It Was Curtains For The Bride: The Udder Woman

A friend once told me, ‘the best thing about sex in hotels is you can wipe your dick on the curtains’. But I’m not in a hotel, I’m alone in a tiny caravan, in a field - surrounded by cows: I spend an evening of undulation contemplation.

Let me explain. The two pictures on the wall – local landscapes of the Black Forest -, they appear to be married to the curtains - drawn together - somehow, yet, the ripples in the curtains didn’t in any way cause the landscapes to undulate. The only explanation: undulation radiation. Whatever it is, it’s spread to my sleeping bag. With ruched bags under my eyes, I fall asleep; I dream.

In my dream, I’m the groom at an arranged wedding – an orange wedding – we are both wearing orange. And we not entirely human, we are part-curtain; matching curtains. By this I mean, I was a curtain, and she a curtainess (an much the same way as a seam requires a seamstress). On the first night of our honeymoon, my bride has to carry me over a cattle grid at the entrance to our hotel. When we get up to our room – on the twenty-second floor – she attempts to carry me over a second cattle grid, guarding our bedroom door; but for some reason she fails to lift me, so she throws her curtain – in other words herself - over the cattle grid – Sir Walter Raleigh style. Once in the room, she looks perfectly normal – more female than fabric - as far as dream-wives go. But it didn’t take long for me to mistake her for a man (a curtain). She had a very pronounced ribcage (another cattle grid?), but it wasn’t that, that made me suspect: my hand wanders down a bit lower and I find myself gripping this dripping-dangling thing. It doesn’t turn me on, so I turn on my head-torch (yes, I was married in a head-torch. She wore a veil) to see that my palm’s wet, with white stuff. I whip back the quilt: she has an udder. The only other item of furniture in the room: an upturned milking-stool (in the half-light it looked like an abandoned udder; an organ-donor udder?). I go and sit on it (drape myself over it without bothering to right it). I wake up, pull back the curtains; it’s dawn. I’m no longer certain I’m a curtain, but I’m still vegan; all the cows have gone to be milked.