Spider

    They speak to me in twitter blasts, sounds reminiscent of tiny baby fingernails scraping across wooden highchair tray. Those tiny little hairy legs scurry in perfect synchronicity carrying that violin shaped body across the wall in sporadic moments of haste; only stopping to test the air with those extra-long front legs that are more like pole arms than legs. While the spider is in mid-scurry I raise my towards it to see if it will stop, hoping maybe to halt its forward progress. And it seems to work or did it? As I stare longer I see that it is intensely focused, not on me, but on a patch of the wall, like a hungry person focuses on a single favorite item of a salad bar. Just like me to think I was significant to a spider. The spider’s front legs move back and forth from the wall to its mouth; I think he is snacking on something or does he have a taste for paint chips?

        I wave my hand again and it seems to ignore me then in a flash it flies off the wall, suspended on an invisible gossamer strand, until it reaches a point at the wall and it suddenly stops as if by a glass boundary. “Did I make him do that?” I wonder. The spider becomes intensely focused on another patch and the feeding frenzy begins again. Those long oversized front arms are black and hairy are like a mountain gorilla’s arms; they seem to be exceedingly huge for such a small creature. “My God is this spider on steroids or maybe it lifts weights on its off hours”, I think, “Damn, if I had arms like that I could have been a basketball star. Christ, God is cruel.” I begin to wonder if the spider’s arm size is an indicator as to the size of its penis. That fucking thing would have to be huge, then I remember the National Geographic special I saw awhile back mentioned something about the spiders’ arms being their penis.

    I start fantasizing about that one girl I met at ‘The Basement’ in 77 and how she compared my jock to a small baby’s arm, fuck she was tight. I wonder if female spiders make the same comparison about their male counterparts. “Don’t all women?” I say aloud and my female spider stirs next to me, softly breathing. Cuddling close and smelling of after-sex, she gets a rise out of me. I will the master back down. “Listen you little bastard, you’re the reason I have five kids, two insatiable wives, weak knees, a bad back and chaffing” I whisper at my crotch, “Go back to sleep, three hours is more than enough time to get your nut”.

    Looking up to the spot where the spider was and there is nothing but white wall and unseen spider tracks. My eyes wander over to the television and are met with the imposing image of Jay Leno’s chin; my fingers dash across the remote next to me and in a flash Letterman is on the screen. Madonna is sitting next to him; she looks like she’s becoming bored with his quirky bull shit. I can’t believe I turned that down thrity-five years ago, but then I am glad Sean has the scars of her love bites instead of me. The Master stirs again as the fantasy continues, some night in Greenwich Village at that shithole club and some cute little thing with just a slight amount of hair on her upper lip hung all over me and I reveled in every second of it. We rewarded each other with a four hour fuck on her roommate's couch; The smell her perfume and the old pot smoke stench of that couch still permeates my memory like a shotgun blast. Wonder if she remembers?
    My she-spider stirs next to me, her arm strays from my chest to my crotch, “Seems like you’re ready for an encore”, she says eagerly, “Is that for me or for her?” as she motions with her head to the television. “It’s all for you baby”, as we embrace. I hope the spider is getting some.