“Gosh I love you!” I said to Jim, after he fisted me to control the real love I felt for this other guy, Paul, a plumber and a natural fister, not a fighter. Jim was a man I wanted to grow old and die with, and a man who has just been fisted by Roger. There were charms to Roger’s fist, admittedly. We all have hard times when we look back and ask ourselves how, why, when… I was, admittedly, first introduced to fisting by a bowler with a fist named Myra, she, the bowler herself that belonged to the fist (I never learned her name) had a twatoo (tattoo inside the vaginal cavity) which she said proudly “It takes a miner’s hat to see!” You know, that is not the kind of lovely experience one can walk away from without severe melancholy! A silky fist, one smoothed by bowling balls, uncool shoes and chili fries. But life… it is moving on, moving on, and the grip of a plumber’s fist is the grip of clean life-pipes. The imagination goes crazy imagining how many caves a plumber’s divine fist has explored — and with eyes so peaceful they could hypnotize a dog (a smart dog, a good dog, a dog with a squeaky toy). We all know that fisting is the new kiss. Instead of arousing one another with lips, drunken sentences, hums or slanted purrs, we’re athletically miraculously fisting for love, this is how we become real. Kissing, both disgusting and unhealthy — belongs in history books along with canaries, pie crusts and bonnets. As a little female child of tender thoughts, I said to my mama before I even wore sparkly child makeup, I said, “Mama I hope someday I will find a fist to love”. Mama said, “You will beguile many a folded finger, my cherub”. I lured Jim’s fist with this very stamp of innocence, the eye-twinkle and the smile of wide trust. Soon we were married, the preacher wore gloves. Jim bought a bumper sticker which read “Fist loudly if you love Jesus.” And well, I prayed.