Loss Of Innocence?

We were out with Tynan and Elena Saturday night… telling stories like we always do. I posted one of the stories a while ago. I thought I had posted the other, as well, but couldn’t find it. I’ve included them both below so you’ll understand the words of wisdom Tynan had for San Geraldo once our stories were told.

1.  The Cathouse
In 1982, San Geraldo and I drove with our friend Susan from Boston to New York for the weekend. On the way back, we stopped at a McDonald’s on the Connecticut Turnpike. While in the parking lot sipping our chocolate shakes, I noticed a veterinary clinic on the other side of the fence. There were two entrances. One read “DOGS” and the other, “CATS.”

THE PLACE WE SAW WAS MORE QUAINT, BUT YOU GET THE IDEA.

I facetiously said, “Ha. They don’t fool me. That’s just a cover for a cathouse.”

San Geraldo said, “Huh? Is that like a kennel, only for cats?”

Susan and I looked at him incredulously. As you have probably learned, San Geraldo often gets incredulous looks.

“You really don’t know what a cathouse is?” I asked.

“Yes, like a kennel, right?” he replied.

I explained, “Jerry, a cathouse is a whorehouse.”

“No it’s not. You’re making that up.”

“I am not. It’s where you would go to… well, not you… uh… It’s where you go for pussy!

“Oh, stop it. It is not.

Susan reached her hand to his cheek, nodded, and said, “It is.”

“Really?!?”

In unison, “Really.”

“Well, that’s just here. My mother wouldn’t know what it is!”

“Trust me,” I assured him, “your mother would know.”

When we got home, San Geraldo immediately phoned his mother, Alice, in Minnesota. I stood close so I could hear her response. “Mom, what’s a cathouse?”

SAN GERALDO A FEW YEARS BEFORE WE MET.
DOES THIS LOOK LIKE SOMEONE
WHO WOULDN’T KNOW WHAT A CATHOUSE IS?

Alice laughed and then, when he didn’t respond, asked, “Is this a joke?”

“No,” he muttered. “Do you know what a cathouse is?”

“Well, of course. Don’t you remember Beulah’s when we lived in Huron [South Dakota]?”

Stunned silence.

The next night, the phone was ringing when we got home from dinner. San Geraldo grabbed it. It was his Aunt Mildred (his mother’s oldest sister). I could hear her cackle all the way from Oregon, “Say, Jerry, what’s a cathouse?”


2.  What to Slow Down
When we lived in Washington, D.C., we had a dear friend I’ll call “Jo-Frances.” At the time, Jo-Frances and San Geraldo both worked at the Library of Congress. (I was with U.S. News & World Report, if anyone’s interested.) Jo-Frances, San Geraldo, and I were heading out somewhere with a couple of other friends. As we walked through Georgetown, Jo-Frances got about half a block ahead of us.

San Geraldo called out — loudly — “Jo-Frances, slow your twat down!”

Jo-Frances immediately stopped and, as we caught up with her, I looked at San Geraldo and said, “I can’t believe you yelled that out in public.”

“Yelled what?” he asked.

“Twat,” I repeated quietly.

“What’s the big deal?”

“Don’t you know what it means?” I asked.

“Of course I do! It’s your butt!”

I groaned, “No, it’s not your butt. A twat is a vagina.”

“No!?!” was his stunned reaction.

I turned to see Jo-Frances standing a few feet away looking stunned, as well.

“Is it really?!?” she squeaked.

“Well, what did you think it was?” I snapped.

“I thought it was your rear-end, too.”

Librarians!

WHERE WE STOOD WHEN SAN GERALDO AND JO-FRANCES
FIRST LEARNED THE TRUTH ABOUT TWAT.

And Finally…
After the stories were told, Tynan looked at San Geraldo and said:

“It’s a good thing god made you homosexual.
Because, if you were heterosexual, you’d still be a virgin.”

Author: Moving with Mitchell

From Brooklyn, New York; to North Massapequa; back to Brooklyn; Brockport, New York; back to Brooklyn... To Boston, Massachusetts, where I met Jerry... To Marina del Rey, California; Washington, DC; New Haven and Guilford, Connecticut; San Diego, San Francisco, Palm Springs, and Santa Barbara, California; Las Vegas, Nevada; Irvine, California; Sevilla, Spain. And Fuengirola, Málaga..

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