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Subject: Reelin� in Iraq (Mf, cons, pedo)
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Date: Wed, 21 Jul 2004 01:23:45 +0000
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Reelin' in Iraq (Mf, cons, pedo)
A story of Love awakening
by Vivian Darkbloom
He woke up in the dark room, for a moment imagining himself cozily at home
in Montana. But as he tried to add up the shapes he saw, to impose the doorway
he knew against the pattern of light, the old woman against his mother, her
old wooden chair against the familiar ones of his home, his mind reluctantly
dragged into sufficient wakefulness to realize how many thousands of miles
he was away from home.
The old woman smiled to see that he was awake, and lovingly pressed the back
of her fingers against his cheek. Her dark hair, the old-fashioned glasses,
her wrinkled and dark-freckled olive skin, the foreigner's features of her
face made him wish to cringe with xenophobic revulsion, had he the strength
to do so. But she must have read the expression on his face, and withdrawing
her hand, with a knowing wisdom, spoke a sentence in their impenetrable tongue
to the girl standing behind her, about 10 years old. The girl drew forward.
Aside from the dark hair and similar features, the two were about as opposite
as could be. One young and thin, with large, dark curious eyes, leaning on
the shoulder of the other old and chubby, wise with the ways of the world.
He was starting to remember. The blast. The roadway, the people all around.
"Where's my patrol? Where is everyone? What have you done with them?" He
demanded, hoarsely.
The girl seemed to understand a little of what he was saying. Her face was
one of sadness. She simply drew a line with her finger across her throat.
The same in any language: dead.
His feeble energy collapsed again.
He remembered the day before the patrol, receiving the news. "Johnson's dead.
I'm sorry." His sergeant know how close the two had been. After that, setting
out, northwest of Fallujah. In spite of the news, getting out of the bunker
the mood was jovial. Smiles played on the lips of his five companions in
the hot sunlight as they cruised the crowded street in the armored vehicle.
The gears growled as wheels gripped the uneven surfaces. The driver, an african-american
woman he felt an occasional yearning for shifted and plied the steering wheel,
satisfied with her job.
As they drove jovially, his mind had drifted again to Johnson, the numbingly
repetitive shock of hearing about yet another attack on American troops,
another anonymous statistic to the newspapers back home, his buddy of ten
years back now. Wondering how it had been for him, had it been quick? Or
was it minutes or even hours of consciousness, feeling the blood filling
his lungs, gasping for breath? Thinking he might have a chance, only to realize
the fatal hardening clutch of death was upon him. That's one journey you
can only travel alone.
No, Johnson would not come marching home, but would arrive instead inside
a giant zip-loc bag. A larger, more opaque version of the ones used to package
the weed or hashish he and Johnson used to score every weekend.
He hated the girl and the woman even more for what they had done to Johnson.
OK, maybe it was not them. But the woman's son, the girl's older brother.
Madmen, lunatics, every one of them. He hated the incomprehensible words
they exchanged, the unfathomably knowing looks.
The old woman sighed and placing her hands on her knees in the dimly lit
room, worked her way out of the chair. One more sentence to the girl as she
waddled out of the room, and the girl took the old woman's place in the chair.
"I take care of you," said the girl, in broken english. "Sleep now."
The last thing he saw before his eyes shut was her eyes, beautiful dark wells
of curiosity, her infuriatingly long black lashes.
He remembered two days before the patrol, the last he saw Johnson still alive,
the two of them performing reconnaissance on a school that had been bombed.
He and Johnson were grappling with the question: How did one explain to the
young boy that what had once been his arm lay in a pile of limbs in the corner?
That American Bombs had condemned him to a life of otherness, of crippledom,
that a few moments of horrible, wrenching impact had altered his future forever?
The worst part was that the boy was so quiet, so uncomplaining, so accepting.
He wanted the boy to rise up shouting, demanding, screaming at the unfairness
of it all. He spoke no english, but the translator relayed the message. "He
just wants to know, where is my arm," said the old robed man with the turban
and long grey beard.
Johnson cursed about it afterward. "Fuckin' W Bush, more perverted than a
dozen pedophiles. Look at what he done to those children. How many lives
has he fucked up? All 'cause of some playground petty argument. Saddam insulted
his daddy, so he sends in the troops and fucks up everybody's life. Shit.
Fuckin' W bush ain't no more grown up than a 4-year old."
Clever Sergeant, said nothing, simply glared. A mere few months ago (another
lifetime) such talk would have been unthinkable. Disloyalty, unpatriotic.
But now, with morale crumbling, the mission dragging on, Sergeant knew the
troops needed to let off steam. He was obligated to glare, to cling to the
remains of established order, but in his heart he knew the same feelings
of conflict, wrestled sleepless with what grueling duty required.
"W fo' WORTHLESS!" shouted Johnson, after Sergeant had left the room. "WORTHLESS
FUCKIN' BUSH!"
Typical Johnson, voicing the frustration he himself felt deep inside. But
now Johnson was gone, an empty silence where the cantankerous familiar voice
of his friend had once been.
And now he supposed the others who had been on patrol with him were dead
as well. His dreams of passion with the beautiful afro-american lady-driver,
fantasized nights of sweaty rhythmic exertion and release, were now char-broiled
steak riddled with shards of glass. He remembered bits and pieces now, how
he had been sitting in the right rear seat, perfectly positioned to flirt
with the eyes of the beautiful black woman driving, exchanging knowingly
arched eyebrows, the sound of her lusty almost-masculine laughter.
He remembered how he had seen the bomb, something resembling dynamite sticks
tied together with wire, flying towards the windshield. He had ducked, accidentally
pulled the latch causing the door to fall open, him to fall out. The blinding
flash, the thundering din, followed by the silence of his ringing ears. Perhaps
the car door had shielded him from the blast. Some cursed miracle that had
spared him while it released his companions from this hell.
He knew that the gloriously silky-soft smooth feminine face of the driver,
a great work of beautiful art, had been mercilessly shredded, rudely vandalized
by unfeeling flame. Obscenely graffitied, courtesy of Nasty Worthless Fuckin'
Bush and his stupid, arrogant, childish playground bickering and bullying.
In her last heroic act, the beautiful negro woman had slammed on the brakes,
so that when he hit the ground the velocity did not kill him. There was her
final goodbye-kiss, a profound act of tenderness, their final lovemaking,
her foot jammed hard on the brakes gently, caressingly, touched his body
through its jarring impact on the hard, bumpy road. He felt himself falling
once more, and darkness closed around him and he tumbled into dreams of confusion
and decay.
When he awoke, the room was filled with daylight. The girl stood before him,
holding a tray with food on it. Weird, foreigner's food. What happened to
good ol' steak and potatoes? The kinda breakfast that sticks to your ribs!
She stood on tiptoes, to set it on his lap. Even more infuriatingly beautiful
in the innocence of morning sunlight, God's new day.
His hunger awoke with the aroma of warm grain. The food was good. He wasn't
even sure what it was, but it filled him in a way those army rations didn't,
quite. The girl sat, Indian-style (Persian-style) on a mat on the floor beside
his bed. Endlessly watching, fidgeting childlike, her eyes deep pools of
secret beauty. She had an elusive quality of the ages of time. Sometimes
when he looked at her face, he saw the contours of ancient civilizations.
She seemed at once ever so young, yet ancient and wise beyond the years of
the earth.
He tried to hate her again, but now bathed in the warm cleansing rays of
innocent sunlight he found it difficult. His mind drifted to the time he
and Johnson had found a couple of Iraqi whores, how she opened her moist
vein of pleasure for his throbbing desire, her above him like a stormy sky,
the sounds of pleasure in the next room from Johnson and his girl. How when
he shot his shrapnel into her abdomen it reminded him of the feeling of firing
off his machine-gun in battle. How his trusty M-4 carbine danced like a feather
in his hands as it sprayed harsh metal U.S. bullets, pain searing through
the greasy Al-Qaida sleazeball, tearing into the flesh of the enemy like
nails into bleeding flesh on the cross. The sleazy whore, he imagined her
moans to be cries of agony, her nipples like the hardened tips of bullets
protruding from the soft flesh of her dangling round boobs, hanging above
him like strange fruit swaying in the branches of the water-balloon tree.
Nearly finished eating now, he muttered to himself, "I wonder if these people
have any coffee." The girl re-appeared (he hadn't noticed she had gone) with
a large mug full of steaming dark liquid. Gingerly he tasted, and instantly
almost spat out the bitter-sweet syrupy stuff. But coffee it was, and it
satisfied the need (at least, until he abruptly reached the sandy grounds
at the bottom)
When she saw him finish she grinned and held out her hand to take the mug.
Leaning forward she snatched it and bounced away out the door. In the few
seconds that she was gone, he found himself missing her. Damn.
She returned with a long, cream-colored robe, and for the first time he realized
he was naked. She held it out to him. Where was his camouflage? His equipment?
His machine-gun?
He slid, rolling out of the sheets to standing, unconsciously running his
hand along the back of his shaved neck, when he noticed the swelling in the
back of his skull. Nervously he probed with his fingers, until he hit a tender
spot that sent sparks of agony across his field of vision. OK, better leave
well enough alone.
He realized he was standing naked in front of this gaunt, beautiful 10-year-old
girl, waiting patiently for him to take the robe she held, her eyes alternating
between gazing at his face and glancing down at his manhood unfolding in
front of her. Annoyed at the half-erection, he snatched the robe and held
it between them.
Again he tried to be angry, but her fawning gaze melted his rage, and try
as he might he couldn't connect the jumper cables between her and the greasy
Al-Qaida and the soft sweet loving eyes in front of him now.
He held out the robe in disgust. "I can't wear this," he said. Apparently
she mistook his ethnocentric narrow-mindedness for the technical uncertainty
of how to don the garment, and she lifted it from his hands and circled behind
him, expertly draping it over his shoulders. As her gentle fingers smoothed
the wrinkles down his back, he felt a tingle of affectionate yearning.
Not the kind of yearning he was accustomed to, not the usual pelvic twitch,
but something softer than that. It was a shift within his breast, a calming
of his heartbeat. As though the egg in the nest shifted, finally the warmth
of the hen's thighs had yielded its fruit, and ready to hatch, the shell
began to crack and crumble. That was it, a softening of his heart. The hardened
shell to be replaced by something soft and alive.
He shook his head. He had to hate these people. his sanity demanded it. Or
did it? They were being so kind to him (so far, at least).
She smiled up at him, and the brightness of the innocent morning sunlight
filled his soul.
His mind spun with a million questions. Who were these people? What did they
want? When were they going to let him return to his patrol?
The mischievous warmth of her smile made all the questions fly away like
a row seagulls that had been standing on the beach being chased by a dog.
Maybe it was his hatred of her that fanned the flames of her affection, the
impossible challenge, the mountaintop in the distance. Whatever the cause,
she had succeeded in sinking her hooks into his fragile heart, and ever so
gradually (but unrelentingly) she was reeling him in.
She took his hand, and led him out into the hallways, around a corner, through
another door, and he was astonished to find himself standing on the edge
of an enormous beautiful garden, his senses flooded with sunlight, sweet
floral scents, the buzzing of insects, and the fluttering of butterflies.
The garden was enclosed on the four sides by the graceful arches of the home
they were in, open to the sky above. Pulling on his arm, she led him over
to a wooden bench, where the two of them sat down together, her leaning affectionately
against him. He sensed unseen eyes on them, and thought he glimpsed through
the leaves in the other corner of the garden, the eyes of the older woman,
smiling smugly, knowingly behind her glasses.
His mind was filled with crazy imaginings ... He pictured the himself and
the girl getting married in a big expensive wedding, living together in a
big expensive house, her by his side as they drove their SUV on vacation
in the mountains...
He shook his head. No, he couldn't even be imagining such things. Maybe it
was something they put into the food. Or the coffee. He tried to force his
mind to reason through the predicament. Surely, he couldn't just attempt
to escape. First, he would need to find his things, don his grubby, grimy,
scratchy, heavy uniform in place of the comfortable, loose clean garment
he was wearing.
Then what? It was well known that the life-expectancy of a lone American
in this part of town was not long. He sighed. Ok, so he would just have to
wait.
She swung one leg from the bench, crossed over the other knee that dug softly
into his thigh, rhythmically with the swinging.
He found his resolve to escape melting in the sunlight, with his fascination
of this feeling he had never known before. Sure, he had had girlfriends back
home before. Everyone else did, it was expected. But this was different,
special. Just for him. It made him feel like a celebrity.
He tried to put his finger on what was different. Those other girls had been
like something he had owned. With the girl beside him he had a strange new
yearning to make her happy, to do everything for her, to turn him into the
queen of his life.
Sheer insanity.
He had known the way things were headed when she had leaned her elbow intentionally
against his hard-on in the afternoon sun.
Dinner had been more than he could eat, and as he lay down in the bed to
sleep, she curled up on a mat beside him. He wondered, did she usually? Or
was this her bed? He tried to take her place and put her up on the bed, (Whoa,
where did that act of compassion come from?) but she refused and so they
lay together separately.
Until the bombs thundered in the distance. She sat up with a start. At her
innocent age, she well knew the twisted perversion of what a bomb could do.
Boom, Boom, in the distance, they could feel the impact through the floor.
She climbed up under the sheets beside him, and he felt the intense heat
and trembling of her tiny body against his naked skin. She was really scared.
Awkwardly, he tried to comfort her, caressing and putting his arms around
her, holding her. At this point, he was too numb to be scared, too numb to
feel anything except tired of the violence. She pushed herself against him,
and the trembling eased. Eventually the bombing ceased, but she stayed with
him, cuddled in his arms, facing away in spoon formation.
They dozed lightly, and in the middle of the night he woke up to find her
lovingly running her finger up and down the length of his almost painfully
hardened penis. She started to see him awake, but did not stop running her
finger, from the base to the head and back again, lightly sending tingles
up his spine with each gesture. the mysterious huge dark orbs of her child's
eyes penetrating unblinkingly all the while.
We could be dead tomorrow, he thought. How could it be a crime to make love
tonight? And he knew it was wrong, but he waited in vain for the voice of
his conscience to scream out for him to halt. Silence.
She turned around, and he brushed the tip down the crack of her tiny buttocks.
His finger slipped between her legs, and he felt the dryness of her sacred
valley, so he began to gently knead her clitoris. Startled, she moaned softly,
spreading her legs to grant him better access. With his other hand, he ran
his fingers lightly up and down her thin, flat chest, each time when he touched
her flat penny-sized nipples, a jolt of electric ecstasy pulsed through her
body. Her moans grew in volume and intensity. She closed her enormous eyes
and relaxed her head back onto his chest.
He kissed her sweet innocent lips, and she responded, chasing his tongue
as he ran its tip around her mouth. The fingers of his hand in between her
legs were now dripping with delightfully slimy stickiness, and he probed
gently the hole, eliciting a gasp of pleasure.
He felt an intense longing, desire, partnership, friendship with this strange
beautiful young girl. "I love you," he said, wondering if he had ever truthfully
said it before to anyone. Sure, he knew that saying I love you got girls
to have sex with him. But this time, unlike the rest, the words sprang from
a deep inner fount of emotion, of intense caring for this exquisitely wonderful
tiny person.
More than anything, he wanted to make her happy. He ignored the hard-on,
and it subsided to some extent, but he knew it would come back. His heart
raced as he turned her around, and traced with his tongue a thin line from
the bottom of her throat, to her belly button, down, down, down...
His mind swirled with a never-before known thrill as his tongue engulfed
her sweet smooth sexuality, the forbidden secret honey-button, oh so sweet.
She threw back her head, legs spread, caressing his ears as the rough surface
of his tongue stimulated the flowing juices, opened the floodgates of ecstatic
pleasure.
He had read somewhere that even a girl as young as four years old was capable
of orgasm, but he had never believed it. That is, until tonight. When her
writhing thrusts slowed to a climax, and she exploded around his mouth, hands
ripping at the stubble that covered his scalp, there was no mistaking.
The time had come. His machine-gun had reloaded, and stood like a grand sentry
before her, harder than ever before.
He kissed her again, smearing her juice against her lips. She responded with
passion he had never known with a "real" woman, reaching her tiny hand down
to guide the barrel of his gun towards her waiting, dripping, burning, aching
valley of desire.
Once more he ran his hand up and down her smooth, hairless torso, simultaneously
sparking the ecstasy of contact with her nipples and poking the tip of it
into her hole.
She gasped, and shuddered, arching her back to force him inside of her, surrounding
him with the loving hot sliminess of her nurturing lower mouth. He felt a
ripping, and release, and she whimpered softly but continued pushing and
pulling, working him into her like a fishhook, relentlessly reeling him in.
As they made love, it was as if every particle of animosity between their
two cultures had disintegrated and flown away like leaves in the breeze,
leaving the sky clear as if after a newly fallen rain. In their love, they
had discovered the language both shared, that words could never describe.
And somehow in their union, they felt unknowingly a new hope for the human
race, for the generations on the planet, for the nations and rulers.
As he exploded into her, they came together, and he gave her the gift of
his seed in exchange for her nurturing, as both shared sweet secret sacred
symbols in the common tongue of sexual pleasure, the walls and barriers of
culture and values tumbled down. Their orgasm was like a trumpet before the
walls of Jericho. His release set free a pure white dove of freedom and equality
whose wings beat powerfully the winds of change spreading over the entire
earth.
The walls of hostility dividing classes, races, and nations crumbled to dust
before the brazen defiance of their forbidden orgasm. They dared the fates,
the destinies, the graces, the winds, the gods and titans, the mountains.
They defied the world of division and agony, and as it receded a new one
sprang up in its place. A world, maybe imagined, but in which they lived
for the duration of their blissful bubble, a world of equality, of plenty,
of laughter and celebration.
As if lifted in an enormous colorful hot-air balloon, or looking back through
the picture-window in a taking-off rocketship, the walls and boundaries and
laws, rules, and morass of mores that had seemed so overwhelming shrunk to
antsize as the landscape receded and blended into one circle of light and
life.
In their laughing, giggling, gleeful giddy bubble they soared above all the
commotion of judgment and division, laughed refreshingly in the face of old
identities that fluttered to the ground like untethered fetters, tattered
costumes of the old regime as they pirouetted and lept naked over the starlit
moonscape below.
Days passed, he lost count of how many. He grew so accustomed that his old
world seemed now to be the foreign one. The lump on the back of his head
was healing, and he even started to get used to the Turkish coffee.
And there was the girl. Though it hardly seemed like his love for her could
swell to greater proportions, every day it did. But overhanging their passion
and emotional caring was the knowledge that someday it would need to end,
soon they would come looking for him, and eventually somebody would ask the
right questions, leading them back to him.
The ecstatic orgasms followed in the moonlight by gentle caresses and the
coziness of each others warmth as together they watched the birds flying
across the cloudy night sky, the sunshine of daylight warmth as she methodically
moaned in pleasure, impaled on the stiffness of his staff, drawing out the
sweetness again and again as they made love day and night, both sensing the
impending shadow of approaching reconnaissance mission, until one day as
they were sitting together (fortunately clothed -- but holding hands) the
old woman in glasses ushered in Sergeant, along with two other uniformed
and musket-toting soldiers.
"How are you doing?" Sergeant asked.
The reply was a sigh, and with misunderstood reluctance "Alright."
Their parting was simple, daydream-like. He gave her a hug, and she squeezed
him tighter than ever before, and when she finally let go he was ushered
through the milling crowd of glaringly sullen onlookers into the armored
vehicle.
The last he saw of her was her enormous dark eyes, as she sadly gazed through
the curtain of dust rising behind the vehicle, watching him being taken away.
He looked down and covered his face to conceal the tears from the men next
to him.
The debriefing (the first of many) was brief. Sergeant walked in as he was
sitting in his bunker, studied the scene, sat down opposite diagonally in
an adjacent chair. Sergeant and soldier, soldier continued staring off into
nothingness.
Sargent, seeing that the other would remain silent, opened the conversation.
"Guess they'll be sending you back soon."
Soldier looked up blankly, eyes filled with deep-seated confusion. He recalled
the time Sergeant had made them march in a circle chanting "Kill Osama, Kill
Al-Qaida!" Then flashed the image of the beautiful people who fed him, who
loved him.
The gun that had once danced as a feather in the palms of his hands lay before
him on the stern metal coffee table. He picked it up and held it, in his
arms, sensing the familiarity. But even without ammunition, its cumbersome
heaviness overwhelmed him. His arms grew weary, sagged with the burden, and
he allowed gravity to defeat his grasp on it as he gently set it back on
the table.
"I can't kill these people," he said simply.
"Now let me ask you straight," said the sergeant. "Did they use any force
of manipulation or torture to coerce you or break down your willpower?"
He smiled. "No sir. They took good care of me."
"You're sure about that."
"Yes sir."
"Alright then." Sergeant stood up again. "I ain't gonna try and pry it out
of you, 'cause when you get back there'll be a dozen head-shrinkers to do
that. So I guess I'll leave you to your contemplations."
"Yes sir. Thank you sir."
Sooner than he imagined possible, he found himself high in the sky on an
airplane, staring out the too-tiny round plastic window down at the houses
below, wishing her in the empty seat beside him, studying the landscape,
the palaces and gardens, wondering which one was hers, until all gradually
receded and vanished behind him to be replaced by the monotonously dull gray
expanse, and finally the ocean.
Even without her, he felt his heart lighter than ever before, a dove in flight,
soaring beyond the rainbow bridge to eternal peace bliss and harmony.
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