Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

It is Goo the iguana’s second mating season. The bad thing about this is that Goo is much bigger than he was this time last year.

A month or so prior to breeding season, I measured Goo. His Royal Resplendent Greenness was 48 inches long, from snout to tail tip. He’s shed a couple of times since then, which indicates growth. I tried measuring him again the other day and realized iguanas’ exquisite sensitivity to color is amplified during breeding season.

Goo took great offense to the bright yellow measuring tape, and decided it must be swiftly, viciously, relentlessly attacked. So I don’t know how exactly how long he is nowadays. I’m keeping the measuring tape tucked out of sight until about mid-January, when Goo’s aggression hormones recede to their baseline level again.

This time last year, I was the primary object of Goo’s sexual desire. Oh, sure, he’d attempt to copulate with any biped or quadruped who couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough, but that was just meaningless sport-f*ing. His serious erotic obsession was reserved for me. As our relationship evolved, this has changed.

Goo and I have settled into each other, like an old married couple. We are comfortable with each other, but the sexual spark has died. Consequently, Goo has had to look outside our cross-species marriage for sexual fulfillment. I’ve taken the European attitude towards Goo’s infidelity. No need to get all worked-up about it. He always comes back to me.

To my great hilarity, Goo has selected my teenaged daughter, Veronica, to be his next mistress.

“It’s an honor, V.!” I called to my daughter’s closed bedroom door, as Goo ardently tried to claw his way through the door into V.’s room. “You have been Chosen!”

A few years back, Veronica and I were walking across a parking lot when somebody wolf-whistled. I turned to see who was whistling at me, and was surprised to see a scurvy-looking Pepsi deliveryman leering openly at my daughter. My BABY. I was flabbergasted. Veronica took it in stride.

“You’ve had your day, Mom,” she said. “You’re old, now. It’s my turn.”

I was reminded of this yesterday when Veronica dropped her book and fled the easy chair before Goo’s determined, lascivious advance.

“Why isn’t he bothering you, like he did last year?” Veronica shrieked.

“Oh, I’ve had my day,” I replied. “It’s your turn, now.”

Goo’s desire is evident because whenever he catches a glimpse of Veronica, his head turns bright blue. This striking blueness is like the Krispy Kreme donut sign – when you see that neon all lit up, you know it is ON. In Veronica’s physical absence, Goo contents himself with copulating with pieces of V-scented dirty clothes. This has worked far better than any amount of parental nagging to get V. to keep her laundry picked-up and out of the common living areas.

Goo has his flings, but he remains emotionally bonded to me. We are so close, we even meld minds, sometimes. I learned it from “Star Trek.” Only problem with it is, sometimes Goo’s mind dominates mine and he won’t relinquish his hold on my brain when he is supposed to. I therefore occasionally find myself wandering about out in the world under the influence of a cold-blooded reptilian mind. At these times, I am prone to do evil deeds, which are not at all my fault.

This is the best excuse I’ve been able to come up with for my latest moral transgression.

I was at church Sunday night, killing time in the parking lot talking to my friend Hank. Our buddy Deb rushed up, frantic.

“Omigod, guys, the most terrible thing has happened!” Deb bleated, clearly distressed. “I’ve lost my journal. I think I left it on the blue couch in the community room Wednesday night. OMIGOD, I will be so embarrassed if anybody reads it! ALL my deepest secrets are in there! Please, please tell me if you find it!”

Deb scurried off, to bleat the message to others. Understand, now, that Deb is the biggest, most shameless freak any of us have ever met. The stuff she talks about in mixed company would make a professional prostitute blush. What could possibly embarrass her? Hank and I looked at each other and we both had the same thought. I only got the blame for it because I verbalized it first.

“We have GOT to find that book and read it,” I said.

Hank and I raced into the church and proceeded to tear cushions off couches and chairs, and yank drawers out of desks, until he shouted, “BINGO!” He hefted the illicit treasure in his hands. It was silvery, and clasped shut with a lock.

It ended anti-climactically. Deb suddenly materialized from around the corner. Hank and I were forced to pretend great joy that we could hand her sacred tome of secrets over to her, unread.

I related this story to my daughter, along with the fact that Hank and I would be watching like hawks for Deb to lay her book down again. My daughter lambasted me for my evilness. I told Sergei, and he remained diplomatically silent. That means both of them are disgusted with me. I have clearly erred. What they fail to understand is that the iguana made me do it.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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