The Orgone-accumulating duvet
I arranged to meet Evangelina at the Trocadero Supper Club. That night the house band played a concert tribute to Scott Walker. As we nibbled hors d'oeuvres to a cover version of the Ohioan's superb English rendering of Jacques Brel's "Next," Evangelina placed in my paw an envelope bearing the seal of the FBI.
"Take a look at what I received," she whispered. I held before me a National Security Letter, demanding that Evangelina provide the FBI with any and all e-mail, telephone, printed and written records relating to me.
"My darling," I said, "you know that under The Patriot Act, not only is it decreed that you must provide the FBI with whatever information they request for whatever purposes they see fit, you are also legally 'gagged' forever from telling anyone that the FBI demanded this information. So showing me this letter here in the dim candlelight of the Trocadero, it seems you are taking the law into your own hands."
"Here's what I'd really like to take into my own hands," she cooed, grasping my furry tail under the table.
"Garcon! The check!" I signaled to Eduardo.
Hours later, we lay limply entwined.
"Mi amor, have you come enough this evening?" I queried while tickling her under the chin. "I lost count. There is nothing lovelier than your countenance whilst you are in the throes of, as the French call it, le petit mort."
"I'm quite content. And we've accumulated a healthy dose of Orgone under the duvet, I believe," she purred in the charming way that humans do.
"Ah, you speak of the great man, Wilhelm Reich! Now that the FBI's examining my mail, I have something in common with him besides the understanding that fascism is a symptom of sexual repression," I sighed, and I had a brief vision of my own books - Night Thoughts and Feline, All Too Feline - burning upon a government-sponsored bonfire.