by David Raffin
Ned the space ranger waved. He looked like a bird fallen to earth and trying to dog paddle in the air. He was a ridiculous sight to the native peoples who would have preferred he flap. Many of them flapped, as they moved about, but none could fly. They possessed none of the secrets of flight. They didn’t even have birds on their planet, which made the sight all the more abstract. They didn’t even have dogs. And here was Ned. Paddling incomprehensibly in the air before representatives of the peoples of the newly charted world with his award winning conceited smile concealed behind a bird mask. And just three strokes of his right fore appendage. In the real world, this one, he’d drown. The representatives noted his defeatism with a strong social sense of pity for a creature so feeble.
A magnificent feast was placed before him and his party. He looked down his beak at it. This was taken as a dread insult. He pointed at his birdly face. He could not remove it. “The fruits and such look delicious,” he said. “But it’s for all our safety I must wear this mask.” This is when he pointed at his birdly face with his gloved hand. The natives realized he had already feasted. Bad show for them. They had not asked if he needed sustenance, but assumed. They felt shame as hosts. They decided to proceed directly with traditional after dinner activity. Then traditional talk– story time.
In the ship’s mess, crew not leaving the ship picked at their meals. “Breaded tofu with gravy, sauerkraut, and apple brown betty again. I’d like to leave the ship just to see food. Non-reconstituted food. I know I can’t eat it. Can’t smell it. Can’t touch it. But I’d like to see it. I sorely would.”
“I do not like stories about food where people can’t eat it,” RainyDay said to Mike. She read the book aloud to Mike. With commentary. He was the best. He couldn’t hear her. She didn’t know. He was a pleasure. In every way. All he did was hum.
Meanwhile, at the coffee club discussion table, in the book, a bottle of mustard was being utilized to describe the fourth law of thermodynamics– albeit incorrectly. They were derisively called the coffee club discussion group. They didn’t call each other that. The engineering table. Always sticking together. Like they were too good for the regular crew. Propeller heads. Losers. Outcasts. Space travel was about seeing the worlds, not math and science. The rest of the crew looked down on them, primarily because they thought the engineers looked down on the rest of them. So they called them names behind their backs and sometimes to their fronts. But mostly they were cold and arrogant. And, for their part, the engineers disliked the crew. They disliked them because, primarily, of the way the crew treated them. And they were blind as to how their own behavior factored into the social dynamic. Because they were scientists, not social scientists. The social scientists sat at their own table and were trusted by no one. And using a bottle of mustard to explain the laws of thermodynamics is, at best, flawed. But not without passion. Passion both hot and cold blooded. Throbbing, alternation passions. Passion enough to flavor any existence.
“That’s what one gets from Slime,” said RainyDay. “Dime store psychology.” And worth every precious penny.
“Slime will talk more than do every time,” said RainyDay. That observation is fair.
On the planet, after Ned refused the offer of local delicacies, he then refused to partake in what he would later describe to eager shipmates as “The most debased and unashamed orgy scene, like out of a book.” Again he pointed to his mask and suit and mouthed his regrets. His very real regrets.
The natives took this personally, I fear. But they were a good and loving people. They knew not war. Insecurity of the spirit they knew. But not war. Not deception. Not abuse. No one took advantage. Everyone partook of and in free will.
So they had their orgy while Ned and his small party watched. The natives finally relegated their behavior to that of the classic Voyeur, one of the accepted and appreciated kinks; though all kinks are accepted and appreciated so long as everyone involved is into it. But it is good to name things, and convenient, for it increases social interaction. Social interaction is the bedrock of good social intercourse, and that is what brings us here today. And everyone is into it, including the onlookers stroking that inner voyeur tendency which cannot be denied.
Ned liked the after dinner show, even without having enjoyed his own dinner, but he did wish the narrator did not so go on about the inner voyeur tendencies and social intercourse, but then he realized the man at the side giving the blow-by-blow action, loudly, was providing a service to those in the crowd who cannot, or refuse to, see. And fulfilling his own kink for exhibitionism of the verbal subtype.
“Nice, Nice,” said Ned, “Very very nice.”
And the sexual activities carried on for some time, but did not fail to engage throughout. And then it was story time.
“There is something,” RainyDay said, “in being more than a bit more explicit in one’s intentions.”
“Shhhh,” said the book. “There will be time for that later. It’s story time.”
“It better get naughtier later,” said RainyDay.
“As you command,” said the book. “It continues unchanged.”
Story Time Circle Jerk
“It is good to be uninhibited,” said an anonymous voice from the crowd. “And being anonymous helps some people say it out loud.” There was a thunderous round of applause and sounds of reverie.
The orgy crowd then formed into a large crowded circle. Clearing space in the middle for a single speaker to stand in the makeshift theater in the round. Speakers thereafter took turns entering the center arena and reciting a story of the olden times. When stories were more innocent. But by no means less lusty. Old people invented lusty. It is a tradition.
A woman in her mid-30s took the center. I remind you, she was naked of course. As were all the others apart from Ned’s small ship crew. They looked like awkward birds thrust from their nests. She began her story. “It may be considered unfortunate, but I believe it falls on me to tell a sad tale of love lost through indecision. A tale as old as any other. And it begins as always. As a love story. As all stories are even if they deceive you as otherwise. For that deception is the art of fiction. And fiction is but a reflection of reality. And what are we but the helpless inhabitants of that cosmology, heads full of echoes reconstituted and recombined?” She was quite a wonderful speaker. And, though it does not really matter, quite beautiful to ninety percent of the human species. The ten percent, while not wrong, for personal preferences are never wrong at the base level, could be persuaded to come along by the content presented alongside the content. And what content.
“This is the story of a fair lady and her ghost of a chance. For she was a fair lady. Just. But ponder-sum. And she held back her desires for fear. Fear of the past. Fear of the future. Fear of the fear. It is a tale of woe, friends and lovers. Woe.” She overemphasized the “woe” and motioned and jiggled in a way which was a saving grace for the overacting. Also did I mention she was very human attractive?
“I’m in it for the juicy stuff, Slime Mold,” said RainyDay Tranquility.
People in the circle started groping each other whilst the woman spoke.
“Better,” said RainyDay, “Give the people what they need. Everything.”
“Love,” said the naked woman, with a voice lilting with longing unfulfilled. She was a great actor. She was just in an orgy in real life. What a trooper. In olden-timey language she would be classified as a MILF10.
“Nice,” said RainyDay. “Nice.”
Yes, indeed, hot mamma. And totally uninhibited. The naked woman cleared her throat to suggest it was her time to orate. “And the fair lady, whilst just,” said the naked woman, “thought out everything for so long things progressed in her absence. It was a shock, nonetheless, to see her true love proceed down her street in a marriage coach with another. Then what is true love? She thought. And thought. And thought. And thought. And while contemplating this she expired.”
“Oh, it was sad,” said the naked woman. And as she said
it she motioned and jiggled again. “It was sad and sadder still this is the beginning of the story. Called the premise. For her ghost arose and went to her love. Found him alone, in a woodshed in the middle of the night. Banging the ladies next door on either side and the one in the back. And she asked him, her ghost, ‘Hey, what gives? You love me truly or her, or her, or her, or your wife who isn’t here?’ And he said, ‘You are forever the one and only primary in my heart.’ And the six of them lived in polyamorous bliss forever, though a bit man-light. But it was a little less satisfying for the fair lady than the others in the polyhedron, because as a ghost she always felt insubstantial. That part is called the punch line. It’s an acquired taste. Now who wants to have sex with me?” Someone in the circle consented and she went over there. Then a scrawny man took the center of the circle.
“Would you please look me in the eyes,” he said. He had an eye contact fetish. He demanded eye contact, but he didn’t really want it. He wanted to demand it. If given, it would upset his fetish. It had to be withheld. To withhold it made it last longer. The joy of demanding. It was a kink of the dominant subtype, but it takes an educated sexologist to identify it. The crowd gamely played along. “Please look me in the eyes. I give all you this courtesy. Am I just a sex object to you? How would you like me to objectify you? Some of you would like that. Yeah. You would. I wouldn’t give you the time of day. And if you like being abused, tough luck subbie because I hold you in favor out of this sorry lot. Eyes, perverts. I’m going to tell you a story about love lost through irresponsible behavior. That’s thinking only of oneself to you lookey-loos.”
“There was a man. A self serving man. Who came from near a far. He drank whisky in a gentleman’s club. Like a gentleman. Some say he drank too much. Some people are judgmental. Not me. Look me in the eyes, sexers. I don’t respect you neither. If I could erect my barn on my own I wouldn’t even come here.”
“Bastard,” said RainyDay.
“He is a very unpopular member of the circle. Some consent to sex with him, but there is a sucker born every minute,” said the book. “And it is a catalogued kink. But not a wise one for well-being according to many sexperts.”
“I wouldn’t,” said RainyDay. “I would sex someone else twice to spite him. Thrice, even. I like the word thrice.”
“Who doesn’t love a threesome,” said the book.
“May I continue,” said the scrawny man. “Maybe if you all had some respect. Immoral youth. Immoral middle age. Immoral Oldies. This man drank, alright? And his true love said no more. And she deserted him. Abandoned. Him. And he drank more for this reason. Don’t argue. I’m a man. You’d never understand. So he wastes away. And she comes because he begged her. She comes and says, ‘Poor boy I think you will die’ and she leaves. Him. And she is cold hearted. She is the cold hearted one because he drank for her. And she heard his death bell toll as she walked home. And she shivered. And her mother cared for her but she followed in the same way, to a bed long and narrow. And they buried them next to each other in the old yard. Out of his grave grew a red red rose and from hers a thorny briar. They entwined in a lover’s knot. It’s romanticism. There is no escape. Some argue the woman wasn’t cold hearted at all. But I’m telling the story and narrative identity matters. I’m going to bed. I hope you are all proud of yourselves.” He stormed off. Three people followed. There are three in every crowd about the size of this one. He doesn’t deserve them, but they do.
A gentleman appeared in the circle. He was also in his mid-thirties. Broad shoulders, a tad chubby. “Hey,” he said, “Didn’t I just have sex with you all?” The crowd laughed. “I know all your names and I’m gonna report you all to that guy. It’ll really piss him off.” More laughter. “My story is one of the sailing life and the ports. The ports of call. The sailor’s life. The Water is Wide. I cannot go o’er. Neither, friends, do I have wings to fly. I beg of thee for a worthy boat which can carry two across to that other shore. Working together, my love and I will row. In equilibrium. Sharing the burden of the joy.”
“He’s dreamy,” said RainyDay, beaming.
“There is no ocean as deep as my love for you. No computation so pure as the love I am in. It shall not sink. We shall not fail. For our boat is strong and we are secure within. I am inspired to do my best for my love and me. And we shall reach that other shore together, at last.” He was a skilled orator, as so many of the villagers were. And the after story sex orgy started. And it continued well past the time Ned and his men returned to the ship and described it to those left behind, to their eagerness and consternation.
“Do the first lady, kill the middleman, marry the last one11,” said RainyDay Tranquility.
“Blow, blow, blow the man down,” sang Mike, oblivious.
Dick’s Dilemma
Most love is unrequited. That is a fact. Love is a mystery and no one understands it. They call it chemistry but that is just a mind trick to try and make scientific that which cannot be measured. Not all love is returned. As love. Even so, it may be a near miss, as near misses also dwarf the statistics. And no one understands the statistics. They exist just so people feel they are doing something. To fulfill the desire for control. The illusion of control is one of the treasured human illusions. This is why people are always trying to take it, or accept it, or challenge it.
Illusions are a major part of the human experience. Who are you? Where are you going? What is your place in existence? If you didn’t have some standing you’d go mad. Are you alone? Surely not. Or not always. All joys. All sorrows, illusion. Duties. Perspective. Feelings. Unmeasurable. Incomparable.
All entertainments are illusions. Magic. Jokes. Stories. Feelings.
Pain intrudes from the past. It is how we bring the past with us to the future, as an echo. It is a matter of TIMING!
But if he changed the past he’d change the future. He wouldn’t be him anymore. Like a ship that had all its parts replaced over time. His suffering shaped him and he had a sense of self preservation. His present self, self was always now. And then. And Future. But predicated primarily on now. Understood by the vantage point of now. Built on the past. Determining the future self. A ball and chain. An eternal burden.
It was dusk. Night fell. He sat in the car with her. She was a woman he had been seeing often, as friends. He was attending university. She was living with roommates. Working office jobs. Answering phones. They had been out on an adventure, hazy what, as they often did things but never extra special things. They would go and eat, watch movies, go to a park. It was only exciting for the company.
And at the end they would hug, but these hugs became longer and tighter as the days and weeks passed. The world became less lonely. It seemed more right. But it was contemplated more, as human actions are, after the fact. Because as time progressed she became more beautiful, her voice more melodious, her entity more at one with Dick.
And she asked him, in the car, in the dim light of encroaching night, if he was tired. “You look tired,” she said. “Do you need to stay the night?”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “It’s not that late.”
“I can have overnight guests,” she said.
It was not something Dick had considered. He considered it now. “Where would I sleep?” he asked.
She paused and said, “On the couch.”
He considered the inside of the shared house and did not recall there being a couch. There was a love-seat and some old style chairs which did not look comfortable for sleeping.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in and spend the night?” she asked.
It was a confusing offer. What did it mean? Surely not that.
“It’s just dark. It’s not that far a drive home,” he said.
They got out of the car and hugged tightly by the front bumper of the car. She leaned into him hard and he steadied against the car. He crouched a little as she was shorter than he. His hand accidentally brushed against her behind, in the crevice between the cheeks. It
was only a moment but the caress was exhilarating while it was unexpected and lasted only microseconds. Still, it cascaded what felt like electro-shocks in the pleasure center of his brain. Chemistry. He moved his hand where it was intended to be in the first place and said nothing. Thrilled but horrified at the possibilities for good or ill. Lust as well as fear raged in his mind unexpectedly. It wasn’t an advance at all but an accident. She said nothing but hugged him more tightly. He could feel her breasts pressing against him.
They walked to the door. It was getting darker as night was falling. He was falling in love. He did not understand this until later. It is a chemical reaction which is sometimes delayed.
She asked again if he would spend the night and said that she thought he should, because she would worry. He asked why she would worry when he had so often taken that drive home in the darkness. Alone. With no worry expressed.
She had no answer for this. Human fears are irrational, as are human desires.
She entered the screen door and he stood outside. They continued talking for a long time through the screen. Smiling and making faces. She invited him in again. He left and walked the path to the car in the full darkness. Alone. He considered walking back and accepting the offer as he walked the dark and lonesome path, but he did not. He drove home.
For her part this signaled that he was not interested and she should look elsewhere. For you do not always get what you want. And signals are not as clear as they could be. And situations are sometimes hard to read. Even when they echo.
