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Message-ID: <50960asstr$1113631803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Courtship of Miles Standish  (MF slow rom anal celeb parody)
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Date: Sat, 16 Apr 2005 02:10:03 -0400
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THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH
by Carlos Malenkov
Copyright (c) 2005 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archiving rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.



    And then I'm softly touching you, gently caressing your lips with mine,
    holding you so very close.

I'm a man of letters. A scribe. In the olden days a practitioner of the
craft would have been writing letters and filling out official papers
for illiterate peasants and laborers. In this age of computers and the
Internet I write personal ads and letters for semi-literate software
engineers and tongue-tied technical types who can't express in words
their deepest feelings toward a woman.

    Thus did my heart, ice-bound, melt in your warmth. Anew I live
    encircled in your arms.

My clients pay five dollars per word, and no one has yet asked for a
refund. After all, I sell _words of power_, the power to change minds,
bring tears to the eyes, and unleash mighty emotions.



Let me tell you a story. This took place back when I was just starting
out, some thirty-odd years ago.

One of my first customers was a particularly difficult case. The fellow
had just turned 18 and was still a virgin. He was an absolute disaster
-- catastrophic acne, ears that stuck out like an elephant, clumsy and
uncoordinated, and with the world's worst case of body odor. Not to
mention having a terminal case of social ineptness. The only thing he
had going for him was inherited wealth. Money out the wazoo.

I took him on as a test case, a challenge. If I could help this sorry
specimen of humanity find someone to produce an heir to the family
fortune, then I could help _anyone_. Not to mention that it would
establish my reputation once and for all.

"First off, Miles, shower regularly. That'll enable you to get within
hailing distance of a woman without her running and screaming for
help. (It also happens to be a matter of my own personal comfort while
I'm in your presence, guy.) Sure, there's nothing wrong with the natural
smell of sweat . . . unless it's week-old, rancid sweat. And, oh yes,
using mouthwash once in a while wouldn't kill you, either.

"Now, as to the wording of that ad, are you absolutely sure you want to
mention the matter of, well, anal sex? Isn't that getting a little ahead
of yourself? First you want to _get_ a girlfriend, and maybe worry about
what the fun you'll have later."

Back then, ass play hadn't gone mainstream yet. It was still ultra kinky
-- a _perversion_ -- and according to conventional wisdom, anyone who
liked that sort of thing had to be secretly gay. . . .

He _insisted_. It had to do with some kind of personal fetish. Something
about gaining total power over a woman, _owning_ her, body and soul.

    Come sail with me
    Upon the sea
    Of heart and mind
    And you shall find
    A love that binds.

    We'll navigate
    Yon narrow strait
    To lands unknown
    Up windward pass
    Into your . . . soul.

It was a rather roundabout way of trolling for back-passage sex, but
at least it more or less rhymed. He paid my fee and took out a two-time
insertion in the Personals column of a well-known weekly.



"Hello, Mr. Wordsmith. I got a response from a woman who's interested
in me. Wants me to write her a letter telling all about myself. Needs
to be persuaded that I'm the right one for her. So, how much extra if
you take care of that for me, too?"

Complications. It seemed that my pimply teenage ugly duckling millionaire
needed extra services. Well, why not? Money was hard to come by back in
those days.


    Dearest Kindred Soul,

    Do I long to gaze into your eyes, breathe your scent, caress your
    cheek . . . and melt in your arms? Do I wish share with you the
    sheer joy of just being alive? Does the eagle rejoice in its flight
    and do the stars burn in the deep velvet of the night?

    Touching, connecting -- that furious spark when two become One.
    It's so much more than the joining of the flesh, you know. And the
    most intimate form of the Loving Act is what was hinted at, drawn
    in faintest outline in my clumsily worded attempt at poesy.

    Am I financially secure? Let me tell you a few things about being born
    to wealth. It means never knowing want or unfulfilled desire, and yet
    that makes ever so much more precious the first flower of a woman's
    passion. Now, _that_ is true wealth. And it can't be bought.

    Take me as I am with all my warts and blemishes. I'm human, and so,
    I imagine, are you. Gloriously, beautifully human. I could learn to
    cherish you in time. And you, perhaps you might find me worthy, too.

    Yours in hope,


    Ugly Duckling


"Hello again, Mr. Wordsmith. She wants to meet me in the flesh. What do
I do now?"

"Why, meet her, of course." _You fool!_

"I'm not sure I can deal with that. What would you charge to handle it
for me?"

As I said, money was scarce back then, and I agreed to give it my best
shot.

An interesting problem. Stand in for lover boy, win fair lass, but not
for myself. Now, how to go about this?


     Salutations, My Lovely.

     I must confess that in my eagerness to caress you with my eyes I
     have neglected to mention one minor detail. Tragic misfortune has
     left its scars on my features, and although I am told it lends me
     something of the look of a dashing scoundrel, nonetheless vanity
     forbids me revealing my naked face to you all too soon. Alas, I must,
     for our first meeting at least, remain shrouded. I shall wear a mask.

     A mask! I invite you to accompany me to the annual United Charities
     Masquerade Ball this following Saturday evening. Indeed, a masque!


     Your Duckling


Fortunately, I had about the same height and build as the real Duckling.
If I could somehow coax or entice My Lovely into developing affection
for myself -- the impostor Duckling -- then presumably the _real_ Duckling
could take it from there. This was beginning to resemble a bad Victorian
novel. And, sure enough, the plot was starting to thicken.

  _People assume that a scholar, especially a word merchant such as myself,
  must be a shy, retiring man. That is not necessarily the case. Observe
  how well I can handle myself. . . ._

The dance was a slow pavane, and my lips gently grazed her soft cheek.
Beneath her black velvet cat-mask, eyelids fluttered. How comely she was,
I whispered into her ear. My hand "accidentally" strayed somewhat down
her bare back, and a rosy blush illuminated those fair features. Basic
seduction technique, perhaps, but no doubt quite beyond anything Duckling
would ever be capable of.

Later, much later, she still had not looked upon my naked face. We lay in
each other's arms, cloaked in darkness, enjoying the afterglow . . . for
the second time that night. By laying my lips upon hers -- the ones
'twixt her legs, to be sure -- I had gifted her with the Little Death
(ladies first!), after which I'd taken her in the conventional sense, and
her flesh had been sweet, achingly sweet. Afterward, satisfying her need
-- as yet unvoiced, though no less urgent for that -- I had put myself
into her other entrance, the tunnel leading to her deeper mystery. She
cried out a name -- Duckling's name -- as she climaxed once more, and
I kissed away tears of gratitude from her eyes.

Belatedly I realized that this was one classy lady . . . not to mention
that she had a hell of a nice ass. And, she seemed to be developing
something of a fondness for me. As I leaned over to give her a farewell
kiss --

"I love you!" she cried. _Uh-oh._

In that moment, I discovered that I was capable of being betrayed by
my own damnable feelings. Suddenly, I wanted this woman, wanted her
for my very own. _Wanted_ her, and not just for an occasional tryst,
not just for momentary pleasures of the flesh, but as a companion. I
wanted her at my side as I awakened in the morning. I wanted her to
sooth my weariness at the end of the day. I wanted her as my partner,
my mate, my lover, and perhaps even more. . . .

Still, there was the matter of professional honor.

"Priscilla," I stammered, "Alas, I am not here on my own behalf. I act
as a proxy for a client of mine. You might perhaps recognize his name,
since his family is of the Four Hundred. He is a good man and true,
Mr. Standish is, and he does profess his love for you."

"Speak for yourself, John Alden," she said.

So much for the offer and the proffer. She had penetrated my cover! You
understand, this was back when I was a colonial history buff, long before
I had adopted my current Carlos Malenkov persona. In that particular
time and place, I went by the name of Alden -- yes, _that_ John Alden,
the one in Henry Wadsworth's poetic depiction.



With heavy heart, I lifted the heavy brass knocker.

"Listen, Miles, I'm giving you back the money. It didn't work out, and -- "

"What in the hell are you jabbering about, John? I have no complaints
about your work. You've been trying to remodel me into a social creature,
a guy who can prowl fearlessly through the urban jungle and pick up
women at will. But, you know, when I think about the _end result_ of
the process -- the actual mechanics of taking a girlfriend to bed --
I get kind of queasy. And, you know what? I think I'm still a little
too young for that sort of thing. Why don't we just leave matters lay
for the present? You've certainly earned your fee, and here's an extra
bonus. If I have further need of your services, I'll call you."

I shook my head in disbelief as I walked out of there. In a sense,
I'd defrauded Standish. The guy was just as socially inept as when I'd
taken him on as a client. My words had failed to do their magic, and my
tutoring had failed to transform him. But, hey, he was happy and I had
my pay, and very soon I'd have the greater prize as well.


Priscilla and I are still together, and we sometimes chuckle about our
wild youth . . . and about that "mistaken identity" flimflam I'd tried
to pull on her way back when.

Miles went on to do quite well for himself. . . aside from an embarrassing
little incident when he and a couple of his buddies were arrested for a
midnight joyride on State Highway Department earthmoving equipment. He's
not just a commonplace millionaire now, he's one of the world's richest
men. In fact, every time you turn on your computer, you'll see his
company logo in stark blue-and-white: Standishsoft.

As for his love life, well, that's another story. Anyone with that much
money, power and notoriety can get all the sex he wants. It was for a
time rumored that he was regularly boffing his secretaries. In fact,
he ended up marrying one of them. I hope he's happy, but . . . I have
my doubts. If his lovemaking technique is as shabby as his computer
operating system, then he's still in need of help. Badly in need.

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