“I’m very impressed by what you have done with yourself, my friend,” the gray haired goat stated loudly with a deep, bellowing voice.

There was probably polite answer to be found somewhere, but is there anyone I wish to impress? To be a good man and put forth a good day is the best of days and the destination I drive this mass of falling flesh toward, never with the intention to impress but persevere. Impressed? With me? Somehow, I smell the stench of insult as compliment headed my way.

Words will only encourage the old goat, so my reply will simply be a smile — guarded. A grin is given.

“I would love to hear your story, sometime. I’m a counselor and I think your story would be inspirational.”

Perhaps a smile is misleading. Perhaps a scowl is more appropriate. Perhaps if I give the goat his drink he will leave me alone and go about his business of not being in my business. Perhaps... Perhaps he is simply making conversation...perhaps.

“Golden,” I call, my mind singing “Goat”. Everyone in the place refers to him as Goat, a white haired old man with a hipster goatee, thinking he is smooth talking the young women. One of those harmless regulars that thinks he is on the in, all the while providing us with entertainment. He can take his drink and go about his day. He does not need to know we call him Goat.

“Thank you.”

Probably best not to answer. A nod of acknowledgement should suffice.

“I really would like to talk with you sometime. I’ve heard enough about your story to know its value. I’m a writer and professor as well. I know what I am talking about.”

Say nothing. Say nothing. Say nothing. Look down and make drinks for the next customer in the queue. The goat will leave if there is no encouraging eye contact...and he is gone.

Where has all of the friendliness gone? I remember a time when I was friendlier, perhaps even jolly, some would say, but the time I spent without a fixed address seemed to harden the once pliable flesh of goodliness. Maybe it is that I cannot forget or forgive that as he with an address I had to work to make myself invisible when doing the deeds of good in the interest of self in the the serving of others, but once there was no address to call home, once I lived on the streets amongst those I chose to service, I became a ghost amongst the addressed. The goat will talk with me now, but would never have looked me in the eyes when he feared I had no address. Jaded? Something.

Being a regular, the goat and I crossed paths a few days later. It was my assumption that we could go back to our empty conversations of polite nothingness, which was an accurate assumption...at first.

“Don’t you want to share your story?”

“No, thank you,” I said in the least sincere cheery voice that could be mustered.

“I can offer you something, if you’d like? I can maybe pay you. What do you get paid here?”

“Have a great day,” I answered the crass goat as I handed him his sweet beverage of consistent comfort conformity.

Again, I was able to dismiss the goat from my mind, but our paths crossed again — he was a regular and I was an employee, so... Some of my co-workers suggested I talk with him if he was willing to pay, but the money was not incentive — if only they knew I worked here for the structure it gave my life more than any other reason.

The interaction with the goat happened a few more times, until I realized he was a relentless old goat and I needed to make this thing go away. Perhaps he was of value to me...

The next time he restarted his acquiring conversation, I asked him the questions I deemed relevant: “What is my incentive? What can I learn from you? How can this be other than your using me for my incredible good looks and natural sex appeal? What benefit is there to me to engage in an experience purging?”

“What’s in it for you?”

“That’s one way of putting it, and if that is how you are comfortable saying such...”

“I am a counselor, so playing word games is something I do every day and do well. I suggest you pick another game, but whatever makes you comfortable speaking with me.”

“Here’s your drink, Goat. Now think...”


Golden. Now think of what you have to offer me that would make me want to sit down and spill the rawness of my experiences to you.”

“I said I might be able to pay you.”


“Yeah, if I can sell the story, but I won’t know that until you tell me your story.”

“Money? That’s the best you have to offer?”

“What else could you want?”

“You are not asking me for money, you are asking me about myself, my story. What I can offer you — from your perspective — of greatest value is my story, yet the most valuable thing you have to offer me is something I can get anywhere? Doesn’t seem like a fair bargain.”

“Look how hard you work for so little. I will pay you one week’s salary if you spend one day with me, eight hours, telling me how you have changed your life.”

“You would be overpaying and I would get nothing of real value in return.”

Money! This explains why you were homeless. I have always suspected the homeless do not have a true understanding and appreciation for the value of money.”

“And I have always suspected that those who value security of their comfort above all else have no passion of principle, only fear of discomfort.”

For some reason, my retort brought him to smirk.

“I must speak with you at any cost. You do not belong behind that counter!”

“I am exactly where I must be and can be no other place than where I am.”

“I will pay whatever you deem appropriate.”

“Come to me with an offer of value and perhaps I will discuss something with you.”

“I will pay you...”

“If money is all you have to offer of value then let me make change for you. If you wish to have a conversation, you must bring me something I find as valuable as you seem to think my story would be to you.”

“I’m waiting,” a beautiful elderly woman with a glow interrupted.

“I can work and talk. Yours is almost done. I have not delayed you by my conversation with Mr. Goaten.”

“I didn’t come here to listen to this banter, young man, I just want a chai.”

“Here’s your chai and the show was on the house.”

“That was unnecessary and rude.”

“No, she really just wanted her tea, and if I find this conversation a bore, I am can only imagine how others find it. Until next time, Professor Golden,” I explained.


“Until next time, Professor. Have a great day.”

The next few times Goat routined at the coffee house, he offered various trinkets and gestures to buy a bit of my time. Alas, it makes no sense why it was so important to this stranger, but it seemed as if every time I said no his desire for the conversation increased, the value of the words he knew nothing about rose simply because he was unable to acquire them. Co-workers thought that he was becoming obsessively strange and kept encouraging me to take the money. Customers seemed to become uncomfortable by the snippets of offers heard. It was as if he were no longer interested in the story but in the victory of acquisition.

And then he conceded defeat, on the day he brought something of interest, of value.

“You win, coffee man. I’m just having a morning with my daughter.”

“Finally, you are beginning to understand,” I answered, immediately knowing I have seen the beautiful young woman somewhere before...and with my heart skipping a beat and the whole of my purpose standing at attention, I knew it was somewhere that I wanted to recall.

“Funny man. You win. I get it, I have nothing of worth to offer the coffee maker. The highly educated professor, writer, counselor, intellectual bon vivant has nothing of value for the guy barely removed from living on the street. I understand, Mr. Wonderful.”

His calling me Mr. Wonderful gave me a warm fuzzy feeling all over...really, I could care less about what he had to say, my interest was the young woman oozing sex appeal he brought with him. He had something that I now considered very desirable, extremely valuable. He could have whatever he wanted of me with the right time with her.

“And you said you had nothing to offer? All this time you have this precious creature of natural appeal to do your bidding and you have nothing to offer?”

“My daughter? I should offer you my daughter? For someone who works behind a counter making coffee, you sure have a grand vision of yourself.”

“Perhaps that is not how I define myself. Perhaps if I were a professor...”


What explanation does one offer? Is it only appropriate that one with expensive degrees from groupthink training institutes value themselves with any significant worth? Yes, how dare one who has not conformed to society’s norms think himself of any real worth.

“Does it bother you I consider myself your equal while serving you from behind a counter? Does it bother you that I speak to you as an equal? Perhaps, like you, I am highly degreed in conformist thinking. Would that make you feel more comfortable? Would I be worthy of a conversation with your daughter then?”

“Jesus, every time I come here when you are working you are having some crazy conversation,” an exasperated young man ejaculated from the back of the drink desiring crowd, causing the place to erupt in laughter.

“I know, but that’s why I come here,” said an overdressed middle-aged man. “This is my entertainment!” Random applause was now added to the laughter.

I smiled and picked up the drink assembly pace. Goat blushed, his face aglow with surprised embarrassment. His daughter smiled...no, grinned at her father’s discomfort.

“The professor here has told me of the game you two are playing. I am impressed you have managed to get under his skin so much,” the delicious young woman spoke, her voice triggering the final connection necessary to bring her recall current. Professor Goat’s daughter was a much followed porn doll. I had seen her in action while perusing what was popular amongst those in desperate need of erotic stimulation.

There are those in the world of erotica performed who have a following because of their freak femininity; some have a following because of a special attribute or ability; others for some extreme aspect of their character; others for... who really knows except their followers. Ms. Golden — who went by the stage name Goldie — had built her fanbase of fetish followers on an image cultivated as an extremely smart, quick witted young woman with absolutely NO boundaries...and a simple, unaltered natural sex appeal that in some bizarre way exuded a fresh sweetness and innocence, an incredulous contrast to her performances.

“I...” I began, stultified.

“Trixie, that is not necessary. You don’t know anything about this man.”

“I know he interests you.”

“That’s not of your concern, young lady...unless you want to spend some time with him. If you want to spend time with him, then I guess we both benefit, but only if it is what you want.”

“Is that how you really feel, father?”

“Of course, I would never want you to do something you did not want to do.”

“Fine, then. You heard the professor, coffee man. You and I will go to dinner and you owe the professor nothing, unless you want to. The evening with me is unconditional. But you will want to talk with him, I’m sure.”

This time the professor turned red, as if he were about to explode in rage. It was obvious he was using every ounce of control to not explode. He had been bested...by his daughter, and undoubtedly it was ‘again’.

The focus of he who makes coffee drinks was to make the drinks, and attention paid to the job was attention that did not have to be paid to the daddy with daughter issues — issues grown from seeds he undoubtedly planted.

“Enigma, black.”

“Terri, sweet rose tea,” a drink I always enjoy delivering, for this one had an inner peace and glow that made the predictability of life worth every inane moment, and fostering a desire for in her piece.
“Dude, I’m dying here! Could you hurry up?”

“A little dramatic, don’t you think?” another customer asked the bald man.

“Dude, my hair? I really am dying!”

“We’re all dying,” an elderly woman in yoga clothes interjected.

Yes, there was a backup and the crown was getting unruly.

“You can take me to dinner tonight. I’ll meet you here at let’s say 8ish... No, make it 9ish, okay?”

“Okay,” was the only acceptable answer, though that seemed like a time closer to breakfast than dinner for a coffee presser, but when opportunity knocks...

“Extra light double dark cream cleansed morning after mover for Melissa.”

When you think things are going to be a certain way, you ensure only your disappointment — fate is not simply fickle, it likes to fornicate the mind. This is something important that should be kept fresh in the fore of the thought, for to spend an evening with Goldie carrying any expectation about what that evening would look like would fry the mind with the endlessness of possibility and be irrelevant...though the evening would not be, at least for those involved in the filling of life’s empty moments with the purpose of impossibility attempted in general exploration of virgin landscape.

Originally it was 8, but I know she changed it to 9. Yes, the first hour of waiting was not her fault, but the 90 minutes after that...still not her fault — I am the one who chose to wait. She is who she is, and how could a stranger such as myself even begin to know what that means. Perhaps she is a Calvinist who has accepted her fate. Alas, the wait was worth the search for a virtue I do not possess — for those who believe patience is such a thing.

She eventually arrived erotically charged and looking and smelling spectacular, not through effort but by natural design. She told me within minutes that before we begin our evening I should know she planned on having sex with me so not to spend the evening trying to seduce her. I let her know that that had not been my plan, since I had seen her in action and was actually quite intimidated by the prospect — something she confided was a problem and that if it were not for her doll performances she would not be having sex at all these days. Oh, the problems of beautiful young vixens...

The young woman known to the world of performance doll watchers as Goldie insisted I call her Trixie, the same thing Professor Goat called her. It was an erroneous assumption the young libertine would want to spend the evening spreading her energy about town. She wanted to talk...and talk...and talk...and the more she talked the more interested I became in the non-conversive nature of physical intimacy. The gentleman I try to become at times insisted that the conversation be paid full attention, yet the distraction of her beauty and the randomness of her purging conversation made the challenge difficult. Then she told me her father, Professor Goat, had cut off his own penis.

“Wait...excuse me?”

“He’d kill me if he knew I told you, but I figure it should make it easier for you to give him what he wants.”

“I am not sure what that even is, but...”

“He just wants to hear your story. He lives vicariously through others.”

“I’d imagine so. Did they reattach it?”

“No, he... You can’t tell him you know.”

“I’ll... I want the image out of my mind as it is!”

“He did it surgically. He researched it, acquired the right tools, used the right drugs and did a perfect surgery. He’s a very smart man, and he wanted to make sure others did not force it back on him.”


“He threw it in a fire.”

“What!?” I screamed, my heart stopping from the shock and horror for a moment.

“He threw it in a fire and it was done.”

“But why?” I needed to know.

“It is something he does not, will not talk about. Only once did I hear him say anything about it and it was to his brother who was threatening to have him put back into a crazy place. Dad was so angry. He was desperate, crying for his brother to leave him alone, but he said he couldn’t because he was afraid dad was going to hurt himself again. Dad went into a detailed explanation of how he did not hurt himself but relieved himself of a problem, saying he had been a slave to the desire of his cock since he was 10 and just wanted to pursue life without the constant ulterior motive of an unrelenting master.”

Silence. It was not a quick pause, it was a long and drawn silence. Trixie had an uncomfortable forced smile, looking as if she just revealed too much about herself — she had. It was clear she wanted me to say something to make her feel forgiven. The tasked seemed gentlemanly.

“Have you encountered a Spear of Destiny in your travels?” I asked.

For a reason devious to anyone with her brain, she broke her silence with a burst of uproarious laughter. I joined in with a smile. Not long after, it was time for the evening to come to an end, it seemed.

“Shall we go somewhere and have a good time? Or, as they say in the trade, ‘Wanna date?’”

The obvious answer could be shouted as a resounding yes, but Trixie had a couple of issues that made the best of men not want to take advantage of her and the worst of men do what the best of men wanted to do. On the other hand, she said that there were no real moments of intimacy outside her Goldie persona. How damaging to her self-esteem would it be for her to be rejected as Trixie — though is the real rejection of Goldie because how intimidating Goldie the fearless fornicating porn doll presents to the challenge of one’s masculine sexual identity?

Suffice to say that a younger woman provided a purely physical encounter that was unparalleled in the realm of conscious erotic adventures of a physical sort — unparalleled! That being said, it makes one realize the role emotion plays in realm of ecstasy. There is no comparing meaningful sex to meaningless. The greatest moment of lust cannot compare to an average moment of love.

It was a given that out of the kindness of my own curiosity I would sit down with Professor Golden and give him whatever story he needs to feel his purpose in life, but he would need to return to the little shop of coffee bean juice extraction.

It would be a fairly good supposition to suggest that Goat no longer came around because he knows his secret of pointerless purpose was out, but room has to be made for most any other possibility as well, for this is a man who crossed the line to problem resolution that few throughout have ever even contemplated, let alone attempted or completed. It is with ease that one recognizes Goat is demonstrably capable of anything.

In retrospect, one could consider that talking with Goat upon his first request would have been the kind thing to do, but what is it when we allow others to make a claim on our time? And then there would have been no time with Trixie and Goldie. Also, said ‘kindness’ arises from sympathy for a man who removed the image of manness from the root of what he was born to be burdened with — kind of like an extreme circumcision. Does this require sympathy, as it was his resolution of his problem? Until we have all the answers, should not one be allowed to seek their own solutions to a problem when it does not infringe upon another?

Things cannot be other than the way they are, no matter how greatly we wish it were otherwise. If the chain of events had not been exactly so, I would not have known a man I encountered with regularity had given himself a penectomy and ponder what effects this may have had on his extraordinary daughter. Yes, things are exactly as they must be...and maybe that is what is so disconcerting.

Penectomy? Ah, the ability for man to torture himself knows no bounds.