Date: Thu, 3 Oct 2002 16:05:34 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: THE TARNZAN MUSHRROM HUNTERS - BOOK VIII
THE TARZAN MUSHROOM HUNTERS
by R. Forbes Emerson
(Bi-ped, inc., rom.)
BOOK VIII - CONCLUSION
"I lied," Josh said.
"What?" Liff asked.
"I told Kirk and Alex that Ellen was flirting with me.
That part was true. But more is true, too."
"Awesome, Uncle Josh," the eleven year old squealed.
"Well," said his uncle, "you're a hard act to follow, but
Alex may need a supply of stories, someday, so I thought I'd add my tale,
if you guys want to hear it."
"Pardner," young Alex drawled, "if I was slinging iron on
even one hip, you wouldn't be talking fool where I could hear ya, follow?"
"That goes for his sidekicks, too," Kirk echoed to a nod
from Liff. Well, it beat molesting underage boys, so the
twenty-five-year-old engineer began. (And this is not to say he left off
molesting his coltish nephew, nor did he take his eyes off Kirk, who was
being masturbated with a lingering tenderness by Alex.)
"Dad," Ellen asked, "our family is pretty different than
other families, isn't it?"
"How do you mean, sweetheart?" Josh said.
"Mom and Granddad," the girl replied, "your age, and
stuff like that."
"I gather you talked with your mom," the young father
said.
"After school," the girl said, "before she left with Will
and Bruce for Lexington."
"Good," Josh replied, "we've talked about treating you as
a big girl, but I left it up to her as to how and when.
"How much did she tell you?"
"Mostly she asked me stuff," the girl responded, "like
how I felt about you, and if I ever though of you as a handsome man, and
not just my father. She asked me if I really liked flirting with you,
things like that.
"I said I thought you were the best and half the time I
thought of you more as a tiger than a dad. She replied by saying she had
very special feelings about Granddad when she was ten, and that I should
ask you about anything that made me curious.
"Other girls hardly talk about their fathers, except when
they need money, and their grandfathers, even less. I want to talk about
you all the time; when they're talking about going out with a fifteen year
old, I want to talk about driving with you and going to the water park with
you and reading with you and thinking about you before I fall asleep. I
don't, of course, because kids have to be part of a group, at least a
little, but once I said something about a letter you wrote me, and Marylou
Kitt said it sounded like I was talking about my boyfriend, then Helen
Ashley said if she had a dad like you, she'd talk about him like a
boyfriend, too. So I learned that we're different, or at least I am."
It's a little early to be back, but I'm sure Samantha
fans have inquiring minds and will want to know. For a long time, six
months or so, I've been hoping for an end to the relationship, owing to the
extreme unlikelihood of its panning out in the end. The
no-fool-like-an-old-fool syndrome probably kicked in a bit, I'll admit it,
but a very guarded wolf of a fool, if any fool at all. Anyway, she and a
little friend boosted jewelry and cash from Jessica's apartment, so she's
history. In addition, I suspect her of lying to cadge money the other day,
also new behavior. Guess my little princess is growing up. She doesn't
have the underlying nasty, rebellious attitude of an American teen,
probably doesn't have a mean bone in her body, but stealing is stealing and
I've only got one half-million-dollar estate.
Two lessons. One is an anti-lesson. I still believe a
fit, attractive guy my age can have a long-term, positive relationship with
a girl her age. The assumption here is that the girl is normal; reasonably
nice, and pretty darn honest. The age question is pretty much irrelevant;
Samantha could have been twenty-five, thirty-five or perhaps even an
exceptionally fit and attractive forty-five; my feelings for her, and about
her, would have been the same, (and, while there would be less likelihood
of an older girl stealing, this (Belize) is a world of thieves, so no
guarantees), and I would have dumped her for it.
The real lesson is that the road to hell is paved with
good intentions. I took on, twenty-three years ago, the family in Dangriga
that appeared to need help the most, and stuck with them, to the best of my
ability, to the present day. Didn't do much good. The fact is, it never
does much good trying to help certain peasant-class folk. I've seen it
time and again, on top of my own vast experience. The formula is the more
you give, the more they want, and the less they want to work for anything.
It is politically incorrect to point this out, which is a major reason the
whole of modern society is tripping one flashing red light and blaring
klaxon after another. The only avenues of assistance are grass-roots
infrastructure, and an intensely enriched school and homecare environment
for a small percentage of a given population. Beyond this, only basic
foodstuffs and medical aid, in certain famine situations, are useful.
Helping others is apparently as ridiculous a notion as
any in the bible. I've helped, repeatedly, by literally giving a man
fishing equipment, and teaching him (them) to fish, and watched the whole
thing fall apart because the fishermen argued all morning about whose turn
it was to make the tortillas. Blacks reject white intervention more all
the time. When I was with my crew, they performed like a freaking ballet.
When I turned my back, it all went to hell in a hand basket. And all I had
to do was be there. That's the freaky part. I never suffered myself to
tell anybody much of anything, or do much of anything, and click, click,
click, we set out over two-hundred-fifty lobster traps in forty-five days,
got a place on Tobacco Caye Range, built a pier, arranged a sweet little
camp; the whole nine yards. It's the magic touch of colonialism, and the
current and next generations are going to prove life without that touch is
lingering misery and premature death, however politically correct the
rhetoric the politicians make come out of their mouthes. Mumbo jumbo umba
bumba equality respect freedom liberty justice independence dignity. Yeah,
yeah, yeah, empty bellies deserve banners as much as fat ones.
So, that's an extra fifteen or twenty thousand Belize
dollars in the discretionary fund, plus an express ticket to heaven for the
extended help given dozens of friends over thirty years. There's an old
saying a close friend used to quote from time to time: "If you're so smart,
why aren't you rich?" In the past, I haven't been rich because I've been
generous. The slip is now stamped "Paid in Full". So I can be rich and
fight with the other camels for space in the eye of the needle. Seriously,
how great to have paid one's dues, in full, never asking for nor expecting
a farthing or a pee-pee in return, early enough in life so altruism is no
longer a factor in future plans. In a backhanded kind of way, this is good
news for the American public. The only thing that is going to pull, and
I'm being all too literal here, their fat from the fire, is a king who's
morally free to be an absolute prick.
This new freedom to explore conventional partner options
might liven up the text, but I doubt the market for consenting, unrelated
adult relationships is insatiable, so my-life-as-a-novel may actually
suffer from the reader's viewpoint. No cable, no prototype romance. Good
ways to make a writer stick to his sex pistols. (Come to think of it, an
of-age beauty, Laura, did it into a story. The yoga instructor from the
Bay Area. Remember her? (Or maybe she showed up in the later chapters of
"Stonington Stories".) Anyway, that means there might be a sketch or two
in the future.)
The point is, young partners are not something you can go
after. They must come to you. This means building a constructive web,
because it's needed, and waiting, happy with the web, and delighted if
something special comes out of it (as against being trapped in it). If a
thousand men took my advice, probably ten to twenty would get the ultimate
reward, a happy and permanent relationship with a young partner, and the
rest would help, guess what, just as scripture suggests.
If I had it to do over, would I take the same tack? No.
I'd have bought myself a bodacious Jaguar, paid the duty, and lived in a
groovy pad, dating legal-age girls and likely marrying one. Do I regret
doing it the way I did? No. A Jag and a blond do not a writer make.
Of course, should one trade up to an Aston Martin... But
that's a mere joke. After 9/11, what adventure story would one write?
Market closed for repairs. "The Bridges of Madison County" has been done,
so that market's not exactly thriving. "Out of Africa" and "Lonesome Dove"
corner the romantic, the exotic, and the Western markets for the next
generation or two. "The Shipping News" and Ford's "Independence Day" grant
Pulitzer Prizes to the almost novel, so scanty one-offs are market poison.
It's fun to whittle, but don't break the stick. There
has to be some avenue for a talent in search of readers. You know what I
might just undertake? Try guessing? How about erotic humor? Wouldn't
that be a gas? Quad X and nitrous oxide. Let's see if I'm any good at it.
Josh Evans and his daughter were in the living room, a
section of their house made unique by the television set facing the wall,
it's plastic cabinet mute testimony to a family that had seen a bit too
much of Israel of late. That it hadn't been replaced with a rubber tree
was a symbol of hope. While it might be illegal to drop twenty or thirty
hydrogen bombs on the Middle East, it made enough sense, as a matter of
national preservation, that the Evan's family were reluctant to give up
hope, and donate the 27" set to the very Ronald Reagan Home for the Insane
featured in "Airplane". In addition to the disgraced electronic Hebrew,
were half a ton of books and piles of magazines. Me? I'd be comfortable
there.
Ellen Evans, almost eleven, was sitting in an arm chair
opposite her father on the sofa. She was an athletic girl, a ringer for
the football playing, dirty blond in the television ad for either a pill on
an insurance company (possibly investments (raise your hand if you remember
what they were.)) She had big, wise gray eyes, and was dressed in a white
blouse and tan shorts, barefoot as befit the season. Her father drew
teasing remarks for looking like Rick Schroeder, in his "NYPD Blue" years.
"I'm twenty-five," Josh said to the girl.
"Because you had to be eighteen to marry mom..."
"And I was fifteen."
"Cool," the girl said.
"I love you so much," Josh said, "I go around looking for
special facets that I can hook my feelings to, if anyone can hook anything
to a facet; anyway, thanks for providing one free of charge."
"Well," the girl added, "it's actually double cool. That
you're twenty five, why, you could easily be my brother, and that you and
Mom got married so young."
"We were lucky," Josh said, "so lucky we never feel we
deserve you and the boys. It's a nerve wracking life, I tell you, having
such a run of extreme fortune, which, when you get right down to it, just
means we have a lot more to lose when we hit a rough patch."
"Good philosophy, Dad," the girl responded. "Live
totally awesome, today, as inoculation against the catastrophic horrors
that are out and about."
"Call it the code of the father temporizing with his
daughter," Josh said.
"You don't want me asking a lot of personal questions?"
the girl asked.
"My first date with your mother," Josh replied, "I almost
passed out from excitement and fear. How I lived through it, I still don't
really know. How I'm meant to live through having a long talk with you, I
don't know either."
"All the more reason to be glad you're actually
twenty-five, and not twenty-eight," the sharp pixie rejoined.
"To me, twenty-six is an impossible dream," Josh sighed,
to Ellen's giggle.
"You think so now," she responded, "just wait."
"What do you have in mind?" the young father asked.
"Mom gave me something to wear for you. And yes, we have
a big old date planned, but before we go anywhere, I'm going to change into
it and sit in your lap, then we're going to talk like big boy to big girl,
and you're forbidden to even think about, a, my age, or, b, the fact you're
my dad. You are forbidden nothing else. That's as fair as Mom and I could
make it."
"Fairy nice," Josh intoned.
"If you think you're going to clown me out of my mood,"
the girl hissed, eyes blazing, "your chances would have to be multiplied by
a thousand to be half fair."
"Just checking," Josh explained.
Ellen's eyes softened from their mock stare and she
smiled. "Good, " she said, "for a minute there I thought you might be
nervous."
"Your turn to multiply by a thousand," Josh said.
"I am, too," the girl whispered, "and I'm still in street
clothes."
"It can't get worse than that," the young father
observed.
"You've got a point," Ellen acknowledged. "What says
`taboo' more than baggy shorts and a button-up blouse?"
They'd shared reading an illustrated "Little Women", and
so realized perhaps the metaphor was a little wide of the mark, but the
basic thought was true. The more reserved the clothing, climatic
conditions notwithstanding, the higher the level of taboo it represented.
Unfortunately, the theory did not stand up to its opposite, for, if it had,
the less taboo one wore, the more comfortable one would feel, and Ellen
felt nothing resembling the thousandth part of comfort in the possibility
of appearing any less dressed in front of her father. If there was an
issue there, who knew, because the feeling of excitement sent comfort
packing for the retirement home, where it might be welcome one day, leaving
only focused confusion in its place.
A bold approach? Would that work? Strip and jump?
Maybe some day she'd hang out with some bikers and could try it, but not
with her beautiful young dad. She crossed to the sofa and sat at his left
side.
"I'm really sacred," she whispered. "Mom said Granddad
loved looking at her, and you might not think I'm such great stuff."
"Then, again..." he whispered.
She smiled up at him, snuggling close. "Do you really
want to see?" she asked.
"I really want what you and your mom want," Josh said,
"and as long as seeing you is survivable, they say it will make me
stronger."
"Or," the girl intoned in a deep, gruff voice, "it could
be just an urban legend."
"One legend per household," Josh replied.
And, "Close your eyes," the girl replied to that.
He did, and felt her stand, walk across the room; the
light hiss of a zipper.
"I'm baack," she whispered, standing at his knees.
"Oh, Polly," Josh breathed, staring at the beautifully
mature ten year old in her mother's training bra and panties. She settled
on his knees, gazing into his eyes. "You know how to complement a girl,"
she whispered, blushing with pleasure.
"If we'd waited until I was really twenty-eight, I'd just
pass out."
"Oh," the beauty cooed, "but probably not for very long."
"Maybe not so very long at one time," the young father
acknowledged, "but lots of times, the better to wake from my dream once
again."
The big eyes grew serious. "That sounds too romantic,"
the girl said. "Mom says we can't have too much of that. She doesn't have
any toward Granddad, just towards you. I have to save it for my husband,
too," she concluded.
"Well," Josh replied, "you're here in the first place
because you're mature, level-headed, and wise enough for three (the
raving-beauty thing is just a bonus), so, no kissing, swooning, or
palpitations."
"That makes it sound like we're building a tree house,
together," the girl noted, "so we better make some adjustments. How about
flirting?"
"I can top that, darling," Josh replied, "make it seem
like the tip of the iceberg."
"Without being romantic?" the girl asked.
"Maybe it's me," her father responded, "but I don't see
much romantic in a girl with a tummy the size of a basketball. Biology,
yes, romance, conditional."
"You want to get me pregnant?" she whispered, eyes huge
and glowing.
"Darling," Josh said, gently, "you were your mom's shower
baby. Do you know what that is? It's also called a tummy baby and a
family baby. From Granddad being with your mom. He found out she was
pregnant by showering with her and massaging her belly with soapy hands.
She was twelve. They checked with a certain clinic, found out she was
physically capable of delivering a child, so, nine months after a very long
and passionate night, you were born. Granddad got a city lawyer to doctor
the paperwork. My math grades were good enough to get me into cyberland,
whatever my age happened to be, or not be. It was pretty smooth, all
things considered, and guess what?
"What?" the girl asked.
"Someone is coming home from this week probably
pregnant."
"Mom?" the girl asked, wide-eyed.
"They're going to try. You've been such an outlandish
success, one can hardly blame them."
"Are Will and Bruce from you?" the girl asked.
"Yes," Josh answered.
"I hope it's a girl," the child said.
"That's stipulated," her father said, "your mom wants
someone to take your place if you move out when you're in your late teens
or twenties, or whenever, or, if ever. She has this radical notion that
the best way to keep a worthwhile man at home is to supply him with nubile
female alternatives. Slick, eh?"
"So, our family is pretty different," the child mused.
"Wouldn't it be nice to know," Josh said. "One girl in
five is active with a close relative before age eighteen. How different
are they? Are they part of us, or victims? How do you measure the degree
of acceptance against the degree of occurrence, so willing relationships
can be measured and entered into the computer. All unanswerable, short of
a major research project; probably half a dozen of them. The only thing I
can say positively is that some millions of families are very happily
engaged in frequent incest and pedophilia, and that some tens of thousands
of them probably have shower babies."
"I hope they don't all have to wait until they're ten to
find out," the girl said.
"Another major topic with your mom," Josh responded.
"She wanted you and I to spend time alone together when you were eight. I
voted for your being at least twelve. We bartered over you like fishwives
haggling over the last mullet. Flattering, eh?"
"Mom and I will outvote you when it comes to my
daughter," the girl said, archly.
"Then, be it known to all present, I concede," the young
father intoned.
"Could Mom's baby be from you?" Ellen asked.
"Probably will be," Josh said, "but he has a good chance,
too."
"Is it exciting for you to know she's with him?" the girl
quizzed.
"Totally," Josh admitted, "because there's only one thing
more intriguing than fantasizing over your wife responding to the touches
of another male, and I'm sure you know what that is."
"Not a girl dressed in taboo?" the girl asked,
rhetorically.
"Just don't tell anybody," Josh said in a stage whisper,
then growing serious and adding: "You can tell people. It is not a
deep-dark secret. You'll find other girls in school that are having
illicit affairs, girls know what questions to ask each other, and you can
be honest with them, and, if you keep your ear to the ground, and use that
fine head of yours, you may even be able to intervene in cases where things
aren't like they are in this house, and straighten them out with anonymous
phone calls, letters, and threats."
"Kind of like paying dues, eh?" the girl asked.
"If there's anything to ying and yang, besides
salesmanship, then a few righteous deeds along the way can't help but
leaven the final accounting."
"Fair," said the girl, and her dad echoed, "enough."
Love tangles with the muses and the old pro becomes
dobbin in the circle, head way down, plodding the grinding wheel. Samantha
was by this afternoon, more beautiful than I've ever seen her. I drove her
like a criminal. Drove off Jessica, too, for her negligence in not hiding
her valuables. It does seem a bit much. Hellish mother, saboteur wife,
and a thief. Her future is unimaginably dark; all of theirs is. To zero
in income. Bev's made enemy's in town because of the black bitch attitude
she's chosen, probably thanks to Jerry Springer and the like. Where once
she engendered respect as mother of four clean, mannerly children, now
she's just a hugely fat, noisy nuisance, no job, no man, no nothing. Will
they (six with Melissa) actually starve to death? It will be interesting
to see. There is much acute hunger here (thanks largely to the perpetual
thieving committed by the likes of Samantha), and spindly children are a
dime a dozen, but I don't think anyone actually starves in the clinical
sense. Their problem will be that in trying to help them, I've, in a
sense, domesticated them, leaving them unfit for the level of hustle it
takes to survive. Whatever happens, they deserve every tear and belly
groan. I am numbed by the cruelty of Samantha's act. Entering someone
else's home, terrifying the three year old Winzie, searching for seven
minutes until they found the chain and cash, then slipping quietly out the
gate; a crime against a hard-working young, single mother of a very
friendly disposition. The English were right. She should be hanged. She
will go on to steal again and probably kill, if she doesn't die of aids,
first.
Well, I guess the muses are still on duty. Funny, they
don't seem very playful, tonight. Why should they be down-hearted?
Samantha has had a thousand times what a little Ethiopian child of her age
ever gets. Health, beauty, cable, the emotional, if not physical, love of
a man, Celine Dion. Like Linda Loman, I can't weep for her, though I kind
of wish I could. Bev should be delighted. She got something well over a
hundred thousand Belize dollars out of me, and her daughter is still a
virgin, as prime as they come. More recreational obsession. How long will
it be before Samantha's in the cab of the red Dodge pickup? The fat, old
driver always has a couple of nubile cuties in tow. I left Anne in
excellent shape with a kick-ass dog, new car, and house full of gallery
furniture to attract number two, and I can say the same of my second great
loss. Perfect for someone else. If it was a smaller town, everybody could
join in the laugh, but, as it is, scarcely anyone will take the slightest
notice. That's the Web. Probably the most famous love affair of modern
times, taking place in real time, and the players, other than myself, as
oblivious as the people around them. In West Hollywood, everyone knows, in
Dangriga, almost no one.
Now how many of you want to be writers? You may have to
work disemboweled, but no time clock and no heavy lifting. There's the
page to fill, and the chapter for the page, but the way the clock seems to
have slowed, it should be a piece of cake knocking off another six thousand
words in an hour or two.
Thank god for marijuana. I don't what it does for
physical pain, but a healthy stash is worth its weight in cut diamonds when
love turns to dust. It would be an interesting (sorry to use this non-word
twice) challenge trying to delineate what the drug does. I guess
`subtlety' is the first word one would use. For example, it's impossible
to say smoking X number of joints is the equivalent of X cans of beer.
Apples and oranges. I did once hear that Ritalin is one-thousand times
stronger than pot. Tenuous. Perhaps it's that it does nothing is its
appeal. It's rewarding and fulfilling, utterly natural; a balm and
pacifier, with no narcotic connection. It is a friend when you need one,
but in no way a crutch. There is no discernable impact on my writing,
other than tripling the per-session word count. It is such a nothing,
that, when the price double to a still-ridiculously-cheap two Belize
dollars for a bullet, I stopped buying it along with everyone else. The
price has not changed in twenty years. I find myself wondering how extreme
it would be to say that anyone who does not enjoy a couple of joints a day
is a defective human unlikely to get the best from himself or be his best
for anyone else. Does it distort, sidetrack, or muddle? Again, subtlety
is the issue. It does all these things, in the proper place and time,
while focusing and energizing when these qualities are called for. I
remember a specific example. In 1972 and 1973 I drove a coast-to-coast
semi. A hitchhiker left me with an o z of the only different marijuana
I've ever had. After I had some I noticed something I never had, before,
and that was that every driver coming the other way waved as he passed. It
makes you more receptive, engaged and alert, again, if these qualities are
called for.
The firs time I smoked. I guess David will be patient an
let me ramble on, seeing as how pot and sex have their common moments.
Anyway, it was on the DMZ. LZ Sharon. Danny Teutsch. First, back to
Colorado Springs; heading up to Denver in my '63 Corvair Monza. Danny,
without so much as a hint, fires off a duber. I literally whipped the car
into the breakdown lane and started yelling at him. Made him throw it out.
Blah, blah, blah. Anyhow, we had a great time in Denver. So, on leave
before shipping overseas, I chanced across an article in "Consumer Reports"
detailing the lopsided whacko bible belt mentality surrounding cannabis.
Now back to Vietnam. At long last, educated, I worked with Danny to cop
our first stash. Few will want to believe this, but in Quang Tri, the
joints are sold -- hold your breath -- rolled. Ten to a plastic baggie.
For a carton of Salems, two bucks.
Yes, we whistled while we worked. Sandbagging. For in
Danny's pocket was the little bag. We knocked off, ate, and hit the tent.
Sat on folding cots about four inches off the floor. I was so excited I
was almost shaking. Danny, Swartz, Tannenbaum and Emerson. Ten joints.
Where do you suppose this story is going? I was a light cigarette smoker
at the time, so that part wasn't any novelty. I liked the smell, and just
who wouldn't? Seemed fine enough, for sure. We smoked one, then a second.
Why all the fuss, and why the two bucks? I was wondering. Then I stood up
to go to the john. It felt exactly like being twelve feet tall. The cot
seemed to rub against my Achilles tendon. Funny? Dunno, but everyone was
laughing. I got my bearings, and left the tent for the latrine. Then the
gods who enrich the writers kicked in. Just as I left the tent a star
shell went off. I don't know if you were ever stoned for the first time,
and watched a ten-million candlepower flare go off at twenty thousand feet,
but I did. Then a second, third, and fourth. For sound effects, as if
they were needed, the 155mm guns salvoed. The furthest from the admin tent
was maybe a hundred feet. Today, looking back on it, I picture a charlie,
in the vernacular of the time, coming all the way down from Hanoi to see
the show the rich American's put on, whenever they fired in a mortar round
or two. If their weed was as good as ours, they got their quid pro quo.
Whether or not this was the entire reason for the war, I'm not here to say,
but, as a witness, I can tell you it beat I-MAX all to pieces.
Well, there are a few words for the first day of the rest
of my life without her. Maybe it would be a good place to introduce Randy,
lest the nation run short of crying towels. He's Samantha's younger
cousin, eleven. He's been over, repeatedly (lives practically next door)
so finally I invited him in. This was Saturday, and, no reason not to
throw in a date, even though Web stories include them, Sept. 21, 2002. We
chatted awhile about school books and I started tickling the bottom of his
foot with my toe as he rocked in his chair. This went on to footsies for
ten or fifteen minutes. I held out my hand and he came to me, settling
cross-wise in my lap, with his head on my left shoulder. I took him very
slowly, just slightly up under his shirt. He made no move to resist, even
though I allowed him some minutes to do so. He is very slightly husky,
giving his belly a satiny fullness like silk over butter. I molested him
higher on his chest, beautifully full and soft; he lay, inert, his face
against mine, breathing quietly. I found the right corner of his mouth and
nibbled a little. He turned slowly to me, and for half an hour we made
out, his mouth softer than his childish body, his teeth sharp, and his
tongue its own moveable feast. Eventually I found my way down inside his
loose-fitting pants, finding his pinky-size penis right away. He was half
erect at my first tentative touch, but immediately became a hot pencil, or
so it used to be called out at the Pelican, former watering hole of British
forces. "Do you want to go home, or would you like to go in the bathroom
with me?" I asked. He said he wanted to go, so we chatted a little more,
and he left. He was back the next day, but we just chatted a few minutes
on the porch, mostly about his errant cousin. At this point, I need
someone to run errands, so he's a perfect choice. One thing for sure, you
can beat the you-know-what out of a writer, and what does the s.o.b. go an
do? Finds something else to write about. Besides workitivity and
creativity, this art requires a perfect combination of thin skin
(sensitivity) and thick skin (durability). Oh, how welcome you are to try
it and find out for yourself.
Loads of extra cash and a brand new cutie, that, who
knows, may actually be young enough to influenced in a positive way. The
great experiment continues. Rhageedha is not off the list; Randy may be on
it, the house is quieter than it's ever been, the artist regroups, the
words make the climb, and, it's business as usual. Women spit, men bounce,
and a new day dawns.
One little project might be to assume this manuscript
will be read, one day, by a mainstream audience. Here's there problem.
I've just assassinated Samantha for stealing; sent her to the wilderness,
and now I'm molesting Randy. Is there, or is there not, a double standard
in play? My answer is not. One person badly hurt another for personal
gain. One person played footsies with a child who willingly became his
lover, for no gain, and, if he's one percent of his cousin, for inevitable
loss. You, the mainstream reader, will say my values are warped, and I say
yours are. I don't depend on a sense of rationalization or even humor
here, but on the evidence. The laws of probable cause and effect. The
fact that I could live with both Randy and Rhageedha, to each of their
great and long-term benefit. Samantha was beyond this, they may not be.
To keep writing, is to keep living. They must be tried and will be tried
until the big-brother they knock my door in and laugh at my notion of
artistic immunity. By the way, this should round us out in the chuckles
department. I've laughed a time or two at hijinks along the way, many of
you may have, and now some jokiness for the mainstream reader dreaming of
me through clanking iron and vertical bars. Few authors are so
comprehensive in giving a reader his money's worth, of that I am sure. I
guess these days they call it due diligence. And how will I know I've
succeeded with the mainstream? When I've replaced Los Angeles Detective,
Mark Furhman, at the top of Oprah's worst-man-who-ever-lived list.
Diligence has its rewards.
There's a lucky segue, because I keep wanting to clear up
a misstatement. In `taking dictation' as did Mozart, I do work a bit
within the paragraph, so it's not a case of typing out perfect copy. Once
the paragraph is set, I virtually never change it, is what I meant, leaving
open the definition of `setting'. My ego on the subject stems from the
fact I work with a score of ten-thousand plus words, not eighty-eight keys.
Mozart gets ten points for writing for a variety of instruments, while most
of my characters share an identical voice. In the final analysis, it comes
down to quantity. Although the Kershel numbers exceed four hundred, only a
few dozen of his compositions merit general popularity. All my work does.
There is not a trunk page, much less a trunk manuscript. If it isn't
Mozart at his finest, it doesn't get typed. Never his better, always his
equal; how strange there are only the two of us, how grand so many who come
so close.
"Dad, can we talk about dominance?" Ellen asked.
"I know you didn't like the fairies, dear," Josh said,
"but could we maybe try something in the middle. like strip poker?"
"You are a funny one," the girl said. "I'm not talking
about whips and chains. I'm talking about something else. Something we'd
have to do together in the shower. Something I only want to try once, to
be sure I don't like kinky things."
"What if you do?" the young father asked.
"It would give me a handhold on reality, I guess," the
girl responded, "something I have to deny myself and ward off on account of
being brought up by a sterling young father who's like awesomely hip to
character issues."
"Speaking of awesome hips," Josh said, "if we're going to
use the bathroom I want to molest you in front of the mirror, starting with
where you're beginning to show you're going to be a woman, and before I
find your breasts."
"How long will that take?" Ellen asked.
"Half an hour," her father replied.
"I guess I can wait that long, if we're next to the
shower," the girl said, pausing, then adding: "as long as we're both
naked."
"I figured out the shower thing," Josh said as he rose
and extended his hand to his athletic daughter.
"Sure you did," the girl said.
"It was easy," Josh replied, "we're going to have a towel
fight, and the winner gets to soak the loser's head."
"That would make a good porno movie," Ellen said. "Cute
dad and his ten year old, snapping at each other, then a lingering rape
scene."
"You do know I'm going to rape you, don't you, Ellen?"
Josh said as they climbed the stairs. "You are underage. The second my
hands go down over your hips, I'm beginning an act of statutory rape, which
I will complete in the shower or in your room on your bed."
"As long as you rape me one your bed, too," the girl
replied, "just so I don't get odd notions or hang-ups."
They walked hand-in-hand down the hall and entered the
master bath. "If we were having foreplay, I'd be kissing your neck and
biting your ear," Josh whispered, as he brought his child to the mirror and
stood behind her. His hands went lightly to her waist, then down into her
panties. Slowly he slid them to the point they dropped, and helped her
balance as she kicked them from her tiny foot.
He un-clasped the young girl's training bra and let it
fall, following by quickly slipping out his own clothes. Then he took his
child, looking into the mirror. She came nicely high on him, her head a
patch of tumbled gold just beneath his jutting male nipples. He felt her
up for several minutes before her hands found him and brought him to her
belly, pressing gently. He pulled her to his swollen penis and her young
nipples reared at the touch. "Oh, Polly," he whispered as the looked at
her now heaving chest.
"Is Granddad doing this with her?" Ellen asked.
"Yes, darling," Josh whispered, "I watched him make love
to her when she was your age. All men do it the same, so I didn't learn
much, but, yes, he molests her for an hour or so, no kissing, that's the
difference from foreplay, then he mounts her in the shower or on his bed."
"Have you watched them go all the way?" the now shaking
girl asked.
"Yes, love," Josh said, "three times."
"How can you tell when the last part is happening between
them?" the girl asked.
"He'd tell her," Josh said, "then I'd see his semen
between her legs and flowing down on the sheet."
"Does a man hold a girl a special way when it's
happening," she queried.
"Either he mounts high on his arms, so he can see the
female's belly and his penis in her, or he lies partly on her chest so he
can kiss her and listen for her coaxing. The female often wraps her legs
around the male's thighs to ensure his full penetration so he will cum in
her cervix; other than that, no, sometimes a couple can be still as mice,
or making out while it's happening."
"How much can the girl feel inside her?" the curious
child went on.
"If he holds the female still in his arms, she'll feel a
strong pulse in her belly. If there's any movement, the female often can't
tell whether or not the male has ejaculated."
"Are you going to hold me still?" Ellen asked.
"Yes, darling," Josh says. "Sometimes feeling a male cum
off makes a female climax."
"I'll bet that's easier if she's madly in love with the
man," the girl observed.
"And being his daughter and wanting to get pregnant from
him may help, too. Everything counts."
"I know," the girl said, "going without foreplay is
rough."
"Well," Josh responded, "you brought up the subject of
domination."
"Then I order you in the shower," the girl giggled.
"No towel fight?" he asked.
"Just march," she growled. So he did. She came in
behind him, and guided him to the bench, sitting on his lap, facing him.
"Just once," she reminded him, and let her flow begin, raising his thighs
so that she urinated directly on his penis. He supported her at the waist,
and let her have her will, far more thrilled at the trust implied than the
sensual gush of her warmth over his erection. When it was over they stood,
rinsed, and dried off. The left one towel in the bathroom, and the girl
carried the second to her bedroom, leading Josh. She spread it in the
middle of the bed and lay on her back, spreading her legs, widely. Josh
positioned himself over he, they adjusted themselves to each other, she
guided him for a moment with her right hand, then lay back as he entered
her without foreplay. They came together gently, his eyes soft in her's.
She coached and coaxed, mewing at his new depths, and trying repeatedly to
find a rhythm against him, as he tried to find one with her.
His tender but full thrust through her hymen brought a
gush of tears and he held her, whispering, for several minutes, then in
three gentle strokes the loving young father mounted to his hilt, holding
her still as she hissed softly in his left ear.
"Did Mom cry with Granddad," the girl whispered, her sobs
vanishing as she spoke.
"Just like you, angel," he said, "but guess what, I was
there to lick them away."
His tongue found her eyes. "Can I bring my legs up over
you now," the young athlete whispered.
"Yes love, but I'm going to wait a few minutes before I
cum in you, so you don't have to stay that way."
"It feels like you're really deep inside me," Ellen said.
"That's because I penetrated your cervix, darling," Josh
said. "When you grow up, you'll just feel the tip of the male's penis
against you there."
"I like the feeling," the girl whispered.
"So do I," her young father managed to whisper, as her
muscular legs found him and drew him wantonly against her soft belly.
Piece of luck for me that Samantha is so interesting.
Makes a fatter book out of a fat one. I now have her pegged as the
mastermind and ring-leader in the theft of Jessica's necklace and cash.
The other girl, Lilly, had never been on the property before, and, more
importantly, wouldn't have known that Jessica's bicycle being absent would
mean that Jessica was away. Samantha would have known this, plus, she's
been on the property many times, and in the downstairs apartment, several
times. Lilly appeared smaller and dumber than Samantha. Try to think of a
crime movie in which the dumb crook isn't given the loot so the canny one
won't get caught with the evidence. And Lilly was, in fact, caught with
the loot (which has been returned). I spent half an hour grilling Samantha
this afternoon. At first she said she was on the swings, then, when I
insisted Winzie had said two girls entered her house, she said she was
there but didn't' touch anything. For awhile she tried to claim that they
looked through the window and saw little Jess about to fall off the bed,
then went in to save him. This didn't wash, because I was sitting directly
over the carport, which serves as the downstairs verandah, and would have
heard even the slightest commotion, so that story got dropped.
The frustration is that if anyone had told me Samantha
was involved in something like this, I would vigorously deny that she was
the type. Linden thinks his sister is much to much a fraidy cat to pull of
such a stunt. But I saw it; saw them skulking soundlessly off the
property, and no other story fits, at all.
So we're back in some sort of limbo. No money from me
for a minimum of two weeks, and we'll see. On a brighter note, Rhageedha
was by in a little two-piece suit, lying on the bed, and watching my
"Screenshots" screen saver. Some of the pictures are of bathing beauties.
Every time one came up, she giggled and pointed at the screen, saying
That's me, simultaneously arching her back and wriggling her hips as
Samantha and I looked on. Every instinct tells me she's an experienced and
avid lover; mine, anytime I want her. It's a little daunting, the thought
of being with a girl who probably doesn't weight fifty pounds, and, for
sure, an end to twenty-three years of celibacy that will be worth a few
lines in what is becoming a diary.
What might be kind of neat is if she gave me VD. I know
that's a strange thing to say, but it would prove she'd been with other
men, and this would take off any potential heat, allowing us to live
more-or-less openly together, Samantha, too, to the great benefit of the
three of us, and society.
So, what's new with you? Have you ever dumped a fourteen
year old for a seven year old? If so, contribute to Nifty. And I haven't
dumped Samantha; she's on fiscal hiatus in a last-ditch attempt to convince
here that we are extremely and extraordinarily lucky to have what we do,
and a little respect and discretion are strictly in order. If two weeks
without food don't do the trick, then it will end up Rhageedha and I, or
I'll head out to the cayes and find another Laura; start writing kiddie
porn instead of trying to live it.
In the meantime, life is dashed exciting for an old chap.
Yeah, wanna bet? I will stand with any group of high school males in a
bathing suit contest and probably come in third or fourth. I'm a fox. Any
belly I ever had, almost gone. I went to town today for the first time in
a week, and my shorts were looser than ever. Randy made out with me for
half an hour, without pause. I keep stressing athletic conditioning, and
reading so you won't look like an aluminum pot with a face drawn on it.
This is why. So if your wife spits you out, you can land dead on your
feet, and with charming, young companionship. I could have done this years
ago, but I got bored with being a legend in my own mind, and so worked at
my life-long passion. For decades. Otherwise, I would have had a sleek
ten year old female as a long-term love six months after Tom Cruise moved
in on Anne with his glib there-theres. To have ended up with this career,
this masterpiece growing five thousand words a day, and a female dynamic
duo out of Fantasyland's Fantasyland is nothing more or less than the fruit
of ceaseless toil and bone-deep sacrifice. Feel amazingly grateful you
have me to do it for you, and, if the WASP shows off a little, bear with
him, mind?
How about "Modifier of Corruption" as a concept for an
organization? The only fear I have is being judged against a Garden of
Eden, before the fall, standard. If I'm judged against the world as it is,
then I'm just that. A modifier of corruption, that's occurring, anyhow.
Taking the kids I come in contact with, not to a phony land of saints and
icons, but to a real world of discipline and dignity, allowing, at the same
time, some excitement. Reading how fine I am makes me think of myself as a
slacker; that I should have had twenty or thirty boyfriends in the last ten
years, instead of five or six; a dozen girls, instead of zero. What I'm
afraid of here is that life will in fact even out. I had a totally normal
boyhood, a zero date because of the library high school and college career,
normal dating, but exceptionally fine girls, for ten years, then married at
twenty-nine. Four years of that, and then twenty-three years with no
heterosexual interlude of any significance. The law of averages just plain
say I'm for it. My specific worry is that Samantha and Rhageedha will even
the score in less than half an hour, leaving me Mr. Normal, once again,
and, as a certainty, you won't be reading any novels by Mr. Normal any more
than you would read one by the guy next to you in the elevator.
It's intensely exciting. Yet, if a "Truman Show" camera
was following my life, how soon you'd snore. I am so absolutely
uninteresting. I don't leave the house for ten days at a time. I work
eighteen hours a day. I cook one meal, and chug two or three glasses of
milk each day, exactly as I did the day before, and will tomorrow. Five
boys come to visit, plus Samantha and, now, Rhageedha. We do not have sex,
we talk about school. Samantha and I make out and pet a little, once in
awhile. Zero at the bone. No parties, no literary friends, no cafes, no
trips or excursions, just a monitor, a keyboard, and my 150-watt Sony. If
I shuffled by you on the street you'd no more make me out than Salerie was
able to pick out Mozart in the famous movie scene. If you did, you'd be
twice as disappointed (not half). What Tom Wolfe spends for a glowing
white suit, and natty accessories, I haven't spent for clothes in my life,
and my only accessory is absolute genius. I am in no way a Bohemian,
neither artist's granny glasses nor poet's beard. I don't dance, I don't
play cards, I don't posture or pose. I don't chase girls or boys. Seems
to me I just work, wander around my beautiful little house, and go back to
work. Yet under the hum-drum facade is a life of manly adventure that
would scorch the pages of "Argosy", though, since my adventures include
young, bare-breasted African girls, "The National Geographic" might be
interested.
I wonder how this stacks up against an Arkansas trailer
camp. The kids would be white, but likely sullen and unresponsive; do it,
because there was nothing else to do, and, of course, for money. White
tourists that go to Haiti after boys (supposedly the initial aids vector
into the U.S.) are called `coal miners'. I think I must be a writer
because I've lived here over ten years and haven't mined enough coal to
soot a saucepan. I had a hundred thousand US dollars when I arrived. I
could have bought innumerable young bodies, and bought none. To the extent
possible, I've practiced what I preached; set up a long-term safety net for
a small group of people. Out of that, yes, has come the occasional
partner. Clarence, for example, first came to my house looking for a
walk-a-thon donation. He left with a dollar or two, and came back in a few
moments and flat out asked me if I liked to `boty'. Over the next few
weeks, yes, we became lovers. One hundred percent his idea; no coercion on
my part by dollar, word, or deed. Ditto, all the others. If you want
manly adventure, leave the belaying pins and bungee in the closet, and set
up a support system for some family, somewhere. If you spend a lot of time
with them, keeping your hands to yourself, something may come you way. If
not, as previously stated, you're on a good enough track as it is. Same
thing with writing. Build a life of experience, and the words come to you
unbidden and with no groping. The fly in this ointment is that you have to
be sincere. Live sincerely, as a fisherman, bus driver, or whatever; you
can't `do it to write about it'. Same with your family. You have not to
care about IT, you cannot rush IT, and IT may never happen. For example,
I've know Samantha over eight years, and there's probably still only a ten
percent chance our relationship will be consummated. During the same time,
and for the same money, I could have gone to Guatemala and purchased dozens
of girls and boys of any age that appealed to my Tendencies. I've never
been there, other than to renew my visa; I've never inveigled, seduced,
coerced, hit on, or made advances toward anyone to do anything. I can't
even get them to chop my yard and mop my floors, much less roll in the hay,
yet, out of the dozen I've helped, year in and year out, some willing young
people have come my way. Since it is self-evident I don't get along well
with adults, I've accepted them as infrequent but long-term partners.
(Content with my lot, while wanting a lot more.)
Many people reading this might think I'm wrong, and they
may be right. Perhaps it is time to put on some pressure. Insist that
Samantha sleep over this weekend. She'll be at the very end of her cycle,
and we do seem to need something a bit stronger than money in the bonding
department. I fault myself for having less of the biker, pirate, okay,
bitch, your time had come, mentality than might suit a novelist -- too many
show tunes in my impressionable years, no doubt. I'm a crown prince, an
ethereal artist, and a pussycat. What's wrong with this picture?
Pondering, I come up with the idea that, having five real cats, maybe the
pussy is the one for the chop. If she's a thief, shouldn't I get her
before she goes to jail? Something like that. And what if I don't? She
knows I've supported her and her family, entirely, for over eight years;
never even tried to be alone with her, much less touch her, until she
started coming to me and touching me, on her own and with her mother's
approval. If she doesn't give herself to me, won't she regret it for the
rest of her life? If the shoe were on the other foot, it would haunt me,
no mistake. Also at issue: if she's old enough to trespass and steal, a
certain logic says she's mature enough to spend the night.
Honest, folks, I didn't plan all this. I figured
Samantha might be good for an occasional rest stop during the long furrow
of the second act; yes, that something might finally happen, and a page or
two would be born. Now we're up to our ears in thieves and liars; charm
and the darker recesses, with Rhageedha, doubled, and galloping along at a
pace to challenge my well-honed ability to type it all out. Even if it's
just Randy who shows up tonight, that's going somewhere, and if the boy
does other things like he kisses, The Least Reverend Alex Christopher,
Harvard, '96, and the Mushroom Hunters, may have to wait another hundred
pages to get a something-or-other in edgewise.
Pledge. If it isn't of interest, in the Nifty framework,
it will not be included. At the moment, six or eight dead handsome boys
and a dynamic duo of cuties, if ever there was one, allow a pretty loose
rein. If they begin behaving, they'll be left to the obscurity of the
masses, but, by misbehaving, they help define what misbehavior is all
about, and so play a role. How much of one? There's a terrific question.
How far can I let Samantha lead me astray? Should I take a couple of
provocative pictures of her, perhaps Rhageedha, too, and hang out at the
Riverside Cafe, waiting to invite good looking young guys to come out to
the house and party? Charge for it? Pimp the girls and maybe Randy, who's
the pedophile's perfect age? The bleak thing is that as a novelist, that's
exactly what I should do. Go right out to the very edge, and tell the
tale. No more languorous days in my work bed, spinning fantasies our of
thin air, but realistic descriptions, of, say, the expression on the face
of a cute young six-six guy I see around town from time to time as he
becomes supercharged inside Rhageedha's tiny body; her clawing, yelping and
thrashing as she feels him begin to cum; the disposal of the inconveniently
large body when he fails to survive the experience. The hunt for the next
male. If it could be done without drugs or alcohol, it might be worth a
shot. My girl is a material girl, I will never trust her the least part of
an inch; if she wants the bold track, hey, I'm fifty-six -- gotta die of
something one of these days -- and a literary immortal, why should I raise
a fuss? Fact of the matter is, I have enough skill in these fingers to
point on that if the girls and I don't end up on the wild side, I'm denying
them something akin to their right to pursue happiness. They are
persistent visitors; do they entirely not know what they want because of a
number seven or a number fifteen? Seems that's as ridiculous as saying
they do know something because they are seven or fifteen. It has taken
many stupid people many long centuries to come up with the existing codes
and statutes. A look at things, generally, shows they were monumentally
incompetent on a hundred fronts, so why would they suddenly be right when
they say this person can't do this harmless thing and that person can't do
that harmless thing? If the lines are drawn too tightly, no one can color
between them; if too loosely, everyone gets fat. The problem is
exacerbated when we discover the lines must be re-drawn from time to time.
In the old days, there were The Lone Ranger and Tonto, but now it's The
Artist and his Groovy Chicks, plus five empty bedrooms.
The best little whorehouse in Dangriga? That'll take
some paint and fixin' up. Meantime, guess who has the best little whores.
I'm even recalling the nickel/dime security camera I saw in town recently;
couldn't cost two hundred dollars. I have room on top of my stereo for a
nine-inch receiver, so a video to text transfer would be a piece of cake.
Keep an eye on the kids. Which would you vote for? Samantha as thief,
sure to get caught, done over by the cops, and imprisoned, or as a girl on
her back, her fabulous belly and tender thighs coaxing selected males for
hours at a time? She's taken home, hearth and apple pie off the table, and
it's for me to field the ball in play, not ask for a new game. That it's
all happening smack-dab in the middle of one of the greatest novels of all
time seems like overkill, or, it could also be that the overkill was in the
practice and preparation, and the story is of interest only due to the
exaggerated skill set of the teller. (Wouldn't that be a joke on me?)
I actually find myself vamping, for the first time, ever.
Samantha and Rhageedha will be along in an hour or two, turning on the
burners and lighting the oven. Also, Shirley, Rhageedha's mother, is meant
to stop by for the riot act. Samantha is now an abject lesson in what
happens as a result of under-involvement. I don't want the same for her
daughter. If she's going to come over at all, I want her here a lot, and
want a good deal of intimacy. If I'd had Samantha with me these past five
or six years, she'd be reading in spite of her diminished capacity, and she
wouldn't steal anything from anybody. I want the girls here and hot, or
gone so I can find someone else. It can be Billy Graham or Billy the Kid
with them, for all I care. Now that I've brought my ability as an essayist
to the equal of my skill as a novelist, I can switch hit at will, and,
since truth, at least in this case, seems about as strange as fiction, keep
the game going all night long.
What would be fun now would be adding a third dimension,
or, element, if you will. Fiction. Non-fiction. That would seem to be
it, but it's not. There's anticipation, which might to turn out to be
either of the above. For example, I'm trying to anticipate Samantha's
reaction if I tell her I want Rhageedha as a spare girlfriend, in case she,
Samantha, is trotted off to prison. Suppose the younger girl lies on the
bed and starts giggling at the models in their swimsuits, as she did last
night, and I lead Samantha's hand to her bare belly; what would the
reaction be? If we decide to party in the future, how will I feel the
first time she goes off into a bedroom holding the hand of a tall, dark
stranger; how will I feel holding her, when he brings her back an hour
later? I've said it before and I'll say it again, inquiring minds will
want to know.
What is the social argument? Dangriga gambles ten
thousand Belize dollars a day, twenty-thousand on Sunday; it holds some
kind of per-capita record. That nullifies any economic issue. Will the
town be a better place or a worse place for the echoing rumors and whispers
of dark scandal? Since ninety-eight percent of its energy seems to be
devoted to laundry, it's hard to see how more livid gossip would make much
difference, one way or the other. And the alternative is the girls running
loose, unsupervised, randy sluts passed from bed to back seat, with no one
at a keyboard to record their tale.
How much does the `doomed society' syndrome play in this
thinking? America is getting so fat, confused, and Jewish, it simply
cannot endure, or want to endure, much longer, and as it goes, so goes the
world. Fatalism. Like the George Kennedy line in the Academy Awards scene
from the "Naked Gun" film: "If I'm gonna go out, I'm gonna go out happy,"
as he kisses a nearby beauty. I think it's there. If conservatives ruled,
and the house was in order, I'd be inclined to go extra miles before I
slept in trying to steer Samantha onto the accepted straight and narrow,
even knowing there was a minimal chance of success. As it is, this would
likely simply deny her the pleasures of being young, beautiful, and female,
and we'd dither away, virgins unto untimely death.
Kids passing in the street. School's out. Waiting.
Maybe Bev will get impatient with starving and sell her to someone else --
the guy in the red Dodge truck. Call my bluff, and dump me instead of my
dumping her. Leave me like the wolf at the little pig's brick house,
huffing and puffing and yelling "Curses!" (Of course, I could save my
breath and my money and sojourn on Tobacco Caye for a week or two so as to
fill in any gaps in my romance novel.) She came back shaved from Seine
Bight a month or so ago, so maybe this has already happened. Novels are
meant to live with the twists and turns of playful and wicked life, and
finding myself set up as an arch cuckold would fit a boiling plot to a T.
If I was so busy feeding them I never had time for anything else, the hero
comes across as noble and likeable. Nothing goes to waste.
We've had the tempest, now to build the teapot. Andrew
showed up. I explained my theory, and he alluded to the one loophole I
acknowledged as a footnote, and that was that Lilly is a chronic and
well-known thief. Still, his sister operated in complete silence and
obvious complicity. Then, of course, Samantha showed up, and the teapot
was complete. She is such a shocking beauty; no neon, all soft glow and
quiet light. She has a hundred smiles, all reflexive, all earned, nothing
gratuitous, no public display, but private, intense, and just the ticket
for having every jailer in the place eating out of her hand. On top of
this, she is hands-down the best kisser in the universe, which is a
cryptogram saying, yes, they got their grocery money, and, yes, things are
back to normal, whatever that is. I told her point blank we were going to
have to start sleeping together, and very soon, and she dropped her head to
my chest and purred like a happy cat.
Seems to me I said somewhere along the line I took these
little editorial forays as kind of a busman's holiday to alleviate the
incredible strain of publishing a novel as one writes it (with no chance to
go back and re-write early chapters). In the meantime, the non-fiction
plot has thickened so fast and so dramatically, with Randy and Samantha and
Lilly and Rhageedha, it now seems like it might be an idea to return to the
world of make believe for a little R and R. Passing 170,000 words,
approaching one million characters, fifth novel in under two years: I'm
sure I have a real good idea of what R and R is all about.
Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the novel,
Andrew stopped by for a second visit, after dark, if that tells you
anything. I read him his paragraph, and he thought it was okay. So, now,
another one, which I won't exactly read him. We've been occasional
(weekly) partners for the last three years. He's been inside me three
times in the last month or so, the last time, while I was lying on my back.
He was premature, but fully mounted and I felt him cum very plainly. Last
time he was here, I masturbated him from behind and watched him ejaculate
for the first time. Tonight I sucked him and we were perfect together. I
sensed his saltiness while I was deep-throating him, and was able to take
most of his sperm on the tip of my tongue. He jerked me off very well,
bringing me steadily up over five minutes to a fast, hard cum. My diet has
really kicked in an my belly looks like a kid's. Cool, if I say so myself.
Aside from one time with Clarence, he's my only anal partner. Maybe I need
more practice, but, so far, I don't see it as anything that special, though
he cums so fast and so hard, it must be exciting for him. I've never
attempted to penetrate him, nor any other boy. Jose and Steven never did
it that way with me. It's nice to know I have things yet to try and learn,
as one would not like becoming jaded and too worldly. Call me Hugh
Hefnerito.
"It feels so natural," Ellen whispered.
"The Egyptians had no word for `virgin'," Josh said, "and
it isn't too hard to imagine a three year old female with her ten year old
brother inside her, perhaps even having trouble staying awake."
Josh felt his daughter tense for a giggle, but the fatal
movement was nulled out at the last moment, leaving both the male and the
female gasping and sweating. When Ellen had regained control of her young
body she said the only way they would be able to stay together was to find
something to talk about. "How about Granddad?" she whispered.
"He's a very different lover than I am," Josh whispered
back; as glad as his daughter for the diversion; "much more masculine. He
thrusts hard and fast, and cums while he's being super hot with the girl."
"Is that how he's being with Mom?" Ellen asked.
"Yes," Josh said.
"And you're with Mom the way you are with me?" she
quizzed.
"Yes, darling," the young father said, "we talk and make
out. I cum after half an hour and she does a minute or two later. It's
very intimate, but once in awhile, she likes her big, athletic father to
lie her back, spread her legs, and use her like a tiger, leaving her
sopping from a massive ejaculation.
"And," the young man continued, "if you want, and your
mother and I do want, you can find out for yourself by visiting any time
you want."
"I think I like talking better than sex," the cutie
replied, "so I'll stay with you."
"It's something you want to know, not think, darling,"
Josh said, "so we've booked you to be with him for a week at Christmas."
"I'll go as long as you're there to hold my hand," Ellen
whispered.
"I will be, darling, if you want," Josh said, "and
there's not an ounce of pressure for you to go at all."
"No," the girl replied, "I want to. He's the coolest man
in the world next to you, and the fact he's my real dad is exciting, too.
I doubt any of those Egyptian girls felt the way I do, and I'd feel the
same way with him."
"Emotionally, yes," Josh observed, "but physically, he's
much more exciting; his chest is matted and that will make your nipples
swell more than with me, and he'll make you cum three or four times, while
it will only happen once with me."
"I like tidal waves more than surfing waves," Ellen said,
instinct telling her in no uncertain terms where her naked you body was
headed.
"You're your mother's daughter," Josh replied.
They lay together for long minutes, then she whispered,
"Oh, Dad, I knew it would be perfect." His hard pulsing eased after half a
minute, and he held his child gently as he felt her tense like a coiling
spring, and first mewing, then silent and gasping. "Oh, god," she murmured
almost to herself, then her body began quaking violently and her legs and
arms flailed and grabbed his strong, athletic body. It went on, violently,
for twice the length of his cum and left her shaken, lank haired, and
sweating, her head lolling from side to side and her eyes unfocused.
"You are definitely the strong, silent type," she
whispered as she came back to consciousness.
"And you are an extremely well fertilized young girl,"
Josh said.
"Will it happen again?" she asked.
"All night, if you want," Josh said, "maybe six or seven
times."
"Sounds like a good way for a girl to get pregnant," the
child said.
"Your breasts are like you Mom's the first time she
did," Josh said, "so it could happen. You'll have to test every few days.
If you get a positive, you'll have to kill the child after a month, while
it's still an embryo. After that, we'll use foam until you're big enough
to bring a baby to term, then the choice is yours."
"My only choice is a girl so her dad, or her granddad,
since you'll be both, can teach her about private tidal waves, but when
she's seven or eight; no more of this ten stuff. Deal?"
"A girl is acceptable," Josh admitted.
"Dad?" Ellen asked, "before, when we talked, it kind of
kept it from happening too fast, now if we're talking, it seems like it's
taking us somewhere. It's neat."
"I guess it prolongs in a negative and a positive sense,"
the young father said.
"I like them both," the girl said, now fully conscious
and smiling up at him, wriggling her hips slightly in a mature feminine
gesture of happy welcome. She emphasized the gesture by bringing her naked
legs once again up on her powerful father's muscular thighs.
"Tell me about your first time with Granddad," she said.
Remember the guy with no life? The one who spends all
day typing and occasionally gets up to cook or let the cats in our out?
The guy with the super awesome secret life? He claims to live in a novel,
right? His novel just got a whole lot bigger. Queenie showed up, that's
all it took. Queenie and the writer go back seven or eight years. She is
Samantha's age, and an outright, drop-dead beauty where Samantha is a quiet
and special beauty. Not only did this extraordinary fifteen year old show
up, she's bringing the whole gang to occupy the downstairs apartment.
Plus, Shirley was by the writer's house an hour before Queenie, receiving
the riot act, and agreeing to let the girl come often and try to make
something of the situation. The writer now finds himself in the position
of the man with the pail at the dike. However fast he transcribes, more
keeps happening. Queenie's mother, Daisy, is a former hard drinker and
crack addict; girlfriend of Linford, my fishing partner of seven years ago.
I was investigated twice for feeding her and her brothers; once again,
Dangriga's most hard-scrabble family. That went nowhere fast. Several
times the girl came to me late at night needing emergency money. Once she
said Junior, her older brother, chopped his foot with a machete and needed
a taxi to the hospital. Two days later Junior showed up with two perfectly
good feet. Other similar stories. My favorite was when she wanted a dress
for communion, which I provided, then wanted to buy hair pieces to go with
it. I couldn't stop laughing. She is a total, high cheek-boned, dazzling
beauty and the thought of her trying to improve herself by clipping on
plastic hair was just too much. Even today she began with a story about
some lump in her chest that the doctors needed to take out (for fifty
dollars) or she'd drop down dead. I listened to her heart, and I didn't
need to spend a minute in medical school to tell it was lub-dub perfect..
She has a beautiful, rich Creole voice, fabulous posture, and if she gets a
guy making less than a million a month, she's throwing herself away. (Of
course, it could be a nice guy, with an ordinary income, but novelists
don't write about them.) The writer is especially happy because Queenie is
not interested in him as a boy; he can treat her as a daughter, but
Samantha doesn't know that, and that's just exactly what the novelist's
number-one vixen needs, a little competition. She has a tendency to come
for the money, and run, leaving the wolf lonely. With Queenie and
Rhageedha around for company, the smart girl will watch over her wolf with
great care, it is hoped, in the process, giving up her thieving ways. So
the endlessly patient, endlessly toiling scribe now gets to sit back and
pick the girl who loves him best, and, if he vaguely wonders what happens
in the event of a photo finish, at least he has time to prepare himself for
the eventuality, like a soldier setting his affairs in order on the eve of
battle. As his luck seems to be running, the next time he's downtown,
Laura will come running up and say, "Tom, it was stupid of me to say I
don't go out with older men. I want to apologize. Would you like to have
dinner with me at the Pelican?" This is hard on the writer, for he knows
that he who doth tarry with more than one, most oft endeth up with plain
old none; even knows this is how it should be. The life of a literary
giant is as extreme as it gets, under the best of circumstances; should he
try to live as he writes, he's like a doctor treating himself or a lawyer
representing himself, in a word or two, beyond help. Then again, someone
has to do it or we'll all die of boredom. Better to die of fat, so, the
deal is, you get fat, and I'll be exciting.
"Mr. Atwater," eleven-year-old Josh Evans asked, "did you
want to see me?"
"Yes, Josh, come in," the rangy, athletic forty year old
said, "Coach Metcalf recommended you and I thought you might fit in with
our little organization here."
The boy entered the office and sat opposite the desk,
gazing around at the carting trophies and pennants on the walls. "Probably
better not to breathe," he thought to himself, "because even inhaling could
wake me up from a dream like this."
Frank Atwater, in his turn, gazed at Josh. He'd seen the
boy around town but never met him. "I'd hire you for the team picture," he
said, smiling, "not that hiring means anything, because you don't exactly
get paid for running around the track in front of an eighty-horsepower
engine."
Josh had to breathe, so he did, then sat still as a
mouse.
"Of course, you do get paid for working in the shop,
running errands, taking tickets, and pushing a broom around once in
awhile," the track operator went on, "though, as a child laborer, you won't
be making much of a fortune to start."
"That's okay," the boy managed to squeak.
"Yeah," the man said, "I suppose a couple of hundred laps
a week does count for something in the quid pro quo department."
"I'll try to be a pro," the boy said.
"Well," Frank said, "Bill Metcalf said you had the best
reflexes he's seen in a long time. Interesting, because you're so tall and
half-grown. Anyway, it's a great sign; if you're tight now, you can only
improve with some practice, and if you don't grow into a six-six mother's
son, like I did, you might go a ways in the glamorous world of eating hot
rubber and breathing hot oil."
"I'll try," the boy said.
"Bill said that about you, too," Frank said, "first on
the floor and last off. Fifteen laps instead of twelve. One of the
reasons he recommended you to me was he wanted you to back off on the
physical stuff. It's okay to be active at your stage of development, but
too much pounding takes its toll, and there's a lot more to life than
basketball."
"He has been whistling me off quite a bit lately," Josh
said, "I guess that's why."
"Leave it to the boys with no other options," Frank said,
"let them cope with the arthritis and chronic back pain, you're meant for
better things, like fiery rides along the wall and final turn spinouts.
Two or three of those, and I'll have you alongside me at the blueprints,
teaching you the intricacies of trig as they apply to milling steel in the
search for that extra hundred r.p.m."
"My mom's been coaching me at math, so I might be able to
learn some," the boy allowed.
"So I heard," the man said, "which means you've got the
reflexes to drive, and may even have the brains to move on if the novelty
wears off."
"The only thing I'll be fit for when that happens, sir,"
the boy said, "is a cadaver for a medical school."
"Ah," Frank sighed, "enthusiasm. I remember it well.
`Nothing great was ever achieved without it', Ralph Waldo Emerson."
Josh didn't say anything in response, just slowly scanned
the plaques and trophies until he made Frank blush. "Just kidding," the
man finally said, adding: "yeah, I had plenty of it; still do."
"Duh'uh," the boy intoned, thus initiating the bonding
process.
"Did Bill -- Coach Metcalf -- tell you much about me?"
Frank asked.
"Even before this afternoon," Josh said, "you did a lot
of swimming."
"That's the ticket," Frank responded, "hammer thee not
thy cartilage as fair youth to manly grace doth sprout. Limp not, thy life
away, whilst thee supporteth not thy pill roller, thy charlatan, nor thy
witch doctor."
"He said he could always find you at the library," Josh
said.
"My grades bore mute testimony," the handsome
entrepreneur said, "as I found letting teachers interfere with my education
was like swimming in heavy mud. I lucked out with a knack for maths, and I
was all hands and feet, so I could swim. The library made me comfortable
with the world and its variances because it taught me any lack of terror
regarding just about everything means you're in that medical school reeking
of formaldehyde."
"And not likely to graduate with your class," the eleven
year old observed.
The man's eyes caught fire. "Bill didn't say you were a
package, or the complete package, he just said you were t-h-e package.
He's sixty-two now, so I guess a little droll understatement is his idea of
being funny."
"He said your IQ is about three hundred," Josh said.
"Actually, that's the number of people on earth who are
smarter than I am," the man said with a grin. "Witness yourself sitting
here in my office."
"As long as I don't have to leave, I'll buy into
anything," Josh said.
"Well spoken," Frank responded, "but you've passed so
many tests, so fast, we do need to take a little walk."
They left the office, crossed what's now known as a
campus to a lab marked Ultres Engineering. "Get the name?" the older male
asked as he palmed a glass plate. "'Tres' is French for `very'," the boy
said, so, it reads `Very Ultra'."
"Welcome home," the man responded, and Josh got that,
too. It made him blush.
Now we get to where the rubber meets the road in the
genius department. The following is the author's intellectual property.
Anyone wishing to pursue the concept herein described can contact him
through the offices of J.M. Forbes and Co., in Boston. Again, this is my
property.
"It's almost silent," Josh said.
"Go ahead an touch it; use this rag so you won't burn
your finger," Frank said.
"Is it running?" the boy asked.
"Twenty-one hundred r.p.m.," the engineer replied,
"production units won't be quite as smooth, because we hand built the
prototype, but they'll be just as quiet."
"Six cylinders," the boy noted.
"Thirty cubic inches," the man added, "twenty-five
horsepower."
"Is it for carting?" the boy asked.
"No," Frank said, "no torque, no throttle response. It's
designed to run at a constant speed, like a diesel, but it uses gas so it
won't rattle and smoke."
"It's too big for a lawnmower," the boy said.
"It has a number of possible applications," the engineer
said, "all relatively minor, and one that's monumental. Can you guess
what?"
"I'd guess as the piece de resistance in a primo art
gallery, but I don't think that's what you're getting at," Josh said. The
little engine was a boxer, horizontally opposed cylinders, small enough to
fit in a box for hiking boots, a dazzling miniature of the power plant used
in generations of Porsches and light aircraft. As its induction system was
on the bottom, only the burnished aluminum forging of its basic shape
formed the deliberate sculpt of its beauty.
The humming engine was mounted on a jig and Josh studied
it from all angles. "Interesting detail that you have the header pipes
wrapped in plastic tubing," he noted.
"They'll be slicker on the production models," the man
said, "but what it allows is using composite header pipes two inches off
the manifold, with a simple stainless insert for the connection to the
cylinder head. El cheapo, and they last forever."
"Three water pumps," the boy noted as he continued his
inspection.
"Yes," Frank said, "if they stop spinning, their
impellers retract so even one can operate the system. If they all fail, or
the temp climbs for any reason, there are sensors so slow down the engine,
than shuts it off."
Nice details, but what was it for? The quietest,
smoothes lawn tractor on the block? That was hardly `monumental'.
"Do you give up?" Frank asked.
"I guess so," the boy said. Hey, he was eleven.
"Then pull aside that curtain," Frank said, "but first
pull up a stool so you won't fall down." There was one handy, so why not.
The boys at school whispered about vibrators, maybe the machine powered one
for a hundred girls. Not. Frank pulled back the curtain, and was glad he
was sitting, after all.
Now the small engine piggybacked on a larger one of the
same design. It fit at the back of the big engine, with the space to the
radiator occupied by a long, thin generator, to which's forward end was
attached the a/c pump and the power steering pump.
"Oh, my," was all Josh could think of as he got off his
stool for a closer look.
"It's an auxiliary power plant, APU."
"So it must have electric drive," Josh said, fingering
the potent looking generator.
"For edging along in traffic, or puttering around town,"
the engineer acknowledged, "but if you step down on the gas, the big engine
starts immediately, and that's rated at two-hundred horsepower with
performance options."
"How many batteries," the boy asked.
"Two truck twenty-four volters," which do take up some
trunk space, but they add fifty instant horsepower, so they're worth having
around."
"So then you can creep without using either engine?" the
boy asked.
"Yes," Frank said, "and not only that, since it's all
electric, you can use a simple sonar device, like on a Polaroid camera, to
keep you say ten feet behind the vehicle in front of you, so all you do in
stop-and-go traffic is nudge the steering wheel once in awhile to stay in
your lane. The stopping and going are automatic, up to eight miles an
hour, then the driver is alerted to take over, or it the vehicle comes to a
slow stop."
"You could almost sleep behind the wheel," the boy
observed.
"You could sleep as long as you were in heavy traffic on
a straight length of road, then the system will ping when it starts to
move."
"Meantime, you're burning no fuel at all," the boy said.
"If you charge the batteries with the optional solar
panels, no earthly energy is used," Frank explained, "unless it's hot
enough for the air conditioner, then the small engine kicks in so you're
feeding twenty-five horses, instead of two hundred."
"And cold weather?" the boy asked.
"With the electric water pumps, the small engine can take
the chill off down to about freezing, after that, you might want to heat
the cabin by running the big engine."
"Where's the starter motor for the small engine?" Josh
asked.
"The generator serves as a starter motor," Frank said,
"that's why it's not an alternator, plus, a generator can dump its full
output to the electric motors, doubling the amperage from the batteries."
"Where are the motors mounted?" the boy asked.
"On the front wheels," Frank said, "that way we let the
big engine drive the rear wheels, so no CV joints."
"Get rid of the timing belts, and you'll have an old
fashioned, durable car," Josh said.
"Go to the head of the class," his boss replied, "we take
a three percent beating on efficiency, for a thirty-year, wrench-free
system."
"Pushrods, forever," quoth the boy, adding that he
couldn't think of any market that wouldn't go for the concept.
"Long-haul salesmen are the only ones we can think of,"
Frank said. "If you're cruising most of the time, the system just adds
weight. But for ninety percent of light vehicle usage, the system will
save money and vastly reduce pollution. Once the driver is familiar with
it, and assuming a solar collection site, it will actually be possible to
go through light traveling days without ever starting either engine. In
fact, all normal running around can be done either on battery power, alone,
or with the pony engine added to the batteries, yet when you want to pass a
truck on a hill, do a thousand miles in a day, or haul a trailer, just step
on the pedal and go."
"How much power from the electric motors?" the boy asked.
"Ten, each," said the man, "with maximum torque at zero
r.p.m."
"If twenty horses can't get you out of a ditch," the boy
noted, "you probably shouldn't be there in the first place."
"It's a thought," Frank agreed.
"What do you call it?" Josh asked.
"Six-Pac Pac, for this model," Frank said, "like a pack
of two six-packs; then there's a smaller version, with twin four-cylinder
engines; maybe, someday, an Eight-Pac Pac with something like three-hundred
horsepower from the big engine and fifty from the APU."
"How much does it cost?" asked the student.
"Our thinking is a little sky-high here," Frank admitted,
"but we say nothing extra, for two reasons. First, if it were universally
adapted, the economies of scale of building one power plant for an
indefinite period of time would greatly reduce the cost, and, second, since
the computer allows the electric motors to boost initial acceleration, we
can get by with lighter drive-train components including transmission and
rear end. Assuming these, the added cost would be nominal, if anything."
"And the motor/generator acts as a flywheel," Josh said,
fingering the humming unit on the test stand.
"Pretty trick, at that," Frank said.
"How about the induction system for the pony engine?" the
boy asked.
"It works updraft instead of downdraft, so we just plumb
it into the throttle body of the big engine. The two are mated, then you
turn a long screw-jack, and it clamps the intakes together. The exhaust is
joined to the Y-pipe of the big boxer engine, and actually acts as a
partial muffler by breaking up the pulses from the big engine."
"All water-cooled," the boy noted.
"Why not?" Frank asked, rhetorically, "the technology of
plastic tubing, fittings, and small electric pumps makes it a drawing and
execution exercise. As we said when I was a boy, cool."
It was startling to think of him as not a boy, Josh
realized. Age was weird stuff; a forty year old could be a teenybopper,
and he knew a few kids his own age as old and slow as grandma's cow. Coach
Metcalf, ditto. He wasn't boyish, not in any calculated way, just nothing
to do with old.
"Speaking off which," Frank added, "we have a pool
attached to the R and D department. More thinking size than Olympic size,
but everyone's gone home, so we'd have it to ourselves if you'd like to
hang around for awhile."
"I don't have to be home until seven," Josh said, "and if
we called my mon, I could stay later, if you wanted me to."
Frank was thrilled by the boy's use of `we'. "Then a
swim and dinner, half-way like a real date, would that be okay?" he asked.
"Yes," Josh said.
They toured the lab for another half hour, Frank
explaining that he wanted Josh to test drive one of their Six-Pac Pac
vehicles because young boys liked to steal cars, and a diligent engineering
department tried to cover all eventualities when it came to satisfying
consumers. Josh wasn't sure if his friend was kidding, or not, and, the
closer they got to the door marked `pool', the less he cared. Frank seemed
nervous, too. "My wife died three years ago," he said, "since then, it's
been getting these projects done, so, truth to tell, I haven't had time for
much in the way of a life. Work, take care of my daughter, and repeat.
Bill thinks you'd be perfect for Polly, but she's only nine, and he thinks
you'd be perfect for me, which might impress you as being too kinky for
words, but, as I said before, you passed so many tests, so fast, I think
he's so right, I thought I'd at least bring the subject up and tell you
that what does or does not happen between us as man and boy will have no
influence or effect, whatever, one way or the other, on your status as an
employee. You can tell me to jump in a lake, and you're still hired, or,
we can become avid social partners, and I'll fire you if you don't fit in."
"I don't think loving the real you would present any
difficulty," Josh said, blushing half red.
"Just save the serious stuff for my daughter," the man
said, "and the radical stuff for Ultres."
"That sounds about right to me," the boy said as they
reached the pool door, still nervous, though comforted by the middle ground
between the convention of someday dating the beautiful Polly, whom he knew
by sight, and the change-the-world innovations of the R and D department.
The pool was a Greek beauty; small, but delicately tiled
in white and blue and surrounded by marble benches. Frank indicated a
changing room, and took an adjoining one for himself. In a couple of
minutes the males emerged in white terry robes and by accord sat together,
Josh on Frank's left.
"Did the suit fit?" Frank asked.
"I don't know," Josh said.
"You're not wearing it?" There was a sudden sick husk in
his voice with the words.
"Do you want me to?" Josh asked.
"I just want to be very sure that you're comfortable,"
the older male whispered. "I was totally nervous my first time with Bill,
so I want everything to go at your speed, the way things went with us."
"Did you wear a suit with him?" Josh asked, his voice in
the same ethereal gutter as that of his mentor.
"For three dives. Then something made me take it off for
the fourth dive. But I didn't dive. I just stood on the end of the low
board, so he could see me."
"What did he do?" the eleven year old asked.
"He watched me for a few minutes, then got out of the
shallow end, where he'd been checking my dives, and pulled down his suit.
Then he put his hands behind his neck, and arched his back, so I did the
same thing. After that, he walked down the side of the pool and stood at
the bottom of the ladder."
Frank looked into the hot eyes of the boy, and continued
with his story.
"I backed off the board," he said, "and down the ladder.
He stood still when I came against him, and his penis came up between my
legs. Then he started to molest me with his hands, and I let him.
"We did that for a long time, and he asked me if a man
had ever touched me before, or if I'd ever experimented with other boys. I
told him nothing had happened. He said he wanted to cum, and asked if I
wanted to be with him when it happened. I said yes, so he dried me off and
took me into his office. He sat on the old leather sofa, and I sat on his
lap, facing him. He showed me what to do so I could see his sperm, and
then he taught me how to french while he was getting ready to spray. Then
he whispered that he was cumming, and I looked down to watch. It took a
little while, but all of a sudden he started getting me wet."
"With the sperms?" Josh asked.
"Yes," Frank whispered. "It was white and hot and it
kept coming until it was all over me and him, both."
"Did he make yours come out, too?" Josh whispered.
"He stood me up, and got behind me. I spread my legs
really wide even without him telling me to, then he put his left arm around
my chest and did the same thing to me that I did to make him cum. Pretty
soon I could feel it was going to happen, so I told him. When it started,
he turned me to him so my semen wouldn't spray on the carpet and so he
could get it on his legs.
"We did it three more times the same way. I'd dive for
half an hour, then show him my boner. He'd molest me on the ladder or in
his office, then we'd go back to diving. Finally, there wasn't as much
sperm at the end, but it felt even more intense as we got used to touching
each other. He told me he was molesting one other boy, who had a steady
partner at home, and asked me for a date. We went together from then on,
and even now we spend a weekend or two a year together."
"Do you still get a boner with him?" Josh asked.
"Not for the last few years," Frank said. "That's pretty
typical. We ended up friends, not lovers. But something could happen,
again; I still think he's physically attractive, and I guess I haven't gone
too far to seed."
"Did you ever molest a boy together?" Josh, the advanced
curios asked.
"Once," Frank said. "We were hiking and we met a father
and son on the trail. Mr. Ellis claimed he had to go into town to make a
business call, and asked if we'd watch Chris for the day."
"How old was he?" Josh asked.
"Nine, almost ten," Frank said
"Was he curious, like me?" the boy wanted to know.
"Very," Frank said, "it turned out he had a wild crush on
his dad, not that far-fetched, because Jen Ellis was about half tiger, and
he was pretty frank about wanting to do secret things when they were in
their tent that night."
"The same things Coach Metcalf taught you when you took
your bathing suit off?" Josh asked, apparently as brilliant a
conversationalist as he was student and ball handler.
"There's something else males do with each other," Frank
said, "he wanted to know about that. About kissing and licking his dad.
He'd heard other kids talking about it, so he asked if I'd do it with Bill,
so he could learn."
"Did you know how?" the boy asked.
"We'd never tried it, because we'd only been on two
dates, but I wanted to, so we hiked away from the trail and found a pool
with ferns on the bank."
"Did you take Chris's clothes off?" Josh asked.
"Bill did that with me, first," Frank said, "he molested
me and got me naked while Chris sat on a log, watching. Then he got naked
and stood behind me, to show how a man usually takes a young boy. Then I
stood at Bill's right hip, and showed him how a kid does it the first time
with an adult. By that time, Chris was just wearing his underpants. He
came to where we were standing, and let both of us touch him, then get him
naked. Then Bill leaned back against a tree and I knelt in from of him on
a backpack, so I'd be the right height. Then Bill guided me to him with
his hands on my face, and I started experimenting. I taught Chris to use
his hands, and then we shared Bill in our mouthes, taking turns licking and
experimenting. Just before it happened, Bill pushed Chris away, so he
could watch, then he guided him to me, so he could go all the way."
"Maybe," Josh whispered, "I could learn about doing it
with my tongue the way Chris did, with both of you."
"That would be very special, for both of us," Frank said,
"meantime, I'd like to cum on you before we go in the pool."
"Yes," Josh whispered.
The boy shrugged, dropping his terry robe to the marble
seat. Frank did likewise, and the two stood, arms at their sides, facing
each other, their eyes hot with discovery. Frank was almost nine inches,
bent to his left, uncircumcised. Josh's penis was fully man-sized, also
uncircumcised, and so erect it stood hard against his flat, pre-teen belly.
The man reached for the child's hands, guiding them, then he let the boy
experiment. Josh cupped Frank gently with his left hand, and used his
right to draw back the foreskin of the jutting phallus. He tried a few
grips and strokes, gauging their effect from the tension of his adult
partner. In a minute he had learned, and he settled into long, mature
strokes, gripping hard and standing close. Instinctively, he wet his right
hand in the mature male's flowing seminal fluid, and the shocked gasp of
the adult spurred him on, both now craving the hot spray of the ending.
"I'm cumming," Frank whispered after awhile.
Josh looked down and was staring at the man when it
started. Some of the flow covered his pumping hand and he thoroughly wet
his partner before instinct told him to hold the ejaculating male's penis
firmly at the base. This brought a new torrent of semen, and the boy
stared transfixed as it covered his bare chest and raw, coltish shoulders.
As Frank's hard, fast pulsing subsided, he gently
manhandled the child in front of him, and, bending over, took Josh in the
classic way. The boy lifted his feet to the low marble seat and spread his
legs widely. Frank leaned into his young body, and began masturbating the
eleven year old. After five increasingly tense minutes, the boy choked his
warning, and soon his watery, pre-teen cum was splashing wildly on the tile
next to the pool.
"Mmm," Ellen sighed, "I can feel you cumming again,
Daddy."
"I was thinking about my first time with your mom," Josh
whispered, hoarsely.
"Oh, Daddy!" the girl cried out, and in an instant she
was a flailing, wild-eyed animal, hands clawing, legs pulling, screeching
as she bucked her hips frantically against the adult male, taking his seed
while she yowled like a cat..
Minutes later they lay panting in each other's arms.
Fizzle. No Queenie and family; supposedly they were to
move in today, Friday. Maybe tomorrow, or maybe, like my second tenant,
they just won't show up for who knows what reason. Samantha was by in the
middle of the day, as it was a half school day. I pretty much laid down
the law; either sleep over, or no more money. She didn't return with her
night things, so I guess that answers that. Her mother and brother are in
a first-degree state of denial over her being a trespasser and thief, and,
if I hadn't witnessed her behavior, I'd tend to side with them. Anyhow,
it's quire a rift because I think their failure to acknowledge the truth
will just encourage her to make other bold moves on the basis of her family
being solidly behind her. It reminds me of working in South Central. The
blacks were always complaining about the crime rate, but when a suspect was
brought to trial, were so absolute in freeing him, that jurors -- all white
-- had to be imported to Compton from Palos Verde Estates. Last I new,
O.J.'s mother stood rock solid behind her boy, secure in the knowledge she
didn't raise no criminals. Fizzle would be a good ending. We'll just
slowly lose interest in each other, and move on, I fifteen or twenty
thousand dollars a year richer, they, an equal amount, poorer. Bev is very
much into `rights' these days, and there's something fundamental about the
right to starve, so, while it seems an odd choice, presumably it's one
she's thought about and accepts.
It's probably good for an artist to be powerless; to be
able to say anything, and be ignored, with no one acting out and proving
he's a moron, thus knocking him off his high horse. Entertain, funny man.
The clown has left the building. And, truthfully, wouldn't it be a bit
much if he who dazzled with his literary footwork also blazed an
alternative to the dangerous trail of his people? Of such stuff legends
are made; the poet prince, the laureate and the law-giver. Better they
were separated at birth. You can laugh at me, saving your admiration and
fealty for your ballot fodder. If that seems harsh and cynical, look
around. What else are you going to do? Fat people are wide at the middle.
You must look around them. (And you thought I was having you on, as my
English cousins say.)
At what point does a writer acknowledge god? Ernest old
Hemingway is universally held the archetype novelist's novelist. If I beat
him by a million times at his own game, isn't god somehow involved? When
the outpouring of talent becomes a torrent, of which I can get a percentage
point or two onto the monitor, does one not have to lift his bent
old-dobbin head and stroke his chin, thinking to himself, "Hmm, something's
going on here." He knows it's unnatural. No one else on earth can do it,
can even come close. But in what way? For what purpose? If other's ask
why, shouldn't he hire a skywriter for the question? It is said that a
tidal wave cannot drive a nail. By the same token, I find myself a god.
This is to say while my general influence is universal -- obey or die -- I
can't keep Samantha out of trouble, can't bend her path a single inch.
This turns out to be unarguable affirmation of my status as a deity, for no
god has ever, is not today, nor ever will intervene in behalf of the merest
amoeba. God's most useless creation is himself. Since I seem incapable of
creating anything useless, that's a vote for the naysayers; those who doubt
Thomas. Otherwise, you just sit yourself down at your keyboard and write
yourself an essay on where it does come from. Remember, you're talking
about an ocean, not a stream, pond, or river. Why so much to one? (And
why deny Hollywood, even as Salerie was denied?) Your treatise should be
at least twenty-five-thousand words, because the long ball is the breakfast
of champions. It should include thoughts on being, by all historical
standards, a crown prince as well as nonpareil virtuoso. It think I'm
diligent in covering ego issues as I go along, but as long as you don't
double your word count, you might want to address the subject. There are
some technical asides you might want to touch on. Number one computer
user, number one worker, in any sense, number one Web contributor measured
in words or hours, stuff like that, so that at least I end up a dobbin,
even if it's only the wee manure that ye be partakin' of. My modest
lifestyle should play into your words. Teetotaler, modest smoker, and
almost infinitesimal drug user. Celibacy? Almost too much of that for it
to merit attention; write about the blue sky, instead, seeing as how
there's so much less of it. Don't forget Anne. She never told me I was a
good lover, because she freaking never had to (in Mexico, if they tell you
your Spanish is good, it isn't). Do you suppose she told Tom Cruise? In
her last kiss at the Santa Fe bus depot, she used her tongue to tell me she
was going to have oral sex with her new boyfriend, to the point he
ejaculated in her mouth. Probably, that she would swallow his cum. She
never attempted this with me, so, if it turns out he's a better lover than
I was, it goes to sabotage. Write their first morning together. His mode
of living was described to me as Marriott Motel, so you needn't waste time
on the surroundings or atmosphere. If you're comfortable with Nifty's
criteria, and work within it, submit your essay for publication (either
that, or for heaven's sake send them some money). (Don't send it to me,
the spam's so bad I have little desire to go back online) God and talent
are the starting point, then a few scenes a la the alternative archives,
then religion and politics, with more scenes, perhaps ending up with
lifestyle issues and a woman either dumb enough to marry the greatest
artist of all time, or smart enough to divorce him for the lawyer's bed and
child, or, vice versa.
Frank took Josh home with him after dinner to meet Polly,
who'd eaten with Nancy Reynolds, her best friend. Typically, for my
characters, they found they both liked to read and in half an hour were
thick as thieves, sitting Indian style in front of the bookcase in the nine
year old's bedroom. (The one with no green eggs and ham or Bilbo
anything.) They dated immediately and avidly, Frank unable to help feeling
just a trifle smug about the powerful magnets he'd brought together. The
father also dated the eleven year old, and was openly affectionate with the
boy in front of his daughter when the threesome was in private. Polly
responded with a savvy delight, flirting ever more with her drop-dead sexy
dad. Two years passed in a whirl of work, grades, money, and family
commonplace. Josh spent two or three evenings a week at the Atwater home,
often showering with Frank to Polly's excited teasing. The boy developed
physically as a result of overnighting with Frank, his gym teacher, and the
ten year old son of one of Bill's former athletes. Both mature males
ejaculated on the wriggling pixie boy, and Josh licked the heaving chest
repeatedly, quickly graduating to taking Frank's sperm directly on his
tongue, and swallowing the hormone-rich semen. Since the boy did not overdo
this, he grew to an astonishing but not freakish seven and a half inches by
his thirteenth birthday. It was some weeks after this that Polly had her
eleventh, and this is where Josh picked up his story, as he lay with his
daughter breathing now softly against his left ear.
"That's the hardest time I ever had being good in my
whole life," the birthday girl said, collapsing on Frank's lap and
extending her hand to Josh; adding: "I couldn't have done it without you.
One suggestive look, double entendre, or Freudian slip, and I would have
made a spectacle of myself in front of twenty kids."
"The credit due is massive," Josh agreed. "I'd rather
have my eyes pulled out than take them off you."
"And Dad, who has the biggest, most beautiful penis I've
ever heard of, well..."
"Well," Frank interrupted, "two jocks to wash tomorrow."
"Let's do it now!" Guess who said that.
"We were going to take turns raping you on your bed,
darling," the athletic father said, "but it would be very comfortable down
next to the furnace, and it is never possible to argue with laundry."
"Everything I've got on needs washing," Josh added,
helpfully.
They weren't kidding around. The thought of their
princess doing household chores in her training bra and panties was
suddenly more alluring than visions of the most exotic bubble bath, candles
and incense. They spent an intensely nervous half hour cleaning up the
remnants of the party, almost getting fussy because no more delicious
anticipation was possible. Finally the last plate was dry and the last cup
hung. They emptied the hampers in the two bathrooms in stone silence,
passing each other in the halls mute as wood. Then the were at the cellar
stairs.
Frank and Jose took the baskets down, placed them in
front of the washer, and quickly stripped out of their clothes. Polly
slipped out of her sandals and stripped out of her blouse and shorts,
carrying them down the stairs and tossing them in once of the baskets. The
males stood by the machine as she turned it on and began to load it. They
scored themselves very high on intuition, for the black curly haired,
big-eyed beauty was more soccer mom than languid queen of the night. She
half looked like a boy in her blue bandana and with her broad shoulders.
"Do you mind if we whistle while you work," the girl's
father asked.
"Not if you know how to put your lips together and blow,"
the girl responded, paraphrasing Lauren Bacall.
The ribaldry was not Josh's style, but he stood it with
good grace. Bawdy seemed trivial, and if he listed a thousand things he
felt about Polly, `trivial' would be missing. Frank sensed the boy's
discomfort, and loved him for his sensitivity, while wondering to himself
at the delicacy of one thing versus another; of ravishing the pre-teen,
probably for hours, yet not uttering an indelicate sentiment. It made it
fun being human.
In a minute the machine was loaded. Both males watched
intently as the girl carefully balanced the load before closing the lid.
The machine, already warming, now purred and vibrated softly. Polly turned
and leaned back against it. Frank and Josh came to her and she stood, arms
at her side, while they began touching her belly, stepping close so their
penises throbbed hotly under their fondling hands. As she got used to the
heat of them, her hands came forward to join theirs, found theirs, and then
she was being taught how to fondle and masturbate. The wasn't deliberate,
because she couldn't be with two at the same time, so she toyed, spreading
their flow of seminal fluid back and forth and squeezing their swollen
glans together with her tiny, wet hands. The males found her bra hook, and
slowly bared her chest, molesting her tenderly as they took turns kissing
her on her hair and forehead.
Her breasts were pink swollen buds, hot to their fingers.
Every touched shocked her and made her mew and tremble.
The male's plan had been to lie Polly on her bed, then
Bill was to show her what he did with Josh in the shower, letting the boy
cum off on her, so she'd know what was happening when her father mounted
her. Now they could tell they both wanted to cum inside her. Frank was
about to let Josh be first with her, when he had second thoughts. They
changed his mind. If he was first, the boy would be highly excited;
additionally, he'd have the excitement of a male mounting a wet female with
its associated primal drives. It was dry thinking for such a moment, but,
on review, it made sense. Josh, watching him rape Polly, after he, Josh,
had cum would be a lesser option. Again, dry thinking; the practical
engineer over the wanton lover. But how to compensate for taking Josh's
symbolic place as her first lover. It seemed an insurmountable problem,
but love found a way.
They fondled and kissed the eleven year old for half an
hour, then laid her gently back on an improvised bed of folded towels.
Josh crouched over Frank, and guided him to the girl. The mature male
thrust in fast, short strokes, taking his filly as he always would in the
future. He wasn't rough with her, just dominant, taking her fully in
minutes, slowing, but not stopping when she wept and the sting of his
initial entry, Josh tender and sweet as it went on and on and he settled to
his hilt, now grunting over her and beginning to plunge hard with his taut
thighs and straining lower back. He swept her hard before him. Twice she
yelled out for Josh, and the boy squeezed her hand as she used it to grab
her plunging, raping father. Her orgasms tensed her father like winding a
spring with the single stroke of a lever, bulging his muscles and
triggering a hard, panting sweat. Polly began crying to Josh to make him
cum, but before the boy could do he knew not what, she tripped headlong
into another hard orgasm, spurring her father to bellow his warning and
slam her like an amok machine as she clawed and screeched back at him.
Josh saw the sperm gush from between their bodies, and squeezed Polly's
hand so she'd know what was happening. They went on for over a munite,
then Frank slowed with her, gently left her, and gently manhandled Josh to
his daughter. Josh took time to get his girl back, then gazed tenderly
into her eyes as he entered. By accord, neither moved. She lay spread
eagle under him, her legs on the bed, her arms now extended over her head.
The boy remained above her on his arms, looking into her eyes. Neither
child moved, while both slowly tensed. Josh lowered to her lips, kissed
her, then rose again to stare into her eyes and gaze down over their sleek,
childlike bodies. After ten minutes, Polly sensed strong changes sweeping
through the beautiful male staring down at her. His breathing deepened to
a rough pant, his hair became dank with sweat, she was about to receive her
father's gift. Then she was. "Oh, Dad, thank you," she gasped as she
clearly felt the beginning of Josh's cum. It lasted until she was beyond
marinating control, and two minutes after Josh became still inside her it
quaked and rocked her senseless, leaving him slack and hot against his
swimmer's chest. It was half an hour before either child could move, and
that was the greatest gift of all.
And so was Ellen beneath him, limp, damp, now just
beginning to catch her breath. "Did she get pregnant from that night?" the
girl asked her father.
"Yes, darling," Josh whispered. "She was too small to
bring a child to a safe weight, so she aborted it in two weeks. After that
we used foam until she was twelve. You were a shower baby because your mom
never had a period, and your dad found out when he was molesting her. We
still argue over who was the first to be sure."
"So I was pretty right about our being a different
family, wasn't I," the tired, happy girl whispered.
"We're not different because of what we do," her father
answered, "we're different, because within carefully chosen company, we're
open about it. It's not recreation, it's not sport, it's neither addictive
nor essential, it has to do with love, but is not love, it is what it is
and that's something unique and totally special, all by itself in the whole
wide world.
"That sounds like the beginning of a story," the girl
said with an impish grin.
"Not on your freaking life," her dad responded.
CONCLUSION
The candles in the rectory were burned half down. Alex's
audience, like snakes in a flood, had taken off their war paint and settled
together on the matrimonial bed, hands to themselves. They were not so
much numb as satiated, and not so much satiated as young. He called for a
lunch break. No takers, except Corey who wanted to use the bathroom.
Perhaps they were right in their youthful ways; working together in the
kitchen, knowing what was about to happen, sharp knives, and all of that,
might have been ill-advised. They were a pack of young animals on the
verge of tame; they'd sat for three hours as one story led to and through
another, it was not time for lunch.
There was a tap on the door and it opened. Corey coming
back from the bathroom. The twelve year old was naked. "Is this okay?" he
whispered from the doorway, arms hanging at his side, head bowed as he
looked down at his jutting five-inch circumcised penis.
Glenn went to the door and led the boy back into the
bridal suite, kneeling him on the bed at his sister's left side. Gregg
pulled the cloth covering from the naked Crystal, and Glenn helped Corey
spread his legs so he could masturbate the boy against his sister's left
nipple. By accord, all slipped out of their togas, and, naked, came
together to watch the rape of little Crystal Cavanaugh, eleven.
Glenn held the child in his strong left arm, and stroked
him slowly and gently so the others could see everything he did with the
little boy. All were entranced by the candlelight playing over the
athletic teen's powerful shoulders hunching over the slimmer recitative of
the pubescent Corey. Glenn's almost bull neck, contrasting with the slim,
elegant neck of the now panting boy. Their arms, linked, massive trunks,
slim branches, the twelve year old's hands delicate on the powerful wrists
of the male behind him.
"The youngest and the oldest," Ben Cavanaugh whispered to
Alex, jockeying the club leader to his sister's right side, urging his legs
widely apart, and stationing himself at the tall, young man's right hip.
He matched Glenn's slow, careful way with Corey. Crystal, dazed, rolled
her eyes from one male to the other; man to boy, and back. Will, next
older than Corey, positioned himself behind his sister's head and supported
her so she could focus on Corey and Alex, now wetting her budding nipples
with their seminal fluid. Vicky and Amy found brothers and guided them
carefully in close to their naked little sister, emulating Glenn and Corey
by slowly stroking the mature boys as they held their swollen penises
against the eleven year old's tender thighs and belly. Gregg positioned
the last brother, Nicky, and now the little girl's eyes darted to the sight
of four of her brothers and the feelings coursing through her body as they
were gently stroked against her delicate, white skin. She reached her
right hand up to Ben, who took it and guided her to Alex, cupping her
gently against the swollen adult as he taught her to masturbate. Her left
hand went to Corey, and Glenn, in his turn, guided the tall, naked angel so
that she was holding and massaging a man and a boy at the same time.
And so, quietly, gently, sweetly, ends the greatest novel
of all time. Young will, holding Crystal's head, maddened by her soft hair
against him, began ejaculating soundlessly, spontaneously, cumming hard and
fast, his sperm arch two feet in the air to splash heavily on his sister's
immature chest. Corey established the proper order of youngest to oldest,
and was followed by Nicky whom Vicky guided to a long, shuddering orgasm
all over the girl's soft, white belly. Alex, letting Glenn take his place
as Ben's first oral partner, flooded the girl repeatedly with as much semen
as all the boys, combined. He gently manhandled Ben to the girl, and,
hunching over the eighteen-year-old athlete, guided him to Crystal, holding
him firmly as he used gentle strokes to penetrate the eleven year old, then
a rough lunge to tear her hymen. Glenn replaced the still panting Will,
and positioned himself in a squat above Crystal so the now fully mounted
eldest brother could find him with his mouth. Gregg knelt behind his
roommate, as his sister positioned herself behind him so she could reach
around an jerk him off. Ben was every bit a husband to his little sister.
When her stinging subsided, Alex removed his hand and the teen took her
slowly, tenderly and gently, at the same time bringing Glenn to a fast,
hard climax, letting the athletes heavy, white sperm drool from his lips to
those of his at first shocked, then gulping, licking little sister. As
Glenn subsided in his mouth he lost control inside Crystal. He looked down
between their bodies to see his cum well up on their sweating, panting
bellies. The sight drove him hard into the girl, and she gasped and panted
at the feeling of his hard, deliberate throbs deep in her womb, quickly
climaxing with crying mew and raking fingers.
An ending is a time for totals. At the national average,
Tom Cruise has cum inside Anne something like three thousand times. I have
cum in no girl for over twenty years. One for the lawyer. I have
published five novels, written six (as well as three original and three
adapted screenplays), and published five novellas and six short stories.
One for the artist. My beloved traded her dancer's body for a piece of
land and put away her brushes. One for nobody.
Samantha seems to have pulled the final stunt, cadging
thirty bucks this morning with a promise to bring over a new CD and a map
of Belize she needed to color for school. Dumped. I know the feeling.
The financial savings is so huge, I can't be all that sad. The truest of
all adages is, when it comes to romance, not ichthyology, there are just as
good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. It's been a rocky road,
probably richly deserved. Protecting work time makes a prickly cuss out of
any artist committed to his absolute best every page every paragraph.
What next? "One Fish at a Time" intrigues me. It's the
classic two-minute sell. What's your new novel about? It's about
producing a fishing show in the Caribbean. The question is whether to
write it a la Nifty, go for the huge, instant readership, or toil away on a
mainstream manuscript. I think we'll go all Nifty, because I love the work
of my fellow writers, and I can hardly say the same about Hollywood.
I don't know when, or even if, I'll be online again. I'm
sorry for this, as the reader mail has been stunning and terrific, but
losing five thousand pages to a virus is what you call a lifetime lesson,
even though, in this case, it turned a nice enough little effort into a
masterpiece.
You know so much, I know so little. You know if you know
nothing, that the only place you find anything of me is on the Web,
whatever future year it might be. Or has it just begun, and by 2020 I'm
being read and taught universally with a bio with a beginning, a middle,
and an end. Or a sentence without end.
THE END
posted by Thomas C. Emerson, Dangriga, September, 2002
xxx