*Absolutely ridiculous story not included in the book. Just for shits and giggles. Completely absurd, unnecessary and not geared for logical human beings."In this big, epic movie - everyone is an extra."
Tuesday
3:10pm
And I'm sitting in the back of the auditorium watching Bertolucci's The Dreamers with wide eyes and warm sensations. I allow my eyelids to kiss as I dream about Isabelle's sultry curves and her coquettish mien. And I know why my teacher is showing this film. This is foreplay. This is composition. She is taking preparatory measures. And I am captivated.
The ingredients are all there—a vampish, percipient governess, an eager, lascivious scholar, and a secluded, Stygian projection room. Oh, and an irksome, corpulent translator.
My 2:15 film class is taught by my deaf mistress, Ms. DuBois, with the help of Arnold, a portly, ribald, middle aged man who is blessed with the unfortunate fortune of possessing the rare ability to read sign language.
And every Monday at 3:30pm, Ms. DuBois and I reenact a copulatory scene from whatever film she had shown in class the previous week. And every week I am just itching with excitement. My only bone of contention is that ever since the day good ol' Arnie caught us fornicating in the projection room he has insisted on being a part of the action. Blackmale. His terms are: he will keep our little secret in exchange for permission to act as a translator for Ms. Dubois during sex. Since then, our sessions involve less dialogue—even though there wasn't much talking to begin with for obvious reasons. Just the bitter fact that he is present, watching with smutty eyes and breathing laboriously, is enough to drop my spar to half-mast. In order to keep my soldier at attention, I have to take a Viagra, which I surreptitiously conceal in a tic-tac case just so she doesn't notice as I pop a mint into my mouth.
Components: One tic-tac, one Viagra.
"I uh...I have to go to the bathroom," I say with such juvenile hesitance.
And there I am, living out the scene, step-by-step, frame-by-frame. I'm hiding behind the closet door in the projection room pretending as if it were the scene in the kitchen where the two siblings try to convince Matthew to have sex with them, just for the fuck of it. Playing the brother, Theo, Fat Arnold calls for me to come out of the closet.
But I'm not who he thinks I am. I will not go there. I will not touch that.
And as the beaten portal creeks, my body rapes the crack in the door as I say, "I'm coming." But at this moment, with Fat Arnold hovering over me like an apparition, his rank breath invading my pelt, the stench of cellulite infiltrating my nasal passage, and his paunch gracing my left arm, I don't want to anymore.
I close my eyes and then open them again, but there is no change in scenery; everything is still tenebrous—Charlie Murphy black, Ward 9 black.
And I'm wondering if Ms. Dubois feels like Helen Keller yet.
I feel my way around the room in order to find my film teacher because I cannot call out to her for reasons that are evident, unless you have Alzheimer's or you are smoking weed while reading this (Note: Although, if you have Alzheimer's and you are smoking pot while reading this, the two do in fact cancel each other out). And every time my shaking hands graze Fat Arnold's lust handles, I make a quick grab for his nipple and proceed to give him a titty twister. Every time this happens, he giggles and then slaps my hand away.
When I finally find her, I delicately touch her with my cold, wet hands, rubbing her goose bumped flesh as if I were attempting to read Braille. Piloerection.
Our bodies grace the leather couch in a rebellious fashion; they writhe feverishly causing the couch to cry for mercy. And I do the same every time Fat Arnold's body heat tugs unremittingly at the back of my neck. The vexatious din from the flatulent couch is too loud (for me of course) so we gracelessly drop to the floor. She laughs loudly, then sips back eager saliva.
And there we are, lying naked on the carpeted projection room floor. My hands are cupping her nape. My staff parts her lips—it's all so biblical. And we communicate with our bodies. She touches my left shoulder every time she wants me to slow down and touches my right one every time she fancies a switching of positions. She taps my right.
We roll over, laughing like little children. We are appreciating this semi-innocent connection; we are helplessly trying to regain purity through promiscuity. But every time we feel Arnold's warm, lascivious gaze seep its way into our anatomy, there is a birth of something deplorable deep within our spirits. Everything we feel thereafter seems forced.
And daddy is watching us perform such perversities in the background.
But every time Ms. Dubois comes, she screams with unabated frenetic exertion because she cannot control the level of her voice; this serves as a proper and erotic distraction that forbids me from hearing the vile sound of Fat Arnold choking his dead chicken.
She taps me on the right shoulder again and I pick her body up with my taut, flexed arms and sandwich her suspended design between the cold, rigid wall with such animalistic tendencies. As her body jumps, her hair sweeps across my face and generates an incessant itch upon my snout. And I desperately want to scratch it, but I cannot because my arms are currently serving as seat for her helpless frame. At this exact moment, Fat Arnold decides he wants to play a leading role in the film and grabs her buoyant breasts. She is all but pleased. As he does this, I go to scratch my nose and the punch that was intended for Arnold embraces my countenance with a caustic fury and all I can hear is gravity in effect as her body graces the floor and blood pours from my bruised nose. She is crying and I am bleeding and Arnold is jerking off to the symphony of it all. And I just want to punch that portly pussy in the prostate. And I cock my hand back and Ms. Dubois rises to her feet and Arnold is about to nut, but in the dark nothing is as easy as you want it to be. Except women. And instead of striking him in the jaw I punch her in the back of the head. She drops to the floor and his load waterfalls on top of her. God is much funnier than I think any of us realize.
And God takes a Vicodin and a fifth of tequila whenever life gets bland.
As she moans on the floor, I feel around for my clothes and exit the projection room with the hopes that she believes Arnold is culpable and that my performance during this test was sufficient enough to secure me at least a B in the class.
I think two involuntary contractions deserve at least a B.
And I leave her there with a bruised ass and head, viscous splooge dripping down the vale of her crack and a naked fat ass trying to help her up with the same hand he uses to pick out the dingleberries that plague his anal shrubbery.
I feel as though this would be the perfect story for FMyLife.com.
4:20pm
I head towards the dining hall to see if the lunch lady, Chandelier, has any frozen meats so I can prevent bruises from materializing because I don't want such a trite injury to my biological tissue marring my immaculate complexion.
Black and blue just don't complement bronze that well.
"So how's your daughter? Genitalia, is it?"
"You know, she's good," she says, my Coco Queen, "But my babies daddy's a mutha fucka." She goes through the industrial freezer, her sizable boobs hanging over the edge. "So how you been? Been workin' out I see."
"Just been carrying my pride is all."
With her frosted breasts perched upon her paunch, Chandelier hands me a big piece of meat and expects me to do the same, but I tell her that I am in a hurry; there's always tomorrow.
My legs burn with a corrosive intensity as I rush into the final minutes of my psychology class.
"Nice of you to join us, Hayden," my teacher says, "What's with the piece of meat?"
"Washington Square Park is very dangerous this time of day, you know."
Bullshit is good for fertilizing, but not so much for making a good impression.
I spend the next five minutes of class sketching the rest of this doodling mural I have been working on for most of the semester. Dali would be proud.
Class ends but before I can escape, my psychology teacher gestures for me come to the front of the class.
It is highly probable that she will punish me by putting me in the corner, but I'm hoping she wants to spank me. Punish me.
"Hayden, Hayden, Hayden," she says as she shakes her somewhat twitchy head, "you're not going to pass this class even if you get an A on the final."
"Ms. Amadeus, please. I need to pass this course," I beg, clasping my hands together and shaking them in her face. "Is there any extra credit I can do? Anything—I'll do anything."
I have this habitual tendency of choosing my words poorly because her idea of extra credit did not involve psychology at all.
And there she is, lying on her standard leather couch in her private office. I begin to think that she wants me to psychoanalyze her, but that is not the case at all. She slides off her shoes, unzips the hip zipper of her skirt and shimmies it off with the grace of a swan. She beckons me using the finger motion on uses to tickle the necks of babies. I decide—fuck it—I'd rather screw her than my British psychiatrist whose teeth fuck and fight more than a Southern hick family.
I stand at the foot of the couch as she takes off her stockings and reveals the Hanes Her Way underwear, which probably came in a pack of thirty that she bought at Target—or as titled yet impecunious people call it, Tarzhe—during some blue light special, and only after the rest of her tighty-whities were stricken with skid marks or clear, stretchy vaginal discharge, which is more likely a result from her doing Pilates while ovulating than a symptom of some obscure venereal disease. And despite such vile visualizations, I really want to pass this class; so I'll do what I must.
And I inch my way upward, slowly kissing every centimeter of her body; I want to maintain a high level of suspense. My lips touch hers and there is a moment where she twitches and I can't help but remove my face from the situation, but only as a natural reflex. I slide my pants off and notice that my soldier is still going strong—possibly a result of the Viagra I took a little over an hour ago. The granny panties that smother her navel dislodge with great difficulty. And now my sex is staring at hers relentlessly; he's marking his territory with his one eyed gaze.
As soon as he enters, Ms. Amadeus lets out what sounds like a hiss. I quickly pull out and we both exchange a look that reeks of confusion. I shrug it off and insert myself inside her again. This time she makes a face of pure disgust.
I pull out and say, "Did I do something wrong?"
Bemused, she just looks at me with a blank stare and says, "Orange, Orangutan, Octopus." She shakes her head and scrunches her nose, then says, "Yeah, you pulled out."
And I'm not sure what type of game she is playing here, but I just want to get this over with so I slide back in, this time giving her just a few quick pelvic thrusts. After the third one she barks three times.
My penis exits her sex once more and I say, now utterly confused, "Did you just bark?"
"Oliver, Oracle, Officer." She blinks three times and then says, "Just ignore it. Keep going."
I shake off my confusion and enter inside her yet again. After about a minute of sex wrought with bewilderment, she begins to hit herself, first slapping her breasts then her face, then just her head.
"Wow," I say, still thrusting, "you really like it rough."
"Obstacle, Oppressor, Oratory." She tugs each lobe of her ears three times and says, "Yeah, just keep going goddammit. Fuck."
And despite my visible confusion the situation is actually starting to turn me on, so I continue to push my way through her vaginal cavity. And I'm thrusting and sweating—a side effect of my skin dry humping the leather couch—and she's barking and hissing and hitting herself and yelling obscenities as if she were possessed. I feel as though I am performing an exorcism with my penis.
And sweating I say, "Are you...are you okay?"
"Omnipotence, Opprobrium, Onomatopoeic. Yeah, it's just my Tourette's. Fuck me. Fuck me harder. Sorry. Obfuscation. Oscillation. Obligatory. It only happens when I get overly excited or anxious. Yeah. Fuck that pussy right."
I do as she says because, well—this is fucking awesome. I start to push harder and harder, fucking her cervix with every millimeter of strength I can muster. And my Johnson is starting to swell like a wet sponge as beads of sweat begin to drown her reddened chest. And when she comes, she starts to make a scream that sounds as if Chewbacca were taking it up the Hershey Highway from Jabba the Hutt; she then makes a facial expression that mimics that of Bill Cosby or Gary Coleman. I finally pull out and even my penis looks confused.
"Olfer. Oshapane. Oxydollop."
Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?
And I leave her there with her barking and hissing and foul facial expressions. I leave her there with her self-mutilating tendencies and her foreign obscenities. I leave her there with the mark of shame etched onto her tired bosoms. I leave her there as she says, "I hope this can just be our little secret."
Yeah, until I write a story about it.
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