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Message-ID: <38047asstr$1030594203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel)
Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel: Larry's Party of Not Quite Two (etc.)
Date: Thu, 29 Aug 2002 00:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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     Daily erotica at:
     http://Calendar.atEROS.com

==============================
Larry's Party of Not Quite Two
by Mat Twassel
==============================



Is it wrong to repost other people's newsgroup stories?  
I'm clueless about the legalities.  It's easy enough to 
get conflicting opinions.  What I wonder is: why would 
anyone want to repost other people's stories?  It seems 
like strange behavior.  At the same time, why would an 
author become upset at someone who reposted his newsgroup 
story?  Isn't the whole idea to obtain readers?  Maybe 
that's not the whole idea.

Sure, an author might become miffed if his story were 
altered or otherwise damaged, or if he didn't get 
appropriate credit, be it praise or fame or hits or 
royalties, though one has to wonder about an author 
expecting royalties out of something he's exposing to 
anyone and everyone for free.
  
In any event, seems to me a reposter should get 
permission before reposting.  That would be the nice 
thing to do.  

The fine novel I'm now reading, Larry's Party, by Carol 
Shields, contains on its copyright page the following 
statement:

   Without limiting the rights under copyright 
   reserved above, no part of this publication may be 
   reproduced, stored in or introduced into a 
   retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or 
   by any means (electronic, mechanical, 
   photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the 
   prior written permission of both the copyright 
   owner and the above publisher of this book.
   
Jeez Louise!

Oh, don't worry--I've obtained written permission from 
both the copyright owner and the above publisher.  I'm 
not going to get into trouble for reproducing and 
transmitting that bit of warning.  But unless you get 
similar dispensation, I'd advise against reading the 
passage aloud.  Or committing it to memory.  Committing 
any part of it to memory.  Even the spaces, the pauses, 
the punctuation. Just to be on the safe side, you know.

Now Jeez Louise is another matter.  Somebody's probably 
copyrighted that expression, reserved all rights, and his 
bevies of lawyers are buzzarding my webpage even as we 
speak.

You never know.  Remember Pat Riley and 3-Peat? 

My own opinion (and it's worth less than zero in a court 
of law) is that a story or poem is not property any more 
than a kiss is property.  The good man makes art for 
those who'd love it. One should own neither art nor 
utterance, fuck nor flatulence.  It's easy for me to feel 
this way because no one has ever offered to buy any of my 
stories, no one has ever begged to have them reposted.  
If I made my living through my words, I'd probably be 
whimpering a different tune.  

This reminds me of something that riled me a few years 
back.  We were visiting the Southwest, and we found 
ourselves up on a beautiful mountain owned by local 
Indians.  The Indians demanded tourists pay a fee to take 
pictures of the mountain.  Jeez Louise.  If they'd made 
the mountain (molehill by molehill) maybe I'd have some 
sympathy.  If they'd simply outlawed cameras, maybe I'd 
have been more understanding.  Religious grounds, or some 
such.  Should I be more tolerant?  Is photography an 
appropriate cash crop, not different from tobacco or 
Brussels sprouts, begonias, casinos, or pornography?  
It's a tough world out there, but somebody's got to live 
in it.

I don't mind being "on the road" but I wish I could have 
stayed at a posher hotel instead of the dreary middle-
class chain out near the airport.  Seems like I'm miles 
from anywhere.  The parking lots of trucking and pallet 
companies stretch endlessly in all directions.  Early 
evenings I try jogging.  

One day I lope several miles along the semi-rural 
highway, sticking well to the shoulder.  Semi-trailer 
trucks rocketing by at sixty or seventy miles per hour do 
create quite the whoosh, blowing me sometimes almost into 
the weeds.  I turn down a side-road, but after a 
hundred yards or so it peters out.  There's a scruffy lot 
filled with many hundreds of damaged orange highway 
pylons--a barricade graveyard--and then there's a dead 
end sign.  I go back.

Another day I head out in a different direction, and 
after a mile or so I find a little park with bike paths 
leading into mounds and hubbles of wildflowers.  What's 
this doing out in the middle of nowhere, I wonder.  I'm a 
little timid about venturing into the park.  There's a 
sign: No Dogs, which doesn't completely reassure me. The 
park is wonderful--miles of empty bike trail, acres of 
auburn-tipped reeds, and silvery spikes, and russety 
spindles of rustling woolly ground-growth, a splendid 
haze of muted end-of-summer shades; soon the setting sun 
pings the meadows, washes all gloriously golden.  
Eventually I turn around.  On my way out a pretty girl on 
a bicycle pedals ardently towards me.  This teenager's 
wearing a khaki backpack and a wary smile, and I wonder 
where she's going and where she's been.  She whooshes by.  
What a difference from the trucks' stale and gassy 
perfumes!  Wonder what it'd be like if she ran me down.  
I turn to watch her swing around the dip and curve I've 
just come up, but the sun is in my eyes and I can't see 
anything.

Dinners are dreadful.  Single men, truckers, most likely, 
spatter the hotel dining room, devouring their strip 
steaks with calm, mindless devotion.  One evening some 
party of three couples sat near my corner; they chatted 
stupidly about the upcoming cruise.  "It's so good to get 
away from the fornicating job," one old fellow said.  "I 
can't wait to do some dancing and get furry and fat."  
"Oh, Cy," his middle-age partner sighed.  The waitress 
asked if they'd want one check or what.  "What," Cy 
answered, and his wife guffawed quietly but without 
grace.

The chicken is dreadful. Guilelessly dry strips of 
tasteless white meat which effortlessly refuse to blend 
with the oily and ineffective sauce, the frayed, 
flavorless vegetables.  And the angel-hair pasta promised 
by the menu is simple flat noodles instead.  Be the 
restaurant bad or good, I always order the wrong thing.  
And where is that bottle of Sam Adams I asked for?


Tara, the waitress, looks at first glance to be barely 
into her mid-teens.  Medium height but slight of build, 
she resembles an eleven year old boy who's grown 
suddenly.  Ordinary face.  Bobbed hair. Not much ass at 
all.  For some reason I think of ball bearings, smallish 
lead colored steel spheres coolly doing their jobs.  She 
is neither friendly nor gruff nor gushy.  Efficiently 
nondescript.  

When I look at her more closely I see she has to be 
older.  Maybe even thirty.  A woman getting through the 
day.  Naturally I mean nothing to her.  I don't try to 
make her smile.  I order my Dreadful Chicken and bottle 
of Sam Adams with minimal fuss.  I don't think about what 
it might be like to fuck her in the ass until much later 
in the evening.  I tend not to have sexual thoughts in 
public situations. Maybe that's why the girl doesn't 
smile.

My neighbor at dinner is a gray-white man not quite 
elderly, not quite flabby.  He's reading a Mickey 
Spillane novel, a paperback, brand-new, just opened.  
Tara takes his order.  She stands at attention and yet 
neat and easy, a firm little tree in a friendly park.  
Then the man, this mild-mannered ball-bearings salesman, 
says something to her, and she titters, and her right 
foot moves behind her left.  If only she were facing me 
I'm sure I'd see her smile.

Midnight is too late to call Laura again. We've already 
talked about which trees to have taken out, which to have 
pruned.  I try to remember the feel of her body next to 
mine, her breath in my ear, and for a moment I have the 
silly thought that my imagination is keeping her awake.

I am too tired to read anymore, too agitated to sleep.  
Maybe one of those sex movies on hotel TV? God I hate 
those things.  They're much worse than ordinary TV.  The 
average beer commercial is fifty time sexier. Nothing 
worse in the world than a hard core sex movie without 
sex, that is without juice or genitals.  These hotel 
Nite-time flicks ought to be taken out and shot, burned 
at the stake, beheaded,  boiled in oil, and fed Dreadful 
Chicken until it's all gone.  These films have no plot, 
no characterization, no clever dialogue, just miserably 
bland fucking and sucking, but you don't get to see 
anything--all the "good" parts, anything of any value in 
a porn movie, are relentlessly concealed: no ardently 
erect phalluses come to life under a lovely girl's 
luscious tongue, no sweet juicy vaginas tremble in 
anticipation of cock, no triple X close-ups caress cocks 
and clits and assholes all bathed and basted and bursting 
with lubriciousness.  What a waste of sex! Am I getting 
to be one of those who need to see gash and gush to get 
off?  I guess so, he says, sporting a sad grin.

What's a guy on the road to do? Fantasize about his 
waitress?  

I wonder what that machine oil salesman said to her.  I'm 
hopeless at figuring this stuff.  "Got anything good for 
me tonight?"  Must be the way you say it.  A certain 
secret inflection?  Something in the eyes?  In the 
vowels?

"Would you care for any dessert?" Tara says.

"Not right now," he says.

"Maybe later?" she says, "In your room?"

"Maybe," he says.

"We have some specialties," she says.  "Some specialty 
pies."

"Mm," he says, "Home made, I'll bet.  Are they good?"

"Yes," she says.  "They're good.  They're very VERY 
good."

"Ah," he says.  "That does sound like something I might 
be interested in.  How much are these specialty pies?"

"Well, we have two types," she says.  "The vanilla goes 
for a hundred.  The  devil's double fudge chocolate is 
two."

"They both sound nice," he says.

"You can have them both for two fifty. Should I deliver 
them, say around eleven-thirty?"

"Ok," he says.

"Just write your room number down on the check."

Do you expect me to describe what happens in the 
salesman's room?  (Just wondering.) I'm not sure I can 
imagine it.  And anyway, don't you want to know a little 
more about these two people... before they get down to 
dessert?  Are they married?  Do they have kids?  Are they 
happy with their lives these days?

As eleven o'clock approaches, does the guy think: I 
wonder if that girl is really going to come up.  And if 
she does, is she really going to have pies?  Or is he 
sure of himself, of the situation?  Does he log on to his 
laptop, check out his investments, delete the junk e-
mail, read a short note from his daughter at college and 
dash off a reply.  "Hugs, honey," he closes, "And all my 
love."  And then, to get himself in the mood, not that he 
needs it, or just in case Tara doesn't show, he peruses 
some websites.  "Mm, Taria," he mutters, "Wasn't that the 
name of that waitress?  Couldn't actually be her, of 
course."  And that page takes him to another which takes 
him to another which takes him ...

A little after midnight Tara taps on his door.  "Hi," she 
says, a slight whisper. "Sorry I'm late.  You still want 
those pies?"

"Come in," he says.

She steps into the room.  The laptop blazes on the table.  
"Computing?" she says, strolling over to it. "I had a 
couple of courses in it."

"Oh," he says, "Then you know more than I do."

"Prob'ly not," she says, reading the screen.  "Dirty 
stuff, huh?" 

"Well," he says.

She reads quietly but aloud. "Miles of empty bike trail, 
acres of auburn-tipped reeds, and silvery spikes, and 
russety spindles of rustling woolly ground-growth, a 
splendid haze of muted end-of-summer shades; soon the 
setting sun pings the meadows, washes all gloriously 
golden." 

"Kind of poetic," she says, "Maybe a little over-done for 
my taste.  Not exactly Mickey Spillane, is it?"

"I just..."

She backs up a page.  "Sperm in the sink.  Ah ... now 
that's ..."  But she doesn't finish this sentence, she 
just clicks off the laptop.  "Why don't we go in your 
bathroom," she says, taking his hand.  "Check out your 
sink and stuff."

"Not much room," she says there, "But the mirror's big.  
And it's nice and bright. You'll be able to see 
everything.  Oh, and you've got your bottle of lotion." 
She starts on his buttons.   "Good.  We might need a 
little of that."

Etc.


==============================
Larry's Party of Not Quite Two
by Mat Twassel

Mat's Erotic Calendar at http://calendar.atEros.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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