19 Puffs of Smoke #13
Copyright James Crawford, 2014
Forget that, I was transfixed!
When I looked around, similar things were happening all over the place. Gay people were checking out various kinds of heterosexual behavior. Straight people were experimenting with homosexual people, and the brides were going at it like starving wolves trying to share a rabbit.
“Wow,” I breathed. “I’m in a porno flick. This is so cool!” I tucked into my slice of cake, and watched the fantasy unfold.
I wished Annette had come along for this one. We could have expanded our sex life in the company of adventurous people! Sweet!
I munched on the sugar rose that lived on top of my cake. All those little crystals danced in my sensitive maw and I nearly wailed from the ecstatic experience.
My brain assembled that reality, and I understood I was stoned out of my ever-loving mind. Pot, alcohol, X… oh my goodness. About that time, the colors all ‘round me got drippy, and the rest of the cake on my plate started laughing at me.
Someone spiked the entrees with two to three drugs.
Someone spiked the cake with LSD.
Trouble arrived with an entourage of Murphy’s Lawyers.
I was paranoid, tripping, really wanting to touch people (and be touched), and worried how drunk I was… or how drunk I might not be. Nobody else seemed to be feeling quite the way I was, because they were all over the dance floor being immensely lewd with one another.
That’s what it looked like anyway. My spirit guide kept popping into and out of my drug induced mind flatulence, and I could tell he really wanted to communicate something important.
“Blah blah blah blah blah fart blah,” is what he seemed to be telling me. I didn’t understand it, and I told him so. This did not make him happy. “Blah! Blah! Blah! Your mama! Blah!”
“Dude, that’s not nice,” I chided him. He turned away from me in a cosmic huff. “Suit yourself, I’m going to get another dinner roll, and maybe hug some people.”
I staggered, crawled, undulated, and slithered into the throbbing heart of the party. Just as I suspected, there was a hedonistic festival occurring all over the… just everywhere. In my travels from the veranda to the buffet line, I crawled over four people having sex, crept under two people who were beating one another with waterlogged napkins, and narrowly avoided losing my toga.
Finding the bread took more time than I expected. I asked the cheese where to find the bread, and got a nasty remark. Don’t ask French cheese for directions. The cheddar was much more forthcoming.
There were no plates left, and no butter knife with which to apply butter to my roll. I used my hand instead, and emptied that cow product bowl. The wad of butter in my hand made a satisfying slap when it landed on the roll, and I giggled.
For some reason I smelled my hand, the one that had been in the butter, and I caught a distinctly familiar presence.
“Jammy, baby! It’s me, Bardo Express!” The butter on my hand said.
“Hey! Didn’t I review you six months ago? You’re that subtle marijuana from the mountains near Boulder, Colorado. Right?”
“Dude, yeah! Guess what?”
“They put me in the butter! Isn’t that some wacked out shit?”
I looked down at the roll and the clump of weed-laced goodness that sat upon it. The image wavered a bit, and some of the colors weren’t quite right, but it was clearly what I’d come inside for. It seemed to want me to eat it.
So I did.
My face was lubricated with melted milk fat when I attempted to make my way back to the veranda, where I believed I could be safe. Denying myself the pleasure of touching other people was really hard, but I knew, somewhere in my blown mind, that starting down that path would be…something.
I don’t know who grabbed the corner of my toga, but I found myself standing, naked, in the middle of the floor. I imagine my pose looked like the “Birth of Venus,” if Venus had a penis, and a face full of melted butter.
A hand that looked like a plush, purple walrus, grabbed what might have been my ankle. Chocolate ganache joy shuddered up my body. The Kundalini snake inside me thrashed to heavy metal Enya. Without a breath of doubt left, I succumbed to the humping floor.
Bacchus, in his festive glory, would have blushed at the things going on down there. That was only the rolling around, moaning, and random touching. Even Shintaro Katsu, my cosmic excuse for a self esteem drubbing, was concerned about the things I was engaging in. He’d break into my wandering awareness periodically, to leave a comment or offer an opinion.
“Roll a little to your right. Perfect. Now hump like a wild dog.” Katsu instructed.