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      Don’t suppose it was quite the aerial shots from the great old Jimmy Steward film, “Strategic Air Command,” but I was doing the best I could with the little five-hundred-dollar Canon, molesting Renaldo with my left hand, his cute cousins ne’er loath to lend a hand or two of their own, and moving the camera around a little with my right as his store flowed like a Fundy tide, then ebbed like Victoria Falls.  The rushes, uploads, looked pretty darn good, all things considered.  The sound was the main thing, of course, and the boy’s whispers came through the stereo speakers on the computer so crisply Electra twice noted: “oh, that’s what you said…”  Perhaps it’s not so much the raw technology, itself, but more knowing how to use it.  Build a beautiful roadbed, then let artists ride the rails.  Something like that.
      
      On a new energy kick, result of back-to-back camera-obscura rainy days.  Finished File 1 of this yarn and posted a couple of others, but ran into legacy DOS issues to do with file names, so I’ve got to revamp, concentrate, re-name and post, first carving into 35M slices for more convenient uploading.  One more day of rain, and my scant listing of titles should balloon fair ‘nough.  
      
      Shouldn’t be off essayfying again so soon; never one to cheat the customer, however cheap he pays, but I did want to include a short riff on the ins and outs of the mechanics.  As much as I love my Canon babe, I’d love even more watching a video of how it’s built.  How many things are built.  How, for example, they can get all the plastic letters in the right places on a keyboard, ship it half way around the world, then sell it for ten dollars.  One of my extreme gripes; that no one is interested in that kind of stuff anymore.  Can’t even get a shrug and “who cares?”  Crummy.  Sure, a lot of the exotica in how stuff is built and assembled is proprietary, but the put informers on television and pixelize their faces; couldn’t they do the same with sensitive aspects of a particular manufacturing process, meanwhile showing the gist of how it’s done, or is out entire future to be dedicated to following the yin and yang of Brittany Spears?  (Seems like a cheap deal to me, but then I’m not Jewish.)  
      
      My “Palm” downloads seem anemic.  Wonder if that’s because of file sizes?  My so-far pretty accurate diginose tells me this is the literary future, especially with monochrome models breaking the hundred-dollar price barrier and good used models for less than half that.  It’s definitely space-cadet to picture a fair share of the multitude availing themselves of my work while riding through a strange city on a bus or weathered in for the weekend at their ski lodge, but it’s happening, and should happen more.  
      
      Yes, I should be a good little scribe and vet each and every re-post (they all come from first-editions on Nifty), but it’s over a million words and in the time it takes, I could add a hundred thousand more.  As ever, looking for someone who will click the stories into their word processor (Plain Text), copy edit on the fly, and e-mail back the cleaner copy.  Part of what I was saying in the first file of this story: the humble position of ye scrivener with an audience apparently happy enough to read him, free, but unwilling to take the extra minutes to click out a few dozen glitches in a ten thousand word story, and click it back to me.  In New York they call it playing to a cold house, adding to the blessings of living in the tropics.
      
      Unable to read the entire squib on the Dershowitz “Not Guilty” travesty (shouldn’t the title be: “One-Hundred-Percent Not Guilty,”? but there was a phrase indicating that anti-Semitism was rearing its ugly head on the campus.  History’s ultimate pendulum; give Jewry an inch, it wants the mile and stretches the elastic until finally the dumbest of the terminally dumb say hey, wait a minute.  They wail for the noose, it’s imbued, but this time our necks are in it too.  Some things in our complex world are cold-steel simple.  It is the Semite, or us.  Full stop.  Probably not doable, you know, the execution thing, and at my age I should care?  But it’s fun to fantasize over and, in smaller doses, makes interesting reading.  On the count of three: scapegoat, scapegoat, scapegoat.  On the count of three: stereotype, stereotype, stereotype.  Their entire defense in six words, which, to nitpick and hair split thoroughly, so even liberals might understand, is actually two words, repeated.  They’re not scapegoats, they’re insidious criminals; they’re not stereotyped, they’re garbage and should be looted and thrown out.  This year, Jerusalem.
      
      Needless to say I practice sanity by digressing from disagreeable subjects, and am lucky enough to have another story to tell, or rather render, because it’s Madonna’s turn   Her teacher, it transpired, was a celibate nineteen year old she didn’t love.  His name was Jock and she’d just turned eleven.
      
      “I’m just too young for that kind of thing,” the lithe dancer said, “and I want to stay that way.  You’re a wizard teacher and choreographer, and I love dancing for you, especially solo, and I’d like to be friends, and a little more, childhood lost in increments, so to speak, but not your lover.”
      “What do you mean by that?” the young teacher asked as he lifted the sprite to the rings where she liked taking a break from the polished hardwood of the dance floor.
      “That I’d like you to teach me something exotic,” she replied; “some special memory I could have, without having you inside me.  More specifically, one event repeated three times.  Almost clinical; astringent, so I’ll remember the physical part without being distracted by so-called love and passion issues.  Then, back to being friends, as ever, and partners as much as you want, and, when I’m fourteen, I’ll re-think the whole affair and, if you’re still interested, may let it happen.”
      
      “Hmm,” the athletic teen mused, “I never thought in terms of your bringing your discipline and meticulous craftsmanship from the studio, and did, truth-to-tell, picture something a little more firelit and romantic, but I see your way, not that I fully understand it, has aesthetic possibilities on top of the clinical and astringent.”
      “Well,” the girl went on, “I can’t be naked, either.”
      “How about me?” he asked.
      “Just bare chested,” the girl said, adding without a wink: “until the foreplay is over, then, yes, naked for awhile.”
      “Kissing?” the boy asked.
      “Sorry,” Madonna smiled down, now inverted on the rings.
      “Venue?” the male then asked.
      “I was thinking in terms of here and now,” the girl replied, adding: “My mom thinks you’re great.  Two minutes on the phone should buy us an hour.”
      
      The boy then flattered the girl by pulling out his telephone and dialing her number without asking up or looking up anything.  The two minutes was cut short at half of one and the seventy pound female dropped from the rings.
      “I’m sorry about the love thing,” she said shyly as they headed for the locker room, “and about making it sound like I’m some kind of she cat mastermind from the planet Xorp.”
      “I’m adjusting pretty well,” Jock said as they sat side by side on one of the benches running down between the rows of steel doors, “even wondering if the physical part sans the ‘other stuff’ might not be more intriguing than a conventional r’ship.”
      “I’m glad,” the slim athlete said, “because there’s more.  More that’s probably weird, but it’s me, and my way, and something girls are hardly loath to whisper about, so probably not that extra weird, at all.”
      “What?” the male asked, trying not to sound impatient.
      “The ‘more’ is,” the girl noted, “that I want to know your secrets, especially your first-time secrets.  I don’t have any, or I’d offer to trade: never been kissed, petted, felt-up, or any of it.”
      “That would give it a human side,” Jock mused.
      “Graphically,” the girl whispered.  “All the details.  Nothing embellished, nothing left out, nothing skipped; if it was a dog, whatever, the mailman, yo no caro; you’re a great guy and will go far enough to please any chick, so nothing’s off limits, nothing could make me think less of who I know damn well you are.”
      
      “You sound like a good listener,” the teacher observed.
      “All ears,” the cutie agreed.
      “How about the bare-chested thing?” he then asked.
      “Mightn’t it be, you know, more erotic if we waited a little while?” the girl asked in return.
      “It thought you might be ready now,” Jock said, “because, you know, you’re bigger than usual.”
      “I know,” the girl responded with her pretty smile, “and I love feeling this way with you looking at me.  The passion thing, truth-to-tell, is a hard beast to keep at bay, and waiting a little will help.”
      “Then I should tell you this,” the male said, “it’s been awhile for me.  That’s not incidental, and will become less so if I tell you a graphic story, which, to get to the point, means my ending will be, for want of a better word, fulsome, and, while you might enjoy what leads up to it, that event, itself, can be a little on the shocking side because it will happen with great intensity, and possibly without any verbal warning.”
      
      “I know a little from other girls,” Madonna said, “and they tend to blush when it comes to the dramatic part, and give a look that says, kindly enough, find out for yourself.”
      “As long as you know it’s physical,” the boy elaborated; “hot, salty, and very physical, not a tiny pearl of fluid or anything delicate and feminine like that.”
      
      “Well,” the eleven year old mused, “Mums Nature seems to have got everything else right with boys, they are rather devastating, so no reason she should skimp where it counts awesome.”
      “She didn’t,” the master assured the waif, and she snaked her left arm around her boy and gave him a hug.
      “And I don’t want you to, either,” the girl rejoined, “I want you to take at least half an hour to tell me what happened with you; longer if you want, and pull my top down and take your jersey off when you’re sort of like half way through.”
      “Do you suspect anything?” Jock then asked.
      “Uh-huh,” Madonna smiled, “or maybe I should say I ‘hope’ something.”
      “We could hint around for awhile,” Jock suggested.
      “Well, okay,” the girl said, a cute, childish sparkle in her eyes, “there is someone I like very much, who, by the way, has never said a word or looked a look.”
      “Is that someone bigger than a breadbox?” the boy asked, needing to start somewhere.
      “Yes,” the girl replied, her eyes adding: “silly.”
      
      “That sounds healthy,” Jock allowed, “as I wouldn’t want to think you’re tampering with the cradle set.”
      “If I ever start giving smart answers to dumb questions,” the pixie retorted, “you have my permission to become infuriated.”
      “Well,” the young man mused, “they say the only dumb question is the one you don’t ask, and zero times even a clever response still equals zero.”
      “Then we can put the bread-box issue behind us…”
      “Where it is, already,” the teacher interrupted, “since it’s about as dated as a reference can get.”
      “A Model-A’s probably as good as half the cars on the road, add a few safety features,” the girl intoned, “so don’t worry about being dated around me.  We read in our family, that’s dated, too, but it makes me a hell of a conversationalist.”
      
      “Madonna,” the dancer whispered, “I can’t even conceive of feeling your bare nipples against my chest; more is incomprehensible, and the fact that you’re wicked to talk to just compounds everything.”
      “Well,” the sprite responded, eyes glowing, “I’m not a material girl, so I hope your jersey is outta here when it happens.”
      
      [John O’Hara didn’t live to write dialogue like this, but I’ll bet he could have if he had.]
      
      “No touché,” Jock managed to whisper, his eyes flashing between her beautiful Hispanic eyes and the breasts probing from her flat chest precisely as did those of the ingénue playing young Salina.
      “I’m wanting it more, not less,” the girl murmured, “everything.  To feel your eyes on me, then your hands, then you against my lips, then my tongue, your secrets in my brain.”
      “Bringing us back, just in the nick of time, too, to our guessing game,” the athlete half panted.
      “Well,” the girl hemmed, “it’s not your Little League coach, and that may be very slightly wishful thinking.”
      “No,” Jock said, “it wasn’t Jorge Villarreal.”
      “Then it was someone you had a long ‘otherwise’ relationship,” she guessed.
      “Yes,” the male replied, eliciting a barely controlled yip of pleasure.
      “Whom you were very close to in many other ways,” the girl pressed.
      “I knew you already knew,” Jock whispered.
      “I hoped, like I said,” the girl said, just throwing grammar to the wind in the excitement of the moment.
      “And you’re sure?” the boy responded, “I have three cute cousins who fit all-of-the-above.”
      
      “I just put myself in Mirida’s shoes,” the girl blushed.  “Being that close to you, I’d want everything as soon as possible and would lie and poison to get it, church and beads be damned.”
      “Your precision in dancing equals that of your praise,” the nineteen year old said, blushing a bit himself. 
      “You’re sister is of gossamer and dreams,” the girl whispered, “so delicate and incredible where I’m all bluff and right in front of people.”
      “Yes,” Jock said, “Mirida and I are even now weaving a harness so you can do the heavy lifting when we put in our pool.”
      “I would to see you swimming in it,” the girl responded, adding: “not to be too personal, but, you know, have her breasts begun growing?”
      “Sweetheart,” the boy replied, “we’ve been very active together for two years, since she was nine.  She has to wear an Ace bandage across her chest until the end of school, then she can suddenly develop over the summer and no one will notice.”
      “She must be so beautiful,” Madonna sighed.
      “Mostly,” the man said, “she can’t wait until next year when she can get back in gym class, at least; probably dance, too.”
      “Would she be really embarrassed if we saw her now?” Madonna wanted to know.
      “She’s very shy about it,” the girl in question’s brother said.
      “That must be beautiful in its own right,” the perceptive girl noted.
      “Every time,” the male whispered.  
      “Is the way you get to see here the same every time, or different?” Madonna asked.
      “The same,” her partner said, “she sits cross-wise in my lap, my left arm around her waist, and we play a little game.  A Cyclops is threatening to take over the world and the only way to appease him is if she does something very wicked.  He’s kind of heavy handed and well as single-eyed, so wicked to him is pretty wicked.  To save the planet from a fiery end, she has to let her brother unbutton her.  I plead that she doesn’t have to, the planet doesn’t mean all that much in the infinity of the cosmos, but she has friends at school and is willing to make the sacrifice in spite of my pleas and cajoling.  Little by little, she wins, always has, always will, until finally her school blouse is off, and then her Ace.”
      “I like the friends-at-school part,” Madonna said.
      “Friend would be more like it,” Jock chuckled, “she’s as mad for you as you are for her.  No mistake.”
      
      Silence for long moments, then: “Do you think she might like it if I saw her?”
      “If I don’t deliver to you an invitation to spend Friday night,” the male replied, “’tis my last day on said Cyclops planet.”
      “The things we don’t talk about when we’re together,” Madonna sighed.
      “She wouldn’t want it any other way,” her friend observed; “loves it that you have other interests as most of the other girls she knows have less than none.”
      “It is neat at that,” the eleven year old agreed.
      “Well, it’s not all pure light and virgin snow,” the boy responded, “because she’s been quizzing me about how you’re growing, since I get to see you in your leotards.”
      “Will you be with her when she shows me?”
      “She wants that,” Jock affirmed, “but it’s up to you.  I mean, we’re already dealing with a Cyclops here.”
      “Then an extra pair of eyes would come in way handy,” the very sharp chick said.
      “Just don’t expect a brain,” Jock responded, “because I’ll be comatose, if alive at all.”
      “I’ll bet you’ll stay alive and even healthy,” the girl said, “so you can be a boy with her while I hold her hand.”  All Jock could do in response was nod his handsome head.
      Finding new comfort in sitting silently side-by-side, they did so for several minutes.  Finally Madonna spoke.  “Remember what I said while I was on the rings?” she asked, “about here and now?”
      “Yes,” her companion replied.
      “Would it do any good to say it again?”
      “No.”
      “Why, isn’t she home?”
      “No, on her bike, enroute.  Should be at the outer door any minute.”
      “One more stunt like that and you’ll envy your one-eyed monster for having any eye at-all.”
      “In a short while I won’t care, having seen the two of you, and everything I care to if I live to be a hundred.”
      “And the physical thing between us will still happen?”
      “If you want.”
      
      Good, that covered a lot of ground.  Again they sat in anticipatory silence, soon interrupted by the door buzzer.  Like zombies they rose, like movie skeletons the made their rigid way, like trogs they worked the door handle, and like the unliving they disbarred the portal.  Mirida wheeled her bike into the gym, seeming to need it for support.  They parked it against the wall and walked tensely back to the office, the girls holding hands rigidly.  Sat in silence hardly daring breathe.  Jock gave his sister several minutes to acclimate, then reached gently to her.  As she rose, she took a cushion from the sofa, placing it so Madonna could kneel comfortably at her brother’s knees as she lowered herself into his lap, left hand in those of her friend until Jock reached to their friend, bringing the girl’s left hand to his sister’s blouse.  Mirida, black hair cascading richly over her slim shoulders, sat demurely, right hand in her lap as her left maintained its white-knuckled grip on her girlfriend’s.  
      
      “She’s here,” the new girl finally spoke, her voice seeming flat and nervous, “so you don’t have to, after all.”  It took brother and friend an instant or two to get the savagery of her witty remark, and in any other circumstances both would have been out of control, rolling helplessly on the floor for minutes on end.  As it was, they made do with suppressed tears and flaming eyes.  (Time and a place for everything.)
      “God, what it must be like to be a boy with her,” Madonna mused to herself as she recovered, and that notion vanquished any remnant of one-eyed jokes, however subtle and germane.  Nor was Psychology the dominant player.  It was getting physical.  Jock was guiding her hand over the slim neck and delicate throat, deliberately toward the first button.  With his powerful left arm he eased his sister toward Madonna, finally letting go of the dancer’s hand so he could pull out the tail of Mirida’s blouse and begin with the bottom button. 
      “’Tis blindness to look on the grail,” the male cautioned the kneeling girl as their hands approached.
      “Of sight I’ve had enough, of vision and that kind of stuff,” Madonna responded.
      “And you’ve seen nothing yet,” the boy tut-tutted, shaking his head.
      “She’s so beautiful,” the girl responded as she opened her young friend’s blouse, “she doesn’t even need to be developed.”
      “No more than the first time,” Jock agreed.
      “Where did that happen,” the family friend asked, looking into Mirida’s eyes.
      “On a picnic,” the girl replied.  “when he was seventeen.  Two years and a month ago.”
      “How did you start it?” was the next question, much assumed and nothing taken for granted.
      “Because he had an outbreak of acne,” Mirida explained, “and this absolute lunatic – she’s sure sorry now – girl dumped him for a cute gonzo.  Dear, and I’m not kidding, brother liked the Nelly Nitwit, heaven forbid, so it started, I suppose, as a sort of pity thing, though any excuse would have filled the bill – even faking a snake in the grass so I could leap into his arms, and bloody well stay there until he made me grow up a little.”
      “I’m on your side,” Madonna nodded.
      “Anyway,” the sister continued, with a squeeze of her hand, “I had to get a little blunt about it, my phenomenon being mucho the gentleman, and even throw in two particularly juicy tales out of school before our beautiful caballero cottoned on to the fact that brotherly love was nothing to do with how I felt about him, that I would have thought he was beautiful if he has smallpox, not just some dorky outbreak and a little scarring, which, to me, made him look all the more like he could take care of a girl, and I wanted to be that girl.  Never would have dared anything, if Jessa hadn’t eighty-sixed herself from the scene, not that kind of girl, much less sister, but she was afuera, and we were alone in an idyllic meadow, with a blanket, and, who knew, a bottle of wine in the basket.”
      “Did you talk a lot?” Madonna wanted to know, her hands now joining those of the male as she trailed her fingers over her beautiful friend’s slim chest and tightly drawn bandage.
      “Yes,” the sister said.  “I told him about Natalie and Jamaica, the two girls in my class who were having incest.  No flies on either of them, and Jock knows it.  That was my knife in the oyster.  He started listening then, not taking it all as some weird variant of ‘Creepshow;’ started listening to me as a person, not an empty-pot rattling kid.”
      “There should be more of that going around,” the kneeling girl noted.
      “Then I attacked from what to me was a logical point of view,” Mirida went on, “pointing out, in the first place, that I was in love with him and deemed it permanent, and then, so as not to gild the lily, covered practical aspects such as the outright convenience of an affair between two people who have several hours alone together most afternoons, anyway, and contrasted this with the furtive and often most unpleasant, for both partners, initiation undergone by most; even the disease thing, which is something to think about, when you get right down to it.  I assured him he wasn’t about to be trapped or entrapped; that if he found another right-kind-of girl I’d just hope I liked her, and let it go at that.”
      
      “How about your parents?” Madonna asked.
      “They kinda never got involved,” the girl replied with a blush that almost seemed secretive, “other than to say it was cute we got along so well and once in awhile remind us how lucky we were to have each other.  Mom  suggested a time or two that she couldn’t think of a thing that could possibly hurt our relationship, but that’s as hint-hint as was her wont.”
      “I think Mom and Dad would be the same,” Madonna noted.
      “Any sane parents would,” her friend responded.  “Not encourage it, or get involved, but accept and tolerate if the karma was right.  And I know this, if I had any objection or anything creepy was happening, they’d put a certain stop to it.  I mean if I had a brother like most of the boys in school, it would be way no-thanks.”
      She really was fascinated by the subject.  I mean you had to be sick as a dog to think along any of these lines, even though it felt kinda tingly and more than neat.  What had she read about victims of tropical fevers regarding the experience fondly, in retrospect, because of the delicious sensations of recovery?  This case seemed even better, the fever so engaging and hot it might actually be pretty delicious not to recover.  And if a little was great, what might a few more degrees add up to?  The girl had seemed to waver, if almost imperceptibly, when speaking of her parents.  Was that a place to start?  “Can I ask you something really personal if you don’t have to answer?” she asked as both she and Jock began taking very seriously the binding on their beauty’s slim chest.
      “I’ll try,” Mirida said.
      “Well,” the girl mused, pausing for a moment, “I mean, you know, like about your dad.  
      There was a long silence.  The brother and girlfriend continued with the light brown strapping, finally holding one swath over Mirida’s chest, then slowly removing it to expose taut, high mounds of the lightest honey brown, nipples the size of cherries jutting perfectly.  Jock quickly unfastened the strap of Madonna’s dance skin, peeling it down to her waist, and joined his sister in staring at the more athletic beauties pubescent rosebuds equaling Mirada’s though they stood from her otherwise flat, little-girl chest.
      “Touch her,” the sister whispered, “while I answer her question for both of you.”
      
      Jock reached slowly to the kneeling girl who arched in welcome, her eyes trained on Mirida.  “Yes,” she said, “it happens with Dad, too.”
      “Oh, babe,” the brother whispered.
      “How do you feel?” his sis asked.
      “I guess,” he said after a thoughtful pause so he could get it just right: “I think if there’s someone else in the world as lucky as I am I’m glad it’s Dad.”
      “Twice for me, because I have you both,” Mirida smiled shyly, her brother guiding her fingers to their friend’s beautifully immature breasts.
      
      
      Third day of rain, and the Canon remains slung from its nail.  Went square-chasing yesterday; couldn’t get enough sleep to write.  Read article after article to the box; finished D.H. Lawrence, for example, and a painter named Gorky, not quite but almost a Surrealist, who claimed relationship to the Ruskie, not realizing it was his pseudonym.  What a tribe.  John O’Hara’s excellence as both husband and father is dismissed in less space than I’ve given it here, while the clutter and clatter of the manic goes on adinfinitum.  They seem a bunch of compulsive setters-down, slapping painters, scribbling writers, gonzo pols, better at turning out names for their muck than executing it.  Cubism and the like, a hip crowd existing, as far as I can see, only to render the masses clueless.  Craft a daub and call it great.  Splotch a splotch and call it top notch.  It’s so easy, that’s the point.  Sure, the craft part takes awhile, setting tension in anything from soap carvings to cathedrals and from soap jingles to choral odes, but it beats chopping cotton.  But they’re too weak for it.  Once they’ve acquired the skill set, they’re lacking in the right stuff to beat it into submission, why, land-o-Goshen, like dominoes falling on a rich kid’s floor, assuming a rich kid would ever have the patience to assemble them, in the first place, one after another they have to Rebel.  Spain and Chili and more Spain and Chile.  Italian publishers, four-thousand-page poets, and a brogue’s gallery of sodden micks.  Misery is their coinage and they are sex-throttled.  Their grail is psychic confusion, Kafka a hero instead of a flump.  Again, it’s so easy, in particular because if you have something really ugly to sell, there’ll always be a Jew to buy it, an Aaron Spelling to resell it.  Biznez as usual.  Shoah business.  Plus, a creepy article on Baghdad and environs, also Jerusalem and environs, that makes me wonder if twenty five hydrogen bombs would be enough.   Well, it would definitely be a starting point unless liberals really believe we can play footsies at the cost of a billion dollars a day which adds up to well over a third of a trillion – trillion – per annum.  It’s the world’s oil, not ours.  (They are there by geological accident, not design.)  How do we stand by the world?  Free to act, as America, or bent and befouled with Semitic parasites?  Sometimes all that’s needed IS a firm grasp of the obvious with another case-in-point found in the article on prisons.  The obvious is as follows: use the German-developed super polygraph software to a, execute the hellhounds and dangerous misfits, b, incarcerate the lesser dangerous, and, c, free the half million or more who’re in stir for dicking around with weed.  (And it should be noted that crime is, classically, the tail that wages the dog.  I’m a criminal, dozens, maybe hundreds of sexual contacts with the underaged, daily ration of dope, illegal alien in my adopted country, why I even have PhotoShop 7.0 on my ‘puter for which I paid nothing (and which I use never because I can’t even figure out how to rotate an image).  The concept is most evident, by the way, in computes, although the trickle-down of lower-priced goods from routine burglaries is also a factor.  Summarized, perhaps to a fault, the logic goes like this: the reason people buy, maintain, and upgrade their personal computers is that there is so much free stuff out there.  In a parallel vein, the cash input to my developing venue is drug dealing.  Tail wags dog, tail balances dog, dog functions better with tail.  I break laws, in olden days drank and drove, for example, and use a certain amount of pirated or bootleg software.  I write for the Net, free, and I tell everybody what to do and how to do it.  You may not think this is much of an exchange, but it’s your feet in the fire.  Any questions?
      If they’re sweet enough, sometimes I chance making them short, so back to sanity and the kinder, gentler nature of MY world.
      
      
      “Do you want to keep it secret?” Madonna whispered, her eyes lifting from the eleven year old’s chest to her eyes.
      “I want to be with him at a nudist camp with other men watching,” the girl replied, again blushing prettily.  (Lawrence gets credit for his spontaneous explosiveness, so me-thought to me-self I’d try it.)
      “You are so amazing,” Jock whispered, Madonna nodding.
      “I had an amazing teacher,” the girl responded.  “You taught me what it is, without making more of it; that not outside crazy, but outside convention and the law, there are beautiful ways; in fact, so beautiful one is naturally inclined to indulge, most of the time, with great modesty so one can go on indulging until age steals the appeal.”
      “The wick of the lamp is wicked,” Madonna mused drawing a blaze of respect from four truly lovely eyes.
      “And kept low, long may it burn,” Jock added, no slouch at highly precocious literary showmanship, himself.
      “Too high, and it smokes,” Mirida noted, “maybe even burns down the house.”
      “Too low,” Madonna responded, “and it goes out; no light, no warmth.”
      
      Slowly, Jock manipulated his beauty of a younger sister.  He eased her back over his left arm, then gently coaxed her hands from Madonna’s feminine buds, arching her, arms extended over her head, so he and her friend could openly fondle the jutting mounds of her well-developed young breasts.  Madonna leaned to her, Jock bent to her, and they experimented at kissing as a threesome, the sister’s taut, arching body as erotic as the beauty of her Elizabeth Pena lips.
      
      “Tell us about being with your dad,” the girl kneeling on the pillow whispered.  She wanted to hear every detail of the picnic with her brother, too, but, good-hearted as she was, realized the requested story would be new to the boy, who was already conversant with what had happened during the interlude of a countrified luncheon.  
      “I saw it happen with him,” the girl responded.  “With Jock I felt it and could kind of imagine what was happening from the hard, pulsing sensation inside me, but with Dad it was different.”
      “I want it to happen in my mouth,” Madonna said, “so I won’t get to see, either.  You’ve got to tell me everything.”
      “Good,” Mirida said, “because he’s never spermed in my mouth, so you can tell me how that feels in exchange.”  Some deals don’t need long contracts, and both children nodded their heads: deal.
      
      “It was very, very wet,” the arching girl whispered between kisses.  “All over me, and it kept happening.  My legs, my tummy, my chest, my face, in my hair and all over the back seat of the car.  Nothing could have been so amazing, though Jock leaves me absolutely sopping so I should have had a hint.”
      “I think there’s a message there,” Madonna said.  “If it was just for procreation, a tiny bit would work, like a tiny bit of virus or bacteria, so, if there’s a lot more than that, it must be for aesthetic reasons, you know, something like making girls really want to share it, plus attracting females to males who are the most, well, vivid in that department, which might mean they have other healthy masculine characteristics and priorities.”
      “I’ve wanted Jock maybe even twice as much as before, since seeing what happened with Dad,” the girl said, “so I’d put my nickel along side yours.”
      “And what if what happens between him and me is just as exciting as what you saw,” Madonna asked, “will you ever have the willpower to leave him alone?”
      “No way,” the girl said with her shy smile, “I’ll become the mother of all stalkers and rig the house with snares and traps.  I’ll jimmy his locks.  I’ll creep, hunt, and capture; kidnap and imprison.  Lie him down, stretch him out, and tie him down.  Pipe pure oxygen to the lamp so it becomes a blowtorch.”
      “Then I’ll try not to exaggerate,” Madonna said.
      
      “Me too,” the other girl added, “and I should say he wasn’t… do you know the old joke: ‘What’s gray and comes in quarts?  An elephant.’ Well, he wasn’t like an oil well or a fire hydrant, and, I guess to be honest, Dad’s cum wouldn’t have filled more than two or three shot glasses, but it’s warm and thick and soft and wet and white and such a spectacle you want there to be more, and there is, and then, while you’re still way not tired of it, yes, it ebbs away and then stops for the moment.”
      Our obsession with immediate gratification has reached epidemic proportions, eight thousand dollars per credit card, alone, so isn’t it healthy and invigorating to see kids without a twitchit need to go-for-it?  Doesn’t it make you reevaluate all the Pabulum, applesauce, treacle, and watery grits you’ve been served up in the name of humanity, cultural ethos, and Southern-style mashed morality?  Ashamed of yourself for buying into, and, if’n you’re right-headed, pissed at all you have missed out on while cranking out going-on three generations of juvenile ditzy-husks, housing them in carloads of drywall, transporting them in mountain-man vehicles, when all they want is the remote?  Seems to me your heads are so empty anything at all would serve as stuffing.  You don’t read, therefore you aren’t, or you read of the Jew, and therefore are not only not, but not even sure of that, which, from my fully-realized intellectual and Anglo viewpoint, is just what you deserve.  The paradox is that what you don’t deserve is me, that I’m stuck with sparking literary magic for those I’d rather dip in donut oil.  Comes with the territory so I venture the occasional barb and jab and make the best of it, in all likelihood, the very best.
      Speaking of self-control, by now all three were naked.  Spontaneously and by acclimation the male dancer stripped out of his dance costume, his fairy angels following de-suit then joining the circle in which all three stood, the girls gawking at Jock’s huge erection jutting high from his waist and within inches of their soft, immature tummies while he stared at their arousal displays of swollen nipples.  Naked, but still under control.
      “Were you this way with him?” Madonna asked as the two girls eased their stallion to the wall of the studio office so he could lean back against it while they spread his legs wide, the friend lowering to her knees in front of the brother while the sister knelt behind her, head on her right shoulder, hands around her front, fondling her cherry-size breasts.
      “Yes,” the child answered, “he’d never seen a girl my age without any clothes on so he explored me a lot while I lay on the back seat, then he lay back and I sat on his right leg and explored him, because, wild as Jock was at being a boy, Dad’s a, well, you know, very fully grown man and I was pretty fascinated with stuff like trying to make up my mind as to which was more beautiful.”
      “And then you started touching him?” Madonna whispered, touching the straining seventeen year old herself.
      “Just a little at first,” Mirida said.  “The rest area was pretty safe and we were parked in the shade so it was comfortable.  We’d had a long talk and I’d told him what was happening with Jock since the picnic, which had happened a few days before.  Once he got over all the chivalry stuff and realized I was a pretty happy pussy cat, nonetheless so while carrying my brother’s seed, he asked some sensible questions about, you know, the technical stuff.  If I’d ever watched Jock sperm, and if I’d ever had an orgasm while he was up inside me.  I told him we got too excited and although what happened felt very sexy, it was kind of rushed and that kinda stuff.  That, in turn, led to a frank discussion of the physical side of boy and girl, and he finally admitted that yes, if we took our time he could probably stay with me long enough, since our mom’s a hot beauty,  for me to cum in his arms if we did it a certain mechanical way before he mounted me.  It was hard to get him to talk frankly, I guess that stuff’s pretty embarrassing, but I was patient and secretly happy that he did think of me as a kid/daughter.  Then we passed the sign for the rest area, and you know what a reputation those places have, so I took the wheel and steered the car in while he used the brake.  With him not having to look in mirrors all the time, we were able to relax and  have a more intimate conversation about what it all meant and how, ironically considering all the fuss, it actually meant nothing any more than a tasty meal provides more nutrition than an ordinary meal.  It’s nice, way, way nice, and that’s all there is to it; that it’s when it doesn’t happen that frustration and confusion arise and anxieties take hold.  Dysfunction, neurosis, all those things tracing directly back to the age of Victorian Calvinism.  The ancient Egyptians had no word for virgin, and none for anorexia, and they didn’t need a bottle of laudanum, alcohol and opium, or half a dozen mother’s little helpers to get through the day.  Guess fucking why.”
      
      It was only mixed up tribally; individuals, if they were large of soul and generous of spirit, perhaps well-read in the vagaries of mankind, could blaze trails close to but essentially around the common path of the herd.  One couldn’t exactly say it was a sure road to success, to a child’s eventually (by early twenties) fitting in nicely, those three utterly essential words (“nicely,” not necessarily “perfectly”), but more surely say that the mortality rate on conventional route was nothing to brag about, and alternatives would have to go some to be worse.  It was exactly between simple and complex, so precisely fit that the excitement of just talking about it was palpable, yet after the hissing, sweating, panting climax, nothing had changed and it was time for an ice cream cone from the truck at the far end of the rest area.  You didn’t have to be a genius to appreciate it, but you did to encompass the fact that many should appreciate it, and in an ideal world it would be universal behavior and almost all would.  Since the socialists were adamant and even compulsive in their need to knock over the apple cart in the name of unions, pensions, and Jew power as manifest in grotesque materialism and sub-pseudo intellectualism, mightn’t it pay to grab a premium fruit before it landed in the gutter?  Certainly seemed politically and metaphysically correct even if it lacked moral underpinning one.
      
      “Did  your dad quiz you a lot about what happened on the picnic?” Madonna whispered to the girl now keeling behind her.
      “Once we parked, yes,” the girl replied, “then we kind of became lovers.  He asked me lots of questions and wanted to start touching me just the way my brother had.  We whispered a lot while he went under my sun suit, the same one I’d worn with Jock, and I told him everything so he could experiment the same way it had happened the first time.”
      “You must have felt really free being able to tell him everything,” Madonna noted.
      “That’s it, exactly,” her friend whispered, “even more than that.  It was a chance to relive everything that happened that afternoon from when Jock’s voice got sick sounding until I knew it was happening in me, and also to share it, to make Dad part of every moment and sensation, to say nothing of adding high drama of his own by sperming all over me and the back seat before he mounted me just the way my brother had, only he stayed with me for almost half an hour.”
      “Did you whisper while he was inside you?” Madonna asked, whispering herself.
      “Just endearments and welcome, at first,” the panting girl replied, now kissing her friend and her hands wild on the child’s barely developed chest, “then he asked how long it had been since my brother sprayed in me, and I told him just an hour, because it had happened in his bed just before I went down to breakfast, and when he found out I was still wet from Jock, he began using me as a female instead of nursing me like a child and the second I was sure he was sperming in me, I started screaming and thrashing around and went half unconscious, just like you will the first time it’s perfect.  That kept happening every five or ten minutes, then the ice cream truck pulled in and in another five minutes we were neatly dressed and talking about vanilla, strawberry and chocolate.”
      
      “How long did that last?” Madonna wanted to know.
      “Until the next rest area,” her friend replied with a shy smile her friend sensed even if she couldn’t see it (her attention focused on the rampant stallion immediately in front of her).
      “How about girls?” Madonna asked, still content with tentatively fondling the teen beauty.
      “Karina Vasquez,” Mirida replied, “I’d like to be a lesbian with her sometime, and Jock and I have talked about double dating Natalie and Jamaica.  Their brother, in one case, and dad in the other, are nice enough to be with once in awhile, and we kind of agree that incest is a better cocktail than straight shot.”
      “Do you think that’ll happen?” 
      “It’s getting closer,” the girl replied.  “I guess it makes us both pretty nervous, but we were like Muslims in Alabama on our picnic, so that part’s probably survivable.”
      “Would you like this with Natalie and Jamaica?” Madonna wanted to know, “or just the males.”
      “With them, but probably only for the novelty.  Jock’s my boy and my favorite, forever, Dad’s my man, you’re my girl; I’d be crazy to want more.”
      “So would we,” the friend said, speaking for the brother.
      “Will you come with us if we double-date?”
      “No,” Madonna said.  “I’ve kind of arranged this.  Three times with Jock, just on my tongue, and that’s it until I’m older.”
      “It’s so weird,” her friend responded, “because, intense and wild as it is, you won’t be missing anything.  That’s sort of like my bugaboo with religion.  Huge numbers of people live full, happy lives completely free of it, and yet the practitioners sell faith as a prerequisite to having a soul,”
      “Maybe the devil has a few ‘mysterious ways’ of his own,” Madonna mused.
      “Either that or someone just has a screw loose,” her friend responded.
      
      Jock was being magnificent.  The beautiful teen athlete leaned against the wall of the studio office, hands behind his head, legs widely spread, and merely trembled and panted to the touch and talk of the two pixies kneeling in front of him, letting the cuties proceed at their own pace and experiment all they wanted with touching and fondling him, even wordlessly enduring his sister’s demonstration of how she’d made their dad ejaculate in the back seat of the family Buick.  His patience paid off.  The girls, hormones obviously flowing, suddenly became silent and very mature.  Madonna’s gamin face closed on him as she and his sister moved near, then her tongue was on him, then her lips.  Mirida hissed encouragement, and the eleven year old’s mouth half engulfed his seven inch penis.  She experimented more with her tongue, then quickly settled into a firm rhythm, the hands of both children seeking and finding him as he strained to check the lava heat centered beneath his belly and radiating like plutonium between his knees and navel, trying not to recall his first entry inside the tight, hot body of his little sister and the fast development of her hard, fast welcoming thrusts as her long, slim arms and legs wrapped him tight and she wriggled and squealed, making him cum before he wanted to, before he could feel her tense in his arms.  And her hands, Mirida’s, now so experienced from the teaching of her father, grasping him perfectly way down low and guiding Madonna to do the same.  That was an ultra extra strain on his will to control, to be a man about what was happening which meant letting the girls fully be girls.
      
      We rarely use the word “impossible” anymore.  Spend six or eight hundred billion dollars more on space medicine, and NASA hints we may be able to overcome the dramatic atrophication of the human body in a weightless environment.  I say this is impossible, they say spend the money.  We don’t deem it impossible to get along with an increasingly militant and fanatic Muslim world camped, by chance, on the world’s basic oil supply.  I say it is impossible to get along with them, can’t conceive of an earthly reason why we’d want to in a world with so many nice people, and that we should permanently destabilize and disenfranchise them, using as many thermonuclear weapons as the task requires.  It seems to me impossible for General Motors to run an entire corporation with the sole purpose of paying off its pensioners, and it’s likely their entire board agrees with me, even if the UAW do not.  Other things are impossible, too, and it is thus we conclude this chapter in the literary offering at hand.
      
      Jock tried mightily.  Sweat openly, panted hotly, forced his thoughts out, out and away, made every conceivable human attempt to let his beauties go on and on, to ignore their increasing passion and avidity.  But it was impossible.  He hadn’t, in anticipation of being with Madonna, been complete with Mirida for three days (that fairly often happened, now that they were a stable couple, honeymoon safely over), and that fact added considerably to what he was feeling as the pretty child’s head surged now expertly against him, her tongue living it’s own sensual life.  Impossible.
      
      Mirida sensed it in the offing, fine-tuned the grip of both her and Madonna’s hands at the very base of the staining male, and moved her right hand to delicately finger the throat of her friend.  Jock said nothing, far beyond any chance of utterance.  When it started, the sister and her friend felt it first with their fingers on the boy, then Mirida huddled closer yet to her friend and was rewarded with the sudden beginning of fast contractions of muscles in Madonna’s throat.  That same hard, semi-fast pulsing that had made her a woman on the picnic blanket now in stereo, the beat of the male followed in about a second by the acceptance of the swallowing female, her throat, in addition, vibrating to her ecstatic humming as one salty flood after another gushed down over her larynx.
      
      As with her father, it went on longer than anything that seemed possible, but eventually did ebb.  Madonna’s hands now went to the beautiful face of her friend, pulling her gently, her eyes questioning.  To warn the girl what was about to happen, she let a trace of Jock’s semen flow from her lips.  Mirida nodded shyly, then they kissed as the male slowly collapsed over them, lying the girls on the carpet so, in comfort, the kiss could go on and on.  Nor were the females satiated.  Madonna, after some moments, guided, using just her fingertips, the boy on top of his sister, and, still kissing Mirida, inside her.  Only then she broke off to gaze enthralled down between their young bodies as the female spread wildly for her teen lover, as Jock entered first gently, then fully, and then as the girls legs wrapped in welcome and the male began a fast, hard rut with his wiggling, squealing sister.  This lasted ten full minutes, then Mirida began wailing and moaning, lolling and thrashing on the verge of control.  “I’m cumming,” Jock whispered, and then, finally, it was truly over, a panting kid heap slowly regaining its breath.  
      “You know what sounds fantastic?” Jock asked.
      “Ice cream,” the two girls said, smiling shyly.
      “You guessed it,” the male chuckled.
      
END, Photoplay, File 2.

xxx
      

