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From: Michael Stokes <michael.stokes85@ntlworld.com>
Newsgroups: alt.love,alt.sex.stories,alt.startrek.vs.starwars
References: <Xns9482AE1D39C79spyderizer@202.20.93.13> <7751cbfa.0401301216.5c400296@posting.google.com> <WTHTb.15091$tl5.14025@bignews1.bellsouth.net>
Subject: Re: Thought of the day
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Date: Sun, 15 Feb 2004 12:04:23 -0000
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===================
I CANT BE ARSED TO READ ALL THAT, TELL ME IN A NUTSHELL SOMEONE
"jacinthfish" <jacinthfish@bellsouth.com> wrote in message
news:WTHTb.15091$tl5.14025@bignews1.bellsouth.net...
> Interesting, even if it takes a couple days to read...
>
> -jacinthfish
>
> "Matt Huang" <Shadowarbiter@aol.com> wrote in message
> news:7751cbfa.0401301216.5c400296@posting.google.com...
> > My boyfriend, Brad, always spoils our love-making by going
> > berserk at the end. I like the pleasure of sexual union to spread
> > deeply through every crevice of my being, like the mysterious smell of
> > incense permeating every room in a quiet house. Just as incense makes
> > familiar, worn-out places seem exotic and imaginatively alive, the
> > sensual rhythms of love make the body ripple with newness, feel
> > freshly created, closer to everything, seen or unseen.
> > But Brad doesn't want any of this. He just wants to thrash
> > like an animal dying wildly in a steel-fanged trap. He wants his eyes
> > to bulge and his chest to heave; wants to feel his loins go seismic, his
> > mind shatter into sparks and smoke, his voice wear away to a sandpaper
> > bugle.
> > He wants to die frying in the electric pussy.
> > But this isn't me at all. I'm not the glittering slut-queen
> > of Babylon; I'm the woodland nymph, bedding in ferns, dining on
> > baby mushrooms, shy even at the sight of racing squirrels.
> > "That's a load of crap!" Brad belched when I tried to explain
> > this to him. "You're as timid as a brain tumor devouring the cortex
> > of a rotting hobo. Christ, I mean, most people need to take angel dust
> > to get as surly as you."
> > He was lying when he said this. When I was a child I used to
> > think I was made of delicately folded tissue paper. I really thought
> > this; I thought I was a paper doll crafted by a laconic, lonely widow
> > who never had children. Somehow I had been kidnapped by my imposter
> > parents then forced to pretend that I was a resilient, growing creature
> > who toughened up under adversity and learned, rather than shredded,
> > under stress. Self-protective, clever, strong enough for a randomly
> > vicious society and an impassively stampeding race. Yet the thrust of
> > time just mangled me, crumpled me up, discarded me into the spongy
> > safety of my inner fantasy worlds.
> > I was a ballerina who accidentally twirled into the midst of
> > a street-gang.
> > "Yo, give a crack pipe and a pistol to the girl with the frilly
> > skirt."
> > "Look at them hazy eyes, man. Shit, she already high."
> > "Ballerina?" Brad mocked me delightedly. "You're as graceful
> > as an elephant on ostrich legs."
> > The thing is, the whole world had this perception of me. And
> > when everyone seems unanimous in misunderstanding you, you start to
> > wonder if it isn't you who's making the misunderstanding. Or at least
> > you do if you're a fragile paper doll.
> > But to get back to Brad's atomic love-bomb thrust-o manic
> > brain-pop approach to lovemaking: my real problem with it was that I
> > wanted my love to have a stilling effect; I wanted my affection to sooth
> > like a honeyed melody, to charm to life the quiet, delightful side of
> > my boyfriends, re-awaken the playful, tender little boy in them.
> > "You want to kill me, dammit." Brad had weird interpretations
> > of the things that I said. "You want your pussy to be a deadly weapon,
> > a frightful tool of domination. Like most women, you're silently
> > furious at your own frailty, and want nothing more than to conquer,
> > crush, demolish all life -- especially male life. Like most women,
> > since you have the capacity to give life, you think you should also
> > be able to destroy life. Well, I think that really sucks."
> > Brad accused of really being a passion-crazed berserko when
> > it came to sex. I think he was just projecting; trying to make
> > his propensity for carnal frenzy seem less weird by saying that it
> > was really, deep down inside, what I wanted as well.
> > "You're not comfortable with your own sexuality. That's
> > the real issue. You're afraid where it'll take you if you let go
> > of the reins."
> > The first time Brad met my parents was at a big family picnic in
> > Griffith Park. We were all gathered at an enormous picnic table, really
> > nicely done by my aunt. We had all brought foods -- hamburgers, steak,
> > chicken, a glorious array of salads, a zillions kinds of chips, all
> > imaginable shapes and colors -- and during one of the few silent
moments,
> > one of those odd synchronous breaks in all of the conversations going on
> > simultaneously, Brad said through a mouthful of potato salad, "You know,
> > this tastes exactly like clitoris."
> > The silence held. My mother looked over at me, her mind
> > set like Jello. I could feel her struggling not to cry.
> > That night, me, Brad, my older (by one year) sister Kim, her
> > boyfriend -- an extremely polite Jehovah's Witness guy in his early
> > forties -- and our two cousins Joe and Mark and their friend Pam,
> > who seemed to be dating both of them, all went camping in the hills
> > around an old, grafitti-covered watertank just east of the Hollywood
> > sign. The terrain was very
> > rocky, with lots of dense, crunching shrubs and tall, dry grass.
> > Patches of wild sage and other herbs that we couldn't identify to
> > made the air smell very mysteriously perfumed, rich, and wild. Every
> > few minutes Brad howled like a wolf, and as the sun began to set he
> > ripped off his shirt and began running in circles around our campsite.
> > "Is this normal for him?" Pam asked.
> > "No," I said. "He doesn't get out of doors very much."
> > "I have to say I love his energy," she said dreamily.
> > Martin, the Jehovah's Witness guy, sat with my sister under
> > a tree reading from the Bible. Our two cousins heaped sticks on an
> > old fire spot encircled by round rocks, though we had already
> > determined that none of us had matches or a lighter.
> > "Is he a maniac in bed?" She asked.
> > "Depends on what you mean by maniac, exactly."
> > "Does he use his feet?"
> > I called to my cousins, telling them I'd found some more
> > sticks for them.
> > "The soul speaks through every part of the human form," Pam
> > said in the eerie, remote voice of something disembodied, "And sex
> > is the cry of the soul in a forest of accumulated un-desire."
> > The cousins began fighting over the best way to arrange the
> > sticks. One of them threw a branch in anger.
> > Martin and my sister stood up facing the sunset, reciting the
> > Lord's prayer in deep, resolute voices. Brad raced around us in
> > narrowing loops, his howl hoarse and shrill, his feet now bare.
> > "Sex turns no one back," Pam said, stroking her hair. "It is
> > the only way into the dark waters of the soul."
> > When Brad simmered down and came back to the camp, he was
> > wearing an old jacket he had found in the bushes. He pulled something
> > from one of its pockets and began eating it.
> > "Next," he said with his mouth full, his narrow eyes set
> > on my forehead, "Next I devour you."
> > My sister gulped.
> > "The Lord will protect us from this sick man," Martin
> > assured her quietly, petting her clasped hands.
> > We had brought sleeping bags with us. Martin didn't share
> > one with my sister; he slept on a wool blanket on an old road
> > winding around the hill, its tarmac cracked into discrete slabs,
> > weeds sprouting from the cracks. His Bible lay open beside his head,
> > its print illuminated by the moon and the stars.
> > One of the cousins slept with Pam for the first part of the
> > night while the other continued reorganizing the stacked branches,
> > muttering quietly to himself, occasionally tossing branches into the
> > shrubs surrounding the camp in a hurt, frustrated gesture. Later I
> > woke up and saw the other cousin there, lying asleep beside the
> > unlit heap.
> > Pam seemed to enjoy hearing her voice cry out in the
> > night, echoing against the hills. It seemed to heighten her sexual
> > excitement to hear herself crying out like an animal.
> > "No," I said to Brad, pulling away from him and trying to zip
> > up my sleeping bag to keep him out.
> > "Lady," he said angrily, "We are the last survivors of a
> > nuclear halocaust. The future of the race depends upon our
> > reproductive strength, our courage to face sex as something more than
> > mere pleasure. We have a job to do, and we must do it selflessly."
> > The moon swelled above our camp, looking both icy and hot,
> > pregnant with the glow of the sleeping sun. The mountains ached with
> > the echoes of Pam's passionate love-cries, and drew back from my
> > clamp-jawed silence.
> > When I woke up from a long, dreamless sleep, the cousins
> > were gone. Martin was jogging in place, reading the Bible. Kim was
> > folding up bedding. Pam was sunbathing nude in the golden morning
> > light, answering "meow" like a cat whenever anyone said anything to
> > her.
> > We left Brad, still sleeping, alone on the hill.
> > As I drove out of the park back to my apartment in Glendale,
> > I remembered seeing a "CAUTION: RATTLESNAKES" sign at the head of
> > one of the trails.
> > I had recently heard radio news reports about scorpions
> > being found down in Long Beach. Tiny, pale, fragile ones that
> > would surely have gone extinct long ago were it not for their
> > highly concentrated venom, their spring-like stinger-tails. Radio
> > anchors speculated about them marching north to the city through
> > roadside dust.
> > Africanized bees had been spotted on the fringes of Los
> > Angeles county several times in the past three months; a long
> > awaited intruder, madly aggressive, darkly swarming. Humming nets
> > of pain that pursued people tirelessly, even to their own death.
> > For a couple of weeks I wondered. Once or twice I began
> > driving back to Griffith Park to search the hills, to call out and
> > listen to the echoes of his name, but I always stopped at 7-11 and
> > bought a Slurpee instead.
> > As far as I know, Brad never came out of the park. He may
> > have gone completely feral. I imagined him eating leaves and
> > gnawing on roots. Masturbating in the moonlight. Capturing errant
> > dogs. Concealed behind bushes, a muddy-faced, crazy-haired,
> > menacing clown. Gazing down from the hills at the city surrounding
> > the park, increasingly beffudled by the sight of civilized dwellings.
> > I didn't miss him, actually, because it turned out he really
> > wasn't very unique. My next boyfriend, who I habitually called
> > Brad even though his name was Bob, had the same propensity for rude
> > physiological detonations. A seismic fault through his spine, it
> > seemed. Madness lurking like a speck of shadow in the nuclei of all
> > his living cells.
> > It wasn't just sex with him, though, so I suppose he was even
> > worse than Brad. Whenever he finished anything at all, he had to go
> > through some sick little ritual of finality. A mini-funeral for
> > finishing a meal (leaning back, patting his boulder-like stomach,
> > groaning with exaggerated pleasure), or
> > losing a video game (stooping down over the controls, cursing,
> > lightly pounding his hands against the machine), or
> > ending a telephone conversation (summarizing the most irrelevant
> > parts of the conversation, proclaiming his enthusiasm about our next
> > date, thanking me for my time, spewing assurances of his love), or
> > completing whatever he was doing in my bathroom (looking me dead
> > in the eye then declaring, "Okay, I'm all done in there. It's all
yours.
> > I didn't leave a mess, I promise. You have nice soap, by the way."), or
> > celebrating victories by his favorite hockey teams (driving along
> > the Golden Sand freeway late at night firing what he called his "pet
> > revolver" out the window at the sky).
> > It was like every time anything ended, no matter how trivial,
> > it reminded him somehow of his own eventual death. To sweep every
> > trace of death thinking out of his mind he had to perform a ritual
> > cleansing.
> > Sometimes, of course, his moronic little performances were
> > quite dramatic. On the afternoon that he finished filling out his tax
> > returns, he bought a pair of doves to celebrate and let them go in
> > his car.
> > "What the hell are you doing?" I demanded.
> > "I'll let them live in here. It's like a zoo on wheels now."
> > "What the fuck?"
> > "I figure I'll get about forty dollars back from the I.R.S., so
> > why not spend the money promoting life?"
> > Eventually the birds suffocated in his car, and he pretended
> > not to notice. For weeks he continued talking sweetly to the dead bird
> > on the dashboard, continued breathing the noissome bacterial vapors.
> > Bob got so whacky I had to see a psychiatrist to deal with his
> > problems. The shrink, whose name was Thelma Rheinquist, M.D., mostly
> > just blabbed about how I was having trouble imposing my affective
> > language on the men I was allowing to take advantage of my dependencies
> > on the male archetype within my own sub-psyche, and recommended that I
> > start taking either Prozac and Xanax, or Zoloft and Trilafon, or
> > Thorazine and Imipramine, or any quadrupling thereof. I found my
> > discussions with her cold and ridiculously cognitive, but she dressed so
> > well that it seemed worthwhile just to make mental notes about her
> > attire.
> > Bob liked to work on jigsaw puzzles. Sometimes he had trouble
> > sleeping, and instead of reading, or watching television, exercising, or
> > masturbating, he would go into the livingroom to work on puzzles. One
> > of the puzzles was a large, blank white rectangle.
> > "It has no picture on it," I pointed out.
> > "That's what makes it challenging."
> > One evening I found him working on it with the lights out;
> > feeling the edges of the pieces with the tips of his fingers.
> > "I was going to say that'll drive you insane, but..."
> > "I know what you're going to say."
> > "You're already crazy."
> > "If I finish it, I'll be enlightened. Insanity means nothing
> > to the enlightened. You see, the universe is a jigsaw puzzle designed
> > by god and pieced together by his angels. In mastering jigsaw puzzles,
> > you learn the underlying structure to the divine scheme of the
> > universe. `Sane' is a code-work in our militaristic society for
> > `harmless.' The question is, if `insane' means harmful, what sort of
> > harmfulness is it? Harmful to what, exactly?"
> > When he finally finished this puzzle, he insisted on taking
> > me out to dinner to celebrate.
> > "I'm enlightened now," he said, honking his horn at another
> > driver who hadn't done anything, then flipping him off. "Omniscient,
> > you know? I could drive with a blindfold over my eyes; I could drive on
> > the wrong side of the freeway, dodging opposing traffic. I could pilot
> > an airplane from here to Moscow, even though I've never flown before."
> > "Because you finished a jogsaw puzzle."
> > "Because I've touched my seeing fingers on the braille in which
> > God wrote the instruction manual of the universe."
> > "In a jigsaw puzzle."
> > "I have lain my head on God's chest, right above his heart,
> > heart the patter-patter-thump, patter-patter-thump of the loving
> > heart of God. Listened to it. Grasped its meaning. Incredible.
> > Totally incredible."
> > At the restaurant, he yelled at the waitress because she tried
> > to give us a seat in the middle of the room instead of a booth by the
> > window. Finally she relented.
> > "This view," he said, "Enchants me."
> > "You didn't have to scream at her."
> > "This is a view of the labratory of social kindness. Everything
> > is, when you've risen up to saintly intimacy with the handiwork of
> > God."
> > Bob insisted on ordering a whole candied chicken, though this
> > wasn't on the menu, insisting to the waitress, "Look, I'm entitled to
it;
> > I have figured out things about the universe that you will never, no
> > matter how many times you're reincarnated, discover. Ha! Unless you're
> > reincarnated as a candied chicken."
> > He didn't speak at all while we waited for the food, but stared
> > with a look of critical curiosity at the people walking past the window.
> > I wasn't interested in provoking further maniacal outbursts from him, so
> > rather than attempt conversation I took out a sheet of graph paper and
> > began creating a cross-word puzzle of obscenities (this was my latest
> > hobby), and didn't look up until our food arrived.
> > They brought a whole roast chicken for Bob, a darkly glistening
> > lump that smelled like maple syrup, which he attacked with his saliva
and
> > his fork, stripping off all the skin which he stuffed like stained paper
> > into his mouth. When he had stripped the chicken naked, he put his fork
> > down and began staring out the window again.
> > As we left the restaurant, he complained weakly of feeling sick,
> > then announced: "My former life has come to an end. It's a new chapter
> > for me. You know what I mean? Things are turning. I'm a new person.
> > I'm not sure you know how to deal with this, girlfriend."
> > That night when we had sex, right as he ejaculated, he shot
> > himself in the head with his pet revolver. This had a pretty big impact
> > on me, at least from an emotional point of view, because for a long time
> > I thought that his deadness (he was still inside me sexually when he
> > croaked) entered my psyche. I have no illusions about death being a
> > sexually transmitted disease in itself, as opposed to the climax of
> > some S.T.D.'s, but I certainly didn't want a big fat smudge on my
> > life-force. So I fired my psychiatrist and went to a psychic for
regular
> > soul-cleansing.
> > I invoked spirits from other planets and other planes; some
> > soon to be incarnated in human form, some descended from the kind of
> > fungus that lives on stellar light; I absorbed the energy of crystals,
> > some material, some ethereal; I conversed with the quasi-sentient
> > vestiges of pre-human earthly civilizations; I embraced the
consciousness
> > of a race of musical notes that breeds only with instruments of fire.
> > And then I met Larry.
> > I met him in the produce section of Verna's supermarket.
> > Verna's fruit is arranged in precarious pyramids with the most rotten
> > ones at the apex, and all of the others essentially inaccessible unless
> > you were willing to risk upsetting the balance and triggering an
> > avalanche. I considered this arrangement unfair, deliberately designed
> > to frighten people out of buying the healthy fruit for fear of
> > embarrassing themselves by making a mess. They cunningly forced you to
> > buy the rotten fruit. Other, less penny-pinching markets would just
> > throw that crap right into the trash. So I found the most luscious,
> > pristine looking apple at the very base of the pyramid and yanked it
> > from its former branch mates. Apples bounced against my ankles, swarmed
> > in a widening circle around me like fat, blushing, legless rats, dove
> > under the wheels of other shoppers' carts.
> > People were staring. Some horrified at what they were
> > witnessing, with a "You selfish bitch" look. Others smiled, admiring
> > me, always having been too fearful to do what I did.
> > A little girl standing near me was looking up with confusion,
> > anxiety.
> > "Nice going, you clumsy twit!" I yelled at her. "Try being
> > more careful next time."
> > Within five seconds of the apple debacle -- I swear, within
> > five seconds -- as if he could feel the shock of the fruit hitting the
> > floor like a blow to the overall life energy of the supermarket, or as
> > if viewing the accident with an invisible omniscient eye, the manager
> > spoke over the P.A.:
> > "Clean up in produce. Clean up: produce."
> > Then a man began scampering around my feet like a frenzied
> > worshipper, stooped, his face bright with concern, gathering the apples
> > from the floor in a plastic basket, then with lightning speed replacing
> > them in on the metal stand. At first I thought he was an employee.
> > "Don't worry, it happens to everyone," he said at the level of
> > my knees, gathering more broken-skinned fruit from the disinfected
floor.
> > "That's nice of you."
> > "Oh, no. It's nothing."
> > Larry was just like that. Lovingly picking up the apples I'd
> > knocked over in a fit of resentment, and grateful to do it for me. He
> > would've picked up three million of them if I had spilled that many,
> > would've spent the rest of the year doing it.
> > For me. A stranger.
> > "I like to really stretch courtship out," he told me on our first
> > date. "I mean, why rush? Savor every moment, every tiny leap in
> > affection, every new petal that unfolds from the blossoming love. Do
> > you tend to share that view?"
> > "But do you...I mean, what's your view on sex? How do you like
> > it? Really frantic and wild, feverish and stormy?"
> > "Oh, heavens, no. I like it to be like a slow vitamin drip
> > into my soul. Sex should nourish, not exhaust."
> > The first few times we were intimate, we didn't even sleep in the
> > same bed. He brought an old sleeping bag out of his closet and unrolled
> > it on the floor. Instead of touching each other, we fondled symbols of
> > each other. He gave me a transparent crystal ball the size of an apple,
> > and I gave him a simple, round cup made of amethyst, or whatever sort of
> > crystal it was. I dunno, maybe just glass. Anyway, we lay in our
> > respective beds and silently stroked the symbols: I rubbed his ball, and
> > he carressed the interior of my cup. Once in a while one or both of us
> > gasped, or moaned.
> > After a few dates he began licking my empty cup, and this worried
> > me a little, but after about an hour of doing it he fell asleep. I
> > walked over and put his ball in my cup, which he was still grasping
> > in his slender, hairless fingers. The next morning he told me he'd
> > felt more closeness with me the night before than he'd ever felt with a
> > woman before.
> > Larry came into my life at a time when I had all but given up
> > on men because they were so demented and animalistic. Everything seems
> > so bloody urgent for men; it's like they consider their genitals an
> > endangered species and must, absolutely must, use them to maxiumum
> > capacity while they're still hanging around.
> > But Larry was not afflicted by the usual masculine insanity.
> > He once told me: "I wish I were just a little one-celled
> > bacteria living in your intestines."
> > He wanted me to be the world for him. The sun, the ocean,
> > the nighttime sky, the majestic mountains rising through the swelling,
> > wandering, struggling human hoards.
> > "Darling," he said once, his tongue a little swollen from
> > licking the cup for four hours, his teeth getting a little loose from
> > accidentally biting down on it, "I wish I were a hair on your body.
> > A flec of dandruff on your scalp. A bug on the ground for you to stomp
> > on. I wish I were one of those apples, perishing from your omnipotent
> > touch."
> > With Larry, everything seemed like a beginning.
> >
>
>