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Well-Traveled Path
by Earl Coleman

I am following Peggy’s ass on Santorini. Mine, which has no class, sways and bucks and slides, and cranes its neck to try to take a bite of me. I can’t rein in my own desire, so how can I guide him, who gees and haws at whim, and wicked, shears my shin against the wall. I’m grim. I clutch his mangy mane, afraid I’ll come to no good end, unable to control the animal in me and him. Who would believe an aging publisher has lost his wits, his grip, his leg, to satisfy a waning letch for fetching Peg ten paces farther on? Her ass is almost prim, demure, amazing in its grace, as mine is clumsy, oafish, ready to be kicked or kick. Downhill we jolt, me bringing up the rear. Why was I here, with her, when Heaven knows I’d closed the books on this affair, at least in monologues, and still unable to bestir myself to cut it off, get rid of her. Peg rides her beast, a pro, who brooks no deviance from her command. She steers her creature where she wants to go with just a tweak, a tickle here and there, a gentle thrust, a dig of dainty toe. Strong, and yet innately weak, what can the poor ass do beneath her urgent hand? Since we are almost racing downhill now, I’m fearful I’ll be thrown, hang on, afraid to holler “whoa”, pull on the reins so that the vicious beast will slow. Then, as we near the water and his hay, I know that I can learn from him! Demur as he does in whatever way, bray my displeasure if it comes to that, refuse to bear a burden I find insupportable. Un-addled, mulish, I could stand my ground and never let myself get saddled next time round!