Date: Mon, 17 Sep 2001 01:54:20 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 8

Blissy's Song – 8
(m/f, inc., rom.)
by
Feather Touch

Nothing should be inferred from the use of media personalities.

Chapt. 8

       One question I have is Where is all the heat?

       The friction of the falling towers must have created nearly nuclear
temperatures in the core of the buildings.  Where is it?  Wouldn't the
center of the wreckage be molten?  If you dig down, might you not get a
violent, volcano-like blast?  How long will the head last?  They say it
would have taken a hundred years to cool Hoover Dam if they hadn't used
refrigeration on a massive scale.

       One reason I like fiction, and especially Web fiction, is there is a
lesser demand on my copy editing skill set.  If a few goofs stay in it will
give the stately scholars of the Yiddish persuasion a good reason to ignore
me.  This is good, because I want bombs on them, not any more of their
crazy talk.  For example, a senior Jewess living in Israel is quoted at
saying, "Good, now they will know how we feel."  Let's review the
inferiority of a mind which would for a single heartbeat in a hundred years
any relationship between five pound bombs and assorted nuisance blasts with
toppling The World Trade Center.  Absolutely classic peasant thinking, here
expressed by a government official.  But the apparatus, I strongly object
to the use of our terms `man' and `woman' when it comes to the warped and
misbegotten inventors of their own howling mad god, did prove she had one
brain in her head.  Her next statement will, "Now they'll blame us."  Yes,
Virginia.  Blame you and kill you, or be killed ourselves.

       See, paragraphs like that take tender and tedious proofing, least
someone misunderstand.

       I liked it better when we were talking about heat, so let's get back
to it.

       "Pete!  I thought you said two minutes!"
       "Do you want me to wait?"
       "What are you going to do."
       "Spray some in you.  Not like on your chest, but quite a lot, I
think."
       "I don't want to wait, as long as you won't get hurt or anything."
       "What's going to hurt is you after you've been with Dad.  We should
go do something in the garage so we can say you tripped and fell on your
butt.  You're going to be sore, and walk stiff legged.  Even your mom is
that way sometimes on Sunday morning."
       "He must be so awesome."
       "I guess!"
       "Your idea about him and me going shopping together is massive.  By
eleven thirty the clerks are bored to death and we can find a place to
ourselves."
       "Not your first time, though.  I almost cried out spraying on your
tummy.  If I'd been in your womb, spilling my seed where you could get
pregnant from it, I would have been making a lot of really loud noises."
       "What can I do, Pete?"
       "Be patient.  Just let him see you, especially like with the bra
over your right breast, and your left nipple out where he can see it."
       "What should I say if he stares at me."
       "Just look him calmly in the eye and stand there and let him look at
you.  When you get a little older, you'll understand how cute a young
person can be, and, once in awhile, in all the right ways."
       "Like Henny Gilbert.  She's only six, but she's a doll."
       "That's really like what dad will feel for you.  I'm really close to
your age so I don't have what they call pedophilia for you..  But I've felt
it, too.  For a six year old boy.  He always tackles me at the pool, and
I'd really like to take him into the shower after I told him about what
Kraft did to me"
       "Do you think he'd get excited?"
       "I think he was born excited, judging from how he acts when we're
close together."
       "How old do you have to be to like touching the way we were doing?"
       "Maybe once in awhile a four or five year old would like it, you
know, like if he or she was swimming with someone they really like, and
that person took them in the shower and got them all warm and soapy.  But
probably about six years old.  It's like fire.  Nurturing or consuming.
Some people aren't ready to even kiss until they're in college.  Probably,
somewhere, there's a three year old who's a full partner to an older
brother or her dad, not just a place for sperming."
       "A lot of girls get done over."
       "About one girl in five."
       "That's really sad."
       "Yeah, Cindy, and confusing, too.  A lot of them like their
partners, or are at least neutral on what happens, but they get told
they're trash and it's weird a queer and a sin and against the law, so they
end up scared rabbits.  What they call taboo."
       "I guess I'm taboo proof.  I mean, if Gregg really wants to come
when he's inside me, you know, without using something, it would be bad,
but I sure wouldn't go addicto about it."
       "Do you know about condoms?"
       "Sure.  That much they did get across.  Though the boys joke you
have to be sixteen to wear one."
       "Probably true."
       "I didn't mean you, you'd probably need two if I didn't want to
carry you in my tummy."
       "Two packs."
       "Pete, what should I do to get ready for you?"
       "Just let me take you in on Kitty's bed.  Then you lie back and I'll
put a pillow under you, you know, down there."
       "I just want to sit in your lap, forever, and look at what you did
to me."
       "I'm not going anywhere until you're ready.  I love how you look at
me."
       "You can tell from my nipples.  They stay big when you're near me
and I love having you look at them, because now I know what's on your mind,
or at least some of it."
       "They'll get bigger in a few days if you start making a kid.  I read
that, Kraft didn't tell me."
       "Sounds too biological for him, he sounds more like an action guy."
       "Are you kidding?  He's going to be a doctor in less than a year.
He says after dad's been with you a lot, and, you know, you get like
stretched out a little in your vagina, that he can put in some stitches in
just the right place, so you'll stay like a child, if you want to."
       "I've got over two hundred dollars saved up, you know, from
Christmas and stuff."
       "It's just a pain killer and a few special stitches, you know, to
kind of make a little ridge with some knots in it.  When a man feels you
like that against him, he's going to really try to make you cum a lot."
       "If Kraft does it, could he, like, you know, do things with me if I
liked him and he liked me, or would that be a doctor/patient thing."
       "I don't know.  Just what I know is you're way too special to fit
any rules ever written."
       "I guess next to incest, it's not too much to worry about."
       "Are you ready, love?"
       "Yes, Pete."
       "You've got to spread you legs way, way wide.  That's not just so I
can get on top of you the right way, but so I'll know you really want me."
       "Did you like back and spread your legs for Kraft?"
       "Yes."
       "It must have been amazing.  Knowing a big strong man was going to
lie on top of you."
       "It is.  You'll find out with my dad. "
       "I couldn't be prouder or happier than to find out, with you."
       "Okay, all the way back, darling.  I want to keep looking at you
while you're a virgin."
       "You've been doing that since we bunched up.  Let's ..."
       "Okay, baby doll, sometimes the female helps the male, and other
times she waits for him to find her on his own."
       "Do you want me to stay with my arms up under the headboard, because
I'd really like to touch you so I can feel what you're doing."
       "If you want to, okay, but once I'm completely on top of you, it may
not be too long."
       "Is that how you get?"
       "Yes.  Feel me against your tummy?"
       "What are you doing, getting wet with your sperm?"
       "It feels good rubbing against you like this."
       "Would you sperm more if you kept doing it?"
       "All night long, Cindy.  I love you."
       "I love you too.  You're moving down now.  Oh, Peter, I can feel
every inch of you.  It's so hot and slippery."
       "Semen is slippery and sticky."
       "I like the slippery feeling."
       "Well, the sticky feeling can be really nice on your hand, you know,
for a boy or a man.  It sort of adds friction."
       "I'll remember Go down a little more."
       "Oh, Cin, you look so pretty stretched under me.  Do you like me
being up on my arms so you can look, or do you to feel my bare chest
against your breasts."
       "Both, what on earth can you be thinking.  I want about ten things,
but I'm the happiest girl in the world looking up into your eyes and
feeling your hips where they are."
       "Love, am I with you?"
       "Oh, Pete, this can't be real.  I'm dreaming.  You're like a horse."
       "And you're the prettiest filly running around loose."
       "Are you kidding?  I'm not running anywhere.  I can really feel you
against me, Pete, it's just right."
       "You're so wet, it's awesome darling.  Kraft said that girls get
super wet when they're in love, so you better watch out."
       "Pete, you're, you know, against me."
       "I can fall it, too, love."
       "You're really inside me.  If you started spraying it would all go
into me.  I can feel it."
       "Sweetheart, it's going to hurt."
       "That's why we get to, you know, what you call cum, lots of times.
That much I've heard about."
       "It's just that I can't bear the thought of, you know, tearing you."
       "Peter."
       "What."
       "Can I ask you something really personal?"
       "Oh, baby, of course, anything."
       "Did Kraft, ever, you know, try to go inside you?"
       "He got against me once, like I am with you, and spurted into me.
But he's never like, you know, grabbed my hips and done he wanted."
       "Were you lying on your back when he put it against you?"
       "No, I was on my knees, beside my bed, with my arms stretched out on
the bedspread.  He got on top of me from behind, just like a stag on a
fawn.  Then I felt him against me, then he pumped against me, but just an
inch, in and out, not like I'm going to do inside you when you're ready.
While he was doing it, he had his right arm around my waist and he was
masturbating me.  That's the word for what you did to me when we were
sitting in the bathroom.  And you can call it jerking off, too.  He jerked
me off hard and fast and when I felt it happening in me, I gave him my
signal so he could reach under with me with his left hand and get my sperm
on his palm."
       "Can you do it to me like that, like a stag on a fawn?"
       "Yes.  It's a good quiet way to be together, you know, if you wanted
privacy, but they say it isn't the best for the girl.  They call it doggie
style."
       "Pete, I'm ready now.  Will it get blood on the pillowcase?"
       "Sperm, too, Cindy."
       "Lots of it, Pete?"
       "More than there is of anything else in the world."
       "When, Pete?"
       "Oh, Sis, my beloved Sis, does that answer your question?"
       "Peter, you're doing it so hard it almost feels like, you know, a
seizure."
       "I love you.  You are my beloved."
       "Peter, oh, baby, its going on longer now.  And it's more powerful.
I know how it felt in my hand, and it's more powerful."
       "Cin, oh, Cin, come to me from your dad.  Even from Gregg.  I want
to have that feeling with you."
       "Could you feel another male's semen on your penis?"
       "Oh, baby, I don't know.  I feel mine so much I don't know how I
could feel my dad's too."
       "Pete, does Kraft have a web address?"
       "Yes."
       "Thank god.  I want to write and thank him.  Now.  Would that be
okay?"
       "If you sit in my lap, you'll get me all wet so I'll be ready when
you sign off love and kisses."
       "Kisses.  Peter Brady, you made me forget all about kissing.
Sometimes I think you talk too much."
       "Cindy, I didn't make you cum off."
       "I didn't want to do that.  I wanted to feel every millimeter of
you, especially when you swoll up at the end.  If I'd been really excited,
I couldn't have shared that the way we did."
       "It will feel the same when my dad ejaculates in you, except he may
be inside your womb instead of against your cervix like I was.  Since you
know the feeling of a male, you can, you know, put your arms and legs
around him, and rise and, you know, fall against him so the can get all the
way into you.  That will be a lot more exciting for you."
       "But it's you that made it that way.  By teaching me the right way."
       "Let's go write that letter."

       A few bumps on the last lap.  We should remember Saddam and the
burning oil wells.  However glowing and wonderful some Arabs and Muslims
are, there is a destroy the world complex ingrained in enough to make it
them or us.  We should encourage vigilantism A razor sharp eye and an acid
tongue, against one and all, but no engaging in excess violence.
Deportation of all students and all middle eastern and tribal members who
do not hold positions and maintain a highly respectable position in their
community, minus the occasional small incident.

       Man, as of Sunday evening they've got a serious stand around club
going on.  They should have rows of plastic chairs adjacent the work areas.
Men should go in in squads, work their stint, and return to their seats.
Their heavy clothing should be kept available, but they should wear the
lightest costume consistent with comfort.

       The smoke seems undiminished over the last two day, though it's hard
to tell with temperature changes that also change the dew point.  Anyway, I
guess I know where my heat went.  Again, the pyramid is the answer, and
valve off the fumes from the top.  The only other thought I have is to made
it so grandiose and celebratory of all the ancient world has given us that
we entomb both towers in a single structure.  So let it be written, so let
it be done.  Aesthetically, it would give a base to Manhattan, north of
which would flow New Athens.  Construction should be cheap because of the
wreckage as an underpinning.

       Politician: An apparatus incapable of tiring of itself.  Richard
Kerry comes to mind, I don't know why.  To much with the hair to be a man,
maybe.  Strange fate for a military hero.

       If anyone wonders why my productivity is skyrocketing, I can give
two reasons.  First, shop time for the computer, five times, if I recall.
Second, with only you-know-what on television, it has lost its slight
remaining appeal to me, thus the smoking keyboard.  I think this may happen
with others, some of whom, lo and behold, will end up on Nifty, where they
should have been since 1992.  (The happiest people in the world today are
Nifty newbies, where you even get to read about happy people.)

       Are these firefighters homosexuals?  I have never in all my born
days heard such talk of bonding and buddies.  New York firemen are stroked,
petted and paid.  If you want to look for heroes, how about the volunteers
who risk wide ranging hazards with a hose, a hat, and an ax.  I hope the
New Yorkers grow up, and soon, because getting their buddies out is
something they are not going to want to do in a few weeks.

       Three-D twisty ribbons.  Fairly shout.  But it's not the time for
shouting.  It's the time to get down and dirty and massively ugly.  It's
odd that a country so enamored of gladiatorial spectacle, a driver had his
legs ripped off yesterday, is such a collection of candy-cane, shock
mounted cowards when it comes to saving their ignorant, unread skins.

       Sometimes I think the only bright spot I see in your storm cloud is
the fact that it is unlikely you will ever be ruled by me.

       Just another mention of the super polygraph.  The joke of it is,
this system does exactly the same thing we all do.  We can all characterize
people meeting in a public place.  Normal, friendly, hostile, glad, sad.
The computer simply uses micro sensors to see these postures, much like a
dog can seem to smell the impossible.  On top of the sensor technology,
which monitors the video image, is a gigantic database with a vast normal
core at its center, and every quirk and possibility of human nature
radiating like spikes on an old radar set.  Of course, the operator just
sees a printout indicating points and degrees of deception.  I would call
it the most important invention in history, because surely to live crime
free is as important as it gets, telephone or no telephone.

       The subject of totalitarianism comes up with a device like the super
polygraph.  In my viewpoint, a society almost totally free of crime can get
funky in so many ways, the jackboots in the night on the landing of a few
apartments is whiffenpoof stuff.  Jews love to exaggerate the clump-clump
because it's emotional, because there is money in crime stories for their
media, and because leftist policy assures lots of defendants for the big
noisy faces of the esquires.  It's a low grade way of life for the poor,
and even the rich inherit but a vague toyland.  Don't get me wrong, because
of technology, I'm happy enough.  But the artist class is a small one, with
dues that are beyond belief.  We are merely the exceptions that prove the
rule, and one of the ways we prove it is that there are so shatteringly few
of us.  Use the super polygraph and this will change.  Many things will
change.  I mean think of it.  A perfect delineator.  If you have, say
artistic talent, this machine will find it, probably at about age seven.
And so on.  Capabilities recognized early and responded to positively.
That means focusing, for another example, musical instruction on kids who
profile well, for, duh'uh, music.  It means, by the same token, finding
criminal predilection early.  The possibilities in this field, alone, are
fascinating.  If a six year old profiles for criminality, do you, A, focus
on helping him or her, or, B, realizing that what people are, is what they
by-god are, so instead of laying on extra help, you minimize society's loss
by warehousing such cases, simply because that's all you can do.

       These are the new things under the sun.  Cloning.  An absolute
imperative.  Just this very day I saw an extended television package on
teens.  Had the sound off, as usual, so I don't know what the issue was,
though it would probably be pretty easy to guess.  The point is, it was the
pure, physical size of these so-called kids.  The only thing I've heard on
the mass media on the subject is that the age of puberty has changed from
thirteen to ten in the last few decades.  I mean, I'm not complaining.
It's actually helpful in my craft.  There is titillation amongst perverts
for seven and eight year olds who are sexually active, and dropping the
ages even down to four and five isn't going to cost many readers.  Might
even help, pervs being what they are.  But for the country?  I've ranted on
the subject before, finally coming up with the question of who is going to
feed them all?

       If this trend continues, unchecked, we really will end up in an era
of two-hundred pound cub scouts, probably have a bunch already.  There's a
lot of When I was a kid in my writing.  The pretty towns we had, the bag of
product you could cart home for five dollars, the polite and dignified way
people almost always acted, the newness and imagination to everything from
movies to automobiles.  The discipline of clunking channel and winding
watches.  Good old memory lane, or, for me, fabulous old memory lane.  But
it has its dark side.  I don't think a kid I ever knew all through many
years in big schools weighed a hundred and fifty pounds.

       College, maybe the biggest guys, jocks excepted, were six one and
one ninety or so.  Most of us, like ninety percent, at twentyish, stood
about five eleven and weighed in at one-sixty, or thereabouts.  In today's
world, those numbers might apply to sixth graders, and if the don't this
year, they soon will.  Nostalgia is twenty-eight cent gas, which lasted for
decades, replaced by dollar twenty eight cent gas.  Disaster is seventy
pound cub scouts replaced by hundred pound cub scouts.  This crises is the
very definition of pandemic.  I mean, if we rebuild all our cars and houses
for six-ten humans, how long before we have to repeat the process for
seven-ten humans.  Add to this, that big people have bad health records and
the problem becomes the very definition of absolute.

       The embryonic and T-cell research becomes more interesting as time
goes on.  The medical community has given us thirty years and more of chemo
therapy, a treatment with proven zero efficacy, and extensive and horrific
side effects, so it seems almost to fit the pattern of things that they
finally actually come up with something that works.  Full speed on this.
It might even be vectored into the gigantism problem, allowing parents to
have their own biological children after modest intervention.

       Am I insensitive?  Is it wrong to be like Hitler, and say, outright,
the individual is nothing, and the culture is everything?  Never mind that
it's out of step with the times, kings make their own times, is it
insensitive?  Uncaring?  Cold?  Is my fiction just an attempt to show I
have a human side, you know, faking it?  Would you buy a used car from this
man?  I live with myself in a remarkably defined schizophrenia.  To me, I
am an unutterably fabulous artist, by far and away the greatest who ever
lived.  I know all that, and am blown away, hour by hour, at the privilege
of seeing it in action.  But how about the man behind the artist?  Is he
brutish?  Any kind of bully?  Has he every hurt anyone, deliberately, or by
accident, in his half-century, plus?  Does he help others in a consistent,
friendly and on-going way?  Does he drink too much, smoke too much weed or
too many cigarettes?  Do the people around town like him, understanding
that productive artists don't exactly hand around to socialize.  Would I
let him take my son or daughter to Disneyland for a week?

       He gets extremely high grades, my alter ego does.  Plus he's cute to
die for, and, after a good night's sleep, looks like a teen.  If he
stripped to a pair of Speedos he'd be a close runner up in a bod and bun
contest, of high-school boys.  It is beyond telling, being the body of the
master; living with him, knowing him, and flat-out loving him.  And he
treats me well, in turn.  Sparse diet, plenty of sleep – he's a writer,
sometimes I think, just so he can let me sleep whenever I want.  Yes, this
makes me a chauvinist, but, it's the truth, so what else can I say?  See?
He even lets me, a mere physical presence, take a turn at his almighty
keyboard.  How many god's would do that? I ask you

       I believe social security and all similar programs, public and
private, should be terminated as we journey into New America.  The
resources should be used for victims of collateral radiation poisoning, if
the thermonuclear theme is played out, and, or, hopefully, or addressing
this incipient catastrophe by massive research into cloning and designer
children not only available, but mandatory.  Really close your eyes and
concentrate; try to imagine a world of huge, gangly, unhealthy almost
freaks.  Again, the super-polygraph raises its beautiful head because it
gives the State the method of assuring universal compliance.

       One thing I've forgotten to mention in this diatribe is the peace
option.  The do-nothing option.  The logic is my own.  Who cares about
terrorists?  Put it on page five; public's right to know, and all that
hornswoggle, and get on with it, whatever it is.  A possible option in the
present case is to simply ignore it.  Remind the world we have turned our
cheek six or seven times.  Point out that we've grown tired of thinking by
the book, that turning the cheek simply presents another cheek, and that at
the next major terrorist act, or series of minor acts, we will launch an
all-out thermonuclear strike, but, in the meantime, let Laden off the hook,
because, sure, America is not perfect, we've made mistakes, and partially
deserve some of what we got.  I would respect a politician who offered up
this view.  It should come as no surprise to the reader that the only
politician I really respect is Richard Nixon.

       America is nothing if it is not a country that is consistent in
picking the worst of a hundred options.  The Revolution, the Civil War,
cowardliness leading to the first world war, bovine indifference and Dutch
stupidity in sleeping until the dawn of the second world war, panicking out
of Vietnam because of the size of the face and mouth of the Jew Hoffman,
spending forty billion dollars to squash a piss ant in the Gulf, then
resuming the mode of the journeyman coward in fighting a war action in
Bosnia without taking a single casualty.  Worse, worster, and worstest.
Out of a hundred options, always the worst.  And here we are, poised again.
A million hours of thinking for every mile of marching.  Headed to
Muslimville with our thumbs up our asses and leadership that simply amounts
to everyday, ordinary, plain-old squat.

       It was the Archbishop of Canterbury who raised the white flag over
England's church.  Yet he presided at ceremonies.  The multiple ironies of
his situation must have been almost a fever.  It's sad that a great church
is the first to go, but then the best often are.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net.

xxx