The Wages, An Illustrated Story | 11. Masterstroke | Masterstroke
The blurb on Girlfriend Librarians promised that “Their decimals were always dewy,” and the author was credited as Charlotte F. Verity. Some awkward plot details made me wonder if it was actually written by a man, but that didn’t stop me from keeping the book hidden away in a manila envelope marked “guitar strings.”
One dismal Tuesday evening when I was done for the day from Nougat Barn, I found myself alone at home and in the mood for some action. I opened the strategically cluttered bottom drawer of my dresser, extracted the disguised envelope, and slid the book out. I tossed the paperback on my bed and pounced on the blankets after it. I unzipped my black flared slacks with what I hoped would amount to bewitching showmanship if I ever found a romantic partner.
Pleased with another sophisticated rehearsal of that little performance, I lingered over my adult-reading purchase to consider a few bookmarks I had slipped into passages where sensible women cut loose to do dirty things to each other.
But I faltered while my delicious anticipation disintegrated into vile disgust.
The strips of paper protruding from the unopened book were all blank tags, but I realized that I knew in sordid detail the exact obscene act that each one pointed to. I had memorized pornography.
I was not a smoldering beacon of solitary pleasure illuminating the darkness. I was just lonely and grotesque.
After work I had ordered a yummy mountain of fries, but been repulsed when presented with the sleazy heap of grease. The plummet from excitement to disgust caused by Girlfriend Librarians felt ten times worse.
I picked up a pen and scrawled the phrase, “I Feel So Trashy” on the envelope.
I thought for a moment, and then I wrote, “Somebody oughta take me out.”
I had wordplay. It was a chorus.
I grabbed my guitar and dashed off a few chords of uptempo country boogie. I wrote more words and verses on the envelope, and I had finished a silly little song.
My internal torment relented. I was not going to waste any more of my valuable private time on musical fluff. I shoved my guitar and writing away across my rumpled blankets.
I opened the smutty book with renewed gusto, devoured three choice pages, and completed the original task at hand.