Temporary Contemporary Love: A Slice of Canadian Cheese.

Slither, slither goes the tongue. It creeps with its own creative free force like a Black Mamba - ooo mamma - in search of prey to conquer.

Her skin reminds me of extra fine, first press, olive oil - without the oil. My tongue, in all its bacterial glory, navigates like a new world explorer (or pirate since my tongue knows no moral boundaries) consuming the sweet, soft olive juice residue in search of gold. The gold I seek is similar to her long bewitching hair. It is hoped, as I skitter'n slide like mud past these lovely humps - which remind me of the romantic straight flatlands of Saskatchewan - and descend like Dante and Virgil into the Inferno, that I will discover tasty and profitable spices.

At a discount of course.

Gosh, if only mother knew what kind of indecorous break necking soppy cheap appliance her little leaguer has blossomed and degraded into.

This enticing woman, ooo this chick, who is she? She reminds me of apples, cinnamon and spice. Tangerine and mangos. I peek, like a koala, into her eyes and see that special and rare combo all men seek of fear, satisfaction and utter rapture.

My hawk-like claws catch her. This prey is mine. All mine. In a flash, my work is done. She whimpers and pants for more.

As I prepare my next venture into the abyss of unknown glory, the phone rings. Drring! I pound my fist on the night table. Who can possibly ruin this evanescent momentous fleeting ardor? I answer with much frustration and disgust as I gawk at her...."Why? But..."

I hang up and look over at the half-finished Sistine Chapel-like beauty next to me, "I must go my love. Leviathan - the government - beckons."

The ravishing sensual slut who reminds me of an olive pit asks, "Will I ever see you again?" I answer, as I button my seduction-rendering white linen shirt, gazing into the serene blue sky overlooking the majestic Mackenzie, "No, you ignorant skank. We just met. I must make haste." I look away as she does. I gape into her dark, gawky Mediterranean eyes while stroking her oily hair gently.

"The government sends its soldiers into the rings of hell without proper funding. But I do it for that flag, dammit!" I continue to look at her. "I may not make it. I leave for the Nanga Parbat Mountains tonight."

And so our lover-turned-hero leaves. He mutters to himself if he will be able to find the A-Team. She, this splendid albeit somewhat vexatious woman of sorts, holds the blanket to her firm breasts. She wonders if she'll ever see her lover of one night again.

"I will never forget you..." She realizes, while in her over-opiated sexual state, that she did not know or think (she rarely does) to ask his name.

With his back to her and a bottle of pills and pessary next to the night lamp, she pathetically bursts into ridiculous tears shouting at the absurdity of it all.


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