I was telling of my coming appointment with Ms. Ramona...even Galen of Pergamum, the greatest of all ancient anatomists, never attempted a day-long date with the vain-glory hominy girl whom I would dissect, very likely in secret, not only in aid of man science, but for the sake of Art...I had been knee-deep in lesbians for the past seven years in San Francisco and I owed it to fellow humankind to divulge the 200 known bones of her body, the long, short, flat, and irregular...I would not have any strong desire to examine dead bodies in detail and I owed it to the dancers of the world to know something about descriptive and surgical anatomy of Ecuador...
To be sure, in the middle of the night I came to in all my glory, cemented, full salute, Castro, Guevara, Swartzkoph-stiff honor...It is important to mention this--as will be seen later--that the workings of my nit, my works would come into question, and there would be the breakdowns of my junk...Junk anatomy 101--the root is firmly connected to the rami of the os pubis and ischium by the two crura...mine had been working beautifully, only once had I gone soft in the corner of coitus and at that time, I simply did not want to fuck for a second time, though the woman I was balling with was marvelous, like the history of Gold...I was sung to sleep knowing that my fully functioning unit would be put to good use the very next day...
Spring was in the tropics that morning, although it was only December, and the phermonious Latin women filled the air with love and the male species was forever on alert for reproductive chances and evolutionary earmark...I found Ramona near-asleep atop her sarong under one of the palapa huts that covered a pair of hammocks beneath...Good god did she look lovely in the sand and sun, with a sheen nothing like charlie or martin, but a glow and smile...she was glad to see me and our conversation broke through the hazy uncomfortable right away, and before long, we were in the hammocks laying foot to head, head to foot and talking of who knows what...I can’t recall much of what I ever say to a woman when we’re in the liquid nano-tick garcon-arriving first few days of a clandestine romance...the mind is too locked on the mission to save details...but I do remember I’m in the purple hammock and she’s in the blue and my internal dialogue shifts to a monologue...”while alive be a dead man, Thoroughly dead...” which I repeated over as a carnal mantra that would guide me through the coming pink and boozy unspoken night...at one point I get up the nerve to start touching her leg with a naïve perspicacity, a Pentecostal fusion of audacity and a moving chagrin, like the interplay of light and dark skin on the hammocks, under the cheery sun, meaning POSSIBILITY...oh, this I love more than mechanical excitement of the conical eminence, this I crave above first editions, for it cannot be inculcated or forced...for it is free...everyone can take and hold possibility, as much and for as long as they want, without mistake or magic or madness...I could see Ramona and everything else was grey relief...I’m reminded of the Second Stage of Sexual Arousal where the gland rapidly increases in size and becomes imbedded in the decidua...then, third phase...the flexures of the gland have taken place, so that it is strongly curved. My gland had gone through the first three stages now over fifty times. I couldn’t keep myself under control and it was beginning to be a problem hiding and tucking away my uteruan vessel...I was wearing swimming trunks (trunks is the only way to say it, cause a man ain’t got no business wearin’ them short pants) So I just kept hidin’ and tuckin’, tuckin’ and hidin’...
-Michael Price
