E. to T


       I feel like a character in a John Revolta movie, some kind of exotic timer attached to at least a dozen hydrogen bombs, and the whole kit and caboodle is under my chair, which is a lie because I’m lying on an air mattress, and, thanks to Mavis, typing like you do, with the keyboard (the whole machine) on my belly.  I tilted the mattress by putting in on a slight slope, feet down, and with a sleeping back behind my neck and shoulder it’s way comfortable.  Watch out batteries, because this crippled up tomboy is going to wear you right, plain out.
       
       For openers, I want to nail you right between the eyes.  Kazaa.  Oh, it hit like a thunderclap.  Kazaa, kaboom, kasnap, kacrash.  It’s too obscure for a reader quiz.  Not guessable, how’s that?  Oh, I want a lot of your ego, but even a little is killer.  I did it, I’m great, I though of something world-wracking and earth shaking.  See if you agree.  
       
       Let’s see, where to begin.  And it’s so simple really.  Sometimes they seem to be the hardest thing to get on the screen (Mavis is of no help).  Olay, rock stars wear special mics, I mean, they’re not special, because telephone operators have been using them forever, but anyway, Dad has one packed in his with his camera gear, and I gave it to Sheila.  Need I say more?  Have you ever heard close up, high-fidelity audio of a girl being raped for the first time?  And yes, it was plugged into the camcorder, so there’s video to go with it.  Don’t worry about K.’s membership, you won’t even be able to get on to count it a few weeks from now.  I’ve attached a file and hope it downloads faster than K.  So beautiful, ears or eyes, just wait, but I’m getting ahead of myself (and why would you want to wait?).
       
       I’m following your lead in not offering much description, having browsed on Nifty and downloaded another of your stories.  I especially liked your comment about New England writers having to be great so they didn’t depress the heck out of their readers six dreary months or more every year.  Anyway, we’re stashed comfy as bugs in a rug in a little used Florida campsite, it’s flat, there are lots of insects and birds to listen to, the clouds are white, the sky is blue, and half an hour on “The Discover Channel” and you’ve seen and heard it all.  I knew that moronic box, documentary channels excluded, had to be of some use.
       
       Dad, Karl, and Sheila all say not only hello but thanks!  Me too!  Talk about owing you.  Well, the attached is a down payment.  (Don’t know if it’ll hurt or help our record pace.)
       
       This chapter takes us back to the night before last, Del standing, legs spread, hands on my bare shoulders, as I began masturbating him for his first rape of my virgin schoolgirl body.  We were fantasizing about having Robbie and Stan with us, agreeing Dad could take me with either or both of them in the room, but it was something he’d leave up to his imagination.  His “borders” and mine, too; guess it’s just a comfort thing, and I’m glad because as you stress, borders are almost what it’s all about, and not just when it comes to incest.
       
       As far as the mail thing goes, why it seems simple enough to a genius like me, it’s your ego.  Of course, the joke here is that not only are you every bit as good as you say your are, quality and quantity, you are better than you think you are.  Herman Wouk makes the A-list of American writers, and it took him seven years to turn out that cow flop and static, humorless rehash of Roosevelt’s Folly: “War and Remembrance.”  Reading it, you can almost picture the Great Jew now availing himself of a tome at the urban library where he has just been grandly greeted and is now being admirably catered to.  In the hush, how do we not picture him partaking of the volume’s scholarly contents?   Dissolve to the Great Jew departing for his studio, perhaps nodding to his staff as he makes his way to the Great Desk.  Final scene: hat, gloves, and overcoat meticulously hung, our Elegance majestic in his capacious and ornate half-throne of a chair, the exquisitely manicured and bejeweled sausage fingers flex and descend to the keys.  “Pug” he types.  Such a start to the day  You flash him on one page and sizzle him on the next.  Bravo, and, hey, you only need one fan: me!  (How’s that for double-timing?)
       
       How sensational I feel is what I can’t get across.  How beyond-comprehension your stories are when they fit.  What it leaves me wondering, is this: are they being used to foster relationships?  You are ever vigilant in cautioning against anything approaching rape, in the true sense of the word, and can be held as blameless as the company making gas cans clearly labeled Flammable, Danger, and so on.  Even so I’m sure misuse occurs, just as it does with the gas in the can.  Hey, on the one hand we can eliminate gas cans, and, on the other, the written word.  I hope both are safe.  But, again, I wonder if relationships like mine and my family’s have grown from your seminal prose (and poetry), dearth of letters notwithstanding.  If I had to guess I’d say it has never happened, for better or worse.  I think Nifty is just an entity to itself, vastly read but at the same time totally isolated.  As you say, this gives us unprecedented freedom to tell unvarnished and uncorrupted truths.  Repeat, unprecedented.  How could, after all, letters help  but distort you (and perhaps me, after this is posted)?  Or, is it distortion, or just more input such as you get from other writers, alternative and mainstream, and life, in general?  If I ponder that on my next visit to Starbucks, I’ll have to bring a porta-pottie.  
       
       You delve further into the soul of a writer than anyone I’ve ever read.  Others, sure, have mussed with it, but I almost wonder how anyone could read a hundred pages of you and not emerge as a writer of some real caliber.  Reading, too.  Yeah, I suppose you just flat-out show off in the language once in awhile, as in the first scene of Mozart and Salieri in the film, but still you try to make it fun and I think must teach people to read as well as write.  Of course, spoiling them for anyone else is an issue, but I don’t think our friend M. bothered himself over casting a shadow.  (Only painters might benefit from that hang-up, I should think.)
       
       The IQ thing is awesome.  It’s quite something being the smartest person ever born, and being able to prove it to the coarsest amongst us, it must be.  But you know what?  I do feel a twinge for your mother.  You must have been like Pinky’s faulty sidekick in the cartoon of a few years ago.  How would she know what to do with you?  There’re a hundred books in every store about dealing with – ha, ha –   deficient and dysfunctional kids, but a double genius, plus?  Too rare, you know, one in all of history, a phenomenon to warrant a market.  I’d have sent you to Spain so you could learn the language and ride Lipizzaners, I mean that’s what I think you would have liked, Hemingway or no Hemingway.  Then king on top of that, with all it entails, and premier literary artist, as you said, unarguable, and I gather you’ve been sole support of a family of six for almost ten years, so you’re something of a domestic beast.  It’s hard to picture any appropriate parking place for your car lest the sign read: “Reserved for God.”  Plus you’re rich, with Naushon and the Elizabeth Islands, trust funds, and more and more and more including self effacing and funny.  My god, what if you were modest – an awe shucks, anyone could do this, it’s nothing special kinda guy?  Frightening, and I never mentioned Samantha once.
       
       This really should be a reader quiz.  When you come to write an autobiographical magnum opus, what will you title it?  Four words, there’s a hint.  Somewhat aligned with what these days passes for a great movie scene, from “Titanic”.  Think hard.  You allude to it in “Poet of Phu Bai”.  The certain responsibilities you acknowledge as both inherent and unique, and what a burden those responsibilities are.  The freedom you’d have to be just an entertainer, without them.  I really should hold the answer for our next exchange, see if you can guess the title, but we seem to have already temporized with our audience to the point of teasing, so I’ll not add to the aggravation.  This is you longing for freedom from a prison ironically both of your own mind and of all of civilized history, writing poignantly, writing beautifully, writing, again, free, under the title: “If I Weren’t King.”  Cool, eh?
       
       Not time for bed, oh, not by a long shot, but nonetheless time for the bedroom.
       
       
       Both children were by now panting, shaking, and barely able to whisper.  A plain but perhaps a little foxy girl, twelve, and her mature, athletic brother trembling and quaking as he stands between the vixen’s legs.  Both are naked.  The male’s hands brace on the female’s shoulders, while the girl’s hands work together wetting the male where he’s the most sensitive and spreading the slickness down over him with stroke after deliberate stroke.  The boy is a little experienced, but this is his first time naked with a female, while the girls is overwhelmingly virgin.  They are natural brother and sister, wrapping both in a shimmering aura of taboo, but they like each other and masturbating together would likely excite them if they came from separate universes.  They continue whispering, voices dripping lust.
       
       “I like experimenting,” the girl, Erica, says, “but I never want to do it again, at least for awhile.  Once I know what you actually do, what it actually looks like, I’m going to want you in my belly every time it happens after this.  Not just for the physical feeling, your penis surging inside me, but for knowing what you’ve left me with every time we’re successful together. 
       “Will you tell Robbie and Stan?,” she asks.
       “They might want to show off for you once in awhile,” Del answers, “would that be okay?”
       “If I’m with the three of you, and only one wants to, and only the first time, it might.” Erica allows, and the athlete squeezes his sister’s naked shoulders fondly as a reward for her flexibility and good-natured goodwill.  She’s obviously going to be fun to hang out with, her little pet preferences a minor issue next to her winsome ways and general charm, though, in truth, his friends and he love to watch each other ejaculate, slicking this or that pubescent body with a hot gushes of pulsing cum, especially when it sprays on the lower belly and upper thighs.  In time, perhaps she’ll see the beauty of what a healthy, athletic boy can do and come to see it not as a messy necessity but as something of at least transient beauty.  Not that there will be any lack of aesthetic appeal, Del realizes, to seeing the tall, craggy, Robbie moving steadily between the schoolgirl’s long slim legs, her ankles pulling him as do her arms, but girls aren’t made of glass and obscuring those long, final moments is an imperfection.  
       
       Girls should be sensitized to the beauty of the climax of a handsome young male as they are to music, painting, and literature.  Dell tries picturing a man unhappily married to a female who never tires of seeing the hot sperm spilling freely and copiously from his straining, sweating, loins, and finds the notion bizarre.  
       While the girl mostly looks at her brother’s hugely swollen erection, as he leans against her in shaking anticipation, they also look into each other’s glowing eyes.  Forbidden.  Her perfect medium-strawberry nipples jutting urgently from her pubescent breasts, forbidden.  His iron hard boner, huge in her pretty feminine hands, well, to the boy it about defines “forbidden”.  His pending release onto her face and all over her shoulders, panting chest and heavy childish stomach?  No authority would approve for a moment: forbidden.  His second rape of her, leaving his sperm swimming deep inside her virgin body, clamoring against her cervix, flooding her womb, not an un-forbidden frame in the whole film.  Trying to temporize, trying to hold on, trying to make this quaking pleasure last every possible lifetime moment, the boy searches his mind.  What else is forbidden?  History.  Think back.  Two thousand years ago, what was the greatest taboo going, the most forbidden of the forbidden and banned of the banned?  Why, it was Christianity.  An if it hadn’t been?  “Hey, your Christ dude sounds great, come on over for dinner, meet the wife and kids, and tell us all about Him.”  Wouldn’t the whole thing have died out, victim of boredom by ten or twelve A.D.?
       But it was useless.  She’s too pretty in her own tomboy way, too industrious, wants him wantonly, fully, and obviously, she’s mewing to him, she’s praising, encouraging, coaching, and coaxing him.
       
       “Baby, yes,” she whimpers,  “let me see, make me a girl, a real one, start me off as a woman, be my husband on our wedding night, be the pool boy in the cabana, be a stag teaching Bambi, be forever in my dreams, be successful with me, my love, be it, my love, my love, and be it now, my love, now, my love, now, now, now, my love, love, love, be hot with me, cum on me, Del, cum, cum, cum on me.”
       The male is unable to speak but grips his sister’s shoulders in a fury of tension.  His breath hisses, almost whistling.  His strong legs cord and ripple as his belly goes rigid as a washboard and he freezes.  Erica senses the tornado now in her very bedroom and jerks her right hand to the base of her young stallion, gripping him as he’s gripping her shoulders.  The sperming begins immediately, splashing like electric current against her face and causing her to shriek in shock and astonishment.  The gentle, tender drops she’s expecting him to leave on her heaving breasts are nothing of the sort.  It’s one hot, hard, pulsing spurt after another, nothing delicate and sentimental; gentle and romantic about it, more a lashing, feral, angry punishment that, if anything, becomes wilder as it goes on and on.  The tableau is rigid, no movement other than heaving chests.  Erica adapts quickly, now welcoming her animal and even able to take moments to gaze up hotly into his glazed eyes before again bowing her head so she can watch her straining nipples actually disappear under a white tide of flowing semen.  And then it is slowing, feeble spurts low on her tummy, yielding to a gentling flow than cascades down over her white-knuckled hands, and finally seeming to stop, as unlikely an event as its savagely wild beginning.
       
       The twelve year old girl falls slowly, panting, back on her bed, murmuring to her brother as she eases him on top of her.  The shift slightly, Erica spread her legs wide, Del moves his forearms against the back of her knees, forcing them along side her, hunches over her, finds her unaided, and begins stroking gently against her.  She realizes she’s being mounted as it happens, again crying out, welcoming, coaxing.  Del is complete, not instantly, but surely, hundreds of short, strokes of his powerful hips reducing his sister to a mewing wreck by the time he lunges his arms hard against her knees and buries himself to completion with an animal grow.  “Are you okay,” he whispers softly, remaining rigid as the girl awakens to the fact that she as been irrevocably raped.
       
       “I’ve never been okay in my life, it turns out,” Erica answers with a shy smile, although she’s beginning to be stunned by how backward the human condition actually is.  Shouldn’t this be the norm?  Twenty something hours a day, with perhaps half an hour twice a week dedicated to other activities like housekeeping and livelihood?   Shouldn’t every girl in the world, and girls years younger than her twelve years, hold a beautiful boy in her arms, feel his chest hot against hers, bonded doubly by the agent of his spilled seed?  “Think what a joy cooking and dishes would be in such a world,” she muses silently.
       “I think you’re so far inside me, your penis is in my womb,” the whispers.
       “It feel that way, from just where it gets purple,” Del breathes back.  At intervals he rises on his powerful arms to gaze down into her smiling, welcoming eyes, then lowers again to the ecstasy of her hard nipples and sleek, slick heat.
       “Are you going to have to move to spray again?” she wants to know.
       “Not this time,” her brother whispers back softly, now lying gently fully against her childish body, his sister’s fingers tracing his forehead and temples, “I can feel it cumming, well, pretty soon, just from being inside you.”
       “What feels amazing to me,” she responds with a trace of a giggle, “is that there’s hide or hair of you outside me.”
       “Getting you pregnant may be an answer,” the handsome young stallion observes, responding to the muted yearning in his sister’s whisper.
       “You say the smartest things,” Erica smiles.
       “I wonder why?” the boy responds.
       
       They lie so for a long time, almost businesslike, he feeling no desire to kiss her, she feeling no desire to climax against his rugged, athletic chest, but both, rather, waiting almost patiently for their final act together before they can return to their rooms, put on their pajamas, and fall comfy asleep, happy denizens of a forsaken-god world.  These are not ordinary children having a boink for primitive gratification or to pass a dull evening, no, their minds race on as the girl happily, almost dreamily, awaits her coming child.
       “The trouble with liberals,” Del says, “not that there isn’t nothing but trouble with liberals,  but their special weakness is their inability to conceive failure.”
       “God is perfect,” Erica murmurs in response, “and he chose the Jews, thus they are perfect, and they are liberal, so it follows, by the simplest logic imaginable, that when liberal policies are implemented no review is needed because who wants to tamper with perfection?”
       “It sound facetious, but it’s not,” Del responds, “there is a mindless arrogance at their core, leading to disasters of permanence.  In my mind, it’s all emblemized by what they’re doing up in Boston.  Spending nearly fifteen billion hard dollars, not the kind that float up and down in the markets, and paying high-school dropouts doing very semi-skilled labor, mostly operating sophisticated machinery a lot of guys would pay to play with,  thirty dollars an hour to dig a huge series of holes right smack dab across the midnight path of Paul Revere.  Full circle and the bottom of the very slippery slope they use, defensively, at the drop of a hat.  It is very likely the anvil that breaks the camel’s back and the absurdity that will amount to the first domino, but will Kennedy or Moakley, theoretically, because he and beard are entombed, ever admit that it was the worst idea in the world?  Any liberal?  The accountability people, but when it’s their turn, their chosen status makes the very questions absurd in their eyes – “don’t you realize?” they think, having the vague tendril of intelligence required not to come right out and say it.”
       
       “Not only don’t they stop,” Erica said, “they go on.  Now the government’s requiring food producers to list trans-fatty acids on the packaging.  The average queen of the isles can’t hold a box of spaghetti close enough to her face to read the brand name, and they’re going to ugly up the design with tiny number about minute amounts of this and that.  As with NASA, no scintilla of common good will ever be measurable, but the failure will mean nothing and the labeling standards, in their little socialist box, will mar food packaging for a hundred years, as if carved in stone.”
       “And which hundred years is that?” Del wanted to know.
       “The one that’s the product of the ultimate leap of faith,” his sister replied, “you know, the faith that we’ll be her ten years from now.  It’s rhetorical, an aid to conversation, and not bloody likely.”
       “And we should bring a baby into such a world?”
       “Absolutely,” the girl said, “we may be wrong.  My friend on the Net may be wrong.  For all we know, we could be at the verge of a new age as surely as our great grandparents were in ought-three, a century ago, no cars to all cars, no pavement to all pavement, no radio to all radio, steam to diesel, kite to wide body, no wires to totally wired, and all in a shorter human lifespan.  History is meant to repeat itself.  If you and Tom write as adamantly as you feel, you may be the literary laughingstocks of 2025, the king and queen of doom-and-gloom, the Chicken and Rooster-Little of sky-is-falling legend.  I don’t mean to be long-winded, I’m just trying to make the funniest joke I can.  Based on what?  I mean, based-on-what is any sign the two of you and the three of us ARE wrong?  In 1903, year of the Wright Brothers, not a diesel on earth, technology was a monster force that only the slime of fast-buck hucksters could spin out of control.  Now they run the place, and the latest tech consists of talking keychains.
       “What we need in place of roads and skyscrapers,” the boy continued, his sister now holding him gently, hands on his flanks, as he panted softly over her body, her legs now spread wide in welcome, “is to, a, get rid of the weeds, the bad segments of our population, pretty rough and ready, because if you get bogged down in precision, you don’t execute, and, b, import five hundred million good people.  Simple as that.  Spend the money we waste on pensions and other socialistic toilets and pipe it in through the taps.  Spend it on refurbishing the deadly and dehumanizing the current reality of mass housing tracts served by distant, in time if not in miles, but often in both, clutches of manic consumerism.  You could outline it in ten pages, implement in ten years, the Marshall plan is a good example, and, if, and only if you preceded the immigration with comprehensive weeding, yes, you actually would stand a chance of giving us at least a hundred year future.”
       “Tom wrote me about a current-technology polygraph that doesn’t just indicate deception but totally and flawlessly characterizes an individual, categorizing him or her against a vast databank representing a true norm.  You’d need something like that, because letting the responsibility rest in the hands of behavioral scientists and credentialed experts would be exactly like leaving money in the hands of politicians.”
       
       “The two would work,” the boy whispered, “clean the scum from the walls of the pool, using chlorine and scrubbing, no slap-dash job, then valve in clean water.  At first you’d need a hundred thousand machines – polygraphs…”
       “They’re not machines,” the girl said, “it’s a software package.  It works of, I think he said, eight seconds of head-and-shoulders motion picture.  Anyone can use it.  A police officer can use it in the front seat of his squad car, and not only tell if a suspect’s guilty, but tell he’s a decent guy and issue him a data card saying he’s been tested and is clean, you know, should he be pulled over in the future.  You can get the worst percentage out of any group, typically, government housing projects.  Dragnet, sweep, and clean in a matter of weeks, not taking capriciously – half the time just on the complaint of one person who happens not to like another – but on rock solid evidence of the persons overall lifestyle and tendency to fall into crime or deliberately perpetrate it.  The down side is the numbers of genuinely bad people, those who do no good and lots of intentional harm, is so large that the liberals will condemn it as barbaric, executing tens and hundreds of thousands in a few years.  The joke is, saying something like that makes everyone an add-water liberal, and, hitting them hard enough to regain their attention is probably tantamount to killing them.  Tough audience.”
       
       “We’re meant to live for the moment,” the boy responded, “and, in a sense, we are, you know, with all the eating.  We have neither leaders nor artists, tech is yesterdays news, we’re bewitched, bothered and bewildered, in the words of the ancient song, and so we eat, as much as anything because other sensual outlets are denied us by liberals who allow the emotion of a cartoon character preacher smother any reason, whatever.  Now, when the alternate sensual options occur, there’s such a guilt and voodoo feeling it engenders yet more eating.”
       “And,” the girl added, “alternative experiences don’t have to be, you know, tacky.  In fact, without a fork in your mouth most of the time, people can engage in them and converse, ruminate, philosophies, and chat to their heart’s content.”
       “Do you really think so?” Del asked, trying not to show the least doubt or tension is his rasping voice.
       “Well, I kinda do,” Erica whispered into his ear.  “It’s sort of like sailing.  These computer guys that go in fast sailboats.  I never know what the point is.  If it’s beautiful on the water, and you love the colors of the sea and the environmental experience of being close to the surface of the water, why hurry to get off it?  Why not have a race to be slowest?  To spend the most time afloat?  Build a heavy duty, semi-raft type multi-hull, maybe five or six knots under ideal conditions, but stable a durable, then drift on the currents, virtually a hundred percent storm proof, and brag to your buddies how you arranged your affairs so well you were able to spent ninety-two days drifty by Bermuda, and once saw twenty-five million fish jumping all around you for half an hour?”
       “Well,” the boy mused, “San Francisco Bay is the world’s hands-down ugliest major body of water, brown and gray, so maybe the whole idea is to get off it as fast as possible, leaving open a rather gigantic question as to why anyone would hurt his or her eyes by going on it, in the first place.”
       “Yeah,” the girl sighed.  “And they never even painted the bridge, just left it in red-lead, among the world’s ten ugliest colors.”
       “I wonder if it would look better in black or white?” Del said, proving a well-bred boy can think clearly, well, at least in b$w, even well gone in a state of ecstatic euphoria.  “Black would be bold and lurking, exciting, and white would go well with the fog.”
       “Black looks good in mass,” Erica added, “like black glass skyscrapers.  The only ships that used to be painted white were hospital ships, though you can get away with it of the design is elegant, like modern cruise ships.”
       “Maybe you could paint models, or virtual images,” the boy noted.
       “I don’t think so,” said his younger sister, “it’s too massive to simulate, and you wouldn’t know until it was done, in either color, because it can takes months to find out.”
       
       They rested awhile, both thinking “any color but red-lead” while realizing the modern-day cost of fully repainting would exceed the cost of the original construction project in dollar of you choice.  (Let’s sing along with Al : “Look for / the union label.”)  Squirming under indoctrination, that’s what they were doing.  Using their admittedly lucky breeding in contemplative nonconformity with their intellectual inferiors, and quietly refusing to respond to the ideas and ideals of neurotic midgets.  The emotional.  But a good beginning does not make a good job, and Erica and her brother both realized that at some vague, hazy point in the not-do-distant future they would have to separate their beautiful young bodies and resume island status. to await another ebb tide that would reunite them, one day leaving a third island in its wake.
       
       [ Guess I’ll send this in as one big file and post the conclusion in a week or so.  I hope it ends up in the Adult-Youth archive, along with “Poet of Phu Bi”, but if David posts it in Incest, or elsewhere, you’re a few clicks away.  The “challenge to write” is more literary than literal, time not being of the essence so much as simply the essence.  Readership on “Jimmy and Frogger” is again in near record territory, so I know you’re out there.  Enjoy.]
       
END FILE I, TEMP. STORY END.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx
       
       
       
       
       
       “Sort of like sex,” Del quipped, “we’ll have to wait months to find out whether you sprout a boy or girl.”
       “Girl,” Erica whispered happily, “I love being a girl, and if I’ve always loved it, now I adore it.  It is, in a word, sensational, and would have been maybe even ten years ago, though I can’t imagine ever wanting to play with a little boy, so ten years ago – well maybe seven or eight –  for me, but you, thirteen.  And they can adjust things these days, so a girl actually can have a girl if she wants, though, from the feeling of you inside me, it’s hard to imagine you’ll leave me with anything but a macho hellion.”
       “It’s a little hard to imagine you producing anything but a living doll,” the brother responded, and they lapsed into a short silence, Del raising on his arms to refresh the image of his powerful, young Rick Schroeder body between the widely spread legs of his Mackenzie Phillips sister.  Falling tides might join islands but a rising tide created them.  If he couldn’t think up a new topic of conversation soon, his rising was going to flood Erica, ending the most delicious time and experience of his life.  His sister was on the same wavelength, smitten as wholly as incest can smite and wanting it to last.  Her intentions may have been good, but she didn’t help much.
       
       “Del,” she whispered, “was your first time, you know, the first time you made sperm with someone really private, or can you tell me about it while I’m waiting for junior?”
       “Maybe they should paint it gold,” the boy replied, holding on by a thread, “after all, it’s the Golden Gate.  You know, why don’t they take all that gold that’s sitting in the dark at Ft. Knox and put it out in the sun, not just for the spectacle, but in tribute to the men who mined and fussed over it?”
       “Yeah,” his sister agreed, realizing that boys will be boys and this was the best option for keeping her boy almost seven delirious inches high between her athletic young legs, “they should gold-leaf the Statue of Liberty, too, and the arch in St. Louis.”
       
       Each was preaching to the choir, so they nodded and lapsed again into silence, the preteen gently stroking her brothers face, toying with his almost massive shoulders, and running her hands kitten-like up and down Del’s muscular flanks.  After awhile the tension eased slightly.
       
       “I think I can tell you,” the boy whispered to his younger sister.
       “It’s okay if you spray,” his sister assured him, “I’m totally ready for it to happen with you, but this is time in heaven so I hope it lasts a little longer.”
       “Just don’t move, at all,” Del advised, “the feeling of being way up inside you is like the whole world means nothing else, times ten when you move, and then I stop and think, ‘my god, she’s totally fertile and the head of my penis is deep in her womb,’ and that’s times another ten.”
       “It feels the same to me when you move,” the child gasped hoarsely, “and your semen was so white, meaning, I think, that there was lots of sperm in it and, if I’m not mistaken, that you’re a very potent male.  That’s a lot for a girl to ignore, but I love what we’re sharing, this is the happiest moment of my life, and I’ll try to be an ice princess while you give me a hint as to what happened by touching my body in the same place you first took the seed of a male on your body, would that be a place to start?”
       
       The boy responded by – carefully – moving his right hand to his sister’s cute, little boy face and stroking her lips, mindful of their mutually accepted injunction against kissing and mushy stuff.
       
       “I saw it get all over Robbie, just like it happened with us,” he explained, “and somehow when he came to me, I wanted to do what I’d seen in a porn magazine, so that’s the way it happened.”
       “Will we do it that way sometime?” Erica asked.
       “Not for awhile,” the boy mused in response, “I think you should have that experience with Robbie, Stan, or when you find a mustang.  If I had to fantasize about it, I’d like to be out in the woods, inside you, like I am now, and watch my friends cum in your mouth, if you’re old enough.  When that’s happened a few times, if you want to try it together, sure, but nothing in the world but nothing in the world beats being in your belly.”
       “If Robbie was cumming all over my face and getting a lot of sperm on my lips so I could lick some of it and try tasting it, would that make you cum in me?” the girl said.
       “Repeatedly,” the boy whispered, “and even more if it was a male dad’s age.  I don’t want to ever have this kind of thing happen with him, no particular reason, but adult males can be pretty awesome, so that’s part of my fantasy over what might happen.”
       “It’s pretty amazing,” Erica observed, “to think there could be anything more than this, just lying with my beautiful brother and talking while he’s inside me, but once in awhile something really wild like that might work.  I’d even like to get totally gang raped once in my life; just thrown on a dirty bed in a cheap motel and used like a rag doll by six or eight guys all night long.  Black guys are beautiful, so maybe by a basketball team.”
       “I’d love to see you with a bunch of athletes,” Del whispered, “semen all over your breasts and face, and totally slicked on your thighs and belly from what they’d done to you.”
       “Was it just one adult that got Robbie wet, you know, that first time?” the nascent pixie mother whispered.
       “There were three of them,” her brother replied.  “It happened on a Saturday a few months ago, when Robbie and I were out on our bikes.  We saw this huge model airplane circling nearby, so we rode down a side road and found its landing field.  There was a motor home and Mike, Chad, and Henry were teaching Chad’s nephew, Roy, he was about eight, to land it with the radio controller.  They waved at us to come over, so we parked our bikes and joined them.  It was more exciting than anything on television because we could tell if Roy did something wrong there was going to enough balsa splinters to barbecue a steer.  The third time, he got the main gear on the runway, a piece of old roadway they’d patched and smoothed up, but it started porpoiseing  and he had to add power and get it back in the air.  He was sweating and shaking but the older guys were really cool and let him try again.  The fourth time he did it and they were all hugging and kissing him, so I guess there’s more to life than video games.  They were just about to do lunch and invited us to hang around and try their burgers.  That’s how we got to know each other.  Robbie and I did the cleanup then we all lay on a grass bank near the camper and Roy lay on top of Chad.  They didn’t really do anything, the boy was on his back and the man just rubbed his tummy a little.  Mice beckoned to us, so we moved over to him, and he said he wanted to talk to us for a few minutes, in private, if that was okay.  We said sure, and went off behind the camper with him while Henry stayed with the other two.  He said he’d come right to the point – you know, cut to the chase – and if we were freaked or anything, he’d understand and we could hang around for the afternoon flying or go on with whatever else we wanted to do.  We were pretty nervous, half, I think, because they were such good-looking guys, but we nodded, implying we wouldn’t be weirded out.  He told us Roy was becoming very interested in the things older boys do and was pretty frank about indicating that he wanted to experiment.  Then he said he and Chad and Henry used to experiment a lot together whey they were younger, but they hadn’t done anything like that as adults since none of them were gay.  He wanted to know if we had that kind of relationship and we shook our heads and murmured, No.  ‘No pressure,’ he then said, ‘but if you’d like us to teach you while Roy watches it would be way cool,’   He added that it would definitely amount to the three of them getting us naked and molesting us for an hour or two, because a boy’s first experience should be complete so he doesn’t go off confused and only half understanding what happened.  Then he left, saying if we thought we wanted to try it we should just make ourselves at home and go into the motor home when we were ready, either of us or both of us, separately or together.
       
       “We went back and lay side by side on the grass, whispering to each other.  The gist of it was we agreed this was about as awesome a first time as any kid could ask for, then agreed we wanted to stay together, at least in the beginning.  It took us ten minutes or so to get up the nerve, and I don’t know if you could measure whether we were sort of daring each other to go, or not go.  I guess something like that is pretty obvious, to a boy anyway, so there weren’t any surprises, and finally we stood up and tried to walk normally over to the home and climb in.
       
       “Wish Stan was here,” Robbie whispered as they sat on the strange leather couch, “imagine being at the dentist while we’re here.  We’re going to have to show our sensitive sides when we tell him.”
       “It’s cool of you to assume we will,” Del said, “because I hate leaving him out, too.”
       “Do you think anything like this would have happened if we hadn’t come here?” the younger twelve year old asked his friend.
       “I don’t know,” Del said, “I always love seeing you without a shirt, you know, bare chested, but I couldn’t think of any way to tell you without taking some giant risk.”
       “I think it would have happened if we had some place to go skinny-dipping,” Robbie responded, “that’s kind of boyish and a natural way to start, you know, wrestling in the water and stuff.”
       “You wouldn’t have had to ask twice,” the older preteen noted.
       “Probably good we don’t have a private swimming hole,” Del observed, “because once I started piggy-backing you I can’t think of any reason why I’d ever want to stop.”
       
       “That would certainly be more foolhardy than starting,” his friend agreed as the others, having secured their fabulous flying machine, entered the bus-size camper.  For awhile, all sat nervously, Roy in his uncle’s lap.  Mike finally broke the ice.
       “We never used earth language,” he said after clearing his throat, “you know, f-word, c-word.  We weren’t religious or anything about the things we did together, and we didn’t have any ideas about falling in love with each other – thank god – but we did think it was more romantic than athletic, so we kept a civil tongue, as they say.  That’s probably kookier to some guys than any physical thing that happens, so, again, if you feel uncomfortable the door is defiantly not locked from the inside, and we’re going to be flying the ship again in an hour or soy, anyway.”  He yawned, and lapsed into silence.  Henry took up the conversation.
       “Is the m-word for jerking off offensive to you?” he asked the visitors who’d settled side by side at one end of the full-sized sofa.  Del and Robbie shook their heads.
       “Have you begun masturbating?” he then asked.  Both shook their heads in the negative.
       “That’s what we want to teach Roy,” Mike said.  “That’s how a child his age should start with adults.  If he likes that, then there’s experimenting he can do with his mouth and tongue when he’s ready, and, physically, it’s possible for a boy his size to take a normal size adult fully inside his body, you know, from the back, if it happens gently over a period of time, and especially if it happens at first with a younger and less developed boy the first few times.  Okay?”
       Del and Robbie nodded, stealing not the slightest glance toward the door nor in any way showing they wished to be elsewhere (both had extreme IQs).
       “There can be a pretty big deal over stripping,” Henry observed, “but that’s more for a couple welcoming each other for the first time.  In a situation like this, it’s probably more appropriate just to shuck down to our underwear and go from there.
       “Have you guys like done sleepovers, been naked together, even if there was no touching?” he added.  Both shook their heads.
       “Well,” Chad said, “maybe you would like to kind of draw it out.  Strip each other while we watch in our briefs.  Think so?”  Two nods in response.
       
       Fitting action to words, the three athletes stood and began removing their street clothes.  Chad guided Roy to Del and Robbie, responding to the tyke’s obvious inclination for the world closest view of what was going to happen between the cute adolescents.  If other boys don’t get to heaven, it’s because this eight year old was hogging the whole place.  He wasn’t yippy about it, but obviously as excited as a kid in a candy store, or one who’d recently landed a ten thousand dollar model plane (a hundred hours of his own methodical labor in the craft) without so much as scratching the paint.  Sitting half on the lap of each guest, facing the boys, he blushed, his voice getting husky, and asked: “Like at night, I mean they had this thing on TV about it, are you old enough, you know, to get your pajamas wet, I mean, not peeing, but the other way?”
       The guests flushed along with the child.  “It happened to me last week,” he said in a faltering whisper.  “I think it happens to all boys our age,” Robbie added, nodding to affirm he knew what Roy was asking about.
       “But you’ve never seen it?” the eight year old wanted to know.
       “No,” both boys said.
       “Am I weird because I want to, you know, see it?” the flushing child then asked.
       “More if you think you’re weird,” Del answered, “that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever there was one, so don’t use the word, okay? at least not about yourself, because you’ve done a lot that’s straight as an arrow and if you weren’t curious, you know, about nature’s biggest Showtime, you’d be dull.”  He cast his eyes to his lap, missing the hot looks of appreciation in the eyes especially of Chan but hardly less so in those of his two old friends.  An aura of warmth and trust settled over the beautifully crafted motor home, an environmental masterpiece because it was going a million miles an hour without burning an ounce of fuel.
       
       “The old guys are really happy about not falling in love,” Roy said, looking equally at Del and Robbie, “go figure.”
       “I don’t think there’s much time,” Del responded, “if you’re going to cop the kind of grades you need to be set up like this when you’re not even twenty five years old.”  The boy blushed at his precociousness, eyes settling to his lap.  If welcome was colored pink, the pair would have been enwombed.
       
       “I don’t see that it took much time,” Roy murmured, emphasizing the reason his three guardian adults looked on his admittedly cute young self with such favor.  Del found himself wondering if the men let the tall child drive the converted tour bus.
       “Maybe it would be okay for the summer,” Robbie said.
       “I don’t think that would be weird,” Roy responded to his two nodding friends.
       “And weird’s what we’re not going to be,” Del added, emphasizing his friend’s previous comment.
       “We could even be scientific about it,” the tyke said, “mark it on the calendar.  We can be in love, during which time there are absolutely no rules, until the last week in August to give us plenty of time for reading and a running start on school.  Mike and my uncle are writers, Henry’s a photographer.  We can live anywhere, so when we have to fall out of love we can still hang around on the weekends.”
       “It will be easier getting in if we know we can get out,” Del responded, “so the golden rule is do onto others in plain sight, even if I don’t know what the doing actually is, except for pictures in a magazine.”
       
       “Cumming on each other,” Mike said.  “Ejaculating while we watch it happen.  We’d like to start by having you masturbate Chad on Robbie’s bare chest.  Then Henry and me.  Del can hold his friend in his lap and he’ll get a lot of semen on his shoulders and face.  After that, we’d like to watch Del and Robbie molest you so they can see if you’re old enough to have a climax.  If everybody’s comfortable after what happens the first time, we can do it twice more before our friends have to go home, but it will mean waiting to fly the plane tomorrow.”
       “Then let’s just do what you said, because I don’t want anyone getting tired of me because the competition is the most beautiful model plane in the world.”
       All nodded happily.  The adults slipped out of their briefs, and, yielding to the sensual nature of the occasion, displayed as Roy swiveled around in his twin laps to gawk.  That made three.  None were body builders but all three looked like they could swim ten miles for fun.  Whatever role affinity plays in overall attraction was evident and embellished by the three Greek classics showing themselves to the spellbound children in front of them.  Hitler would have chosen each from a thousand men of their ages, to give a variant of interpretation’ another is that there was no Mo amongst the molesters.  But a few seconds was enough, and the three very well built and hugely erect twenty year olds huddled around their three young victims, betting the boy’s to their feet and moving behind them, Chad behind his nephew, Mice with Del and Henry with his hands resting lightly on Robbie’s slim shoulders.
       “It usually starts this way,” he whispered, tracing his fingers from behind Robbie’s ears down over his shoulders.  “An affectionate touch that lingers, okay?”
       
       The boys nodded.
       
       “If it makes you uncomfortable, or if the time and place aren’t appropriate, this is the time to get out,” his little introduction continued.  “Be polite, and move away.  Do not be polite again.  Check?”
       “Yes,” the three children murmured.
       “The next step,” the lesson continued, “is that the adult will want to feel your body exactly the way a boy feels up a girl; first, outside your shirt, to give you time to beg off.  If you stay still, he’ll want to pull out your shirt and feel your bare chest and belly.  Some boys your age understand this, because they’d like to do it with a boy Roy’s age, but some just like it for its own sake.  Okay?”
       “Yes,” came the response.
       
       Henry led slowly and his two friends followed as Chad positioned Roy in front of Del and Robbie, guiding their hands to his nephew and kneeling in front of him.  Slowly their shirt tales were pulled from their shorts, and the hands of the adult’s found the twelve year olds while the uncle guided them up under Roy’s shirt.  The breathing became heavy and the miasma of excited welcome, palpable.
       The naked adults huddled with the preteens, slowly stripping away their shirts and shorts as they fondled and caressed the cute, boyish bodies.  All were panting openly by the time the youngest were in just their underpants.  In the minds of the inexperienced boys it was hard to believe there was more, but it went on and on; ten minutes, twenty, then almost half an hour of touching and twining together, play wrestling, tickling, and what would have to be categorized as extreme foreplay.  Del was positioned in front of his slightly younger friend, and guiding in touching to boy’s five inch erection through his underpants, then slowly getting him completely naked, before the favor was returned and the preteens turned their full attention to the eight year old.  The men let the boys have the boy and they took slow turns behind him and kneeling in front of him, finally unable to resist longer the beauty of his boner tenting his white underpants.  Slowly they stripped off his shirt and pulled down his briefs, thinking his jutting, circumcised penis was as beautiful thrusting high from his childish loins as those of their adult companions, or each other.  
       
       Gently the men manhandled Robbie onto Del’s lap, the younger boy’s legs extending over the arm of the sofa.  Chad moved between the slim, coltish legs of the tall boy, Roy huddled at his right hip, eyes ablaze as he trained them first on his uncle’s seven inch, circumcised erection, then at the willowy preteen panting in his friend’s lap.  Mike knelt behind Del, and shuffling for a minute, they became comfortable just as Roy hugged Chad with his left arm and began touching him with his right hand.  Henry crowded behind the eight year old, reaching around to guide the little boy’s right hand in stroking his uncle’s huge penis.  Chad groaned, spread his legs as much as he could, and displayed to the boy lying immediately in front of him.  Roy quickly became proficient in tempo and grip and Henry let him learn on his own as he began molesting the tyke with both hands, stroking his three inch boner in the process.
       
       “We’ve been on the road and I don’t think any of us have done anything for quite awhile,” he whispered harshly to Robbie, “so it’s going to be really messy when it happens, okay?”
       “My pajamas were like really sopping the last time it happened while I was sleeping,” the boy panted in his own hoarse whisper, “so I know there can be really a lot, even if it isn’t like peeing.”
       “When you molest young boys,” Mike said, “always warn them and get permission to ejaculate on their bodies.  If it happens unexpectedly, especially if they might be experimenting with their tongues, it can freak a kid out.  Okay?”
       “Yes,” Del and Robbie replied.
       Del, feeling comfortable with the scene, leaned over his friend and began fondling his almost adult-sized uncircumcised boner as Mike reached around his waste and began masturbating him against the back of his panting friend, gently inserting his own seven inch penis between Del’s legs as the boy removed his hand from Robbie’s right shoulder and began fondling the hot phallus jutting high between his slim legs.  With slight additional adjustments, the six young males became completely comfortable and the tension in the camper eased as they realized they were in a zone of new sensation that didn’t need to be hurried along.
       The tableau of naked young males continued softly, gently, for ten or fifteen more minutes as they grunted and whispered to each other.  
       
       “It seems like the best thing in the world while it’s happening,” Chad said, chiefly to Roy, “but ten minutes after it’s over it won’t mean anymore than if there’d been an extra meatball in the spaghetti.  It’s kind of like that,” he whispered on, “like spices and herbs that taste great, and yeah, you want more, but the meat and potatoes are great without the exotic stuff, so it’s just something nice… nothing to do with necessary.”
       “Really nice,” young Roy agreed, his hand tightening on his uncle, his stroking become hard and deliberate in a little boy’s experiment to see – really see – just how nice.
       “I’m gong to cum off in a minute,” the panting Chad gasped, “all over you Robbie.  Would you like to have a lot of hot sperm on your penis?”
       “Yes,” the boy entreated, panting wildly as Del emulated Roy, taking him hard and fast as Robbie arched vigorously to the incessant stroking of fevered masturbation.  In response, Chad spread his legs to the limit, Roy sticking to him like glue as he strained to bring the flaring purple head of his penis against the young boy.  
       “In just a second, Roy,” he managed to gasp, “don’t stop, okay?”
       “I won’t,” the youngster panted in reply, and then it began happening, hard and fast, covering Robbie’s thighs and sweating belly with spray after spray of thick, white semen.  
       Del’s right hand was covered with puddles and streams of the adult’s spilling seed and the sensation of wet, slick heat tore Robbie open and the twelve year old’s first spurt of cum rocket three feet straight into the air.  Mike began ejaculating as fast and hard as Chad, his sperm coating Robbie’s back and Del’s belly and thighs.  His hand slicked with his own seed, he muscled fast and hard and after a few agonizing moments that seemed like individual slices of eternity, Del’s hot sperm sprayed into the adult’s, all over Robbie’s back.  Henry arched and displayed, linking his fingers behind his neck, and, as all eyes fixed on him, came spontaneously, showering his cum over the huddling, gasping, naked males and then gently toppled, still ejaculating heavily, onto the pig pile massed at the end of the couch.  They weren’t out flying in ten minutes, but they were in half an hour, all engaged, involved, obedient, responsive, and happy.  Vis-à-vis herbs and spice: looking forward to fresh taste in their mouths as much as they were savoring the aftertaste.
       
       
       What’s news from Belize?  Any mail?  I’ve got to take a break and see if you have anything for me.  Hope you like the story so far.  I can’t wait to see what you do with my draft.  Love, me.
       
       
T. to E.


       The needle moved.  Once, but ever so nicely.  “Wise (so wise!)” is a quote.  It came over some kind of secure message system which I’ve yet to get the hand of so I may have lost the writer’s name.  Promised I’d mention him.  I think it’s the first in vaguely a year.  I was offline for nine months after I moved, every classic story of Third World telephones coming true to enhance my Caribbean experience to the fullest (as if Samantha doesn’t do that!), so no grudges.  Anyway, I’ve been back online for some months in my new house, and zero starts from there.
       
       Along with the very nice e-mail came, well, not in the same message, a tip of the whip from David, our editor an Nifty, re: (duh’uh) anti-Semitism.  First of all, he’s right.  I did let a volley of outright ethnic slurs slip into the first file.  I even used “Mongoloid” as an epithet which is regrettable in two ways.  I’m sorry.  Trouble is, I feel like using a replacement.  Cretinous, or something like that.  I try not to be offensive for its own sake, though god knows how many people, starting with my mother, have been that way to me, but it’s a challenge I’m unequal to.  I got off cable because of the everlasting parade of Semitic faces, and now I click on “MSN” and there’s a thumbnail of the latest “Newsweek” with Saddam’s mutt one and mutt two grinning off the cover.  It’s like drinking gray water that’s colored gray.  We’ve been taught not to hate by people who don’t want us to hate them.  I protest.  I hate.  Yes, as legal monarch I would drop twenty-five hydrogen bombs on the Middle East, and eradicate any capability they might have to hurt anybody but each other.  My first day.  With twenty five more on red hot reserve.  We are a bloated insane culture because we keep drinking gray water.  Call me the sewer rat, Mom had worse, take the chance of dying id Russian fireballs, but do as I say, get these people out.  The British in India faced the identical situation with a cult related to the thugee.  Men on one side, women on the other, and in fifty years the problem was solved.  If the Semites go peacefully, it will be fifty years for them, I could not care less how they go as long as the world is free of them, forever.  Their world is nothing, their women less.
       
       David has been enormously tolerant.  I wish other writers would take advantage of his bone deep hands off policy as a copy editor and, very much in the context of good storytelling, substitute some fuck scenes with this or that editorial position or cultural comment.  Nifty, if you eliminate the prurient content, is the greatest archive of just plain stories of ordinary people in ordinary lives ever compiled.  In many instances I have read through the f-scenes, not for them, because they were about obviously decent, simpatico people doing pretty darn well.  Lots of exceptions, but I think that’s the rule.  I wonder, in contrast, how much we’d want to read if a bunch of behavioral scientists went on line and told detailed histories of their family life or relationships.  Just the question is cynical.  So, I take another lashing.  I have that characteristic, and I wonder if it’s deliberate.  Of being, well, pissed on.  It wasn’t until I was in flight school and hung out with six Special Forces guys every weekend (nothing to do with s. ever involved), that I realized I was so superior to others I was using the whipping boy thing as a defense, like a big palooka has to take it because his hands are registered weapons.  For a writer, this is essential, and I think I knew that, which helped in not ripping the potato farmers I went to high school with to pieces.   What’s interesting is now that I’m inarguably the finest writer of my time and probably any time, the same attitudes prevail.  David did wish me luck when Hurricane Mitch had been headed for Dangriga for three days, but I don’t recall another nice word from him.  Of course “I have added this to the [archive]” are the money words, at least ephemerally, but traditionally writers and editor/publishers share more than terse telegrams.  Again with John O’Hara, the search for favor or recognition deny it, saving, in the end, more time for the arrogant prick writer to prove himself in spades and yet more spades.  The writer’s catch twenty-two.
       
       Sizzling job for both of us.  Forty two thousand words, which is five thousand more than went in yesterday.  There are two reasons I’m loyal to Nifty and, as a laugh at my own ego, publish almost exclusively with them (unlike certain other oft’ seen names – everywhere), and the first is the awesome speed.   It’s rare a day goes by between submission and publication.  We’ve had several file tangles over the years, the kind of things that would take weeks to straighten out by mail, poof, gone in hours, the right hand knowing what the left is doing.  The second reason is the archive’s status at the dawn of Net time.  Eleven years in this field had got to be fifty in former tech revolutions.  Think of it, he knew Bill Gates as a struggling billionaire.  So, in sum, I just wish he’d be as happy with me, rare excesses excepted, as I am with him, but he shepherd’s over two thousand authors, so…
       
       Del’s story is superb (oh, I believe the Lipizzaners are Austrian, at least these days, but it was a great wish; you can guess what my responding wish would be, but then it wouldn’t, because, you know, I wouldn’t want to leave…) and his first experience rates everything there is to rate.  I don’t think I’ve done many, if any, repeat incidents.  In practical experience I’ve found a little quizzing goes a long way, and, in the obviously alternative world a writer must visit, that any mention of past activity is unwelcome.  The morality thing can be ultra strange; doing is okay, talking isn’t.  Whatever.  I remember an incident at the big bathhouse near Hollywood and Vine (a block south-west, sort of).  I spilled some amyl nitrate on my towel and when I turned it in the manager went all Puritan and blackballed me.  Poppers are entirely legal, you can buy them anywhere, the place has big signs about homosexual activity, none mentioning Rush, and the guy throws out an okay customer over a spot on a towel.  All I can say is someone in the situation was a major asshole, and it was the only experience remotely resembling it in ten years of that kind of life in Mexico and the States. 
       
       I don’t know if they have them for girls.  L.A. has lesbian bars, but no flag waving alternative like the steam baths.  And the thing you should know about them is they are very sparsely patronized.  You really know the feeling of a minority when you go to them.  I mean it’s. Hollywood, right? or Burbank or Culver City.  I was, well, A-plus attractive in those days, yet in a hundred visits I probably only had five experiences that would rate a five, and spent two hours with a Chinese grad student who, I kid you not, was sixteen, which would rate a seven, with eleven year old Steven, mentioned in other writings, a ten.  Indeed, the Puritanical or Victorian attitude toward alternate behavior, by those who practice it, is, I think, of some psychological interest.  Those having incest, and I’ve know six or eight situations, tend to be the most reticent in respect to common vulgar banter; the boys raping their sisters could have been taken for neophyte clergy amongst the cussin’, free wheeling majority, my next youngest brother an unctuous, sanctimonious, and probably extreme  example.
       
       Another letter from Mark, my first correspondent in a year or so.  He remembers my “perping” Jimmy and Frogger, which is quite a compliment, in itself, after what’s going on three years.  David also writes saying his negative comments are based on my negative ethnic commentary.  That’s certainly one way to look at it.  I apologized again, gratuitous offensiveness is the meat and potatoes of every chat room I’ve ever seen (and that’s not been very many), a good place for it.  I told him my next story is going to be “Four Nazis and Ten Jews”, a Nifty version of some undoubtedly handsome young German soldiers helping some undoubtedly equally attractive and very young Jews get into Switzerland.   I also cited “Ropeyarn”, and I think it’s hero, Andrew Rambanowitz, is the feistiest and most dauntless character I’ve yet created, excepting only myself in “Poet”.  (Now there’s prejudice.)   The a-S thing is a real phenom.  To the best of my recollection I once published a story with a pair of two year old girls seducing a teenage boy, and not a word, but get tired and let a little rank hostility slip in, as it commonly does between individuals, and the machine lights Tilt.  I blisteringly deny the a-S label; don’t resent it, because that’s the way things have come to be, but totally deny it and could prove it in court with at least a dozen Jewish witnesses, including Janie Graham Knowles of Berwyn, Pennsylvania who’s mother was a Seligman and aunt, a Lewisjohn.  At seven years, our relationship was the longest in my life.  It would be an outright libel to claim I’m in any way anti-Semitic, though I’m much to lazy to ever pursue a case.  I get tagged simply because I’m far more highly versed, by dint of age, reading, breeding, and travel, than almost anyone else and so see reality more accurately.  Hyman Rickover, using rank, raw, and legendary chutzpah to father a hundred nuclear subs, costing almost a trillion dollars, was not a Jew, he was a desperately dangerous enemy of The United States of American, bristling with stereotypical Jewish arrogance and pushiness.  I hate him for what he did to my country, is doing yet, not for where he went to church or the shape of his nose.  I hate children’s television because an outstanding educational age is nothing but a bunch of squeaking plastic puppets, ruining the kids it’s entrusted to assist, and, what, it’s not run virtually entirely by Jewish producers and writers.  That fact that the Big Brothers of Los Angeles sponsors two hundred fifty matches out of a population of eighteen million, is that not an obsessively  squeamish way to run an organization?  Jewish characteristics throughout literature. Plus, anti-Semitism would be pointless.  When Gore picked I-Don’t-Do-Saturdays Lieberman, his polls remained the same.  They’ve played the holocaust to the tune of Machiavelli so brazenly we’ve taken it as our national anthem.  To me, that isn’t anti-Semitism, it’s an issue.  If the country was doing well, I’d be the first to sign a petition granting our Jewish population a permanent charter for exclusive rights to manage the media, academia, and politics, throwing in industry, the arts, finance, and the military out of appreciation.  
       
       And the other side of the extentionist coin?  Harry Emerson Winchester on “M*A*S*H” and Thurston Howell IV on “Gilligan’s Island”.  Both have (my) family names, both are written to mock blue bloods the way Izzy Swartz or Willie Washington are never mocked.  Do I seethe and write to get-back.  I – don’t –  think – so.  I laugh if the writing’s good.  Sure we’re funny, isn’t anyone else (besides the English)?   Archie Bunker is a different suit, but out of the same deck.  The Meathead always wins, but look what he’s won us.  When the planes restored the skyline, “Little Shop of Horrors” was playing on Broadway.  As “The Fantastics” is a one-song production, LSoH is a one gag production, a big plant going on and on with “Feed Me!”  What is it, thirty years old?   New York has not excited the world, artistically, for decades, that’s The Meathead’s liberal gotham.  Marshall Mathers has more talent than the whole city, as do I.  Anglos out, others in, yawn and die, which is a damn sight better than living with everyone boxed in leftist plastic.  A union a day keeps the future away.  And the great frustration is, speaking of Broadway, that Jews produced a dazzling set of plays and musicals.  Even they thrived before their beloved socialism turned and looped them in coils.  And how much do they love socialism?  “First Papers” is a crummy novel about the Hebrew community in New York.  Early in the book the American Shirtwaist fire is cited.  The teacher heroine tells her class: “under Socialism, this would not have happened.”  I mean in a way she has a point, since nothing happens under socialism, but in her distorted view an ideology can prevent an industrial tragedy.  The kicker is that the very reason so many girls died in the inferno was that in order to stay in business, the company had to keep union agitators, and thieves, from invading through the back staircase.  Socialism caused the fire.  Later in the book the Noble Jewish Editor (I’m laughing over your description of The Great Wouk) goes all haywire, because, guess what, the wrong sector of his fellow travelers got control of Russia, apparently the grave scholar who detested physical work was not intellectually up to the task of understanding that chaos grows the toughest flower, not the most elegant.  Laura Z. Hobson’s book is in no way written as a comedy, and relates the ugliest scene in literature, fat mama naked for “her dancing”, but I found myself LOL.  I’m in no way prejudice and would marry a Jewish girl as leaf as any, but I do see THEM as they are.
       
       It’s the age of no enthusiasm, or, more precisely, when the emotion is limited to sports and media performers.  David, for example, should be all but scintillated I publish exclusively with him, yet not a kind word.  My ha-buddy from Concord should be thrilled to edit my stories (he at least admits to liking them), but, though he’s doing nothing with his life, he only quotes me on self-reliance and turns his back, the fact I’m self-reliant enough to accomplish more in a day than he does in a year, meaning nothing.  Of course, then there’s just being unlikable.  That’s one I wish was true, then I wouldn’t have my sleep interrupted five or sex times every single day by having friends drop in to chat.  In fact being basically mellow and low key fosters the necessity of being frosty and aloof if I’m going to get any work done.  
       
       “MSN” had an article on May December romances the other day.  Twenty year difference.  Samantha and I are forty two years apart, certainly no record.  That’s, from a practical standpoint, the better option, the older guy dropping out of the picture through death or disability while the girl’s plenty young enough, typically in her thirties, to have an entire new life, and, if she’s well-to-do, with a younger man.  Under the present conventions, the better the marriage the more painful its ending, so even giddy twenty-somethings have naught to look forward to.  Plus, older males are much better lovers, very unlikely to do and die (or at least sleep).  Samantha and I don’t have sex, but we play for hours on end, more in a week that my twentyish wife and I did in a year.  Hard to imagine taking her less than three times a night for the first six months, but that could be bragging.
       
       A salute to Bob Hope who died yesterday at a hundred.  There was a man who knew a good writer when he saw one.
       
       I can’t write gags.  Jimmy Brogan, or something like that, wrote the world’s best for Jay Leno.  Three and four part killers.  That would be a DVD to have; the best of Brogan.  An extremely funny, and wonderful looking man.  He seemed to sort of disappear, though I was not a hundred percent viewer and might have missed something.  If I had to guess, I’d say he got tired of the “winning the bet” shtick Jay  milked to pump the audience.  And the girl in the background.  How must it feel to walk down any street in the world and know every man on it would give his soul, life, and fortune for you?  Along with the actors from “The Gods Must be Crazy” and “Are You Being Served, Again” she gets my vote as planetary beauty queen, though, in real life I’d rather hang out with your role model, Mackenzie Phillips, as I think neat and feisty outlasts even dazzling physical presence, and a sexier girl never lived.  I heard her say in an interview that Mick Jagger took her hard and fast on a kitchen counter and said he’d wanted to that to her since she was ten years old.  Hi, Mick.  In fact if David won’t publish “Four Nazis and Ten Jews”, my B-plan it to re-write an “American Graffiti” sequence, John and Carol in the coupe, without the drag race, seeing as how it’s been done.  
       
       The celebrity thing is a little intimidating because my ego always kicks in and I end up thinking the roles I write for various characters, and especially Marshall, are better than any they’ve played.  Anyway, some of it’s in “Shady’s Closet” in the celebrity archive.
       
       It’s sort of weird writing to you where you are about you where you are, yet keeping the stories separate.  Great fun.  Speed of light, or what?  We’re almost two-thirds through a minimum novel.  Must be all the help from David.  One word of caution, concerning layering.  I don’t know what the literary name for it is; a story within a story.  I got so tangled up, after four hundred thousand words of “One Fish at a Time”, I couldn’t see the surface and ran out of air.  Fortunately, Michelangelo did the same, bit off more than he could chew on a number of projects, being fairly prompt to abandon them when he saw the error of his ways, and go on to something new.  Just a hint, because Chad, Mike and Henry probably each have a story, and there goes another twenty pages into the labyrinth.  Exponential, I think they call it.  For that matter, Armando probably does, too.  Wanna hold my hand?
       
       
ELECTRIC LETTERS – END FILE III (Temp. Story End)
       
       

