May 30, 2011 by heartonsleevereview
Guest writer! Please welcome Meg Tuite. Meg Tuite’s writing has appeared in numerous journals. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Lit Review and Connotation Press. Her novel “Domestic Apparition” (2011) will soon be available through San Francisco Bay Press. She has a monthly column “Exquisite Quartet” for Used Furniture Review.
Her blog: http://megtuite.wordpress.com.
Thank you to Meg for submitting to HOSR.
This bald, alabaster dwarf, white as the beard of Santa Claus, without the beard, clean-shaven and smooth as a gloss-finish glides up to me at the annual Bear’s Convention in Cancun and asks me to dance! This isn’t the fucking Chicago Bears we’re talking. It’s the Gay Bear’s of America–the hairier, the hotter. This ghost shines his albino reflection up at me. I look down at him, cause I’m 6’3 and I’ve got hair over every crevice–don’t even need to wear a speedo, there’s so much hair sloping down my whiz-bang apparatus, swinging to its own separate tune.
Fuck it! I’m a hirsute landmine with a hot pepper up my ass! I’m ready to give it a go. I take his doll-like, soft hand in mine and we start working moves on the disco floor. My curling iron is sizzling tonight. It couldn’t get any better. It’s the goddamn Bee-Gee’s. We’re roasting it. This tiny tot has some groovin’ moves and I’m pulling the 360-routine, so all the gorillas can see what they’re up against. I’m full-fur fire, doing the hair toss and the swing your armpit hair simultaneously. Two orangutan dye-jobs move in and surround me. I don’t want to brag, but I’m a natural cascading bouffant. I start grinding it with the glowing, pumpkin twins until a train of bushy, matted dudes swoop around me like orbiting a planet and we are all Patrick Swayze-ing it, pounding and grabbing and pulsing to the screeching falsettos of Andy and Barry swooning, “Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin alive, stayin alive.” And just as I’m provoking the group with my drop down to my knees Travolta move, I notice something pale and flat as an envelope underneath all these dusky, stomping hooves.
I kneel down to grasp the tiny fellow. He looks up at me and I lower my ear to his mouth. He yells out, “I’ve got all the DVD’s of Planet of the Apes. I’ve been waiting forever for you to do a re-make.” He smiles weakly into my watery eyes as some enormous, layered shadow of dark ringlets wraps his brawny arms around me and pulls me up. I lunge toward him as the strange little elfin creature melts into a puddle of shooting lights and gyrating shags like the wicked witch on the Wizard of Oz.