The Televisionary Oracle Read Online Free
Author: Rob Brezsny
master.”
Up till this moment, I’ve been nurturing the fantasy that Rapunzel is a bullshit artist of the first magnitude—a play-acting lunatic as devoted to creating hyper-real performance art on the spur of the moment as I am. My confidence in this interpretation has been shaken somewhat by the speed and ease with which she materialized the mature vulture masterpiece on the wall. It seemed rehearsed. Now, with the appearance of the “menarche for men” announcement, I’mforced to consider the possibility that Rapunzel’s behavior is at least partially premeditated.
Whether it is or not, I can’t let that issue dampen my own contribution to the entertainment.
“Supreme Arbiter,” I say, “I’d kiss your buttocks and wear a cardboard crown from Burger King and write a whole album’s worth of songs just for you if that’s what it took to earn the right to a female-mediated experience that no man has had since 4323 B.C.”
She points to her ankle-high army boots. “You are indeed precocious, my boy, but not so much that you get to kiss the buttocks of the Supreme Arbiter on the first date. I will, however, let you take a stab at another part of the holy vehicle. See if you can transmit your tantric awe into my feet—but without taking off my shoes, thank you.”
I lean over to unlink the shoelaces that Rapunzel tied together earlier. Then I drop down to the floor and do ten push-ups, grunting like an army recruit. With my arms as props, I lift my upper body to her derrière-level and feign a quick strike at my preferred target, barking fake karate yells. But this is just psychodrama, a strategy to heighten the foreplay and impress Rapunzel with my erotically attractive unpredictability. In fact, I’m determined not to blaze in on a fast, direct course and bang my lips ineffectually against the unyielding black leather guarding her toes. Instead, I plan to spiral in from the side of the left boot and descend on that sensitive borderland where the smooth hood of the boot meets the latticework where the laces begin.
Like a cobra I dart and feint with my head, approaching the target with a teasing caginess. Rapunzel seems patient, standing calmly with her legs apart about shoulder width, her eyes gazing down to catch my show. To add to the drama, I hiss almost subliminally.
My final descent is in slow motion. With reverent tenderness, I rest my lips gently against the targeted area and begin to chant a mantra evoked specially for the occasion: SMOOOOOOCH. Now and then my tongue slips out to seal the prayer, tasting the leather that separates me from Rapunzel’s sacred skin.
“I’m pleased,” she says blithely when I’m done. “That was one of the most lion-hearted boot kisses I’ve ever been worshiped with. I can see you’re willing to take blasphemous liberties with your tantra. You don’t do it by rote. Shows your great promise.”
“Thank you thank you thank you.”
“Now what’s that hype you spouted about writing a whole album’s worth of songs for me? Are you really prepared to follow through on that offer, or was that just your sex making promises the rest of you can’t keep?”
“It’ll be like a rock opera,” I riff without hesitation, “based on a story of a macho feminist rock singer who before a show at a big nightclub sneaks into the women’s bathroom because he’s heard there’s a lot of horny graffiti written about him in one of the stalls. Only while he’s in there he has a fortuitous encounter with a mysterious woman with a fairy tale name who he quickly realizes is smarter than he is and who also isn’t totally gaga about his fame and charisma like all the other girls, which turns him on so much that he cooks up a plan to get to know her better. And the plan is that he offers to write a whole cycle of songs about her based on the story of her life, which he has no intention of actually doing because it’s just his sex making promises the rest of him can’t keep.
Up till this moment, I’ve been nurturing the fantasy that Rapunzel is a bullshit artist of the first magnitude—a play-acting lunatic as devoted to creating hyper-real performance art on the spur of the moment as I am. My confidence in this interpretation has been shaken somewhat by the speed and ease with which she materialized the mature vulture masterpiece on the wall. It seemed rehearsed. Now, with the appearance of the “menarche for men” announcement, I’mforced to consider the possibility that Rapunzel’s behavior is at least partially premeditated.
Whether it is or not, I can’t let that issue dampen my own contribution to the entertainment.
“Supreme Arbiter,” I say, “I’d kiss your buttocks and wear a cardboard crown from Burger King and write a whole album’s worth of songs just for you if that’s what it took to earn the right to a female-mediated experience that no man has had since 4323 B.C.”
She points to her ankle-high army boots. “You are indeed precocious, my boy, but not so much that you get to kiss the buttocks of the Supreme Arbiter on the first date. I will, however, let you take a stab at another part of the holy vehicle. See if you can transmit your tantric awe into my feet—but without taking off my shoes, thank you.”
I lean over to unlink the shoelaces that Rapunzel tied together earlier. Then I drop down to the floor and do ten push-ups, grunting like an army recruit. With my arms as props, I lift my upper body to her derrière-level and feign a quick strike at my preferred target, barking fake karate yells. But this is just psychodrama, a strategy to heighten the foreplay and impress Rapunzel with my erotically attractive unpredictability. In fact, I’m determined not to blaze in on a fast, direct course and bang my lips ineffectually against the unyielding black leather guarding her toes. Instead, I plan to spiral in from the side of the left boot and descend on that sensitive borderland where the smooth hood of the boot meets the latticework where the laces begin.
Like a cobra I dart and feint with my head, approaching the target with a teasing caginess. Rapunzel seems patient, standing calmly with her legs apart about shoulder width, her eyes gazing down to catch my show. To add to the drama, I hiss almost subliminally.
My final descent is in slow motion. With reverent tenderness, I rest my lips gently against the targeted area and begin to chant a mantra evoked specially for the occasion: SMOOOOOOCH. Now and then my tongue slips out to seal the prayer, tasting the leather that separates me from Rapunzel’s sacred skin.
“I’m pleased,” she says blithely when I’m done. “That was one of the most lion-hearted boot kisses I’ve ever been worshiped with. I can see you’re willing to take blasphemous liberties with your tantra. You don’t do it by rote. Shows your great promise.”
“Thank you thank you thank you.”
“Now what’s that hype you spouted about writing a whole album’s worth of songs for me? Are you really prepared to follow through on that offer, or was that just your sex making promises the rest of you can’t keep?”
“It’ll be like a rock opera,” I riff without hesitation, “based on a story of a macho feminist rock singer who before a show at a big nightclub sneaks into the women’s bathroom because he’s heard there’s a lot of horny graffiti written about him in one of the stalls. Only while he’s in there he has a fortuitous encounter with a mysterious woman with a fairy tale name who he quickly realizes is smarter than he is and who also isn’t totally gaga about his fame and charisma like all the other girls, which turns him on so much that he cooks up a plan to get to know her better. And the plan is that he offers to write a whole cycle of songs about her based on the story of her life, which he has no intention of actually doing because it’s just his sex making promises the rest of him can’t keep.
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