9

It wouldn’t be over. Never. That’s how it is different from all other wars, be it punching mugs in a surge of hostilities between two neighborhoods or an imperialistic world war of any number decimating the numbers of humans in this world—sooner or later they end, unlike this war. This one knows no stop. Ever. Because it is the war of sexes.

I am entirely with you in the opinion that it is a hell of a lot of an uphill job to dig any plausible underlying reason for such a bizarre warfare or to bring to light its basic moving force, or to discern and unravel the complexity of its cause and effects.

Still and yet, it is there, the indefinite and infinite war of sexes.

Why? Hard to say, might be out of habit acquired in the workings of the warring Maya—gore on teeth and talons of everyone fighting everyone else.

You may deny, discard my blabber, and decorate your walls with portraits of Mother Teresa and Mahatma Gandhi yet deep in your heart you know that I am right. Just as I knew before sharing it with you...

Irreconcilable war of sexes. Adversaries resort to cunning detour maneuvers, concealing their movements, defrauding each other, disguising their intentions, poking for weak spots, jumping from the rear, assaulting the flanks, launching open attacks to overturn the resistance of opposing force, penetrate the strongholds, take prisoners, and finally —

‘I beg your pardon, could you tell if the POW’s are used for perverted purposes, please?’

‘Yep, at times it happens but if it’s what you’ve popped up here, kid, then X-rated pulp fiction is on another shelf. So get the fuck out of here! Make sure I’ll never see your map around!’

— disengage to regroup, make truce to renew their stock of ammunition, mobilize reserves, enhance their motivation and clench each other in the next battle!

Whichever changes might see the warfare methods, with all modish innovations of dangles in the parade uniform, there sticks out, stable and firm, indisputable fact – this war is inescapably there, it knows no end...

Like in any war of other sorts, in WoS we also meet civilians not subject to conscription for their age or health considerations. We also may see refusenik-weaklings advocating for unisex as well as fallen or unknown heroes, mean traitors, and deserters tearing their insignia off in panicky run, profiteers selling most advanced and second-hand weaponry, turn-coats, and those ardently desiring revenge… no, not even by means of the spectral analyses could we account for all birds of different feather tinges in their heated battles as demands of them their great Mother-Nature...

(And—I pray!—let’s ignore, mournfully, the LGBT internal hostilities(they keep to no war conventions whatsoever!). The topic by its slipperiness calls for special preparation, a mindset screwed up differently, and familiarity with multi-volume works on their folklore, rites and rituals, which is beyond the limits of our modest discourse. Yet, we have all reasonable grounds to suppose that in their peripheral (as of yet) pinching scrambles war stays war, it can’t change its spots or nature smelly of pollution. Period.)

The entire picture grows even more complicated and aggravated by the undeniable fact that within sexes we do not find the cohesion to be expected of individuals trained for fighting to achieve common goals in the theater of operations. Damn, no! Each one remains a freelancer with their eye peeled for a game to their liking. Everyone for themselves and let old Nick grab the hindmost, as advised bythe time-honored adage (conceivably of Celtic origin if you ask me).

(What?! Who’s back there mumbled under their their nose “As if cluster-fucking were not a united act.”? Hey, kid! You’ve been told to leave! Get lost at once together with your stubborn ass!)

When we scrutinize the matter attentively, with proper zoom in to details, the tendency to confirm one’s supremacy over any other one, even belonging to the same sex, is hard to overlook. Noteworthy, that a fighter of the same primary sexual characteristics as yours is not your warranted comrade-in-arms and ally but sooner, with unscrupulous willingness, would sleep with your enemy – your personal individual counterpart in the current confrontation. A saddening yet irrefutable fact...

And at this point we draw closer to some stuff completely unapproachable for its complexity. Some inexplicably incomprehensible anomaly. Something that brings you to white heat by its elusive hazy nature. Yes, you might have guessed already, it’s said about the shamefully chaotic deviation from the established order of things in the reliable and stable system. Yet, a serious researcher is not supposedto omit presenting it, at least in a brief outline.

Voluntary surrender. The suicidal idiocy of humble coming to your enemy with a wide earthenware dish in hands to present your foe withyour head fried to tender and peppered with exotic spice. Technically, a pretty tricky stunt it is yet metaphorically easy as falling off a log.

A phenomenon of the order that hardly deserves anything better than to be named with a four-letter term, which is applied to brand it, ineffaceably.

“L” for blah, “O” for blah-blah, “V” for something else, and “E”… well, Ella Fitzgerald can rehearse you better here...

* * *

Being a vigilant sort of a guy alertness, V since long (he was sixteen then or something about) learned of Secret Weapon in possession of the fair sex, besides the standard armament from the list in the arsenal of their sex which is quite visible. The one thing he did not know though was if all of them were equipped with the SW. He’d rather prefer they were not, after a couple of outcomes when he was targeted directly.

Geez! Just recollection of the aftershock still gives him creeps. The intelligence on SW, whose effect he learned firsthand was never shared by him. Something stopped him on the very brink of a disclosure. Always.

How to put it more or less intelligibly? Well, it’s, like a sudden sway fills her face with a clot of condensed loveliness accumulated by their sex since the times of Nefertiti till the current calendar day (strange asit seems, none of Miss Americas ever added a jot to that quintessence of beauty by their scrape-groom-polished sugar-babishness) and she shoots the radiant beam from her joyous eyes full of a winner happiness.

In short, she bangs you with a ball lightning. Boy, o boy! It is some Big Bang!.

Love at first sight, huh? Now V knew the trick in detail.

Fortunately, he happened to be of love-proof type. Even if banged, shell-shocked, confused, overwhelmed by delighted admiration, he withstood manly and took the second look. Which served him rescuing antidote.

Still, thanks for the jolt, babe. It was a close call, I swear.

(It’s interesting to note, that individuals of V’s sexual affiliation never used anything like SW on him. Sparing their balls? Or was he not a kosher game for them? Okay, forget it, it’s just an aside.)

However, what is to be is not to be given a slip to. Nah. The Supreme Court of the cheesed off stars at a session in full force delivered their verdict. V got sentenced to lifelong love.

No SW was used for his case. The girl he fell in love with (though the poor chap didn’t even guess it) looked cool, indifferent, introvert. Later, the ice was broken, melted, brought to the boiling point. Intensively so.

He never admitted loving her, not even when eye-to-eye with himself. Without witnesses. Naively, he called it “liking”.

‘Yes, I like her. Definitely. No use of denying.’

Damn fool! You can’t deceive yourself! Which, by the by, no one can do for all their argumentative skills. It’s easy, of course, not to give a bean, especially when trained in self-cheating, press the lie into this or that vacant metastasis and forget about it for the entire incubation period, and then there would be no time to give it a second thought, there’d crop up other problems, progressing...

He did his best in earnest, no shirking, in his endeavor to shed off the uncalled-for “liking”, to overcome the lingering spell. Radically and consistently applied he strong drinks, hot sluts, and Irish luck gambling.

The mixed up potion stalled and, despite his covert support, proved its ineffectiveness. He knew that he was in love. And so was she because he was loved in return.

Ha! Really? Ho-ho-ho!

Yes, yes, yes, yes! She told it herself.

The day was pleasant, tame and thoughtful, full of the soft sunshine. They stood on the platform in a railway station. She smiled at him and said:

‘Remember me as I am right now, when I love you. Let it be you recollection of me, wherein I’m in love with you and haven’t turned yet a bad nasty bitch.’

‘You? Bad? That’s im-pos-sible!’

‘No incantations work when you’re not a witch.’

The rest is history. They split. His life turned zombie’s half-existence. Or, maybe, retarded waiting in the stagnated limbo queue, neither life nor death.’

Then there was another railway station platform some place in the middle of nowhere. And black night all around. He got it – no way to stand it any more. And he collected the number erased from the memory long ago. Collected without a hitch, automatically.

His voice betrayed him, yet he managed to hiss thru his voice cords the incantation. For the first time in his life he did it:

‘I-love-you.’

Immediately, he fell into a scathing-hot whirlpool of shame, understanding how useless was that belated yell of the helpless enchanted soul doomed to indefinite bondage. And there was also rage at the fucking shithead, himself. And also,a feeble hope that he was not heard—behind his back an endless drag freight train thundered heavily over the rail junctions. He rang off.

Still later, his buddy Lex shared, avoiding the eye contact, that in opinion of his, V’s, ex-girlfriend, he, V, was the unsurpassable champion in sex.

That’s how she sent—care of his friend—the antidote he needed so badly...