Out of absolutely nowhere, this song popped into my head and got stuck there.

So there’s the song so it can get stuck in your head too.

It’s not even one of my favorite Duran Duran songs, damn it.

You know, it really hurts not to be able to express who you really are.

Anyhoo, I am feeling cranky and irritable today. Must be that time of the month.

By which I mean my monthly mood cycle, of course.

Actually, it would be pretty interesting to track my mood like that. I definitely feel like I have some kind of cycle going on. One that follows the same progression of mood to mood over time.

Which is what makes it a cycle, I suppose, and not just a string of things that happen sometimes without repeating.

But that’s not going to happen because when I even gingerly touch the idea of tracking my mood, something deep inside of me rises up and says NOOOOOOOO.

I’m not going to mark down what mood I am in. It would be so weird and unnatural and artificial. And the last thing I need is to make myself MORE self-conscious.

Plus, my mood would be changed by the act of writing it down. So most of the time, I would be writing “annoyed at having to do this”, thus rendering the results meaningless.

Anyhow, I know how this mad mood started – with my masturbating without completion.

That’s enough to make any male grumpy, regardless of species.

And that unspent but accumulated energy discharged back into my bloodstream and sent my mood into the grumpy zone.

Plus, other stuff I can’t talk about.

So I have been feeling irritable and restless today. Like I want to burst into a room and scream like a wounded bear at someone, then kick ass kung fu style.

I suppose what I really need is some really good sex. The kind that leaves you basking in the afterglow, balls empty, heart full, body replete.

I’ve never had it but it sounds lovely.

But we all know that’s not going to happen. I am not even sure I am capable of it. I have so many barriers.

Hopefully, the right (very, very patient) man could change all that. One willing to let it takes however long it takes for me to finally trust him enough to let my guard down and give him the trust it would take for real intimacy.

Otherwise, sex with others will keep being another performance for me. One where all that matters is getting the right reaction from the audience, and then I take my bows and secretly say “phew! Glad I made it through that!”.

That’s like, totally not real sex.

But my partner would think it was. I guarantee it. I am an amazing performer with a strong presence who can use the power of his dreams to simulate anything.

And nobody would know how miserable I truly am.

Maybe not even me.

More after the break.

---

The great wyvern, Shaveron, also known as Wrackmouth, scourge of East Vilai, terror of Ten Pin Mountain, demon made flesh to all who knew his name, lay at Sir Martin of Her Lady’s Lancers’ feet, and moaned most piteously.

But instead of triumph, Sir Martin felt nothing but pity, because it was not his lance that had felled the beast but its own folly.

The damned fool thing had swallowed an anchor.

This diagnosis had been swift, because, while Sir Martin was no physick, the six inches of anchor chain hanging from the beast’s lips made the cause of its pain clear, as well as adding an element of bathos to the tableau.

Sir Martin knew how it had happened. Swamp wyverns prized fish above all other treats. They were also excellent swimmers. Wrackmouth clearly had followed a school of fish into human fishing waters, snapped at a particularly tasty looking moorhead or spearfish, and got a mouthful of anchor instead.

And wyverns swallow what they bite. They can’t help it. It’s a reflex.

“Well old boy, ” said Sir Martin to the beast, “time to set you right. ”

Sir Martin ignored the terror in his patient’s eyes – how was it to know he, amongst all metal-clad humans, would help it, not harm it – as he very carefully inserted the tip of his lance into one of the links in the anchor’s chain.

He then very gingerly pulled back, and prayed to the Lady that the beast would figure out what was going on and cooperate.

His prayer was answered when the beast, exhausted beyond all ferocity, extended its long thick neck towards Sir Martin, thus straightening it.

There’s a smart fellow, thought Sir Martin, and slowly and carefully began to back up.

Link by link, then inch by inch, the chain emerged from the beast’s muzzle, and Sir Martin could feel the anchor’s weight moving up out of its stomach,

So much for the easy bit, thought Sir Martin. The beast’s stomach was enormous and had plenty of room to move the anchor. But now he had to pull it through the poor beast’s neck and that would hurt.

Sure enough, Wrackmouth panicked when he first felt the anchor scrape, despite Sir Martin’s best efforts, against the inside of his throat.

But you don’t get to be as big and as old a lizard as Wrackmouth without good instincts, and he immediately settled back down and let Sir Martin continue.

Slowly but surely, the chain emerged from the beast’s mouth as if it was coming off the great wheel of a portcullis, till at last, with a great heave, with only a foot or so of chain left, the wyvern expelled the anchor from its throat with a great rush of bile and blood, and both the beast and the knight cried out in great relief.

Then Wrackmouth and Sir Martin contemplated one another. Sir Martin fancied that he could see the various instincts and emotions trying to sort themsevles out in the massive creature’s mind.

He did his best to beam his Lady’s grace at the poor creature. But he also prudently and sublty readied his lance, just in case.

After a handful of very long moments, the beast finally nuzzled at Sir Martin a little, and Sir Martin, to his enormous delight, found himself stroking the mighty wyvern’s nose as casually as if it was one of Sir Martin’s horses.

Then, with a bounce and a bound, the great beast heaved itself into the air and flew off.

And Sir Martin, flushed with wonder and relief, sat with his back against a stout oak, and basked in the glow of triumph.

He had truly done his Lady’s work this day, and this made him feel closer to Her than he ever had before.

This filled him with such gratitude and glory that he knew it would be folly to attempt the ride back into town in such a gloriously addlepated state.

So he built a small fire, fed and watered his horse, then threw his bedroll down and fell upon it like a raw recruit.

And there he slept, his dreams filled with visions of his Lady, until dawn gentle nudged him awake, and he arose feeling as if he was ten years younger.

Time to break camp, feed the horse again, and figure out how he was going to explain to those who had sent him why he had saved the beast he’d been sent to kill.

THE END