Date: Tue, 20 Nov 2001 16:48:38 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Michelle's Second Secret
Michelle's Second Secret
(inc., ped.., rom.)
by
Feather Touch
You should probably read the First Secret, first.
"Can I see some of your great art?" Michelle whispered. I probably
looked almost dead, but it was a temporary state.
I tried to feel no distress. I'd just told her she'd do well to
marry Steve, seeing as how I was this all-fired dedicated artist type who
ran a small bookstore in order to have time to work at the keyboard; a
lifestyle unlikely to raise much in the way of cash or prestige, and, if
not as bad as a musician's, bad enough from a woman's point of view to
engender lush green grass in other pastures. I wasn't trying to fake her
out, it was the truth as I saw it, but what had happened so instantly with
me had put the doll on high alert. The love thing you hear so much about.
If I said No, she couldn't read my opus, maybe I really was something
exceptional in the arteest department, or in the asshole department seeing
as how one really should be published to ride the ride the oddball rails
and go all antsy over His Art . Yes, I suppose I was thinking for her, but
she was still developing at twenty-two, and, besides, I needed to practice
thinking for somebody because my own brain had been half numbed, half
broken by a world-class case of sudden obsessional onset syndrome. All I
could see, feel, or in any way sense, were Michelle's beautiful breasts,
high and full, even as she lay back on the buckskin.
At her coaching, I placed a pillow under her rear, and she remained
partly spread eagle so as to assist in the physiological aspects of our
little trip right off the freaking earth.
Then she was back on message.
"I've never showed it to anyone," I lamed.
What if "An All-New Jaws" wasn't very good? I should be so lucky.
Thus blessed I could put a little effort into selling books and live
happily with her for a hundred years. So die thousands of artists every
year, so died my wife, so I was having none of it. "A-N Jaws" was a hard
commercial play, who knew if she'd like it or not? and, if she didn't think
it was good, and I still wanted her to marry Steve, well, that's what
twists and turns were made of, and, while they could make a fellow car sick
(especially if confined to the back seat), they also went a long way toward
preventing romantic hypnosis, kissing cousin of highway hypnosis. I guess
there were a hundred variations and extrapolations on and of the theme of a
lazy man hurling manuscript like a teen party animal just plain hurls,
though not from excess, but rather its slacker-lassitude opposite. Of
course, this was treating the subject frivolously, and even then I knew
there was nothing lightweight about a writer's need to dabble long enough
to dazzle, and, since the work would last forever, no imperative to
approach the craft in a facile way or waste time on shortcuts.
Too bad; it would have been great to be a mortal, grab the pretty
Iowa girl and split for the Caribbean. Write for "Playboy." Of course, I
blamed the state of the nation for my shortcomings, feeling there was not
likely to be a single interesting story as our Jewry subjugated us to the
oppression of the lowest common denominator. No "Playboy." In fact, who
would publish an anti-Semitic, misanthropic pedophile even if he weren't a
megalomaniacal iconoclast? and never mind whose fault it was.
The masses had to be right and I was not part of the masses since I'd
had no less than five encyclopedias in my shop, none over one hundred
dollars, and had sold nary a one to the sixty thousand residents. Of such
masses I was no part, am no part, will never be a part, and, since there
had to be a god to empower Hitler, and get him so far down his road, I give
thanks in a way that would be hard on an Iowa girl, and that is by working
incessantly at my art on the theory that only a god can write for a god and
you don't get to be a literary god by typing out a few gags for Drew and
Mimi. It all seemed vein at the time, and I'll admit to being haunted by
vague doubts that, in retrospect, probably rendered me a caricature of the
Young Writer, even in my mid forties. Fortunately, I am an exceedingly
good person, more interested in protecting the feelings of others than
having any of my own, so I maintained at a level likely to make Michelle
glad to have a part of me that she could shape as she would, without the
whole package.
In the end there was nothing for it, Michelle wanted to read Steven
writ large. No matter what. She reminded me a little of the scene where
Beverly D'Angelo tells Chevy Chase to Slow Down! The night was young.
We'd napped off the wine, and now it was doing its Thou-shalt-not-sleep
routine, probably on both of us. What the heck. I trotted into my studio.
By the time I got back with the laptop, I needed to hold it in a certain
place, like a twelve year old. The glow in Michelle's eyes assured me I
wasn't getting away with my little coy routine, but she wasn't the kind of
girl to get lewd or bawdy about it. Instead, I settled beside her and
booted away.
FADE IN:
Sneakers. Cheap ones; ragged and old. No socks. Kid's knees dirty, skun
fair, walking. OMAR the urchin. He is thin-faced and hungry looking;
worse than his neighborhood. An alternative name for him might be Third
World. The location is Dubuque and time is the late Nineties.
CUT TO:
OMAR entering sporting goods shop.
OWNER
You got money, today, kid?
OMAR
Sure, couple of thousand bucks.
OWNER
Knock it off. Don't get smart.
OMAR
Why not, smart is free. I can afford
that.
OWNER
The street is free, boy. Go buy a piece
of sidewalk.
OMAR
Can't I look for awhile? You know I never
try to steal nothin'. Even if I wanted to,
where would I put it?
He demonstrates by pulling out pockets with holes.
OWNER
It's not the stealing I'm worried about. It's
having you hanging around.
OMAR
I'm no different than other kids.
OWNER
You're no different than SOME other kids, Omar.
You're real different than the rest. Most. And
hanging around here ain't gonna happen.
OMAR
And you're just scared. Ever since Father
Frank
all I get is outta places and into no place.
OWNER
Guess that's why they call it life. Now get lost.
OMAR leaves the shop and wanders Main Street, listlessly.
"You've got him," Michelle said, a glow in her eyes that I'd have
accepted before The Phone Call. "Nailed down in one short scene. Makes me
want to cover up because he's here in the room.
"I hate to say it," she raved on, "because I'd like to have you
around the house, but if I had a gift like that, nothing could root me away
from it. I'd be a hermit, a recluse, and totally antisocial."
Girls can be like this. For a second I thought I'd won, she was
satisfied, we could put the laptop away and talk about something else,
or... Wrong. Now she wanted to read more. Hello, I was just being
polite. Only two or three percent of the population goes to a particular
film, most of them don't like it, so what were the odds she'd like this
one? Way under one percent. And if she liked the opening, why it was just
a doodle, a sketch; the story was massive, an epic stretching nearly two
hundred pages, very intense if I say so myself. If she was persistent at
this stage, it was going to be a long night. Apparently the thought
occurred to Michelle at the same time. She was lying on my left side, half
propped on the upholstered arm of the sofa, as was I. She crept her very
lightly freckled right hand down, and under the computer. "My, god," she
whispered.
Was this going to be a distraction, divert her attention? I like to
think, looking back, it was a close thing, but, no, that wouldn't be
honest. I shouldn't complain, after all, we met in my book store. What
was she meant to be, an Avon lady? Still it boiled down to I wanted to
kiss her for an hour or two, then maybe try something, and she wanted to
read about Steven, or Omar as he was named in the story. I'd occasionally
wondered if my relationship with a boy might prove an obstacle in a normal
relationship, which shows how stupid geniuses can be.
Michelle had biggish and slightly rough farm girl hands. She wore
no nail polish, always a delineator between show and go, in my book. She
stroked me, bumping the laptop, making it hard to read. Good, I'll just
fold...
"I like to suck Steve when he's telling me stories," Michelle
whispered in my left ear, "but his are personal experiences, he doesn't
have to read. Plus, I want to lie on my back all night so nobody gets
confused and swims the wrong way." Having said this, the girl set about
housekeeping, removing the computer to the arm of the sofa, then guiding me
on top of her. How I made that slow rise up over her again swollen breasts
I'll never know, but I did, and she found me with her mouth as I steadied
myself with my forearms and pleased her by reading from the display.
CUT TO:
The resort of Cancun. High-end photography shop. A hysterical woman
- mid-thirties - enters accompanied by three POLICE OFFICERS, a HOTEL
MANAGER and several STAFF MEMEBERS from a nearby dive shop. The woman,
MARGE GRIMES, and the PEOPLE from the dive shop are in wet swimsuits.
POLICE OFFICER (In Spanish)
Bring the manager immediately. We have an
emergency here.
The PHOTO SHOP MANAGER arrives quickly.
HOTEL MANAGER (In English)
The young ladies' husband is missing off the
reef. This was his.
From a wrapped towel the HOTEL MANAGER produces an underwater model of
an expensive camcorder, badly damaged.
PHOTO SHOP MANAGER
This looks like it went through a ship's
propeller.
What happened?
MARGE GRIMES
No. No ship. There weren't any ships. Andy was
on a jetski.
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
Well, no jetski did this. Nevahatchee. Couldn't.
This casing ain't your father's common alloy.
Besides it wouldn't fit through the jet drive...
HOTEL MANAGER
.. .Swimming...
MARGE GRIMES
...
He just went out on the jetski. He had his
SCUBA stuff on. He went diving. The boy
from the shop found the little boat - the ski
thing. Empty. The camera was on the bottom.
It was almost new. I saw him go out with it.
Now look at it.
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
I am. There had to be a ship... not any damn
boat; a s-h-i-p. Even with a ship, it doesn't
make any sense. You're not Hollywood - any
chance? Stunt; prank? I'm not busy at the
moment. Show me the funnyman.
The PHOTO SHOP OWNER peers off, looking for Allen Funt or his modern
equivalent.
MARGE GRIMES
Don't be an idiot. These are real police and my
husband is really missing...
HOTEL MANAGER
...Can we look at the tape. That's the question.
I've read about their being saved even when you
think they can't be. We don't have a long list of
possibilities here. Mr. Grimes is definitely gone
and this is it.
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
It's flooded with salt water.
DIVE SHOP PERSON 1
But it's tape, not film. You must...
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
You've actually had some luck. You see, it's
Beta. What's your husband's name?
MARGE GRIMES
Andy. God, what a mess. What luck?
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
Beta. Whatever happened, Andy knew his
video.
MARGE GRIMES
Yes. Beta. Only. So?
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
It's tough. Physically tough. Heavy duty.
Beta didn't survive in the mass market.
Only sell a few thousand units a year. But
it's better than VHS and it makes 8mm
look like a wish for videotape. Since it's
Beta you actually have a chance. I'll have
to rinse it and figure out something to
treat it with and re-spool it. Then we'll just
have to see.
HOTEL MANAGER
How long?
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
I can have the last few minutes in an hour
or so. The whole tape would take a lot
longer, depending, but you're not interested
in that. And the tape may be damaged,
physically. You may get nothing. But
an hour with a little luck. Now you all clear
out of here and let me earn a real dollar for
once.
MARGE GRIMES
One last thing. All this damage. It couldn't
be...
DIVE SHOP PERSON 2
Shark.
PHOTO SHOP OWNER
Now here's a promise. NOT a shark. No way
in holy hell, Jose. Push off. Let me get to
work on this.
Michelle could tell, for sure, I'd had about enough. Or maybe it
was just the end of the scene. I suppose it didn't matter much, we were
well fed and bunked in for the night. If an accident occurred we'd make
the best of it. But it didn't, quite, and she guided me down beside her,
which was great because I loved staring into those pretty eyes. Loved her
body, too. Real, with some freckles here and a tiny wart or mole there.
She wasn't quite panting, but I could still sense a building energy in her,
probably instinctive because my seed would be pooling deep in her, and by
cumming, more would pass her cervix. I lay half on her, my right hand
doing to her what she'd been doing with her mouth. Only I didn't stop.
Fact is, I'd hardly started when she skipped into a hard shuddering seizure
that lasted for half a minute and left her lolling and gasping, but hardly
unconscious. Barely had we kissed a few minutes when she was fishing over
her head for the abandon Samsung, and in a trice it was in back in my lap,
leaving me feeling pretty good about a beautiful girl trying to get
pregnant while engaged in my little entertainment.
CUT TO:
OMAR, being shoved from a toy store.
CLERK
Get lost kid! Or buy something... or...
OMAR
You'll call the cops. And keep your
hands off me.
CLERK
Smart-ass. Get lost. No wonder your
sister locks you out all day. You don't
know how to act.
OMAR (To himself as he walks.)
Us kids today. Touch us up or throw us out.
Life is messed up, big time. Nothin' to do
and all day to do it in.
Then I get to go home. More nothin' to do
and all night to do it.
Peter Pan was a dope. Life sucks for a kid.
I'll bet it even sucks for rich kids unless
someone takes `em fishing or to ball games
and all that great crap and does it week after
week and month after month and year after
year. Like asseholes do religion.
Who'd take me fishin'? Dad the drunk.
Right! Not! Wrong! When Christmas comes
in July. Hell, when Christmas comes to my
house, AT ALL.
Still in soliloquy and wandering.
You know what there is in this dumb town,
Omar? One store you haven't been in. You
can read, but why? You've got enough
problems of your own without reading
about some dumb shits you don't even
know.
They're all on TV anyhow. So the only
store you haven't been in is this dumb dumb
ass ass book bookstore.
Well, kid, it's the first day of the rest of your
life.
OMAR enters a shop with a sign reading "Second-Hand Prose." SHEILA is in
the store; young thirties and talking to ALLEN, the owner, older.
SHEILA
I'm sorry, Allen, but I've really got
to move here to Dubuque. Dyersville
just isn't a go for me.
ALLEN
I'd love to have a literate neighbor.
Dubuque's a long way from London
and we could play hunt the crumpet
and foxy stuff like that. Jeez, gender-
challenged person; every time you come
over here you get me on some kind of
Travis McGee trip. Bawdy.
Mind off of business. Worse. And Trav
wouldn't approve. Nothing ever
happened in his life during business hours
or he'd have busted the "Flush" in the
mangroves.
But the best I can do at romance, aside,
I just don't see either one of us making it,
financially. You'd cut my business by
one-third, and that's all my profits. Sure,
I could lap Dad's bucks, but he cries so
you'd think he'd drawn them himself with
a dull pencil. When all was said and done,
you'd probably do about two-thirds of
what I'm doing and that would mean no
profit for you. The market's too small.
SHEILA
Small? That's Dyersville. Even with the
movie set, it's under a hundred bucks more
days than it's over a hundred - gross. I built
it and nobody's coming. Nobody cares
about books.
ALLEN
"Field of Dreams" started as a book;
somebody cared about it.
SHEILA
Clueless, Bro... is that what you're trying
to tell me I am? I live there, remember?
ALLEN [To OMAR.]
She's making a pun or maybe it was
just a try. See, the book was called...
OMAR
"Shoeless Joe."
ALLEN
Good job.
OMAR
I'm not smart and I can like almost read.
That's about the only book I know about.
I just got lucky.
There's a guy on TV; he's this guy
Dangerfield? He ain't got no respect, but
me, I got no luck. Not usually.
If I say something to myself I gotta wait
like maybe awhile before I can say the
next thing 'cause you know like I'm
pretendin' I'm on wit' Jay and the
audience has to go aaawwwww every
time I say something about my sister or
anything to do with myself. I say
something and everybody goes
aaawwww.
In the end I make a lotta dough 'cause I
only got to tell three jokes for the whole
show. 'Course the real joke's on me 'cause...
ALLEN
Life's aaawwww-ful?
OMAR
Duh. Even when I finally GET lucky it's
over some dumb book what ain't gonna do
me no good.
ALLEN
And these so-called jokes go on and on?
OMAR
The LUCK goes on and on; the jokes
probably aren't even there to start with.
All in my imagination.
ALLEN
I've got some talking to do with the lady...
OMAR
I'm gone.
ALLEN
You don't have to go. I was just advising you
our dialogue was over for the moment. Failure
to cop an attitude will result in its continuing.
OMAR
'Cause you say so and 'cause this is your dumb
shop?
ALLEN
That's two out of two. I thought you said you
were dumb.
OMAR
Duh. You just don't like me.
ALLEN
Three out of three. You don't know yourself
very well. I bet you don't even know your
peckerhead name... and wouldn't tell me if
you did.
OMAR
At least someone here is smart. About the
telling part; 'cause course I know my dumb
name. It's Omar. But I won't...
ALLEN
Now it's my turn: "Duh."
OMAR
You just tricked me. Everybody in the world
gets a chance to do that. It's a really big sport.
ALLEN
Guess Jay'll have to move down to Hollywood
Bowl when he has YOU on. Pretty soon we'll
be able to do an aaawwwww for HIM. I tell
you, it's getting downright sad knowing you,
Omar. But the Ms. and I need to talk bee's
wax, okay?
OMAR
I like you. You really try at being funny.
Most
`dults are too dorky. Boring.
ALLEN
The secret is I DON'T HAVE KIDS. THAT
enables- empowers - me to feel that once in
awhile there's a bit of humor left in life.
OMAR
So it's kids that make adults into dorks?
ALLEN
Yes.
OMAR
I'm glad we're good at something. Seems we
seldom miss in the dork department.
ALLEN
Something to be proud of, alrighty.
OMAR
Then... "alrighty, then."
ALLEN
I think that's been taken. Is Jim Carrey a dork?
OMAR
NOT.
ALLEN
I'm glad to hear you say that. Very, very glad.
I don't like ignorant kids who pile everything
there is into one agendized trash bag. Like
they know.
OMAR
Duh.
ALLEN turns his attention back to SHEILA as OMAR drifts to the rear of
the shop.
ALLEN
Sorry. Where were we?
SHEILA
Half way between Dyersville and here. Iowa.
I'm getting so I represent the reverse of the
homily in the movie. Every morning Sandra
says "Mom, is this hell" and I say no, Iowa.
Not funny by now. Not on thirty bucks a day
in what might optimistically be called profit.
ALLEN
Well, cut my seventy or eighty a day by a third
and add in higher rent, and you'd be in the same
circumstance here, with a long commute thrown
in. Maybe more money flying by but no more to
grab onto.
SHEILA
So, what then?
ALLEN
There is an answer. Buy me out and you'll have
the only show in town. I'll charge the entirety of
a dollar.
SHEILA
Then what will you do?
ALLEN
Go live on the ocean.
SHEILA
Live on what?
ALLEN
The ocean, Sheila. The deep blue sea. In a boat.
SHEILA
You mean sail around the world?
ALLEN
No. The damn thing's a circle. I'd just end
up where I started. I want to go live ON the
ocean. Drift and dream.
Fish for a living. Read. Do the net and play
computer games.
Get back to writing.
SHEILA
Sounds more like you'd go nuts from boredom
and loneliness.
ALLEN
It's the brave new world out there. Solar
generators, and wind. Satellite TV; cheap
uplinks and downlinks. One hundred fifty
channels of cable, only no cable. Phones,
faxes and e-mail; the whole nine thousand
yards.
SHEILA
For about a million dollars.
ALLEN
Not at all. It's not cheap to get started, but
once
you're going; it's almost free.
SHEILA
...You are kidding, aren't you?...
ALLEN
In fact, when you've drifted a few months and
fish have had a chance to school around your
boat, you may be able to MAKE good money
by catching them, salting them and packing them
right on the spot. The tech stuff - plastics,
mostly - makes it not only possible but also extremely efficient. Or
should.
No one's tried it yet, that I've heard about.
SHEILA
I wonder why?
ALLEN
I don't care why. This a project I like so much I
don't even care if it fails. And it's NOT crazy
expensive. The so-called exotic electronics are
off-the-shelf mass-market stuff. A lot of it you
can buy used, sometimes for almost junk prices.
For a quarter of the price of a house I can build
and equip a 40-foot multi-hull. Simple, strong,
and slow. Most of the cost of a boat has to do
with speed; power or sail. Slow is cheap. Safe,
too.
SHEILA
I think you're serious.
ALLEN
And nuts?
SHEILA
(To OMAR, who's been listening.)
What do you think Omar? Is the man mad?
OMAR
Naw, he just needs somebody really smart to
teach him what to do. I've seen a lotta movies
about ships and diving and pirates. I
could do all that stuff and teach him about it.
Plus, I could teach him to be
funny. It would take work...
ALLEN
How old are you, Omar?
OMAR
Twelve. Average U.S. age to start having sex.
Age of consent in Holland (a real radical
country, by the way). The big one two.
ALLEN
Did you say IQ? A captain before he's a
teenager; a teaching clown to boot.
Omar, you're trying to lay all this aaawww stuff
on me; but why I can't tell. Why do you have it
in the first place, and what have I done to you?
OMAR
That's just what I'm saying... you ASSUME it
would be punishment to have me around. Just
take it for granted.
That's not very nice.
ALLEN
Maybe I was just trying to be funny -? You seem
to think I need lots of practice.
OMAR
You wanna hear funny? Funny is Father Frank.
ALLEN
Excuse me for interrupting, but it sounds like he
probably doesn't have children. Do I make myself
clear? Now, how funny IS Father Frank?
OMAR
"Was," Father Frank. He's in jail. Don't think
that's too funny. But, anyway, I'm kinda small,
check it out, so he used to call me his Play-Mite.
ALLEN
Guess I don't have ask what he's in jail FOR.
Michael Jackson without the 20 mil in his
oops-wrong-dick fund.
OMAR
He's in jail 'cause of my dork-o-rama sister. He
wouldn't buy her some stupid junk she wanted
so she called the cops and they put a lot of
pressure on the alter boys and one of 'em
squealed.
It wasn't fair. Father never put any pressure on
nobody. If you wanted to learn about being a
fag or safe sex, you went to him. And where
else WOULD you go?? And what else would
you do if you didn't go.
He didn't chase you. Never, ever. And he never
fussed with anybody, if that's what you want to
call it, and then threw him out. He was your
FRIEND always. And if he loved some of us
enough to get it on our legs, like that guy Carlin
says, then it was our legs and nobody else's bee's
wax.
ALLEN
Captain; teaching clown and sexpert. You're a
package and a half, buster. Hard to believe
there's been five thousand years of recorded
history... and no Omar, so far.
OMAR
So far.
"Wow," Michelle said as I stopped reading, "sounds like the young
master has a long way to go."
"You wounna believe it, lass," I intoned.
Steven, victim of his own life, had impressed me with a relentless
courage in even trying to face a world which spared no horses when it came
to including him in its brutality from day of his life, one. He does not
`go far,' he vaults, leaps, pirouettes and charges to such an imperial
height the world stops for him, hours at a time. We'll be seeing how as
the story unfolds, but at the moment there was a most beautiful young woman
ever so close at hand, and she had another secret with which to pass the
evening. Of course, technically, they weren't secrets, since she was happy
to whisper them; just things she knew that I didn't. Didn't matter a bit.
I'm hinky, kinky and creepy, wanted to know, secret or not. She was
willing to tell but temporized by asking about my first time with Steven.
If that made us two left feet, who cared? because we were in bed together,
or at least on the sofa, and wouldn't be challenged by standing up for as
long as our healthy bladders lasted.
"I was about to call the cops," I said, "because I though he'd been
abandon, then he said his mom was a sheriff. I quizzed him on it, and even
though he was far off the wall, there was truth in him having a responsible
mother in town, so I drove him off. Not like Omar, more's the pity, but
more kinder and gentler-like. Didn't work, he kept coming back, and he was
a charming cuss under enough obnoxiousness to fill up a quarter of a
newborn Jew. Plus, he was a catamite, right out of the dictionary. That
made me nervous, but it also made him an aggressive and superb lover.
Nothing like knowing what you want in this world."
Michelle giggled gently, a most pleasing sound because it was in
tune. Novel to think she wasn't just being polite, but I couldn't help it.
She wasn't just being polite. At the same time, her evening with Nancy had
ended with more questions than answer, and creepy me, I wanted to hear what
happened next to the eleven-year-old beauty. We got kind of silly,
residual wine, and made like passing through a door, even to the Age before
beauty that was her ultimate parry. Ladies First was a more compelling
rationale, so I made it stick. I'd seduced a man at eight, and it had not
taken me longer than a minute, so Steven's hammering me into bed was hardly
meat for a story, plus, girls are far less likely to be interested in
voyeurism, psychic or physical, than boys. Hunter gatherers were bred up
that way for a million years, which might have something to do with it.
Thank god for the huntress, and, when embodied as an Iowa farm girl, with
slightly rough hands, thank god for the hands of the huntress. Not that
her story was bad, exactly.
Paul Abbott had been trying not to think about Michelle, it seemed,
a little more every day. He found the concept of trying not to think about
something self-defeating to the point of being absurd. Try not to think
about that curly, light orange hair, and the world took on a mystic golden
glow. Try not to think about those long, coltish legs, and the world went
running amuck and danced `til dawn. Try not to think of the new swell to
her breasts, and every heavenly body became Venus. Of course, when he
actually thought of his daughter, that didn't help, either. It was a good
thing the girl had such an ardent and drop-dead mother, was all he could
say.
When the phone rang, Paul was specifically not thinking about
Michelle's shoulders which he'd seen less of as September loosed school
upon the world and summer dresses went to Goodwill.
"Daddy, do you have a favorite daughter in the whole world?" came
the delicious girl voice.
"I have one worth a dollar," he responded, "does that answer your
question?"
"Do you have one worth picking up from the McCormick farm?" the
sweetness purred into the phone.
"If I had a favorite daughter," Paul went on, "I would think she
might rather hang around with her friends than the tedious fossil set known
as parents."
They bantered on, Paul realizing it would be more pointless than
ever to try not to think of the pretty one while he was talking to her.
The girl allowed as to how she really liked Nancy, then added that Naomi
was due to arrive at seven that evening, and just maybe he, Paul, Daddy,
would like an excuse to run around in his new Chevy. He'd forgotten he had
a new Chevy, and at its mention realized he would be the obvious choice to
run the mission. A vague practicality it was, but he grabbed it along with
the keys and launched into the September evening.
"When it rains, it pours," the young father thought as he eased the
new car, ultimate status symbol of the farmer, onto a county road. He was
thinking back to early in the summer, the arrival of his twelve-year-old
nephew. Three days of calm, then a full tornado with young Ralph, and one
that had whirled into Paul's bedroom, leaving Mary gasping past midnight
and purring softly still at dawn. It was if the boy had subtracted his age
from both of theirs, and they'd even surpassed the passions which had sent
them running for the woods within minutes of starting their first game of
footsies sitting on the back of a pickup. Michelle had been nowhere to be
found after their first time together, and Paul wondered, when the girl
appeared in due course, where she might have been. The eleven year old had
remained button bright, and if anything seemed more in sync and engaged
with both himself and her slightly older male cousin. If she'd seen what
happened, it wasn't a 911 situation in the behavioral department. Strange
how he missed his daughter's summer dresses the moment she appeared ready
for school. Had that been just this morning?
Loud-mouthed wouldn't have been sexy, display wouldn't have been
sexy, coy flirting wouldn't have been sexy, but two quiet farm girls
sitting beside him as the Chevy trailed dust toward the airport, that was
impossible. They had looked like a scarecrow's fantasy, silhouetted on the
ridge of a bluff and it had been a moment of moments as he eased the car to
a stop.
"Paul Abbott, Nancy Kirk," Michelle said, ducking her new friend's
head to the passenger window so Paul could see and smile at the girl.
"Hi," she said, then lifting her head clear as Michelle opened the door.
The girl with the long, light brown hair got in and slid to the middle of
the bench seat. Michelle followed, leaning across Nancy to kiss her dad,
then sat demurely back as the car reversed on the gravel road and headed
for the airport. Two quiet girls, both eleven, not even interested in
blasting tunes from the radio; yes, very sexy, indeed.
The conversation started out on a prosaic note, but didn't stay that
way. It turned out that the Roys, Naomi's parents, and the Kirks, wanted
to attend a dog show, daughters not real thrilled at the prospect, and now
the problem was solved by having the inbound girl's friends stay with the
Abbots. This little plot was thickened to a fare-thee-well when Paul
allowed how Mary had mentioned the show, and both girls had chimed in that
she should go, too, if she wasn't doing anything else for the weekend.
Paul called the house, Mary was delighted, and the logistics were quickly
formulated leaving A bachelor for the weekend, with a guest list that
included his daughter, eleven, and two of his daughter's friends, also
eleven.
But it was not to be. Tantalizing as the thought was, there was yet
a more intriguing option. Michelle's. "Dad," she said, "if everything's
cool on the farm, maybe we could stay at the Midway."
Putting words into action as best she could, Michelle reached into
her backpack and pulled out almost no bikini at all. "Nancy lent me this,"
she prattled.
"I thought you were friends," Paul commented. The girls both looked
at the tiny suit; would a friend lend a friend something so trivial? They
started giggling and Nancy used it as a distraction so she could whisper to
Michelle, "You're dad's soo awesome." Michelle thoroughly agreed and they
rode on. And yes, Chet could feed the dogs and cats until Sunday evening,
and yes they could shop for a few things, and yes, a few lobsters could be
sacrificed, and yes, perhaps the smuggling of a bottle or two of wine might
be overlooked. It was easy to accommodate kids that had such good ideas.
Was Darwin selected of a million drones? In recent months the sight
or thought of Michelle had sent Paul's mind on a lively search for anything
else to think of. Willowy eleven year old females have that effect on men
ten and up. The trigger was Naomi's comment on an idle rich boy she'd met
at her tennis camp. To prevent staring her to death across the restaurant
table, Paul tried to come up with some use for the idle dilettante, keep
the conversational ball rolling. He'd met Naomi a dozen times, but in
passing. She looked much like Nancy, which amounted to a somewhat retro
appearance because they were tallish and lithe where contemporary girls of
their age were becoming notably heavier and just plain bigger with each
passing year. She, like her two friends, was a library queen and already
dazzling her teachers, which wasn't saying much, but she also dazzled the
school librarian, which was more in keeping with our story. Darwin, Paul
pointed out to himself, was of the quality, as old money was known in
Blighty; didn't have to work, and was able to alter history and relieve
some from the treadmill of superstition that was religion. He weakened a
dominant church to the extent science could begin its long list of real
miracles. On the other hand, there were in fact the drones. Ne'er do
wells, remittance men and wastrels by the thousands for every contributing
cipher. It was the world's most inefficient equation, but, when it worked,
you got a Darwin or a Dickens (whose fortune was tangential, but certainly
there).
For some moments Paul sat in the restaurant regretting his neglect
of mathematics. Why? Because it would take a deep foray into the most
obtruse quantum something-or-the-other to divert his attention from the
Misses Michelle, Nancy and Naomi. The felines had princessed themselves up
as, duh'uh, Iowa farm girls. Each had chosen a variation on the demure
dress, complete with buttons running up to lace collars. Each sat quietly,
enjoying the food. Each was a magnet connected directly to a seven hundred
foot dam. Each set Paul off on the search of an ostrich, sinking his brain
into any conceivable intellectual refuge. But it was thin sand. For
example, he thought of the wonders of England in the age of sail and the
vast human progress, times, now, several billion beneficiaries, that
resulted. Of course, the Dutch had been first, but didn't have the trees,
and tended to be bone headed. Perhaps that was getting too far in the
sand. Lighten up, he chided himself. But that didn't help, because it
turned his mind to the thousands of long sea voyages and what happened on
those voyages. What happened was that any unaccompanied person of either
sex and any age above five fell in love. Simply being in close proximity
for months on end always lead to a strong romantic attachment, always.
That was a real healthy thing to think about with three lustrous pre-teens
actually smart enough to enjoy lobster without having a yak fest.
How many men fell in love with their daughters? It probably
depended on the daughters. If they were attractive, likely the number was
around a hundred percent. Imagine having a daughter like Michelle, and not
being actively in love with her. So how did you go about bringing up good
daughters? Be sure they got lots of exercise, and read to them. Was it
that simple? Had he left anything out? The only thing that came to mind
was the fact she'd been affectionate and even gently flirtatious since she
was seven, always happy to hug and cuddle. Should he have waited? All he
knew was that if he had it to do over again, he wouldn't. Even that
thought wasn't a bummer, under the circumstances. What could be short of a
tornado or earthquake?
Shopping done, dinner done, that left nothing but pool time. They
had adjoining rooms, but it seemed it was going to be for sake of form.
Must be the wine, Paul quipped to himself, but, just to be sure, he told
the girls they could take a bottle next door if they wanted. They almost
seemed shocked at the idea and didn't move from the bed where they sat,
demure and side by side. The flickering lights reflected from the pool
surface played against the wall opposite the window and shouts and laughter
filtered through the sliding door.
It wasn't telepathy, exactly, and it wasn't mystic transport,
exactly, nor divine will, exactly. Was it love? Exactly. It levitated
Michelle into her dad's lap. "Nancy taught me to kiss," she whispered, and
tilted her glowing face to him. She still tasted faintly of blueberries
and ice cream, and that lasted for about ten seconds before her tongue went
after his. Be it psychic or sexic, the energy in the room intensified
rapidly, levitating Nancy and Naomi and drawing them to the couple seated
on the adjoining bed. If busy hands were happy hands, strippin' hands were
rippin'. Mystic or not, the forces still worked in admirable
synchronization and soon enough the deed was done and Paul was naked. The
two nymphs named Nancy and Naomi twined with Michelle, gradually revealing
her young breasts to the tall, athletic male. The foursome huddled in a
small, panting circle while Nancy and Naomi shucked each other out of their
clothes, hiding their immature bare chests until the last moment, then
displaying modestly as they stood beside their naked friend.
For long moments the little sex club stood simply staring at each
other. Naomi, as the newcomer, attracted special interest, and six hot
eyes ravished every inch of her tender, schoolgirl body. Her eyes, in
turn, were glued to Paul's huge, circumcised penis. "You're different than
Chip," she whispered.
"You've seen Chip?" Nancy and Michelle whispered simultaneously.
Naomi blushed and stood silently. Paul could sense her
embarrassment and let her remark pass without comment. From Darwin his
thoughts moved to Freud, because he'd just witnessed the `slip' of all
time. His daughter and Nancy seemed galvanized by the girl's unconsciously
frank announcement, and nothing would do but they forget swimming for the
time being and cuddle the tall young father onto a bed, on his back. The
females joined him, Michelle on one side, Naomi on the other, with Nancy
kneeling between his legs and staring down at the great raw bent spike
jutting almost to his navel.
"It's okay," the young father finally whispered to his daughter's
best friend, "with a brother like Chip, it would be an unnatural miracle if
the two of you were celibate."
"We try to keep it a secret," the girl whimpered through the tangle
of brown hair tumbling down over her shoulders.
"And you should," Paul whispered, "up to a point."
"But you can tell us everything," Nancy coaxed, scooting up to lie
beside Naomi and kissing her one the lips.
"I guess it happens to lots of girls," Naomi said, half to herself.
"But not with a brother like Chip," Michelle pointed out.
"He is pretty nice, I guess," Naomi admitted.
"Yeah," Nancy sighed, "and to-die-for cute, all six-two."
"That's why it happened," Naomi whispered. "Because he was so tall
and, you know, got mature so early, when he was eleven and I was eight.
His swimming coach noticed it and talked to him about stuff, and mostly
about me. Then he came up to my room when he got home from school.
"We talked," Naomi went on. "I mean at first."
"Like you did with Ralph," Michelle whispered to her father, loud
enough for her young friends to hear.
"Yes, yes," Paul intoned, "I came here to give you girls a good
talking-to."
Three pubescent beauties, one his natural child, were no laughing
matter, and Naomi easily regained control of her sparkling friends. "He
asked me if I wanted to talk about mature stuff with him," she stated,
definitely on-message for her small audience. "I got really nervous, and I
could tell he was, too," the young beauty went on, "but I said he should
lock the door. I don't know why, there was just the two of us in the house
until six. It just seemed the right thing to do, and I guess it was
because he didn't waste any time making sure we had privacy.
"Chip asked me how much I knew, you know, about stuff. I told him
they had demonstrations with dolls. He asked me if they told me about
getting molested and I said they did. He asked if I understood it, and I
said Not too much. That's the kind of stuff we talked about. He wanted to
be sure I wasn't too scared. Then he asked me if I loved him and I told
him I did and he said he loved me. After that he said Judd, that's his
swimming coach, told him some secret stuff about Ivy, he's a boy, but he's
called Ivy because he want to go to Dartmouth, and his little sister Rae
Ann. She was one of my friends in third grade, and I knew Ivy a little,
even though he was sixteen at the time. Mostly, he had a good reputation.
I'd even noticed Rae Ann seemed better recently, concentrated more in
school and spent less time talking about boys, which all the girls were
starting to talk about most of the time. So, when Chip mentioned their
names, I got extra excited. So much, I couldn't even talk. He sat on the
bed beside me and asked me if I was okay. I couldn't trust my voice so I
just nodded. `Do you want me to go,' he whispered, and I shook my head
even harder than I'd nodded it."
"So he didn't go?" Nancy whispered.
Naomi reddened considerably at this. She was thrilled to be lying
next to her beautiful friend and looking at the statuesque yet lean male so
close at hand. Under the circumstances, she did not want to giggle, but
when Nancy asked her question, her first response was, `No, he come.' That
would have been bawdy. Naomi didn't think she'd like bawdy, wouldn't it be
like chimps? What she did like was all this whispering and deep, detailed
secrets. So, in the end, instead of blurting out and giggling, she just
reddened at her vulgar thought, and had to bite her inner cheek again when
she categorized it as a vulgar lingualism, and reflected on all the tongue
implied by the rude phrase.
"Then he asked me to slow-dance," Naomi continued, "and he whispered
to me to make sure I wanted to do mature stuff. And he taught me how to
kiss."
"How long did that take?"
"We're still practicing," Naomi replied. "It seems there are two
ways of looking at it. The Uptight Way and the Free-Spirit Way. Kissing
is part of the latter. Once you're there, with someone you love, or at
least really like, the more you do, the more you want, and not just for
itself," the girl went on wisely, "but for what it leads to if you're in
the right place and the time is right."
"So what did it lead to?" Nancy whispered.
"He told me there were other sister/brother and father/daughter
couples in the school, sort of an informal yet active club, and that all
the kids in the club that knew us, Chip and me, wanted us to join. You
know, it was really practical stuff. Dancing and talking as if we were a
married couple deciding where we might go on our next vacation, even though
Chip was asking me what boys, of the ones in the so-called club I knew, I'd
like to dance with, and I was asking him which girls, of the ones he knew,
he'd like to dance with. It didn't take us long to realize we were
hands-down each others' favorite partner.
"Having settled the social side of the issue," Naomi went on, "we
decided it was time to be Free Spirits in the physical sense so all
the passionate kissing? it didn't last. He told me the most exciting way
was to get naked out of sigh of each other, then look before we touched.
That's how Judd had taught him and he assured me I had to try it because he
couldn't describe the feelings. I replied that I wanted to hold him
forever, and he explained that was natural for a female; a nesting instinct
that bode well for raising kids. In fact, he got so loquacious on the
subject I began to develop a sneaking feeling he didn't want to stop
holding me any more than I wanted to stop holding him."
"If there was that much romance in the world," Nancy interrupted her
co-best friend, "the population would die out in a single generation."
"They'd starve first," Naomi rejoined her friend, "but that's where
males as hunter gatherers come in. They have the action plans, and if
they're sometimes slow to act, well, it's always better late than never,
and not only that, but Judd had told Chip that later was better. So,
finally, after half an hour of kissing and dancing and quizzing and more
kissing, he asked me if I was ready to be felt up. `Men like to do this to
boys, too,' he said as he turned me so my back was to him, then put his
hands on top of my shorts and under my blouse."
"That's like my dad did it with Ralph," Michelle whispered.
"Did you like watching it, darling," Paul asked.
"It was like a Greek statue, come to life. You'd have to be a
nut-job not to at least see the beauty. That it was part of sex, too?
"Oh, Dad," Michelle went on, and was that a plaintive tone in her
voice? "how come it's not for everybody? What a cheat! Life is unfair.
Kids get all hung up on a hundred pointless things from religion to food,
and bugaboo taboo keeps them from the best and freest behavior there is.
Paul loved to listen to his pretty daughter talk. Naomi and Nancy
seemed equally pleased with her rationalization of their situation, and
were especially pleased when she went off on a tangent to do with Free
Spiritism as essential training in the age-old problem of judging when
enough is enough and being resolute in adherence to a game plan, whether
stifled or liberal. "In other words," she said, "you can't boink every
hunk and fox; the harder you try, the less the sum of the individuals, and,
not only that, but each encounter ends up subtracting from not only your
sex life, but life, in general."
They were all afraid Michelle was on the verge of breaking things
down, numerically, and she did. "Eight to ten in a Sexicell," she
explained. "That's the inner group that frequently spends time together,
and make love openly and sometimes jointly, if that's not too legalistic."
All shook there heads. It wasn't too legalistic, in fact, it was
more interesting and relevant than all the pages of all the books of all
the laws ever written.
"Then," the ginger haired eleven year old went on, partly to her
dad, partly to her friends, "maybe a hundred more-casual friends, over a
lifetime. These must be well mixed with straight people and ordinary
relationships, even to the point of the rare mistress or lover excluded
from either of the two sexicell circles. This ends up with an alpha pair,
like dad and I are, with about an eighty percent exclusivity, especially
when it comes to matters of simple spontaneity and convenience. Pretty
bummer having to schedule life around clandestine events. So we stick like
glue, and have a lot of friends over."
Paul was proud of the young Miss Abbott's impromptu visitation with
the muses of utopia; if nothing else, closer to the mark than the path
behind. Denude people of the myth of transcendence of any kind at any time
and involving anybody, and you'd be left with Michelle's happy, long-lived
groupings. Of course, booze would probably have to go, along with
religion, because it got folks het up, and things would likely be
complicated enough without that. Het up and riled, with the clerics
garnering generous commissions for their efforts at distortion and
fomentation. Well, an artist was worth a million clerics, any day of the
week, and sooner or later one would come along and set the record straight.
What a strange ambition for one's daughter, Paul mused, but couldn't shake
the essential rightness, as against righteousness, she explored with an
off-the-cuff nonchalance that pleased him more than he thought another
human being could ever please him. True blue to the bone, Paul gave Mary
vast credit for her input, princesswise. What a job she'd done. How would
she take this? It didn't matter. If she ran him off, he'd go the
point was, it was worth in what he knew was an exceedingly rare
situation the chance of being thrown to the hounds, the cops, or the
asylum. Some things were, which wasn't so surprising when one stopped to
consider the fact that miles on miles of rank and file will march to the
flames of gods and stuff, to burn happily therein.
.
"That's what the club's all about," Naomi said, excitedly. "Exactly
that. You know, pajama parties on special nights when only club people
come. Secret and open, at the same time, and everyone knows what's
happening, but all you have to do is be nice, get the fat off, and viola,
you're hip to join, so no one complains. Even if they did, a dozen happy
voices are enough to deny any misanthrope or busy-body. I mean it's just
fair. Those citizens have their little thrills of gossip and high-road
disapproval, so we get to have our rather larger, if more risky, thrills."
"It sounds more like a logic club than a love club," Paul mused to
himself, proud of his daughter's thoughtful input.
Number of hours per week dedicated to prurient activities? Sure,
any audience would be interested, and Michelle's three partners were no
exception. "Eight hours a week, unless you get to sleep together."
"Then eight hours a night," Nancy commented, her immature mind in
something of a flight of fantasy.
"As long as it's at night," Michelle continued after the giggling.
"Even if you spend all your time reading the Encyclopedia Britannica and
studying calculus you end up warped. Out and about, and showing up, those
will get you the better partner, and eight hours a week is a long time to
spend with a lesser partner."
I thought I'd done a pretty good job rendering Steven as a chat with
a soul, but Michelle, telling of her younger days, was matching me with
alarming aplomb. The tip of the iceberg when one considered how young and
beautiful she was at twenty-two; a perfect blend of lush and girlishness,
cream, sugar and wild strawberries, wanting what she wanted; telling
stories of her youth to get me in the mood.
Part of the reason I, as a mature virtuoso, write about dropping
twenty-five hydrogen bombs on the Muslim and Jewish world goes directly
back to the excesses Michelle used so freely and happily to, quote, get me
in the mood. Yes, the chain of logic is tenuous, and no, there is no point
in being the strongest link; but, still, a writer's gods are Perspective
and Context as surely as the lens designers is precision and clarity. If I
blame a nice Iowa girl for showing the variances possible in the human
condition, you can blame Mom. In a larger context, measure, just for fun,
the excesses of Stalin, Mao, Hitler and Amin. Then bring to mind the
excesses of an American president who took pains to be sure all his
conversations were recorded, and a nation writhing to the lash of the media
Jew over perfidies and cover ups that were far below the joke level. Lucky
Hitler was one of those guarantors of perspective, because he provides an
entertainment value utterly lacking in the starving of fifty million
peasants, between the two communists, Stalin and Mao, alone, or the
claustrophobic jungle slaughter of Amin or Pot. So astutely have the kikes
amplified the baser journalism invented by whitey, most Americans today,
and, especially younger ones, equate Mr. Nixon with Hitler. Eighty percent
of you believe a bullet is pristine, because a Jew sold you a book calling
the bullet that, though photos clearly show the projectile is slightly
bent. Its tip might be called pristine, which is a bit of a fluke,
considering, but the casing is bent. Prototypical blob and plunkett. Take
a bit of truth, distort it and finagle with it, then sell the Product.
Yes, it's difficult to look back on my first evening with Michelle
without admiring her innate ability to provide a point of reference as to
how we should be, then think of my mother, and how we shouldn't be, and
then think of distortions of wider import to do with clever fingers lacking
morals, ethics, anything to do with intellect, and, sadly, much of any
humor. We end up, not with a savage counterstrike against a widely and
deeply ingrained enemy, whose contributions to civilization amount to nil,
whom Cristian Amanpour proves is in no way genetically deficient or
inferior, and when the president says "Let's roll," we roll up in a ball
waiting for the next blade of the slasher. If we had to, that would be one
thing, but why do we have to when we are richly stocked with defensive
weapons? Do we not only forsake our sword, but our armor? Whose mouth is
to replace them? Those are Big Deal issues.
At the time I write of, I was thinking more along the lines of long
term and intense rather than exclusive and permanent, in the relationships
department, and, since the issues were less clear, it was more of a
struggle (then I was an incipient master, today you can ditch the
adjective).
Listening to Michelle helped, and hand and finger against her
wetness as she surged gently to me in a slow, yearning rhythm she told me
more about what she'd done with her young, athletic father.
Naomi picked up the narrative with a description of Chip, her teen
brother, finally taking on his aggressive role and breaking slowly from
their dance to go to his own room, closing the door gently after reminding
her not to open it for any strangers. She didn't need to be scared for her
nipples to jut hard from her half-tennis-ball breasts, but it helped. How
long would he be? How big a deal was Judd's `anticipation' thing? How did
you measure time when your strapping brother was ten feet away, getting
completely naked? Why would you measure it? Most important of all, why
waste it?
Luckily for Naomi, Chip was almost as frozen as his sister,
half-paralyzed just at the thought of opening her door and seeing her. Now
he knew how Judd felt when playing the same game, if you wanted to call it
that, at the gym. Or more? Was the taboo against man and boy greater
than, equal to, or less than that of brother and sister? Less than. "What
a subject to be an expert on," the boy mused to himself as his shaking
fingers went to work on the buttons of his shirt.
Naomi, deep in psychic empathy, worked at her threads and after a
minute or two of near panic was standing naked waiting for the door to her
bedroom to open. Why did other girls her age wait for a Christ who beset
the world, if with anything, with a pound of misery per ounce of common
flesh, and made sure common fit billions? Gods, vengeances, judgment days,
sacrifice, scripture for some odd centuries they'd churned it out like
horses by the barnfull when moments away was a gentle boy who could freeze
and roast her and who, even in his absence, excited her to fever pitch with
a sickness that could be cured at no great cost in time or treasure by a
tall, gentle boy, her beautiful and very mature brother, Chip. Naomi was
just going off on a tangent regarding the necessity of literary artists to
pave the way to a truth far beneath the arrogance of most gods, when the
door knob turned.
The door to Naomi's room opened slowly, and just a crack. She stood
stock-still, facing the portal, her hands at her side, her brown hair
cascading down over her delicate shoulders, her brown eyes huge and her
juvenile nipples signing her feelings.
"Okay?" Chip whispered..
"Yes," Naomi whispered back.
The door slowly opened and the adolescent stared at the naked nymph
standing bashfully before him. Naomi stared, too. Would she ever gaze
upon his tender eyes again? the lass wondered. That was how magnificent he
was, how huge, how swollen, how macho, how form and function fused into his
big, thick, circumcised, seven-inch teen penis.
Slowly Chip closed on his sister until the purple tip of his
circumcised boner was an inch from the soft, tenderness of the child's
sweet young belly. "Do you want to dance again?" he whispered. She melted
into his arms like the swinging heroine of a buccaneer, but biting gently
at his raw maleness rather than swooning (and maybe missing something).
Michelle had been leading her two friends in molesting her naked dad
during Naomi's story. Paul was letting the girls do as they would and
experimented freely basing her investigations on what she'd seen her dad do
with her young cousin in the barn. All techniques seemed to please Paul,
likewise he was also delighted with all six eleven-year-old hands. "When
the morality play is over," Michelle whispered to her companions, "what is
the secret benefit to being a Free Spirit over an Uptight?"
Even with three girls masturbating him, Paul was able to feel a glow
of pride for his cutie of a daughter. Sex was one hundred percent mental;
the beautiful airhead was a cheap commodity, the dazzling emerging
bookworm, fascinating beyond anything to do with manual expertise, though
her experiments with pulling his foreskin down, and teaching Nancy to do
it, while Naomi watched, fascinated, even helping, did not go unnoticed.
All this, and twenty questions.
Michelle's friends pondered her question while they experimented
with Paul's seminal fluid, seeing how it felt to expose his fierce glans,
get them slippery and wet, and gently rub them against each others' budding
breasts as the cavorted in a slow, panting, carnal dance over Paul's
powerful body. Listening to Naomi seemed like ludicrous overkill, under
the circumstances, but if they were in for a penny they were in for a
pound, scenting musk and awash in cheer, the three of them, so they
indulged themselves.
"He said he'd danced with Judd," Naomi whispered, her voice almost
lost in her dog-pant as she felt Paul's cock cradled in Michelle's hands
massage her swollen nipples. "That's when the sperm happened, almost as
soon as they started. Judd's started first and he pushed Chip away so he
could look down and see. As soon as my big brother saw what his coach was
doing on him he wanted to do it to, but Judd wouldn't let him because he
had to save himself for me; to make my first time really exciting. Chip
was modest about it, but I took it as a sign of love, that he would have
that much control."
Intriguing, eh? Most friends would be quite happy at the way things
were developing. Certainly Paul looks a picture, hands behind his neck,
and pillow under his waist, three girls rapidly expanding their skills,
growing them, as Clinton would say, by dint of enthusiastic practice.
Michelle and Naomi took turns guiding Nancy, the least experienced. Yes,
it seemed everyone was focused, the outcome both inevitable and at hand.
But Paul had brought his pretty girl up a certain way, mostly by keeping
her on the light prod and reading to her, incessantly; thus, Michelle's
question hung in the air; What was the secret residual benefit of illicit
partnering? Strip the condition of health and morality issues, and what
was left? It didn't distract, that would have taken fission, but it did
hang in the air.
Yes, the girls were immature, but even ladies of the night might
have found the game the trio came up with engaging. With a few whispers
they were all at once playing a game of charades, Michelle acting out while
Naomi and Nancy guessed, Paul, too, at least through occasional clearings
in the clouds of lust that fogged his brain and every gland in his body.
Luckily for the straining, panting, sweating young adult, the girls
were not in a frivolous mood. Yes, they wanted to make this fascinating
time last, but no, they weren't off on rants of giggling. Michelle bent to
her task by gently shooing away her friends' hands and dominating her
swollen and stone hard father. Gently, but with a positive action of her
farm girl hands, she bent the long phallus gently to one side, causing an
arc. She whispered, "First syllable of the secret word," and while
whispering, drew an imaginary line from the tip of her father's erection to
its base.
"Shaq looking at his feet," Naomi said, pleased enough to have her
story interrupted because it was a good one and would wait. Michelle shook
her head. Nancy guessed looking off the edge of Canyon de Chelly with its
thousand foot drop at one's toes. No, Michelle whispered. Neither girl
had come up with a word, much less the crucial first syllable. She bent
her dad's erection the more, and retraced the abstract line from tip to
base.
"Mo," whispered Nancy, thinking she might be on to something.
"Moses coming down from the mountain; Mo, what?"
Michelle shook her head and bent Paul a little more. Nancy and
Naomi looked at each other, subconsciously paying homage to Michelle's
stature. Paul managed to make the best of the break in tempo. His girl
was just that kind of kid, attracting without demanding; deliciously quiet
and dead funny. Perceptive rather than clever and with a degree of
residual value that made her memorable, not as a jingle but as a concerto.
"Or maybe it was all a charade." Grown man or not, he giggled at his wit,
getting questioning looks from three pretty pairs of eyes. This further
interfered with work on the aching wood at his waist and Paul resolved to
keep his mind out of the gutter and let the girls get on with their little
game, which, if it weren't three duels in one day, was still exciting.
Nancy held forth for the leaning tower of pizza, and any derivative, but
again, Michelle shook her head. Naomi, an ace in history, guessed lead
because musket shot was formed by dropping molten metal from a tower. When
I married Miss Right, I didn't know her first name was Always. If a man
speaks deep in the woods, with no women present, has he said anything?
Paul coped with the girls distracted efforts by running jokes through his
mind and if they were sexist, well, duh'uh. They could be anti-child, too.
His favorite movie title was "Feed `em and Weep."
Finally Naomi got it. "Bow," she said. Michelle nodded, then shook
her head as both her friends ran through a litany of Robin Hood and related
lore, making Paul wince with a dated humoresque called at Tom Swifty, as
in, These rapids are fast, Tom said, swiftly.. It went, Aim carefully
father, Tom said archly, with a tell-tale quiver. These helped. Three
naked dolls, three little maids, it took true grit to keep on with the
show, but on with the show they went. Finally Nancy came up with "Flex,"
as in "Bowflex," and got a nod. So the first syllable was Flex. Then?
Michelle pointed to Nancy repeatedly until Naomi got "her." Flex. Her.
Then Paul's special treat of a daughter mimed measuring him, and it took
just two guesses (`mountain' and `monument') to get "size." In itself, an
ordinary enough one-dollar word, but as a residual and life-long benefit of
a bonobo /Free-Spirit lifestyle, priceless.
That got Naomi back in her brother's strong arms, biting and licking
gently, all but swooning. "Did it happen with him?" she asked. Chip said
it had. "What do guys call it when they're together?" she quizzed.
"Different things, I guess," the teen whispered to his naked sister, "Judd
calls it cumming." "Can I call it sperming?"
They danced and Chip said that would be nice. "Can I see it?" Naomi
asked. "That's why Judd didn't do it to me, so there would be a lot to
see," the boy replied. "And all because you love me," the girl purred.
"Tell me about it," her big brother responded as he kissed her soft brown
hair.
There was a time Elvis was radical, believe it or not. He freed a
lot of slaves. More were freed in the Sixties, and while the cost was
enormous, enough artists were among the freed to balance the ledger.
Exchanging a culture for art probably makes more sense than doing the same
thing for land or gold or religion. (If it doesn't, we're in even more
trouble than I thought.) Trouble is, this puts incredible pressure on the
contemporary artist. If Dean and Brando, along with Elvis, jumped us so
far, so fast, what's left? To do art for arts' sake? Since when? It
isn't that easy to do it under any circumstances, but if all the New has
been wrung out of society by the artists of the Fifties and Sixties, that
reduces the chances of today's wannabe to near zip. Not only that, it
opens the path to a fatal trap, that of being new for the sake of being
new; rebelling for the sake of rebelling, or being novel in pursuit of
being unique. Dean and his pals were rebelling against a cloistered,
narrow-minded Babbitt culture clearly seen in the fussy, primpy styles and
fashions of the era. Getting rid of the unbearable kitsch of the Jew had
emerged as a natural imperative, psychologically, aesthetically, and
morally. There had to be more to life than Lawrence Welk, there just had
to be. Unfortunately, the Sixties also brought Dylan, and the pail slopped
over, leading to excesses that resulted in an art of excess, ugly to a
fault, shaking the apples out of that tree. So, lacking the opportunity to
produce art for its own sake, and passing thence where a Ginsberg was art,
we end up with Naomi dancing her beautiful older brother to her bed and,
artistically speaking, of course, let Chip fall where he may.
These thought went through the teenager's mind, perhaps more vaguely
formatted. How radical was it to have Naomi guide him to her bed, like him
back, stand a foot away staring down at him as he stared back, her sweet
oval face with its cascade of brown tresses framed by her budding juvenile
breasts? Were the suspicious minds right? Kink City? The punk parade
featuring twisted sister? Or would it just be two happy people sharing
their love for each other in a way that might not be that different than
from going to a good concert together? There was another option. It might
be fantastic. The best thing ever. A whole new element to life, like
computers and the Net. Excitement and passion without demands or jealousy
she was his kid sister. Would it be just not having secrets from each
other, or would they thrill to each others' private stories? Say, for sake
of argument, she'd just been with Roger Kinney, he was the cutest senior in
their small school, how would he feel, especially if Naomi whispered to him
that Roger didn't use a condom, how would he feel? What if it were the
mailman? What if Naomi were fat or disagreeable? What if she became a
team toy? How would she feel if he did this with other girls, say her
friends Nancy and Michelle? On the bright side there was, not to put too
fine a point on it, the convenience of the relationship; `convenience'
being a word like friend, undernourished and without a good pattern of
synonyms. A car was a pretty massive `convenience' in a modern society,
and how did one describe a person he had known well for years, yet did not
particularly like? As a friend? Acquaintance didn't work, because it
denoted a short-term or casual relationship. Convenience became a spindly
default for factors of time and emotion that, while not in the category of
running water, nonetheless would free up time spent pursuing girls and
ameliorate the emotional issues implicit therein. Athletic in nature, Chip
wondered at the exercise benefits of having a doting kid sister, but, in
spite of the fact both children were panting freely before even touching,
he categorized this advantage along with the triviality of `convenience.'
As he reached to touch her soft, tender belly he had a last flicker of
intellect, something to do with keeping slim and fit in order to remain
attractive for her, and then the fingers of his right hand touched the
eleven year old's warm belly and he got dizzy and stopped thinking at all
save for a fleeting image of how many young girls were going to get
molested by their dads and big brothers because they wore low cut pants.
Naomi didn't wear these, but the feel of her warm, almost babyish skin was
sizzling so girls who wore them were going to attract attention,
guaranteed. And if they felt like his kid sis, oh-la-la and cancel church
because it was time for a buff new world.
Chip was stretched full length on her young maidens bed, lying half
on his left side as he reached to her. Naomi looked down his long teen
body, fascinated against his big mail organ jutting from his slim waist and
now threatening to stain her quilt with its wetness. She bent over her
brother and gently pushed him to his back, arranging his hands behind his
neck then running her fingers down his flanks to ease his long legs wide
apart. Instinct drove the lamb now. She rose to her feet, just to look
and pant, and let him look and pant at her in return. Nothing could be
more exciting than this, but the absence of his touch on her belly reminded
Naomi that she was young and inexperienced and it might be possibly to love
him more than she did just staring down at him as she moved slowly and
instinctively down the bed and then onto it in a motion for which there was
probably a charming Asian name, like Lotus Flower Drifting Home for her
knee-walk to a position between his legs from which she could study the
beautiful young stallion while getting ready to have incest with him.
Dropping her head she let her long brown hair sweep against Chip's penis.
"I think you are going to end up very happily married," Chip
groaned.
"I'm not the only one," the girl whispered back as she snaked her
fingers through her cascading hair and wrapped in gently in her right fist.
Farm life was good at teaching rhythms; the rhythms of the seasons and the
soil, of sunrise and sunset, and ranging from storm and calm to technical
and practical. The animals also had their rhythms, and one of them,
perhaps that of a goat, as the animal nearest in size to her naked teen
brother, was close enough to inspire. We'll let the chick keep some thing
private and just report that the rhythm of the goat made Chip ram into her
fist, which she instinctively tightened and stroked to match her beloved
brother.
It should have been perfect, what was happening between the young
female and sixteen-year-old male, but how often does that happen? What was
wrong was Naomi's very beautiful hair. Abundant, traced with auburn,
cascading, delicious as she tangled it in her hand and abraded the glans of
his erection, it nonetheless blocked the view of her and she seemed to
realize that a hot young male would want to see his own sperm. After
confirming this by listening to Chip pant out a story of seeing Judd's
semen, and really liking it the girl was prompted to kiss her brother's
swollen organ and reach over to her dresser where she retrieved a comb.
With a girlish twist she herded her tresses into a pony tail, and this time
took her brother in full view of both of them, staring into his eyes and
glorying in the wanton approval that met her gaze.
Chip was finally struck dumb as a clock. Not a single thought
intruded to interfere with that long slim neck and the delicate shoulders
trailing into soft young arms that framed her pert brests as she panted and
perspired, glistening with the heat of what she was doing to him with her
tiny, girlish right hand. Remembering how animals were, at the end, Naomi
replicated what she thought would be the climactic motions, and proved
herself astute with a series of a dozen full, tight, hard thrusts of her
hand, finally freezing in a tight sphincter at his base, and holding hard
as she gazed imperiously into his eyes, demanding who'd ever have
guessed it he live up to code and show his love now, if he so pleased.
"I'm cumming, Sis," he whispered, and her hand tightened in
perfection, breaking everything inside his hot young body. His semen shot
two feet in the air to Naomi's gasp and splashed noisily on the quilt. In
the few seconds it took for his body to recoil, Naomi lunged over him,
holding his tip against her left nipple, making sure he could see what she
was doing. The long rope of cum that went jetting across her young chest
shouldn't have come as a surprise, hell, it launched out of him like a
plane with rusty wings, but he didn't make a direct connection and
therefore was shocked at speed and quantity of his emission and the faint
sizzle it made as it lashed across her ivory skin. The carnivistic, feral
reality of what he'd done drove the boy to grunting and thrusting so hard
he almost flailed with the effort of ejaculating all over his doll sister
and her beautiful farm girl face. Naomi hissed with excitement at the
passion of her strapping teen lover, and took his spraying seen all over
herself, finally licking his glans as he shuddered to the point of passing
out, then lay sweating, panting and still. The eleven year old collapsed
on top of him, loving to feel like a seal against his slick, muscley belly.
At this point one might say life was perfect for the illicit young lovers,
but they lay against each other, thinking what it was going to be like, one
deep inside the other, while the other knew exactly what was going on as
her lover throbbed and panted against her. Since just thinking about that
was tantamount to the act, itself, they lay contentedly as the sun lowered
west of Iowa.
Nancy would have to wait. Naomi filled her in as the two girls
acted out, helping Michelle to straddle her panting father.
"That's my second secret," the twenty-two-year old beauty whispered
as we lay on the buckskin sofa.
"He went inside you?" I answered in a like whisper.
"Naomi whispered encouragement while she and Nancy held me. Chip
had made love to her before they unlocked the door to her bedroom, so she
knew about intercourse. She helped my father, and I put my arm around her
shoulder, and Nancy's, and they held me even though we were all real sweaty
while dad did it up against me. Naomi taught Nancy how to help dad not go
inside me to fast, and that made him get even bigger inside me so I
suddenly wanted him all the way without caring about anything else in the
world; both the girl sensed it somehow, and we all froze, then he went into
me with a tiny hard thrust, and we stopped moving except for panting. Then
the slow part came. Chip had done it very slowly the first time he was
with Naomi, so she helped make it slow for me and dad."
"I'll bet not too slow," I whispered to Steve's young fiancι.
She giggled, and that was all it took. Seeing her large farm
healthy breasts tremble with her good nature unzipped me the last tiny
click and I mounted between her wildly spread legs, finding her wetness and
her as I lay fully against my darling to hear the last of her secret.
"Did he cum in you?" I whispered.
"Yes," she said.
I had good intentions, I was going to reprise her dad, enter her in
gentle waves with slight penetration on every tenth or so cycle. Ha. I
did immediately what her dad did slowly, started cumming. I pushed up on
my forearms to look into those pretty eyes. They glowed with acceptance
and perhaps a hint of triumph. Being premature twice, at my age, was no
joke, and she knew it. That made her cum with such a rush her legs lunged
from the flat on her back, little-girl position that we'd both enjoyed our
first time, to a writhing snake woman before her eyes began to glow with
the heat of her orgasm. I was realistic, some of the documentaries, even
back then, were pretty graphic in showing the physiology of a female
climax, including the part where it's incorporated into the insemination
process, in general, so it probably was thought of her child that drove her
lunging and panting against me, but as they say in New York, hey, you never
know. I was proud then and I'm proud now, and if Michelle's third secret
swells my head to the bursting point, you're gong to be out a serious story
teller.
. . .
So lets conclude with our ongoing dirge of serious stories, re, how
you are goosing the wife of the golden gander.
As further regards the march of socialism, there was an
interesting icon mentioned in a replay of the floods in North Dakota. When
Grand Fork started burning, the firefighters were delayed because they were
busy evicting a particular apartment house full of lowlifes. They lost
their city to save their bums. Nothing could more succinctly illustrate
the fundamental flaw of politically correct populism. Trading a bunch of
hairballs, who were in virtually no danger in the first place, for hundreds
of dancing her brother beautiful brick buildings. Closing down post
offices for the vaguest traces of disease is a current implementation of
this fatally flawed flummery.
This point may be emphasized by pointing out the media attention
given to union loudmouths who latch onto a buzz phrase, something to do
with how fast they reacted when congress had a problem versus the lower
level of attention initially given the post office. For readers who've
read "Creative Camp," this is classic blob and plunkett; seizing on a small
mistake or incident, and blowing it full of gas and hot air. On the bright
side, by closing huge urban mail facilities, you kill yourselves quickly
and evade a more lingering death. Cool. By the way, "C-Camp" is listed
(by Nifty) under sf-fantasy, bisexual. Do not be turned off by its title
because if you even half-like this little scribble you'll love every page
of the adventures of a camp full of heavy-weight geniuses.
Winkler showed up on "Drew Carey." The Fonz, looking cheaper and
trashier than ever. The prototypical kike, all noise and gloss and so
scared of his motorcycle his knees knocked louder than the blat of its
pipes.
Miss Cleo has made three hundred million dollars. I guess that's
America's song of today. A huge-mouthed nigger makes a vast fortune while
your sovereign writes brilliant and vital novels without being offered a
dime. Not much oil on that dipstick; if I were you I'd be fuckin'-eh
careful of how I revved the motor.
I'm trying to think which punishment is more fitting for you, fat
kids or chemo. See the irony is that I can utterly ruin you and subject
you to a lingering and horrific death by simply doing nothing. Saying
nothing. I'm just trying to determine which is the crueler fate you have
brought down so lustily on your own heads. Fat kids. Imagine the horror.
And the AMA has sold you bogus chemo for nigh onto forty years now.
Staggering degrees of pointless human misery, legal as all get-out. I
don't know why bin Laden goes through the effort against an enemy so
dauntlessly in pursuit of its own demise. It could be that life in a cave
is boring and he just needs the sensory input. In any even, the bottom
line is that we are in the identical position in the fall of '01 to that we
were in in say, 1914 or 1934 obvious disaster at immediate hand, every
head (but one) buried deep in the sand.
Ellison is back in the news. Half schmo, half prick, as far as one
can tell, but he does have the right idea in a national identity card. If
nothing else, it's a chance to watch Jews tear down something for the sake
of tearing it down. The blob of privacy and the plunkett of security,
utterly minor issues, yielding for the umpteenth time the tempest in the
teapot and the mountain from the molehill. Ditto with the justice
department hounding Microsoft, and the press trashing it at every
opportunity. When the same distorted thinking equals persecution of the
tobacco industry, while letting the junk food industry blow our kids up in
front of our eyes, faulty logic and warped priorities come ripping through
the front door and bounce us off the walls. Try to remember that you can
only stay so fucked up for so long before you get to pay for your
depravity. If a national identity card smacks of big brotherism, brother
do you need a brother. (Kill me with laughter, choose Ellison!)
Speaking of right/time, right/place dot celebs, Bezos is on a
serious twitch, advertising books on Islam and the Taliban. I guess a face
like that needs all the profits it can dream of, but it does make for an
awfully strange world. And speaking of faces, since, to the casual reader,
I may seem obsessed with them, let me say this: their content is identical;
mathematically, zero, so the faces are the only thing that matters. Add to
this the Jewish imperative for the camel-nose close up, specifically in the
chemo drug ad with the gramps on a mission to get a new bed for his
three-year-old grandson, and even more horrendously in flub-dub of a face
film currently failing at the box office, titled "Corky," and we surely end
up with a down-home ugly media, if nothing else. Again, Jewish, with
maximum attention given to the froth and glitz of tinsel-town presentation
and short shrift given the forlorn outcast known as Content.
Another good example pulled from a recent A&E documentary is Al
Lewis, a ranting unionist schmo from deeper Brooklyn who got cast as
Grandpa in "The Munsters." Fascinating to see him going on precisely like
his uncle Adolph. Waxman, too. Noisy kikes with huge mouths and no
brains. Ugly crew to have around for your requiem, but when Lieberman hit
the Democratic ticket, you voted with gusto. Lieberman, Miss Cleo, "Corky"
and K-Mart with Bush at the helm I mean, folks, I know the WASP has
done a dazzling and wondrous job of inventing and organizing, with a
particular emphasis on sharing and inclusion, but do you really think we're
that good? Personally, though my own family has played more roles in the
development of real America than most countries and cultures, I get nervous
with some odd hundred millions of provincial fanatics camped around the
world's primary oil supply. Further, I feel it is very likely these
zealots will not take kindly to being continually ignored. Remember, the
Chihuahua will bark and bark and finally bite in frustration, and, as well
ordered as the barks have been, the bite might be fatal, even ignoring the
taint of Semitism. Then who you gonna call?
It's not a pretty picture but I paint it as well as I can. And bury
it. Not using my face, not using the least part of Machiavellian
histrionics and stagecraft, or any hint of audience manipulation. I tell
you you are an astounding collection of short-sighted, self-indulgent
dithering cowards, simply because you are. It's called the truth. For
example, the Democrats want to federalize airport inspectors. Another mass
beaurocracy of the ilk that votes almost as leftist as the media, and seed
program for security legions at train stations, bus depots, and the place
where you rent your fishing skiff. If it wasn't for their colossal
stupidity, the Democrats would win, but as we get stupider the balance
changes. That's why I write this stuff, and if you don't believe me take a
gander at the big-mouthed goop who just got himself elected governor of New
Jersey.
Coupons. I've said it before and I'll say it again, this guy is a
poet. Three-hundred million a year in coupon scams, much of it going you
know where. If these guys were capitalists they could teach us more than
the Japanese. Of course, we are fighting back. Puppy sales are
skyrocketing. Nothing like a big meat-guzzling dog to get the gang through
hard times, eh? Of course, the times may not be hard. As indicated in
previous palaver on subject, there is a twelve percent chance we will just
churn merrily along as we did after Y2K, the floods of '93, and other
apparent calamiti. Short term. Long term, things may get increasingly
dicey as a culture crammed with junk like a sausage casing is crammed with
meat begins to bear the brunt of massive security costs and random
interruptions of essential services which may cascade in many directions,
none of them good in the long run.
Here's one from the Yes, I'm a cruel motherfucker department. When
I was a kid, calling the police Cops was just coming into vogue. Then,
next thing we knew, the cops were calling themselves pigs, which evolved to
Pigs, during the Vietnam era, before returning to cops. Now for the
cruelty question. Couldn't we reverse this? For example, excuse me, Hero,
could you tell me how to get to Elm Street? Don't talk to me Hero, talk to
my lawyer. You can never find a Hero when you need one. You get the
point. And, to finish out on message, the real cruelty is to the seventeen
year old private, months on the line, half frozen solid, holding off the
enemy while his squad finds cover.
Cheesy Jews all over the tube last weekend. They replayed Episode 9
of "Band of Brothers." How can anyone write crap like that? Paint by
number slobber with the soldier pelting back to his officer with The News.
Barf. Broadcast television did a rehash of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising,
perfect example of the blob or plunkett, take your pick, of Jewish
resistance, when the far finer reality was that the mayor of Hamburg was
able to cleanse his city of kikes using only his telephone. Makes me proud
of my ancestors for the brilliant job they did funding and guiding
Mr. Bell. Now if I can just use my keyboard to cleanse you of Semites
history can repeat itself with the added irony that if you don't, if you
disobey me, you will suffer the fate of Hamburg, if not from bombs and
firestorms, then from simply shutting down the postal service, and the
jitters, in general. I repeat what I've said before, any normal Anglo
gives a daily prayer of thanks, whatever his or her spiritual background,
for the miracle of the Nazis and the furtherance for two generations of a
life worth living for at least some, as against any conceivable alternative
to their rugged and wondrously lethal involvement.
To be so vastly outscored by Arizona, that must hurt. If New York
were not such a terrible place filled with such terrible people, one might
summon a modicum of sympathy. Not. This is the hick town that gives us a
jewboy in his jammies selling IBM, the loathsome American belly buttering
the couch all day with his big, lardy ass while the perky wife, for whom he
doesn't even open the door, goes about her daily activities, which, one
would hope, includes a lover as responsive as myself, in furtherance of
inveigling you to sign up with Ameritrade, and a panorama of socialistic
banality succinctly symbolized by the gout of glitzy plastic that is Times
Square. The depressing thing is that Arizona is not better than New York.
The whole country is dumber than Cleveland, and dumber than Cleveland is
impossible if "Whose Line is it, Anyway," is any-example.
Remember the Seventies? New York brought us the seventies, the
ugliest decade in human history. Gold chains, polyester, bell bottoms and
leisure suits. Huge hair things going on. Interior decoration so ugly
that a massive industry has grown up ripping it out of perfectly sound
houses and replacing it with fucking anything. Afros, Fu-Manchu `stashes,
Nehru jackets, gigantic lensware that caused one divorce I know of, on the
spot. Sonny and Cher. All from New York and the Jewish population
therein. Now it's day trading and trendy talk, the issue-babble of
"Friends." A very ugly hick town, my friends, with Sipowicz on the throne
and where the dreams are of bungee jumping and rafting. Y-a-w-n. The city
is as much a shop-worn harridan and Helen Gurly Brown, and that's going a
long way down that road.
By the way, I want the pyramids blown up. Partly scientific. What
better way to test blast yields? Partly religious. Allah may be a big
deal to some folks, to me he's a pissant, and even though the `mids were
built before his time, I still like the symbolism. I like the gratuitous
nature of it, too; the irrationality. The pyramids have no military value,
and blasting them level serves no practical purpose. The objective is to
cripple the camel crew by expediting its gnawing itself alive with hatred
before they cripple us with sabotage and dithering slobber. Blow the
pyramids sky high and fill the craters with dead kikes, turn the page, and
on with the show. It's the only plan that might work, which is precisely
why I chose it.
I'm frankly getting tired of writing porn. Why should I dabble
thus? I write dazzling essays to myself, and if I'm the only one smart
enough to understand them then that's just how it is, and, since I'm a
writer, not an entertainer who happens to use a typing keyboard, I hardly
need an audience more grand than myself. Sex is a small part of life,
inconsequential. What's important is the attorney general of Massachusetts
quibbling over this and that to do with Microsoft, while his state digs
itself into either death or penury to save 144,000 commuters fifteen
minutes a day, starting in 2004. Stuff like that could kill off a healthy
culture, and believe me, there is little to do with health in your
contemporary gestalt. Not to put too fine a point on it, if you fail to
read every word I've written, and obey implicitly, there is no health at
all, and thus no reason for or likelihood of your further fat, indulgent
and vastly sinful, in a non-archaic sense, existence. It's like writing
for the dead.
So many kikes, so much fat. Ha, ha, ha. I know torment from having
been a child and it is this I wish on you as your writer, your sovereign,
and your god. Why? I'll tell you why; because you deserve it.
The why of whys is why I'm so arrogant. First, I pay $17.50 an
ounce for sticky weed. If more reasons are needed I am lucky to find them
right at hand. I've lived in surreal mansions with dedicated staffs,
barracks as a Private, and in a tent in Vietnam; for the last five years
I've paid $75.00 a month for a house that would drive you fucking nuts;
I've paid for thirty years of schooling of young African Belezians,
outright, plus groceries, bikes and shoes. I have five healthy cats. I
buy rice in fifty-pound bags. I've worn shoes once in the last five years.
I don't move for hurricanes. I am the greatest writer/artist in world
history, past, present and future. I was married for almost five years to
a sweetheart who barely missed being an artist of my equal. (Right lawyer
at the right time, from Anne's point of view. I suppose as I give my quiet
thanks to the Nazis she gives her thanks to him. But it still leaves the
world missing one artist.) In total, there just a heap of reasons for me
to crow, not the least of which is watching a flock of morons dither
themselves with their democracy, and, under liberalism, march in
synchronous parallel to my dozens of cousins (and others) through the
valley of misery toward the Yid's socialistic utopia. There is joy to be
had in watching them get what they deserve, and the rest of you, too, and
I'm thankful to have the arrogance to watch fools suffer unto themselves,
gladly. You need a blistering whipping, and if it's a grand conceit to
deem myself Man of the Handle, then so be it. Bend over.
Here are a couple of blobs that may not be blobs, at all, in the
sense I use the word. My detested Navy has just finished spending
sixty-million dollars recovering the bodies from the Japanese ship sunk off
Hawaii. Sixty million dollars for eight corpses. If that isn't an
indicator that your government is your mortal enemy, then consider the fact
that the stock of the lottery company has recently doubled on the theory
that strapped governments will be wanting to loot their constituents more
than ever in these difficult times. You know, the fuck word doesn't begin
to describe either the depths to which you are sinking nor the speed with
which you are sinking. Democracy is a diseased institution, the
Constitution a deadly joke, and religion is more corrupt and destructive,
besides being pointless, then either of the above. It's always amazing to
me, and I mean on a daily, if not hourly basis, how splendid a show has
been put on for my personal pleasure and edification by the vagaries and
dildacity of history, and watching a culture bring itself to its knees
solely through wopshot nincompoopery is a marvelous addenda. It is fun to
see stupid, greedy people get what's coming to them; glowing, hot fun
enough fun to take one's mind right off even sex, and special fun for
someone my age who has lived through a vast chunk of it in his half
century, plus, and who would be very happy to cash in his chips before
suffering the no-fun-at-all, even if you're rich, realities of old age.
You've entertained me vastly, America, and now you're going to kill me off
before I become a toothless incontinent. I owe you, big time. My stories
on Nifty are a token of my appreciation, and, if I get sidetracked by
listing your ills, your misfortunes, and your fundamental inanity, it's
just the way I am me, the know-it-all who actually could pull your
vast fat out of the fire and set you on a survivable track. Pay no
attention. Jack off, and go to sleep happy in the knowledge you have a
king and he is delighted with you.
I do have something nice to say, it turns out. They killed off Rick
Schroeder, or at least that's how it seems at the moment. Danny. Last
season's sidekick on "NYPD Blue" and the sexiest bod on television. I
mention it because the death of Jimmy Smits was its century's standard for
mawkish, self-indulgent, episode-after-episode crap. Schroeder seems to
have been done away with as neatly and tidily, not to mention efficiently,
as a stain in a Billy Mays commercial. Emblemizing whitey's end? Good, if
"NYPD Blue" doesn't want him, I'll link him up with a twelve year old and
teach the money writers how it's done.
(To write well, you must be inordinately proud of yourself; glow at
your own image, mental, physical, spiritual and most importantly,
intellectual. You can only do this if you are white, because only the
white culture has a portfolio to be massively proud of, in the first place,
with a thousand off-white nitpickers and hairsplitters, blob and plunkett
artists, merely pointing out exceptions that prove the rule in Africa, in
India, and everywhere else. Take the Arabs, for instance. For fifty
thousand years they accomplished nothing other than piling stones and
scribbling about god. By vast accident of geology, and nothing else, they
end up with money and power, supplied, every iota of it, by the white,
white, white man. Their religion is utter garbage for how it treats its
women, alone. Our policy of tolerance, inclusiveness and generosity does
not work with Muslims. Their values are rudimentary beyond belief,
strictly Stone Age, through and through. When you bridle at my imperative
of dropping twenty-five thermonuclear weapons on their spiritual and
commercial bottlenecks, thinking, as you've been taught, of the loss of
life and collateral misery, try, just to show your above-the-lizard
intelligence, to view it from my point of view. A shattering end to
terrorism would free up vast treasure for use in Africa and India, to
enhance the lives of dears who have never held a single thought for whitey
other than love. If I were a jingoistic idiot, such as you'll be finding
me on first impression, what would I really promote? Two hundred fifty
hydrogen bombs, even with which we'd probably destroy less than ten percent
of the billion Mecca mushrooms. Again, to strike a blow for the god of
perspective and context, let me repeat that we have thousands of these
weapons and their highly perfected delivery systems. Further, we have
detonated hundreds of these weapons, in the atmosphere, with an unwanted
outcome that can hardly be measured in any general sense, no matter how
many scientists are sent in for the task. Again, I call for a full thermos
nuclear retaliation, including white Irish and white Ulstermen, against
warmongering and terrorism, fucking period. If you have an iota of doubt
in yourself, your family, and your friends, simply read up on Theodore
Roosevelt. The Bull Moose of San Juan hill was literally killed on the
spot by the news his youngest, of three, sons had been killed in WW I. Put
that in your pipe and smoke it. For all you chutzpah and boisterous
nonsense, when it comes to your family you'd suffer quadruple amputation
and a lobotomy to extend the life you care about for a single hour, as
would I. Isn't that the point?
While the white tolerates duplicity, the Muslim glories in it. Even
a decade later I easily remember the strange and sparkling light that would
come into the eyes of the Arab 7-11 cashier when he short-changed me. Of
course, in a technical way I'm no better, because I'm sure the camel
drivers could sense my pleasure in always paying with the correct change on
the rare instances I allowed them the pleasure and profit of my patronage.
(With minor changes in lifestyle, I was able to separate my Muslim shop
keeper from several thousand dollars a year, and my eyes warm at the
thought to this day. Actually, my eyes are getting ageable, and long for a
real warmth, such as film of twenty five massive craters settling the
infahada question at least for sufficient time for the white man to regain
his balance, do a little re-colonizing, and bully the world into a survival
mode like a good coach bullies (as distinct from badgering) his or her
team. It boils down, in the wondrous language of ours, to bully or
bullied. If you'd known my mom, we wouldn't be having any discussion of
the subject, but the best I can do is try to emulate her on these pages so
you can see, for yourself, how you like it. Sure, it's bad from an Anglo
sovereign, so let your imagination wander and think how it will be from a
communist, a kike or anyone else you can think of. Seems to me the choices
are East Berlin, Cuba or Uganda. A highly pissed-off king is your only way
out, and, marvel of marvels, you've excelled yourselves in this one
department, you fat, foolish, hair-faced, flops. )
In the semblance of a review, let's look at Southern gentlemen, and
the gentry of 1935 to find two reference points. All educated men of 1850
believed fervently in slavery, if their latitude was of a certain latitude.
All educated men of the mid Thirties believed in Fortress America and
America First. All our so-called men of today believe in making nice with
Muslims, however Farrakhan scowls, however noisy and repulsive America's
tainted soup of Mecca Mushrooms. Eighteen fifty, nineteen-thirty,
two-thousand-one. If there has been improvement bestir yourself to write
and wise me up. So far, the only comments, one flame excepted, have been
to chastise me for my adoration of a certain major software play. My
defense of them is that however rude and crude their early efforts with
millions of lines of new code, they stood by standardization, and that, of
and by itself, made an elitist toy into the wide-spread economic and
cultural miracle of all ages.
Dallas truck chase. The burning one. Time and time and time again
he goes through roadblocks and the cops do nothing. This is you America.
So utterly doomed I might as well just write rippin' porn because the
chance of your being worth anything more is vague enough to be moot. I
mean, they didn't even shoot the tires. In Texas? Lethal speeds again and
again. Cowards on parade, but politically correct as the semi driver pulls
onto a busy freeway (I-20) at speeds up to sixty miles per hour. Or maybe
they're just stupid. Now he's doing about fifty on two-lane roads. Modern
America, Jews lining at the courthouse to protect the driver's rights. Now
up to sixty on surface streets. How broken is your clock? Watch this KDFW
tape, all one-and-a-half hours of it. Your future under Jewry. Now
completely in the wring lane. Again in the wrong lane. Anticlimactic
ending, which is probably as symbolic as the dithering and enervated
goofballism you've voted in with every leftist ballot of your popular
history. Sad you have to live out the rest of your lives with your
congealing perfidies, but that's undoubtedly why they call it `life,' in
the first place. That best you can hope for is it will be short, which is
convenient because it's precisely what you offer yourselves. Makes me glad
I was born no higher than a clown, nor able, apparently, to educated myself
beyond this role in spite of best efforts.
See, I get to laugh. Ravaged by mother, dumped by a wife who kept
my poodle and called me a cheap date to my face, and left with my tight
little circle of friends and my all-but-free sticky weed I get to prance
with the joy of my life minute by minute. Pretty funny. Hell, I could die
happier than you will ever live, unless you do it my way. And yes, the Dow
Jones is back within fifty points of ten thousand, but ask yourselves: Is
this based on protein, carbs, vitamins and minerals, or adrenalin and
amphetamines? Is "Harry Potter" a greater film than "Lawrence of Arabia,"
"The Bridge on the Rive Kwia," or "Gone With the Wind," or did it just have
the good fortune to be released to a dumber world? And yes, of course I'm
being cynical, the real reason is that you've been so imbued with the
culture of the kike all your kids went to see Harry in his Big Round
Lenses. Speaking of which, that freak from "Vogue" pulled her final
twenty-three skidoo a few days ago. What if everybody went around behind
trendy plate glass like hers'? Wouldn't it just make you palms itch for
the comfort of a can of Raid? Jews and Jew-types look like bugs, thus the
gas, still used, year-of-our-lord, 2001, by exterminators, worldwide.
A&E special on the lost generation; Hemingway, Fitzgerald et yucky
al. Bottom line is they mostly got exactly what they deserved, years of
misery for themselves and anyone cockamamie enough to hang within a
thousand yards of them. The "Post" used to pay the equivalent of fifty
thousand dollars for a Fitzgerald story. Have any of them amounted to a
hill of squat in the intervening years? Regrettably, the answer is Yes.
They've turned millions of kids off reading; millions. The tedious mauling
of a gram of talent into a pound of flat, desiccated, macho prose is more
boring than algebra. They, Pound, Stein, MacLeish and the whole pack of
lice amount to competition only in that it might be a challenge to say more
in a single paragraph then any grouping of the cafι flappenpoopers did
in their careers. Lit for dummies, though, to be honest, there is pleasure
in watching folks wobble down their lives on the bent wheel of the Left
Bank. Art, music, and literature, in quotes. It's enough to wash a
million hogs and there is no greater thrill for me than to watch old film
of flappers whacking away at the Charleston and knowing they all have
syphilis and live lives of howling depraved and deprived misery. The good
news? So many wacky, self-indulgent morons supplied an un-ending labor
pool for the industrial barons of my ancestry, and have made me a de facto
millionaire without having to lift a solitary finger. In the end, perhaps
it amounts to a kind of love. So many working so hard, for such silliness,
when their libraries were filled with shelves of wonder, and pouring my
bank full of money. Wes, America, I wuv wo.
I don't have Nifty's premium service so I don't know how it works.
Even so, I suggest you subscribe on the possibility you can look up all my
postings under "Feather Touch." I'm actually quite generous in sending
stuff to and chatting with readers (I regard you as generic fools, not all
fools). Plus, if you read a thousand or more pages you will be better able
to evaluate the truth in a quality way when I whisper in your ear that
either your government and its enemies are totally insane, or I am. To
help with your decision I will acknowledge envying those of you who live in
the land of Chocolate Readi-Wip.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx