The Millennial Reincarnations: A Novel

by Daniel Mark Harrison

  Are her panties all slick where her pussy was and soaked with her white cum now, as mine are beginning to feel? Does her clit ache, itch, twitch, pulsate softly under her panties right now as does my own now under my Sunday skirt?

  And I thought, too, briefly; will it show when I get up through my panties onto my skirt? For it felt like I was leaking through them as I had never done so before, onto the underside of the bench.

  I clenched my legs tightly together and my heart pounded harder as I spied her squeezing her small, tight buttocks and skinny thighs together to disguise the grinding motion her hips made so that her clit could get a little relief. I knew what she was doing since I had been doing this all week, repeating this same motion, in class and in the changing room after sports, on the bus on the way home from school and especially on the couch in front of the TV at night, longing to repeat that moment of instantaneous ecstasy and yet unsure about the consequences of its intensity, which only doubled-up the aching desire of my clit, meaning every night this week once I went to bed I could barely help myself – even though, on occasions, I was unwilling or at best uncertain, at least morally – from pressing it hard against my pillow which I had taken last night to inserting my phone underneath in order to concentrate the rippling effect of the orgasm once it came.

  Last weekend after Church, just before lunch, thinking about her entirely lustfully and without caution for the consequences, whatever they were (indeed, if any they were – of that I wasn’t sure) I had made myself orgasm for the first time, and by far the majority of it had been because of this beautiful girl. I felt a deep, overwhelming longing to repeat the experience in 3D with her now, and to thank her – even tearfully, such was the strength of my gratitude – for what I was sure was the most pivotal aspect of my personal and emotional development.

  While squeezing her buttocks and legs all into one another, she looked back. Her rosy cheeks lit up her alabaster face while her nipples protruded out from under her bra and preppy Sunday school skirt. Her crimson-pink lips made a full smile. There was an aspect of recognition in the air, as if we might become easy distractions for one another from an otherwise dull fate of the complexity in language and sociology that is the Bible being read aloud by middle-aged parents for two hours.

  My stomach pounded and my heart froze as our eyes met, but I managed to smile back. She rolled her eyes almost in obvious (and certainly, I thought, decidedly careless) exaggeration, just as the organ began to hound a symphony of minor keys. “So boring.”

  She mouthed the words silently, inaudibly, but entirely recognizably. She pointed right/backwards, sort of through me, and my gaze followed the direction of her attention. Her finger was pointing towards the restroom at the back of the Church, hidden in the midst of a kind of semi-annexed outhouse. She shrugged, and I felt a giant pull on my clit, perhaps created by the pressure of my unconscious grinding of my pussy against the soft surface of the warm cotton of my panties over what I was sure was the now moist hard floor of the chair I was sat on. I kept my composure however – even, I thought, I came off a little bit shy and reluctant, though I was in truth anything but. I nodded cautiously, careful not to let my parents or my siblings spot the intended rendezvous. She covered her mouth slightly and giggled, looking forward again as she caught the sideways glance of her mother.

  And then, in a sequence far too perfect for the discerning eye of skepticism, we both stood up and said, in a whisper while looking at our respective parents, “Restroom.”

  It’s a good thing that religious people are not skeptics but instead are blind believers, for blind both our parents were at this to their daughters’ innermost thoughts and ill-guarded intentions. She giggled again, and in that soft squeals I began to imagine her erotically and emotionally, breathing and squealing on her bed at night, as I had been this past week. Of course I did not know what it was she wanted from me back there, but I had, like so many in this Church but for entirely different consequences, hope, and that hope was enough to keep my heart slamming up against my delicate small chest as I followed her to the back of this gothic stone temple, into the annex of the building and then into the restroom.

  Her giggling turned an octave and a decibel higher, and then into laughter. I was joining her soon. Looking at her there, propping herself up on the side of the sink, her skirt now revealing her long, perfect legs and her little feet inside her fashionable designer heels and her fulsome C-size chest straining her small top, she was everything I wanted to be: confident, sexy, desirable. “I’m Ally, short for Alyssa,” she said.

  “I-I-I’m Milana,” I said, my cheeks brightening red. It sounded so stupid, the way I said my name – at least it sounded stupid to me at this moment, my heart and pussy melting at once as they were for this incredible girl.

  “Well, you’re daaaarn cute, Milana!” said Alyssa, looking me up and down. I felt awkward compared to her, the comment made me feel especially beautiful in a weird way that others in the past had not. I mean, I knew I’d always been hot, but to hear it from a crush was something special. “You must have all the boys chasing’ ya.” Alyssa squinted, frowning slightly in thought. “Fourteen?”

  “Yeah. Good guess. How about you? Surely the same …” My voice sounded to me like a monosyllabic record player right now, but it was all I could do to utter sound. I had never imagined getting up this close to my female fantasy, let alone have her pay me attention and compliments. The fantasy was meeting the reality, and it was distorting my whole concept of the present.

  “I’m … bored with everything! Especially this shit,” replied Alyssa. She rolled her eyes, in exactly the way she had in the main cloister of the Church. “I can’t wait for next year though, then I won’t have to put up with this shit. I mean, how fuckin’ dumb do you have to be to see that every religion is basically an organized cult against women? I like boys, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not goanna ever become a slave to one, like Mom is to Dad or whatever that generation stands for.”

  I stared at her, shocked. I had never heard this kind of confidence before from another woman, let alone a girl barely three years older than me. But I was hooked. It was as if a secret side of me, which had longed to hear factuality and forever feared in silent disdain blind belief urged to here the heretic other side of the story, so I just nodded.

  “It’s basically all the same thing in organized religions these days, whatever you choose to believe: God wants you to have a baby, and that’s the only time you are allowed to have an orgasm, and … well, if you don’t, like if that’s rendered impossible ‘cause you’re raped by some nicotine-breathing Pastor like we got here in this Church who has a thing for fat blondes apparently, God only knows why, then … tough luck, you’re fucked, ‘cause God still wants you to keep the baby! So … therefore: even though we’re friggin’ ourselves off or pressing on our clits looooong before boys are even getting’ their cock up, looong before we even know how babies are made!

  And despite the fact that even though we are capable of generating earth-shattering, finger-licking-good fuck-me-all-night-long orgasms without harming a soul and thanks to a toy that is basically a phone those same righteous lunatics that call themselves Holy Men keep vibrating in their pockets against their balls all day long in the name of working or saving the Lord or whatever, even though us girls don’t even require the intervention or attentions of a man at all – expect, I guess it does feel a lot better, but I’m a virgin, I dunno, I’m just going on what other people have told me – even though we’re like, fuckin’ a thousand times more able to make a sensible decision in the whole who to sleep-with, who to make out with, who to play about with respect, even though our pleasure is on no other man’s – or woman’s, for that matter – time or dime, even though we’re freakin’ biologically-programed to make ourselves squirm all day long without even freakin’ finger-fucking our pussies for Christ’s sake, we’re still, despite all that, supposedly forbidden to squeeze our legs together lest we be sluts and
God forbid we touch our own clits or we’re just whores – I mean, we’re not meant to touch our own freakin’ BODIES – all because of the insecurities and regrets and doubts of sixty year-old whoring pigs who pretend they are either virgins in the name of God (which is especially gay, you gotta admit) or just maintain they’re all one-gal-only types which any of their friends will tell you is a pile of shit 99% of the time and has a stack of fuckin’ photos of late nights at bars in God-knows-where to prove it’s all a pile of shit!”

  Alyssa breathed deeply, exhausted by her own rhetoric, and then she started laughing all over again. I could now feel something wet and soft and strangely comforting in its inevitable progress down my legs moisten the sides of my panties. What is this? I wondered. Without thinking, mostly because I couldn’t control it, I pressed slightly in between my skirt. I needed to relieve it somehow, and I let out a quiet involuntary moan.

  Alyssa fixed her stare on me, crossing her legs tightly.

  “Have you been doing that long?” she asked, nodding at my hands between my skirt.

  “Honestly, since … I made myself cum for the first time ever last week, after I got home from Church. I-I really … uhhh-ghhh …. I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  Alyssa walked the short distance towards me.

  “You seem really experienced –” I began.

  I couldn’t end the sentence however, neither intellectually or emotionally, let alone physically.

  But her answer surprised me. “I’m not. I mean, I’ve fooled around with boys; I’ve jerked one off before. But I’m not. I thought about you too last week after I saw you in Church though.” She smiled, that gorgeous, perfect smile. The girl in front of me rubbed over the cotton of my underwear and slipped a finger in and out of my crotch, occasionally brushing my clit. It made my knees buckle and I almost fell to the ground. Soon my eyes teared up and I half-collapsed softly against her, unable to hold back. As much as I crossed my legs I was shuddering again with more intensity.

  “It’s OK,” she whispered. “It feels good, right?”

  I nodded.

  A part of me didn’t want to keep engaging this girl – for this surely had to be wrong – but the more I pushed the thought from my mind, the more the whole thing made me wild with excitement and even more unable to stop myself from pushing myself against her.

  “Ohhhh, fff---uuuckkkk!!!!!” It felt like something ruptured inside me. It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life. “Pleeeeeees, don’t stop!!” I begged Alyssa loudly now. And then I felt a gushing wave of ecstasy coming.

  Pushing herself up against me, she kissed me on the mouth for several minutes and passionate as we were from wave upon wave of multiple orgasm, we told each other that we loved each other, that it was amazing what we had just experienced together, that we needed more of it together and that nothing had ever felt that exhilarating before.

  Ω

  “Do you think there’s anything wrong in it? What we just did?” I asked her after it had finished. “And how about what I’ve been doing every night this week before bed?”

  “Of course there isn’t! According to who?”

  My cheeks reddened abruptly. It must have been obvious how close to tears I was again now, since she suddenly wrapped me a gentle, consoling embrace.

  “Look, think of it like this,” Alyssa said softly, picking herself up and seating herself on the toilet seat as she untied my right wrist from my ripped panties. “You probably think that because of God and chastity and all the expectations society puts on you to conform to those limited values that you have done something wrong now. Fantasizing. that is. Playing around with me, a girl. But you are my first – girl, that is,” said Alyssa.

  “And it was beautiful – it was a moment we shared together and will always share together – a memory that will live between us. And isn’t that what God’s love is supposed to be, assuming there is a God, which is tenuous at best?”

  Alyssa could see from my expression, that as much as I had enjoyed – nay, fucking loved! – what had just happened and wanted it all over again, and again, again, right now until dawn and then again at dusk tomorrow, that even then, I still wasn’t totally convinced. My eyes betrayed the truth: I have a terrible poker face.

  “OK, so think of it like this then … if there’s a God, we’re pretty sure we know what he looks like, right? Like a white light of some sort, while the devil is like a black abyss.”

  “What’s an abyss?” I asked her, watching her pleat her skirt down back into shape.

  “Like a dark hole. Not a black hole, though … exactly. More like an unused well, I guess …”

  I nodded. “Oh … OK. Yeah, I guess that sounds about right, sure,” I said.

  “But then look what the law of physics – science! – says about darkness and light. Darkness is constantly absorbing light, which is why it’s dark. Light is constantly reflecting light, which is why it’s light, at least to us.

  “So, here’s the thing: if God is light, as is agreed by almost everyone who believes in him all over the world, then he must be, over time, getting a lot less Holy than the devil, since it’s the devil that is absorbing all of God’s light, all of the time.

  “My point is, there is a little bit of the devil in God, but more importantly, there’s a whole lot of God in the devil, if the rules of physics are anything to go by. What we just did – it’s like that. Call it something that is godly or ungodly – it’s all the same at the end of the day. It’s just how you choose to look at it.

  “Now personally,” surmised Alyssa, waving her left finger, still wet with my white cum smear, “I think we’re splitting hairs here. I don’t think that God is light or dark or maybe even anything. But I know what we did … how can it feel so good, and hurt no one, and be anything like the black hole? Sure, it’s surprising that we’re drawn to the stuff that everyone says is bad, in a way.

  “That’s what Paradise Lost is all about. You’ll study it this semester. When you do, notice how your heart pounds two times faster when the devil is winning the battle and disappointment sets in when God fights back. But that’s what sin is about – it’s about exploration … think of us like planets, all pushing and pulling on each other. Just cause I push and you pull that doesn’t make pushing or pulling any better, insomuch as there is no such thing as better when it comes to gravity.

  “Gravity is, gravity just … it just is. But even then, I dunno, maybe only you can answer the question of whether what we just experienced was right or wrong, light or dark – or whatever you wanna call it. I mean, does it seem more light or dark to you.”

  “It seemed lighter than the entire Milky Way a minute ago. Now I don’t know. I feel … lost. As if I’m moving through space,” I replied.

  “Well then, can’t you see all the stars shining out at ya?” The truth was that I could, that I just did, that I could see the brightest star shining right at me now, shining its light into my mind, or perhaps its darkness.

  And I wanted more of it again, I wanted to feel its rays course again through my body like it had just done, so desperately awakening and moving was the experience.

  But just as I could see the brightest star in the sky powering photons through my head, so I could glimpse an uncertain darkness too which, like all light, was naturally drawn into its space.

  I might even say I felt in some way like a giant Venus, hanging somewhere in the midst of space time, neither absorbing nor reflecting light, but just subsisting amidst an interplanetary pull of gravity and push of mass.

  CHAPTER III

  State of A New York Mind

  Ω

  May, 2003

  RYAN DREYFUSS was falling hard and fast, like a stone chucked from the top of the Empire State Building, but there was nothing he could do about it. In fact, the Ponzi scheme he had created just over 10 years ago had swelled to over $10 million in size.

  But it was too much to pay back. Way too much.

  H
e felt the taste of the metal in the back of his throat and for a moment, he actually thought about flavoring the end of the pistol.

  They would say it was greed, but in truth, if you’d asked Ryan right at that split second moment before his finger fell back on the cold arc of the trigger of the .35mm pistol in his left hand, the barrel of which was jammed down the back of his throat, making him almost-wretch, he would have confessed the real reason he had become a fraudster. It wasn’t money. It wasn’t even the lifestyle, or any of his formerly grandiose expectations for himself, which had died away long before he started the scheme.

  It had all been all for a girl.

  Ω

  As a teenager, Ryan Priest had always pictured himself doing something really, really, fucking wild on his thirtieth birthday, something as wild as flying out of some remote spot in the world that was exotic and unheard of, somewhere like Rangoon with a tiny, hobbled runway in the jungle to which he was running with all his life from a crazy Burmese dictator chasing his ass right up to the door of his Gulfstream, which swept him 30,000 feet up high into the clouds just in time while a local girl who’d been hiding in the bathroom inside jumped out with two Russian blondes and raggedly tugged on his cock hard, instructing the two Russians to take one of his nipples each between their lips and serve him a wet 8-ball which he would gargle back through his sinus glands before exploding all over their tits. Money would be no object by then, went his young mind; sex was something he’d take for granted, like eating … drugs would be available to him like a regular can of Coke.