Helmet Head

Her Supreme Helmetness -- An Homage!

part of: Entirely At Random

by Madame Oracle

So, I was walking down the street after school when I was 8. This was way back in 1964. My next door neighbors included (name changed to protect the magnificent and innocent) Marge, who was 16.

She was a helmet head. I had seen helmet heads in the Outer Limits—beings from outer space with HUGE, domed heads, laser eyes and plans to take over the Universe. Marge’s hair looked just like their heads – tall, plastic and immovable—and while she did not have laser eyes, she did have acetylene eyes—well, she was an Earther after all. You didn’t dare fuck with Marge! She’d flame you with her acetylene eyes, rendering you into a pool of protein goo smoking on the sidewalk. If she had plans to conquer the Universe, I never heard of them, but with that head and those eyes, who knew?

I once asked her how she achieved her Supreme Helmetness (I didn’t put it that way to her). She revealed her secret in disturbing detail.

She rolled her hair, sprayed liberally with hairspray first, on empty frozen orange juice cans upon which she ritually slept…I say ritually, because most rituals involve pain of some kind, and surely sleeping on empty frozen orange juice cans must induce pain of an epic variety. When I asked her about the pain, she laughed, rolled her acetylene eyes proudly skyward and exclaimed, “Oh, it doesn’t hurt much really.” Of course, Marge never moved her neck either. I assumed early rigor mortis had set into her neck muscles from sleeping with her chin pasted to her upper chest. Damn but orange juice cans are immense.

“Why do you do it,” I asked, rendered almost helpless by confusion.

“Guys like it,” she blithely replied.

“The rigor mortis?” I wondered.

I was 8, what did I know? I had yet to see Petticoat Junction and fully grok the lengths to which certain females go to attract males – a tale of terror four million long years in the making! But, in those halcyon, pre-hormone moments my youthful brain thought, “I don’t need nothing that bad!” Hormones though – they have a way of making you want guys real bad! What do they taste like, feel like pressed against ones breasts – not that I had any at the point the hormones began setting in. Unfortunately for me (and maybe it is this way with lots of girls, I don’t know, girls aren’t encouraged to talk about these things) whenever certain males would walk by the walls would start sweating, the paint cracking, and the floor heaving!

I wanted to fuck them! Not romantic clouds of cotton candy fuck, I mean moaning and sweating wherever we happened to drop fuck. Petticoat Junction, Catholic Confirmation and the wisdom of her Supreme Helmetness did NOT prepare me for this immense feeling, this drive to be on top, bottom, sideways, you name it, as long as I was in for a wild ride!

Fortunately for me American culture was on the cusp of The Hippy, when more organic males, with their demands for free sex, wild hair, and natural faces began appearing. Sweet! Nary an orange juice can in sight! My neck was grateful, though a sense of cognitive dissonance was beginning to nag. Demands have always rankled – they precipitate in me a spontaneous digging in of heels! I distrust them instinctively, simply because demanders rarely give me the time to think their demands through. That seems unsafe to me. So, as the first hot hippy guys rocked the suburban streets of my life demanding free sex – I dug in my heels on the ‘give me time to think that through’ side. I’m glad too, because by the age of 14, the back of my adolescent brain was able to retort, via the application of cool, Spock-like logic that if there is no free lunch, how can there be free sex? Because I couldn’t penetrate this fine point of logic and neither could guys, I almost never fucked them. Frustration subsequently made me a master of fantasy and masturbation. Case in point, one night when I was 12 I decided to see how many orgasms I could have in a row. I made it to 24 then got bored. I have no idea if I would get bored with a really hot guy, but let me tell you, pillows do get boring.

So there I was stuck between the urges of ancient Greek women (before they were caged) roaming the streets fucking all and sundry, and the logic of Spock. I might have exploded in the manner of matter and anti-matter meeting, but I became an artist instead. I can honestly say art saved my life. It became my lover of choice, because I can stimulate my whole self with it wildly and repeatedly, and though it is not free, it is safe AND rarely boring….so you see, old brother Freud was right about one thing – the felicitous effects of sublimation!

As for guys, I learned over time that, outside of the possibility of disease, fucking them is totally costly for two primary reasons:

1) Males are a source of constant demands! They WILL run you ragged. They can’t help it, it’s probably in their genes. Over the course of my life the effect of male demands has escalated from irritation to a serious raising-of-hackles-rankling. Since achieving the age of 50, be warned that my irritation has increased exponentially until any kind of demand causes me to reflexively draw my supersonic atomic nucleus-deconstructing ray gun from the conspicuous holster slung across my back, whereupon I, ritualistically let the offending demander have it with all 432 barrels. Yes, I am truly the scion of her Supreme Helmetness !

2) I have two children who are magnificent object demonstrations of just how high the cost of fucking really is – not that I mind paying that particular cost – I am actually quite happy about it! If I were rich, I’d want two more.

Now, if I could only find a way to get copasetic with the constant demands of a hot guy, I might find happiness and 24 orgasms a day with him – and by the way, an orgasm a day does keep the Paxil away!

c. 2005 Madame Oracle

Dedicated to Her Majesty, Lisa!