The Minotauress

'Like death'n taxes,' but then she paused. '‘Cept I don't really pay no taxes to speak of. But I reckon I'll be payin' lots more once this Arkansas shyster gets in the White House. Kin you believe the news says he's gonna win?'

'I'm an apolitical writer,' the Writer said. 'I have no opinion... '

The blonde and red-head ran up the stairs with their boxes, excited as children who'd just been given a surprise. The brunette remained, however, opening her box at the desk. 'Oh, I just so hope this is it!' she gibbered.

The girl squealed with delight. The Writer did a double-take. The box read WONKO KITCHEN PRODUCTS: THERM-O-FRESH FOOD SAVING SYSTEM.

'I'se gonna go use mine right now, I am!' she celebrated and scampered up the stairs.

'These girls,' Mrs. Gilman said, shaking her head with a smile.

The Writer looked hard at her. 'Mrs. Gilman? Why on earth would girls such as these spend two hundred dollars apiece on those—'

The phone rang, truncating the rest of the Writer's query.

'Oh hi, Doris, dear! And how are you today?'

The Writer could feel a long conversation coming so he drifted upstairs. He counted thirteen steps to the landing. What would happen if, say, tomorrow I walk up these same steps, but there are fourteen? And the next day fifteen? And sixteen the day after that?

It must be a slow night; very few bedsprings were heard, but he did hear someone say 'Who's your daddy?' but he was sure it was a woman's voice.

He passed a door half-open, unconsciously looked in, then gaped.

'Haa! Come on in!'

It was Nancy, and the reason for the Writer's gape was due to the fact that Nancy was sitting hunched on her bed, one hundred percent naked. Oh, dear, he thought.

Her perfect breasts, however badly tattooed, depended from the pose; she was leaning over painting her toenails. Every contour of her physique seemed to exist without perceptible defect. Redneck paragon... A physical pattern of excellence. Shakespeare could write a pastoral verse-sequence about her, in octosyllabic couplets...

'How do my toesies look?' she asked, then stuck her long legs out.

'Preeminent,' the Writer droned.

'Does... that mean good?'

'Yes.' Like slow syrup, his gaze drooled down the legs to the adorable bald triangle of creases betwixt them. Even inclined on her elbows, her stomach showed not even an inkling of a ridge.

Though touched upon previously, it must be stated in full now that the Writer was—and had been for a number of years—a self-imposed celibate. It was the sexual angst he craved, that strange edge of need unrelieved. He knew that it's what his Muse demanded: to stare into the promise of la petite-morte only to have it sift through his fingers like so much proverbial sand. Monks did it, priests did it, even Jesus Christ did it, and the Writer figured that if he could imitate just one facet of them, then his writing would be charged by the same verity that charged their systems of faith. But even in his abstinence, however, he was allowed to look. As a Writer, he was a seeker, and hence, a seer. If the human self was the only thing that could be known and therefore verified, everything that that same self saw was verifiable as well.

His penis swelled in his pants to the extent that it felt like a hamster that had died and entered rigor mortis.

'So what'cha doin' tonight?' she asked, rocking her feet.

His teeth ground as the realities bled through the ideal. The atrocious tattoos turned her into a desecrated icon. His autograph was still in plain sight above the 'Smiley Face' with a nipple for a nose.

'I was doing my Dylan Thomas imitation,' he said.

'Huh?'

'Drinking a lot.'

She giggled. 'Oh, I heard you hang out up the Crossroads.' Her eyes went wide in a hopeful recollection. 'I gang-banged ten fellas there once fer ten bucks a piece. Next time you're there, look fer the dark spot by the corner pocket. That's me.'

The Writer stood speechless.

'So who's this villain yer talkin' 'bout? His name's Thomas?'

Whuh... 'Oh, no, not villain. Dylan. Dylan Thomas. I was making a quip. He was arguably the century's greatest poet in the English language—he wrote Deaths and Entrances. He was what they call a ‘biblical symbolist.''

Nancy's angelic face showed recognition. 'I gots me a step-brother who plays cymbals—and drums, too.'

'No, no, Dylan Thomas' best verse juxtaposed the exuberance of faith in God, with the cruciality of our need to redeem ourselves for our sexual sins.'

Her peaches-and-cream tits bounced when she giggled again. 'Oh. I guess I'se need ta read him!'

'But I was actually joking in my preliminary reference. He was a big drinker,' the Writer explained. 'I'm sure it was just an excuse for his alcoholism, but he would regularly contend no matter how much alcohol he consumed, he could prevent himself from getting drunk merely by thinking.'

'Thankin'?' the prostitute queried.

'Yes. He believed that alcohol accelerated the quality of his creativity, so he would drink but by the force of his mind, not allow himself to get drunk.' He was also an oaf and an oddball, who died from alcohol poisoning, but the Writer neglected to mention these facts.

'Just by thankin',' Nancy uttered amazed.

'Oh, yes. The human mind is quite a powerful thing, the sheer force of will.'

'But'cha know?' Her face lit up. 'I'se kin do somethin' with my mind! Wanna see?'

All those beers were finally sinking in. The Writer was wobbling a bit in place. 'Uh, well, I really should be go—'

'Just you watch!' she advised, and adjusted her pose. She leaned up on her arms, and parted her creamy