On our travels this fight weekend Mescaline Franklin and I ended up at a book store. As we made our way from the politically correct stacks into the hipster café, two figures obscured our path betwixt.

In the doorway to the café stood a tall, long-legged young woman with thick thighs, wide hips and a nearly petite upper body, her face blocked from my view by her shoulder-length dyed black hair. She stood self-consciously projecting a half faux masculine, half fuck-me posture as she directed the gaze of her fawning consort with one pinkly painted fingernail, manicured well and long enough to indicate that she was only playing at Amazonian postures and was decidedly a blowjob-addicted cowgirl where men were concerned. This woman, perhaps 25, reveled in her vaginal power.

The creature worshipping her from the safe quadrant of her left shoulder, was a blonde soy-boy with shoulders as narrow as hers and hips narrower still, continuing to taper disappointingly to the floor and terminating in pinched-legged jeans and canvas sneakers over sockless twinkle toes. As she pointed so did he giggle.

With enough room for us to pass, Mescaline in the lead as I discretely scanned her breedable shape from anklet to that unattended belly, the cave man before me turned his head as he passed, admiring her charms like some Robert E. Howard hero appraising a slave girl.

To this she said, “Hi,” in a friendly voice, begging to be courted before her drone so that she could complete his degenderization.

To this my young friend turned and smiled, but kept going, said nothing, just took one more look at her lovely hipline and continued on his way, her passing whiff of testosterone decidedly uninterested in stopping to speak with some sissy’s date.

As I walked by, sure not to obstruct their line of sight, she huffed softly and said, as if trying to imitate John Travolta, imitating James Coburn, imitating May West, “You have a problem?”

Her voice, dishingly lacking in the necessary base, never reached the Mescaline ear as he prowled onward, hunting his caffeine.

Something was mumbled in a hushed tone of disappointment as they drew off in a suddenly sulking posture of conjoined gender judgment.

At the table I told him, “How rude of you to pass up the opportunity to become the tool for that guy’s emasculation—either that or they were scouting for someone for her to blow while he watched.”

He said, “Yeah, I hear they’re [the media priesthood] pushing that now.”

There we are, another much-desired spanking undelivered by the world weary hand of Man, a frustrated she-thing left aching to be purposed according to her design.