MARIE
MCPHEE
AND
MAGIC
A Fictional Tale Of Tail
With Some Magical Moments,
Repeatedly.
A True Cyclic
Phenomenon Is Demonstrated
And Described For A Very
Common Marital Feeling
By Izzy Ess Of Happiness
Be
still my jealous heart, the babe is taken by a cool and psychopathic cat who’s
into Jazz and Blues. He’s young and tall
and so good-looking that the other babes in this apartment house give him those
duplicated keys that open all their doors.
I figure that he could have a night of wonderment and sexual activity
that would attention be to anyone that emulates Don Juan or his old namesake,
Casanova, eh? The babe in question is
Marie McPhee who is a beautiful example of a Venus here on Earth. She is so statuesque that she stands still on
purpose so that every man in this apartment can just gaze upon her pulchritude
and have those fantasies that all the men have when they are married, like in
the movie called, “The Itch Of Seven Years,” or something similar, which
starred Ms. M. Monroe and Tomcat Ewer, Pitcher of the Woo.
Before
Ms. M. McPhee was taken, she was taken to just visit all the men in my
apartment and making them quite happy with her lullabies and comfort blankets,
eh? One night she came to my apartment
and she demonstrated how to make a tent with my own comforter. She made me lie down naked on my floor and
use my comforter to cover all my body, and then she did a striptease and my
manhood swelled and stood up straight and made a tent with my own
comforter. Then she joined me in my tent
and did ensure that I was happy by singing me a lullaby while sitting on my
tent pole and just lubricating it with her own special hot and juicy lubricant
from her own honeypot. It was quite a
night that she repeated several times each week for several months until she
met her special psychopathic cool cat, the super-stud from the apartment on the
top floor, Henry Le Debris.
Yesterday,
she came to me and said that Henry was unfaithful and would I like to make a
tent again. “Why yes!” I said and just
undressed and lay upon the floor with my own comforter. She did a striptease and made my tent-pole
rise. She cried and said, “I’ll kill the
stud who is unfaithful, just one day in May, but for today I want to make you
happy, dear Sylvester Sandwiches. Is that
OK?” I nodded and she did her thing with
her own private parts that meant another lube job with her honeypot. It was fantastic, eh? I asked her if she would stay for several
nights so we could keep up with the lubrication and the making of our tents. She agreed and has been living with me for
these seven years. She’s got an itch now
and she wants it satisfied by someone other than myself, so I said, “You are
free, my dear, to find another man for whom to sing a lullaby and with whom to
make a tent. I wish you all successes
and some happy landings!”
Ms.
Marie was quite successful and she landed in a big old house with a group of
seven brothers for whom she did the Dance of Seven Comforters. She did each brother separately on each and
every day of every week. Tuesday was her
favourite but she did not exclude the Wednesday or the Friday brothers. She shared her lubricating talents with them
all on all their special days. They all
loved her darling making of the tents with comforters, especially, the Saturday
young sibling who fell in love with her.
This sibling was named Sam Civilian Normandy of the famous Siblings of
the Normandy, a legend of the Seven Brothers of the Seven Sovereign Countries
for the Continental Fighting Force of Irishmen.
Suffice
to say, in Mandalay or Hudson’s Bay or Chesapeake, the seventh year doth bring
an itch and Marie was itchy, that’s for sure.
She watched the window on the street below and spotted Sullivan, the
garbage man and just ran right out and cornered him but he was not a bit
enticed by her because he did prefer the little boys and little men that he was
hanging all about and visiting while thus collecting garbage, eh? Disappointed, our Marie walked sullenly into
a post and knocked her senses out and lay upon the ground.
A
knight in shining armour happened by and scooped her up and sat her on his
saddle straddling the big western horn of his huge saddle. Marie awoke and thought she was in
Heaven. Her great big knight was very
handsome and oh so strong as he held her firmly on his saddle horn which made
her lubricated so much she almost slid right off. Instead, the galloping was so delightful, she
was having feelings from her toes to atop her head. The knight did gallop at full speed to give
his newfound angel as big a thrill as possible.
Then his horse took off! It was a
Pegasus and had these great big wings that allowed some soaring and just
getting off the ground to two thousand feet.
Marie was treated to a world-wide, whirl-wind tour of all romantic towns
and cities that she knew, from pictures, eh?
She saw the famous Taj Mahal, the Hanging Gardens of the Babylonians,
Niagara Falls, Victoria Falls, the Rocky Mountains, the Himalayas, Tibet, the
Forbidden city of Beijing and the Downtown Eaton Shopping Centre of Toronto.
In
Toronto, our Marie and Sir Pierre Montreux parked the Pegasus at the Royal York
Hotel and were able to reserve a penthouse suite for the fortnight. Marie enquired if there were comforters
about. The room clerk said why yes and
then asked why. Marie smiled demurely
and replied they were for making tents.
Both Sir Pierre and the room clerk, Sally Salamander, smiled and knew
exactly what she meant. For a whole two
weeks, our Marie and Sir Pierre made tents and Marie ensured that his tent pole
was lubricated by her own hot brand of honey.
I think it’s obvious that our Marie will
have these cycles every seven years her whole life. She had a modicum of fame which spread by
word of mouth and by those who had experienced her tent-making magic. The President of the USA had her perform her
magic at the White House, right in the Oval Office. The media was invited and recorded everything
and some went viral. Our own First Lady
was enthralled to learn some magic and she got a chance to try it on the Labour
Secretary under our Marie’s great tutelage.
The First Lady and the Labour Secretary fell in love, again, but it was
not too obvious. A documentary was made
by Michael Moore’s own distant cousin, and it was so graphic and exciting that
it had to be remade in just cartoons, with fuzzy private parts and fuzzy ample
breasts and nipples. The photography of
the actual tenting of a comforter was OK and always passed the censors. The strip tease and the lubrication of the
tent pole stopped the presses! The
cartoonists used as background music, Bolero by Ravel or Come Build a Tent with
Me with an imitator of Pierre Seville Sinatra.
As far as I know, Marie is in her seventh cycle and going strong with a
friend of Mahatma Ghandi’s young brother-in-law, Punjab Patel.
Perhaps when Marie reaches her 70th
birthday she will retire, but I doubt it.
The gleam in her bright eyes appears to be intensifying, rather than
diminishing. She IS a trooper, eh? She would probably go for a camping trip with
me, if I am lucky, and I can still construct a tent with my very old equipment,
eh?
THE
END
© izzy sommers, md
Welland, Canada
November 17, 2013
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