Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  “Shut up and keep thrusting.”

  He emptied some of the can into her mouth, before finishing it himself. They were sweating like demons. It was six a.m., sixty degrees inside, with ten percent humidity. The beer can in his hand refused to perspire, but that didn’t stop them.

  Johnny found he could walk rather well with her wrapped around his waist. He thought he’d try jumping next. So he vaulted on to the sofa, bobbed up and down on it as if it were a trampoline. “More of that. I like that,” she said. So he bounced higher.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  He licked the sweat off her face. “Maybe you should scream, ‘Oh, Goddess!’ so my feminist neighbors don’t complain to the landlord.”

  “Oh Goddess! Oh Goddess! Oh Goddess!”

  Landing alongside one armrest, Johnny judged the distance to the other armrest, wondered if he should risk it. Hell, yeah! He hadn’t spent all those years in gymnastics for nothing. On his highest rebound yet, he did a forward somersault, landed on his feet on the far end of the couch. Their shared light-headedness after the twirl contributed to the endorphin high and some extra giggles.

  The next somersault fell short, landed him on top of her, her back pressed against the seat cushions. But once again, the momentum from the flip accentuated his thrust, causing her to cry out. He thought by now he may have cracked a few of her vertebrae but, so far, no complaint.

  It was time for a change of venue.

  He walked her to the dining table, pushed the table setting off, and finished his knifing plunge into her with a slip and slide across the Lemon Pledge waxed surface. His father had made this table out of solid oak. He’d have to remember to complement him on his workmanship. Any less, and they’d have been picking splinters out of one another for the next week.

  She rolled him over. Phoenicia gazed at the two of them in the mirrored tile. “Hey, what do you think of a sculpture of the two of us in this position as a new table setting?”

  Johnny examined their reflection on the wall. “Two out of three of my friends in this town are gay. It seems a bit cheeky, considering.”

  “Lose them, if they can’t take a joke.” She panted and bobbed.

  “I just don’t want them throwing up over the Vichyssoise.” He cupped the narrow of her back in his hands so he could bounce her off him.

  “You have any creative ideas for how to take this out on the patio? I’d hate to see you lose points after such a spotless routine.”

  He scrutinized the patio surrounded by trumpet-flowering ivy. “Sure. I’d hate to disturb the hummingbirds, though.”

  “Christ, you’re eco-conscious.”

  “About that...” Johnny let the subject go, figured now wasn’t the time. He didn’t know why telling her was starting to feel like a confession.

  “Make your move, stud, before the thrill is gone.” She leaned into him and painted his face with the tips of her long hair, swayed her boobs like Mesmer with his swinging pocket watch.

  “You’re right, to hell with the hummingbirds.”

  He swung his legs over the table, made sure she was snugly wrapped around him, and leapfrogged to the patio—straight through the sliding-glass doors.

  “Creative. How come I’m not bleeding?”

  “I replaced the glass with the stunt sheet sugar they use in movies.” He demonstrated by wiping her shoulder clear of shards with his tongue and sharing the sugary sweetness with her in a kiss. “What, you think you’re the first girl I’ve shagged with an eye to turning it into an Olympic event?”

  “The thought of you getting in all that rehearsal just makes me hotter.”

  He pressed her up against the fence, noticed the hummingbirds weren’t particularly put out. Phoenicia smiled and her eyes went wide at having her face buzzed by them, when they dove after the morning glory flowers framing her head. “Bonus,” she said, panting. “Definite bonus.”

  A sound like that of a mating hippopotamus echoed from the streets. “Is that a car horn?” she asked.

  “It’s the gang. We’re doing a benefit for the Borneo rain forest. You should come.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course. There are so many animals’ rights getting stomped on, it’ll break your heart.”

  “Johnny, I had my Doberman’s ears clipped.”

  “Let’s keep that between us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, you’ll come? Or okay, you can keep a secret?”

  “Okay, I just came for the third time, thank you very much. I can keep a secret. And I’ll come to the Save-the-Animals gig.”

  “Excellent.” So far, she refused to look away in horror from any facet of his personality he had shown her. Most girls would have dismissed him as being just too over the top, from his idea of how to navigate rush hour traffic to his sexual escapades.

  The more he connected with this girl, the more he expected the whole relationship to end in calamity. Johnny wasn’t used to things working out in his life. He tried to wipe the idea from his mind for fear of inviting disaster.

  ***

  They had Phoenicia surrounded. She had boarded the 1960s vintage chartreuse-green VW bus packed with zealots because she didn’t want to leave Johnny after their second night of riotous sex. She’d never had anyone turn her on to this degree. Johnny was wild, exuberant, self-intoxicated, high on life in a way that led to many prolonged hard-ons which she enjoyed riding. And he smelled great even after sweating profusely during sex, even on awakening on stale sheets the morning after, even enveloped in dharma-correct pot-smoke from his miniature bong. The blue of his eyes lit up the room. The Gotz dolls Phoenicia collected as a young girl did not have white corneas as pure as Johnny’s.

  Phoenicia stared entranced at the blond hairs on Johnny’s thighs—courtesy of the khaki safari shorts—positively glowing against his tanned skin. She wanted to apply acupuncture to herself using each one of those golden hairs, anticipated the sensations of running them through her during their next romp.

  Johnny and several members of the Borneo Project team had essentially kidnapped her on their way to their latest fundraiser. The VW minivan handled the road about as well as an ox-cart. Each bounce elicited fond recollections of earlier that morning when she rode Johnny’s hips as he walked her around the kitchen, multitasking cooking eggs, buttering toast, and drinking orange juice with his breakfast while banging her. She had just the right weight and he just the right height and strength to guarantee prolonged sex from positions that would make the Kama Sutra look conventional.

  Holding the screen in front of her, Johnny narrated the image on his iPad. “A carnivorous pitcher plant, found in the swamp forests of Borneo.” He zoomed closer by pinching his fingers together on the screen. “This ant shares a symbiotic relationship with it. The plant serves as a shelter and food source for the ant colony. The ants secrete a fluid to help catch prey, attack predators, and even fertilize the plant with their droppings.” She watched the video-clip entranced. Maybe she had a biodiversity conservation streak in her she’d never before tapped. Maybe breathing in his pheromones constituted access to a mind-altering drug.

  Phoenicia found her resentment for being swept up in Johnny’s gusto for innocuous causes melt before the hypnotic intensity of colors infused into his PDA display. She shared a sudden immediacy with the pictured lifeforms that seemed intrusive, vulgar, predatory, and strangely sexual.

  The spell of Johnny’s presentation was broken by: the sun streaking in the window, messing with the resiliency of his iPad screen; cars honking; the stop and go traffic, which had their stomachs in their mouths; and the shrieks of laughter from the others in the van, alternating with angry venting. Johnny, perturbed by the intrusions, redoubled his efforts. Phoenicia found it easy, keying to his voice, to push all the hubbub to the periphery. She cloistered herself in the lover’s bubble between them.

  Johnny continued his narration with a fresh image. “These are jumping spiders. They can see in a com
plete circle.” Johnny showed her the video clip on his iPad. “They don’t actually have leg muscles. They jump by a burst of high blood pressure.” Her mouth hung open as if in mock-delight, but her fascination was genuine. She was starting to resent the doll collection that had occupied so much of her downtime. What a callow twenty-year-old it had left her.

  Seeing how delighted she was just egged Johnny on. The pictures were becoming yet another sexual aid between them. He indirectly rode every rush of endorphins he triggered in her with his manipulation of the screen and his voice-over narration.

  Flicking through the images, he said, “They also mimic some species so they can move among their prey undetected.”

  Mobley, from the seat in front of them, twisted around, and shoved his PDA in Phoenicia’s face. The lovers riled, finding their personal bubble disrespected, but settled down in the spirit of Mobley’s juvenile attempt to claim Phoenicia for himself. It quickly became one more thing solidifying the bond between her and Johnny, who exchanged looks and a wry smile at Mobley’s expense.

  “Male orang-orangutans,” Mobely explained, “travel much longer distances than fe-females. We know this based on fe-fecal samples collected at sites in Borneo.” Phoenicia recoiled at the mention of fecal matter. Mobley missed his cue. “Shrinking habitat, moreover, leads to loss of genetic variation.” Mobley’s stinky breath wasn’t helping his presentation any.

  “If orangutans are to be efficiently protected, a net-network of high-high-quality natural forest and dispersal corridors must-must be restored across Borneo.” Mobley gazed up from the proof-in-the-pictures displays on his PDA and stared into Phoenicia’s eyes.

  She never found her donkey-brown eyes worth gawking at, but apparently they were more like chocolate pudding to Mobley. Phoenicia was aware from experience how much her bronze skin and island-girl straight jet-black hair and figure drew men like honey. Usually she covered herself up when she went out in public to avoid the annoyance of constantly being hit on. But in Johnny’s sexually charged presence, she was unwilling to dial down the magnetism, considering how excitable he was regarding the other projects in his life.

  Syncing with Mobley’s device and trafficking the video images over to his display, Johnny took over the project of bringing Phoenicia up to speed on the threatened orangutans. As soon as Mobley saw the footage pop up on Johnny’s iPad, he shrunk back into himself like a turtle drawing in its head. He turned back around to face the dull, comparatively uninspired view of traffic out the front windshield. The day’s palate of grays had been reduced further by rain and cloud overcast. Phoenicia felt a little sad that his nerdy forays toward the feminine form had once again ended tragically.

  “Fires have been pushing orangutans to the brink of extinction,” Johnny explained. “The timing and location of these fires places strong suspicion on agribusiness in the area since the fires are not known to burn naturally.”

  “That can’t be the only species the fires are endangering,” Phoenicia said.

  “The illegal clearing of the rain forest to make room for palm oil plantations also threatens tigers and elephants.”

  Phoenicia noticed Mobley wilt further before Johnny’s authoritative command of the literature. He was no doubt anxiously awaiting arrival at the fundraiser so he could emulate his role model better, and in capturing some of Johnny’s fire, possibly warm the heart of another girl.

  ***

  Phoenicia and posse finally arrived at Caesar Chavez Park in Berkeley. The concert in support of numerous causes was already in full bloom as they pulled the lime-green VW bus into the parking lot. The park site had been chosen because it was built on landfill, which was yet another political statement the eco-crowd felt worth making. Even before getting out of the van, Phoenicia could see the marina setting offered spectacular views of the three bay bridges, Alcatraz, and Angel Island.

  Upon glancing down at her purse, thoughtlessly left open, she spied her .25 pistol. Embarrassed, she buttoned it shut. That burnished silver security blanket wouldn’t go over well with this crowd.

  Once she stepped outside, she took in the rest of the big picture to orient herself. The roughly ninety acres had a large multi-purpose turf area, picnic spaces with barbeques, and hiking trails. Music from the concert in the background permeated the air like so much faerie dust kicked up under unicorn hoof. The large number of people flying stunt-kites treated the concert as one more worthwhile reason to be here. An animal sanctuary to the north end of the park siphoned off some of the concert attendees. Phoenicia noticed people respected the designated dog areas. Portable toilets were available, along with limited parking that had been pretty much overwhelmed.

  The entourage from the VW van unfolded the tables, set out stacks of books and pamphlets, and called up web links on Borneo. When the curious stepped up, they proselytized as effectively as Johnny. With the message in good hands, he had a window to sneak away with her.

  Johnny led Phoenicia to the PETA people. The animal rights activists were benefitting, along with the other inspiring causes, from the concert featuring a consortium of bands. The musicians were following one another in no particular order in a way that would not exist anywhere else, given the egos of the players.

  The PETA booth was huge, and well-organized. Phoenicia found herself gravitating toward the section devoted to companies promoting cruelty-free products. The woman talking and holding up the bottles was pushing Agape Oils, wisely emphasizing their hair and skin products, considering how mean the sun was getting now that the clouds had cleared. Phoenicia was more familiar with them for their condoms.

  Johnny picked up one of the Agape Oil bottles and sprayed the perfumed scent on Phoenicia’s hair. After sniffing her, he unzipped his fly, and lifted her to his waist, right in front of the crowd. Phoenicia was so into it, it took her a few beats to pick up on the parody of the “I’ll have what she’s having” moment from When Harry Met Sally. Judging from the uptick in bottle sales of Agape Oils, the free PR was going well.

  With her still wrapped around his waist, Johnny led Phoenicia along one of the trails. He multitasked his lovemaking with pointing out the exotic flowers along the trail, the banana slug, and the snail the size of her shoe.

  When he stepped in dog shit, and the foul odor overpowered his amorousness, he looked down at the mutt and the owner, and bitched, “What’s with veering off the dog-approved paths?” When the stranger just glared back at him with a wicked smile, he added, “What an asshole.”

  Phoenicia, disturbed by the glint in the man’s eye, dismounted Johnny to intercede. But she was too late.

  The dog owner sicced his dog, whose exotic breed she didn’t recognize, on Johnny.

  The animal bit off his balls, gobbled the penis and sac whole.

  As Johnny wailed the cries of the damned, Phoenicia caught the glint of pleasure in Dog Walker’s eyes.

  Phoenicia reached into her purse, pulled out her .25, and blew the dog away.

  The owner lunged for her, and she did the same with him.

  She stood there, contemplating the rest of their lives together, her taking care of Johnny, helping him to pee without a dick, and wondered what could have compelled the dog owner to train the dog to do such a savage thing. It was only then she processed the face paint, the painted fingernails, the short pants two-sizes too small. He had no doubt suffered one too many attacks by straight men at the wrong end of town. Having stood all the verbal abuse from insensitives he was going to take—including from more normal looking gay men who found him just as much the oddity—he was little more than an over-cranked Jack-in-the-box ready to spring.

  In the middle of feeling sorry for the gay man, for Johnny, and for herself, she wondered if it wouldn’t be prudent to save Johnny and her a life of misery. One misstep by a man who was probably here to be healed from the trials and tribulations of modernia by the music just as much as everyone else was all it had taken to bring her life to an abrupt close.

  “Phoenici
a? Are you okay?” Johnny was sobbing so hard, and his pain so extreme, he couldn’t see through the veil of tears. Maybe, also, the shock had kept the wheels from turning in his brain as it had been turning in hers.

  Maybe if she hadn’t fooled herself thinking being high on life was insulation against the mad vagaries of life... It was so easy to believe they could never be touched by the mundane, far less the ugliness of the world.

  She put a bullet through Johnny’s temple.

  What was that about rational processes not being fully developed in teenagers, on account of forebrains that weren’t fully formed? She’d never live to be more than a poster child for the scientific observation.

  What a mess this was. The PETA people would be embarrassed. The gay rights contingent, with their own booth she’d spied on the way up the trail, would be mortified. And the Borneo group, with their protect-biodiversity-at-all-costs message, would be left speechless by the fact that this dog, possibly an endangered species in its own right, had committed the crime that led to all this fallout.

  In the background, the band on stage played, “Oh Happy Day.” The choice of song struck Phoenicia as indelicate under the circumstances. But she realized fate was at fault, not the band leader.

  In the end, she couldn’t resist the tidal whoosh of the latest endorphin rush. She cocked the hammer on the pistol thinking: maybe the formula for surviving this mad world intact meant not letting her emotions control her.

  But if the challenge was to shockproof her mind to ride out the Renaissance groundswell going on around her, amplifying all that was beautiful and ugly about humanity in equal measure, then she was failing the test.

  Who could take that kind of pressure?

  Surely not her, Phoenicia thought, as she brought the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.

  THREE

  Robin Wakefield walked in on his wife doing something he didn’t want to see her doing: pulling her pantyhose over her penis.