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Friday, 21 September 2007

Terry & June...

Terry was by some way the most observant of the group, so it was hardly surprising that he should be the first to catch sight of the new arrival. He'd looked up idly from removing a small creepy-crawly - possibly a flea, but if so a particularly sizeable one - from the thick fur around his clavicle, and was just about to put it in his mouth when there she was; June. Some sight she was too, lolloping towards the camp with a feline roll of her haunches, the sun glinting off the small translucent pebbles she wore before her eyes. The odd spikes that grew from the heels of her feet cantilevered her insteps to the extent that they were almost perpendicular. This feat of foot engineering, allied to the long swathe of material that she had wrapped around her thighs so tightly that it caused her knees to knock together with each step, gave her the appearance of being preternaturally tall; a female crane gawky, yet somehow still elegant. For there was no doubt this was a she.

Despite the best efforts of an identically shaded though more ornately fitted wrap as that she wore around her waist, there was no disguising the mammalian swelling of her chest. Indeed, distorting her as it did, reining in the flesh of her arms, pinching in her waist to a most painful degree whilst simultaneously hoiking her breasts skyward in a most comical fashion, though her apparel hid the milky fleshiness of her furless skin, her hirsute admirer was left in little doubt that here was, indeed, a woman.

There is no documentary evidence, of course, that Terry was recognised by others, or indeed himself, as being the bearer of that name. Grunts, rather than words were the lingua franca of the small group of chimpanzees of which he was a member and with whom he tended to hang around, tenderly preening and patting or being preened and patted by his colleagues in apehood, when they weren't squabbling or sleeping or engaging in acts of occasionally successful procreation. Terry was the name assigned to him by whomsoever came across the remains of the small group of hunter-gatherers and thus, sadly, we will never really know the exact nature of whatever whimsicality of mind it was that guided their selection. June, on the other hand, we can safely assume to have been named after the calendar month, such nomenclature being a fairly common occurence in the field of anthropology; though whether the name suggests the month of the initial sighting of that first protrusion of her petrified bones or that of their final exhumation, we cannot be entirely sure. Archaeology is, after all, a painfully slow and inexact science.

What we can infer is that at some point after June first lowered her spectacles an inch to establish unmediated eye contact between them, Terry, following the pre-programmed impulses of his hormones and, no doubt, some deeper, cellular instinct to further his and the species' line, would have sensed the loose genetic compatability that existed between himself and June and acted accordingly. The most historically divergent aspect of this coupling - aside from June being arguably the first person to engage in sexual intercourse whilst wearing glasses - would have been the novelty such an enticingly wrapped sexual partner would have held for a traditionally unfussy procreator as Terry. [A note on June's appearance for the contemporary reader might be judicious at this point. She looked and was dressed, we can say, with the benefit of a hindsight and knowledge of cinematic history not available to our simian forebear, not unlike the film star Jean Harlow.]

Blessed with similarly opposable thumbs and a shared fondness for the tactile as his female accomplice, Terry would have wasted little time rolling the taut material up over her rear, to reveal the watchlike intricacies of her nether corsetry. Releasing her bunned hair, which might have appeared to him like a sun-bleached stone attached to her crown, her partner replaced the grip of the hair pins with that of his own fist, riding the bucking of her hips, perhaps peeling back his lips against the afternoon sun to form an approximation of a smile. We can only guess how long Terry would have held June in this fashion before ambling away with a four limbed bounce, his need to be conjoined with her sated and his function complete.

For June, of course, a new coupling had commenced, a small matter of hours after her final coital shriek. For the first few months, there was no real discernable change in her demeanour; her wrappings warmed her through the days of the dimming sun, and soon she was absorbed into the rhythms of the group, preening and being preened, scavenging with them, sleeping with them. But the changes did come and soon June swelled. No longer acquiescent to their advances, savagery gave way, ultimately, to sulleness as, one by one, her suitors were repelled. Now merely tolerated at best, her presence cast a shadow on the tribe. But then, alone outside the confines of the camp, there was heard another shriek; this time an infant's wail joining hers in a happy, if discordant, harmony. Panting, cooing, moaning, June's teeth hacked at the umbilical chord. She wiped a wrist across her lips, daubing a smear of placental blood along her arm. Panting, smiling, and now, finally, giggling like a much younger girl, she cups them in her palm. "A man!" she whispers, her eyes welling up and wide. "I've given birth to a man."

And so, with time, he proves to be. June's son grows up to be a particularly fine man. She watches as he grows, delighting as the summer sun frosts the hairs on his arms as pale as straw, his body tanning, becoming ever more supple and strong as he grows. Bigger, taller as each winter fades, at last he stands before her. A man, her son. Her son, a man. At last she thinks, my son becomes a man. A man to make a mother proud. A man without fur.

L.U.V. on y'all,


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  1. gasping (in awe)

    (and wishing I could write like that)


  2. Yes very evocative stuff that, but I'm not sure what it has to do with football?

  3. Mmm. It's been so long since I didn't go to medical school that for a moment I forgot what a clavicle is, musing that Elton John probably has quite a thickly-furred piano.

  4. Back to the other Terry and June (Scott & Whitfield) for a moment. I know they weren't really married, but do you reckon they ever, y'know, Christmas party, bit too much cheery brandy, quickie for old times' sake in the conservatory, June wiping the clammy remnants of Terry's DNA from the hem of her sensible Country Casuals skirt...