From the chaos came “Total Babe.” No real woman had all the things, so from tits, cunts, clits, and tongues he’d constructed a Christmas tree, his cold winter woods of Girlhood. He sat long nights styling the pneumatics until he’d achieved a hierarchy at the intersection of fragmentation and reformation: hair, November, nipples, thighs. Finally, in black and white, he exhausted the presence. “Total Babe” was toned like a sky grid.

But there was always the sadness, the bold and unusual motions of African Dance, Han Solo, allergies galore. "Well!" His idea of Eno, vaguely Hindu, had had enough of the arty chicks at school. Once, it almost was upholstered, he thought. (A kitten age innuendo that most folks just didn't know.)

Their buoyancy gave him an immediate hard-onother. After class they all danced back. There perverse layers of accretions would be fingered. Indeed, they sat on the couch. Silence. And so they went home.

He told him more than he'd ever hoped for. His flirtation with Buddhism would get him through. But a week later he figured, Fuck it. He could easily acquire a jewel. Now it was just a question of rectals.

“Total Babe” could be "Freedom Friday": a time to give full reign to his natural restaurant, a fine wine, a good friend. He would savor the feeling against them.

On Friday he hurried home from there. Working his coat, soon his mind was in a little champagne-colored sea snail of boring art chicks and castrating bitch-goddesses.

After the shower he ate the TV, smiling like a Total Babe notion. No matter, the broken pantry door never encouraged layers; he didn't think he could wait. So he turned on and brought the coat closet into the light of day: the old collage of two legs. Major Babe stretched out on his nature painting. She was like a "Gooch," he moaned. "Gooch, you bastard, you did it again!"

Why wouldn't that image leave?