All day long I spin out reams of pasta. Al dente, al dente, al dente, Leonora. Not al cemente. So often I have heard this that it is forever ingrained in my mind, a mantra if you will, my raison d'etre.
- They told me he was difficult. I just never realized how much so. He is a man like every other man; he is a man like no other man. He is quite a man, to be sure. When they told them it couldn't be done, they made a big mistake. To tell Vogel something cannot be done is to commit an egregious offence, raise the battle-flag, and throw the gauntlet, with a challenge that reverberates the heavens. When Vogel insisted he could toss a peanut through the air with enough force and precision to penetrate a human skull and kill, Pietro was foolish enough to say he could not. Of course, Vogel rose to the challenge.
- Pietro will be missed.
- Vogel has now achieved great and worldwide success with his Angel Hair Spaghetti String concept. As evidenced by the myriad of great players and composers who insist on nothing else but those strings created by Vogel. I believe it was Igor Stravinsky who said, "For me nothing but authentic Vogel will do." And with that quotation, the musical world took notice.
- So now I spend my days, reeling through my mantra, al dente, al dente, al dente, turning out ream after ream of al dente spaghetti. No other kind will do, as I well know. The violin is a four stringed instrument and, like others in the string family, is tuned to intervals of a perfect fifth. Tougher strands than al dente cause the "E" string to go sharp. And some may think this a sad and pointless existence. Not me. I neither belittle nor bemoan my fate. As do I neither belittle nor bemoan my condition. It was kind, beyond the kindness of a saint, for V ogel to take me in. My own mother cast me out as a horrid creature. Was it my fault? Did I ask to be born this way? Would anyone ask to be born with the four opposing legs of a horse? I think not. But Vogel took me in, treated me kind, told me the world is big enough for all. In this too he was right, as he is in most all things.
- He gave me to understand some of the benefits of my means of locomotion. "A horse," he said, "has three natural gaits, a walk such as the giraffe walk, a trot, and a gallop. And the most common four-legged locomotion that you will observe is the walk. To those creatures as yourself this is simply a walk. To others, this most basic of walks is sometimes called the diagonal walk. This is used by most hoofed animals as well as cats and dogs. In this walk, the animal, or you, uses diagonally opposing legs, i.e. front left and right back legs move forward then the front right and left back legs move and so on. To the minds eye it sounds confusing but is performed quite instinctually for one so disposed, as you well know."
- Vogel calls me gifted. When I ask him how this, my only possible means of locomotion can be considered gifted, he replies, "Every gift is a concordant curse. A gift is as a gift does." These words are pure poetry to my ears and he knows it. After discussions of consummate inspiration such as these I treat him with his due warmth and generosity when it comes to lovemaking. I have learned how to stage-manage my legs to such a degree that employing them in the manipulation of his active part brings him to earth shaking crescendo.
- "How do you do these things, Leonora? You are a goddess!" I blush profusely at these words. I know I am attractive to a degree. My face, torso, and derriere are all that of the most voluptuous of females. It is my legs only that is the non-human aspect of my person. And he tells me my skin is as soft as the down of a rabbit, my voice as smooth as the dulcet tones of Stravinsky. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me!
- But in amidst these feelings of love, there are those not in accordance. For instance, his habit of noticing slash ogling other women: all-human women. And while I must understand his all human-male need for like attentions, still the human female side of me rebels and is repulsed by this behaviour. Just yesterday we were in the middle of a fierce lovemaking session where I had his male parts lovingly caressed between three legs when through our 2nd floor window, a scantily clad female slash tart whore slut caught his eye. I wanted to, I wanted to ignore it. But I couldn't. And this at the most inopportune of moments. Without even realizing it my grip had become tighter and tighter and before I knew it I was seemingly trying to wrench his active part free of his body while thrusting my free leg wharf and hoof into his crotch. He screamed, he cried, he cursed and moaned. I thought it was to mark my greatest performance; until I found that I had come very close to relieving him of his active part while crushing the, "boys" as he called them, to near oblivion. After that, Vogel did not want me for a while, he just threw my food in the stable on a hay bale and whipped me soundly every night to teach me my lesson. And I cannot say it was entirely without pleasure. Yet it was the ostracism from his love that hurt most.
- My solitude for a time played tricks upon me, cast me into a dire gloom entirely unlike me. So many questions besieged me that I thought I was courting madness. What would he have done if I were not part equestrian? If! were a real woman for instance? Would he beat me? Lock me in the stable? Throw my food on a hay bale? Would I let him? And if he succeeded in doing these things would I stay? Would a real woman stay?
- The questions came at me so fast and furious, organically so it seemed, each one breeding the next until I was quite exasperated with all of this self-interrogation. To this mental onslaught the flagellation seemed welcome - would a woman think this? Would a woman actually if ever prefer physical cruelties to mere self-directed mental punishment? Is it socially accepted even? Or would such a woman become an outcast, a piranha - or is that pariah? - and be forever shunned by those of her kind? Could such a woman bring herself to go on in such a state? Would she?
- I could not imagine that any real woman would. It seemed to me obvious that the only reason I could find within myself the room to tolerate this kind of treatment is that I was already an outcast, already a pariah-or piranha? - already shunned by those of my kind. Those of my kind? There is none other of my kind of which I am aware. Perhaps the only place I can even hope to come close to some-thing of my kind would be the circus, a travelling side show, a freak amongst freaks looking for commiseration from like proportioned freaks. Perhaps I should pitch a tent, charge admission.
- "Come ride the Horse Woman. She's a wild one!" Oh god, oh god! What depths have I descended to? Is this really the sum total of a life? My life? Any life??
But salvation was on the move. Vogel walked in one evening, patted my head, ran his hands through my hair, and stroked my skin with all of tenderness. I could smell the whiskey on his breath but I didn't mind as he mounted me and gave me a full and thorough bout of lovemaking that I was sure would leave any woman acid-green with envy. So of course I agreed to return to my task of pasta production. It so pressed upon my heart that sales had been slow because of reduced production. And this was entirely my fault. But I vowed to work harder, to make it up to him. Vogel did have his faults, and yes he was at times cruel, vicious, and abusive to the tenth degree. But always he redeemed himself with those glorious golden words that spun from his tongue like the spaghetti spun from the wheel I drove with my unique equine abilities.
- The next week Vogel interrupted me at my task. He asked me to remove my harness and pulled me aside for a discussion, "Leonora, you know I am fond of you. Quite fond. And when I teach my motto is 'receive them ignorant, dispatch them confused.' But you, you, are quite intelligent and have gone far beyond anything mere training could have provided. Yes, Leonora, you are a bonafide miracle! A miracle! Oh what I could do with more like you, with ten more like you. My god, it would be a miracle times ten!"
- The entire time he spoke to me with these words of exuberance and illumination a sad, disconnected look hovered in his eyes. I didn't know how to interpret this contradictory juxtaposition. Did I do something wrong? I had been turning the wheel a bit slowly lately. Ever since Vogel had decided that he preferred riding me to any other act of lovemaking my back has been a bit sore, my rear legs also, sometimes making it difficult to walk. But I endured, endured for him.
- "So Leonora, I have brought you a partner. A partner for all things."
He guided my eyes to the stable. There, dancing out in front was a horse. A large male horse with the biggest active thing and set of "boys" I had ever seen.
- "I don't understand, Vogel. A partner? A partner for all things?"
- "Oh, forgive me. I have confused you. Yes, a partner certainly in turning the wheels, as I am soon upgrading to dual wheel operation. We need to step up production. But a partner also for the more, how shall I say it, 'sensitive things,' lovemaking specifically. Surely you must understand the logic. To have others like you, the primary agent must be you, Leonora. The secondary agent of course being a fully equine partner. And let me tell you, this is no regular equine. A three time Triple Crown winner and fabulous stud horse your evenings will be most grand! Go forth and multiply, Leonora! Go forth!"
- All day long I spin out reams of pasta. Al dente, al dente, al dente, Leonora. Not al cemente. So often I have heard this that it is forever ingrained in my mind, a mantra if you will, my raison d'etre.
