Cosmonogamy

Dr. Euclid sat back in his institutional desk chair.  It had been a very trying morning.  First, he put his foot through the heel of his sock (He now wore one black and one brown).  Then his coffee took a header during the commute and splattered his shirt and pants.  He washed them at the sink in his exam room, but the air drying method he used took hours.

He just got off the phone with a young, out-of-state colleague who had a difficult patient who wasn’t responding to the typical treatment, and this had stumped him.  He had two post-operative patients waiting for him at the moment and he still needed that coffee.  He tried to get himself together.  He ran his fingers through his gray hair and found himself scratching his beard.  Scratching his beard meant that it was time.

He opened his desk drawer.  He pushed aside pharmaceutical company pens, the script pads, rubber bands, tourniquets and old dictation tapes.  There, in the back of the drawer, was a small octagon glass jar.  He opened it.  His finger searched for even a drop of it’s former contents, but the jar was bone dry. He cursed under his whiskers, slipped the jar in his lab coat pocket, and walked purposefully out of his office.  He marched past his receptionist, past a row of patients waiting in chairs reading magazines and down the hall of the bustling clinic.

He slipped past a man with a walker and dodged two EMT’s pushing a frail woman on a stretcher. He walked right past the patients stacked wall to wall in a waiting room, through a back office lined with RN’s in blue scrubs and mountains of charts, right through the open office door of  Lin DiMinor, MD, FACS.

“Assessment: I discussed the possibility of bypass surgery with the patient and her family, including risks and benefits.  We will get a vein map and proceed with…” click.  The dictation stopped and the slender midnight-haired woman looked up from behind the piles of charts stacked up on her desk.  She peered over the top of her glasses. “What can I do for you, Tom?”

He pulled the jar from his pocket. “I’m out.”

Dr. DiMinor sat back and smiled.  She was in her late fifties but looked much younger.  Her hair was silky and long with no signs of thinning or gray, her face was virtually absent of wrinkles.  Her eyes had a spark of cosmic wisdom and calm professional intelligence.

She moved over to a tall cabinet next to her overflowing bookshelf.  She unlocked the cabinet door and reached high. The irregular shaped glass bottles clattered together as she stretched on her tip toes to reach the back of the shelf.
“It’s been, what, Twenty-five years, Tom?” She pulled out an identical jar to the one he was holding.” Don’t you think it’s about time you paid me back for this stuff?”

“I thought it was professional courtesy?” He smiled.

“Nothing is free, Tom, especially courtesy.” She studied it’s label with it’s picture of a Bee and a honey pot, and cryptic calligraphy. “Besides this is my last jar. I’ll give you a little, but I can’t give you all.”

He reached back and shut the office door.  He thumbed the lock until it clicked.

She motioned for him to sit down in her chair.  He sat,  loosened his tie and opened the first few buttons of his white shirt.  She opened the jar.

“This makes me feel like a patient,”  he laughed as she approached him with her delicate palm holding the lid, “I’m a terrible patient.”

She sat gently on his lap. she ran her fingers along his whiskered chin.  She dipped her finger into the jar.  The aroma of honey and orange blossom filled his nostrils. She carefully applied a few dabs of the smooth white cream to his red and gray beard.  He subconsciously rested his hand on her thigh and closed his eyes.  He could hear the spring birds singing, he could feel cool grass between his toes.  The back office phone rang unanswered.  Lin slowly worked the creamy lather into his beard.

He grew the beard his first year at the clinic.  Originally, he intended for it to hide his boyish face.  It was all part of trying to establish himself as a legitimate successor to the pompous blowhards that he worked under, the old boy network was a hard shell to crack.  At fist his patchy, irregular, beard itched and he found himself absentmindedly twirling it between his thumb and fingers, especially when he was nervous.  It was a tell that he wasn’t entirely confident, not exactly what a top notch neurologist needs to convey.  It was the joke around the older surgeons, twirl your scrawny beard while the patient dies, just like Tommy E, MD.

It was after a particularly humbling M&M (Morbidity and Mortality meeting) that a young female surgeon suggested he try her ancient beauty secret.  He was doubtful at first.  What snake oil was she trying to pass off on him?  She was a woman of science after all, why would she believe this traditional healing ointment would work?  She had immigrated with her new American husband from a small Asian Pacific island country,  and said it was a very potent formula that had been used for centuries, It worked for hair, skin, and confidence.  He reluctantly accepted her kind offer.

Over months and years of using Dr. DiMinor’s secret island “honey”, his beard grew thick and velvet soft, his skin stayed tight and glowed with youthful energy.  His confidence and skill grew as well, and before long he became highly successful and respected in the field of Neurosurgery.  He never told anyone of this secret.  Even if he actually believed in the cream’s power (which he didn’t really, did he?), he feared his colleagues would laugh at the idea of such an analytical mind being taken in by the hollow promises of an ancient anti-aging elixir.  He watched Lin too.  He watched as her daughter grew, as her husband passed away, and as her beauty seemed to increase with age.  He liked her, a lot, but he was very absorbed in his work, he never mustered the courage to talk to her as a woman.  There was always a professional distance between them.

A distance that had now shortened as her slender hands finished grooming his beard.  “There you go, Doctor, good as new.”

“You are right, Lin” He looked her deeply in the eyes and leaned in to kiss her.  She accepted and their lips touched. “I do need to pay you back.”

She smiled and felt his hand rise on her thigh.  She took her glasses off and placed them on the corner of the desk.  She let her lab coat fall to the floor.

He stood from the chair and helped her to the floor.  They kissed again and his hands explored her youthful frame.  He reached below her skirt and removed her panties.  His mouth moved down her soft, flat belly to the top of her waist.  There before him was the softest hair he had ever felt.  It was softer than rabbit, smoother than silk and as straight as the hair of  a paintbrush.  Again he smelled the honey, he smelled the orange blossoms.  He was transported to an island paradise with the wind-song urging him on to the purple valley between her golden thighs.   The woodpecker notched the tree above them in his mind, and a dragon spit flowered flames on his skin, they laughed like children in this perfect paradise.

When they had finished and dressed, she put a few swaths of the cream in his empty jar.  “You only need a little bit every now and then - Be conservative, there isn’t any more.” She prescribed.

He wanted more, regardless of what she was telling him, he would come back for more.  He felt younger, and the cloudiness that had followed him all morning gave way to the open skies of clarity.  A thought struck his brain like lightning and the algorithms of treatment plans turned in his mind like a wheel.  He needed to call that young Doctor from out-of-state, he thought of a new course of treatment for that declining patient.

“Thank you, Doctor, I don’t know how to thank you.” He was in awe of her beauty as she righted her glasses.

“Oh Tom, It’s OK, It was my pleasure to treat you.” Her pager beeped annoyingly.  The phone rang harshly.

He opened the door and slipped around past Dr. DiMinor’s overweight nurse.  She gave him a suspicious glance before entering the office.  The click of the dictation recorder brought him back to reality as he exited the chaotic back office “…the pre-operative blood work and cardiac workup….”

His hand slipped into his pocket and he felt the warmth of his nearly empty jar, his other hand stroked his magnificently soft beard.

Georgia woke up hungry.  All of the drinking and her recent adventures in other beds had left her empty and growling.  She was terrible at shopping; her cupboards and refrigerator were always empty save for a bottle of wine and pasta sauce.  She muttered to herself, threw on a skirt and a blouse and hit the corner market.
“Fresh produce” was the order of the day. She needed something cool and refreshing.  Vitamins and the healing power of plants!
The sun was high and there was a bustling air around the market.  “I’ll make a salad.  A little wine… green lettuce, baby carrots, feta, a tomato and some cucumber.”
(There you go, Georgia, staring at the obscene vegetables.)
Georgia spent the time at the counter starting at the bag boy.  She had been watching him a lot.  Never this close, of course.  She watched him come and go from his apartment.  (He shared it with his mother.)

The first time she saw him was in late spring. It was unusually hot and all of the surrounding apartments had their windows open.  It was late, maybe twelve-thirty, and Georgia was reading.  She turned off the living room lamp and looked out across the city.  It was wonderful to feel the cool night air on her sticky skin.  The breeze had a salty taste to it as thought the city had sweat enough during the day to collectively scent the night air.
She looked at the window across the street.  There was a light.  The room was washed in a dull yellow glow.  Posters of swimsuit models and sports stars.  But on the dark bedspread was a pink body.  (Holy shit!  A teenager!)
Georgia got out her antique opera glasses and a glass of white wine.  She pulled her beat-up armchair to the window, propped her legs up and watched.
The binoculars offered her a wonderfully sharp view of the adolescent’s room.  He was probably 18 or 19 years old.  Greasy, longish brown hair.  Wearing headphones.
He was touching his penis.
She had missed whatever foreplay he had given himself.  He was already pulling and tugging on his rod.  It was slick and glossy.  (Boy knows how to lube!)
Lying on his back with both legs flat on the bed, his head was propped up on some pillows.  He was watching his fist glide over his prick.  His mouth was open and his foot was keeping time to whatever he was listening to.
Georgia lightly brushed her clit through her thin negligee.  Stopping to sip the wine, but mostly just watching the boy masturbate.  (A cock!)

Georgia always felt sex was sort of empty without a cock.  Even her fling with Lilah last year became fuller when she bought Georgia the strap-on.  (Oh, Lilah.)
She only fucked Lilah with it once.
“What an expensive fantasy.”
Georgia took it with her when she left.  She couldn’t bear the thought of Dahlia letting someone else fuck her with “Georgia’s Cock”.

The boy began to buck and struggle.  His pace slowed and he lurched his dick skyward.  He came all over himself and lay there exhausted for a while.  Georgia watched and drifted.
“I wonder if my detachment is literal?” she mused.  “I wonder if my cock was separated at birth.  I need to sit around and masturbate and fuck just like seventeen-year old boys.”

Georgia swigged the last big sip of wine and stood.  She took off her slip and walked to the bedroom through her dark apartment.
She was already quite aroused.  Her heartbeat quickened and her breath was short.  She was sweating in her arm pits as she crouched down in her closet.
Every movement was purposeful and cat like.  She didn’t want to make any noise.  (Let the boy sleep.)
With the stealth of a Ninja, Georgia pushed lightly past the layers of pumps and sandals and boots until she hit the correct shoebox.  She pulled it to the closet’s edge and opened it.
Inside was a velvet bag.  She quickly discarded it and pulled out a perfectly proportioned dildo.  It was attached to a black leather harness.  Georgia rose slowly.
Her pussy was now very wet.
She slipped on a pair of spiked heels and strapped on the harness.  She stood with cock erect.
She liked this.  Strutting around with a cock.  She felt in charge, awake.  She wished she could feel it as thought it was her own.
Every night for weeks the boy stayed up and unabashedly jerked off.  Georgia caught a few sessions.  Missed a few, too.  (I need to get out too, you know.)
She watched for him in the streets and saw him at the market.  She got to know his schedule.

“Eighteen sixty-five.”
“Huh?”
“Eighteen sixty-five.”  The checkout girl was mousy and annoyed.  Georgia hated this girl immediately.  (I’ll fuck you with my cock, you little brat.)
She paid, glanced at the bag boy (eggs, so careful with the eggs, so reckless with the bananas), took her groceries and went home.

Georgia answered a phone call from Daisy.  Daisy was sleeping with a bass player in a funk band, but he was home during the day.
“He always wants me to fuck him with a strap-on.”  Daisy bragged.
“Yikes,” said Georgia.
“Yeah, I said ‘fine’.  But, who knows how comfortable that is…  Plus, he’s getting a little too much into the ass thing… I think I need to break up with him.”
“Yeah, strap-ons are just freaky,” said Georgia, glancing down at the velvety bag that was now permanently under her phone table… right next to her glasses.
“Oh, I got a gift for you, too, you little sheltered girl.  I’ll give it to you the next time I see you,” Daisy sounded naughty.  She often sounded naughty.
“Oh, alright.  Ciao.”
“Ciao, bella.”
Georgia hung up and put away her salad bowl.  She stared at the empty sink, the scarce shelves, and the table in the kitchen that had never been used.
“You never get that far, do you kid?’  Georgia shook her head a bit, then wandered back to the window.  (Are you waiting for me, boy?)
She watched the empty window; she drank a glass of wine.  He wasn’t there.
But, in her mind, Georgia was in his room and he was on the bed.  He was thin and limber.  Youthful exuberance leaked from him.  He shifted and sighed.
“He would want me.”

Georgia wandered back past the phone table, took out the strap-on and went into the kitchen to refill her glass.
She slipped off her skirt and panties, kicking them into the hall.  She unbuttoned her shirt and removed it.  Her kitchen floor was cool against her bare feet.  And her legs were unexpectedly shaking.  (What are you nervous for?)
Georgia slipped the cold, tight harness around her waist, and buckled her cock on.  Georgia felt righteous.
She opened the refrigerator door, grabbed the bottle of wine and poured a healthy sized glass.  Only a trickle remained in the bottle.  She put it to her lips, licking the opening and sucking down the last few drops.  She was oblivious to the bottle; she treated it like a man, and briefly put the shaft in her mouth and bobbed her head on it.  She withdrew it and giggled,  “I must have the cock crazies.”
She went to close the door, but thought of the groceries she just bought.
Georgia felt exceptional and deviant.  “Maybe this is why men are always so horny; their cocks are antennae of the libido.  It wants to fuck.  It wants to be thrown around, bobbed, palmed and thrust in the air.  It needs it…  I need it.”
Georgia pulled out the three cucumbers she bought earlier and put them on the counter.  Her clit began to buzz with expectancy.
Three cucumbers.  One was exceptionally long and thin with a pronounced curve.  One was very thick, but short.  One was knobby, but straight.  She hefted each one and decided on the long, thin, curved one.  She peeled it carefully, letting the strands of green skin fall like discarded clothing into the sink.
Finished, the cucumber glistened.  Long and sweet, cool and slippery, it was firm and yielding.  (Oh boy… oh boy.)

Georgia took her wine and her cucumber into the living room to her worn armchair.
She pulled off the seat pillow and threw it down in front of the window.  She sipped her wine, put down the glass and sat by the window on her knees.  She ran the cucumber up and down her strapped-on cock, enjoying the bounces and contact it made.
The light went on in the boy’s room.  Georgia’s clit started really buzzing, her back tensed.  He ass curved upward and she leaned on the windowsill.
Georgia reached for her opera glasses and peered into the boy’s room.

He had just gotten home from work.  His white shirt and black tie still tight, his green smock still tied.
He was followed by the mousy check-out girl.  She sheepishly pulled her hair back behind her ears and evaluated the room.  He made a joke.  She smiled.  She sat on the edge of his bed.
The boy removed his apron and tie.  He looked rushed and anxious.  The check-out girl just smiled and looked innocent.  (Bitch!  That little bitch!  You know what you’re up there for!)
Georgia watched, somewhat heartsick as the boy sat next to the girl and leaned in to kiss her.  It was awkward.  He hit her chin, but tried to play it off cool.  The girl recoiled and then laughed a little.  They both smiled and she reached up to stroke his cheek.  She then pulled him to her open mouth.  They kissed.  Sloppily at first and then slightly more relaxed.
She eased her hands down to his open collar and unbuttoned his white shirt.
They continued to kiss, more wildly now, as the boy slipped out of his shirt.  He groped and pushed and squeezed her breasts.  He stood up and unbuttoned her shirt.  Her hands drifted down to his ass, then around to his fly.  She unzipped him just as he revealed her pink bra.

Georgia was rubbing her clit now with her right hand, but the strap on was in the way.  So she bent over further on the sill so the cock pointed upward a bit.  With her free hand she grasped the cold cucumber.  (Ok girl, show me what you do with a cock.)

The checkout girl stood to meet the bag boy.  Her nipples were poking out of the top of the bra, where the boy had pulled it down.  Little pink peek-a-boo nipples.  He sucked on them both.  She smiled down at him.
The boy worked his way down past her bra, down to her belly and paused at the buttons of her jeans.  She helped him with the first few buttons and he pulled then down over her hips.  Her paused at the sight of her pink lace underwear.  He buried his nose in her crotch.  She kept smiling.

Georgia pressed the tip of the cucumber on her ass, and slid it lengthwise over her pussy lips.  Her eyes were on the two lovers.
She was angry and jealous of that little tramp.  Georgia still thought of the boy as hers.  She rubbed her clit, paused, and sweetly stroked her cock.

The girl was now on her back, her underwear down to her thighs with the boy eagerly rubbing her mound.  The girl was writhing; trying to get into the boy’s rhythmic fingerings.
He pulled his cock out of his jeans and she stood up a bit to help him lose the pants altogether.

As the girl put his member in her mouth, Georgia struggled to get the cucumber into her vagina.  She had to sit up a bit to get the penetration right.  (Oh yes!  That’s my boy!)  Yet, from that angle her clit couldn’t get rubbed well.  So, as the checkout girl blew the boy, Georgia alternated between fucking herself with the cucumber and fingering her clit.

The boy reached over his bed and pulled a condom out his bedside table.  He struggled with the packet, fumbled with the condom, picked it up and quickly pushed it over his hard-on.
The girl was watching.  She had both legs dangled over the edge of the bed and showed no emotion as he leaned over to her.

“I hope he fucks her like he fucks himself”, thought Georgia, wandering between her beehive of a clit and her long, cool dildo.  She was on her knees now, crouched back on her haunches.

The boy was awkwardly fucking the girl.  She wasn’t moving much.
He watched intensely as his cock slid into her.  His rhythm increased.  He would come soon.

Georgia’s clit was buzzing like a doorbell.  (Bzzzzz… bzzzz…..)
She stopped the cucumber, leaving it lodged within her.  The buzzing increased, down in her toes, up her legs.  Her thighs shook, she shivered.  The cucumber slid out a bit and she sat back down on it to compensate.  Her right hand was slapping against her clit and the cock was slapping across her belly.  (Shit!)
The buzz went up her belly, through her back, seized her lungs and strangled her.  Georgia screamed, “OH FUCK!”

The sound of Georgia shot out the window.

The boy came as the scream hit him in the head.  “Fuck!”  He collapsed on top of the checkout girl.
Both the girl and the boy looked out the window, but Georgia was curled up, out of view, holding her clit with her middle finger, the cucumber with her other hand.  There was a ringing in her ears.  She shivered again and looked down to her cock.

How ridiculous the phallus looked after the moment.
“I’m not a boy… I’m a woman.”

She slowly pulled the cucumber out and set it down next to her opera glasses.  They had fallen during her orgasm.  They lay with the left eyepiece broken.
The cucumber looked obvious on the floor by the window.  (Obscene vegetable.)

The boy crouched to hide his limp cock and cum filled condom.  He pulled the shade down, embarrassed.

“You don’t love him, Georgia,” the strap-on said to her, “you don’t even know love.”
Georgia knew it.
She was always hollow.
Why did she need to be filled?  Because she was a woman?  She unhooked the strap-on and sadly rose, collecting everything from the floor.  She put back the cushion.  She washed the dildo, threw out the cucumber, (no salads for a while) and wished she had more wine.
It was a great come, but the afterthoughts were laden with guilt and self-loathing.  “You’re such a damn deviant, such a pervert,” she thought.
The strap-on found its way back into the shoebox and again into the closet.
Georgia tried to forget she’d ever even seen one before.

The boy dated the check-out girl for a while.  Georgia noticed his class ring around her neck on a simple chain the next time she went shopping.  That was the last time she saw them there.  (Maybe they got other work.)  His shade stayed down permanently.  She never noticed his light on… then again she never really looked for it to be on either.
Georgia tried hard to forget to look for those kinds of things.

Fin?

(This story is endorsed by PERV- People for the Ethical Respect of Vegetables)

(c) 2006/2009 René et Blandine

Originally published in zine form as Cosmonogamy #2…

Georgia couldn’t sleep anymore.
She searched the shadows on the floor for her bra and skirt.  She found her stockings crumpled on top of his briefs.
Why did she just sleep with a guy who wears yellow thongs?
It wasn’t like it was a bad lay last night.  He wasn’t ugly.  And his fingers did get her off.  But she always felt disappointed in herself for these flings.
The wine had obviously worked.
As she put her blouse on, the twinge of a headache came on and the lingering cigarette smell triggered a bit of nausea.
Georgia pulled her purse out from under his pants and quietly snuck out of his bedroom door.  She skirted the enormous sleeping dog (Dog or Gorilla?) and left his apartment, waiting until she was out of earshot to put on her heels.  She clunked down the stairs, losing a bit of the cloudy details from last night with each step.
“I’ve got to find something to invest myself in” she thought.  “I can’t just keep fucking guys at bars.  I need a hobby!”
She walked a block to the bus stop.  Homeless men flopped in doorways.  The newspaper truck delivered the day’s new edition.  It was too early for anyone to think much.

Georgia took a shower once she got home.  Her apartment was cluttered, except for the perfectly made bed.  It had been a few nights since she slept there.  She washed the stale smoke from her black hair, and scrubbed the itchy latex feeling from between her legs.  Soapy water rose in the tub, stagnant around her ankles.  She checked the drain.
“Goddam it!  Fucking clogged.  Just what I need.”
By the time she was adequately cleaned the water level was around the middle of her calf.  She stopped the water and sat naked on the side of the tub.
“Gotta call the super I suppose.”

“What?” the voice on the other line sounded as dusty as she felt.
“Hi, this is Georgia Nemo, apartment 4b… my shower drain is clogged.”
“So, you want me to fix your pipes?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
“Could you?”
“Uh…fine.  I’ll be up in a few.”
Georgia threw on a robe and headed for the kitchen.  “I need some coffee for this hangover.”
Within minutes, there was a loud knock at the door.  Georgia left her vigil by the percolator.
An older man stood in the entry.  He was probably fifty, but Georgia wouldn’t be surprised if he was in his sixties.  The super was sleepy eyed, unshaven and carrying a toolbox.  He wore a pair of coveralls, but no shirt.  “You got any coffee?”
“Um, yeah.  I was just fixin’ some.”
“Good, I need it… too fuckin’ early.”  He walked through the kitchen, past the bedroom and into the bathroom.  “You always make your bed first, then the coffee?”
“Well.  I.  You.  See.” she stammered.
“I’m teasing you.  I don’t care where you sleep.  So you just come home to shower, huh?”
“How do you want your coffee?” she preferred asking the questions.
Georgia stood in the doorway as he fished around in the tub, water up to his elbows.
“I’m gonna have to use my snake to get ‘er open.”  He twisted around to his toolbox, sneaking a glance up at Georgia.  She knew he was looking.  She stood solid, unflustered.  He opened the box, pulling out the long, coiled metal snake.

“How far down do you think the clog is?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” she could sense his intention.
He lightly brushed her robe, pulling the bottom aside to reveal her trim bush.  “Depends on how much hair is down there…”

Georgia stood with hot coffee in both hands.  (This old man wants to see me naked?)
“I could throw this coffee on you right now.”  She made it sound like a hospitable offer.
“That won’t get your clog fixed.”  He said as he stood to her height.  “Besides, don’t you want to see a man at work on your drain?  Burning me won’t cool things off, now will it?”
Georgia stood; poised to scorch this dirty man with both cups.  Instead, she smirked.
He took the cups from her and set them on the toilet tank.
“Here now, let’s see what the trouble is, shall we?”  His strong, nimble hand cradled her ass as the other hand untied her robe.  The fabric slunk down to her elbows.  The super leaned against Georgia, pushing her to the doorframe.  She let him kiss her neck, smelling his musky scent.  He was so much more of a man than the metrosexual bar flies she’d been laying recently.  He was very strong, his cropped white hair rubbed on her chin as he worked his mouth to her perky breasts.
“I take cream,” he whispered and sucked on her right nipple.  His whiskers scraped and scratched her breast.

She shuddered a sigh and let the robe fall to a heap in the doorway.
The super picked Georgia up and laid her down, half in the hallway and half in the bathroom.  She stared up at the art-deco light fixture in the hall.  (This old man is going to fuck me… and I’m going to let him.)
He worked his hands down her thighs.  They were iron vices throwing her bottom up and down to meet his tongue strokes.  She felt like putty in his manly hands.
He pushed both of her legs up on to the doorjamb and slid his tongue through her pubic hair.  “You keep this neat.  That’s why you’re having trouble with your drain.  The lady above you never shaves her pussy, and her drain is crystal clear.”
She wanted him to shut up, but the banter was obviously part of his foreplay.
“I knew you would have trouble with your drain.  I was hoping you’d call me too…”
She pushed his head to her clit.  “Just eat me.” (Why are these dirty old men so fucking talkative?  Fuck!)
He licked her labia, sloshing them back and forth in his mouth.  Then he stuck his large thumb in her cunt.
Georgia gasped.  (Was that a thumb or a cock?)  She bucked against his hand.  He lifted her ass like a bowling ball, his thumb deep in her hole.  She squirmed.  He lifted and pulled.
Georgia wedged herself against the doorway and moved in pleasure, his fingers clutching her ass, and his thumb slamming away inside her.  His tongue was on her clit, and her robe was getting wet on the cool tile floor.
He smiled at her and stood up.  She watched as he released the two buckles at the top of his overalls.  They dropped to his thighs revealing a clean, but worn, pair of boxer shots and an exceptionally large erection poking out of the left leg.
On his chest he had a faded blue tattoo of a topless Japanese girl in a martini glass.  “Man’s Ruin” was written in bleeding block letters.
His hair was gray everywhere, but his muscles were large and youthful.  His cock rose at her.  She propped up on her elbows as he pushed it to her lips.
He was uncircumcised and well endowed.  For a workingman with greasy fingernails, he kept his cock clean.  The shaft was straight and the skin as smooth as any of her young fucks.  She wasn’t feeling picky, anyway.  At the moment, she would have sucked his pipe wrench.
Georgia pulled on his hanging balls and took him as far as she could into her mouth.  She could only get a bit past the head, but he seemed satisfied.  She worked up a steady bobbing and juggled his heavy balls with her hand.
He ran his steel fingers through her hair and hummed an unknown tune to himself.
Her mind drifted.  She thought about being his wife.  What would it have been like to fuck him when he was young or in some Asian Pacific bar forty years ago?  (Again with the one night stand bar guys, huh, Georgia?)

His ass began to clutch so she pulled him out of her mouth and looked up at him.  He stood and pulled her up to him with a vigorous yank.  He swiftly turned her around and leaned her up against the sink.
She looked into the mirror at his deep brown eyes and imagined him younger.  She didn’t care anymore about her drain or her reputation.  She didn’t care about last night or if this old man was going to come inside her.

Georgia had an itch, a clogged drain inside her.  She needed this super to fuck her clean, ream her out.

He stood behind her, dropped his boxers and firmly held her ass with one hand, parting her lips to open her pussy.  His other hand guided his penis to her cunt.  Gently, he eased in.  He slowly rocked her back and forth.  She held on to the sink with one hand and guarded her face from the vanity and faucet with the other.
The super slapped his balls against her ass cheeks as he climbed the ladder of his pleasure.  He humped and moaned and whistled in sweaty exuberance.  He held her fast and strong.
His cock was deep and Georgia imagined him coming so hard that it would spill out of her mouth and into the sink.
She usually didn’t go for older guys, and didn’t usually care for being hard-fucked.  But, this was different.  This was new.
Georgia was being fucked in her own bathroom by a man old enough to be her father.  She needed this and wanted him to come hard inside here.
“Fuck my little cunt,” she cooed.
He kept humming, blocking out her filthy talk.
“Come on, fuck my cunt!”
Again, he ignored her and kept rocking Georgia’s body against the sink.
She looked up at him.  It was as though he was in another time and place, reliving some fuck he had in his youth.  Georgia realized she was a memory for him, an old fuck relived.
He needed this as bad as she did.
She needed to forget and to change herself.  He needed to remember his old self.
“Please stop.” she asked.
He paused mid stroke.
She looked at him in the mirror and then turned to look him in the eye.  “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jack.”
“Would you take me to my bed, Jack?”
He smiled and his eyes softened.
They made love in Georgia’s bed, quietly and tenderly.
When he came they both felt whole again.

Jack fixed Georgia’s bathtub drain while she watched, handing him tools when he asked for them.
They told stories of their sexual escapades over coffee.  Jack told about how he fucked two sisters in two hours during a shore leave.  Georgia told him of a lesbian tryst.
Jack asked Georgia to stop trimming her pubic hair. Of course, then he couldn’t come up to fix her drain, but…
Jack gathered his toolbox and kissed Georgia.  “You’re a real doll.”
“Thanks for fixing my clog” she replied.
Jack left and Georgia took another shower.  She smiled at herself for yet another strange encounter and for getting over the detachment she was feeling.
“Shit, maybe I should start fixing other people.  I’d be one hot handy woman” she laughed and put on her panties.
“A real fucking plumber!”
(This story originally appeared in Cosmonogamy #1, a zine published in October 2006…There are a few copies still available.)

(c) 2006/2009 René et Blandine

The world’s leading producer of cereal and convenience foods made the socially responsible decision to drop an eight-time Olympic gold medalist as a celebrity endorser of their products. This event is a perfect time to make an equally socially responsible move of divorcing corporate profits from human health.

The company behind Rice Krispies, Pop Tarts and Yogo Bits grew out of one man’s vision of health. John Harvey Kellogg endorsed vegetarianism, enemas and sexual abstinence. Corn Flakes were purposefully tasteless so as not to stimulate anything - especially the libido. He was a sometime surgeon who believed in circumcision and phototherapy.

As odd as his beliefs seem upon reflection a century later, he was living in the heart of the industrial revolution. It was the beginning of the machine age. After millenia of being at the mercy of Mother Nature, humans finally harnessed enough mechanical power to realize their God fantasies.

Machines were pure in their efficiency. They lacked flesh, emotion and a brain. They could work ceaselessly and be easily fixed.

If Christianity taught that humans were made in God’s image, then machines were the image that humans chose to create.

Religious zealotry was rampant at the turn of the last century. It was as though Americans, having fulfilled their Manifest Destiny from God, began to doubt the plan of the Almighty. Perhaps the Lord didn’t just need people to occupy all the real estate on the planet, perhaps He also needs us to improve his work of Creation.

A contemporary of Kellogg, Nietzsche was busy taking care of God’s mistakes in his own way. Unburdened by Puritan Christianity, he simply stepped out from under the illusion of Divinity. He was so radical that he went crazy and died. Any faithful person would you tell that he suffered the fate of any who doubt God’s omnipotence.

And yet, that’s exactly what those Utopian believers were doing. Like the Emperor’s New clothes, the devout were not willing to examine the impact that mechanization had on their beliefs. So, they put all their effort into cleaning up after the Almighty’s apparent mistakes.

This affected medical care. Herbal medicine, with it’s spotty success record in healing, became an example of the ineffectiveness of the Natural. Surgery, with its mechanical efficiency, became the solution to fix that troubling lack of perfection in God’s design. It was the last resort, certainly, but sometimes necessary to overcome the persistent frailty of humanity.

All of this movement away from organic to metallic might have been a passing fad had it not been coupled with the next rising faith in America: consumerism. It’s a bastard child of empirical capitalism and communism.

Just as the robber barons of the 19th century reached the zenith of their wealth, the ideas of socialism took hold in the underpaid, exploited masses. A convenient compromise put the responsibility and profit of the corporations into the hands of the people. Consumers drive the economy! If everyone shares the risk and the profit of business, then there is need for such a radical change like socialism.

There was profit to be made by following the desires and fears of the masses. And, at the beginning of the 20th century that meant medicine and machines.

That’s how a company founded on purity and health became the world’s leader of convenience foods. Kellogg’s Yogo Bits are a far cry from yogurt enemas. As twisted as John Kellogg’s ideas were about sexuality - he advised a genital cage to prevent masturbation - he had a purity in the application of those ideas. He did not compromise his vision for profit. That’s the job of a corporation.

Vision is profit in a consumerit society. If you dream it, you can make money on it. Or, someone else will.

This is true for the food industry. They play on basic biological programming to eat in times of plenty to guard against future famine. They use that built-in response to keep people buying ever worse food-like products. Grocery shelves are lined with products that are more chemical than nutritional.

To entice shoppers to purchase this semi-sustenance, companies employ images of health. The most enduring product of Kellogg’s time is cereal. Children are weaned on tasteless grains, raised on sugary grain kibble and survive on boxed meals well into adulthood. Often, the boxes sit on the table in front the eater, where a smiling celebrity endorser can smile approvingly over the bowl.

Michael Phelps proved his physical prowess. The world watched him glide through the water. He was inhuman in his athletic perfection. Just what we aspired to a century ago in making machines. He seemed to rise above the corporal inferiority most of us feel chained to.

His dominance earned him a lucrative contract to legitimize the food industry’s shadow-nutrition. For his Olympic accomplishments, he endorsed food that has little to do with human health.

The bong hit that destroyed his marriage to corporate America was about much more than legality of drugs. After all, baseball players brazenly defy drug laws to become superplayers who belt homers for our entertainment. And, millions of Americans are supporting a massive pharmaceutical industry that keeps churning out new drugs for every ailment we can imagine. To put a fine point on it, many of those ailments are imagined.

Cannabis is an ancient herbal treatment. It was stocked in apothecaries until the late 19th century. It became an illicit drug at the same time that manufactured, processed drugs rose to prominence. The physical pleasure marijuana brings along with any therapeutic benefits was a direct affront to Puritan ideas about the evils of the body. Pot was filed under “God’s mistakes”.

Michael Phelps cheated on his financial spouse with the herbal harlot. Corporate food gave him money, but not any help as an athlete. Humble, outcast cannabis gave him joy.

He should have known better. He knew the laws. But then, other athletes are allowed their drugs. Of course, those steroids are a human creation.

Why would he throw his career away? What could be worth risking financial and physical success? A hit of some street drug? What does that tell us about our heroes?

It tells me that despite our dreams of immortality, we are still just humans. We crave pleasure. We need relief from the human condition. Our bodies know reality from illusion.

No parade of athletes or cartoon characters can convince my body that Rice Krispies have the vitamins and minerals that I need to be an active healthy person. No law can convince me that one drug is so different from another.

Rice Krispies® cereal has been bringing families together in the kitchen for 80 years. For eight decades, Snap Crackle and Pop have been stunted in their growth. They have been forced to remain childish, impish prisoners of big money cereal.

Let Kellogg’s continue to pursue their path of consumerist fake-food. They are a thing of the past. One hundred years is long for the ideas of human perfection to get a trial run. It’s time to re-examine the inherent wisdom of Natural creation.

The new marriage of human ideas may be to find how we can create a union of technological development and biological design. Then, Snap Crackle and Pop could be released from their cardboard cage to get out into the sun finally and taste food straight from the ground. And, if they wanted, they could sample other delights that come from the Earth.

 ”This is an amazing view.”   She surveyed my space, high above the traffic and street noise.  The bright midday light washed everything in a smooth white glow.”Wow! You have an original Eames chair?”

“A model who knows design!” I set up the drawing tablet. She tied her scarf around her head and stared at me.  She slipped out  her skirt.  She looked out at the cold of the city and leaned against the window of my studio.

“I love good design.”  She sat, delicately,  respectful of the walnut surface. “I saw one in the Art Institute of Chicago.”

“I inherited it from my Grandfather.” I immediately liked this girl.  She was full of spark.

“Was he an artist too?” She seemed genuinely interested, and the conversation was peeling back any timidness.

“A photographer, mostly nudes, I think…”

“He used this chair?” Her voice quivered.  She was sinking back into the chair, and sinking into it’s echoing history. She looked at her outstretched toes, pink against the green shag carpeting.

“I’m pretty sure he did…I’m sure my Grandmother struck a similar pose.” I giggled unexpectedly. she smirked.

She posed and I sketched.  The pencil followed her lines, and the chair’s.  I lost myself in the power of suggestion.

She turned around and bent over the Eames chair.  She didn’t hold the pose long enough for me to capture it, but she didn’t care.  She peeled off her panties and slid slowly back to the chair.  She ran her fingers through her pubic hair.  She made intense eye contact.  She didn’t move.  The pencil lead made heavy marks on the clean paper.

The scratches of my early sketches now became more confident.  My lines grew bolder and smoother. She slid back off the chair and onto the floor.  She worked her shirt up over her breasts.  Her legs propped up on the Eames chair.

The rustle of the turning page signaled her to change poses.  She turned to face me looked me over and pulled her sheer shirt over her head. She pulled the front of her scarf down over her eyes, smiled devilishly and began to stroke herself.

“This IS an amazing view.” I said with my heart in my throat.  My hand worked the pencil furiously, trying to suck in every detail before she climaxed.

She moaned, opened her mouth, and squeezed her legs together.

My head was spinning, a fever, and I flipped the page. The model slowly rose from the floor and slid back onto the Eames chair.  She weakly  pulled her legs open and peeked out from under her blindfold.
She rubbed herself again. Faster than before, let out a peep, squeezed her legs again. The model sheepishly smiled back at me.

She looked past my drawing tablet, down between my legs.  The pencil fell out of my hand.  It hit the drawing tablet and fell silently into the carpet.

“I love good design…” she purred and made her way across the floor towards me.

I didn’t get the chance to sketch what followed…

René

2009

Missed it?

too bad, it’s gone now!

(René)

Missed it?

Sorry it’s gone now!

(René)