This Other Eden

by Ben Elton

  ‘OK now, legs together… casual, come on, you’re drunk, you’ve passed out, you’re asleep.’ Max raised one of her knees slightly, whilst making sure that her thighs were still clamped together. Then, even as they heard the Garda outside in the street, Max rolled the fleshy putty into a small sausage.

  ‘I don’t believe…!!‘ gasped Rosalie, looking down.

  ‘Lie still!’ Max barked. ‘You’re out to it! You’ve got to think out to it. You’ve got to act! A lot of people think acting is easy, but it isn’t, it’s a damned tough trade. Now remember, you are not a wild woman on a mission to save the planet, but a drunk Californian homosexual on holiday with his lover, OK? It’s complex, it’s delicate, it’s acting!’

  ‘Well, what do I do then?’

  ‘Just close your eyes and try to snore a bit.’

  And with that, Max gently buried one end of his little putty sausage into the mound of Rosalie’s pubic hair and draped the length of it delicately across one of her thighs. Rosalie’s legs twitched at his touch.

  ‘Keep them together, for Christ’s sake,’ Max urged, ‘I can’t do balls at this speed, I’m not Michel-fucking-angelo.’

  Rosalie’s legs lay still. Max could hear the landlady conversing with the Garda downstairs. He knew he only had moments left. Rosalie already had the slightest downy snail-trail running up from her pubic hair towards her belly button. Max took some ash from the ashtray and darkened the hair slightly, considered attempting a shadow on her chin but knew he would smudge it in the rush. There was a half-empty Paddy bottle on the bedside table, and he laid it on the bed placing the neck of the bottle in Rosalie’s hand. He checked again that the sheet across her chest was sufficiently rumpled to disguise the small rise of her bosom, then he gathered the undersheet together on either side of her thighs in an attempt to disguise the feminine curve of her hips. Rosalie’s slim waist, he could do nothing about. It would just have to do, acting was down to bluff, and that was up to him. He whipped off the jockey shorts, which to his shame he had been wearing in bed, and just as the Garda began to hammer on the bedroom door he draped himself completely naked across the bed, his head on Rosalie’s stomach.

  ‘Open the door!’ a stern voice demanded from outside.

  ‘Ugh!’ Max moaned as if from a deep sleep.

  ‘Open the door or I shall kick it open!’ the voice shouted.

  ‘What?. . . Heh, who the hell is…?‘ Max knew how to act semi-off his face, he was that way most mornings. The door burst open and two uniformed officers rushed in. Max gave them a split second to take in the whole scene before jumping up, naked, drawing their attention with him.

  ‘My God! Oh no! Scream!!’ he shouted, affecting a fey campness which would not have gone down very well with those members of the homosexual community who object to such stereotyping.

  ‘Nathan, wake up! It’s a bust! Don’t tell me boy love is still illegal in this country! It’s not! I know it’s not! I checked with the travel agent. How dare you burst in here… you… you damn caveman! Wake up, Nathan!… Oh, my God!’ Max pretended to notice Rosalie’s nakedness for the first time. Giving the Garda officers just a moment with which to follow his gaze and see again the pale, soft, feminine, but unquestionably equipped with penis, body on the bed, Max grabbed a coat and hurled it over Rosalie, before seeming to notice his own nakedness for the first time and cover himself with a towel.

  ‘We were told there was a woman in here,’ the constable stuttered, not knowing what to think.

  ‘A woman! Don’t be disgusting!’ Max screeched.

  ‘The landlady said there was a woman in here.’ The policeman was getting out of his depth.

  ‘Darling, I fear that in Mrs Mop’s tiny world, when two people are fucking like rabbits and making the china shake in the best room, they are, by definition, a man and a woman. No other couplings would occur to her. Wake up, Nathan…

  Max shouted at Rosalie’s prostrate form as he marched over to the dressing-table and grabbed both his own passport and that which had once belonged to the actual Nathan. ‘Look. There’s our IDs, I’m American, he’s British and we’re both men, thank you very much. I can assure you, I would know! … Wake up, Nathan!!’ The officer flicked nervously through the two passports. Max, fearing the man might study the photos, attempted to partially obscure Rosalie’s face by bending over to shake her, taking care not to disturb either the moustache or the rumpled sheet over her breasts. Rosalie, who was beginning to believe that Max might pull this off, groaned and dribbled, distorting her features as much as she felt she could get away with.

  ‘My God, that Paddy’s Scotch whiskey is lethal,’ Max shrieked. Max had judged his man well. The constable shuddered slightly. He was not a great fan of the love that dare not speak its name at the best of times, but when the homosexual in question also turned out to be a complete whoopsie who thought that Paddy’s was Scotch, then the less time spent with him the better.

  ‘Well, sir, as I say, I was informed that you had a woman with you, but since it’s a fellah, I suppose … that’s all right, isn’t it?’

  Max allowed his eyes to moisten and his voice to quiver with emotion.

  ‘Officer, may I remark that that is the single most lovely thing I have ever heard a policeman say.’

  ‘Yes… well … sorry to have bothered you then.’ The policeman had got himself a little confused. ‘Uhm, I hope your …friend…’

  ‘Lover.’

  ‘Yes, well, I hope he recovers… Good day to you, sir… and sir,’ and with a slight nod at Rosalie’s prostrate form, the constable and his companion left.

  As she heard the door close Rosalie opened her eyes and they shone with wonder and excitement. In all her experience of living the life of an outlaw, in all the daring stories of escape she had heard around camp fires — or whilst bobbing about in inflatable boats, or sitting waiting in the bellies of helicopters, none had ever come close in audacity and flair to the trick of which she had just been a part.

  Max was at the window.

  ‘They’ve drawn a blank … I think they’re going to chuck it. Don’t break character yet, they may decide to bring their pals up for a laugh at the gay guys.’ He stood watching for a while, watching the cops in the street, while Rosalie watched him.

  ‘They’re bringing their truck up … Man, they’re going!’ Max spun round to face her, completely thrilled, triumphant. ‘We did it!’

  ‘You did it, Max.’ Rosalie was a fair-minded girl and gave credit where it was due. ‘I can’t believe it, but you did. What a concept! What a performance! You saved my neck and you were completely bloody wonderful.’

  Yes, he had been wonderful. Max could scarcely demur, it had been a masterpiece of aggressive bluff, and what, after all, was great acting, but bluff?

  Rosalie’s eyes, which had been fixed upon Max’s face, dropped slightly. She could not help but notice that Max was reacting to his own brilliance in his customary manner. Max followed her gaze. Beneath his towel was a stiff you could have flown a flag off.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Max, genuinely embarrassed. ‘I’m not really such a vain guy … honestly, not in normal life … It’s just, when I do a really great show I . .

  ‘Hey, Max,’ Rosalie said, and her soft, soft Irish voice would have made lush green pasture of a desert, ‘don’t apologise. You were great, and if anyone’s entitled to a celebratory hard-on, it’s you.

  This was it, and they both knew it. The excitement of being so nearly busted, the adrenaline rush of escape. The intimacy that the need for survival had already forced upon them. It was so right. They were even already naked, Max would not even have to take his socks off.

  ‘I’ve got a laminate spray in my bag. Would you get it?’ Rosalie said, and as the gentle music of her voice drifted out of the open window and into the street all the milk in the village turned into rich butter. Max found the spray.

  ‘I use it to seal my gun in wet weather,’ Rosalie added.

  ‘No wom
an should ever apologise for carrying protection,’ said Max.

  ‘Yes, well that’s all very well, but as a rule spontaneous love-making is not my style.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Max, spraying on the stretch laminate. He sort of believed himself too, for he had given all that up now. He made a mental note to tell Rosalie about his past some time, but not now.

  He got into bed. They embraced.

  ‘Would you mind removing your moustache?’ Max inquired. Rosalie removed the offending disguise and they embraced again. Max’s hands stole down Rosalie’s naked body.

  ‘Would it be OK if I took your penis away as well?’ he said, having encountered the little putty tube that had served them so well.

  ‘OK, but don’t spoil it,’ Rosalie said. ‘I want to keep it. No prick has ever done me better service.’

  Max knew he could not equal that, but he resolved to do his best, and he and Rosalie made love.

  It wasn’t like in the movies, there were still elbows to get stuck under backs and hair to get in mouths, but suddenly that didn’t matter. There can be few things better on Earth than to go to bed with the someone you have been dreaming about. Someone for whom you have been yearning. Max had imagined himself kissing and touching Rosalie’s small soft but hard body a hundred times. Rosalie, although otherwise occupied, and somewhat less of a drip than Max, had also been thinking of him. Scarcely even realising it, they had fallen in love, and now, in each other’s arms, they acknowledged it.

  Chapter Twenty

  New Lovers, old lovers

  and screams from beyond

  a rocky grave

  Limping out.

  Jurgen Thor sat naked on his cushions, sipping his peach schnapps. The sun was dipping down behind the mountains and his tanned blonde skin was growing shadow dark. A young woman lay on the bed. She too was naked, her body as near perfect as Jurgen’s. A golden couple, silent in the setting sun. It was as it had always been. The stunning surroundings, the young, starstruck beauty. The man, great and good, unlocking the door to her heart and letting the passion out. It was as it had always been, a thousand seductions, a thousand grateful girls. Just the same. Except it was different. More different than Jurgen could ever have imagined, for instead of the sounds he usually heard emanating from the bed on these occasions —sometimes breathless, coy, half-finished sentences filled with wonder, sometimes gentle sobs as emotions became too much — instead, Jurgen heard something he had quite literally never heard before.

  ‘Please don’t worry about it,’ the young woman said, ‘I hear it happens to all guys sometimes. Really, I don’t mind.’

  Jurgen struggled to maintain his self-control. That this little girl should be trying to comfort him! Assuring him that she did not mind!

  ‘My penis was recently blown off by a bomb, you know,’ he said, trying to seem casual. ‘That bitch of a surgeon must have sewn it back on wrong.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said the girl, whose name was Scout. ‘She must have sewn it on wrong.’

  But they both knew that the surgeon had not got it wrong. Jurgen had been fine and upstanding during the protracted foreplay. He had undressed Scout in his usual accomplished manner, her clothes disappearing as if by magic. He had deposited her near-naked upon his great bed. Stayed her hand as she made to remove her bra, because, as with all things sexual, he liked to do it himself… the removal of underwear being something which he particularly liked to dwell over. Yes, everything had been running along familiar lines. As usual he had knelt down on the bed beside her, feasting his eyes upon her whilst he spirited away her flimsy final garments and all the while the surgeon’s work appeared to be holding up superbly. His erection was as proud and vertical as it ever was, you could have chucked horseshoes at it. Scout’s eyes had grown wide with nervous but eager anticipation as she contemplated the miracle of natural engineering upon which she was about to allow herself to be impaled.

  ‘Good Lord,’ she had remarked, her voice betraying a childhood spent at a posh English girls’ school. ‘You will take it easy, won’t you, sweetie? The last time I saw anything hung like that, it had just won the three-thirty at Epsom.’ Scout snorted with laughter. She was a jolly girl and like many English girls of her class found demonstrative passion a bit foreign and embarrassing. She found sex altogether easier to cope with if it was treated as something of a joke. This could, of course, be rather disconcerting for any poor fellow nervously attempting to engender an atmosphere of lustful abandon. Nothing spoils a grunting, groaning, bed-wobbling approach to climax like a loud giggle followed by the comment … ‘Sorry, I was just thinking how funny we must look from behind.’

  But Jurgen had encountered slightly gauche English girls before and it was not horsey giggles which had led to his surprising sexual collapse. Far from it. He usually liked this type. He knew very well how a really grown-up rogering could quickly wipe the silly grin off these girls’ faces. He had, in fact, been hugely looking forward to seeing Scout’s nervous jollity turn to that look of complete surprise which comes when a girl realises that all of her inhibitions have been expertly removed and are now lying in distant corners of the room along with her knickers and her hairclips.

  ‘There is no need for the worrying,’ Jurgen assured Scout, as he assured all the girls. ‘For me, there is only pleasure in the pleasure of the woman. I make love to make women happy. That is the only reason I do it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ Scout said with a jolly snort, ‘you just carry on. The only place I ever get an orgasm is in Louis’s Pâtisserie in Hampstead.’

  But it looked as if tonight was going to be different. Because as Jurgen applied his considerable skills, Scout’s body began to respond in a manner entirely new to her.

  ‘Oooh,’ she said as Jurgen played delicately with her breasts. Stimulating them in a manner that was very different to the maulings that chaps had given them in the past. So different, in fact, that had Scout not been absolutely sure, she might have imagined that Jurgen was caressing a completely different pair of tits altogether to the ones she normally wore to bed.

  ‘Gosh,’ she gasped as Jurgen’s smooth jaw slid down between her thighs, his lips upon hers. How she shivered as he kissed her where previously she had only been gobbled, and even then, rarely, since Scout had always harboured a vague feeling that vaginas were things into which no chap had much business sticking his face.

  By the time push came to shove, so to speak, Scout could not have been any hotter if Jurgen had set fire to the bed.

  ‘Go on, then, screw me,’ she astonished herself by saying. Up until now, the most passionate comment she had managed at this stage of the game was, ‘I suppose I don’t mind if you really want to’. Now, however, she wanted to be screwed and she said so. Jurgen Thor needed no further prompting. He sprayed on the laminate and plunged in.

  ‘Wow!’ Scout shouted in gay abandon, unaware that she had such hidden depths … and then only moments later, a muted, ‘Oh’.

  The seemingly impossible had happened. For the first time in his life, Jurgen Thor had gone the way of all flesh. For a moment, confident in his conquest, he had allowed his mind to wander. Having realised that his mind was wandering, Jurgen had reflected that he had better concentrate on the job in hand or else the unthinkable might happen. At which point, of course, the unthinkable did. Jurgen discovered, later than most men, that once you start worrying about it, you’ve lost it.

  Reflections on erections.

  Jurgen sat on his cushions in moody contemplation. His mind had wandered. Why? It had wandered a lot of late. He was becoming more and more distracted and he did not really know why. Except, perhaps, that times were changing and even his legendary energy, both physical and mental, must surely ebb some day. It was a curious sensation for Jurgen to be so bothered about something. Very little affected him emotionally in his life, nor had much done so for years. He had lived for so long with a full and profound knowledge of the real extent of planet death
that conventional emotion had been rather lost to him. Every single day, he was confronted with statistics so terrible that he had become numb. Jurgen found it difficult to care about anything very much. But he did still value his sexual powers. To Jurgen, virility was a symbol of life in a dying world, and now even that was collapsing. A sense of mortality cloaked him like a contraceptive laminate. The end was nigh. Even his beloved mountains had changed for ever. There was no snow or ice at all on them now, not even on the highest peaks. The last ice had melted five years ago and it would never return.

  Dirty Snow.

  Jurgen had always loved the cold. Snow and ice appealed to him far more than sun and sand. But it was gone. The only ice remaining lay at the poles, and Jurgen knew better than most how soon that too would disappear. It was not because of the famous greenhouse effect that the ancient ice was finally giving up the ghost, but by dint of something much less complex. Straightforward dirt was in the process of liberating four-fifths of the world’s fresh water. Airborne pollutants had begun to dirty the shimmering white that lay at the hub of the world. Darkened as it was, it no longer reflected the sun’s rays with the efficiency it had once done. Soon it would actively absorb them, and soon after that it would be possible to go surfing in Surrey.

  The Claustrosphere Company, recognising the problem, had begun to fit ‘Spheres located in low-lying regions with diving gear. Being hermetically sealed, a Claustrosphere could offer complete protection against submersion as long as one did not open the door. This was fine for a while, except that the whole point of the Claustrospheres was that the human race would survive to walk again on the surface of the planet. It would be a shame if one’s children’s children were to emerge from their long captivity and immediately drown. Hence the scuba tanks.