Anatomy Girl & Her Love Of Bits

1. Cindy's Got Mumps
Sally, the girl I'm now sitting next to in school, closer to the blackboard, is still on at me to come see her Cindy doll's hair. I told her I would, because I know her name now. I don't know where Sally lives. So Sally says she'll show me after school.
I go to Sally's house and we go up to her bedroom and find her Cindy doll. Sally is right, Cindy does have very long hair. I'm looking at Cindy and I see that Cindy has lumps up top. Sally giggles and goes a bit red. I ask Sally whether Cindy has the mumps, if so, I need to get them because my mum says I'll need to get mumps before a certain age. I'm unqualified to guess what the certain age is, although my mum seems very concerned that I get the mumps before the age I don't know.
Sally considers my query. She wears glasses, and, kids who wear glasses sometimes take longer to answer, I don't know why. Sally asks me if I love her. 'Cindy?' I reply.
'Not Cindy silly, me!'
Girls tend to ask you far harder questions than boys. All Raymond Hackett ever asks me is if I've got sweets. I tell Sally that if she can find the mumps, the ones like her Cindy doll has, I'll love her. Sally is very happy about this unexpected turn of events, and she goes on to ask me whether we'll get married after we've fallen in love with our mutual mumps. Things are getting quite complicated, but, seeing as how I'm five years old, going on six, I guess I'll have to make some kind of commitment sooner or later. Like my mum keeps telling me, the mumps will be a good thing to get, at my age in life . . .
2. Penny Always Has Her Top Down
I don't know why I have so many aunts but so few uncles. Aunt Penny comes down to see my mum now and again, usually on a Sunday. She drives a sports car with the top down, she wears a headscarf and big sunglasses and she smells like summer.
Penny always brings me something, usually small toy cars that look just like the one she drives. Penny is the only girl I know who can drive. Most girls have men called Parker who drive them around, but not my aunt Penny. When my aunt Penny gets out of her sports car, her dress slides right up her leg. Her leg is very brown. Penny is not a foreigner.
Penny must have got the mumps very early in life and never got rid of them. She has very big mumps, mumps that wobble. I wonder whether my mumps will get that big and wobble, and, if so, will I get brown legs too? Sometimes Penny will take me for a drive in her sports car, the one with the top that is always down. Penny drives very fast, and, as she drives, her mumps bounce up and down. When I get bigger I'd like a sports car with no top, and big mumps that bounce up and down when you drive really fast. Penny's hair is much longer than the hair on Sally's Cindy doll. Penny's hair is so long, she can tie it up in knots. My dad says to my mum, that it's not right that a boy like me should be driving around real fast with a woman like Penny. No good will come of it, my dad says. Every time Penny comes down and takes me for a fast drive, all I can think about are mumps and how you get them?
GI Joe doesn't have mumps, and, by the looks of him undressed, he never got them. I hope I don't grow up to look like GI Joe.
3. Valerie's Brood
By the age of thirteen, you pretty much realize that the mumps have missed you. You are not wearing training bras and skipping around gaily with your hair in a pony tail playing hockey. You are bondaged into a jock strap and other boys are squeezing your goods deep in the scrum while Mr Ely watches very closely, just to ensure your goods are being squeezed tightly enough.
You are going to grow up and look like GI Joe, or at the least, to closely resemble his anatomically partless plastic figure. If you are lucky, there will be another war and maybe one day your stupid face will end up on a bubble gum card. You storming a Rusky trench, teeth clenched, eyes wide, bayonet out front and centre like an erect man thing, or some equally macho depiction of heroics. There will be no hips for you to swing boy, or long hair to tie, all of the bits Cindy, Sally, Penny and all of the other mump girls got, won't be arriving in the second post, forget it. You are not a late developer, late developing doesn't run in your family. But it does in Valerie's harem of trail and error. Valerie isn't your aunt, there are no blood ties, Valerie is just one of your mum's old girlfriends, one who got the mumps big time. Valerie is very well stacked, she has big jugs, as the boys like to say in the locker room. This is why you're hanging around at Valerie's house, because Valerie has three daughters and all of those daughters are very well endowed, like mother like daughter.
Maybe you are still hoping that by some strange miracle of miracles, there'll be some mump residue to spare if you knock about with Val's girls.
That, and the fact that Valerie is so used to living the all-gal life, not having had a man since man can remember, that she still walks around barely dressed and you can see her bits now and again. Those bits you'd like to get your hands on, to try them on for size. Val's brood like to go over to the playground and swing high on the swings. They all wear cute summer dresses and as they get that swinging rhythm going, their summer frocks billow out in the warm breeze. There are definitely bits up there that you need.
Val is very liberal, or so my mum's friend Janet says. Janet isn't liberal, which explains why I'm not at her house helping her boy Simon feed his rabbit. Rabbits have no bits I need. Because Val is liberal, her girls are liberal to. We, me and the three of them, squeeze into this Indian tepee that they've got out back and play strip poker. Those girls are obviously old school card sharks because I'm all but undressed, either that, or I've less to remove? Val has less to remove to, and, if she was playing I'd most likely up the ante, cheat myself. Anyhow, if I wait long enough Val will hit the sauce big time and I'll get to peek at her mumps. I rather like it at Val's house and I wonder what the chances are of her adopting me?
4. Lucy's Lips
I have no idea where Lucy White found those lips of hers. Those lips are like two big plump pink slugs. My limps aren't like that all, my lips are thin, hollow, when I put my mum's lipstick on them, it fattens them a bit, but to nowhere near as fat as Lucy White's.
Some boys want to kiss Lucy's lips, but not me. I'd only kiss Lucy's lips if her lips where mine and I could kiss them myself. There is no disease you can catch, not even cooties, that will plump up your lips. If you get punched in your lips they tend to swell – and go purple too. This is some unfathomable dilemma I face. No mumps, no long brown legs, no lips; chicken pox gave me precisely nothing in the way of new bits. Lucy White can wear a cross your heart bra, and lipstick. There is no point in me trying to catch something off of Lucy White, she is as healthy as the day is long. Lucy White has found god, and no wonder, with lips like those.
5. Hilary Is Very Hippy
It was certainly not an intentional bump. The hallways at school are very crowded at times and during those crowded times, bumping is all but unavoidable. Hilary Duff is always spoiling for a fight, and, seeing as how she's fought most of the girls and won, now she's starting on the boys. Hilary Duff believes in equality. Anyhow, no way could I avoid those hips of hers, to avoid those hips would have entailed bumping chests with Paul Newman and, that as they say, is like being between a rock and a very hard place.
Hilary Duff has sumptious hips, I think she swung them in my direction deliberately, seeing as how I wear glasses. I'm not supposed to fight girls, actually, I'm not supposed to fight at all, full stop. My glasses are already taped together across the bridge of my nose, the result of a fight I lost last week. So far I am zip 'n' three insofar as fights go, I've been unlucky. But now, well, if Hilary Duff calls me out, I will be staring straight down the barrel of total humiliation. So of course, she does . . . if goddamned Hilary Duff didn't own hips that were so wide, child bearing as I heard one teacher saying, I wouldn't be in this mess. I think it's totally unfair that I'm at a distinct disadvantage, given that I wear glasses and don't have hips . . . hips are dangerous things.
6. No Butts About It
Jesus, here I am sitting outside of the headmaster's office again. What for this time? Arson, that's what for. Apparently, I set fire to one of the sixth formers real-life drawings in the corridor that is close to the girls domestic sciences classroom. If it had just been one drawing that went WHOOSH! I suppose things would go easier on me; as it is, half the corridor went WHOOSH! And the fire brigade had to be called.
Carol King is here too, sitting right alongside me. She is not up on any charges as serious as arson, though if you ask me, smoking is just as serious. Carol King expects to get a slap across the palm of her hand with the cane. She tells me it won't hurt her a bit, nor compel her to desist from smoking. I shrug, me, me I'm gonna get a half dozen across my butt, that is for sure. I tell Carol King that my punishment will hurt like hell, and, I ask her, how come is it boys get ass-thrashed and girls get a soft love-tap on the palm of the hand? Carol King tells me that you can't touch, smack, hit or even look at a girl's bottom without causing harm to the fertility cycle. Well, there you have it, straight from the filly's mouth. Carol King goes into the office, the whup she gets is so soft you can't even hear it. She comes out smiling, and goes off up the hallway wiggling her ass to buy some more smokes.
I go in, I get bent over the headmaster's desk and given six of his very best. The headmaster can hit me as hard as he likes because I don't have an ass to write home about and because I don't have a fertility cycle to interfere with.
No butts about it, without the kind of bits I'm suppose to have, my life is going to be hell.
7. The Thigh Is Certainly The Limit
I don't really care much at all for Amanda Shepherd. She wants me to escort her to the park on Saturday afternoon, and, it all sounds far too formal for my liking. Amanda Shepherd has large, watery brown eyes. Like those eyes Marina the Aqua-girl in Stingray has. I've never liked girls draped in seaweed with big watery eyes and webbed feet, whereas girls in tight kit with catty masks and whips definitely were my bag – which is about where Brenda Small comes in. Brenda Small is Amanda's cattish 'best friend' and, because they're girls, they go everywhere, and do everything, together. Ergo, it follows, as Pythagoras theorized, that where Amanda goes, i.e. to the park with yours truly, Brenda Small will follow? I pay attention in maths.
Brenda Small has way meaty thighs. Thighs like lamp posts. No skirt can contain thighs like those; thighs like those can do pretty much as they please. I follow Brenda Small around like a poodle, panting and gasping, for a girl with mountaineer's thighs, that girl can really move. When we all sit down to chew grass and make daisy chain necklaces, I can see that no natural light penetrates between Brenda Small's thighs at a certain point – probably where the square of the length of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the lengths of the other two sides. Above that conjunction of curves and transmigration of souls, it is just darkness, the eternal mystery of girl-life. When we all walk home in the still afternoon, I can hear Brenda Small's thighs rubbing against each other, like grinding stones in a mill – I understand the theory of relativity; which is, that relatively speaking, I am on the outer.
8. Working Class Man
When I reach the age of forty, I am nothing but a derailed goods train, abandoned stock, stood rusting in a disused siding. Male pattern balding has ravaged me, I have a rather fine beer belly and, I look – well, I look nothing at all like I once thought I would, when I grew up and received my missing bits via Fedex.
The bits I currently own, are worth next to nothing in the flesh bazaar. Underneath however, there is still a functioning exoskeleton.
A loose assembly of bones with an incorrect distribution of flesh covering them. There is still time, it is never too late, there are many fine medicos and surgeons these days, most, if not all, keenly interested in re-modelling anatomies. That little girl who was once inside of me, is still hanging about someplace; down one of the litter-strewn back alleys of my mind, leaning against a malfunctioning streetlight like a washed-up hooker. Oh man, if only I could take that trip, a trip like that'd really blow your mind honey . . . don't be afraid, they say – just call me.
9. The Struggle For Existence
That is the very same topic the good doctor discussed with me, in respect of the sperm I was about to voluntarily sacrifice for the cause of female uniformity. He thought that maybe, given the struggle for existence, I should freeze a few million just in case.
'Just in case of what?' I asked him point blank.
'Well, just in case you uhm, change your mind one day or meet a good woman and you want to . . . '
'Want to what?'
'You know, procreate artificially.'
'You mean, if I change my mind and decide to go hang with the boys again?'
'Exactly.'
'Forget it doc, give it your best shot, let's go, hey ho.'
10. The Bit Collector
Years roll on like a bridal train from that fetid womb whence I was dragged. Mostly I'd say, I've been screwed good and proper – and, in that way, I'm as genetic girl as they come. So, when you see me, the original and very bestest Anatomy Girl, sashaying along the avenue, all swish 'n' swirl, bits hanging in the breeze; keep your scorn under lock and key.
I've worked hard for these bits honey, and, in the wash-up, when the big court sits upstairs, it'll be a unanimous decision; that I fell in love with a girl and that girl just happened to be me! No one can ever accuse you of having an affair with yourself, can they?
All those essential beauty bits I craved, I've collected, bit by bit. I always loved them, not in any cardinal transgression way – no sister, I just loved those bits so much, I pined every dark night for them. In the dark, only your ghosts can hear you shriek.
Love, honey, is a fine and dandy thing; though, dangerous too. Love is all about cheating, cheating the odds: nature, anatomy, sterotyping, yourself, society, those closest to you who never ever realize just who you really are. To really really love, girl – you gotta learn to cheat the odds! When I think of love, I think of bits – yeah – I think of bouncing swinging curvaceous bits . . . when I think of love, I think of anguish.