neurotica

There's something inherently unkosher and morally objectionable in exercising too much maternalistic familiarity and canoodley baby-voiced sweet-love-down-by-the-fire with someone else's cat. It's the chin-scratching, tummy-rubbing, head-butting, whisker-tweaking equivalent of breastfeeding someone else's child or spontaneously grabbing the inner thigh of someone else's boyfriend. If indeed said child or boyfriend had six nipples. I am thus essentially both the wet-nurse and rube of the feline world.

You feel like a home-wrecker. You've morphed into the proverbial chain-smoking seam-stockinged platinum-locked Other Woman out of some tawdry, hard-boiled Mickey Spillane novella, and whilst you feel decidedly dirty for all of its lascivious, illicit impunity - a titillating, moreish, thrilling kind of dirtiness which conjures up images of Audrey Horne knotting a cherry stem with her tongue - you can't help but whisper sweet nothings to your pussy of choice, luring him or her into your doughy, dark, dangerous cushion-harem of a futon, and lull them into soporific spreadeagledness with the perversely intimate, inane, high-pitched ballads you'd coo to a cat of your own.

This is a town for fondue cats and cat-swapping parties and felinamory. If Henry Miller was a cat, he'd be splayed on his back and enveloped with a thousand fur-ruffling fingers. In an ideal world (where Tom Baker brings over scones for afternoon tea and Sherilyn Fenn wakes me up for a morning sponge-bath, clad in white fishnet and little else but that mole alongside her right eye), feline monogamy is a thing of the reactionary, conservative Old World.