Ms. Marjorie and the Major

By Christian Alsis

This is the heart-breaking story of a woman. Her name was Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell, and she was known to all her acquaintances to be the most frigid woman they have ever encountered. I am careful to say “acquaintances” because “friends” would most certainly not be the right word. In fact, Ms. Thomas-Maxwell considered “friends” to be a savage accessory of the working class, and certainly not something to be had by a woman of her wealth and stature.

Ms. Thomas-Maxwell grew up the daughter of General and Mrs. Robert Thomas-Maxwell, the only child, and sole heir, to the Thomas-Maxwell fortune which was commonly known to have been gleaned over the course of many years by respectable, old-fashioned war profiteering. Ms. Thomas-Maxwell lived a privileged life with all the frills, and if Ms. Thomas-Maxwell discovered someone living with more frills than she, the General and Mrs. Thomas-Maxwell made sure that her frills would be increased amply.

Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell never spoke a kind word to anyone save the few remarks she made to herself every morning looking into the mirror. “Looking decent,” she would say, “No one could be more matronly than I, no doubt.” She regarded make-up whorish, and so she never wore any. An avid believer in social Darwinism, she regarded wasted food as a crutch for the poor, leaving no morsel uneaten. Finally, she despised men, regarding them as dogs responsible for all the evil in the world, and, so, Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell proclaimed that she would never marry.

Let it be said to all those liberal minded folk out there who say Ms. Thomas-Maxwell could, indeed, love another woman that Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell regarded women to be vile, slutty trollops who were no better than their apple-munching ancestor, Eve, who had destroyed Paradise for us all.

Our story begins, however, when Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell met Major Maximilian Thompson. The setting for their chance meeting was at a soirée thrown by the General and Mrs. Thomas-Maxwell to commemorate Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell’s thirtieth birthday. The Major congratulated her on completing thirty years as a human being without experiencing death.

“’Tis quite an achievement,” said the Major.

“’Tis,” said Ms. Marjorie.

The two exchanged thoughts on such exhilarating subjects as famine, servants, and the proper way to ignore a beggar. The latter of which turned into an interesting and stimulating debate.

“One must ignore not just the beggar’s existence, but also the existence of beggar’s to begin with,” said the Major, and he demonstrated his point by completely ignoring a servant who offered them a tray of miniature beef Wellingtons.

“No, no,” interjected Ms. Thomas-Maxwell, “One must not ignore the beggar, for your ignorance of their existence simply spurs further agitation. One must assert, not their ignorance toward the beggar, but their hatred of the beggar. Physical contact helps.” Ms. Thomas-Maxwell demonstrated her point by kneeing the servant in his testicles with all of the force her 240 pound person could exert.

As beef Wellingtons tumbled toward the ground, the eyes of Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell and Major Maximilian Thompson met, and Ms. Thomas-Maxwell felt a tiny rumbling in the pit of her bowels. “Gas,” she wondered? But, no, it was something else! Something new to Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell. As she stared into the Major’s eyes, she discovered for the first time what it was like to care for someone other than her glorious self. Could it be that she was falling in love with another human being?

Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell and the Major talked through the night, and into morning about things they loved, but mostly about things they hated. By the early morning hours, Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell and Major Maximilian Thompson were brutally in love. Throwing caution, and manners, into the wind, the Major and Ms. Thomas-Maxwell decided that their emotions would best be expressed through vaginal intercourse. After exchanging their thoughts on how barbaric intercourse was, the two undressed taking careful time to fold their expensive attire.

The Major called his soldier to attention with an efficiency that Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell could only admire. The Major’s soldier fell into line, and Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell felt something else she had never known in her life – pleasure. Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell was in a state as she listened to the Major vocalize a particularly regimented style of love-making.

“And one, and two, and three, and four,” said the Major as he thrust his shrapnel-laced lower half into that of Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell. “And one, and two, and three, and four,” he continued.

What he did not notice was that Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell was becoming increasingly shocked, unable to tell what was going on with her body. Was it lack of sexual experience? Or was it that she had never before now known what it was to love, to feel, to experience pleasure in the fullest sense of the word. Before this night she had only known the pleasure of being wealthier and more ruthless than anyone she knew. Before this night she had never loved, and the pleasure, my God, the pleasure was just too much. As the Major’s troops plunged deeper and deeper into Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell’s territory, Ms. Thomas-Maxwell came to a climax, but it was too much for her to handle. She had never known this feeling, of goodness, of ecstasy, of love, and her body could not take it.

The news spread like wildfire, and reporters from all around flocked to the hospital where Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell, the wealthy daughter of the General and Mrs. Thomas-Maxwell, was laid up from the first orgasm induced coma on record. Day in, day out, for roughly one half of one year, the newspapers, as well as radio and TV stations, reported updates on the condition of Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell. The reports were always the same. She was still in a coma.

Thirty years and three primetime specials later, Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell woke up.

Upon waking from her coma, the first inclination of Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell was to congratulate the Major for such a successful bout of love-making; however, she was given a shock when she realized she was in a hospital bedroom. She was easily more startled when she caught the reflection of an old woman in the television set from across the room. “That woman is sitting where I am sitting,” she pondered, “How dare she! She must not know who I am.”

“Excuse me, wretch,” squawked the frail voice of Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell now close to sixty years old, “I did not give you permission to be in my presence!”

With that, Ms. Thomas-Maxwell stopped. The reflection had moved just as she moved. She was that woman! She screamed, very unladylike, but very necessary in this case. Her screams attracted the attention of the nurses who were just as startled to find the infamous coma case revived and shrieking.

The head nurse wasted no time in preparing a needle full of sedative, and Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell’s last words before being tranquilized were, “Try and inject me with your narcotics and I’ll clean your clock, hussy.” The rest of her verbal abuse was no doubt well thought out, but came out as a series of mutters and spurts of saliva.

She was soon after brought up to speed on what had happened. On how her utter hatred and frigidity toward the human race in her first thirty years did not prepare her for the rush of pleasure that came with falling in love and experiencing sexual intercourse. She also found out that the Major, grief stricken about being responsible for her coma, had chopped off his soldier so it could do no more harm, but it was the fact that he had passed away ten years prior to her waking up that was most devastating for Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell. For she had never loved another man, another person even, and her hateful attitudes before meeting the Major were responsible for the fact that they could never again hold each other in love’s tender, warm and promisingly human embrace.

And so ends the heartbreaking story of a woman, Ms. Marjorie Thomas-Maxwell.