Dr Sládek rang the bell. They entered. They ascended. A golem attired as a chef with a tall white hat held a door wide.
“Aha, come in!” The Russian, who was in his early forties, lay naked on a blood-stained bed. Alternatively, three-quarters of a Russian lay there, since much flesh had been cut from one leg and one arm, exposing the bones. was bearded and moustached scruffily, as though he had more important things to think about, and his forehead was a very high dome, where he would do his thinking, a bit like an astronomer in an observatory.
Besides the bed were a dining chair and a round table laid for a meal, with pepper pot, salt cellar, jug of olive oil, and slices of lemon; also a tray of scalpels and tongs and several spray-cans of powerful coagulant of the non-anaesthetic variety.
On a plate lay a slice of fresh flesh. The chefgolem sat down, squeezed a tiny amount of lemon juice upon the flesh, dripped a few drops of olive oil, then added a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Spearing the flesh with a fork, the golem lifted it to its mouth and commenced eating, causing the Russian to writhe in ecstasy.
“Oh God oh God oh God, oh good oh good oh good,” moaned delightedly in Roman.
When his passion passed, eyed his visitors blearily.
“Will you have something to eat?”
“Soup – or sandwich?” demanded Cleopatra.
“No, raw!” said the Russian. “Only raw!”
“Will you have something to eat?” Gustav asked .
“No, I’m on hunger strike too, for extra pleasure!”
“In that case,” Dr Sládek asked thoughtfully, “would you categorize this as cannibalism-by-proxy, or not?”
János decided to leave before, perhaps, he might be chastized for some reason.
János was lazing on his bed in typical post-coital repose, smoking an exotic Black Elephant cigarette and sipping a goblet of Nistru, an excellent Moldovian cognac. At his side Patricia lay inert in the state of pseudo-rest and pseudo-satisfaction you would expect of her. His second sexual act with Patricia had been even better than the first one, but this, for the moment, meant very little. Everything depended on what was hiding in the next layer of his subconscious. It isn’t entirely clear if something called the subconscious truly exists inside a human skull, but if it does, then undoubtedly it consists of layers, each layer different from the other layers. The more intercourse there is with a gigolem, the more the gigolem reacts to the needs of ever deeper layers. Therefore a gigolem’s behaviour can never be predictable. At any moment it may surprise you.
János slapped Patricia’s butt. Her ass seemed real. She didn’t look like a metamorphic lump of mud, a creature of a parallel universe which had overlapped with the one in which János had grown up.
Responding to his slap, Patricia rolled over, simulating an awakening that she couldn’t be experiencing since basically she wasn’t alive. János regarded her tenderly. She was going to say something pleasant to him. It was as though he could read her mind, a mind which she didn’t really have. In fact it was as if finally János could read his own mind, which is impossible because you need another mind with which to do the reading.
Unexpectedly Patricia said, “You aren’t really alive, are you?”
“What?” János blanched in surprise.
“You’re a well-packaged illusion,” she went on. “You move like a living thing. You talk like a living thing. They did a really good job.”
“They, they!” cried János “Who are they?”
Patricia looked pensive. “Hmm, I’m afraid the toy has stopped working properly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s best to reboot you and reset this chapter of time.” Then János saw her leaning over him, rebooting and resetting . . .
János was lazing on his bed in typical post-coital repose, smoking an exotic Black Elephant cigarette and sipping a goblet of Nistru, an excellent Moldovian cognac. At his side Patricia lay inert in the state of pseudo-rest and pseudo-satisfaction you would expect of her.
Endorphins of orgasm had put János in the best mental state for introspection even more creative than usual.
Patricia can’t be real, because the creationism she represents has no sense. But evolutionism may be the wrong way to perceive the world. That’s because all explanations are inherently the enemies of the ineffable , that’s to say “truth” in the Hebrew language, pronounced “Emet”. Explanations kill the mystery in which reality consists. So probably I’m as unreal as she is. One fine day I may waken and realize that I don’t exist at all Hmm . . . I’m getting stiff again. I’d rather fuck Patricia a bit more.
And János fucked Patricia a bit more. A good choice. Patricia’s sex didn’t fluctuate.
Presently, having shut Patricia in the wardrobe again and headed into town, János felt moved to meditate inside an Evolutionist Church, which was where people who believed in the theory, or myth, of natural selection went to pray.
The building was full of elderly women, mostly dressed in black. The majority of young folk seemed to be creationist these days, since this was the modern way, so they didn’t visit such a place. He paused in front of a gilded statue of Darwin and Freud smoking cigars. Moving on, János lit a long slim candle below an icon of Richard Dawkins in a loin-cloth like Tarzan’s, consulting a big watch that lacked any numbers. From hidden speakers wafted Michael Nyman’s piece of music, The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover. Some high-definition screens, fixed to the walls in gilded frames, were showing scenes from old porn movies, revered images from the time when human beings had sex directly with one another. János contemplated a traditional Japanese bukkake mass-masturbation, a ceremony now degraded to the pouring of a topping over noodles, rather than the group ejaculation of semen upon a schoolgirl, as shown on this screen in the church.
And what, speculated János, if this is merely the beginning? What if more and more parallel universes start to overlap, crowding reality with new categories of creatures who are unreal from our original human point of view? What if the only possible form of life in the future is an inseparable symbiosis between all these bizarre creatures?
Later that same day, to the disappointment of Mrs Smetana, János took the train for Budapest. Silvia hosted him once again inside the driver’s cab, in exchange for chocolate. This time they were a bit squeezed, because Patricia remained with János – he wouldn’t leave Patricia on her own in a passenger carriage in case someone stole her away at an intervening station. What’s more, this time Silvia had her own Adam-Schwarzenegger gigolem with her. She must have begun to miss him on her travels.
The railway lines extended swiftly and charmingly in front of them, pointing towards Hungary. As a courtesy, Silvia let János drive the train for a while, even though that was almost certainly forbidden even on Magyar Álom Vasutak. Speeding the train along, János was having fun like a little child. Banished to the two rear corners of the cab, the two gigolems waited inertly with no sign of life until their lords and masters might need them. Silvia and János paid no attention to them, which was normal, since gigolems couldn’t get bored and were entirely without free will.
So, when Patricia smiled, only Adam-Schwarzenegger noticed. His eyebrow rose slightly. Patricia confirmed that János and Silvia were still distracted. They were. She winked at Adam-Schwarzenegger, then she grinned broadly.
Two Birds, One Bush
Amanda Fox
My wife. Her name is Katherine. Not Kate. Not Kathy. Jesus, don’t ever call her Kathy – she’ll rip your head off, not with her bare hands, but with her eyes: Like a laser beam from her ocular sockets to your cervical spine, to make a neat separation between C6 and C7, leaving your skull to tumble to the ground like a bowling ball.
She would never come right out and correct you – that would be too easy. My wife likes things to be difficult, you see, for herself and for everyone around her. Besides, to be blunt, tact is a trait Katherine does not possess. She is not only incapable of predicting the po
tential embarrassment of such a situation, she could care less about making that sort of exchange copacetic. Much simpler to dispose of you in the condescending fashion she is so adept at. And in the end, you’d feel so inferior, so pathetic for even suggesting that she could be a “Kathy,” that you would wish your head had been ripped off.
Katherine and I have been married for twelve years. I will admit to loving her, but this love was, in the beginning, one that made my dick hard, one that had me skittering around in circles whenever she called my name. Her fierce ambition turned me on, and her composure made me horny, made me want to clean out her orifices with my slavish tongue in the hopes of acquiring a little bit of her power for myself. Now, her drive seems virulent, and her self-possession is just that – self-possessed.
We have two children, nine and six – a boy and a girl, both delivered by planned Caesarean section at thirty-seven weeks, three years apart almost to the day. We live in a house on the right street, in the right neighbourhood, decorated with the right furnishings from all the right stores. It should be no surprise to you that we have all the right friends, and that we know all the right people.
She is perfect.
She is, from certain angles. Though if you view her from the left, from a slightly downward stance, you can see how the highlights in her hair have been strategically placed by her three-hundred-dollar-a-visit stylist to appear as natural as possible, and how Botox makes her look as if she has two microwaved marshmallows attached to the front of her face. My wife Katherine always wears classic diamond studs in her ears, but on special occasions she will change them to pearls. She is well put together, without fail.
Of course, she exercises: two days per week of strength training, four thirty-minute sessions on the treadmill, and one class each of yoga and tai chi to balance things out. She also goes for sunless tanning once a month because too much UV can cause skin cancer, and she needs that little glow.
My wife Katherine has no pubic hair – no hair anywhere for that matter, which she says demonstrates the emergence of New Age woman. She has been lasered to baldness, her imaginary moustache removed, her underarms and legs made as smooth as paper, her pussy lips and anal region soft as a baby’s bottom.
Because of this comprehensive fur removal (I find this tidbit of information quite amusing) when she stands naked you see the sleeves of her inner labia hanging down – a fact that torments her to no end. She says that this condition (which she actually calls a “condition”) makes her look slightly warped, like she has a slow epidermal leak.
“They should be tucked up inside,” she growls, prodding at her uncovered self in front of the mirror. “I don’t like seeing them.”
“Well, you’re the one who shaved off all your pubic hair.” Secretly I revel in her discomfort. It’s as if her body is doing its damnedest to be abhorrent, and I’ll admit, when we have sex I pull and nibble on them – those bad little labial folds – to point out the obvious: that they do hang down, and that she isn’t a Barbie doll.
Katherine stays on the cutting edge, from feng shui to Lasik, and while I am forever outdated, she keeps up with painstaking determination. Last year she thought it prudent for us to experiment with our sexuality. She’d heard the women from her strip aerobics class talking about it. She wanted to give another woman a try – all the girls were doing it. Of course, I was allowed in on the arrangement. The proposal was laid out in a straightforward manner; like the agenda at a business meeting.
“We’ve been married long enough. Our relationship can handle this. Besides, it’s all the better for you, isn’t it? Two women? What man wouldn’t want that?” What man, indeed.
“What do you think about Maria from the gym? She’s really cute. Great tits,” I remember Katherine saying for effect, “and not an ounce of cellulite on the girl. And, David . . .” she whispered this part to me while nuzzling my earlobes, “I know for a fact that she smells good. I’m just guessing here, but I think she wears that new Thierry Mugler fragrance.”
Katherine knows how much I like the way a woman smells, though what she doesn’t know is that it’s earthy odours that make me squirm – sweat, piss, vaginal profusion – not fake, perfumey ones.
“How about her?” she asked, her eyes alight like struck matches. “God, I know she’s dying to get with you.” I bet she was.
After a few well-placed conversations, it was on. We got together at a bar just outside of town, had some drinks – margaritas for the girls and a couple Coronas for me – danced for a while, and then headed to a motel. Not hotel – motel. It fitted with the theme.
I won’t give you the sordid details. Suffice it to say, Katherine had the time of her life, and so did Maria. Between them both, I think they came about twenty times. No joke. It was okay for me: my penis floundered a bit. Too much excitement was Katherine’s diagnosis.
I orgasmed once at the end of the night, one woman squatting over my face, the other hunkered down over my cock, the two girls kissing passionately, pulling at each other’s nipples.
You’d think I had everything a man could want, but sometimes everything is really nothing at all.
And then it happened: I met Brigitte. Brigitte Jacqueline Laroche. She’s “Jackie” to her friends and colleagues, “Ms. Jones” to her students (she’s a kindergarten teacher), “Babydoll” to her papa, and “Brigitte” to me. (Brigitte is the name she reserves for her lovers.)
We met on the bus. It was a Tuesday morning, and I was heading downtown to work. I have this office job in accounting, but deep down I consider myself a musician. I play guitar in a jazz band every other Thursday and one Saturday a month at a little club called The Black Ox.
Katherine’s car was in the shop for a touch of bodywork. Someone had actually had the nerve to key the driver’s side door of her Audi RS4. She parks it diagonally everywhere she goes – need I say more? So Katherine had my car and I was obliged to ride the bus.
At about 7:15 a.m., I hauled myself, my briefcase, and my brown-bag lunch onto the Number 35. I sat near the back, in the last row of double seats.
Three stops later, a woman got on. She caught my attention immediately by unabashedly saying hello to Dan, the driver, calling him by name.
She flashed her pass like it was a secret badge and gave him a flirtatious wink. It was then that I knew this woman was special – different. I watched her sway to the rhythm of the street as she slowly made her way down the aisle. Her leather sandals slapped at the soles of her feet as she walked, in no particular rush to sit even though the bus had already lurched forward, resuming its route. When she got to my row, she paused and held onto the chair rail in front of me. Her hands were small, with oval-shaped fingernails trimmed short. She wore no polish or rings of any sort.
“Nice day, huh?” she said, inhaling as if the niceness was tangible, like it was the only thing that really mattered in that moment.
“Yes, very nice,” I agreed. “Sunny.”
She had unruly brown ringlets that clumsily framed her face and neck, and her cocoa-coloured skin glowed, seemingly reradiating the light that shone through the bus windows, making the whites of her eyes appear so white that they seemed almost the lightest shade of blue. Her face was unblemished and unpainted, free of all the traps and trimmings of the modern woman. Even her earlobes had yet to be maligned.
“Sunny is good, but I was referring to de temp’rature.” Her eyes didn’t meet mine as she spoke. She simply stood there, the slight, swollen mounds of her breasts upheld as if on a shelf at level with my face. Her timid nipples addressed me through the sheerness of her unbleached, cotton blouse, and I had a sudden urge to reach over and press on them with my fingertips. Trying hard not to be rude however, I shifted my gaze slightly and saw that around her neck she wore a necklace constructed of beads and tiny colourful cereal pieces.
I was struck by an uncanny affiliation to this strange female. I think it was a reflection of myself that I saw in her stance, a similarity of mannerism and
pose – a childlike comportment I’d once known but that had long since been squelched. As the bus bumped down the street, she stayed upright, my woman of whimsicality, my siren of sassiness. She rustled through a large, canvas tote, moving and rearranging stuff, apparently not finding the object of her search.
She stopped finally, and looked at me. “You know – hot. I like it when de air is t’ick like today. Makes me feel like I’m back home.”
She didn’t say where back home was, and I didn’t ask, but from the sound of her, I figured it was somewhere between the Florida Keys and the coast of South America. Then she added something else, something completely nonsensical, and my ineffectual WASP self tried desperately to decipher a garbled speech that hinted at French mixed with the uneven sounds of a mechanical voice changer. I stared at her lips, almost willing them to translate the words for me.
When she caught me watching her mouth, she smiled. She had one dead tooth in the top row, a little darker than the rest, and her lips were dry, like she had just run or walked very fast to catch this ride. I wanted immediately to wet them. The thought made me weak.
“Yeah, hot,” I replied feebly, wiping at my forehead. Suddenly the bus came to an unexpected halt, and a car horn blasted to the right of us somewhere. The woman finally sat down, sliding in next to me, her hips and ample thighs mashing up against mine. She set her bag on the floor between her feet and turned in my direction. I nervously focused straight ahead, uncomfortable yet rather pleased that she’d chosen to share my seat. There wasn’t another person in our section of the bus – lots of other empty spots she could have picked.
“You must be ovaheatin’ in dat tie an’ jacket.” She shook her head with pity, and reached over to grab hold of the silk knot at the base of my throat, muttering more gnarled words that from their tone and intonation sounded like salty expletives. She loosened the tie, then patted me on the chest, and declared, “Dere you go. Now don’t dat feel better?”
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