She was the most beautiful purebred Persian cat. She stopped everybody in their tracks the minute they saw her. She was simply, casually, perfectly Cat. They called her Maggie.
She belonged to the girlfriend of my friend the acidhead. I had driven cross country in my BMW 2002 specifically to smoke hash and do acid. Owsley Acid. The Real Deal. These were the Good Old Days, and I’m glad they’re gone.
They lived in a custom-designed handbuilt stone and glass architectural wonder out in the middle of New Jersey and nobody showed up uninvited. My friend had grown up in the area. His dad had paid a lot of taxes there over the years. We hippie freaks were tolerated, welcomed even, cause we spent his dad’s money too. It was the safest place in the world to trip.
Rick was into electronic music, and everything in the house was tuned to concert pitch. It was the kind of place musicians came to for inspiration, sex, and drugs; and in the process they’d usually come away with a little rock n roll. The real stuff. You hear it on the radio. Some famous guys hung out, but I wasn’t one of them.
We were alone that weekend, Rick and I. His squeeze had gone to Paris to shop and we had the music and the drugs and that damned cat to ourselves.
I had been up for two days, never leaving the vicinity of this original Arp synthesizer that seemed to have my name on it. I was fascinated that such a machine--a complex collection of switches, coils, and patch cords--could, with the addition of a keyboard, make such incredible sounds.
With that Arp, some smoke, and the liberal application of hundreds of micrograms of synesthesia, I guess I thought I was Stevie Wonder. Even Rick gave up the second day, preferring to read back in the library.
But there I was, wailing on that electronic ax. And here comes Maggie. She’s walking straight at me, one paw delicately in front of the other the way super models work the runway, and she’s got this look in her eyes. Those beautiful hypnotic expensive Persian eyes.
She rubs herself against my leg the way cats do.
Usually once you start to derive pleasure from whatever it is a cat is doing, they stop. But it obviously felt good to Maggie. She needed attention. She rubbed harder.
And some part of me felt like the music I was making was perfect—purrfect—for this sort of thing, and there I was, synthesizing colors and smells and Maggie the Cat needs more attention.
It wasn’t so much casual spine-of-the-kitty rubbing now. She had backed herself up against my leg and I suddenly realized--and it must have had something to do with the inexplicable feelings of pleasure that I was now experiencing—this cat wanted, nay, needed fucking. She was in her first heat.
Complex feelings began to surge through me. Lustful acid-drenched inter-species considerations. The cat needed me it appeared. What is the harm in giving the cat what it needs? What is it, exactly, that the cat thinks it needs? What do I need?
You see why drugs are bad for you? I’m carrying on a perfectly lucid conversation with myself about why I should fuck a Persian cat named Maggie. Or...pleasure...the cat. Somehow.
Maggie was in ecstasy. It was fascinating to watch, I must say. All I was doing was returning the pressure a little bit. And her beautiful features were electrified by First time cat sex. Feline foreplay.
And finally I realized that I was not capable of delivering whatever it was this young cat thought she wanted from me. I’m afraid I had to shut it down. Before it went too far. I’ve done that with women. Gone too far. A lot. It’s always complicated. A creature with real claws? Who needs it?
Maggie looked at me, I thought, with anger and resentment. She gave me a final
turned pertly, and walked slowly away twitching her hindquarters as well and sure as any woman I’ve ever known.
It was the damnedest thing.
I was deep in sleep, hours later, the depleted acid finally allowing me the control of my own mind once more. A low rumble of distant thunder rattled me awake, bit by bit, and as I finally realized a storm had come, there was a great shock of lightning and a huge crash of thunder.
At the same time I felt her claws dig deep into my chest, I opened my eyes to see Maggie’s perfect Persian face in mine, her eyes as full of desire as any creature I’ve ever known.
In a thunderstorm. Coming down.