SHIPS THAT PARSE IN THE NIGHT

[neil]

Here's something to put a smile on your face and brighten up your day, found
at:

http://www.asstr.org/files/Collections/Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated/Year1997/11
07.txt


 SHIPS THAT PARSE IN THE NIGHT
    by John Thomas

  It was on the corner of Strunk and White that I met her in front of
the bank building.  She stood in front of the bank in her vinyl
raincoat with 24 hour cash withdrawals.

  Her face lit up when she spotted my car with sparkling blue eyes and
a friendly smile.  She raised her skirt slightly, which made my jaw
drop open, showing a pair of frilly panties.  I caught my breath, a
glimpse of her stocking tops, and a whiff of her perfume.

  Her beautiful blonde hair framed a gorgeous face that hung down to
her shoulders.  "Looking for a good time, honey?" she asked, adjusting
her brassiere and smoothing her skirt, which must have been a 36-B.

  I couldn't speak; my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth which
was still open.  "What's the matter?  Misplaced your modifier or
something?"

  "Let's go," I croaked hoarsely, and followed her up the steps of a
nearby building with heavy feet.  As she entered her apartment she
took off her coat; I admired her mahogany chest.

  I took her coat, an asprin, and a moment to think.  "I don't think I
can do this," I said limply.

  She took her eyes off the lump in my pants made by my wallet.
"What's the matter?  Can't get it up?"

  It was true: her chest of drawers was on my foot and I couldn't lift
it.  "Give me a break, a hand, or a couple of minutes," I responded.

  "But .. I'm being followed .. I'm under observation .. every word I
say is being analyzed .. the slightest mispelling and I'm in deep
trouble!", I exclaimed.  "A mysterious woman is tracking my dogs, or
doggingks."

  She lifted her eyebrows, her dresser, and my spirits, since my foot
was no longer stuck.

  "Her name is Celeste, and she told me I had to do this .. but," I
faltered, "she said I had to be short!  No room for long ones in her
universe!"

  "Forget her", she cried, stamping her foot and shaking her head,
which was still clad in a shiny leather boot.  "We can lock the door
and split all the infinitives we want!"

  Tears filled my eyes and I clenched my fists as they ran down my
cheek.  "You don't understand!" I cried.  "She's an English professor,
and when she stands in front of that blackboard there's a pain in my
heart, which is usally green these days!"

  "I have to!  No, that's ending a sentence with a preposition:  ummm,
I to have?  To I have?  Hell: I must!", I yelled, mussed.

  She showed me her pretty legs, her stamp collection, and the door.

  I should have guessed it.  Outside, SHE was waiting.

  She looked me up and down coldly.  "Your participle is dangling,"
she said.

--Neil Crawford