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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: LAURIE dreams the Sexxy Bear
Date: Wed, 4 Oct 2000 09:10:02 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/04/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon (UPDATED 10/04/00
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/04/00)
0938Xjhw0314XLaurie.htm
Laurie Dreams of The Bear
10/20/1992: "I am not just breasts and cunny," I told
Henry, Tony, Angela and Aaron. I wanted more."
They handed me their pricks and breasts. No, I guess
they didn't. They listened. I'm detached. Don't stop
my hands. I stripped your cock and pear from your own
mouth. Now, you have permission to suck yourself off.
I must watch. OK! Your make believe trick seemed
peculiar. Like the beast?
My bear had deep blue eyes and a solitary ball. You
have one mouth and I soft key, so the dream played
from cunny to cunny picking the sand from the lips,
unsettled at the root.
Judge my hands (they are two mouths). They juggle your
skin and your bones, picking your daily steps apart.
Discover pleasure. Pain lives outside. Look here in
the mirror. I have no face, no residue. Watch the snow
outside when it splatters against the windshield, left
behind as ridges?
That mirror measures progress and descent. In a way,
the snow pushed aside is like keeping track of
orgasms. Good or bad. Exist or not. Indifferent. The
snow will be pushed away and then melt. The residue
left behind is the moonscape.
Watching the moon of the memory of procreation.
Records, right? Memory is the voyeur, as Tony used to
say. I like watching my self-come.
Audiotapes. Video. With partners? Alone? In my car?
Hot tub, or sitting in my fake church, made out of A
frame alcove, quietly flexing and releasing my inner
thighs, as the pressure subsides violently shaking
what I am. I pass into the dark and no one watches but
my eyes, as the view from the church, I am innocent,
no underpants, wet, open, and nipples hard with just
the brush of any hand or the reflection of a smile so
fully clean I am invisible. Once, someone asked if I
had an upset stomach after I silently came making
small talk? Your legs darted and your eyes shifted,
Daddy said. When you touched your stomach, I thought
you were ill, Henry said.
I laughed, and as Henry was an old, intimate friend
(someone with whom I had sex at nine) I told Angela
the truth. I suspected that, she said. No one would
have known, she added. You have wonderful control.
No, not really, I said. I raped my father, Gabriel,
later that night. At fifteen, I fucked him with a soft
plastic dildo. He came. I slapped his face with his
own come, and then I shook inside for at least an
hour. Gabriel was asleep, and I came again. He woke at
three AM, and I came. Whenever he woke, I came.
Getting back to the bear.
Remember I am on the trail. Watching my self in the
dreamscape when the white bear stepped on my sex and I
came. He carried me away, and I threw out the stones
from my pocket. I want to leave a trail for Gabriel or
now Henry, I told myself in and out of the dream.
Leave a trail, I said when I woke, and then
I remembered that I had dropped breadcrumbs, so I
could return to the dream. I told Angela too much. She
knew my dreams. So does her sister, Sheila. When I
wake, Sheila and Angela will be sleeping in my bed. I
will have forgotten my death. You will also forget it
when you wake. Please, signal the start of the sexual
match (spoken to Henry).
Take down your pants. Let me measure your cock, I said
to him, with my silent stick. Soft. So melancholy. We
are dark faces and simple chimes. No one cares how we
stop. Fuck me, dear Dream. Fuck the space between the
markers. Leave the boundary open. Divide my perverted
child, Jason, done with father. Kill yourself as you
follow the last breadcrumb to the top of the
palisades, and when you hear a voice, from inside (no
outside) ordering you to jump, you do.
Waking (male or female), you are deep in your own
cunny, fucking yourself with your own cock, as a
miracle of sexual equality or dislocation.
My face rests there under the paw of the bear. His
tongue shelters the infant (created in my image). I
have charted as a map to lead us homeward. Watch the
bear's eyes. They are bridges. The nose was the cliff
overlooking the waves. The mouth is the ocean above
the road, carried out too far away from the madness we
cause to fall down, softly like.
As the dream continued, I will be murdered suddenly.
The air had left ache of my eyes, and when I rose, my
body left alone danced slowly. Space was cut with my
lost hand; a broken string cannot be pasted back on
itself. Laurie is a terrible name, and I cannot change
it, am I dead, I think, and have been here since 1981
when I looked up and he was full against my rear, and
I grew too high, and could not hold my spirit inside,
let Saint Faith, out, who determines age, and I am
none, but he did not know that, he couldn't resist the
child, although I am not the girl and never would
believe, as we turn away, out of the page, and no
contempt. He didn't do it then. Just came later,
thinking of the soft cotton under drawers like boys.
The mood had changed with the images inside the dream.
Laurie had been reborn, pulling Laurie's mouth to her
invisible breast. Yes, dear, ...drink. Stop thinking.
It's OK. I like you. Awake. The dream is dead.
"Fuck no," I stopped. Self consciously, I twirled
Henry's thick, shoulder length blond and gray hair
into a tight and then painful braid.
"Shit, stop, hurts," Henry faked the complaint, moving
slightly back, sitting up, resting his legs first
against, and then climbing the wall with it. He
watched Laurie stir her pot, and then just as quickly,
Henry moved back to her.
Throwing her arms up, I said, sadly what if someone
had murdered me, what would you do, and love? Fuck 'em
up? Who would you be fucking now, I said, tweaking
Henry's nipple to let him know I wasn't mad at him (or
that the mood had ebbed)?
"No, not automatically," Henry answered, ignoring the
second part of her question. It depends on how much
money. " Henry paused. "Sorry, sweet heart, I'm not
very funny."
Silently, before speaking, Henry held my arms and legs
in a human cradle. Can he protect us from a tangible
and residual violence?
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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