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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: LAURIE dreams the Sexxy Bear
Date: Wed,  4 Oct 2000 09:10:02 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/04/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon (UPDATED 10/04/00
http://www.farragher.com  (Poetry updated 10/04/00)

0938Xjhw0314XLaurie.htm
Laurie Dreams of The Bear

10/20/1992: "I am not just breasts and cunny," I told 
Henry, Tony, Angela and Aaron. I wanted more."

They handed me their pricks and breasts. No, I guess 
they didn't. They listened. I'm detached. Don't stop 
my hands. I stripped your cock and pear from your own 
mouth. Now, you have permission to suck yourself off. 
I must watch. OK! Your make believe trick seemed 
peculiar. Like the beast? 

My bear had deep blue eyes and a solitary ball. You 
have one mouth and I soft key, so the dream played 
from cunny to cunny picking the sand from the lips, 
unsettled at the root. 

Judge my hands (they are two mouths). They juggle your 
skin and your bones, picking your daily steps apart. 
Discover pleasure. Pain lives outside. Look here in 
the mirror. I have no face, no residue. Watch the snow 
outside when it splatters against the windshield, left 
behind as ridges? 

That mirror measures progress and descent. In a way, 
the snow pushed aside is like keeping track of 
orgasms. Good or bad. Exist or not. Indifferent. The 
snow will be pushed away and then melt. The residue 
left behind is the moonscape. 

Watching the moon of the memory of procreation. 
Records, right? Memory is the voyeur, as Tony used to 
say. I like watching my self-come. 

Audiotapes. Video. With partners? Alone? In my car? 
Hot tub, or sitting in my fake church, made out of A 
frame alcove, quietly flexing and releasing my inner 
thighs, as the pressure subsides violently shaking 
what I am. I pass into the dark and no one watches but 
my eyes, as the view from the church, I am innocent, 
no underpants, wet, open, and nipples hard with just 
the brush of any hand or the reflection of a smile so 
fully clean I am invisible. Once, someone asked if I 
had an upset stomach after I silently came making 
small talk? Your legs darted and your eyes shifted, 
Daddy said. When you touched your stomach, I thought 
you were ill, Henry said.

I laughed, and as Henry was an old, intimate friend 
(someone with whom I had sex at nine) I told Angela 
the truth. I suspected that, she said. No one would 
have known, she added. You have wonderful control.

No, not really, I said. I raped my father, Gabriel, 
later that night. At fifteen, I fucked him with a soft 
plastic dildo. He came. I slapped his face with his 
own come, and then I shook inside for at least an 
hour. Gabriel was asleep, and I came again. He woke at 
three AM, and I came. Whenever he woke, I came. 
Getting back to the bear. 

Remember I am on the trail. Watching my self in the 
dreamscape when the white bear stepped on my sex and I 
came. He carried me away, and I threw out the stones 
from my pocket. I want to leave a trail for Gabriel or 
now Henry, I told myself in and out of the dream. 
Leave a trail, I said when I woke, and then 
I remembered that I had dropped breadcrumbs, so I 
could return to the dream. I told Angela too much. She 
knew my dreams. So does her sister, Sheila. When I 
wake, Sheila and Angela will be sleeping in my bed. I 
will have forgotten my death. You will also forget it 
when you wake. Please, signal the start of the sexual 
match (spoken to Henry). 

Take down your pants. Let me measure your cock, I said 
to him, with my silent stick. Soft. So melancholy. We 
are dark faces and simple chimes. No one cares how we 
stop. Fuck me, dear Dream. Fuck the space between the 
markers. Leave the boundary open. Divide my perverted 
child, Jason, done with father. Kill yourself as you 
follow the last breadcrumb to the top of the 
palisades, and when you hear a voice, from inside (no 
outside) ordering you to jump, you do. 

Waking (male or female), you are deep in your own 
cunny, fucking yourself with your own cock, as a 
miracle of sexual equality or dislocation. 

My face rests there under the paw of the bear. His 
tongue shelters the infant (created in my image). I 
have charted as a map to lead us homeward. Watch the 
bear's eyes. They are bridges. The nose was the cliff 
overlooking the waves. The mouth is the ocean above 
the road, carried out too far away from the madness we 
cause to fall down, softly like. 

As the dream continued, I will be murdered suddenly. 
The air had left ache of my eyes, and when I rose, my 
body left alone danced slowly. Space was cut with my 
lost hand; a broken string cannot be pasted back on 
itself. Laurie is a terrible name, and I cannot change 
it, am I dead, I think, and have been here since 1981 
when I looked up and he was full against my rear, and 
I grew too high, and could not hold my spirit inside, 
let Saint Faith, out, who determines age, and I am 
none, but he did not know that, he couldn't resist the 
child, although I am not the girl and never would 
believe, as we turn away, out of the page, and no 
contempt. He didn't do it then. Just came later, 
thinking of the soft cotton under drawers like boys.

The mood had changed with the images inside the dream. 
Laurie had been reborn, pulling Laurie's mouth to her 
invisible breast. Yes, dear, ...drink. Stop thinking. 
It's OK. I like you.  Awake. The dream is dead.

"Fuck no," I stopped. Self consciously, I twirled 
Henry's thick, shoulder length blond and gray hair 
into a tight and then painful braid. 

"Shit, stop, hurts," Henry faked the complaint, moving 
slightly back, sitting up, resting his legs first 
against, and then climbing the wall with it. He 
watched Laurie stir her pot, and then just as quickly, 
Henry moved back to her.

Throwing her arms up, I said, sadly what if someone 
had murdered me, what would you do, and love? Fuck 'em 
up? Who would you be fucking now, I said, tweaking 
Henry's nipple to let him know I wasn't mad at him (or 
that the mood had ebbed)?

"No, not automatically," Henry answered, ignoring the 
second part of her question. It depends on how much 
money. " Henry paused. "Sorry, sweet heart, I'm not 
very funny." 

Silently, before speaking, Henry held my arms and legs 
in a human cradle. Can he protect us from a tangible 
and residual violence?

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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