Summer of the Monkey 4

Summer of the Monkey
Summer of the Monkey 2
Summer of the Monkey 3

I gazed in awe at the image of absolute divinity before me. I don’t even know her and I Already miss her. I miss the way she looks at me with those eyes of simple beauty and grace. I miss the way her caress floats across my skin on wings of passionate anticipation. I miss the way her lips feel as they fuse together with mine. I miss the way her smile dances across her face in a sunburst of joy and pleasure. I miss her sigh as she laments her hopes and dreams to the fickle winds of change. I miss the feel of her—it’s all in the certain way naked flesh feels when you are dancing the Dance of Tongues. I miss her laugh that sings like a thousand choirs of angels in rapture as they proclaim hosannas to their Supreme God. I miss her, good people, and all that she is, was and ever will be. I cannot have her—I know it. Thus, my heart mourns for the loss of passion, I take my leave of my beauty knowing destiny has separated us for her own selfish reasons. And I tarried, up, up and away with the help of the Mistress and Benevolent Gaia’s gifts.

Tis a scene rife with Primal beats and an essence of the most pure and erotic energy that two bodies consumed with tension can endure. Sir Garnish enters this act and as he presents himself he plunges headlong into this erotic flow. Captain Rowdy and the Duke of Slide follow suit after procuring some native maidens for their cause. As for myself, I have become enchanted with this flow. There is something erotic in its manner. And I, having recently begun to enjoy the exotic and its females, am drawn to this.

The Pirate Prince chooses a tea stick. This is a period of relaxation for him after some unfortunate events earlier concerning family land and title. The discussion went less than pleasant and etiquette was thrown out of the window at the expense of family honor.

I want to fall in love with a woman that speaks no English. I do not want to understand a word that is regurgitated from her pouty lips. This, friends, is the epicenter of erotic. Think of it. You can’t pollute your emotion with language. You must rely on the primal instinct to communicate you passion. There are infinite ways to say, “I love you” with your hands.

I fear the loneliness has at last set in. The Princess of Swords has left my heart in a somewhat confused and pained state. Alas, what followed was a realization and self-awareness as to my state of desolate isolation. “Do you see this place right here?” I enquire of the Baron as I point at a particular part of the foot (specifically the ankle, right underneath the bone) of my forgotten Princess. “Aye. I see it.” He replies with just enough of a somber tone in his voice to relate to me that he understood the inner secrets of the Most Holy Erotic areas of those you have Passion for. “I used to like to rub that spot.” I say, though I can barely finish for I feel my eye faucets starting to leak and I retreat to the safety of the darkness outside.

I observe the Baron as he muses over a love letter he is penning to the maiden who possesses his coronary pump. He paces about as he mutters the exact ways to express his undying and everlasting devotion to his worthy Lady. He waits eagerly for his daily fix, which allows him to renew his parched spirits. He cherishes each syllable of her voice that cascades into his hungry ear as they converse.

I gaze into a glass graveyard for discarded shards of metal. It was my great grandmother’s—The Glass. The metal shards are mine alone.

Baron von Sometimes forages for an offering from Gaia. He is very skilled in the All Mother’s ways and has become an adept ranger as well as a minstrel. We, amongst our tiny band of Miscreant Nobles, look unto him for guidance from Gaia as well as a chance to cool our souls with his melodious salve.

Our adventures bear us to places of vivid reality on the wings of whatever steed we choose as our mount. The gap between “Who you are” and “how you are” continually widens as you try to bound over it in a desperate attempt at bringing together your Sacred Fish and the rest of your blasted personage. I’d like to think we accomplished this on one level or another. We all must grow, advance, become better beings than what we already are. That is purpose. Experience is life. We understand that the fish only swims for so long. We must not let them swim from us lest we meet death at the hands of the Other He. But, we progress

…and the soup thickens…

Picture, if you will, the chalet of a wealthy merchant. Tis a wooden structure amidst dense woods (allowing for handy lumber at rock bottom prices). With in this abode resides the merchant’s daughter. Her name has been deemed Irish Twang. And Captain Rowdy was all about sum dat Twang. Thus, he ventures to the Chalet after the public house closes its doors and all the would-be bards have extinguished their desire to embarrass themselves. He is accompanied by Sir Garnish and The Duke of Slide. They arrive to find a small Gathering of friends in attendance of The King’s Spirit, which all partook of heavily.

Captain Rowdy separates himself from the group in order to secure the affections of Lady Twang. The Duke submerges himself in the Relaxing Cauldron of Bubbling Warmth. Sir Garnish joins, as does a maiden of questionable reputation. Alas, our noble heroes are too intoxicated to resist the wiles of the evil hedonist and they soon succumb to her forbidden pleasures. Sir Garnish was the first to fall. And fall he did. He was no match for the destructive seduction of the evil succubus. He was lured into her lair of fornication and death only to have an essential part of his essence ripped from him by her poison claws (it was revealed later that those parts denied him were pride and masculinity). The Duke was next to taste the bittersweet regret of defeat. Ushered into that hideous den by an enchanted Sir Garnish. Oh how these brave warriors have fallen. Meanwhile, Captain Rowdy is having his Rooster excited only to be wrecked on the brink of expulsion by the very one delivering the stimulation. 3 noble hearts defeated! A sad day indeed. But that’s all in the past now.

That was when the most beautiful pair of eyes ever to grace this blighted garden entered my company.

It was one of those nights. When ghosts both long dead and newly materialized will parade around you with brutal clarity. Each one has a song to sing—a story to tell. And you must bear them all with a somber silence. Let them indulge in their orgy of sweet memory that ushers a salty drop down the broken face of the forgotten. I watched them dance, good folk, I saw the brutal pleasure derived from these vile spirits at the expense of my sanity and joy—————————-no joy, no sadness, no pleasure, no pain, no flighty romantic notions of love and soul mates—just life and old paintings hanging on the walls of our fishome to remind us just how perfect everything used to be. Hindsight is much more bittersweet when viewed through shades of black velvet kisses.

I long for the sweet taste of leather and her skin across my parched lips.

“But first! You must tell me the hermit’s secret.” I proclaim in an almost wild desperation to the Pirate Prince. And he, in his smuggy smugness leans back in his chair and smiles. “Why do you want to know the Hermit’s Secret?” “Because dammit! It’s essential!” I pause briefly, “Because the Monkey demands it, god dammit!” He leans close to me, hinting at the enlightenment on its way to my think-sponge. “He crosses the mountains and plains but still the rainbows lead nowhere.” how fucking brilliant?

Choose wisely.

The Duke and Baron undertake a duel to secure the favors of The Mistress, a most striking beauty indeed. I offer a battle of hunterbearninja and tis denied. Instead stoneparchmentdagger is chosen. And the fists begin to fly! The Baron is possessed with a look of fierce determination. Slide is matching his gaze, being equally intense in spirit. Baron draws—Dagger! He lunges at his opponent with his blade as the Duke draws—parchment! The blade slices through the paper and strikes the Duke in the chest. The round is the Barons! Round two: Baron draws—Stone! He hurls the stone with all his might at the Duke who Draws Stone as well. The Baron’s stone is knocked out of the air with the Duke’s own. The round is a draw. The crowd gasps in excited anticipation. Those in the Baron’s section are confident. For their Champion has won the First round. Smugness is passed around in frosty cold mugs. But the Duke’s crowd knows that their hero is of strong constitution and is not easily defeated. Round Three: Duke draws dagger! The fierce warrior attacks the Baron with his blade, a hell-crazed look burning in his eye. The Baron draws—Stone! Sometimes uses his rock to deflect the blade of the Baron. The round goes to the Baron. Round Four: The Baron draws dagger! He quickly returns the Duke’s ferocious attack with his own. The Duke is caught off guard and draws—Parchment! The Duke is defeated!

But see friends, no harm was done. This was friendly sport and the Baron was rewarded his just prize with no hard feelings. For we were chivalrous cavaliers. Each of us bore our own strict code of morals and honor. We lived by these creeds, as all those of noble heart should. Our differences were our strengths. We supported each other, Atlases of Pain and Heartaches. That’s how we survived.


About That One Guy

Jason lives, laughs and loves in the Land of Enchantment. He has been many exciting things in his life, but his title has always been "author." His book, "The Ruined Man," was a finalist in the 2017 NM-AZ Book Awards. Follow him on Facebook at: Twitter: @infinityjones and Instagram @theruinedman and don't forget to check out his blog at

Posted on March 21, 2012, in Author, Fiction, Religion and Spirituality, Spirituality, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. In fact I love this part of the story, still lost though, as I always am, yet I have absorbed it as much as I could, Love every bit in the starting para and yes talking about love I could not help reading this over and over again : ”I want to fall in love with a woman that speaks no English. I do not want to understand a word that is regurgitated from her pouty lips. This, friends, is the epicenter of erotic. Think of it. You can’t pollute your emotion with language. You must rely on the primal instinct to communicate you passion. There are infinite ways to say, “I love you” with your hands”!!!

    • Yeah. I understand it’s a difficult piece. Hell, sometimes I read through it and get lost. And then I think that maybe that’s the point. Just get lost in it where ever you can. There’s a multitude of stories in there. Just depends on which ones speak to you. Thanks for keeping up with it. 😀

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