It wasn’t charity H-E steps from 9 East 71st Street, beside herself, it wasn’t political. It wasn’t sensuous or sensual or cynical or sin.

It wasn’t a sexual revolution, or an unbeknownst dove’s feet of peace, love, or puberty.

H-E had often interpreted her overlord’s, a.k.a. the signer and issuer of her paychecks, her agent, her erotic counsellor, her master of nub trades, fiddler of all, fiddler on the bottom side, the fundament, the firmament,

His agency as the devout wish for a second puberty, to be as revelatory as her first. Her first puberty– his, too. Being honest about it, H-E would have enjoyed a second puberty. She would have loved it even more if it coincided with the master of 9 East 71st Street’s,

In fact, the master of 9 East 71st Street hoped H-E would be the catalyst for his second puberty. After she’d been the catalyzing agent of his second puberty, he would discard her. Kick her to the curb, use her to line the kitty box, wipe off any dishonest body fluids he may have kicked up, himself. Second puberty enjoyed together? He remembered when he had first seen H-E. A little guy himself, H-E, statuesque. Himself suffering a Napoleon complex, but from that angle remembering his momma’s stout legs, which he saw in H-E’s. They were Amazonian, those legs.

Of course there is an L-C, cuddling to the sidewalk for dear life. Of course there is. The master of 9 East 71st Street hoped L-C would turn into poop, and then one of the flatfoots of Mannahattas would skip to the loo, as only flatfoots do, to pooper scopper L-C, into a pooper baby bag, body bag, red-white-blue pooper scooper aluminum held aloft coffin baffin,

Save the Whales!