I like Black Widow spiders [Latrodectus spp.] — the female ones anyway. They are really quite beautiful in person; their bodies are like lick-shined patent leather, and as we all know, I like shiny things . . . and licked things. It is a common misconception that Black Widow females always kill their mates after copulation. In reality, it only happens now and again and then it is usually by accident because the female gets confused while basking in the afterglow of their love-making and she gets hungry and, well, she simply mistakes the snoozing lover for prey. If he had just gotten his lazy arse up and made her a sandwhich then a lot of misunderstandings could have been avoided. Verily, there has been a time or two when I have had a partner whose exhalations would have muted the cacophony of a chainsaw hitting a runaway train in the middle of a tornado. [As opposed to the gentle kitten-like purring that I have been known to emit on occasion.] Imagine laying there next to your bedmate, a little flushed from the exchange of carnal knowledge, and glancing over at the delectably supine masculine meatloaf that you just finished pounding. Wouldn’t you start thinking about sausages and eggs? Can you see how easy it would be to mistake your partner for food? Is it so difficult to understand the accidental tearing-off of a loudly snoring head?

I had the privilege of meeting a Black Widow female one time. She was minding her own business, just quietly lurking hanging-out on the door inside my outdoor storage cupboard. I took a good, long look at her, admired her beauty, murmured a complimentary greeting, and gently nudged her with the toe of my lace-up stiletto-heeled boot. She must have been dozing because she instantly failed to be afraid of my Amazon-like towering hugeness. Rather than running full-speed for the nearby woods, she sprang into the air like a delicate eight-legged ballerina and soared towards me in mildly heart-attack-inducing slow motion. In mid-air she somehow appeared to inflate to ten times her original size. Her razor-sharp fangs slid silently out and a droplet of pure and deadly venom dripped slowly from each point as though forced through a hypodermic syringe. It is possible that she may have unleashed a banshee scream of operatic proportions which shattered every wine glass in the vicinity, but then again, that part could have just been my imagination. Several weeks-long nanoseconds later she landed slowly and oh-so-softly upon my shin. Thank goodness for my unshatterable calm, my nerves of spun-steel, my je ne sais quoi. When a Black Widow spider accidentally lands on your leg because you were trying to kick her assist her off of your storage door, your natural instinct is to emit a blood-curdling scream and leap backwards in the hope that this creature, which can casually cling like super-glue to a smooth surface like painted wood, will fall off of the knit fabric of your trouser leg. Not only did I scream and jump back, I managed not to fall on my arse while at the same time flinging my leg away from my body as though it were a detachable prosthetic that just needed a good shake to be released. Or perhaps I was subconsciously trying to prove that the hokey-pokey really IS what it’s all about. In that split-second I experienced a startling moment of crystal-clear clarity; not so much of a thought, but more of an indefinable feeling. It was as though for a mere fraction of time she and I understood one another. We connected. The mutual feeling was clear: Here we are, grown females, warriors if you will, flailing around and scaring the snot out of one another. What say we just move on and pretend this never happened?” With that tiny rustle of telepathic communication, my reluctant hitchhiker let go of my leg and wafted breezily to the ground preparatory to taking her leave. In one of those awkwardly ill-timed attempted passes whereby you both veer left at the same time and then jog right together and then clumsily half-step in both directions at once to try to avoid a collision, I sort-of ended up accidentally stomping on her . . .

Really, it was not intentional and I genuinely feel quite bad about my act of involuntary arachnid-slaughter. Furthermore, I suspect I am destined to spend the rest of my wretched life feeling haunted by this strange guilt for killing a live creature with which I was able to relate.

Which leads me to wonder why I do not feel at all bad about that dead hooker I left behind in Las Vegas.

♥

[click on thumnbail for full-size view]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Home
¤
¤
¤

**************************************************
©2007 — www.danjeruskurves.com. Reproduction of the image(s) on this page in any form is strictly prohibited. The contents herein are protected by the Digital Millennium Copyright Act.

This entry was posted on Monday, August 27th, 2007 at 9:21 am and is filed under Humour. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.