God of the Game (Dreamstate) (42 page)

    He is surfacing from undersea, limbs kicking and pulling him up. Grinlock is back at the full moon party. There are two moons in the sky. The larger seems extremely intimate
, about to kiss the face of the earth. The farther is forlorn, jealous of the elder sister’s proximity to the planet. Legends tell that they are twins born Anna Doreen.

    The sky is purple,
and the sands of the beach are a colourful
Rangoli
rainbow, sand paintings welcoming the holy feet of deities. Perpetual
Mandalas
. Anna Doreens are standing on pivotal points of sacred geometries. She is composed of the elements, and whispering through the wind.  All the audible words pass Grinlock by, except one. Silence.

Computer says Grinlock understand
s the innuendo. He is to take a mute vow. It is an anticlimax end.

  “Fuck you!” Dilidos curses.

    And just like that, Grinlock unplugs and foregoes communication altogether.                 

   “What abo
ut you?” Dilidos turns to me, “What’s
your
story with Anna Doreen?”

    Charles Schmuck comes back to join in; angst all ejaculated
in towering infernos. Apparently he’d entered every 3:33 and fried them ablaze with his pyro-signature. How Teacher Anna is going to punish him, we’ll find out in class tomorrow. Hinted by ember dots of rash glowering on his skin, as if the incinerations had victimized the violator alas, it could be inferred from the ash coughing out of a schmuck mouth, that Charles may have contracted cinders of a mercurial fever from a mutant descendent of his and Anna’s in a 3:34 cosmology. But right now, as his chagrin cools, the symptoms roll back and he is once more his well mannered temperament.

    Grinlock is sitting in a corner, pretending not to listen, cut off from civilization. But his ears are perked, giving him away. I’m the only one that notices, but I keep the comments to myself. Not in the mood to embarrass no one. Rather, I begin:

    Anna Doreen is with me. We are walking down a serene street in the heart of a park. Trees from both sides lean over to kiss leaves, creating a romantic archway, a perfect tryst. Hand in arm, Anna says it’s like walking down the aisle; and I go, “What? And I am your father giving you away?” I teased. “No way! Yer mine. Given to me.”

    She chuckled and slapped me on the shoulders playfully. It’s autumn, and Anna comments that the dead, yell
ow leaves falling remind her of confetti.

   “Y
ou relate everything you see to a wedding today, don’t you?” I stated the obvious.

    Anna Doree
n merely pouts. Then she smiles; eyes gleaming through single eyelid slits.

    Yah, I’d proposed just earlier to her incredible joy and affirmation. Got down on my knees
at the base of a giant Sequoia and, pressed from my breast-pocket, as if alchemizing from the heart, unveiled a one-of-a-kind diamond ring custom made to her affection. Her fingers went to mouth, unblinking wide. Anna gurgled. She could not speak...and the suspense was killing me, putting my life on the line, akin, you could say, to standing in front of a firing squad.

    Then the words broke from her cords. It sounded like...it sounded like a...
It sounded like a
y
... Immediately I recognized the positive intonation. I sprung up, I hugged Anna Doreen; she jumped on me, crying, laughing, her voice crystal clear this time, “
Yes, yes, of course it’s a yes. Of course! Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you. I’ll marry you!
” Tears squinted, crow’s feet visible.

    Anna Doreen. I’d met you after
Gee Ni. But not in real life, only in this make-believe one. In Dreamstate, I guess it’s okay. Happiness is loads more than the sweet lines ornamenting a beautiful face. I’d always sought it in the gutters, or rather, in those wearing garters; in blue movies, yellow literature and red-light districts. But found none. She had to be hot, hit me an instant erection, immediately quicken my pulse. Misplaced directives, wrong values; no wonder I ended up with call-girls and prostitutes, and the milder masseuses. My short-sighted focus only viewed chicks on the exterior, caring not about their natures. I was tired; I didn’t want to get to know a girl. I just wanted her to make me cum.

    Yes, I dreamed of fucking; they offered me pussy for more. But I always declined, stating a hand
or foot job suffices. I won’t go into the psychology of it, and the hurts behind. I’d talked about them to you before. I don’t want to say anymore. Don’t want you to tag me a bore.

    Instead
, I want to talk about Anna Doreen. Describe her. She’s not beautiful; she’s not ugly. She is plain and attached to a heart of gold and a fist of steel. Anna works as a waitress in a coffee-bar where I regularly do my writing. I did not notice her, ever, until an incident which awoke my senses came with the crash and clatter of cups and saucers, accompanied by metallic clangs of stainless steel spoons hitting the tiled mosaic floor.

    Everyone looked up;
those conversing; those, like me, bowed and worshipping laptop screens, freed momentarily from this modern opiate of the masses, the machines we revolve our lives.

    A troublesome customer disrupts the peace. The shop manager later mentioned
that the hairy Mediterranean man had purposely pushed Anna, taking the abhorrent opportunity to squeeze a breast, and causing her to drop the tray. Why? Because that man’s an idiot, that’s why.

    Anna stood
her ground. He’d accused her of being sloppy, for spilling beverage on his floral-printed shirt. That could be a fact...but whatever...he overreacted; and because he thinks he’s some fat fucking tourist, he can like get away with anything.

    No
fat
chance, man.

    He’s dema
nding not to pay for the muck up as well as the drink and what he’s eating; he’s insisting on compensation for the cotton apparel which he forked too much for, pushing the blame to Anna, accusing her of rudeness, though it’s blatantly clear who’s the one that’s vulgar and uncouth in language and deed. He said Anna insulted him, that she’s just feigning innocence. “Underneath that modest facade is a bitch!” he points the finger beneath a mist thick with South-European accent. She sullied him deliberately. She dropped the tray and framed him. Why? How the hell does he know?

   “She’s plainly a muthafuckin psycho!”

    Now he’s threatening to report this incident to the Consumer’s Association, the authorities will close this place up.

    Anna says, “Go ahead.”

    He’s going like, “Do you know who I am? Do you know who the
fuck
I am?”

   “Yes,” Anna replies she’s aware, “A fuck. That’s who you are. You said it yourself.”      

    The manager steps in. On one hand, he’s gotta defend Anna Doreen. On the other, placate the tourist.

    The local tart accompanying the Mediter
ranean asshole sits silent, embarrassed of the charade. It’s so conspicuous she is not his wife, just some ‘thing’ he’d obtained through his slim, cashless wallet. She got my attention earlier, no doubt, when she sashayed in on that pig’s arm; but now, only Anna is on my antenna.

    Fatso’s thick arms are tensed, his pork knuckles about to punch. He is infuriated by what Anna just proclaimed. But contrary to his demeano
ur, she’s super cool and calm. Anna states “Go ahead; punch a girl. That will show how much of a man you are.”

    He swings, Anna ducks, comes back up and returns with a straight right which connects directly to the nose.

    Humpty Dumpty wobbles, hands cradling that crooked olfactory organ needing rhinoplasty. Blood roars out the nostrils, through the cracks of his fingers, down his hands, off his elbows and on to the coffee outlet’s retro floor design.      

    The man is gurgling. The man is whining. He is on the
verge of evaporated macho tears; shredded by a gal. Totally humiliated. Anna lands the final blow, “Losing to a chick; now that surely shows what kind of a man you are. I bet your dick erected is only half the size of your twisted nose.” Anna mocks him with a lampooning look at his female companion who just sniggers uncontrollably, definite proof what Anna Doreen mentioned was lengthier than the whole ‘short’ truth.

    Everyone rose to applaud. The pale, gutted, obese man soiling red his mouth, chin and florid
shirt, like an undead eating its own flesh for lunch, stammers something which seems to be words between childish sobs. In the incoherent blabber some syllables were discernible, one whereof was, “
sue
.”

    The manager, finally taking charge, int
ervenes. “Go ahead. It was self-defence. You attacked her. We have a dozen witnesses.”

    He was never seen again.       

    Next day, I plucked up my courage to talk to Anna. Told her I was a writer, and showed her the comical strip I’d composed on yesterday’s drama. She laughed nonstop.

    The sound of Anna’s mirth morphed to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and we are running
out of a church, through an arc of blessings pronounced by family and friends, into a convertible and directly to our honeymoon toward a happily-ever-after.

Tears a
re filling my eyes to the discomfort of Dilidos and the chilliness of Charles Schmuck and the monotonous grin on Grinlock’s face. This sorrow outside of Anna Doreen’s fantasy is more than what my impoverished soul can sustain.  

69

    JC comes into my room. Experiments are over and I can go home. What he got out of my buttocks and brain he won’t say, no matter how much I probed. Only clue he gave was that I’ll see reincarnations of myself running around in future.

    Packing bags, I’d grown to love this place; grown to love my friends, three of them in particular; and grown t
o love my teachers, one exceptionally more.

    I have to say my goodbyes.

    Anna Doreen sits on a sofa in the staff room alone. She’s in a dark, tight corporate skirt and a figure hugging pearl-white with navy-blue stripes shirt. Spectacles, hair in a bun, some strands loose and teasing the ears, Anna is marking papers, and the two top buttons of her blouse are undone, promoting a racy bra and the voluptuous tease of cleavage. Under her skirt are long pantyhose-legs, dark, sexy and mysterious, leading all the way to designer heels embroidered with the barbwire, florid circle that is the AD logo.

    I made my presence felt, she looks up, holding a red pen and a printed piece of paper wit
h too many crimson corrections. “Hi,” her lips tip upward, “going, I heard.”

    I nodded.

    Ms. Doreen closes the file the stack of ink-desecrated processed wood fibre is in, places them on a table next to the settee, and gestures for me to sit by tapping the cushion beside.

    Strangely, I felt like I was visiting Mon
a the Moan, head Bitch of Mercy in my
Horny
Hound
. But it can’t be. Anna Doreen is nothing like Mona.

  
`Cos for one, I have my tongue in her. I will never share, not even a drop of saliva, or other bodily fluids for that matter, with any professional slut of that feminist movement. They exist solely in my life for jerking off...and...
torture
.

    The taste of he
r mouth is honey, dripping wine - slushy and messy and simply delicious. Our hot, passionate, embraced bodies slugging off furniture; it seems the chair is swallowing us whole, and at the whiff of Anna’s perfume smeared upon her breasts, I am transported, and her along, to a land before time, a land in a fruit of the flesh, budding on a tree of lust.

    To a man, each fl
irtatious fruit on this tantalizing tree is a shapely woman. I’ve heard of this giant palm before, which incarcerates penises; inside each, the pulp is a chick pierced by lots of cocks and cummed on all over.
Jizzed
, it is the juice of the fruit when you cut or peel it open. The flesh is a foetus of a dead hot babe, drowned in semen, a delicacy of gods and men alike.

    My sanguine lover is in one of these shel
ls. She is sucking dicks off one by one. She likes it, she enjoys it. I am aroused, but a tinge jealous, a bit envious. I am a little afraid, but quite amused. Pomelo Anderson, in another cage, is locked on to one banana after another. They are both toying bunches of grapes.

    The soil around the tree of lust is
a cemetery composed of emasculated and castrated men, moaning. They can feel their collective genital’s excitement in the female fruits of flesh via psychic connectivity, or in some tech savvy cases, through Wi-Fi spectrums.

    My organ is in my wife’s orifice. She is indulging me oral sex. I love her. Anna Doreen is the gutsy waitress once again; but I am no more human. I am a blob alien. Blubber is my belly, and Anna, sitting on it, is sunken as into green jelly. My erection in her mouth is a tarantula. Eight-legged hard-ones; and she is taking her time with each. Thus, my pleasured out zone of a face is an aroused catfish with eyes at the ends of tentacles, three of them, checking out, with magnifying lenses, that bod I’d come to love. Limbs I have no use for except to clamp her in sexual postures. They are small, short and claw-like, and in fact, I move on my stomach, similar to an accursed serpent. I have four tails which act as whips to spank her with when she’s naughty and asking for it. They are also desirous to please Anna with. Two muscular appendages are lifting her up from my abdomen, and the other pair is riding her pussy and asshole. Anna Doreen makes beautiful music. She’s finished sucking off my octopus genitalia, and each tentacle, each arachnid leg, ejaculates on her. Anna Doreen is covered in thick blue cream, the colour and texture of my seminal fluid; and her face is at the centre, at the base of eight dicks opening up like a sunflower. The middle, where she osculates on sixteen loose globular objects, is golden brown and naturally lubricated, and Anna’s cheeks are rubbing on furred florets arranged in a Fibonacci pattern accustomed to the blueprint of creation. Her head is banging into the hymen of that spot, and soon, Anna is fucking me there with her brain. I take her out; I have other plans. I rearrange her with my dorsal extensions and stuff what’s above her waist into my fish mouth, all the while frenetically digging in to the two holes below. Then I spit her on dry land as if she is Lady Jonah, and crawl all over her slimy body in monster rape.