Tagged: sex

The Trouble With Spoken Codes

  • by Kentit can be a little intimidating, a little scary
  • fantastically gilded and filagreed
  • he’d chubbed up quite a bit
  • more than a billion dollars
  • she claimed to have met several of them

Tune in next time part 238                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

The trouble with spoken codes is that they have dialects. This made it difficult to be sure I was picking up the intended meanings of all the symbols. I was left hoping I had misconstrued some parts of the conversation. And at no point could I tell which sister was speaking.

“Seeing it for the first time, it can be a little intimidating, a little scary. Most of the others I’ve seen are rather plain, but his is fantastically gilded and filagreed.”

“Yes, it’s a bit overwhelming at first. I for one was pleasantly surprised, having been told that he’d chubbed up quite a bit over the past year.”

“She’s the one you have to thank there, for sparing no expense on his fitness coaches. We know it was more than a billion dollars. Contrarian dollars, sure. But that’s still a lotta chedda.”

“Fitness coaches? Do you really believe that? I mean, she claimed to have met several of them at her father’s private club, and we both know who has membership there.”

“Wait, are you telling me this is a coup?”

“That hadn’t occurred to me. My hunch is it’s something far more ordinary and wearisome.”

“Maybe it could use some filagree!”

This was, seemingly, a very funny thing to say in code. Their eroticized cackling will haunt me to my grave.

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“Are You Getting Out of Here?”

  • by jen“Should I come with you?’
  • “Rap rap-rap rap-rap rap-ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!”
  • you can’t do it in less than six hours
  • had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet
  • I don’t remember what day of the week it was

Tune in next time part 237                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Are you getting out of here?” Darlene asked, still rocking her hips. “Should I come with you?” She gazed at the trio on the bed. “Or..?”

“Well I’m certainly not sticking around to watch,” I replied.

From the tangle of nude limbs I heard a female voice repeating, “Rap rap-rap rap-rap rap-ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!” It sounded like someone trying to speak morse code, which is something they teach at the Academy. You can learn it, but you can’t do it in less than six hours, so the course usually takes two days. But I did it in one. While my brain tried to catch all the nuances and decode the message, my eyes had the unenviable task of tracing out all the ways the three lovers were intertwined in order to see which woman’s mouth was free to speak unencumbered.

I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t witnessing sex. That my father, a famous general, had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet. But I wasn’t buying it.

I don’t remember what day of the week it was when I learned spoken morse code, but I was glad my advisor had insisted. What I was hearing today was not merely one Svenborgian sister speaking, but the two of them alternating to pass along a most astounding message about my wife and Viscount Arlo.

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“Don’t Say a Goddamn Word, Darlene”

  • by jenbounced his face on the pavement
  • when he visits Bermuda to golf
  • Jack’s a doughnut
  • couldn’t understand why Darlene
  • refused to return to his bed

Tune in next time part 233                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Don’t say a goddamn word, Darlene,” Cleopatra snapped.

The Asian woman squeaked and hid her face behind the curtains, disappearing completely. My father leapt to his feet, slipped, and bounced his face on the pavement. But since the pavement in this room was black velvet, just like everything else, he just wound up with a rug burn. It reminded me of how sunburnt he gets when he visits Bermuda to golf and forgets to apply sunscreen.

“Darlene!” Dad yelled. “C’mon back, baby. We’ll kick these interlopers out and lock the door.”

Esmerelda said disgustedly, “Jack’s a doughnut, and he doesn’t care who’s cup of coffee he gets dunked in.”

“Too true,” Cleopatra said.

“Neither or you minded when it was your coffee I was dunking in,” Dad snarked as he made his way to the wall where Darlene disappeared. He started patting it down, searching for her and calling her name.

I knew this was all a ruse, a show put on to distract me from my pointed questions.

I stood with my arms crossed over my chest, watching Dad pretend that he couldn’t understand why Darlene refused to return to his bed, thinking about Esmerelda and Cleopatra. It was true that Cleopatra had lost her accent, but they were sisters, so that meant they were both Svenborgian. And since Esmerelda was an Underduchess, Cleopatra probably was, too. Maybe an Underduchess-once-removed. It was hard to remember all the rules for Svenborgian royal lineage. No matter her title, though, she had to know Viscount Arlo. They both did. They were most likely related to him somehow. And Dad didn’t care.

It was imperative that I figure out what was going on. Without raising their suspicions.

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At the End of a Long, Dank Hallway

  • by jenWe have a ghost, you know.
  • for a few ostentatious minutes
  • “A kidnapper?”
  • though it was badly damaged
  • my bunkmate has malaria

Tune in next time part 231                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

At the end of a long, dank hallway, Esmerelda pressed her eyeball against a retinal scanner and a thick metal panel slid open. The room beyond had black velvet covering every surface, including the floor. Our footsteps were silent as we entered.

The room was lit only by a spotlight that was focused on a raised platform — an island of black velvet in a sea of the same. Upon that platform, which was most likely a bed, lay the nude forms of my father and an Asian woman. Her black hair blended with the velvet, giving her head the unsettling appearance of being incomplete. She coughed.

My father sat up and grumbled, “I think my bunkmate has malaria. Get me a different girl.”

Esmerelda shoved me forward, hissing, “Tell him no more whores!”

When I was a child I had a good relationship with my father, though it was badly damaged through the years by his reckless behavior. Would he listen to me now?

“What’s this?” my father demanded when he caught sight of me. “A kidnapper?”

“No such luck, old man,” I said. And then I stood there while, for a few ostentatious minutes, he stomped around on the bed, bellowing about respect, neglecting to cover his nudity, waving his arms all around. The Asian girl rolled herself onto the floor and stood up. I was relieved to see she did in fact possess an entire head.

I gave Dad some time to tire himself out and work through the familiar first act of his usual tirade. When he finally paused for breath, I said, “We have a ghost, you know. A ghost of a chance of getting you out of here alive. Viscount Arlo is in league with the Contrarians.”

“Arlo?”

“You know, the bald Svenborgian with the eye patch.”

All the hair on my father’s body stood up. I know because he was still naked. “That guy is such a dick,” he said. “I don’t know what your mother ever saw in him.”

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Cleopatra Didn’t Answer My Question

  • by KentI’m sorry, I have a cold
  • obviously an impostor
  • until I broke his collarbone
  • — England’s far-reaching navy
  • I was barely nine weeks pregnant

Tune in next time part 228                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Cleopatra didn’t answer my question, but instead tried to entice me into another skating trip on the frog pond.

“Ee-yow!” I yelped.

I’m sorry, I have a cold hand because it wasn’t under the blankets. Here, is this one better?”

It was, so I never did find out where the hovercraft was taking us until we docked. In fact, not even then.

The man in the captain’s uniform seeing us off as we disembarked was obviously an impostor. His bushy white mustache was glued on, and the medals were pinned to the wrong side of his jacket. Cleopatra interposed herself as we passed him, preventing me from unmasking him and pummeling him until I broke his collarbone or he confessed and told us who put him up to it, whichever came first. (More likely both.)

“He’s a spy from the navy — England’s far-reaching navy — and he doesn’t know who I am,” Cleopatra whispered. “You, maybe. I couldn’t tell if he recognized you or not.”

“Where are we?”

“Someplace I never thought I’d return to,” she sighed. “Last time I was here, I was barely nine weeks pregnant. Pregnant with foolish dreams and naive idealism, but still in the first trimester.

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I Stood in the Prow

  • by jenAnswer: Not much.
  • blocked nearly all the sunlight
  • desperately tired of seeing naked shoes
  • Welcome to… Aberdeen
  • ice skating on the frog pond

Tune in next time part 227                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I stood in the prow of the locust until it slowly became a hovercraft and I realized that I had been hallucinating. I asked Cleopatra how much sense I had been making. Answer: Not much.

We were in the middle of the ocean, zipping along in a cloud of spray that blocked nearly all the sunlight. There wasn’t much to look at, but that was actually a relief because I was desperately tired of seeing naked shoes on people’s hands and overdressed fish circling their heads.

Cleopatra coaxed me away from the railing and we went to the cafeteria. She bought me a huge plate of non-psychoactive haggis and said, “Welcome to… Aberdeen.” Then she made me eat the whole thing and wash it down with a glass of peaty scotch. She meanwhile enjoyed a BLT and a coke.

After our meal we still had many hours to kill before our hovercraft would deliver us to our destination. Cleopatra had reserved a cabin for us, so we went there and I showed her a sex position that came to me during my mushroom trip, something that I could only describe as “ice skating on the frog pond.” Her prosthetic butt will never be the same.

I still didn’t fully trust her, but I needed her to think I did.

In the afterglow I said, “So where is this hovercraft taking us?”

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I Played the Blurry Surveillance Tape Once Again

  • by jenblurry surveillance tape
  • discovering who they are
  • “Look, Esmerelda!” she whispered.
  • eye contact during a fingerbang
  • unsettling history with women

Tune in next time part 215                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I played the blurry surveillance tape once again, studying the individuals with my father in hopes of discovering who they are.

The bartender watched over my shoulder. “Look, Esmerelda!” she whispered.

She was right. Leading the group up the zeppelin’s umbilical ramp was my brother Jim’s wife, Esmerelda, UnderDuchess of Svenborgia — a woman my father once assured me demanded unblinking eye contact during a fingerbang.

The more I tell you of my story, the more clear it becomes that every person in my family has an unsettling history with women.

But how did the bartender know who Esmerelda was? How did she know anything of this?

“Who are you?” I asked, readying myself for a fight.

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I Climbed the Steps for What Felt Like Hours

  • by jen— like the ones upstairs!
  • awkward sex at your family’s house
  • knives in the back and everything
  • fluorescent fingerprint
  • try to put my eyes out

Tune in next time part 205                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I climbed the steps for what felt like hours, wondering all the while where they would let out. Hopefully not in another dumpster. When I finally reached a landing, I paused to catch my breath. I had two choices: either continue my climb, or grope my way down a darkened corridor to the left. From above I heard a faint rustling and squeaking, while the hallway was silent. I chose the silence, not wanting to encounter any more rats — like the ones upstairs!

The passageway was narrow and unlit. I kept my hands on both walls and felt my way along slowly, probing each step with my feet before committing. It felt more than anything like having awkward sex at your family’s house when you’re a teenager and the Academy is closed for the winter holidays. My family makes it even more awkward than most, of course, what with all the alliances and treaties and double-crosses. We were ruthless. I’m talking knives in the back and everything.

I reached a T intersection and turned right. Suddenly I was dazzled by hundreds of fluorescent fingerprints all over the ceiling. After my dark journey they were so bright I had the urge to try to put my eyes out.

It’s a good thing I didn’t though, because of what those fingerprints signified.

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At the Academy I’d Been a Member of the Ninja Defense League

  • by jenno self-respecting parrot
  • thousands of dollars of helicopter lessons
  • did not seem to match any of the furniture
  • sees nothing but fish-belly white skin
  • the possibility of saliva

Tune in next time part 179                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

At the Academy I’d been a member of the Ninja Defense League. Our name might make it sound like we defended ninjas, but I can assure you they need no help with that. No, we practiced techniques to defend ourselves from ninjas. One of the secrets that I learned was that, due to their near-total silence, ninjas have incredibly sensitive ears.

Before these alleyway foes could bundle us off to our dooms, I filled my lungs and let loose a deafening squawk. No self-respecting parrot would make half the noise I did over the next minute. I chirped and shrieked and hooted and whooped until every last ninja had fled the scene. Or at least until I no longer felt any hands on me.

I bent forward and shimmied my shoulders until the pillowcase fell off my head and fluttered to the ground.

Setsuko, tangled in a sheet, sat across from me, leaning against a pink brick wall. The ninjas were gone. Or so it seemed. Ninja camouflage is the best camouflage.

I used the rough corner of a bright pink brick to chew through the ziptie around my wrists, and then I was free. I wanted to rub my back across the bricks, like a bear scratching itself on a tree, to rid myself of my constrictive, itchy jumpsuit, but resisted.

I pulled the sheet off Setsuko’s green-haired head and found her smiling at me in a way that made my heart purr. She bounded to her feet and threw her bound wrists around my neck, pulling me into a kiss. It felt amazing, like finally getting to use thousands of dollars of helicopter lessons all at once in a daring escape.

She pulled me behind a heart-shaped dumpster and shed her clothes, a feat which she somehow managed without unbinding her wrists. I was surprised that the carpet, being green, matched the drapes. But I was more surprised that they did not seem to match any of the furniture.

Imagine a man who, upon undressing his lover, sees nothing but fish-belly white skin. That man was me, except that Setsuko’s skin was more of a mime-belly white. And her body parts weren’t strictly the ones I’d been led to expect.

Still, her face was lovely, and I was sorely tempted to take her up on her offer. The only things that stopped me were the likelihood of the ninjas returning, and the possibility of saliva from my tongue activating some psychotropic or narcotic properties in her heavy mime body makeup.

“Sorry,” I said. “I really have to find Tessa.”

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Sure, My Family Owns an Inflatable Woman Manufacturing Plant

  • by jena scaled-down version of Las Vegas
  • (who’s also probably looking at porn)
  • bearing a bowl of lather
  • scar on his ring finger
  • She was fair-skinned and red-headed

Tune in next time part 149                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Sure, my family owns an inflatable woman manufacturing plant,” I said defensively, “but we’ve never had a model called Astrid.”

She was fair-‘skinned’ and red-headed, just like Tessa, so of course Maurice couldn’t resist her,” the woman said.

How did she know about Tessa?

“Here.” She thrust her phone into my face, and hit the play button on a video. “This is what was broadcast all across Harmonia, to my everlasting shame.”

In the video, the man was wearing a leather Zorro mask that hid most of his features, but his smile looked familiar, even with the keys dangling from it. The camera panned down and I could tell from the scar on his ring finger that the man she called Maurice was the man I knew as John.

I had never heard of John having a wife in Harmonia, or anywhere else for that matter, and yet here he was, on video, bearing a bowl of lather in one hand and keeping himself quite busy with the other. Beside him was the inflatable redhead, clearly a substandard model designed by an amateur who’s never seen a naked woman in real life (who’s also probably looking at porn), not the experienced professionals my family employs.

“Where did you and Maurice meet?” I asked, handing the phone back.

“In a scaled-down version of Las Vegas called TinselTown,” she said, staring hard at me. “We were introduced by a man named Jinx Damocles.”

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