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Subject: {ASSM} Journal Entry 028 / 0124  [ A Dearth of Irony ]  (MM+ (fur,feline,heavy anal fisting))
Date: Thu, 10 Apr 2003 01:10:04 -0400
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A Dearth of Irony

Noren, Nenim 03, 0124

After spending far too long drying out my fur from a shower, I sat
down with a cup of decaffeinated hot chocolate and began reviewing my
email. The Embassy mailing lists were unsurprisingly quiet. Despite
the usual upheavals in the world the introduction of the Feed the
Stars program had put a serious dent in the most common cause of
inter-tribal warfare in both Africa and Asia. When Humans have enough
food they tend to be lazy. The industrious by nature put their energy
into entertaining their neighbors rather than finding new ways of
murdering them. I noticed a new fusion-powered water desalinization
plant was being protested by "environmentalists" who decried the
slight increase in local salt density, claiming it would kill fish.

People who hate their own species that much shouldn't be allowed to
reproduce. It's a negative meme.

I moved on to the personal lists and found little of value there as
well. The only thing I did see was a hint of an orgy on another list,
so I traversed the links and found that it would be an all-male event
of an extreme nature, the kind of thing that intrigued me like no
other. I'd done a lot of kinky things since coming to Earth; regarded
by the Terrans as a low-level "bureaucrat," whatever that was, I was
permitted my peccadilloes. Fortunately, Terran intelligence agencies
no longer thought that my having peccadilloes would give them any
leverage. The truth was that Athena appreciated my diversions as part
of the historical record as they let her look in on corners that
rarely received documentation from the higher historians.

And, on the message board I spotted the name of someone I knew. I
dashed off an email to him from my personal account, avoiding any hint
that I wanted to discuss this particular matter with him. It was just
an invitation to lunch tomorrow.

Tuesday, I found an email from him agreeing to meet for lunch. It was
a friendly email, the "Hi, haven't heard from you in a long time"
type.

The cafe we chose was the little French place two blocks up from the
Embassy, built into a sharp, triangular spot. Inside was painted a
bright mustard color, the chairs and table supports black wrought
iron, the tabletops glass. I supposed the colors would have been more
appropriate in the summer when the sunlight would brighten everything
but right now it looked dingy and tired. Much like the population of
Washington in late January.

Josh was there, sitting an a table, yawning. "Good morning," I said.

He nodded. "Is it morning, T'Oma?" he said, glancing at his watch.
"Three minutes left, I suppose." He stood up and offered his hand. I
shook it. "It's good to see you again."

"And how is my favorite legal eagle?" I asked.

"Being a clerk for the City of Washington is no picnic," he said. "Do
you have any idea how many completely ridiculous suits are filed every
day? I get to see the pettiest of personal details from these people.
Divorced couples who want to limit what the other parent lets the
child watch on TV. I've even got one mother who's filed a protest
against the father because he lets the child eat ice cream."

"What's wrong with that?" I asked.

"She's a vegan. She doesn't have a leg to stand on. The courts don't
allow one parent to dictate the parenting style of the other. But he
counter-sued on the grounds that her constant messages about the
dangers of milk have made the child paranoid and destroyed the
father-son relationship." He sighed. "I should stop talking about
work. It depresses me."

"You should. Just repeat to yourself that this'll all be over in a
millennium or two."

He grinned. "Do you really think so?"

Yeah, I really think so. I thought it would take much less time than
that. But I didn't say so. Instead, I said, "Who knows? Do you really
think we'll keep being as petty as we are now?"

"Dunno." Our lunches came, just sandwiches, nothing special. "So, what
made you think of me?" he asked.

"I saw you on Red Right."

He nearly choked on his sandwich. "You what? No, don't say that again.
I got it the first time." He downed his entire glass of water, rose
and walked to the elegant little tray where a pitcher with ice waited,
came back. "You read that?"

"I'm not just your ordinary alien homosexual, you know," I said. "I
keep track of these things. Especially since you all air them so
publicly."

Josh stroked his chin. "I might have to find a new hobby."

"Oh, come on. Ever since Andrew Sullivan we've known privacy is dead.
Only the Pentagon keeps acting like its personal nasty habits can be
successfully kept under wraps. There are cameras everywhere, Josh. The
only question is, who's in charge of them?"

"Oma, you scare me."

"On Pendor, there is no privacy of the kind you imagine. The AIs know
absolutely everything, but they have a value standard that includes
gossip only when they think it furthers their purpose."

"And what is their purpose?" Josh asked.

"Ask Shardik. He might know."

"He MIGHT know?" Josh asked. "Do you have any idea how ominous that
sounds?"

I nodded. Pendorians lived with it. It was remarkable how rarely the
AIs intervened even in moments of personal violence. What they
guaranteed, though, was that the aggressor in any such moment was
portrayed in the worst possible light, and somehow the notion of
notoriety, of power, never came through. I never ceased to be amazed
at how differently these things happened on Earth. The idea that
someone would give in to weakness and descend into personal violence,
and that this could be portrayed positively, was about the only thing
about Earth I thought could not be fixed with a sufficient application
of bread and circuses. Mostly because that's what they wanted from
their circus!

"So, what were you doing looking at RR?" he asked.

"I wanted to know if I could go to the party on Friday."

"You want to go to the party?" he asked. "I- I suppose. I don't see
why not."

"Can you tell me about it? What goes on there?"

"Well, you won't be asked to do anything you don't want to do, of
course, and there's really no pressure. The place is called Open Arms,
it's a little bed and breakfast down in Virgina, about an hour's
drive. It's actually quite nice. They have a hot tub and, well, the
basement is well appointed. Naturally, you have to bring your own
party favors."

"'Party favors?'" I asked. "You mean, like drugs?"

"Well, no. I mean like Crisco. And it's nice to bring something the
host can use-- gloves, paper towels. And yeah, there's sometimes some
drugs there. Pot, beer, poppers. We don't allow tweakers."

"I'm going to sound like a parrot again. 'Tweakers'?"

"People on methamphetamine."

"Is it common that people show up like that?"

Josh nodded. "It used to be. Before the cure, it happened a lot with
the more self-destructive types. On meth, people think they're
indestructible. With AIDS, they thought they could afford to fuck
themselves up because they didn't have much time left anyway. They can
take and do anything." He changed his voice. "'But Bob, that's both
hands up to the elbow!' 'Goddammit, gimme more!'"

I laughed. Josh's ability to do different voices should have gotten
him a job doing commercials, or cartoons, but he wanted to go into
law. I suppose I couldn't fault him for his decision. A man's gotta do
what a man's gotta do. And a Pendorian? We have our own needs.

"So, who do I call to get in?" I asked.

"I'll call the guy who runs the place. His name's Bill. I'm sure he'd
let you in. If nothing else, the novelty of having a Felinzi in the
place will certainly get the party moving."

I grinned. "Who's gonna try and suck my dick?"

He smiled back. "All of 'em."
 ________________________________________________________________

I did indeed get an email with the time, address, and some
introductory material. The actual act wasn't that foreign to me; I'd
tried with a lover some years back. Maybe it was him, maybe I wasn't
equipped for it, but we never did get anywhere and it left me feeling
sore and unsatisfied. I was amused to see that my presence was
announced on the Red Right mailing list, with a flurry of followups
signaling that they'd all treat me "right."

I checked out an unmarked car for the night from the motor pool and
made my way out to the freeway, headed south. I hit traffic, some
accident on the interchange, and ended up getting to the place a
half-hour late. Part of that was my miscalculating the length of the
trip in the first place.

The address led me to a lovely three-story house with wood fronting
painted a calming blue. The front yard was tiny but as lovingly
manicured as a stereotype would allow. A sign on the front door said,
"Entrance in rear." The double entendre' brought my first smile of the
evening.

I walked around to the back. A raised platform held a small but
comfortable-looking hexagonal hot tub bubbling away noisily, and
through sliding glass doors I could see shapes moving about in the dim
light. I walked in to find four men sitting in what looked like a
small living room. There were two couches along the walls, and
opposite them was a wide television screen on which some rather
aggressive pornography was playing to the rapt attention of a few.

The image was crystal clear; the release in 2006 of do-it-yourself
smart video restoration software, not to mention the cure for HIV, had
led to a major resurgence of interest in 1970-era pornography,
especially since you could insert yourself over any actor of
approximately the same build. The video on-screen had the look of some
mid-90's work, but I could see that the restorer had identified the
condoms as unwanted and edited them away. The super-buff performers
wore leather harnesses of the kind popular with the kinkier crowd.

Not like the actual group here. The mix was very appealing, the buff
mixing with the out-of-shape freely. Four men was a small sample to go
on, but if they were representative the middle age was somewhere in
the late 30's to early 40's. And they were all still wearing some
clothes.

That was when one noticed me. "Oh, my god." He looked me up and down
and I could see the calculations going on behind his eyes. I've gotten
that with every Terran lover so far. "You must be Oma. Hi, I'm Bill."
A tall, thin man in his mid-40's with a pot belly and eyes the color
of moonlit sky held out his hand.

I shook it warmly, and said, "Yeah, that's me. Josh here, yet?"

"Nope. He'll show up. He's on the list."

The other four men were also eying me warily now, not sure of what to
make of me. I let it slide. Nobody expects a black-furred alien in
their midsts here on Earth. We're still something of a rarity. I
reached for my wallet. "Twenty bucks to cover costs, right?"

"Yep." He took the money, put it in a small lockbox. "Ed, record Oma
as attending." The little laptop computer on the table blinked softly
and recorded the transaction. "Don't worry. It'll get wiped tomorrow.
It's just the guest list." I nodded. "Here, let me show you around.
Now, the rest of the place is off limits. It's just this room, the
outside, and the downstairs. Let me show you downstairs."

He led me through a narrow doorway and down a flight of creaky wooden
stairs. We reached a carpeted room, almost square except for what
looked like a closet built into one corner. "Through there is the
bathroom. The shower has two hoses, one for the head, one for the
shot."

"'Shot?'" I asked. "Sorry, I'm a bit slow on some of the terminology."

"New guy, eh? I assume you did clean out, though?"

I nodded. Rather than find some way of asking the staff doc for help,
I had decided to go ahead and do it the old-fashioned way, with an
enema bottle. The process had been unpleasant and uncomfortable in a
very personal way, but I had managed to get through it. I understand
that some people enjoy the process. Some of the sensations had been
interesting, but certainly nothing I would have referred to as
'erotic.'

"Good." He pushed open a sliding door and showed me the shower. He
held up what looked like skinny dildo on the end of a hose hanging
from a diverter. "Showershot. Instant enema gear."

"Isn't it dangerous using wall-pressure?"

"You don't go deep with it," he said. "It's just for cleaning out the
bottom part." He laughed at his own joke. "If you're going to go deep,
you need to do other things. But you're new. If you're clean, I'm sure
you'll do fine. If you do use it, it's polite to fill the holder there
from that bottle and put it back for the next person." He gestured
toward a bottle labeled 'bleach.'

"Now, the rest of the room is where the real play happens." There were
four stations, three slings and what looked like an examination table,
all set in a row. At the end of the row, the nook created by the jut
of the bathroom was filled with a small bed. "You're one of the first
ones here. Usually things don't pick up until about ten."

"I was afraid I was going to be late."

"Not running on gay time, are you?" I held my tongue. There are some
stereotypes I don't like. That's one of them.

I heard footsteps upstairs and the sound of the sliding glass door was
unmistakable. "I have more guests," Bill said. "Take a look around."
There were speakers hung in the corners and the music playing sounded
like trance as done by an orchestra. The floor was covered in cheap,
flat carpeting that looked like it could be pulled up without much
effort.

There was one oddity to the room that caught my eye. Not in a way that
really interested me, but it was worth noting. I walked back upstairs
and dug into my duffel, pulling out a beer from the softpack sports
cooler I had borrowed from someone at the embassy. "Hey, Bill," I
said, "What's with all the straight porn?"

"More than half our business is straight," he said. "There are a lot
more of them than there are of us. They like this sort of thing, too,
you know." A small percentage of a large group and a larger percentage
of a small group. I shrugged. It made sense.

I had to deal with a number of shocked looks from people who were
finally beginning to show up. Josh finally did, and I hugged him as he
came through the door. We made small talk but it wasn't long before
loud and manly groans began wafting up from the basement. "Shall we go
look?" he asked.

Downstairs, the middle sling was in use. The sling was made of leather
straps sewn together with cross-straps, suspended from the rafters by
steel chains, forming a platform off the ground at just the right
height to fuck someone lying in it. A heavyset man in his early 40's
lay in the sling, his legs high in the air, knees hooked over the
chains. His partner, a thinner guy and even older, was working four
fingers into his butt. The volume of Crisco in use was amazing. I
noticed that each sling had a small table for the top to keep his
Crisco and spare gloves, a stool for him to sit on, and a roll of
paper towels overhead, suspended from the ceiling with a stretch cord
like the kind used for securing cargo to the roof of an automobile. A
smaller, higher table lay near the bottom's head, where he kept only a
small brown bottle of amyl nitrite, a popular drug that relaxed the
smooth muscles of the body, making penetration easier.

At events like this, there are two kinds of voyeurs; those who gawk
and those who contribute. The former make you uncomfortable, as if you
were some kind of freak and they couldn't believe they were watching
you do these strange things; the latter turn you on, appreciating you
for what you're showing them. I hoped I was the latter; I felt like
the latter. Despite the obsession with hard bodies that came through
in pornography, watching these two gentle men do their thing gave me a
hard-on.

Josh pressed up behind me, reached down and fondled my cock. "You're
liking this."

"Yeah," I said slowly, surprised at how much I was liking this. I
wanted to contribute. I wanted to participate.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs told me that more were coming down, and
soon the basement was filling with men. I made my way over to the bed
in the nook to watch.

I was joined by an incredibly cute young man no older than thirty,
barrel-chested and belly to match, body covered in fine, blond hair,
mustache, hair trimmed to less than inch all-over. Without saying a
word he began fondling my cock. "Never had a Pendorian here before."

"I'm just like you. With fur, mind you."

"And a tail."

"It's a hot tail tonight," I joked.

"Can I suck you?"

"If you like," I said, smiling. Josh was right. And, oh Fah! was his
mouth soft. I couldn't believe how good he was at giving head. He
dropped down onto my dick and I could feel the soft burr of his
mustache prickling the fell of my hide right above my cock. He was
deep throating me and instantly I felt close to coming. I knew it
wasn't a real rise, just the intensity of such powerful sucking so
fast.

I luxuriated in the feel of his lips and tongue on my cock, but
eventually I had to tell him to stop. "I'm gonna come, and it's early
yet." His face dropped, but he smiled and nodded at me. We leaned
against the back wall to watch as the room filled up. For the first
time I looked down the length of the room. All three slings and the
examination table were in use. "Look," my recent partner said as his
hands caressed the fur of my chest. "It's like a kindergarten."

I knew what the word meant and, looking down the row, I realized just
how right he was. Everything was in order and everyone was following
the rules. It was organized just like a kindergarten. It even had
cubbyholes along the wall for shed clothing. The only difference was
that this was the kinkiest kindergarten I had ever seen.

I grinned. A perfect analogy.

I rose and went back upstairs. More people had shown up; I was a
center of polite attention. I liked it that way. They were quietly
interested in me, but I wondered if my difference would keep them away
from me.

I needn't have worried. A handsome man walked by me, his hand brushing
my cock. He paused for a second. "I hope you don't mind," he said as
he casually fondled me.

"Oh, of course. I come here for this kind of harassment." I grinned to
let him know I was joking. He said, "Would you like to play
downstairs?"

"I would," I agreed. "But... I'm new at this."

"I figured you would be," he said.

"Don't figure on that," I said. "Let me grab my stuff."

He nodded. I joined him down stairs with my bag over my shoulder. He
indicated an empty sling. As I was getting into it, the man in the
sling next to mine started shouting, "Oh, god, Oh god!" I looked to
see his partner with half an arm buried in his ass. The top, a tall,
thin guy with a gnarled nose and an angelic smile, said, "That's it,
man, you're in the house of the Lord now."

That got a few chuckles. I undressed, folded my clothes and placed
them on top of my duffel. I took out the few "party favors" I had
brought for myself and hopped into the sling. The tinkling of the
chains overhead was more amusing than threatening. My cute partner
with the busy hands slipped newspaper onto the floor under our play
area, and then a towel under my butt. I looked up and realized that
the scene was complete; above me, overhead, was a mirror, pushed down
so that I could see exactly what was going on between my legs.

"Hmm," my partner said. "What's your name?"

"Oma."

"I'm Greg. I know how much of a pain it is to get Crisco out of
towels. What's it like with fur?"

"I'm going to find out." He chuckled as I threw my legs out over the
chains. My ass was completely exposed, up in the air, easy for him to
see. My tail draped down onto the floor. I felt oddly small,
compressed into that tiny space, the sling only slightly more than a
meter long and not even a meter wide. I had been turned into a fuck
object, my legs lifted out of the way.

Greg started by kissing my balls. In the mirror, his head obscured my
vision but I could feel exactly what was going on. He coaxed my cock
out of its short sheath and licked the tip playfully before sliding
back down over my testicles. His tongue tickled playfully along that
little stretch of skin between balls and ass, and I waited,
anticipating the touch of his tongue on my hole. When it came, I knew
I was in the right place. Up until now I had been a bit hesitant about
this whole event, but now my asshole was telling me that I had brought
it to the place where it would get what it wanted. What I wanted.

"Oh, fuck," I groaned. "Good."

"It'll get better," he said, his voice muffled by my furred asscheeks.
"This will be fun. I get to give the alien the anal probe this time."

I had heard similar jokes several times in the past years, but this
time it had an effect, and I laughed hard along with him.

He stood up and started to pull a glove over his hand, then stopped.
"I forgot to ask. Glove or no glove? Got any allergies? Anything to
tell me?"

My head was reeling from the attention already, but I managed to pull
myself together. "No allergies. You decide on the gloves. The only
thing you need to know is that I'm a bit of a neurotic about mess;
I'll probably try to get up and help you clean the second we're done."

"No, you won't," he said. "I won't let you."

"Just letting you know."

He grinned and finished pulling the glove on. I watched in the mirror
as he took a small glob of Crisco from the can and pressed it to my
asshole. The feel of cool grease made me feel more relaxed, which I
thought was weird, but I accepted it. He took more grease onto his
gloved hand and slid one finger easily into my butt. I lay back and
let his invasion happen, let myself be opened by this hot-looking man.

Two fingers were easy, and then he began with three. Things began to
get interesting. Three fingers was a lot, as far as I was concerned,
and watching him turn his hand and pry my hole with that greasy paw of
his was turning me on, but in peculiar ways. I wasn't getting hard
from it, but I was really enjoying the things he was doing to my
asshole.

He was incredibly patient. I was already hungry for more, but he
rocked his hand back and forth slowly, sloshing grease around in my
ass, letting my hole open up more. Then, when I wasn't looking, there
were four fingers. "You haven't taken a hit," he said, gesturing at
the small, brown bottle of amyl at my head.

"I'm saving it until I need it," I said.

He nodded. "You've got a great asshole," he said, pushing in gently
with all four fingers. Deep inside my butthole I felt his finger curl
up.

"Ow," I said softly.

"Not a prostate player, huh?" he asked.

"No," I agreed. "I guess not."

"I'll be careful, then." He kept up with the rocking motion deeper
into my ass; his hand was in all the way to the thumb, which he kept
pointed up and away from my hole. I leaned back in the sling and let
the feel of his hand on my asshole go through me. I couldn't believe
we'd gotten this far. How long had I been here? How much could I take?

He was using both hands now, spreading my asshole open with three
fingers of each hand. But that was nothing compared to getting over
the hump of his thumb, the widest part of the hand. He showed me the
tower configuration of six fingers and then his fist and I realized
that I was a long way from taking it all.

Or maybe not. His hands were incredibly gentle, wonderfully talented,
as he opened me up further and further. I watched with amazement as he
folded his thumb along the length of his left hand in a straight,
goose-neck style, and then pressed inwards. "Take a hit," he said,
gesturing with his other hand toward the amyl.

I did as he suggested, the rough, ugly smell of the amyl filling my
sinuses and a second later the effect hitting me hard. I got dizzy and
my body felt light. In the mirror I watched a miracle happen as his
hand slipped into my asshole. Greg's hand was buried deep in my guts
now. Amazingly, I felt no pain, and I knew that wasn't because of the
amyl because it doesn't cover up pain, which is another reason why
it's popular. It also wears off in about thirty seconds.

"You've got an asshole just like mine. Tight on the outside, but a lot
of room once you get in," my buddy said as he slowly turned his fist
inside my guts.

"Oh, fuck!" I cried out. I felt so good! But I was also starting to
feel sore at the opening. "Maybe that's enough."

"Okay. I wouldn't ask much more from a virgin anyway." He slowly took
his hand out, so slowly I ached, but I wasn't sure if I wanted him to
stay or go. Past the thumb his hand slipped out easily and my body
shook with a strange ecstasy. I lay there, tears in my eyes, and
looked up in the mirror again. He was just touching my hole with his
fingers. "What do you want?"

"I... I don't know," I said. I was still trying to figure out what had
just happened. "I..."

"I'll just stay here," Greg said, "and touch you until you figure out
what you want." His fingertips danced at my hole, one or two fingers
sliding in now and then, teasing me. My butthole hungrily announced
that it wanted more, and I conveyed its request. "More."

"More?" he asked.

"More," I said. He slipped three fingers in, then four. He went only
slightly quicker than the first time, and when the time came for his
thumb I took another hit of the amyl, and in he slipped. "What do you
want?" he said.

I began stroking my cock. It grew to full hardness as he began rocking
me back and forth in the sling, using my asshole's grip on his wrist
to pull me to him before letting go. It felt so fucking good. In the
mirror, I could see us both attached by butt and wrist. "That's it,
little kitty, tell me what you want."

"I want... I want to bust a nut with your hand inside me!" I said,
letting the words out that I had wanted to say all night. A second
later my wants became needs, and then truth as I screamed out loud,
coming so hard I felt semen hit me on the muzzle. "Oh, fuck! Fuck fuck
fuck fuck fuck!"

"I'm hearing some happy sounds!" said the man with the voice of an
evangelist. "Let me hear it some more! Hallelujah!"

But I had no more. I was drained. "Out," I begged. "Enough."

"I'm gonna go slow," Greg said. "Can't rush this."

I nodded, reluctant to take a hit of the amyl to get him out.
Peristaltic pressure in my gut was already pushing Greg's hand away;
the sex was over and I could no longer ignore the things I had done to
my anatomy. I pushed, and Greg's hand slipped out easily. He examined
the glove carefully, and then smiled. "See? Nothing wrong with you at
all. No mess, no blood"

"Oh, good," I sighed, sagging back into the sling. "Fuck. But I am a
mess."

"Only the kind of mess we like around here. All kinds of white stuff.
You stay right where you are," my hot buddy said. "Just stay right
there." I remembered my promise to him and nodded. I would stay right
here while he cleaned up. He pulled down a huge wad of paper towels
and cleaned off as much Crisco as he could, folded the towel
protecting the sling over my groin, and gathered up the newspapers. He
offered me a paper towel to wipe up the come on my chest and belly. "I
need a shower."

"That's what it's there for," Greg said. He offered me his arms and I
allowed him to pull me up into a sitting position, then stood up into
his embrace. His body was so comforting; the whole thing had been,
really, and his hug just made me feel so happy. He tried kissing me,
and we managed something around my muzzle.

"Now, this is a story to tell my kids," he said. "I had sex with an
alien."

"You have kids?" I said.

"Yeah, and they know I'm gay. I don't think they'd want to know all
the details. I'll just tell them we met at a party and I spent a lot
of time with you exchanging... pleasantries."

I laughed. "You're sweet," I said, kissing him again. "I need to go
wash."

"Then go shower," he said.

I grabbed soap from my duffel, went into the shower, and mistakenly
turned the power on high. The "showershot" thing was on, and it began
snaking around the bathroom out of control, giving me a noseful of
water before I managed to turn it off. "Damn," I swore.

"You okay in there, Oma?"

"Fine!" I sang. I found the valve to turn the shower proper on and was
soon washing myself down with a soap made in Hungary. It was one of
the few soaps that the Embassy people said was appropriate for grease
on Pendorian fur that wasn't a "pet soap," which was usually too harsh
and smelled awful. Even so, it wasn't enough to actually get all of
the grease out, and I had the impression that I'd feel slippery back
there for days.

I dried off as well as I could with towels and walked back up the
stairs, taking a seat on the empty couch. The porn was still going,
still with the same theme, but over on the couch two guys were sucking
each other off, each with his head in the other's crotch. I watched
for a while, enjoying the sight, completely ignoring the fact that
neither of these men were the buff gods on film but they were real and
they were enjoying themselves. One of them paused to light a
hand-rolled cigarette and I learned what marijuana smelled like. At
least, I assume that's what it was, if they were going by the party
rules.

Eventually, though, after another beer I wandered back down to watch
some more. I admit it, I was hooked. I didn't think I had enough in me
to do this again this night, and I wanted someone to be by my side if
I was asked to top, but I wanted to bottom again, soon. I wanted to
get my ass plowed. And I wanted to fuck somebody. Anybody.

There was a handsome guy with muscles clearly earned from hours in the
gym lying face-down on the bed, looking away from the rest of the
party. There was a large mirror on the back wall of the nook and he
was watching all of us in it. I looked down on his proffered,
hard-bodied ass and wondered if I could have it. It was a surprising
moment of avarice. I had already come and yet I wanted more of
something, anything, some way of getting into another man before the
night was over. I crawled onto the bed, crawled over him.

"What... ?" he said, surprised, then looked up. "You're..."

"Molesting you," I said with a smile, kissing his shoulder. He
relaxed. "May I?"

"I would love it if you would," he said. "Something to remember."

"Mmm," I agreed, my cock getting hard between the cheeks of his ass.
"I admit I was attracted to your hot-looking ass."

"That's why I put it there, for the world to see," he said.

I pressed my cock against his asshole. "We're going to need some
grease."

"Right there," he gestured. I followed where he pointed with my eyes
and used the indicated bottle. I squirted some of the clear liquid
between his cheeks and pressed my cock into him. "Yeahhh," was all he
said as I slipped into his hot butt.

I lay on top of this complete stranger, my cock buried deep in his
ass, and kissed his shoulders and neck as we fucked. In the mirror, I
could see him looking up at me, a face full of disbelief, pleasure,
and surprise as I slowly made use of his warm, willing hole. I smiled
at him. "How are you taking it?" I asked.

"I didn't expect to get fucked by an alien while here," he said. "But
I'll take it."

"Good," I whispered into his ear. "Because I've already come once.
This could take a while."

He put his head down in crossed arms and closed his eyes. He wasn't
completely passive, but I didn't mind either way. It didn't matter to
me at this point. If he was willing, I was horny. The groans of men
and the smell of sweat and poppers filled the air as my cock found a
home in his asshole.

It actually didn't take long. I was delighted by the rush of pleasure
as I came inside him, a soft gasp in his ear, a whispered "thank you,"
a roll in the bed, a hug. He relaxed and released me, heading for the
shower as I wiped my cock off with yet another paper towel.

I sat on the bed and let the dizziness subside for a minute or two,
watching as more men shouted out their pleasures in the slings and
tables.

I glanced up. "Is that really the time?" I asked an older, heavyset
guy as he joined me on the bed. More hands groping for more cocks,
more asses; his was short, but amazingly fat, and he appreciated my
strokes. It seemed that I was the flavor of the night and as many men
as possible were trying to get their hands on me. I didn't mind, but I
was tired.

"That's really the time," he said. It was already two hours past
midnight and unlike most Terrans I don't have much interest in
weekends. I like what I do. I even do it on Saturday. But maybe not
tomorrow.

But there was no denying that this fuzzy bear of a man wanted one more
climax. I began stroking his cock with my hand as he stroked my back
and butt. I gently pried his hand free of my ass; he was probing me
with rough fingers and I was more than a little tender back there
right now. He didn't resist as I took him over the edge, sending lines
of thick, ropy come onto his belly.

He lay on the bed, gasping, and I kissed his cheek. He said, "Thank
you."

"You're welcome," I whispered, kissing him gently.

I rose and recovered my clothing, then walked upstairs, duffel over
one shoulder. I dressed quietly. "You leaving already?" Josh asked.

Josh! "I didn't see you downstairs at all tonight," I said.

"Ah, I've been upstairs." He placed a hand on his stomach. "My system
isn't going to let me play tonight."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "But you could have come down and
topped. I was looking forward to seeing you in action."

He shrugged, a pretty smile on his pretty face. "Sorry. I came down
once, but you were attached to someone else." I wondered what that
meant, but let it pass. "Anyway, talk to you later?"

"I'm free all next week. Drop me a line when you have the time."

"I'll do that," he agreed. I thanked the host, made my way out to my
car and drove back to D.C.
 ________________________________________________________________

Josh did invite me to lunch later that week. We met at a pizza place
closer to his office this time, a by-the-slice place that had
wonderful hand-made pies. He watched with amazement as I put down
three slices and a tall lemonade while he ate only a salad.

"Are you watching your weight?" I asked.

All the time," he said with a sigh. "It's relentless, the gay
pursuit."

"It can't be that bad. I really appreciated Friday night. All those
guys of different bodies and ages, and there didn't seem to be that
much competition."

"It's a different space, I'll agree to that. What did you think of the
play?"

"It was okay. Great. I'll go back. I have to admit that I was really
amazed by one thing." Josh looked at me expectantly. "One of the
participants said that it was like a kindergarten. Ever heard of the
kindergarten organization principle?" Josh shook his head. "It's a way
of laying out office space. It says that you're not going to use a
file cabinet you don't like looking at, and you're not going to use a
closet you have to work to get into. So you organize your space like a
kindergarten, with containers close to the spaces where their contents
are used, and make them attractive so people will use them.

"That place was laid out perfectly like that. I am really impressed
with the skill of the host. Everything was in easy reach for any act,
and everyone had enough room to do his thing.

"But more than that, it was like a kindergarten in another way.
Everyone there was earnest. Everyone there was interested in having
fun. There was no holding back, no irony, no attempt to think deeply
and consider all the alternatives. I don't think I heard a word of
real sarcasm or discouragement in the whole place. If you couldn't do
it, nobody cared, and you just moved on to the next fun thing." I
shook my head. "Places like that don't exist in my world, usually.
Even the religious people I know have a post-modern take on it,
looking at their own belief with irony, knowing that belief itself is
a dead end with no resolution. The only people I know who live in
wide-eyed wonder are astronomers-- and handballers." I laughed. "Now
there's a pair of peoples who would probably prefer to not be
associated."

I looked at him and realized that my speech had not gone over well.
"Something wrong with what I said?"

He shook his head. "Not about what you said. I just think that the
wide-eyed wonder itself is going to disappear."

"What? Why?"

"Think about it," he said. "Part of the reason for that earnestness is
the danger we're playing with. Everyone is open and honest because the
alternative is, well, better not to think about. One out of every two
thousand fistfucks results in a trip to the hospital, usually with
inexperienced players. This Friday your life was in the hands of
another.

"Except, for you, it really wasn't, was it?" He pointed at me. "What
would it take to kill you, T'Oma? I don't think it could be done from
your asshole, could it?"

I took a drink of water. I thought about it. "No," I agreed. "Probably
not."

"What happens if you take that risk, of death or lifelong disablement,
away from the fisters? Even the stupidest tweaker thinks that he's
going to survive this time, he's not that self-destructive. Death is
always a long way away. That's why they do it. That's why humans
behave the way they do. They don't really believe that death is going
to come for them, at least not today. But handballers, they know
they're playing with really dangerous shit.

"But you're going to take all that away from them. The risk will be
minimized. 'Cuisinart your intestine? No problem. Lie in this bed and
tomorrow you'll have a new one.'" He sighed.

I understood what he was saying, and it did hurt, in a way, to know
that this community that I had been introduce to was already on its
last legs, already heading toward oblivion. All the human truths were
heading that way. I knew that I would live to see a day when the
universe was completely subjective, completely arbitrary, completely
without any truth whatsoever.

"On the way back from the party," I began, "I was thinking. What
happened there was that I found a way to dump large amounts of certain
neurotransmitters into my brain, ones associated with acts both good
for me and bad for me, and my brain, swamped with these chemicals,
reported to the conscious me something equivalent to ecstasy. And I
realized that I could have that sensation any time I wanted to, with
Pendorian technology. I could record it on a Brace-Reynolds headset
and play it back, completely, as if I had been there the first time. I
could look at it with the proprioception monitors turned off, look at
it with dispassion, see what it would do to me, or I could relive the
event in full and complete fidelity.

"And I wondered what it would mean if I could give that to a stranger.
What would they think of it? What would I think of it if you had given
a tape to me."

"And what did you come up with?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Nothing. I don't think there's a term for it. I don't
think you and I can talk about it without actually doing it, and even
then, we'd have to make stuff up. We'd be something other than the
people we are now." I could see on his face that he was having a hard
time making sense of that. "I mean, think about it. Speech itself must
be an evolutionary advantage of some kind, but its purpose is to
convey survival-oriented data. Sure, we've managed to get past that,
but not by much. Think about how hard poetry is to write-- and even
harder to read! But what if we could get all the way past that? Would
we still be the kind of people we are now? Would you and I, here, be
able to understand people like that?"

Josh thought for a moment. "You mean, what will it be like for me when
I can turn on a switch and think... whatever I want?"

"Something like that. Josh, think about it. What have you got after a
handballing event? You've got a memory of how special it was and a
desire to do it again, right?" I didn't look to see if he agreed. "So,
what if you could have the memory, have the conviction that it was
special, and make that desire go away when it was inconvenient, like,
at work, or while making love in your own bedroom. Think, Josh, of
what kind of world it will be when you can fiddle with the knobs of
your own sexual desire, even your orientation, directly."

"You want that?" he asked, amazed. "Think about the potential for
abuse, the government ordering gay people to..."

"Screw governments," I growled. "They've come to understand that
harming innocent gay men and women is non-optimal, to use the
terminology of my department. Governments see people in one of three
roles: economic, defensive, and reproductive. Defense is winding down
thanks to automation, reproduction is winding down thanks to a
combination of affluence and overpopulation anyway, and being gay
doesn't interfere with one's economic role'. Only tradition gets in
the way of governments choosing optimal paths, and we know what
happens to those whose choose tradition in the face of those who
choose optimization. Optimize or die."

I took a drink of water. "It's not a matter of me wanting it, Josh.
It's going to happen. The brain is an electrochemical thing; it can be
influenced. Right now you humans do it by soaking your brains in big
doses of chemicals such as alcohol and Prozac and the like. But very
soon you'll be able to both read out, and write back, the reported and
subjective meaning of fiddling with every neuron, every dendrite,
every connection. The question will be, then, what happens to those
with that, and those without. On Pendor, that will be in the hands of
every private citizen. We have traditions, too, and I don't see this
catching on, even if fully mature, for another millennium. We move too
slowly. But Humanity will be making its own choices in the meantime."

We fell silent. Neither of us could think of what to say next. Lunch
moved on in silence. When facing the next big question, quiet always
feels like the right way to digest the answer.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the power of what we had been
discussing fade into the background. It does that, with us
evolutionary products. If we can't actually do anything about a given
situation, we adjust to our reality to make it feel tolerable.
Anthropologists call that accommodation. The things that would stress
us under other conditions become minor, maybe even familiar, after a
while. That's what Josh and I were both doing with the notion that our
favored cultures were doomed to extinction; since we couldn't do
anything about it, we were accommodating that thought, taking its
power away from it.

An evolutionary gift. A survival trait. "Hey," Josh said. "Since I
didn't get to see much of you Friday night, you wanna go see a movie?
The Versailles Theater is doing 'coming out movies, 1978-2008.'"

"And afterward? Make use of our passions while we still have them?"

"That would be nice, too," he agreed.
 ________________________________________________________________

The Journal Entries of Kennet R'yal Shardik, et. al., and Related
Tales are Copyright (C) 1988-2002 Elf Mathieu Sternberg. Distribution
limited to electronic media not-for-profit use only. All other rights
are reserved to the author.

The complete Journal Entries collection is available at:
http://www.drizzle.com/~elf

--
Elf M. Sternberg, rational romantic mystical cynical idealist
http://www.drizzle.com/~elf
EAC Department of Corrective Phrenology

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