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Message-ID: <41360asstr$1048111805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} E is for Ecstasy (M/F+, very confused) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Wed, 19 Mar 2003 17:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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E is for Ecstasy (M/F+, very confused)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Ozmanga under an 
exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 50 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Best to write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

You know, having affairs is no more difficult than buying ripe 
avocados from the greengrocer's stall. Once you know how to 
squeeze without bruising without the greengrocer seeing, it's 
dead easy. The affair is not the problem. It's the guilt 
afterwards. Most affairs are discovered through guilt-driven 
confession.

I confess unexpectedly at a medium-sized cocktail party. It's 
not predetermined. It just bubbles out like a drain 
overflowing.

"I have a slight headache and I don't want to stay too late," 
Helen says.

"I had an affair last month with Magda Plawinska," I reply.

Nothing happens. Helen sips at her glass and waves gaily at 
somebody on the other side of the room. My skin is washed all 
over with cold sweat. I know she heard me.

Tom Plawinski strolls by and Helen reaches out to grab his 
arm. "Where's Magda?" she asks.

"She couldn't make it," he says. "Magda has a black eye and a 
badly bruised cheekbone."

"Harry had an affair with her last month," she tells him 
nonchalantly.

"I know," he says, smoothly sympathetic. "She told me 
yesterday."

They could be discussing the weather. It's all admirably 
civilised. Such beautiful manners.

"I didn't know you were a violent man, Tom," says Helen.

He shrugs apologetically. "I admit to a short fuse."

He hits me with a wicked straight right hand, flush on the 
side of the jaw. Sprawled on the carpet, I struggle to keep my 
eyes open. My bones are melting.

"Good shot," says Helen. She pours her cocktail onto my chest. 
"Goodbye, Harry."

* * *

Magda Plawinska is devoutly Roman Catholic. You should never 
have an affair with a devout Middle European Catholic. Magda 
is as thin as a rake and she fucks with the frantic intensity 
of a randy ferret--all fire and passion, nothing held back. But 
she has no guilt. She sheds it effortlessly by trotting down 
to the local priest and spilling every lurid detail at the 
confessional. She's very sincere. She believes in penance.

We WASPs, meanwhile, carry guilt around like a multiplying 
stomach tumor. Our God, if we ever bother to pay him a visit, 
has better things to do than erase sin from our souls. There's 
the Thursday bring-'n-buy mart in the church car park to worry 
about, Mrs. Wilson says she's not doing the flowers any more, 
and which of the lay deacons is due to read the lesson this 
Sunday? Our God is in the details.

Helen has gone off to visit her mother. She'll be back in two 
weeks, and that's how long she's given me to move my stuff 
out. Helen is also a WASP, which means she will bear a 
lifelong grudge. I'm getting packed, because there will be no 
absolution for me.

Magda, forgiven and flushed pure with holy water, is back in 
the arms of her husband. He's given her a bashing, and that's 
the Middle European way of it. Plus he's been to see the local 
priest himself. He had some things to 'fess up about Janey 
Whitman.

"You idiot," Janey says to me when she knocks on my door. 
"Just look at the mess you've made of everything." It's 
difficult to argue. Half-packed suitcases are littering the 
floor and I'm getting ready to move out.

She has her own suitcase. "I've been chucked out," she says. 
"I'm short of cash and I'll be staying here for a few days. 
Your stupid confession got me into this trouble, so now you 
have to take responsibility."
 
So it's all my fault and I have to provide shelter for Janey. 
She's not married to Gus Coghill but they've been together for 
a long time. Tom Plawinski, doing penance and trying to 
restart on clean sheets with Magda, apologises to Gus for 
dicking his woman. Gus, a fellow Catholic, shakes Tom's hand. 
He appreciates this noble male gesture. Then he throws Janey 
down the stairs.

"You can stay if you're not Catholic," I tell her. "I've 
become suddenly prejudiced." 

She's not anything at all, she says. This is not quite true. 
Janey has big tits. It may not be religion but it sure is a 
creed.

I go out for a while to brief a lawyer, because Helen will 
become increasingly vengeful and punitive. I'm hoping at least 
to keep my custom-tailored golf clubs. The lawyer is Muslim, 
and I'm feeling cautiously optimistic. These guys know about 
keeping women in their place. Even better, their God is on my 
side.

When I get back Janey is watching an afternoon soap opera. 
She's in her underwear, fanning herself with a sales brochure. 
"You don't have split system air-conditioning," she says, like 
I'm a fiscal disappointment. Janey is accustomed to a higher 
standard of living with Gus, who runs a chain of video rental 
stores.

There's a lot more of Janey outside her shelf-like bra than in 
it. This makes me forget to be sarcastic to her. She sees me 
looking. "Now?" she asks plaintively. "Can't you wait until 
after The Young And The Restless?"

Purgatory has its good points. I get to fuck Janey, guilt-
free, in the middle of the afternoon, and it's not a bad 
consolation prize. She's a generous woman, intuitive about 
earning her keep. The bedroom I used to share with Helen is 
also air-conditioned, and Janey is happy to fuck the afternoon 
away in cool contentment. She wants me to move the TV into the 
bedroom.

Janey is accustomed to courtesan life. Her only career is 
persuading men to look after her. She tells me artful lies. 
She drools slobber on my cock and tells me I'm bigger than 
Gus, Tom, and even Mick. I'll get to Mick in a minute. She 
tells me I'm a star in the sack. She's never had it so good 
from a first-time lover. I choose luxuriously to believe her. 
But I'm not moving the TV. I know she'd watch it over my 
shoulder while I'm giving her the best she's allegedly ever 
had. I may be an idiot but I'm not stupid.

By day five of my new life I'm pretty comfortably bunkered 
down with Janey. My only complaint is that she has no money, 
and she's spending mine like I have truckloads of it in a 
warehouse somewhere. I count past twenty glossy magazines on 
the bed and on the bedroom floor and I give up. She's good 
value, however. She never stops lying to me, and it's like 
listening to Chopin's Greatest Hits--sweet melody, not a lot of 
depth.

Ah, yes, Mick. Janey has had a bit of Mick O'Halloran on the 
side, or vice versa. You never can tell unless you're there, 
and even then it can be confusing. Theresa, Mick's wife, has 
been having a rampant, torrid affair with a man called 
Eduardo, who's from Ecuador, and who is not known to any of 
us. She confesses this to Mick. She's sick and tired of Mick. 
She wants exotic Eduardo to have and to hold, from that day 
forward. Enraged, Mick tells her about Janey. Crockery gets 
broken and Mick moves out.

Mick is at my door, looking for Janey. He's disappointed to 
discover Janey has set up camp in my air-conditioned bedroom, 
and he knows her well enough to know she won't budge for a man 
with no fixed abode, no matter what sweet lies she's been 
telling him about his wedding tackle. 

Mick chews his bottom lip, thinking hard. An idea comes to 
him. I can almost see the cartoon light bulb above his head. 
He says he'll be back in a little while. 

He returns with a small but cute teenager in tow. Her name is 
Kim and she has a ponytail. She's clean, fresh, wholesome, and 
there's no chance butter would melt in her mouth. Any father 
would be proud to call her his daughter. 
 
Mick negotiates a spare bedroom out of me. Just until he can 
get something organised. Kim brings her gear into the house--
two sports bags. She unzips one and tips rubber-banded bundles 
of cash on the floor. She opens the other and carefully places 
the contents in islands on the dining room table. Marijuana, 
hashish, stuff wrapped in silver foil, bottles of pills.

Kim is a dealer, the new breed. She has no criminal record, no 
connection with known criminals. She only does the stuff 
herself recreationally. Mick buys his marijuana from her and 
he fucks her too, occasionally. He recommends we try the 
ecstasy pills. He rolls his eyes when he says it.

I'm scratching my head about this, perplexed. Kim says the 
money on the floor is communal. Just take what we want. There 
must be ten thousand bucks littering the carpet, maybe more. 
An amusing bundle of fifties has rolled under a chair.

Kim needs to get away from home. Business is booming, and life 
with mummy and daddy is not compatible. They've given her an 
ultimatum and she's calling their bluff. She also wants Mick 
to work for her.

"But you don't look a day over fifteen," I tell her.

She grins happily and her ponytail bobs jauntily. "Thanks," 
she says. "I'm really eighteen but I try to look young. It's 
good for trade."

I should throw them out but I'm way too fascinated. Hell, I'm 
only here myself for a few more days. Also, I'm worried about 
money, and now there are autumn leaves of it on the floor.

Janey emerges from the air-conditioning to cook dinner. 
Janey's a great cook, another asset. After dinner we sample 
the ecstasy. Kim gives us low-dosage pills, clean, guaranteed 
no heroin content, but things still get a bit wild.

There's music I never heard before. It's not mine, and it's 
unbelievably loud, but I like it. I also like Janey, I like 
Mick, and I like Kim. I understand these people. They are so 
much like me they really could be me. I want to tell them 
everything that's ever happened, and I will if I can get a 
word in. I adore these guys. This night I am forming bonds of 
friendship and respect that will last through eternity. We are 
inseparable.

We are, too. It comes to me in a moment of inspirational 
brilliance that the fucking I'm giving Janey is the best 
fucking ever between a man and a woman. Ever. Maybe it's the 
aphrodisiac assistance of money, because I'm fucking Janey on 
a bed of banknotes on the floor and it feels fucking fine and 
fucking perfect.

Ecstasy doesn't put Janey off her familiar stroke. She's 
yammering away about my horse cock and how I'm the best fuck 
in the universe and it's never, never, never, etc., etc. Maybe 
she's yelling it louder than usual. Maybe she's screaming it. 
Someone is.

It's all like a New Year's Eve fireworks display, only you're 
right in the middle of it, dazzled by white light and seared 
by gunpowder flash.

Somewhere along the way I've shifted out of Janey and into 
Kim. At least I think so. She's about half Janey's size, and I 
can't be getting a thing like that wrong. But I'm not down on 
the carpet of cash any more. I'm on a bed in another room and 
I can't remember making the trip.

But I do hear Janey. She's screaming about horse cocks and how 
it's never been so good, and I don't think it's me she's got 
on board.

I wake up. It's just gone daybreak. I'm in my own bed and I 
turn over to see who I'm with. It's not Kim. It's not Janey. 
It's Mick, and he's snoring, sprawled flat on his back, and he 
has a hard-on. I push him awake. He blinks at me in alarm and 
hastily rolls over, turning away. I stumble out of bed, 
totally rejecting the possibility. It's an accident. Can't be 
other.

I'm feeling run over. Very crap. In the kitchen I find Kim, 
naked, chewing on a carrot. She's a little slip of a thing. 
Did I really fuck her?

"I feel bad," I croak. "Er, look, did I . . . did we . . .?"

"Everybody did," she says, taking my hand. "Sleep for another 
six hours," she advises. "Then you'll feel fine."

She takes me into the spare bedroom, where Janey is splayed 
indelicately, unconscious. "Sleep with us," says Kim. "We'll 
look after you."

Sandwiched between two naked females, I sleep instantly, and 
wake up six hours later, alone but feeling fine except for an 
unresolved matter. Everybody did, Kim said.

I venture out wrapped in a bed sheet and they're sitting 
around. I look at Mick bleakly. "Is either of us a dung 
puncher?" I ask bluntly, needing to get it over with.

"I have no recollection of it," he answers frostily.

This is not satisfactory, but it will have to do.

Nobody has energy. We spend the afternoon watching soap operas 
on TV with Janey.

We're just starting to stir when Theresa O'Halloran arrives. 
"Is Mick here?" she asks me grimly.

I'm too dull and slow to think of an answer, and she pushes 
past me. She stops and points a trembling finger at Janey. 
"You bastard, Mick," she hisses.

"Janey's with Harry," Mick says immediately, jumping to his 
feet. "I swear it on the blessed Virgin Mary, darl."

Theresa ignores Janey and turns to me. "Is this true?"

"She's been with me for a week," I say, careful not to offend 
the blessed VM, even though she regards me as a heretic and 
will never intercede on my behalf.

Theresa points at Kim. "Who's this?"

"Just the drug dealer," says Kim, answering for herself.

But Theresa has lost interest. She flops down on the couch 
beside Mick. "Eduardo's dumped me," she says, bursting into 
tears.

Her husband holds her close as she sobs and sniffles. "Oh, 
Mick," she says melodramatically. "I love him so much."

Janey and Kim react instantly, going over to stroke and pat 
Theresa and murmur their sympathies. I am clearly the only 
person in the room thinking Theresa is some kind of awful 
bitch, so I leave them to it and head off to snooze in the 
air-conditioned bedroom.

Janey wakes me to eat, and I stroll out, yawning and 
scratching. Theresa is still with us. She looks considerably 
brighter. In fact she looks as bright as a smiley-face button. 

"I gave her a pill to make her feel better," Kim murmurs to me 
as we fetch dinner plates.

I raise my eyebrows at her. "Yeah," Kim confirms. "One of 
those pills."

Theresa eats enthusiastically. "Wow, this is wonderful," she 
says. "Janey, you are such a fabulous cook. This is the best 
meal I've ever had."

Suddenly she stops eating. "You know," she says, "Eduardo only 
wanted me when he couldn't have me, and when he could have me 
he didn't want me." 

She thinks about this some more. "You know, Eduardo is an 
Ecuadorean CUNT."

She pronounces this description so violently we all jump in 
fright, but she seems all smiles and sloppy-happy.

"You know," Theresa says, fixing on me with a bright gleam in 
her eyes, "what I need now is some NEW COCK."

Kim pushes pills at us across the table. "We'd better catch 
up," she says. "One up, four down is a bad party."

Another night, another orgy. Sort of, more or less. I don't 
get a crack at Janey or Kim because I'm monopolised by 
Theresa, who seems not interested in recycling Mick, who seems 
not to mind me fucking his wife. I guess he has Janey's 
honeyed tongue to boost his Eduardo-deflated ego, plus a baby-
faced drug dealer who makes him feel like a villainous cradle-
snatcher. He also knows better than most that his wife is a 
difficult and edgy woman.

I'm more accustomed to the E effect and it's not so 
bewildering second time around. Theresa, though, is full 
frontal manic.

"Good Christ," she says, sitting on my cock and unashamedly 
sweating with exertion. "If I'd known you were this good I 
would have hit on you years ago. Don't you ever come?"

It's been a week of voluptuous Janey, a mind-bending sex romp 
the previous night, and another dose of high-speed Ecstasy 
slowing everything down. Maybe, I'm thinking, the well is bone 
dry and I'll never come again.   

Theresa is near flat-chested. She's a skinny brunette not all 
that pretty, but she has a long face and nose, and sly eyes, 
and that's sexy. She's always been the sort of woman you look 
at and think dirty about. This instinctive assessment turns 
out to be accurate. Theresa will do anything. Anything.

I'm the man who's never going to come again. I twist Theresa 
over and slip out of her, and I drag her by the arm out into 
the living room. Nobody's actually fucking in the living room, 
but the three of them are sprawled naked, sated and 
introverted. Kim is resting her head on Janey's ample bosom.

I don't like Theresa and I'm seized with evil impulse. I push 
her down to her hands and knees. I kneel behind her and ram 
into her the cock that's never going down. Instantly she's 
pushing back and screaming obscenities. It's the Ecstasy, or 
the humiliation, or maybe even me, but she's a whoreslut who's 
slipped over the edge into a chasm of depravity.

Eventually someone pulls me off her. It's little Kim. "She's 
blown a fuse," she says.

I'm in a fog, and my thighs are killing me. I realise I've 
been holding Theresa up from the floor with an arm circled 
around her waist. I let her go and she falls with a thud to 
the carpet. Still I haven't come. My cock sticks out hard and 
straight, and I'm sick and tired of it like that. I need a 
nurse to hit it with a cold spoon.

I stumble into the shower but I'm too exhausted to stand. I 
sit in the corner and let the shower rain on me.

* * * 

The days and nights have run together and I don't know who I 
am or who is with me when and why. 

I've lost track of things. In a mad moment I draw a flow chart 
with a blue marker pen on a sheet of newspaper and stick it on 
the wall.

H (for Harry, me) joins to B (for Bitch, Helen), and to M 
(Magda), and to J (Janey), and to T (Theresa). I don't join me 
to K (Kim). She's just around at various times and operates as 
a spare part. I never actually set out to fuck Kim, but 
sometimes it happens down the end of the line.

S (for Shithead, Tom) joins to M (Magda). That's easy. I've 
got that one covered.

M (for Mick) joins to T (Theresa), and to J (Janey), and to K 
(Kim). That's fair. Mick brought Kim into this madhouse.

I also draw a dotted line in red from H (me) to M (Mick). I'm 
still very worried about this.

I know there's more lines I should be drawing but my 
concentration span is spun.  

We're all up on E when I show the gang my flowchart pinned to 
the wall. We all look at it for a very long time.

"That's beautiful," says Janey reverently.

"Who's B?" asks Mick.

This is a very difficult question. I've forgotten who B is. 

"There are two Ms," Kim observes.

Shit. The whole flowchart is fucked, so I rip it down and set 
fire to it. 

"That's so beautiful," says Janey, watching the fire turning 
the white kitchen tiles black.

Theresa has my hand clutched to her scarce bosom. She looks at 
me with adoration. "I love your cock," she says. I'm thinking 
she's thinking I'm the new Eduardo.

I never expected Theresa to stay, but she keeps staying. I had 
thought to deprive her of dignity, but depravity is where she 
wants to be. There's nothing she won't do. Nothing.

The house is a wreck site of thirty-somethings. As the days 
roll on we gain a new guy called Jimmy and I have no idea 
where he comes from or why he's here. The sanest person in the 
place is Kim, the teenage drug dealer. She comes and goes, 
doing business, tipping yet more money on the floor. The rest 
of us sleep or party, and there's no middle ground. Nobody 
seems to eat any more. The only thing going into my stomach is 
E.

Thank God for Jimmy, who's keeping his end up. Mick has sunk 
into a fudge of marijuana and he's useless. I'm thinking about 
joining him in his land of mellow contemplation. I don't want 
to fuck any more. Please, no more parties.

Especially I don't want to fuck Theresa. She's a succubus. I'm 
wasting away.

* * *

I'm sitting on the couch with a bare-breasted and free-flowing 
Janey watching a soap opera on TV. It's very bad but I'm 
starting to get hooked. No, I want to call out to the TV 
screen, my arm across Janey's shoulder and a hand resting 
lightly on a plump breast. Don't trust him. He's a lying shit.

The door opens and a new person arrives. But she's not new at 
all. It's Helen. She lives here. She's back.

On the carpet Jimmy is fucking Theresa doggy-style. Theresa is 
never off the E. She's the looniest of us all. I haven't even 
noticed her yelling out her profanities until Helen walks in 
the door. I've become used to that sort of thing around here.

I look around with Helen's eyes. The house is a war zone. It's 
Dante's Inferno, circa 2002.

Mick struggles out of his armchair, fat, naked, zonked. He 
falls against Helen and gives her a sloppy kiss on the cheek. 
"You I haven't had yet," he says dreamily.

Kim comes in the door behind Helen and tips another bag of 
cash on the floor. We've probably reached twenty thousand by 
now. Kim holds up a canister. "Got some new E," she says. 
"We're just about out."

Helen's not speaking. She's just looking. Then she turns and 
marches out.

"Who's that?" asks Kim.

"My wife," I say.

"Right," says Kim, starting to scoop money back into her 
sports bag. I watch with detached curiosity as she gathers it 
all up, then loads her drugs into another bag. She leaves 
without saying goodbye.

I have respect for Kim. She's the only mature person I've met 
in a long time. I get up from the couch, get dressed, pack a 
suitcase, and leave too. Jimmy's still ploughing Theresa on 
the floor, Janey's deeply absorbed in her soap opera, and Mick 
has returned to armchair reverie. Nobody seems to notice me 
going.

I catch a cab to the airport. The next plane leaving for an 
international port is headed for Hong Kong. I pay for the 
ticket with crumpled cash I've been whittling away from Kim's 
communal pile. There's plenty left over.

The plane leaves in 45 minutes. By then bailiffs and coppers 
will be climbing all over my old house. They can take Mick, 
and Janey, and Theresa, and even Jimmy, whoever he is. But 
they won't take me. I'm gone.

I'm gone except for this dopey-looking Labrador who follows me 
around the airport. Eventually he sits besides me and barks. 
What the fuck is a dog doing in an international terminal 
anyway?

I find out when two guys wearing handguns on their hips grab 
me by the arms. Excuse me, sir, one of them says. You'll have 
to come with us.

The Labrador sniffs out drugs. I haven't got any on me and the 
narcs are hugely disappointed. I figure it's my shoes. They've 
been walking in E for a week. The narcs can't see it but the 
dog has a great nose.

I go to a duty free store and buy some new shoes. I don't need 
to be sniffed over by another dog when I get to Hong Kong.

I figure I'll get there and maybe sleep for a week. No more E. 
Get it out of my system. I figure on being out of the country 
for, say, three months. By then the scandal might have blown 
over.

I notice the date on my airline ticket. I suddenly remember 
it's my turn to read the lesson in church this Sunday. 

Fuck the church. Fuck all the churches and all the gods. Fuck 
Helen, fuck Magda Plawinska, fuck all women, and fuck all 
sniffer dogs. Fuck feeling guilty all day, all night, all my 
life.

Especially fuck E and its zigzag highs and lows. No more 
roller coasters. I want to be boring again.

Maybe I'll check out Buddhism while I'm in Hong Kong. I wonder 
how those bald guys handle guilt?
 
ENDS 

Edited by Ruthie.

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

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