Escapades of a Porno King

by George Alexander

  The atmosphere, which had been one seamless web of sensation only minutes before, now broke up as his mind reintegrated itself and started to make distinctions between things once again. He could see object, where before he could only feel sensations. He drew himself up and tested his legs, almost as though he was unsure that they would still hold him up. The others were talking quietly, staggering around, and he noticed that Gretchen was walking by herself on the beach. He decided that that was probably where she wanted to be, and that if she wanted to talk to him, she would come and get him. He realized that after so profound an experience, it was often necessary to be alone for a while, and to sort things out.

  Jack and Gretchen had gotten into the whole swinging scene largely out of habit—they had dated around a lot before they were married, and certainly neither of them had been anything resembling a virgin. It had seemed more natural to be free to choose other sexual partners at times, and in fact they had both admitted that although they definitely wanted to be married, they found the prospect of going to bed with the same person every night for the rest of their lives rather boring. Although at times they had formed rather relatively strong attachments to other people, these had always been kept separate from their marriage. One of the things that had kept this tradition in tact was Jack had always felt a strong aversion to homosexuality. Now he had to figure out how he had ended up jerking somebody off in the pile of bodies on the lawn. He hadn't even known who it was! Most of all, he had to explain why that had been exciting to him as anything else. It had just seemed like a natural part of everything else. Likewise, Gretchen, although she had had brief episodes of love making with women at the height of some of their more spectacular parties, was in her more normal moments repulsed by the prospect of lesbianism. But Jack was almost sure he had seen her sucking somebody's tit in the scene that had just occurred, and thought he remembered her finger in somebody's cunt as well. Of course for her that could have been simply another one of those moments of forgetfulness, but somehow he didn't think so. Maybe that was what she was trying to figure out while she walked by the beach.

  When Jack thought about it, he knew that he had no intellectual objections to homosexuality. He had lots of gay friends—although that didn't prove very much—and he firmly believed that people should be allowed whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted in bed. But as for himself—this afternoon had created lots of confusion. He felt desires that he had never felt before. He envisioned himself and Gretchen in a threesome with another man. He didn't know what would come of it, but he knew that if it happened, he would enjoy it and it wouldn't bother him. That made things a lot different as far as his attitude toward the group was concerned. He knew that most of the others felt approximately the same way he did, and he wondered how many of their minds had been changed by the indiscriminate, overwhelming sexuality of the massive body pile that they had all been a part of. He was sure that no one else had bothered to make sure he was touching only members of the opposite sex. Anyhow, Jack let this topic drop for a moment. He would just have to see what happened.

  All these reflections took only a minute or two. It seemed as though in the wake of the experience on the lawn his rational mind had simply had to force its way back into the swirling confusion of images that bombarded Jack as a result of the mescaline. His thoughts had been like a wedge driven into his confusion and disorientation, but they had soon shoved out again, and now he found himself soaring higher and higher, cut loose from reality. He barely knew what he was doing as he wandered over the lawn, looking up at the sky and feeling tiny raindrops explode on the damp skin of his face. After a strange passage through what seemed to be a long tunnel walled with pictures of trees and a large house and the ocean in the background, Jack found himself—or rather didn't find himself at all—at the edge of the water on a part of the island he had never been to before. He had no idea how far he had come. He wondered, in one of his more rational moments, whether he could be in the vicinity of any of the houses at the other end of the island. But he could not make his dazed brain stay on this question long to attempt to answer it, so he stumbled on a bit, staring out at the beautiful patterns of raindrops on the water, and finally sat down on a rock. His hair was matted on his head, and the rain plastered it down over his ears. He was still stark naked, and at one point wondered vaguely why he wasn't cold. But he couldn't give himself any good answer, because he didn't really know how cold the air or the rain was. He had ceased to make any distinction between the outside and the inside of himself. All he knew was that it didn't feel cold to him.

  Once more, he began to have the familiar sensation that the world was nothing but a succession of paintings on the inside of his eyeball. In fact, by imagining this, he seemed to gain a strange power of what he saw. He realized that he could make the bark of a tree look as if it was running up and down, or side to side. He could make the water look as it was moving very fast, or not at all. Usually he took the appearances of things as truthful indications of the way things really were. But now, with so many different ways of seeing them, and with his imagination taking such an active part, he began to wonder.

  The thunderheads of the storm had long since disappeared, but now he realized that the gray clouds that drizzled down soft rain on him were not as dull and uninteresting as he had thought. Staring up at them, he could see many shades of silver, blue, and purple, lurking behind the low gray mist that hung over the water. At times, he could even see the sun breaking through ragged portions of the cloud canopy, making highlights that gave the clouds the look of strange oil paintings. But once more, he was not sure what he was seeing and what he was imagining. He hung in this bizarre limbo for many moments, wavering back and forth between what he believed was really there and what he believed he was making up.

  Suddenly something was happening to the clouds. He felt the rush of another wave of sensation forcing through him. He tried to tell himself it was only the mescaline playing tricks. He knew that was true, but for some reason he could not believe it. His mind seemed to cause his eyes to focus on the clouds above him as they had never focused on anything else before. Everything around the spot at which he looked became dark. Dark as midnight. He had suffered from an inner eclipse. A cloud formation he looked at was like a stage, and the house lights were out. Now the multi colored piles of cumulous, rolled by the wind, took on shapes for him, like you would see in a kaleidoscope. Except that the more this went on, the more the shapes began to look like real things. Jack began to see huge mounds of flesh in the clouds, arms and legs and breasts and buttocks tumbling, hair flying, and large, warm, round face smiling. There was no personality to the figures, but eventually they melted into each other and became one. The one reminded Jack of the nudes in filmy garments from a painting he had once liked. As he remembered, the painting was a Botticelli, something about an allegory of spring. There was something anachronistic about the look of the figure in the clouds—or in his imagination, he couldn't tell which—she forced him to see her through the eyes of a long forgotten century, with a long obsolete mode of vision. The woman had a full face, with a somewhat ethereal expression, but that was contradicted by her body, whose feminine fines were all exaggerated, giving a soft and yet solid, earthy feeling to her.

  As he watched—or imagined—in fascination, Jack saw the figure, tumbling in the clouds draw suddenly nearer. It was as if she was approaching him, or he was approaching her, through a long, dark tunnel. She tumbled over and over in the air, but slowly, with rather dreamlike movements. The ample flesh of her breasts, belly, and buttocks shook and moved from side to side, and jiggled in many directions, as she neared him.

  Suddenly he found himself being uprooted too. He was no longer sitting on a rock by the side of the water. He was falling in mid air, or being catapulted upward, he did not know which. A strong feeling of giddiness centered in his stomach, but it was not unpleasant. The woman's body continued to come toward him, blonde hair merging into sunlight a
nd then reappearing, transparent garments flowing about her as in a dream. Now he could see her better. By any standards he had known before, she would have been called chubby—over weight. But he was not even aware of those standards anymore. All he was aware of was that her proportions were somehow highly sensual. Especially the monstrous curve of her belly, which made her look almost as though she was pregnant, gave the impression of great strength, femininity, and fertility. It formed a fine, dramatic line as it plunged down between her legs. Jack found himself so absorbed in that line, that he found it pulling—no dragging—him magically toward it. Suddenly, the woman seemed to expand to incredible proportions. Jack could not tell how big. How big didn't make any difference. All he could tell was that he was suddenly sliding down her belly toward her crotch. It was almost like sledding down a snow covered hill, and he was instantly transported back to his childhood, where memories mixed so thoroughly that a whole story which had never happened simply told itself to him, and he now lived through it. He found himself on a winter hillside, sled following along on a rope behind him, trudging up to the top. There, a group of friends waited. The hill was one he had really played on as a child. It was very dangerous. It sloped down to a road, which was often icy, though there was seldom much traffic on it. Past the road, there was another steep drop off into a swiftly running river. The river in his dream was frozen over, but he could tell that it was treacherous. Dark splotches showed in the white ice where the currents of swift water had kept the ice thin. His clothes were damp, but he had kept warm with exertion, and the dampness was of sweat as well as of melted snow. He jumped on his sled and raced down the hill. He found himself going very fast. Then, incredibly, as though he were being pulled by a freight train, he was going faster still. He could not control the sled, and he could not stop himself. The sled shot across the road, arched high into the air, and crashed down on the ice of the river, breaking through and plunging him into its depths.

  But the river was the cloud woman's cunt, and he found himself being tossed about inside it. The icy water of the river had turned into a jungle swamp, warm and gooey and muddy. Gradually, he emerged from the deepest recesses of the woman's womb, and found himself in a pink valley surrounded by strange peaks and in the distance, mountains covered with forests of blonde hair. The skin on the inside of the cunt was pale pink, like clouds in a rosy sunset. It was slick and perfect—unblemished.

  Suddenly his mind played more tricks on him, and his body started to expand. He himself felt like a cloud, and billowed up and out until he was far larger than the woman, who now lay before him. He found that an immense cock dangled between his legs, its head bobbing like the head of an angry bull. He looked at the woman, who was lying, legs spread, in mid air before him. He looked at her cunt, and he knew he could never get into it. He had grown too huge. But in spite of himself, he found that he was descending upon her, and felt a huge collision as his cock smashed away at her cunt. He tossed his hips, and with several mighty thrusts of his organ, managed to wedge its tip into the crevice of the woman's cunt. She was now struggling to help him to get it in, and she seemed to feel no pain at the fact that it was far too large for her. She grabbed his buttocks, her miniature hands digging into his flesh, and pulled them down on her. She stuck her legs straight up in the air, and wiggled, trying to make room for the huge beast that was attempting to enter her.

  Jack thought he was going to make it. He thought he was going to get in. The excitement of the tiny but willing cunt which seconds before had been so immense, sent thrills of challenge racing through his body, and he pried away at the hole harder and harder.

  Suddenly everything exploded. The woman, with a huge scream that turned into a roll of thunder, split up the middle. There was a blast of blinding red and yellow light, like the fires of hell, and the two parts of the ravished woman shriveled up to nothingness. Billows of acrid smoke and scalding steam surrounded him, but he was immune to them. His entire being had turned into concentrated pleasure. He was coming, but nothing was coming out of him. He was already everywhere, completely suspended in space, and the pleasure was simply the concentrated pleasure of being alive—sexual pleasure and every other pleasure with nothing to dilute or mar them. He was flailing his arms and legs, groping, swimming, dancing, screaming, singing, all at once.

  Then, like the end of a movie, everything went dark. He heard a voice from somewhere. “Jack? Jack—are you all right?”

  He opened his eyes. Or at least he thought he opened his eyes. Perhaps he merely regained the ability to see normal things through them. Gretchen was standing over him, and Sal Fortunato was looking at him over her shoulder.

  Jack looked around. He was lying on his back on the beach, with his feet trailing off into the water. “Where the hell am I?” he asked.

  “You're on the other side of the island,” Gretchen said. “Do you know what you've been doing?”

  “I can tell you exactly what I think I've been doing,” Jack said, “but I'm sure it doesn't have anything to do with reality.”

  “I don't know,” Gretchen said. “You looked pretty together to me. Sal and I were over there on that rock... she said, pointing to a gray shape perhaps two hundred yards away, “and we saw you come here and sit down. Then the weirdest tiring happened. There's a house about a quarter of a mile away in the other direction, and a woman came from around there somewhere. She was really pretty strange looking. She saw you lying on the rock, and I thought you saw her, and then she just came up to you and started making love. Pretty soon you two ended up fucking out there in the water, and when you were done, you seemed to have passed out. She dragged you up here, and laid you down, and left. That was when we came over to see if you were all right.”

  “You must be bullshitting me,” Jack said, coming back to his senses. Then, thinking for a minute—“What was this woman wearing?”

  “You won't believe this,” Gretchen said, “but she was wearing an old red terry cloth bathrobe.”

  Jack found that too hilarious for words. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “here I thought I was having an affair with some great ephemeral earth mother from out of a Botticelli painting, and I was really balling some middle aged house wife!”

  “Well I don't know what you thought you were doing,” Sal broke in, “but it sure as hell looked like you were having fun. This mescaline is pretty heavy stuff isn't it?”

  “I guess I would have to agree with that,” Jack said.

  Gretchen and Sal led Jack back up to the house. He sat down at his typewriter and attempted to describe some of the things that had happened to him that day, but he found himself too much under the influence of the mescaline still to be very successful. He collapsed over his typewriter and slept for a long time.

  For the next couple of weeks, the group was busy adjusting to life on the island, and trying to sort out the implications of the bizarre scene on the lawn. Outwardly, it had not been so different from anything that had happened at lots of their parties. But everyone had felt that in some way it was different, and that it meant something to who they were and how they related to each other. For many of them, it was the beginning of something new. But for Jack, strangely, it was a sort of culmination. He wrote about it some, and then began to spend a lot of time simply sitting on the beach or on the dock, gazing out at the water. As the tides moved in and out, as the wind blew clouds past him, he began once more to have the feeling that he was too isolated from the world on this island. As idyllic as it was, it could not satisfy the restlessness that he felt in his soul. There were things going on—not only in the city, but in the rest of the world. Looking at the same rocks, the same sand, the same water, the same sky, and the same vegetation every day was beginning to bore him. After a month on the island, Jack left for New York.

  Gretchen stayed on the island for a while, but planned to join Jack as soon as he had finished the work he wanted to do in New York. They planned to travel to Europe and South America.

  So one
fine night, as the spring sun began to go down over the Hudson, Jack Garney typed the last words in an erotic novel he had been writing for some time. After that, there was little for him to do but stand on the balcony of his apartment on Riverside Drive, trying to get another idea.

  Jack had a great job! He wrote 'hot' books for a living during the days and practiced what he preached with two delicious young ladies by night!