Ask Harriet / Harriet Zanzibar
Mother's Day
(Harriet Zanzibar is busy grading finals. In honor of Mother’s Day, she’s asked her mom, Esther Zanzibar, to fill in.)
Dear Harriet,
I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to bring up the idea of fisting with my girl. I’m really into the idea of trying it, just because I never have before, not really, and lately I’ve just been finding myself staring at her cute little bony hand and thinking about it up my coalshaft. I think she’d be willing to try but I can’t figure out how to broach the topic. I mean, “Hi honey, how was class? Hey, let’s stick your fist up my ass!” Right?
— Fantasizing about Insertion (She’s Tiny)
Gosh. Harriet did warn me, but still, I hadn’t quite grasped — I mean to say, one doesn’t truly understand the meaning of the word risqué until one encounters the proposition of using one’s fist for, well, for something other than giving the bread dough that’s risen overnight a good solid punching down. That’s really the key, you know, to really great fresh bread: letting it rise all the way overnight, punching it down (don’t be afraid to really go at it, girls!), and then letting it really get a good rise the second night.
… If only my daughter wrote a column on baking.
Still, let it never be said that Mrs. Roland Zanzibar is a prude! Why, there are things about me that Harriet, bless her innocent heart, most certainly doesn’t know. She would probably be shocked to know … but I certainly can’t blab about my — why don’t we call them foibles — and especially my — let’s use the word peccadilloes — in such a public venue. One must always be conscious that children can get their grimy little hands on just about anything these days — even a serious campus newspaper for august institutions like The City University of New York.
Well, speaking of hands (that’s what they used to call a “segue” back in Mrs. Little’s composition and declamation class — do they still call it that?), we must address the dilemma of — shall I call you Mr. FIST? So, if I’ve understood your letter correctly, Mr. FIST, it seems that you want to express your love in a certain way with your — oh, you didn’t say she way your wife, did you? One must never assume such things, especially in this day and age. Why, some mornings it seems to me as if no one is getting married but the homosexuals.
Or actually, Mr. FIST, it would seem your true desiderata is for your — friend? companion? “old lady”? — for your “old lady” to express her love to you in a way you would find — perhaps gratifying is the best word. You even seem to suspect she might be amenable — or do you merely hope that she is? Perhaps that is the first question for you to answer, in a long personal communion with yourself — I mean to say — fiddlesticks. These days innuendo is easier to make than iced tea. Let us say it straightforwardly then: Ask yourself about this, or discuss it (in general terms— no need to tip the baby carriage into the canal!) with a pastor in whose discretion you can trust.
Now let us assume you have resolved this issue and move forward. If you feel she is — amenable — and the hesitancy comes from breaching — goodness me, I meant to say broaching — (what would Roland think of me if he read this! Look at me, my cheeks are all pink!) — this delicate topic, then may I suggest to you that the difficulty lies largely in your mind? If I may be so bold, Mr. FIST, in my experience it has often been the case that men have commonly mistaken the demureness of the fairer sex for meekness. Why, if you took this attitude to its logical conclusion men would quite reasonably assume that women, whom they think so pure and upright, would never, for a moment, have anything to do with any portion of the male anatomy! And yet — well, clearly — let us just take it as read that this is generally speaking not at all true. Certainly it has not been true for me, or — but let it rest, I’ve made my point.
Or perhaps, Mr. FIST, you are concerned that your planned activity would make you seem — unmanly would be the word? But don’t you get tired of being “the man” all the time? There’s nothing men like better, I know, than to divest themselves of their burdens at day’s end. And isn’t constantly being “manly” just that sort of burden that it might be pleasant to lay aside for a while? Certainly Mr. Zanzibar — but, again, there’s no need for me to go into particulars.
Well, I certainly have been a dirty bird today, haven’t I? I commend this column back into my Harriet’s care, but I must remember to thank her. And come to think of it, there are one or two things I have a mind to discuss with — but never mind. Good luck, Mr. FIST — and to you, and all the other Messrs. FISTs out there, I leave you with one piece of advice: let go of your tension and worry, and just relax! As my mother always said: you’ll be glad you did.
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