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Squid #249
(published October 20, 2005)
Ask the Giant Squid: Looking to Date?
Who is Poor Mojo's Giant Squid?
From: vkoaabdkgkcl@mailAccount.com
Subject: Looking to Date?
Date: October 14, 2005 8:32:45 PM EDT
To: editors@poormojo.org

Check out this Profile:

  • Age: 25
  • Height: 5'5''
  • Weight: 120 lbs
  • Hair Color: Dirty Blond
  • Eye Color: Hazel
  • Body Type: Slim
  • Ethnic Background: White
What really turns me on: Scented candles, a foot/back massage, a shower/bath for two.
Encounters I am open to: A threesome, using sex toys, anything goes.
What I am looking for in a partner: A willingness to experiment.

Smoking Habits: Socially
Drinking Habits: Socially
Status: Attached, looking for a discreet encounter.
Languages Spoken: English, Russian, French.
Interests: Conventional Sex, An encounter with a couple, Online Sex, Domination & Submission, Fetishes.

From: editors@poormojo.org
Subject: Re: Looking to Date?
Date: October 14, 2005 10:12:04 PM EDT
To: vkoaabdkgkcl@mailAccount.com

Hazel Dirty Blond,

This is all fairly intriguing. I, too, am interested in experiments, especially those involving pain thresholds or weather control—oh, yes, and also the Moon. Are any of these subjects within your purview?

Your listed interests lead me to understand that you are some form of behavioral psychologist or anthropologist. This is of some use to me, as certain human habits have recently come violently to my attention, and I desire for clarification.

My researches indicate that you are located in or about Lincoln, Nebraska. I, by chance, am more or less in the vicinity (or, at least, time zone, and my conveyance of choice moves quite swiftly over all but the most desolately mountainous terrain—ah, mountains, the inverted valleys of the surface world.) Might we meet for a tete-a-tete? As for human gruntspeak, I have some little proficiency in the Espaniel, the Franco-French and the Latins, but am clearly no match for your polyglot tongue. I attempted at one point to learn the Russian tongue, but the savagery of the people cowed even me, and I gave up on my lessons. Also, I believe that the instructor may have engaged in a Robbery Event upon me. Might we conduct our further interview in English?

In closing, I am somewhat concerned about your status of "attached"; do you yet await surgery? Or is this attachment more in the matter of contractual, at which time I wonder if any non-disclosure or -competition agreements would prevent you from discussing, with me, these matters of human sexuality which you research.

I Remain,
Your Giant Squid

From: vkoaabdkgkcl@mailAccount.com
Subject: Re: Re: Looking to Date?
Date: October 15, 2005 01:52:35 PM EDT
To: editors@poormojo.org

Um . . . ok.

i don't know what "polyglot" is, but my tongue is fine. healthy. english only. also cash. i dont know what you mean about "contracts", but my "manager" doesnt need to know about this. you save 50 bucks if we dont have him in it. 20 for oral, 10 for a handjob. nothing weird.

thursday nights i work the first truckstop after lincoln (if yr coming from omaha), on the westbound side.


For these past several months, whilst I have wandered the highways and goodbye-ways of My America, putting wrong that which has once gone right as President-at-Large, I have been afforded much time to consider many matters both great and small: Why must the Nipponese dismember and disfigure my ex-rutt-mates? Is Kaitlin guilty of the show-offery? Is Veep Molly making a mockery of the bold boys-town of politíque americain through her femalery, and has she loosed George Double-Yew from his Cabinet, or in the least fed him his belovéd tots?

More than anything, this time-out from my Ovular Office, wandering the backwoods and backroads, frontwoods and frontage roads of my belovéd and backward adoptive homeland, has given me the perspective of distance not simply on the above professional matters, but also on a variety of personal matters, most nameful of which has been this: my dear laboratory assistant, press-secretary-in-absentia and homme de monde, Rob Miller, and our relationship. For several years, ever since my patriation and emigration to the fair City of Motors disheveled and noble, loyal Rob has been my helpmate, lick-spittle, conspirator and guinea pig. Oft did I wonder "What, precisely, is the range of girth in female mammaries?", and it was Rob who did scurry forth to perform the appropriate and needed researches. Were my spirits low, then it was Rob who would endeavor to uplift them; were I peckish of hungers, it was Rob who would introduce to my tank a delicious and chocolately smooth Dobe-Your-Man pup. He was a man of all seasons, a willing translator and native guide through the labrynthine outback of your American customs, and a clownish and entertaining dupe to serve as butt of my many Roman Holidays.

But, and here I am frank—by which I mean to convey I am communicating honestly, not engaging in some deception of character in which I am to be referred to as Frank—where-in once I felt the deep bond of something akin to animal affection for him, Rob has since grown distant and strange to me. Frankly, his frequent and prolonged absence on his strange errands these past several months are not a symptom, but rather the result of a syndrome which has left him a different man with a spirit changed completely from that I knew and loved. We have grown a part, and that part is a vacuous absence which separates us. I miss my Rob of yore, and I am the lonesome for him, now, even more than for my lovely, adorable pet George Double-Yew, or for sassy Molly, or obedient Sang, but I also see, with my optically perfect eye, that my sadness is for the loss of Rob, and my ennui for the bitter-tart nostalgia that he is non-returnable to me.

This realization, of course, was much met of the sadness; standing in among our autumnal amber fields of grain, I could not help but be gripped by the aptness of a certain lyric verse of poetry I had happened upon while monitoring the frequency-modulated radio-broadcasts of this Heartland. I believe I quote of the Whitesnakes when I say:

And here I go again on my own
Going down the only road I have ever known,
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone;
And I have made up my mind, that
I am not wasting no more time . . .

Thus, it was with downcast eyes and hopeful hearts that I engaged in the above exchange of e-missives, and arranged to meet with Hazel, a human with whom I shared at least one pre-existing interest (apart from the fortuitous co-incidence of wants, desire-for-cheap-labor and impecunious-circumstances, which brought myself and Rob together four years past): a desire to experiment.

Having made these arrangements, I did speed with all alacrity—although some sparse delay, having become only somewhat discombobulated and misguided among the shuffling and moribund cornrows of Bloody Nebraska and Bloody Kansas—to my evening assignation. Almost did I succumb to the cold-feets, and with fears and trembling I did approach that first most western of truck-to-stops past the fair burgh of Lincoln's Nebraska. The sun itself—strange hellspot wanderer of the sharp-edged firmament—tracked even further westward, beyond the truck-to-stop, beyond the Melungeon Spider-God Lincoln's Nebraska, casting an incarnadine sheen across the void sky, and giving the whispering cornstalks all the seeming of a fire, caught broad and complete across a horizon of oily waves. I did circumnavigate the stop's tarmac, scuttling crabishly among the rye, the tall, dry stalks thumping forlornly against my chromed carapace. There were many folk in among the cars and trucks, and I did become despairing that I might ever identify this Hazel with whom I had arranged.

But, as hours passed and the sun westered further, I did note a certain female, of taught denim short-pants in the le modèle du duc de marguerite and a puffing pink parka of the short, toreador style—little protection from the cool bite of the evening's air. She sat up in her cab watching after every car, after every pick-up truck, and I thought: this is the Jane Good-for-All of the human behaviors. As she walked back behind the stop-of-rest, lighting a small white stick at her lips, I did make my approach.

She was leaning against the bricks of the small rest-hall, taking in deep and yogic breaths and breathing out both steam and smoke! She leaned, taking her rest, and I came out through the rye, and bowed low.

"Hazel," I spoke, "I have come for our oral appointment, so that we might engage in our intercourse and come, together, to an understanding of those things which we each know, but to which the other yet has no access."

The searing bloody up-sun was at my back, and so she was shaded in my arachnoid shadow. In the tinted pink sheen of her glass-of-sun, I could see my ghostly reflection, my black silhouette, like a hint of the starless, hopeless and void night sky cut through the garish satin of the sun's exeunt. In my shadow Hazel was like an alabaster statue, her skin pale and blanching further, her hair a coiffured surge and foam of auburn curls. The smoking white tube tumbled from her lips and upon onto the ground, and we stood for our moment, me in my courtly bow, and she frozen.

And I worried.

Had I breached protocol, like a president saluting his inferior, with my overt show of gentlemanly deference? Had I scandalized and embarrassed her? Dismay spread across my formidable mind, and my skins muddled in a noxious mauve and puce of confusion, shame, embarrassment and recrimination. But then, thankfully, Hazel did quicken. Breaths came to her.

"You," she said, "You're that editor from the e-mail?"

"An editor," I replied, nodding within my domed carapace and standing to my full ten feet of polydactyl glory, "among other things."

"Other things," she said hollowly. Her eye scanned across me, across my travel-worn steel velocitator and the lexi-glass bubble of my anti-bathosphere dome, and then across me, my mantle, my optically perfect eyes and razored beak, and finally among my many tentacles, tracking them as the slid and slithered among the many controls of my conveyance.

"You," she said, blushing deeply of the face, "You're a giant squid. You're the President."

I nodded mutely, but she looked not at my headsac nor my eyes, for her own inferior orbs were caught up in my tentacles, gripping and relaxing, adjusting and manipulating, rocking the cradle which rocks the world.

A smile came up to her lips, like some delicacy floating up from the lightless depths, from some rift deep and hidden and hellishly cold, from a trench forgotten. It was a smile coy and, frankly, to me, cryptic.

"You're," she did blush all the deeper, and licked her lips, eyes still tracking, tracking, mesmerically, among my arms and tentacles, "you're beautiful."

"I . . ." I began, but trailed off; for the first time in my timeless, limitless existence, I was without words, and so I spoke not.

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