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Tina walked me back to my pickup, and every step of the way I knew she thought she was going to be getting into it with me. Getting into it and driving to some fleapit of a motel, where we'd thrash about for minutes or hours on a pancake-flat mattress. And then . . . and then, she'd hit on me for a few bucks, or some credit for her card, or a donation to her stem-cell bank, because for all their big talk, girls like her are all the same: nickels and dimes rubbed between big, greasy fingers; small human change lost behind the world's sofa.
She reached for the door with her lovely, perfectly manicured hand, and I said: "No, Tina, it's been a great evening, but I go on alone from here." When she flustered and pouted and asked me why, I looked her straight in the eye and said — not that she'd understand — "Because, my child, I live by the Principle, and I'll die by that Principle too, if the End of Days doesn't come sooner." Then I got in the pickup and drove away, leaving her among the cardboard boxes stained blood-red with last night's chili sauce.
The sun was up above Canaan Mountain by the time I turned off the Interstate and wended my way up into the foothills of the Pine Valley range. I could see a few of our geno-steers cropping the
They always wait up for me — my wives. |
sagebrush and made a mental note to go up and have a chat with them later in the day. But all thoughts of ranching were driven from my mind when the homestead came into view. Because it doesn't matter how many times I tell them not to, they always wait up for me — my wives, that is. They can hear the old Ford's grumble a long ways off, and out they sashay to meet me. By the time I pull into the barn they're all there, lined up: fourteen, fat old queens, each one of them more raddled and caked in smeary makeup than the next.
There's Bobo, who I saved from a drag act in Portland; Lady Di, who I picked up turning tricks in the Bay Area; Renée, who got on the wrong end of a stomach-tuck in '22; Melvin, who likes to bake — and Sherman, who likes to eat. There's Hilly, the ex-theatrical costumier; and Davina the ex-interior decorator; there's Chuckles, who thinks she's a clown (although no one's laughing); and Audrey, who's always hysterical. There's the "young ones," Steffi, Buck and Norma-Jean — all of whom are well over fifty — and there's the Empress, who's senile, and the Princess, who has a mental age of three.
No sooner had the pickup stopped than they were all over me, hugging me, and planting their sticky lips on my head and neck. And then it was, "Brigham this", and "Brigham that," and "Brigham did you bring me anything from the city...?" And it was all a man could do, to fight his way through the press of flesh, the billows of tulle, and the great, dropsical expanses of gold lamé, so he could go and fetch himself a cup of coffee from the stove.
This morning it took me about an hour to get them all calmed down and settled before I was able to get to my own room. I lay my tired head on the cool pillow for a few seconds before I could face struggling to get my sweat-stuck boots off. I lay there and I thought of how it was Sherman's turn to lie with me this evening, and Audrey's the next. Then I thought about Tina, her etched profile such a contrast to their wattled ones; her firm young breasts so much more appetising than their slack asses. I shook my head and groaned — such thoughts must be banished. Living by the Principle means accepting your responsibilities as a husband, it means looking after your wives. It means being prepared to take on a new wife not because a man fancies some hot, young ass, but because he sees a queen in trouble, a queen who needs Christ Jesus to come into her flabby old heart.
Even so, as I reared up and began to pull my boots off, and I could hear them all screeching and bitching in the kitchen, I couldn't help myself from experiencing a sharp stab of regret. Regret that the lost translations of the golden tablets of Moroni had been rediscovered. Regret that the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints had become the Church of Jesus Christ of the Gay Latter-Day Saints. Regret that since that day, in 2014, all Mormon elders had been ordered to become homosexual and polygamous on pain of excommunication.
About the only thing that made such regrets bearable, was that there were probably many of my fellow elders all across Utah who were feeling exactly the same.
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| ABOUT
THE AUTHOR: |
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Will Self is the author of five novels, four collections of short stories, four novellas and three non-fiction collections. His latest novel, The Book of Dave is published this month by Bloomsbury USA. He lives in London with his wife and four children. |
©2006 Will Self and Nerve.com.
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