More old stuff. This is mostly an exploration of sexuality. The religion stuff is just mindless filler inspired by UMMO. Rachel is not the Rachel from Orange County Republic. Rachel and Steve are twins who were switched at birth. Ron is a real person who probably doesn’t know about this. Overall, this story is me writing fanfic of my other work, Apotheosis Psycherotica, which I don’t recommend.
In the wild. Long, slender, posed. Relaxing gracefully on the cold aluminum in the conditioned atmosphere of this brothel. Tagged at the lobe, tracked from birth. Valued beyond affordability. Nothing is free in the wild. Nothing.
Tranced by the vision threefold before him. Each the same, each as unobtainable as the others. Locked in their deep eyes. In their soft coats. In their immense size. Dreaming of impossible possibilities, lost in unspeakable desires and lusts.
“Beautiful,” a sultry tone behind and to the left, a woman adding voice to his thoughts.
He didn’t turn to see who it was; he knew physical identity wouldn’t matter with her.
How did he know?
“How much is this tigris?” she whispered, seemingly to herself, as her arm reached forward to flick the tag. “Too much, huh? Don’t worry none, dear. I’ve got ya covered,” in a secretive, lustful breath that sent shivers down one side. A hand breifly in his jacket pocket, depositing something. With a brief, “Have fun,” she was gone.
He reflexively looked around to catch a glimpse of her retreat. No sight was to be had of her then. He felt in his pocket, pulling forth a booklet of twenty-dollar bills. Counting quickly, he found enough for the animals, all three.
“Remind me again why we’re in downtown,” Rachel said as they turned onto Smithfeild.
“So we won’t get caught cutting school,” Steve told him. “And so I can check out the mannequins at Kaufmann’s.”
“You’re obsessive–compulsive, y’know that?” Rachel looked away as Steve ogled the figures in the store window. The street was busy with people. Pittsburgh as a gene pool sucks, Rachel thought. “When are you going to be done? I’m getting hungry.”
“Fine. You’re no fun,” Steve said. “McDomination’s is just down the street.”
They broke from the length of windows on the building and crossed the street, heading toward Fifth Avenue.
“And how are you today?” a man said, holding out a pamphlet to Steve.
“Leave ‘er alone, sicko,” Rachel said.
“I think the lady can speak for herself,” he said.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“I’m Ron,” he said.
“I’m Steve. This is my asshole, Rachel,” Steve said. “Are you busy right now or…?”
“I’m always busy, doing the work of God,” he said. “But I have some time for you.”
“Steve, whatever you’re thinking—” Rachel started.
“I was thinking, Ron,” Steve said. “Why don’t we sit down and talk? Just over at McDom’s there.”
He began to protest but Steve took his pamphlet-filled arm and started him toward McDonald’s. “Sure, we could talk about Jesus, and you could answer some questions I’ve been having, y’know. It’ll be… illuminating.”
Ron said, “I’d be happy to answer your questions, Steve.”
Rachel followed, giving Steve dirty looks.
I don’t know, maybe it’s just something you go through as
a teenager. Finding little things to bitch about, especially in
relationships. So what if he over uses the word “y’know”? or likes Pearl Jam better than Nirvana? He still has money… and a bad habit of clipping his fingernails to the quick. And the whole “I don’t want you looking at other men” thing could just be a normal guy thing. They do seem to be competitive and territorial. Especially the horny ones who constantly try to pressure you into sex and cuss at you when you don’t give the old follow-through. What is a prude? a tease? How can a girl like me, who wears sweaters and loose jeans, be called a tease? And why am I giving a monologue without my name? Hello, Sarah, how am I? Oh, you’re fine. It’s just your life that sucks. Wasn’t it fun trying to dump him and making him cry? Oh, how sweet and caring, the son of a bitch cried. Well, at least it wasn’t in vain, since it got you naked… except for the socks. Just got to keep them socks on. Yep, socks are good. So, whose fault is it that you didn’t use a condom? God, I hate this. Why the fuck did I sleep with a jealous, over-bearing crybaby? the night before the big Geometry test? without a change of socks? I think I’m scarred. God, it was nasty. He’s ruined me, destroyed anything I could have had with somebody who actually knew what they were doing… or had a healthy looking cock. But, no, now all I’ll ever see is a hairy mole bearing down on my cunt, saying, “Hey baby. Gotta little somethin’ extra fer ya. Hope ya like protrusions.” I wish my parents would kill me for doing this. They won’t. They’ll let me live with the memory of grunt–pant–“are you my bitch?”–pant–pant–“yea Stacey”–pant—wait a minute… he called me Stacey? No, I don’t think—it did sound different than how my name usually sounds though, but maybe everything sounds funny when you’re filled with the meat of others. Pun-jab is sikh sikh sikh… yep. Well, we’ll just have to do something about this then. Other than taking it and using it as a ritual sacrifice… Shower. Definitely. But how are we going to fit the soap up there? And tomorrow? Can’t spend eternity trying to get clean—even if it would take that long to get rid of this disgust… Gotta dump the sunnuva bitch, crying or not. Fuck ‘im if he can’t take it—no, don’t fuck him. Find another way to phrase that. Kinda necessary now that I know how disgusting this shit is…
“So, Ron,” Rachel said, sitting down with his media fries. “Tell me about this whole dying for sins stuff.”
“What do you want to know?” Ron asked.
“Why God wants our souls so much,” Rachel said.
“He gave you life, isn’t that enough?”
“My parents gave me life, too, but I’m not going to worship them.”
“But the Lord gave your parents life.”
“And so did my grandparents, but I’m not going to start on ancestor worship.”
Ron thought for a second. “The Lord created you—”
“—and so did genetics.”
“But who made genetics?” Ron asked.
“Simon and Garfunkel,” Rachel said.
“No, they made music.”
“Says you,” Steve mumbled.
“Then it had to have been the krypton pairs in the baayioduu,” Rachel stated.
“Oh, please, Rachel,” Steve said.
“The what?” Ron said.
“The baayioduu. It’s kind of like a dictionary containing all possible shapes of possible living beings compatible with universal biogenetic law and, of course, Woa,” Rachel said.
“Woa?” Ron asked.
“Woa,” Steve began, “is a creative being of an infinite number of ideas, insofar as these ideas are not incompatible with existence.”
“What does that mean?” Ron asked.
“It means that Woa is the one who decides what gets made based on whether or not it actually could exists, or happen,” Rachel said. “He was the one who let the oemii woa, the man-god Jesus, exist and rise after three days because it was possible to let him do that.”
“This means that Jesus didn’t do anything special, just stuff we haven’t figured out yet,” Steve said.
“Kind of like showing a car to a caveman,” Rachel said. “Or ‘sticks-of-thunder’ as the native civilizations called guns.”
“But Jesus was God’s only son,” Ron said.
“Then how can he be our Father?” Rachel asked.
“God is your spiritual father. He was Jesus’ actual father,” Ron said.
“Not according to your bible. An angel of the Lord planted the seed,” Rachel said. “Seems like God had little to do with it.”
“Isn’t it funny how many ancient angelic experiences can easily be seen as extra-terrestrials?” Steve commented.
“Wheel of fire and stuff, yeah,” Rachel added.
Ron shook his head. “Are you calling God an alien?”
“No,” Rachel said. “God’s God. But you’re worshipping the hybrid love-child of some human-loving E.T.”
“Who was only born because his record was in the baayioduu,” Steve added.
“Exactly,” Rachel agreed with his sister.
“If Jesus wasn’t the son of God, how’d he perform all of the miracles?” Ron asked, hoping they didn’t have an answer.
“I told ya,” Rachel said. “His physiology was specialized, giving him access to certain abilities that allowed him to perform spectacular stunts. Within the limits of Waam, of course.”
“And since he kept within the limits of Waam,” Steve continued, “sooner or later, we’ll be able to do the same.”
“We probably could before, but so much ancient wisdom was destroyed by the church in their greed to keep control over the world’s population,” Rachel said.
“But the church never did do anything remotely Christian, did it, Ron?” Steve asked.
“But Jesus wasn’t an alien. He was the son of man,” Ron said.
“So am I,” Rachel said.
“I’m the daughter of man. Here me roar,” Steve said.
Ron jumped as Steve grabbed his leg above the knee. “I’d ask you to stop that, please.”
“Yer no fun,” she mumbled.
“Alright, if Jesus wasn’t an alien—and I’m not saying he isn’t—what about the whole word-of-God thing?” Rachel asked.
“The bible is not necessarily the word of God,” Ron said. “Just the inspired word of God.”
“So it’s basically propaganda,” Rachel said. “Like the Germans in world war two.”
“What Rachel’s saying is,” Steve said, “we need both sides of the story.”
“We have God’s side, of course. The bible and stuff,” Rachel said. “But wouldn’t it be a good idea not to jump on the first bus that comes along?”
“Okay,” Ron said. “What’s the devil’s side?”
“Devil? Who said anything about him?” Rachel said. “I’m talking about the Romans and pagans and jewish community of the day. None of them thought this Jesus guy was any fun.”
“That’s because they were blinded by—” Ron began.
“Exactly, whatever. But then this one guy comes along and says hey, there’s a dozen churches all preaching different things. How about we unite them (under my rule of course) and see if we can’t spread the good news like butter across the land?”
Steve picked up, “And he took the current ruler of some country-or-another who, coincidentally, has been called Jesus’ descendant, and used him to take over Italy and a few other countries.”
Rachel continued, “And after a few bloody campaigns in the name of God, they had all of Europe and half of Africa.”
“But the church never did anything remotely Christian, did it?” Steve asked.
“And, furthermore, if God’s God, why didn’t he stop the fuckers from killing in his name?”
Rachel’s words hung in the air for a few seconds.
“Kind of gives him a bad reputation, doesn’t it?” Rachel asked.
“Like, maybe, ‘dead-beat-dad’?” Steve asked.
“Now, just a minute—”
“With the end of the ‘age-of-miracles’ it does seem like it,” Steve said.
“God performs miracles everyday,” Ron said.
“Only because those miracles are compatible with Woa,” Rachel said.
“Jesus is not an alien,” Ron said.
“Of course not,” Rachel said. “He doesn’t have to be to have performed all that stuff.”
“Then how did he do it?” Ron asked.
“Well, considering all the healings involved the laying-on-of-hands, one could suppose that he found a cure for leprosy,” Rachel said. “Y’don’t have to be God to be a doctor.”
“And Lazarus?” Ron asked.
“Symbolic death,” Steve said. “Alot of mystery trads had that ritual going long before Jesus ever tried it.”
“How did he rise from the tomb?” Ron asked.
“Never in it,” Rachel said. “Without exact identification, like we have nowadays, he could have grabbed the first person who looked remotely like him and nailed his ass to a cross.”
Steve continued, “Which would explain why he asked God about forsaking him.”
“And, as for the prophecies,” Rachel anticipated Ron’s question. “He was familiar with them. If he saw that he had already filled a couple and could cook up a story to fill in the whole birth thing—I’m sure Mary would agree to help make her son king—then all that was left was to actively pursue filling in the rest. Tell me, was the crucifixition prophecied?”
In his sanctuary bedroom, behind closed doors. In the bed, he lay with his new mate, gently petting her soft polyester fur as he thought. This was wrong. It wasn’t healthy to be doing this. Masturbation was bad enough, but with toys? He shouldn’t even be thinking about it, the deviant behavior, the sin.
Maybe he would grow out of it and be healthy, get a normal relationship. And not be so damn weird. People would think this was disgusting—he was disgusting—if they knew. A freak, a pervert, a sexual deviant. Not someone they would want to talk to. Or even look at. “Unclean.”
He paused his petting to look at the tigress. Did it just move? No, it couldn’t—but it didn’t look the same. Something had changed.
Have to stop this. I’m going insane. Just put it in the closet and forget about—
It did move.
He lay frozen, a choking fear filling his chest. Staring up at those plastic green-ringed eyes, waiting for it to blink, or chuff a greeting, or…
It stood up. Feet on either side of his body, looking down at him. The dull green plastic clearing to a deep wonder, the black a pool to be lost in. It looked, growing still as his heart raced faster, adrenaline pumping audibly.
Holy hell, what did I buy?—I didn’t buy—the woman—
A thought. Not his. Overlapping words didn’t happen, even when songs got stuck.
The woman’s voice.
Who are you?
I’m either a stuffed tigress or some lady from a toy store. Usually I’m a fetish goddess.
You know. Them pagans have a god for everything except premature ejaculation. He’s coming soon, but I’m already here. Name’s Arana. I cover everything Eros and Aphrodite don’t.
Yea, I get to do all the fringe sexuality stuff. Like power-play, role-play, post-it notes, anal, fisting, anal-fisting—
I get it.
A pause as he looked up at it, the fear receeding only enough to allow him to breathe comfortably. Why did he find some of it disgusting and the rest acceptable?
I’ll tell ya why. The disgust you’re feeling is just an over-reaction to the different activities. When you hear it mentioned, you judge it based on whether or not you would participate in it. I never said you had to fist me. It would be better if you consciously judged each activity based on whether or not you would approve of other people doing it. Detatched perspective, y’know?
So, if someone else was boinking a plush like me, would you think it was wrong?
He stared wonderingly into its plastic-yet-deep eyes, considering the question; his fear all but gone. Someone else? Could anybody else be doing this stuff? A hope and a loneliness set itself on the edge of his mind.
Am I insane?
Where else did you get two hundred dollars?
Am I dreaming?
It sighed—rather, she sighed.
Hon, I don’t know or care what or who you are. All I know is, ya gotta stop beating yourself up over something as wonderful and beautiful as this. Really though, I could have made you a chubby-chaser.
Checking the disgust, he found it acceptable, but not preferrable.
Then, it dropped limp to his chest, making him jump. The vocal inhabitant had vacated, her point made.
Rachel and Steve left Ron at Fifth as they walked down to the Smithfeild Street Bridge. The day had been long with deep-fried potato sticks and debate over historical, philosophical, and political nuances contained within the Christian bible. While their explanations around everything managed to manifest as a complexly simple theory, they had failed to convince Ron of anything other than their insanity, and maybe even gave him more reason to “spread the good news.”
“That was a waste of a day,” Rachel said as he watched the sidewalk.
“Why do you say that?” Steve asked, turning to prolong a look at a little girl’s ass.
“All we accomplished was turning him against the Catholic Church,” Rachel said. “And I’d venture to guess he disliked them before we started.”
“Did you have fun trying?” Steve asked.
“Not everything can be divided into worth-while fun and wasted boredom, Steve.”
“Not everything can be divided into good and evil, either… unless you’re gnostic.”
Rachel gave a half-smile, letting it fade as soon as it appeared.
“C’mon, Rachy. Be gnostic with me. Have some fun.” Steve put her arm around his shoulders.
“How would you suggest I do that?” Rachel asked. “By fucking something?”
“It’s a start,” Steve smiled, drawing him closer as the bridge came into sight. “But I think you’re still accomplishment-oriented. Sex to you would be a goal. What we need to do is get you out of this ambition kick you’re on, and into a slacker coffeehouse.”
“We’re only fifteen. The BeatDive won’t let us in until three,” Rachel pointed out.
“I didn’t say we had to go right now,” Steve said. “We could scope the babes at Station Square for a few hours.”
“Truancy officers circle it regularly,” Rachel pointed out.
“All the more fun, ay?”
Resigning to the twin sister that wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, Rachel let himself be dragged across the Monongahela River.
Nice lunch. Glad I brought it. Hello, pretty apple. They say you’re golden delicious. But I wonder if you are. Let’s find out, shall we? This won’t hurt a bit—bad thought! Don’t think about what happened last night, Sarah. Last what? Better. Nice apple. Pretty, mental distraction of an apple; helping support my sanity drive. Like the Geometry test. What a nice, healthy way to avoid my problems for forty minutes. Until I see the graph on question twenty-three, then it’s all downhill from there. Oh, look. It’s my protrusion. Hello, protrusion. Don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see—okay then, please don’t come over here. I will scream, mole-boy. Don’t think I won’t let a crowded cafeteria know about your deformity. Go away, dammit. No!
“Hey, Sarah,” he says as he sits down next to me, all innocent.
Just nod and keep staring at the apple. Golden delicious.
“Can I get a bite?”
“My apple.” Get the point and leave already.
“Just a small bite. Pretty please?” he mocks at me, with that monstrosity hiding beneath the cheap plastic-covered fiber board table.
“My motherfucking apple, mole-boy.” Oh shit… I didn’t just say that.
Well, that’s a shocked and slightly pained expression, so I guess I did.
“What did y’call me?”
Fill my mouth with apple as I die a quiet death in Bad Relationship Land. Okay. Chewing slowly here, attempting to avoid giving the answer. Go on with your life already… why are you still looking at me? Dam! I swallowed. Here we go…
“Y’should get that looked at.”
Where does my dialog come from. At least I got him to leave the table—and my life. I’d hope for forever but he’ll call five times tomorrow. Oh well. What’s twenty minutes of tape as he sobs into the answering machine? Futility is resistant, y’know. Back to the apple. Ah, sweet apple. So golden, so delicious. You make me feel special, apple. That’s why I’m going down on you in a feeding frenzy of lustful appetite… wow. That was too much, even for an apple. I hope I’m losing it. I mean, if this was it, I wouldn’t want it; so this better be lack of it. I’m sure I know what I mean by that.
Promptly at three, Steve entered the BeatDive coffeehouse, with Rachel in tow.
“Hey, Dos,” she greeted the coffee-slinger as she dropped her bag in the window seat.
“Steve,” Dos replied. “How’s my favorite customer?”
“Feeling like I’m dragging a hundred-some pounds of dead weight,” she said.
“Bite me,” Rachel said.
“This must be the escapist book-worm you always talk about,” Dos said.
“That’s Rachel, all right,” Steve said. “Medium coff. He’s paying.” She walked through to the pinball room.
“I’ll have a small Coke,” Rachel said, pulling out his wallet.
“Comin’ right up.” Dos turned to pour their drinks.
Steve returned from the pinball room. “Looks like no one’s here.”
“Been a slow week,” Dos agreed.
“All the better to teach Rachel how to slack off,” Steve grinned.
“Can I at least try for high score on the pinball games?” Rachel asked.
“Nope,” Steve said, picking up her coffee. “Pay the man, would ya?”
The library was empty as he signed the computer sheet. Sitting down at the terminal in the corner, he typed his way to Yahoo! and paused.
What was he looking for? What category or keyword would give him the answers he wanted? What did he want, anyway? Stuck, staring at the Search button, wondering what sequence of mouse clicks would bring his quest to an end, he sighed, closing his eyes to think.
What was it she had called them? Plush? It was a start, and he typed it into the search box. Clicking the button, he waited for the slow connection to respond.
“Wow,” he breathed upon seeing the category listing for Fetishes/Plushies. A whole new world opened before him, where it was the norm; acceptable and shared. Stunned at the idea of not being alone, he followed the links into their world to see if it was real.
“This sucks,” Rachel bitched. “Doing nothing but reading lame-ass free news mags, smoking, and waiting for someone we know to walk in.”
“To some, this is the answer to getting a life,” Steve replied.
“Doesn’t seem like much of a life,” Rachel said.
“It suits the other teenagers just fine.” Steve sipped her coffee.
“Gee, I didn’t know we were like everyone else.”
Steve looked up from the City Paper and out the window as a dark-haired girl made her way to the street corner, waiting for the lights.
“Now she’s a hottie,” Steve said.
“What are the chances of her coming in here, though?” Rachel asked.
The traffic lights changed, allowing the girl to cross to their side of Carson Street. She headed straight for the BeatDive’s front door.
“Dam good, apparantly,” Steve said, following the girl with her eyes.
Rachel turned as she walked by to the counter, admiring the shape of her hips.
“Dos!” Steve called. “Whatever she wants, it’s on me.”
“Thanks,” the girl smiled at Steve, before turning back to order a Jones Soda.
“She wants me,” Steve smiled, leaning back in her chair.
“They all want you, Steve,” Rachel said.
“That’s what makes this so much fun,” Steve whispered as she stood up and left the window seat. She dropped two dollars on the counter before heading over to the girl’s table.
“So, what’s your name?” Steve asked, sitting down.
“Sarah. Thanks for the drink,” Sarah said.
“No problem. ‘Specially for a fine looking girl like you,” Steve said.
“How old ‘re you?” Sarah asked with a slightly puzzled look.
“I might be fifteen, but if that’s a problem, we can change it,” Steve winked.
“No problem,” Sarah said. “I just got out of a bad relationship and was thinking about getting some hot lesbian action, anyway.”
Steve smiled widely. “Well, I’m a hot lesbian into action.”
“I noticed,” Sarah smiled mischeviously.
“So.” Steve sipped her coffee before continuing. “Any time in particular for this action?”
Sarah took a long sip of her soda, considering the question.
“I guess I’m free right now,” she said, “if you have a clean place.”
Steve turned around. “Hey, Rach! Grab your things.” Turning back to Sarah, “My brother. Don’t worry, he’s impotent.”
Sarah hesitantly stood up, looking over Rachel to figure out if she could beat him, were it necessary. She affirmed his weakness.
“I thought I was the one getting laid today,” Rachel said to his sister.
“Shit happens,” Steve told him as they led Sarah to their house.
Pausing at the second landing on the city steps to his street, he drew out a cigarette and lit it. What a day. Long and interesting. This is what happens when we cut school to go to the mall, just to see what it would be like if we did. And the woman. Arana did she say her name was? A fucking goddess. One with cash, no less. Fascinating world, really. More thing in heaven and earth…
“Than are covered in your philosophy,” a feminine voice finished.
He turned to see a woman walking down the steps to where he sat. Oddly human in appearance, he thought, remembering the images of ancient mythology; and glossing over the automatic assumption of her identity.
“Hey, Chuff,” she greeted, sitting next to him. “Howya doing?”
“I’m a whirl-wind of emotion,” he deadpanned, making her laugh.
“You would be, after what I did to you.”
“What—and why—did you do it?” he asked.
“Because it needed done,” Arana told him. “You were tearing yourself apart over something you should be throwing pride parades for.”
“I’m not a parade type of guy.”
“I know,” she agreed, “but you were having a lot of trouble getting over your social conditioning.”
“The desire to mate with others of your kind can hardly be called conditioning,” he said.
She smiled. “Rescent psychological studies have shown that humans aren’t born with any instincts. The result of how the brain’s set up or something.”
He dragged his cigarette. “Rescent studies have shown that you can prove anything with rescent studies.”
She laughed. “Exactly.”
He thought for a moment. “So it’s perfectly okay to be a—what did they call it?—a plushophile?”
“Hell, it’s okay to be a… whatever…” she trailed off, as if edited a decade later.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he asked.
“I told you. The goddess of Fetish and Desire. Lady of the Orgasm. Arana,” she said.
“So, do you do this to everyone who’s just a bit off?”
“Only if they need it as bad as you, repression-boy,” she joked.
He turned back to his cigarette, studying the brick-laid street below. “What made me repress it so much? Or is ‘social conditioning’ as specific as you’ll get?” he asked.
“Well,” she began. “First, there’s the value-system you were raised with. Then there’s the televised commodity of human flesh designed to make you want it—nasty corruption of myself. When you take the particular nature of your fetish—it’s obscurity and what-not—and add it to the notion of masturbation being a ‘sin’—hell, just knowing the concept of sin—what you end up with is an elaborate mental construct designed to filter you into a non-jungle-fever, non-experimental, straight-laced heterosexual who feels a certain pride in not having anything to hide.”
She paused to see if any of that had gotten through to him.
“That’s all obvious to anyone with as much spare time as me,” he said. “But what about the isolation, the guilt, the driving need to be normal? Where did all of that come from?”
A silence drew out as she considered that.
“Can’t you ask the easy questions like everyone else?”
He laughed. She sighed.
“All right. It’s like this, cat,” she began. “The isolation is caused by the Media’s filter; it never showed the sensuality of plush or people who enjoyed it, so you just assumed you were alone. Guilt I never understood as anything more than shame, which is caused by the disapproval of others. And the driving need to be normal is the foundation of society. I don’t deal in that.”
“I have a long way to go, huh?” he said quietly.
“Depends on where you want to end up,” she said, standing. “See ya ’round sometime.”
He watched her continue down the concrete steps, mulling over what she said. Life just got weird, he thought. Going to be a lot of fun from here.
“Mornin’,” Rachel greeted his sister as he opened the fridge.
“It would be,” she returned.
Opening the can of cola, he said, “So, I was thinking that we could go hang somewhere today. Just chill.”
She looked at him in amazement. “What, no plans or anything?”
“After listening through the wall yesterday,” he said, “slacking off seems like it could have benefits.”
“Did y’like the way I kept making her giggle?” Steve smiled.
“She does have a pleasant laugh,” he commented.
“Who does?” their father asked, entering the kitchen.
“Stacey from the Duff commercials,” Rachel said.
“Planning college so soon?” father asked.
“Just considering the benefits of an education,” he said, smiling at his sister before heading back upstairs.
Ahh. Morning at home. Clean socks today. Socks and apples. What was her name? Steve. Mmm, that was fun… Sigh. Just not my dig, apparantly. I don’t know anymore. Maybe sex just isn’t my thing. I should just tie on the old chastity belt and forget how to flirt. But you’d Pay for be left with my own dam useless drink art next time—what the fuck!? Hello, Sarah. …and I’m hearing what now? Don’t worry, I won’t be long. Just saving me from the cliff of—yep. So, what do you want? Gee, you’re the voice, why don’t you tell me? Ah, but I’m not allowed that much power. Power, huh? Just admit your lust and I’ll be gone. Lust for what-have? You already know that; it’s sitting on your computer. K-9, right? And all the rest in the hidden directory. But it’s just art. That’s what I’m saying. And you don’t have dreams, huh? Stay out of my fantasy world, strange voice lady. It’s perfectly okay to specialize… Specialize in what? Hello? Goddam, I can’t believe I’m actually trying to have a conversation with a voice—which isn’t even here anymore. Specialize, huh? What the hell is that supposed to mean? That I just give up on humans and chase chimeras at conventions and mucks? Like I’d ever enter a muck. What else have I got to do, though? Besides day-trip to get off? Cybering might be fun—on occasion though. Am I forgetting something? Like the possibility of human interaction? Face-to-face fucking? Or even doggystyle… rough ruff. Yeah, yiff this. Just keep hoping for sex that doesn’t suck while typing my fingers to the bone in a lame attempt at getting off while unexpectedly developing a bizarre relationship with someone I’ve never met. Sounds like a picnic to me. Why the hell can’t there be any others here in Pittsburgh? Is this city a dry spot for fetishism or something? I need to move to Cleveland. At least they have a bar scene. Five more years and I’m Dolly Madison—good to go. Till then, oh dear city of Ohio-esque alcoholism, I shall remain here; alone and frustrated… unless I get lucky and start hearing voices again… what the hell was that, anyway? Must be something Steve slipped in my drink. Maybe I’ve just been hallucinating this whole morning. Does look too nice out. Saturday, huh? Yep. Just roll over and go back to sleep. Fuck it all.