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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 22 Oct 2002 18:29:46 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Lonely As A Cloud (Bradley Stoke) (MF)
Date: Tue, 22 Oct 2002 21:10:03 -0400
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{ASSM} Lonely As A Cloud (Bradley Stoke) (MF) 

Title: Lonely As A Cloud
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: MF 
Short Summary: A Sex Poet in Africa.


Story: Freedom in the New World (4,281 words)

Albert Hiribango has never met anyone like Hannah before. She is a Sex 
Poet who has come to Africa to defeat her Writer's Block. To Albert, she
only confirms his opinions of the looseness of Western morals. This is a
tale of culture clash on the parched savannah.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www
           


Lonely As A Cloud
=================

When Albert Hiribango was told that there was an American tourist in 
his town who was looking for a lift to the capital, he initially had 
mixed feelings. On the one hand, he felt it was his Christian duty to 
give a helping hand to anyone in need, and he knew there were many 
out there who would be less ethical than him in extending this hand. 
On the other hand, he feared that his general loathing for America and 
all it represented would prevent him being the ideal host. His worries 
were further heightened when he met Hannah, in her skimpy tee-shirt 
and her large baggy khaki shorts. She was dressed so immodestly, with 
the whole of her waist revealed, her arms bared to the shoulder, and 
even some kind of jewellery pierced into her navel.

But he was not a man to go back on his word, even if the woman was 
clearly one of loose morals. However, this was typical of Westerners. 
They'd come to Africa bringing their preachers and their faith - which 
was, of course, the greatest benefit brought by the white man - 
enforcing their morals, and then, when it suited them, they changed the 
rules: now dressing with the immodesty that they had initially 
condemned in the African. However, Hannah was not a young woman. 
She must have been in her early thirties, but typically for a Westerner, 
she dressed and behaved like someone much younger. Albert couldn't 
help admiring Hannah's trim figure and her self-confidence. Her hair 
was cut expensively, two horns of dark brown hair against her cheeks 
and an immaculate fringe. Albert carefully placed her large heavy 
cases in the back of his jeep, covered them with a tarpaulin sheet and 
invited Hannah to sit next to him.

"So, you come from America?" he asked, as he shifted the jeep up into 
third gear. 

"Yup. California. Small town not more than two hours ride from LA," 
she agreed, throwing a strip of chewing gum into her mouth. 

"How many miles is that?" Albert couldn't help wondering. He's 
heard that roads in the United States were rather better than here, and 
he reckoned that two hours drive was probably more than the forty or 
fifty miles he could normally do in that time.

"A hundred or so, I guess. Though when you get to LA, the traffic's so 
bad, you just don't know your luck."

Albert smiled grimly. So, Americans had bad traffic as well, but he 
doubted whether that meant dodging the insane drivers and straggly 
cattle he was accustomed to. "And so, what is it you do for a living?" 
He asked. Then qualifying quickly, because it might be that Hannah 
was a married woman, though he could see no evidence of a ring on 
her third finger. "That's if you do work, of course."

"I'm a sex poet," Hannah replied with a smile.

Albert couldn't help himself. "You're a what?" he asked abruptly, 
hoping he'd misheard her.

"A sex poet," Hannah repeated. "It's the big growth area in poetry. 
You don't write about landscapes, flowers or whatever these days. 
Some poets write about urban squalor and drugs and stuff. Like 
rappers only without the twelve inch discs. Some of us write about 
sex."

"Sex?" Albert wondered, carefully steering his jeep to avoid the 
carcass of a dog sprawled out across the road. "How can you find 
anything to write about that?"

"Well, it's not as easy as you'd think," Hannah remarked. This, of 
course, was contrary to Albert's own opinions. Surely sex was 
something very private. Not something that one ever wrote poetry 
about. "After a while you run out of fresh words to rhyme with 'fuck'. 
You know, there are the obvious words like 'suck' and 'muck', but not 
long you start resorting to words like 'duck'. And you know, I may be 
broad-minded but I'm not as broad-minded as that. You know what I 
mean?"

"Not really," admitted Albert. "But 'sex poetry'. What exactly is it?"

"Poems about sex. The before. The after. The during. The wanting. 
The missing. The having. You know."

"What about love and affection? What about the virtues of chastity 
and fidelity? Do these have a part to play in 'sex poetry'?"

"Of course they do. You don't just write about fucking. Although, 
fucking's mostly what it's about. And BJs, DP, BDSM, 
homosexuality. Everything."

"Homosexuality?" wondered Albert, who reasoned that this was surely 
something the Good Lord would never countenance. But, he reminded 
himself, California was the new Sodom and there was no limit to these 
Americans' depravity.

"Well, yeah. But naturally I'm not too hot on the men-men stuff. After 
all, I've been close, fucking close, close enough to touch and feel the 
heat, but it's not something I can really understand. Not really truly. 
Though I have written a couple of poems about it. You know, from a 
woman's point of view. But girl-girl. Well, that's another matter. I 
used to get so much inspiration from my girlfriends, I could just 
hammer the old keyboard all night long."

"I see," remarked Albert, who didn't understand at all. He glanced at 
Hannah, hoping to see an expression that told him that she was merely 
kidding, but her face was set and there was a look of frankness in her 
face. Without a comment, he silently concentrated on the badly scarred 
road, past the parched fields and the odd scattered tree. Occasionally, 
an antelope would gallop by or a brightly coloured bird would swoop 
from the sky, but generally there was as little evidence that this was 
the land of big game, as it would be obvious to a visitor to America 
that he or she was in the land of the buffalo. 

"Sex poetry is still poetry, of course," Hannah continued. "You have 
to struggle to get the right words. To capture those moments that make 
it worthwhile. And that was something I was so good at. I would do 
poetry readings all through the State. And I got a bursary from several 
colleges for my stuff. And my first volume of poems, They Fuck You, 
Your Mom and Pop, did very well. For poetry anyway. I got 
interviewed on National Television. I even appeared on Breakfast TV. 
And my second volume, Innocence Regained, didn't do too badly 
either. That had a theme of examining all the different variations there 
are. You know, transsexualism, incest, hermaphrodism, group sex, all 
that sort of stuff."

Albert coughed. Hannah would be arrested for peddling that sort of 
filth in this country. "Where do you get your inspiration from?"

"Personal experience, mostly," Hannah boasted. "I don't believe I can 
really capture the essence of any situation unless I've been in it 
myself. Some sex poets, they rely on watching sex videos or reading 
porn. It's all second-hand for them. I don't believe in that 
masturbatory shit. I've got to actually do it myself. Or be pretty darned 
close to it. I mean, I'm no transsexual, for instance. But I've had so 
many lovers. My best girlfriend and her husband and I, we've explored 
well nigh everything together and with everyone who's game. The 
only things I draw a line on are non-consensuality, bestiality, and, of 
course, child sex. Those sick fucks just deserve to die."

"Indeed," agreed Albert, though aware that when he got married to his 
wife so many years ago, she was what would be considered a minor in 
most Western countries. At least this American was showing some 
ethical considerations, he mused.

He set his eyes back onto the road as it wound around the ancient 
African landscape. Above were a few hovering vultures which told 
Albert just how far they were out from the nearest town. He leaned 
forward, and turned on the radio. He tuned it through all the different 
radio stations, most of them broadcast in different native languages, 
until he found an English language one playing Western music. Out 
trilled some Country music, of which Albert was rather fond. He 
enjoyed those mournful tunes with their lyrics of lost love and quiet 
despair. This was an America he could understand. Not one that 
revelled in excesses of godlessness. 

Hannah was clearly not enjoying the Country songs as much as Albert. 
But she was too polite to complain, and fixed her gaze through the 
dusty window at the plains beyond, steadily chewing her gum.

"So, why have you come to Africa? And by yourself?" he asked after 
long last.

"Writer's Block!" She replied. "That was the reason."

"'Writer's Block'?" wondered Albert, unsure whether this was some 
illness peculiar to California.

"Yes. About a year and a half ago. Somehow, the flow just stopped. I 
just could no longer write poetry. I would spend hours on the 
computer, and inspiration just did not come. My muse had deserted 
me. And to date, it still hasn't returned."

"But why come to Africa then?" wondered Albert. "I don't see the 
connection. Although this continent is famous for many things, poetry 
is, unfortunately, not one of them." Nor, he almost added, was 'sex 
poetry'.

"Well, I struggled for weeks, months. I had poetry commissions that I 
couldn't deliver. My work of sonnets, Lonely as a Cloud, was just 
getting nowhere. The words just weren't coming. I would imagine a 
sex scene or an erotic incident, but I wasn't able to capture its essence. 
What I did write was banal and basically not very good. There was no 
rhythm to my verse. The poems had no structure and I couldn't find 
words that didn't sound clichéd or leaden. Sex had somehow become 
reduced to nothing more than gynaecological observations. My 
portrayals of love were clunky and unconvincing. Something drastic 
had to be done. I had to do something to break this cycle of despair."

"And then you came to Africa?"

"Well, I was making love to Angela, who's one of my regular lovers 
and she said I just had to leave California. Go somewhere. Travel 
anywhere. Just go to new places, meet new people, pick up things 
abroad. And, you know, except for a few short visits to Canada and 
England, I'd never really left the States. Sure, I'd been around so many 
of the states: mostly on lecture tours. I've been to Oregon, Minnesota, 
Louisiana, Maryland, even Hawaii. But not for very long elsewhere. 
So, I put a blindfold on, opened an atlas randomly at any page, and 
stuck in a pin on whichever page was open. And it was here in 
Southern Africa. So that's why I'm here and why I've been travelling 
around here for the last six months. It's all because of writer's block 
and the Readers Digest Atlas."

"So you must have got to know Africa quite well."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But I dunno. It's always other 
Westerners I meet mostly. Other people travelling. Or people staying 
at the hotels. It's not as if there are that many Westerners here, but I 
seem to meet them. I've seen a lot of the continent, but I don't really 
know the people."

Perhaps, thought Albert, her profession might be part of the reason. 
That and her immodesty and strange views. He continued driving 
along the broken roads, the sun glancing through the open window 
onto his arms and onto the sharp crease of his smart brown cotton 
shirt. Even with his dark glasses on, the glare of the sun sometimes 
made it difficult to see too well. 

Hannah had put on her own sunglasses, which, unlike his, were small 
and metal-framed. She smiled at him, and then without warning she 
started coughing. And coughing. Big wheezing coughs that quite 
frankly worried Albert. He wasn't sure whether he should stop the 
jeep. But after a minute or so Hannah stopped and wiped a trail of 
yellowish mucus off her lips.

"Are you alright?" Albert asked.

"I don't know. I've not been feeling too good recently. A bit of the 
trots, this funny cough that just comes and goes, and sometimes a bit 
feverish. But I guess you expect that in Africa."

"Do you?"

"Well, you've got so many germs here, haven't you? Cholera. 
Typhoid. Malaria. Hepatitis. Everything. And, of course, AIDS."

"Well, yes," admitted Albert. "Most of that's due to poor sanitation, 
unreliable water supplies and the climate. But AIDS of course came 
from America with the batty boys."

Hannah frowned. "'Batty boys'? I've never heard of them before. But I 
heard AIDS originally came from Africa. You know, from baboons or 
something."

"Baboons!" snorted Albert. "There was no AIDS in Africa before you 
Americans left the way of the Lord and brought Sodom and Gomorrah 
back into the world."

Hannah frowned. She studied Albert with his slightly greying hair, the 
sharp creased shirt and cotton trousers, as the realisation took hold on 
her that there were people in the world whose view of things was quite 
different to that which she took for granted in the Golden State. She 
was to spend several more hours in Albert's company, and she didn't 
want to spend them arguing on the rights and wrongs of things. Fuck! 
He might even approve of smoking, or be unsympathetic to 
vegetarianism, or deny the virtues of tantric sex. All the things she 
held dear. It even occurred to her that Albert might not approve of sex 
poetry. But then this was another land, and it was best that she respect 
people's rights to believe and practise what they believed. As long as 
they didn't smoke in front of her or force her to eat meat. Or force her 
to indulge in any unnatural practices.

Albert turned up the radio and the rest of the journey was spent 
listening to a mixture of Country music interspersed with a curious 
mix of contemporary (and not so contemporary) pop music. The 
conversation they had veered away from anything about which either 
passenger could claim to have a strong opinion, and Hannah gradually 
began to warm towards her African driver. He was going to the capital 
on business that seemed to relate to the bank and finance house for 
which Albert was district manager. But he accepted Hannah's 
invitation to come back to her hotel for a drink.

The area in which the hotel was situated was markedly smarter than 
almost everywhere else Hannah had been in this country. The tree-
lined roads were marked by consulates, embassies and the national 
headquarters of many multinational companies. Albert parked the car 
in the hotel's vast but nearly empty car park, and the two of them sat 
in the hotel bar. A man in a black suit and tuxedo was playing a 
selection of inoffensive standards on a huge white piano, while the 
large leather seats were occupied by a mixture of black and white 
guests speaking to each other in a multitude of languages, of which, 
naturally, English was the most prevalent. 

A few drinks and a conversation about Albert's job was all that it took 
for Hannah to proffer Albert the invitation to join her for a coffee in 
her hotel room. Albert wasn't at all surprised by this, though most 
such conversations he'd had with women markedly younger than him 
which had resulted in such an invitation had usually had a price tag 
involved, something which Albert accepted as part of normal life and 
an almost expected feature of his visits to the capital.

He was not at all alarmed when Hannah, in the privacy of her large 
hotel room, dominated by a huge television screen where two 
European football teams were silently running around amongst the on-
screen score-cards, took virtually no time at all, and with no sign of 
shame, in removing her top and shorts. He was actually more surprised 
to note the light rash that coloured her bare shoulders and the bottom 
of her neck. She pulled down her knickers and Albert saw that the lips 
of her vagina were pierced just as surely as her navel. He thought it 
strange that Westerners attacked the tradition of female circumcision, 
but had no apparent qualms in practising genital mutilation 
themselves. Typical hypocrisy, he thought.

Hannah took it on herself to unclothe Albert and gave a whoop of 
delight as his penis sprang up relieved of his boxer shorts. Albert 
knew that he wasn't the most well endowed man there was (his times 
showering with other men after playing a game of rugby had disabused 
him of that vanity), but he'd heard that Western men were quite pitiful 
in that department, and Hannah's joy as she took his prick in her hands 
was evidence that this view might be true.

She took his erect prick in her hands and touched the glans with her 
tongue. Albert quivered with tension as he felt the soft warm 
moistness of her tongue on its tender edge, causing it to stiffen to its 
maximum extent. And then she knelt down in front of him and guided 
his penis into her mouth: placing a finger firmly between his scrotum 
and his anus, and gulped it up and down her neck, her cheeks bulged 
out. This was something Albert's wife had never assented to. She had 
always objected to the smell and the association with urination. The 
only women to ever have agreed to that were the scrawny prostitutes 
who hung around the bars at the rather more modest hotels he usually 
stayed in. And although his penis was almost bursting with the need to 
release, Hannah had the expertise of these same prostitutes to ensure 
that he didn't reach his climax too soon.

She removed her mouth from his prick and ran her hands up and down 
his black torso and thighs, while her teeth worried at the strands of 
black short curled hair around the base. She took her mouth away 
briefly and coughed in a wheezy throaty way, while one hand kept a 
grip on the hard throbbing shaft of his dick. He looked down on her 
from above. Her hair flopped over her cheeks and he admired the 
whiteness of her skin. He'd never had sex with a white woman before 
and he found the contrast between the tanned flesh of her arms, legs 
and waist a frightening contrast with the anaemic whiteness of her 
crotch, arse and bosom. He supposed that in America, white people 
were probably as white as that all over. The strangeness of it almost 
excited him to ejaculate there and then.

But thankfully that was not to be. Hannah guided Albert back onto her 
large double bed, the thin sheets pushed back, and as he descended 
onto his back, she kept herself astride and on top of her. And then, the 
moment that defined sex, she positioned her crotch above his erect 
prick, and let it slide, easily and smoothly into her moist vagina. She 
sank her crotch bit by bit down to its very base, supporting her weight 
on her long thin tanned legs, her arms falling lengthwise on either side 
of him. 

"Ooh! It's been so long! Days! Maybe weeks!" she gasped as she 
pushed her crotch slowly and smoothly up and down, while Albert lay 
recumbent, his own arms stretched uselessly on either side of him.

"Is that so?" he asked, watching with almost academic interest as his 
penis was alternately swallowed and eased out by her labial lips.

"African men! They're all mouth and trousers!" She explained. "You 
don't know what a struggle it is to get a fuck round here. I'm just glad 
there are a few women here who don't mind."

"Don't mind what?" asked Albert, not really expecting an answer, but 
guessing her meaning. The perversion of the suggestion actually 
aroused him the more, and he took Hannah's waist in his broad hands, 
the watch sliding slightly down his wrist, and drew her body close to 
his. Her breasts, so pert and white, pressed against the short curly hair 
of his chest, tingling his nipples and urgently commanding his 
buttocks to thrust harder and faster into her. 

The two kept this up for several moments, uncomfortable as it 
sometimes was to fuck someone from underneath, even though 
Hannah seemed to be thrusting with an equal amount of urgency as 
him. And then they turned round, Albert on top of her: the position he 
most often enjoyed with his wife and which had resulted in three 
healthy sons, one healthy girl and a second girl who'd unfortunately 
died from a bout of dysentery when she was still a very young child. 
His penis thrust back and forth, feeling redder and rawer against her 
rough vaginal lips while sweat poured down his chest, lubricated the 
hairs, and slid against Hannah's own shiny perspiring skin. These 
white women seemed to sweat so easily, the pearls of perspiration 
glistening on the pits of her tanned shoulders, and gathering in a pool 
by his prick. He pushed in and out, while every now and then he felt 
Hannah's finger press against the skin between his testicles and the 
hairs of his anus: a trick he'd been told by one prostitute whose body 
he'd enjoyed would keep his penis erect for that much longer. In. Out. 
In. Out. Slap. Slap. 

And then, Hannah again broke off to cough. This time for longer and 
more violently. She pushed herself away from under him, and with a 
weak smile ran into the bathroom, where Albert could hear her cough 
for several minutes. Long enough for his twitching penis to gradually 
shrink to half its erect size. He studied the football teams on the silent 
screen, punctuated every few minutes by a startling spin of the image 
as a replayed shot or tackle was rebroadcast.

She came out from the bathroom, rubbing her lips with the back of her 
hand, and the two of them recommenced in their lovemaking as if 
there had been no break. Although Hannah had to first of all coax his 
penis back up to its full size. And their lovemaking went on and on, 
for longer than Albert could recall ever having made love before, 
whether with a prostitute or with his wife (even in the early days of his 
greatest sexual enthusiasm and especially now where it was usually 
perfunctory and not very frequent). She knew how to vary the diet to 
keep up their mutual interest, and even after he had released a mass of 
semen all over her breasts and waist (as she bizarrely insisted), he 
somehow regained the energy to begin again. Outside the sun went 
down and they put on the bedside lamps to allow some, but not too 
much illumination on their fucking.

At one stage, she positioned herself head down, arse in the air, and got 
him to fuck her from behind. This was something he'd never done 
before, and was not too sure he really enjoyed. The sight of a bare 
back (especially one with that strange rash) was not as appealing to his 
eyes as a woman's face and breasts, but the strange tightness of her 
vaginal opening from this angle gave him fresh desire, and he pushed 
in and out of her with vigour, supporting himself by arms stretched out 
alongside her own. But then she took his penis in her hand, while still 
beneath him and motioned it towards her anus. Before Albert was sure 
what he was doing, his penis was thrusting into a smaller tighter hole, 
one whose type he'd never been in before. 

At first he was enjoying it. The tight squeeze it gave his prick, the 
slight resistance it gave to his thrusts gave his lovemaking more 
passion and more thrust. And then his prejudices took hold. He was no 
batty boy. This type of sex was quite unnatural and almost certainly 
would require penance either before or during his after-life. He pulled 
his penis free and reinserted it into her vagina, enjoying its now 
familiar warm liquid welcome as it sank into its more capacious depth.

Albert and she spent the night together, their arms around each other, 
occasionally chatting, but more often sleeping. In bed, Albert found 
her conversation about the lovers she'd known, the sexual escapades 
she'd enjoyed, the variations she'd experimented in, that much more 
acceptable and even quite erotic than when he'd driven her along the 
African roads.

Albert never saw her again. When morning came and they'd enjoyed 
breakfast together before his meeting at the bank headquarters, they'd 
made promises to keep in touch that both of them knew would never 
result in anything. A final kiss and a friendly squeeze of his sore 
testicles through his neat linen trousers was the last of Hannah.

At least until a few months later, when his wife drew his attention to 
the scandal of the death of a famous American Sex Poet who had died 
of double pneumonia, which it was suspected had been exacerbated by 
the disease that was decimating Africa. Much of the article 
concentrated on her fame and her controversial reputation, but also on 
the quality of her verse. But these parts of the article were the ones 
that concerned Albert the least. 

Hannah had unsuspectingly been carrying the retrovirus for many 
years, and it had matured into its full-blown manifestation while she 
was in the African continent. It would not have occurred to a worried 
Albert as he contacted his doctor, but her lonely agonised death in the 
top floor of the Garret hotel was not at all unlike the traditional death 
of a poet that Hannah might have aspired to in moments of foolish 
romanticism.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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