Posted by SLR on November 04, 2005 at 15:30:38:
The following is a little story no doubt of dubious entertainment value, as it's the first time I've done anything in this genre. It's also my first post here too, even though PK's stories brought me here who knows how many years ago now. No idea if he's reading this, but the man is a master. Yes, I know, bad form to gush, makes you look like some kind of moronic groupie type. But The Seduction of Shahnaz and Holly's Choice, well, it's hard to describe the appeal. They just continue to touch me in a perverted little private spot every time I read them, even as other stories are old after just one reading. Oh well. Maybe I should get to the point, stop procrastinating, stop masturbating, and start typing something with some sort of potential for being even slightly amusing.
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I hate the sun. Mostly it's because the light hurts my eyes, and these remarkably expensive reactive lenses are also remarkably slow to darken, and simply go on strike altogether when given a perfectly clear and utterly useless barrier of a window to hide behind.
But I also hate the sun because other people like it so much. Bear with me here, you see, women do things, wear things, when it's sunny. Not that they don't wear things other times. It's what they wear, but of course you know that. I'm rambling again, oh dear.
Women with feet that should be illegal to show in public wear thin straps on them that hide nothing, and accentuate everything. And my trousers do the same thing to my erection, so the entire thing could get very embarrassing with unseemly haste. And they smile up at the sunny skies, and their expressions just light up, and become radiant. But worse still is the perspiration. You can just see them dripping, clear fluid running down their bodies to pool and escape. And watching it your mind takes a wrong turn and suddenly your mental Windows is inundated with unwanted pop-ups advertising the same woman turning slowly, sans skimpy sports wear, glowing not with sunshine but with the gentler, warmer rays given off by burning wood. Steam billows and obscures all by the most elusive and delicious glimpse of the steel, and of the twitching meaty lips that wrap sensuously around it, being roasted into a forbidden and inescapable and ineffable taste sensation.
And then reality intrudes in that hideous realistic way it has, and you realise she's staring back at you, but not with the lust and gluttony you've been unconsciously directing at her, but with confusion, distrust, and contempt.
Erogenous zones, I love you. Without you what would a poor boy do? Erogenous zones, providers of pleasure you couldn't conceive of as a child, though perhaps the childish pleasures of chasing discarded bags blown by the wind, or of kicking the fluffy heads of dandelions into the air, or or stomping through muddy puddles... there are different kinds of pleasure, and suffice it to say, they are always balanced by torment. Getting older, or being forced to picture a fine animal cooking slowly in only your mind's eye. The sweetest joys are also the most bitter. And now I've turned maudlin.
Maybe I'll slowly become more introverted, driven to mania by this lusting. Become like Bernard, allow my fantasies to convince me I need, then have a summer girlfriend, when really the entire idea of a woman being attracted to me is ludicrous. Those that do stray too close always picture some kind of reclusive genius, and are enraged to discover instead a reclusive wanker.
The worst place to be in the heat is the bus to work in the morning. Nothing to do but wait and think for fifty minutes. And there was that cute little student at the bus stop again, and she talks to you, and you don't know how to be interesting back. And you sit apart on the bus, her with her friend, and you alone with your lunch bag and laptop case.
She has dimples when she smiles, and a rounded face that isn't fat, no. It's perfect, framed by errant strands of hair, and pixie ears, and host to a perfect button nose and twin stars of delight. You can't see her body much under the strange fashions of the modern student, but her long shapely legs are left bare, leading down to boots that promise hidden treasure. Such tender treasures.
Slowly the layers of cloth fade away, the rocking of the bus stimulating your baser needs. You reach out, and tentatively grasp her boots one at a time and tug. Oh! You pretty things! Ten tiny testicle fondling toes breath in the air, emitting the faintest aroma of something indescribibly enticing. And you brush them with your lips, as hands lift her up and away to meet a lover that surpasses you or anything you could help her experience. A lover that will fill her completely, and ultimately demand the ultimate commitment from her for their relationship. She gives the slightest, airiest gasp of pleasure mixed with pain, and she becomes for an infinitesimal moment both alive and dead, Schrodinger's pussy. You can look, but not touch, repelled by the heat and crippled by your own desire.
And then she's gone, but she remains forever a part of you, even as she steps off of the bus, and away, dispelling all but a determined afterimage of her naked love, destroyed by it's own heat.
And yet again, you, or I really, let's be honest, are left alone wishing you'd had the courage to ask her name, and whether she wanted to accompany you that weekend for a bite to eat.
If you do look towards erotic distraction as a way to pass long journeys, take a word of advice, and use caution. I know I've missed my stop before by being lost in a haze of hormones and erotic horror.
Cannibal dreams are so strange to define. It's like watching a spider, a big one, crawl slowly up your wall. You know you should be terrified, but you find yourself more fascinated, unable to tear your eyes away. And then it drops suddenly, and you panic and flee, and you have to come out and stomp the bugger in order for life to continue, so maybe it's just a stupid simile to use.