Gay New York

Dear Biddy by


Biddy B – Mr. James Bidgood’s advice columnist friend, is back, just in time for spring, with some corrections to her last column and a rollicking story about bumps and grinds that ultimately results in the discovery of a long lost piece of artwork! It’s wild and strange, but very entertaining, as usual! – ed.

First off allow me to apologize for the misspelling of Mrs. Blatourbotum’s name in my column of last month. Her brief disappearance necessitated my hiring a temporary amanuensis, a Miss Harriet Johnsons. I assumed when she gave no explanation for this plurality perhaps she merely entertained a preference for more than the one Johnson. Indulge me now whilst I momentarily play the punster but she hardly seemed the type to be a typist.

Neither she nor does any other person have the least notion why for a second career she selected desk duty after forty two years performing as an ecdysiast, a profession she was made to abandon due to injury incurred trying to keep up with the tsunami of competitors amongst those currently popular female vocalists.

As the story goes, she was exhibiting her talents at a neighborhood firehouse one weekend and whilst executing a grind and bump, having completed the hip rotating portion, she thrust her abdomen out and upward so aggressively, her contracted gluteus minimus, medius and maximus became stuck and soon after fossilized. Ever since she has moved about forever following her lower half, bent backwards seemingly the hostage of gale force winds or as if for some obscure reason making a rather rude presentation of her pelvic regions. This odd posture of course requires she sit, torso reversed hanging over the chair back to type. This may or may not have been the cause of the aforementioned misspelling. Who can say?

And then there is this little bit— Mrs Blatourbotum hasn’t been altogether herself since she returned. I think it was Tuesday last—-I was attempting to lift and unstuff her from out the back of her wardrobe closet —- from under the few garments she owns which collectively remind one of Spanish Moss hanging from a clothes pole! The poor woman was thrashing about bewildered and made blind momentarily, her head and thorax being engulfed as they were inside an abundance of utilitarian woolen bloomers. I had almost succeeded in dislodging her, not to mention several quilted satin hangers with sachets and a brown orange elasticized foundation garment complete with a dangling and unnecessarily complicated garter belt that had somehow attached itself and came trailing after —-when I noticed chucked away in the very darkest corner of her closet—something inside a folded up green moving blanket. It turned out to be a long forgotten work of art and quite an auspicious find when one considers the current cacophony of republican cretins attempting to revive yet another dead horse whilst smugly regurgitating the same sadly inane “Adam and Eve not Steve” bon mot. Or should I tell you what I really think!

Some years ago a particularly unusual friend of mine, a pantomimist and on occasion— zoologist, made a gift of an object inherited from the trainers of Mister Marcus the ape, famous the world over for his proficiency applying oil paints to canvas— and during one such artistic outburst and whilst evidently channeling one of his ancestors —he slapped out this memory painting that had taken control of his mind .

This, the resulting masterpiece is called simply “Adam Eve Apple Eden.”

Until next we visit when I hope to return to the advice portion of my column attempting to answer a query concerning whether or not an open marriage is the most prudent of relationships—thank you for your enthusiasm, Biddy B.

Images above property of James Bidgood. Not to be used or reproduced without permission from the artist.

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