This is The Black Orchid and I must tell you I have lectured at Auntie Carol and Lady Lynda’s School for Wayward Girls. They are much concerned with the moral turpitude of today’s young ladies. I had to laugh my prime, alabaster ass off when they told me young girls were servicing callous, young studs for the price of a tear. They call it a “Hook-Up”! They are worshiping at the Citadel of the Almighty Phallus, or “going down” for free. They are not whores, however. A whore would have the sense to charge. Wanda Lust is up in arms about this practice as am I.
I think it unseemly that any young woman would risk her physical and mental health for a moment’s pleasure and not even her own pleasure, so to speak! A woman must be loved, cherished, and dare I say it, worshiped. This is what the ancient “Eve” wanted and what all other “Eves” who followed her wanted.
These young girls don’t admit they want love and appreciation. They say they don’t want to get “involved” so “Nobody” gets hurt. Preposterous idiocy. Fourteen years old and already jaded with life! This is not a Divine Comedy, I tell Ye.
Well, I sauntered into their classroom this Friday. I did not merely walk in, I entered like The Immortal that I am. I wore my black, sheer silk blouse with a black lace push up bra, and a black rubber miniskirt with mustard colored tights and eight inch, strappy stilettos. I was well over 6 foot 4 inches. My acolytes, two, handsome, burly Latin men with bare chests with chains, and tight leather pants, gently removed my long black wool cape. I slid out of my wrap like a snake shedding its skin. I made a hand motion, or a flick of my wrists to indicate that they were to suck on my toes as I talked. A third slave, a blond albino man with shoulder length hair stood by to refill my wine glass as talking is apt to parch one’s mouth. And I must be obeyed as I must have my Pleasure.
The girls were absolutely aghast with their eyes popping out of their heads and mouths hanging open.
“Dears,” I said, “I am The Black Orchid, a three thousand year old Immortal, and as I understand it you are little cocksuckers.”
One little Pipsueak Girl shyly asked if I was a high fashion model or an actress. I laughed aloud, and my laughter has been known to shatter glass.
“No, dear, I never act. It’s beneath me, and besides why confuse you little darlings as you are already confused from what I can glean of your condition.”
Then another called Pixie Girl remarked that I must have had a helluva plastic surgeon.
“No, darling, I use the same cream as the late, or very late. Cleopatra used. A darling women she was. An immortal, precious child, does not have petty concerns. I come here today to save you from yourselves. You have let these mini-Lotharios hornswaggle you!”
“Hornswaggle! laughed Lashonda. Then she asked if I had been watching cowboy westerns.
I said “Of, course, Darling. We, Immortals watch TV, and eat chocolate ice cream just like everyone else! I am hear to tell you to improve your minds. Read Shakespeare, Voltaire, Socrates, and countless others. No one likes a tabula rosa, or in your jargon, a blank slate. Improve yourselves, respect yourselves so others may do the same. With real love, there is sharing and reciprocity.”
“Oh,” said Lashonda, “You mean like getting something in return?”
“Absolutely, do not worship at the Citadel of the Almighty Phallus, allow a man to worship you, instead. The life of a girl should be worshipful lust. Ye are meant to be wives and mothers, not ten cent whores. You can call forth life from your bellies. Just think what man can do that! Yet you wear these cheap bracelets which tell what you will and won’t do. It’s like having a bar code on your pert young asses. A woman never lets a man know what she will do. Sometimes, she is a thorn in his side: other times she falls upon him like a cup of raw honey. Ah, girls it is divine to have one’s toes sucked and also higher up at one’s woman’s flower is glorious. I can see Auntie Carol is feeling faint as I mention these earthy things.”
“The morality of the fifties has much merit. In those days, a girl held out for a wedding ring. A woman demanded respect and did not prostitute herself for pennies on the dollar. That’s what you are doing darlings.”
“But then,” the guys won’t date us,” said Pixie Girl in dismay.
“And boys don’t like smart girls,” said Lashonda.
“For what you do, he should shower you with diamonds and pearls. A man should be pleasuring you and not the other way around. Ye should be goddesses.”
“Whatever,” said Lashonda.
“That silly word, again young lady.
“Why don’t you just say ‘Succubus’ instead. It would make you seem like a deeper person. Men adore women with minds, my dear little dove. Ye girls should devour books like a pack of ravening wolves! Put knowledge in your soul and increase your value. Ye are shallow girls, and ye are chuck for the circling sharks in this life. These boys are behaving like pimps and ye are permitting it. Put poetry and art into your heads. Ye have no right to be so jaded. Ye are fourteen years old for heaven’s sake! Being in love can sometimes mean being in pain or giving pain. It’s worth the risk. Now the first one of you to say iambic pentameter shall have something to suck on!”
“Whatever”, ventured Lashonda.
And I turned and stomped out with my slaves trailing behind me like so many pearls on a long necklace and I thought to myself,
“Get Thee to a Nunnery, Ye pale vapid flowers.”