Bright and early, the man snuck up in the little slavegirl's room. Two girls sleep deeply on the single bed, one coccooned about to fall off the side, half a thigh and half a ribcage separated by the edge from their respective other halves, teetering precariously on the cusp of the foot-deep abyss below. The cold, hard, foot-deep abyss below. The other, halfway in the fetal position, her butt only, breathes soundlessly though her mouth's wide open.
Maybe he should do things to them ? Like that one time he snuck behind a seated slave at the restaurant, upon returning from the bathroom, and used a strand of grass to tickle the back of her neck, right there where the sensitive hairs are, while the other watched and tried to neither burst nor give the show away. That was good for whole minutes of devilish fun, the poor victim trying to carry on a conversation while fighting off imaginary bugs she thought she was imagining, a most taxing exercise.
Maybe he should do things to them -- but... why not be merciful, why not have them do things to him ?
"Good morning!" he bellows. There's no reaction, at first. Silence returns, the sparkling rays of the tropical sun dancing the occasional dust mote in their overpowering, overgenerous, resplendent streaks. Presently there's a stir, arms move, hipcages and clavicles turn and twist.
"I want you to make out on my cock, slaves." he announces. It's not a surprising proclamation ; as he's moving to lay between them they're moving to prepare the space. They may be slaves, but they're definitely well trained, the sort of overcompetent womanhood capable and quite willing to deliver a mindwilting, worldending blowjob "waken from sleep" as the expression goes. Or maybe it doesn't go from where you're from ; but in any case -- where the man's from, his grandmother had for many years used it as a superlative of scholarly familiarity before generation upon generation of girlies aspiring to medical school : "you must know this such that you can recite it woken from sleep!" she'd say, and they'd nod slightly and tremble slightly. Sometimes they'd also go on to become doctors eventually, sometimes they'd also go on to suck the man's youthful cock presently, shyly but ineptly. No more -- expression's gone with the world that spawned it, which explains why you'd never have heard of it, like you never heard of the concept of women unfit for life being left to die, at whatever age. Not to your benefit, obviously.
"Nice and slow" he indicates, as he purrs contentedly. Then after a few moments continues his stray thought : "once it's done I want you to snowball it, and swallow it little by little." He finds these instructions to be very conducive, soothing and arousing. He drifts away to vast tracts of daydreamlands as they work their magic, cupping a breast or scratching a neck now and again, maybe letting out a grunt or a purr as the circumstances demand. He's allegedly extremely pleasing to please, like a sort of miniature demon or something in that vein.
He dreams about things he's read, about things he's seen, about things he knew... about others, generally, about assorted alternative situations, positions, compositions... It's always downcast, his head always turned down towards the misfortune and the misery of the would-like-to-be. "Let me tell you, buddy... there's a faster gun" strands a solitary voice among his ulterior thoughts, "coming over yonder, when the morrow comes... Let me tell you buddy, and it won't be looo-ooong..."
Yet it's been long. It's been immensely overlong, decade upon decade upon everloving decade, immune to the piddly lures of phenomenology Nehorai goes on. What faster gun ? What "we" and what "shake our heads" ? That alleged "used-to-be" ain't ever going away, not for them it isn't. And it ain't ever changing, either, there's no we and there's no moving on : it's the always-is for some and the would-like-to-be for him. The entire length of his day is spent chuckling at various dorks trying to be him, wanting so bad to be him they can almost taste it (the want, not the being), pretending to being him like moths pretending to flame. One aspect or another, one chunk or another, this simp wants to be an elephant's trunk, that cuck pretends (convincingly, he thinks, while everyone including himself laugh at the nonsense) to be an elephant's ear, every broken piece of glass a fragment of the Sun above, quietly making glass even possible in the first place. For without Sun there'd be no volcanoes, and without volcanoes how'd there exist such a thing as glass ? Though glass itself likes to pretend to an existence just as his -- bereft of and apart from mere phenomenology, yet nevertheless : a strass' a strass, it never falls far from the trunk.
So he spends with a moan and they suck each other's lips, and then lay down and the whole bedbound assemblage cuddles a while. They talk of many things, many little things deeply considered. He confesses a newfound obsession with Verdi's slave march. Va, pensiero... sull'ali... dora-aaa-ate; va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli, ove olezzano tepide e molli l'aure dolci del suo-ooo-lo na...tal... Who's not a lost little jew these days ? The stupid cunts somehow took over while nobody was looking, the worst generation of pointless shitheads firmly "in charge" of herding like morons. Children who've never been beaten but very much should have been, hard and often and preferably to death. Coddled womanhood of both sexes vomiting its unwelcome subhumanity every which way. Va, pensiero...
But they don't discuss this. What exactly'd be the point ? Trite evidence requires no restatement ; and the attempt is liable to convey other meanings, because meaning's a complicated thing under subtle yet numerous rules they're all well familiar with. No, instead he speaks of the excellent use of the point and counterpoint, and it finds ready echo, "Bach's air is just like that", and they meander and wander and eventually he wonders what'd it be like if he were a kapelmeister -- evidently spoken in the color of La Grande Vadruillei, which they follow because they're cultivated, and familiar, and aware of things that'd normally be squarely outside their purview. "You age women", as one once said to him. He does, he takes them within his ample, cool and collected cave and ages them well. The preference for young wine's a sign of poor vintnery, an indication of a world in which wine's not wine but merely juice, turning to vinegar with ready regularity. Yes, of course one'd have fresh grape juice in preference of rotten ; but none of that is wine, nor, for that matter, anything but the deepest Africa.
They follow that thought, then another strands, and then another... eventually it's time to go. He sits to write, and before he's done they've washed, they ate, they dressed and they're out the door. He's alone, flaccid penis dangling idly between his thighs. "Would you like something brought ?" was the parting shot ; he didn't know what, there's nothing he could come up with.
Because, ultimately, what more could he possibly want ? What else besides could possibly be wanted ? He could of course want to be an orchestral conductor, but... he doesn't. He knows exactly how to be one, he learned it from an old teacher he argued with once, long ago. If he wanted to, he could do it just like you can get a can of Pepsi whenever you feel like it : there's a procedure, you know it, the procedure requires some tokens, you have them all in abundance, it's a trivial thing. He doesn't want it, or anything else.
As ten trillion buddhas weep, the man wants naught. But thanks for your daughters anyways, they're quite excellent (though I suspect in spite, rather than because of you).———
- 1966, by Oury, with Bourvil (a sort of French Fantozzi) and Funès. [↩]