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Thirty-First Sitting

Obviously I have to quote Bataille, or he will be offended: "Eroticism taken as a whole is an infraction of the laws of taboos: it is a human activity. But although it begins when purely animal nature ends, its foundation is animal none the less. Human nature may turn from that foundation in horror but allows it to persist at the same time...

"...In order, then, to get at inner experience, we shall now discuss physical conditions..." (p. 94)

Please note and relish my use of Batille's use of glue words. The second part of the quote, the glue part of the quote, is included to hint at why, other than to be sensationalist and so not lose as many readers, I would bother to include a porno-wanna-be section in this Big Book o' Mental Processes. The first part of the quote is included to sound cool and strengthen the lovely and obvious animal symbolism arbitrarily laced throughout my tale. No, I'm not going to tell another DOG story (yet); as I said, they're all neutered... But I thought I should make it clear that all of the following is from an ultra-conservative religious "oh we are such quaint little worshipful spirits" point of view rotten to the core. So Mom, you should probably skip the next few chapters unless you've learned how to relax. On the other hand, how to relax is largely the point of these chapters -- how to make the tension go away without actually requiring birth control or doing anything that's illegal in any state or playing Atari.

So I guess I've set myself up to write an erotica chapter; what remains is to figure out how to do this. I plan to include lots of sound effects like <<heave>> and <<pant>>, much like in BatmanTM (this reference included to confuse cultural historians about cultural events surrounding the writing of this book; it is obvious to one and all that the new BatmanTM movies have no such cartoony noises printed graphically on the screen. Oh ha! our little joke on the cultural historians is "good!"). Plus I will set the arousing words in bold, like so. But even with such masterful techniques, you're still going to have to help:

Where X = "erotic prose," listen to Her speech to Me that occurs later in this discussion but in which X != "erotic prose:" "If you really want to do X right, you can't just jump into it. You need to really pay attention to the environment; if it's too cold, it can screw things up big time. Plus the lighting has to be set... maybe some soft music. It can help too just to touch for a while first, to get used to it."

So go ahead. Do these things (...after performing the algebraic substitution... the class will wait until you have finished this task... but don't feel pressured even though everyone else is staring at you with spittle dripping from their fangs and stark white hate in their eyes); draw a little face on your left hand Sr. Wences style to depict Lionel Richie, who can sing ya soft songs, make you feel all warm and shady, and give gooood touch... Unless you're right-handed, in which case you should draw on your right hand... and if you like women maybe crystal Gale would be a better choice, though you have to have pretty funky long hair on your hands for this to work.

Wow. If erotic prose is just gross and hard-to-understand innuendo, I've gotten it down. Now don't you hyper-ventilate, okay? Here goes...

***

This story begins with a phone call and ends after a number of diversions with me ousted to sleeping on the couch. Stop yer laughin' at me and listen: Her phone was not working, I have said, yes? Then you will know that She must use a phone, yes? For She still has friends and family? Yes, use My phone, please and as You do I will dote upon You. Yes! Yes! Yes! <<Dial>> <<ring!>> (how'm I doin' so far?)

The circumstance surrounding the first episode is unimportant, but I will tell it to you anyway so as to lengthen (and therefore heighten) the anticipation (read: the book). Friends of mine were visiting from out of town, friends who recently lived in the area. I and these were set to go to a mutual acquaintance's for some hanging about when She stopped by and asked to use my phone. (Keep in mind that for this to be really erotic, you should be reading it to yourself in a sultry, overblown French accent.) I agreed, but we were leaving, and would She like to come? No, as He expected Her back by a certain hour. Well, then, I would leave my key with Her, which She would somehow get back to Me... somehow. So I and the mates left, and sat in a small apartment watching television. In every TV image (at least in the ones that sell sex, which were constant, as we were watching Golden Girls: <<"We're so old.">> <<"Yet feisty nonetheless">>) I saw Her, sitting on My bed (a mattress which, in that it took up three fourths of the floor space in My tiny room, was hard to avoid sitting on). Okay, I guess I didn't see Her on TV, okay. Fine. I could smell Her though, I think... Plus I was restless, and the atmosphere was as dull as the dullest chapter in this book, which would be what, Chapter 29, maybe? Get back to me on this issue; your vote counts. What? Too many good choices to pick just one? Look, reader, just get off my case; I know not what I say, for I am pretending at this moment to be wracked with LUST! But at that past moment, no, not a pretending Me it was, but a really really, well, just look...

So I slip back on some key-related pretense, hoping to catch Her before She finished Her call. This I did with no problem, for the call was say months long. ...And so I sat on the bed behind Her as She talked to Her sister, and my blood was set to froth...

...Time out for a little exposition; sorry to break the mood... See, before this episode, I was truly noble of mind and intentions. I mean, sure, I, being a GUY, naturally think about sex every few seconds concerning every object within eyes' reach. And if that object should actually be FEMALE AND HUMAN, complete trains of pictures of primitive thought wail through the tunnels of harrowing desire to meet the marginal ports of wonderfully-clear ocean-vista-views and whoa! there is plummeting and... well, we gotta tell you: it sometimes takes a whole second for the complete fantasy to wrap up and allow me to resume breathing.

NONE!THE!LESS! (the action is back now) I had been to that point at least no more lecherous than is usual towards the girl. But sitting there the magnet reared and my hand crept imperceptibly but steadily along that bedly surface and yes, target hand reached, and yes, something enjoyed for a while, but then She pulls away. And oh yes was I pulled away with Her.

***

...Well, that was it... We held hands for about ten seconds, and my memory may be fantastically exaggerating that figure. Didja like it? I sure did, though I sure was frustrated that it stopped, that She felt She couldn't, that We couldn't. I guess I had all that energy built up inside me. I guess that is why as I escorted Her out after Her call, and we said our usual good-byes, I waited until She turned to go and then leaned over, kissing Her plainly on the neck...

Now, now, now physicality was after that always kind of an issue. I mean, Her affronted <<"A-hem">> reply to my neck kiss made one reluctant to try that again, but these things... they are persistent. It's always the goodbyes too:

***

We stood on Her porch -- Their porch... It was late; He was inside, and I bet He could have heard Us through the open window of their room were He not using SLEEP as a coping mechanism. The cat was still alive, so it could have heard us too were it not totally distracted by its own genitals. Its cancer and Ours were in Sync. "So what do we do now?" I asked. "I always feel like hugging you at this point."

"I know. I get the same feeling. Maybe..." She paused to be grossed out by the cat. "...We could just shake hands..." Her hand went out and clutched at Mine, which of its own accord attempted to climb up Her sleeve straight to that juicy neck. It got as far as a hold on Her wrist. And so so so that became Our handshake.

***

...Hmmm... Does Disney produce masturbation material? I'm beginning to think that maybe The Apple Dumpling Gang or Pete's Dragon might be much more risqué than my quaint little life. Nonetheless, or rather NONE!THE!LESS!, it does get juicier, I promise.

So what would be sexier? How about Our tacit responsibility to keep bugs off each other? I just remembered this now (morning 9/23 as of this sentence) because a similar phenomenon has arisen as She sits next to me on my bed (the couch) quizzing Me on GRE vocabulary. The living room window is large and faces East, and Mr. Sun is bright in his happy sky, so bright as to blind Her if I weren't deliberately sitting with My head blocking Her eyes. No? Not sexy? Considerately animalistic, though... I will shield My Love from maggots and weevils that try to burrow into Her face... I will at least inform Her if such a Beast is preying on Her (and He is, yes!), perhaps by mail if She's been mean to me and thrust Me from Her life, and you cannot stop Me, you jealous Thing! You curious enjoyer of other people's pleasure! What's wrong with You, anyway?

There's nothing wrong with You or Me; we just sort of disagree. I'm sorry; I'm desperately trying to construct a song out of my pleasant prose to escape the Kris Kristofferson muzak that She just put on. Speaking of It ("It," the capitalized neuter, represents another aspect of God probably, though I don't care which now, as God just ain't that interesting), I have a stray quote from not fifteen minutes ago: "...I like everything hot and steamy."

"I did not say `steamy;' don't you misquote me," She also said. Which brings us to memories of the long weekend, which actually occurred during the week. It was the four-day span several weeks ago where She met Mercury in the flesh (Yes, I am man enough to admit that this selective boldface is about as immature, annoying, and unfunny as the insistence on capitalizing Our pronouns. You're welcome to go through this book with white-out and change the parts you don't like, or maybe I'll just release it on CD-ROM, at which you will be amazed, or would be if it didn't presently mostly suck. That's CD-ROM, not the Book, which does not suck, and if you say it does I will kill you every night in your dreams. (This saves me travel expense.)). So speaking of SUCK, I remember a certain occasion on said trip to my hometown where nothing of that sort occurred, but only by accident.

So has the style here slowly transformed this Work into one giant what? section? If not, then I have failed in my task of frustrating you to no end, unless I have done this to you not by confusing you but just by being the big old BORE that I am, thank you. Listen as the white dog howls! <-By this comment, which I will kindly explain, I mean to rationalize my boorish self-criticism by comparing myself to the afore-barely-mentioned new dog, who has been howling continually for the last four days. Is he/she lonely? What is his/her name? What is his/her sex? No one that I have bothered to ask knows, so I don't know how to gear this porn thing to soothe and quiet him/her. I guess both sexes equally know tenderness when they see it, wretch differently though they may.

Let's face it. This book and I, you the reader and I, have a CHEMISTRY; it's no coincidence that the way I'm getting bogged down here in reflection and self-doubt is not too different than `round sitting thirteen where I admittedly lost a lot of steam and enthusiasm and babbled randomly and formulaically (unless I have since gone back and edited both that section and this one, in which case I was brilliant, thank you). Back then I needed a new idea to super-charge me, and that idea was moving to a discussion of the whole love triangle thing, which seemed a natural outgrowth (or at least one I could force to appear natural) of the gradual-emergence-of-myself-as-a-character motif that I had been building for some time. So what's the equivalent idea here? There are lots of cool issues that could be taken up, like the state of living with the knowledge that one's actions are going to be recorded; at recent points We have been even acting, I think, for the book. It's like knowing God is watching, and so watching Him back, and watching one's step, which you can do at the same time because He (being everything, remember) is the scum on your shoe, He is, yes!! This phenomenon is, I suppose, a natural consequence of that insecurity and isolation that forces us to record in any case, to create so as to leave one's mark, affirm the reality of something, split oneself by merging one's creative energy with an objective medium. Why is the issuance of Tripe inevitable? Why spout it? Why bother to go on writing, or go on at all? Well, I tell ya: it's the very same thing that makes Us need each other quite so much as we do, that makes anyone who's gotten himself a language (a means to form, i.e. objectify, one's thoughts) need (use that overblown French accent again in hearing this word, but this time with much more angst) anyone... I don't know if I can really at this point say more concretely what this "thing" (the capital I "It") is, though I know It has something to do with the anguish of isolation, the illusion that we're actually separate beings, and everything else Bataille talks about and I, facing Sex and Death, fencing the valleys of Tripe and Crud, recording/creating in this book or Her pots or the songs (available on the soundtrack to this book). It is all like a tremendously-confusing Love Boat episode with all the plots involving Tom Bosley and Florence Henderson and themfolks: all apparently independent but upon closer examination possessing an underlying thematic unity (if only because they all happen on the same stinking boat with that cheezy lounge music and the Congressman purser-fellow).

I am now officially as profoundly confusing as an Eastern wise Man, but I'm only a great spiritual teacher if this is actually working, if you can actually see the patterns in this book (which I'm only beginning to see) wherein the love story is an illustration and concretization (beauty word, eh?) of these big old themes. So then you can walk away from this book feeling that you've learned something, but still be able to write me off as some random confused jerk. This, not Jesus-hero-worship, is the religious ideal. So yay Jesus's teachings = phooey on Jesus. (Just for the record, this kind of good-natured blaspheming will soon get much more directly offensive. Know that as I have been typing in this section, I have made it much more tame, so as to lessen the shock of what comes later by priming your tender ears. Unfortunately I couldn't get primer, so have been using lovely all-natural sweet-scented massage oil instead. Ready up for orgiastic fun!) On the other hand, I suspect highly that I am walking in the steps of Mr. J and the aforesortofcharacterized La Profesora, i.e. I'm expressing what to me is/has been pretty darn enlightening but to everyone else in the world is pretty stupidly obvious. So I am frustrated and once again feel myself to be festering away in the swishing vat of my own empty Tripely excrement. May I gratuitously overreact and ask you to join me in a chorus of my favorite slogan, meant to put things in perspective by being as offensive as possible? Why, praise You, gentle reader! I have heard Your answer and know that I am not truly alone in this not-really-all-that-sad-for-me-but-in-general-pretty-sad-sad-sad world. Thank you. Also, Fuck God.

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]