposed to have at all but
that a Not Woman can have. I haven’t been able to tell him yet but he will now learn that it is my choice in
the matter of which genre of penis to put into me that has caused me to know, yes, even to value that a wine
bottle penis into my vagina is one a whole lot safer there for me than other kinds of penises put there are --a whole bunch of bulk there safer for sustaining my life. Even uplifting it. Even putting satisfaction and
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yes, dare you hear it, happiness into it. Way so much more so than the bunkum that ever was the slacker’s
own penis.
But especially Jesse will now know, also Mirzah and Zane, too, the one and true meaning of another word.
Unlike the noun, father – fucking, mother – fucking, the word, is blown about like so much chafe. Like it
doesn’t really happen, though. Like the word really, really works, when thrown out there usually by males,
for some such perceived punch as an adjective so it gets attached every so often, often quite frequently and
repeatedly, as a modifier to an entirely unrelated matter.
In my Boys’ father’s raw usage, mother – fucking was bandied about, often sprinkled and punctuated with
affectionate nomenclatures or titles of delineation for their mother because her real name, my name,
Legion, Legion True, seems to have, in the fashion of deliberate and outright shunning according to
psychologists, permanently vacated the speech centers of Dr. Edinsmaier.
“Did you put your mother – fuckin’ mitts on my motorcycle, Pussy?”
“This time where’d Zane and Jesse stash the mother – fuckin’ Playboy that came today?”
“What’s your mother – fucking father up here this weekend for messin’ with us again?”
“You say I hang up, walk away, slam doors? Well, watch this one, Whore! Watch the driveway! This is
me, too! Mother – fuckin’ drivin’ away! To you, Pussy? My backside! I’m getting’ me some Strange out
there, I am! I’m mother – fuckin’ leavin’ you, Cunt! For good, I am!”
“And I mother – fuckin’ told the Boys I was mother – fuckin’ divorcin’ you!. And you, Twat? You
weren’t even mother – fuckin’ there when I told ‘em!”
“You can see for yourself, Your Honor, just how mother – fucking fucked up the Bitch really is, can’t you,
Your Honor?”
Like it doesn’t really happen. Ever. As a noun.
Doesn’t really happen in real and loving coitus, a mama with a papa, sometimes making itty bitty kids
somewhere, anywhere.
And mother – fucking certainly doesn’t really happen in the sloth’s teal - carpeted Iowa county bedroom.
Except when Herry purposefully reopened wide its gymnasium – sized picture window drapes upside a city
park forest when either one of us was taking off our clothes before bedtime. Except when, along around
the swing into the decade of the ‘90s, mother – fucking took place in that same county’s courtroom down
the road nine or ten miles.
Jesse, Zane and Mirzah will know that it is my decision about which type of penis – attached people
I choose to put into the equation that is My Life at all, let alone, surrounding or into some orifice on my
physical form, and my decision about what kind of persons I ascribe as true friends, male or female,
walking around the World with me down My Road that will mean, for me, the difference between the
formula for being loved and lovingly experiencing life as accountability, gratification balance, nonviolent
laughter and Truth --- or the formula for experiencing life as … hypocrisy. As just another mother –
fucking.
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