Tag Archives: parrot

Masturbating cockatiel

Enrique permanently dropped off his pet cockatiel, Perrico, a lovely male with an exceptional attitude.

I lived with Tom, my twenties’ mentor, in a house in Marin County. Enrique worked for Tom and, for the time being, so did I. Tom never married, owned a Cessna, mined California gold, hunted in Montana and lived to adventure. Life with Tom was a blast.

Meals were a crap-shoot with Tom. Often, I’d make a batch of popcorn over the gas stove — I got very good at its production, nary a kernel went unpopped. Perrico loved popcorn. The cockatiel would wait for an offering and hop down on the carpet to eat. Later, we’d find him inside the wide pot, pecking at the remains. He also loved to play.

Tom would carry him back to the far bedroom and toss him into the air. He’d fly around the house looking for me, finally landing on top of my head when I was located — often hiding to challenge him.

He’d rarely sing. No, that’s not true. He’d often sing but, only on special occasions — right after he finished masturbating on your thumb.

During the evenings, he spent little time in his cage, often just sitting around on top of us or things while we read our books. However, if you held him on your index finger, with his butt positioned over the knuckle of your thumb, he would begin the strangest dance. He’d start to rub his hidden dick on that bump. He rub and rub until, with an arched back, he’d cum. A tiny wet spot would materialize and he’d start to sing as if he were an opera star.

If you interrupted him, he’d become mighty cross and attempt to bite your hand and would squawk a raucous noise.

I left in autumn, headed back to school. In November that year, Tom opened the front door to go to work, having forgotten to cage Perrico the night before. The bird went for the bright light, flew up into the foggy morning and was never seen again.


Writer’s Log: 2017 Jack

Writing is like:

Riding a unicycle,

on a guywire,

juggling apples and alligators,

while simultaneously,

planning your next act,

with seven other players,

in a circus you’re designing for the next town,

as you remain cycling to and froe,

twisting a cherry stem into a knot with your tongue,

which you spit into a glass thirty feet below you,

never taking your flirting eyes off the trapeze artist,

teetering just out of reach of your toothsome gator,

at the same time dictating your nefarious plans for world domination and the demise of the human race,

to the parrot you have riding in your birdcage hat.

A writer is a jack-of-every-trade, never satisfied, always learning, constantly exploring what’s around the bend.