The Komsomolets
I’m reading in The Standard, the town’s free weekly, that a famous woman poet is coming to town. The first in the American belle-letters to have gone mainstream about intercourse between two femmes.
A mob will swarm the place, I forewarn myself, and leave home early.
On approaching the campus quad, I behold throngs of enthused youths (told you) pouring thickly in from east and west and north and south. Just like the Young Pioneers marching with the song and banner to help the collective farmers pick up the ears of grain they had left behind, back in the Soviet Paradise.
As if in a reaction to the possibility of the authoress’s alter ego in the legendary poem being a female homosexual but the object of her play not necessarily so — I’ve been around — an urge to come into a contact with a full-blooded woman rises in me above the everyday level.
On entering the meeting hall my eyes cull an attractive blonde and an empty chair next to her. A herd of colts hanging out in the back of the room are checking her out with not much camouflage, but none makes a move.
“Have you heard of Webster’s dictionary?” I pop, taking a seat next to the beautiful offspring of the West.
“Yes,” she replies, glad that it’s about her.