The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  YOU'RE A BIG GIRL NOW

  She had finally broken into the big time. The recording contract with GMG was starting to bring in decent money and three movie studios were bidding on her life story. Not too shabby for a lingerie salesgirl turned rock star. On stage. Live. There she be! Beltin' it out fo' all she worth. Shakin' dat skinny ol' booty. Do it, girl! ALEXXIA!

  At 5'11" she weighed an anorexic 108 pounds, and her enormously long legs were her trademark. It took constant starvation dieting and two hours of daily workouts to keep in shape. Phat love! Monster love! That's what I been living for. Phat love! Monster love! Only you that I adore. Phat love! Monster love! Wrap that bod aroun' me now. Phat love! Monster love! My puss-puss will show you how. PHAT LOVE!

  The health checkup should have been routine. But the blood tests showed elevated liver enzyme levels. "Nothing to worry about," Doc Keldysh told her. "Just to make sure, though, we'll run a few more tests, and maybe a CAT scan."

  Nothing to worry about??? A CAT scan? Geezus, twenty-seven years old and she was knocking at death's door!!!

  "The good news is that it's not life-threatening."

  Alexxia nearly fainted.

  "Unfortunately, you seem to have developed a fairly serious thyroid disorder, possibly as a result of the nutritionally deficient diet you went on, and against my advise I might add. This could lead to rather striking metabolic changes."

  "What kind of changes?"

  "Others with similar conditions have manifested significant weight gains and accumulations of body fat in the breasts and buttocks."

  "Fat!!! That would ruin me!"

  "As it happens, fat storage in the adipose tissues is an ancient survival trait in the human species. Thousands of years ago, homo sapiens lived under feast or famine conditions. Only those of our distant ancestors able to gorge on available food and accumulate massive body fat deposits managed to survive, and they passed down the genes for that tendency. Everyone else starved."

  "But that doesn't make sense any more, doc. There's plenty of food for everyone, at least in civilized countries, and anyway . . . FAT IS DISGUSTING!" Her voice had risen to a shriek.

  At 140 pounds, Alexxia had developed classically feminine contours. She was wearing a 36C bra and her fanny was plumping up nicely. For the first time in her life she had round hips, and her spidery legs had filled out. Even cutting her daily nutritional intake below 800 calories and lengthening her exercise periods hadn't slowed her steady weight gain. The less she ate, the more maddeningly efficient her damn metabolism became.

  Fat! Disgustingly fat! She didn't dare let herself be photographed any more. Her records sales were plummeting and the movie studios had lost interest. Her agent wasn't returning her calls. Worst of all, Ronnie had dumped her. He thought fat chicks were disgusting. And he was right, damn him!

  At 220 pounds, she had a distressingly ripe figure. Even Rubens might have found her a bit much. The only way she dared go out in public was disguised in dark glasses and wearing baggy, shapeless clothes. She hadn't cut a new recording in six months and had been celibate almost as long. Men took one look at her mega-butt and guffawed.

  At 290 pounds, the world looked bleak. Eating only a single miniscule meal of brown rice a day (350 calories) and jogging and bicycling to exhaustion kept her fit, all right. She could still run a mile in a little over five and three-quarters minutes and could reel off 75 pushups without getting short of breath. Her weight had finally stabilized, but it would not -- damn it! -- would not drop.

  Having big breasts wasn't so bad, but those fifty-six inch hips! And that gigantic ass! She didn't dare show that ass in public, even in concealing, baggy clothes.

  The worst of it was that her sex drive hadn't in the least diminished. If anything, it had increased. And masturbation was a pitiful substitute for someone to caress, to hold into her arms, to accept into her body. Just having someone to talk to, to awaken next to -- that was what she missed the most.

  A desperate enough woman will do almost anything to ease the pain of loneliness. Even looking up an old acquaintance years later. Even looking up an old acquaintance she had once utterly despised.

  She found his e-mail address by sheer accident in a software developers' chat room. It figured. He had always been a nerd, even back then at Calvin Coolidge High. For an entire year that pathetic piece of shit had followed her around like a homeless mongrel, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. She had tossed him a scrap of attention from time to time, just enough to keep him on the leash. A word or two, a casual half-smile once in a while was all it took. An asshole the guy had been. A complete zero.

  The poor dear. She knew that even after all these years he'd still be her abject slave. Good enough. His company would be better than nothing, and she had nothing now. And maybe she'd even let him share her bed . . . if he begged.

  Date: Thu, 18 Nov 2004 22:44:00 -0700 (PST) From: M. Gardens To: alexxia@alexxmuzzic.com Subject: Re: A Blast From the Past

  By golly, you're the absolute last person I ever expected to hear from. Sandra Chesler! You were the nicest looking babe in the senior class, all right. But who'd have ever guessed that you'd become a mega rock star.

  Well, in answer to your questions, I've never married, and right at the moment I seem to be between girlfriends. Unencumbered, you might say. Sure, it might be interesting to get together and catch up on what's been happening since way back when. Yeah, why the hell not?

  M.

  "Is that you, Marvin? Come right on in."

  "Well, uh . . . yeah. Sandy, uh . . . "

  "They call me Alexxia now. Alexx to my friends. I'll take your jacket. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"

  "N-no. It's just that -- "

  "I know. I don't look quite like you expected, do I? Things happen to people, you know. Not always good things. I seem to have developed this weird medical condition, but hey, otherwise I'm in perfect health. Feel fine. Never felt better in my life, actually. But, enough about me. What's been going on with you, kid?"

  "Been busy, actually. The shop landed a couple of big contracts and we've all been working long hours. Lucky to get free tonight, but when you make the rules, you get to break them, too."

  "Make the rules?"

  "Yeah, seems like I'm one of the managing partners. It gets me a few privileges now and then."

  "Hey, great! I always knew the world couldn't keep a guy with your brains down. You're sure you don't want a beer?"

  "Uh, thanks anyway. It's getting late and, uh . . . "

  What's with this jerk, she was thinking. Ten years ago he couldn't keep from drooling every time he saw my butt wiggle. Now, though . . . he probably finds me repulsive. Even a social outcast like him. There's just no hope for a bloated slug like me.

  "Marvin, I was hoping, well, you know, that you might still find me interesting after all these years, and that maybe we could get to know each other again, and -- "

  "Let me tell you straight out, Sandy, or Alexx, or whatever you'd like to be called. When you knew me back in school, I was at the bottom of the heap. Rock bottom. I couldn't get a date to save my life. No girl would look twice at me. It was like I had leprosy. Now, though . . .

  ". . . well, the last time I checked, I was worth maybe eighty million. I've been doing weight training for a couple of years and I'm told I have a pretty hot bod. And, as for making it with women -- I've had so many of them lately that their faces blur into one other. Sex is no more meaningful to me than a good restaurant meal. So, it looks like the shoe is on the other foot now.

  "So, tell me, Sandy, why would I want to hook up with a grossly overweight over-the-hill has-been? As a bizarre joke? A novelty? A perversion, like maybe doing it with a sheep? Yeah, doing you would be a real hoot! Just the thought of sticking myself into a bloated slug turns my stomach. Kind of like shagging a jelly donut, huh? Tell you what, though. Get down on your knees and beg for it, and maybe I'll be moved to an act of charity an
d let you have a mercy fuck."

  Rage boiled up inside her. That slimy piece of shit! She'd kick his ass right out the door, she would. But, wait. She could always do that later. Later . . . after he'd made love to her. Love!

  Alexxia got down on her knees and begged.

  The sight of the weeping woman kneeling at his feet -- head hanging low and totally submissive -- fired up his lust. And, oh! The flowing curves of that gargantuan ass sticking up into the air . . . Marvin scrambled down onto his knees behind her and flipped up her skirt. "Spread your legs," he said.

  "It's no damn good. You're so loose down there it's like fucking a bowl of soup. We'll have to try something else."

  Red-faced and doubly humiliated, she pawed through the medicine cabinet, searching for the vaseline jar. Even her pussy was useless!

  Alexxia was on her back, spine jacked up at an angle, her legs raised high over Marvin's shoulders. He was fumbling around, trying to position the head of his cock at the entrance to her ass.

  "Come on, gimme some help down below there. Grab your butt cheeks and pull 'em apart. Wider. That's a good girl. All right! Here we go!"

  He was deep inside her now, and she felt the stretch and the greasy friction as he thrust high up and violated her secret chamber. Ass-fucked. She was being ass-fucked by Marvin the asshole! The twisted pervertedness -- the sheer dirtiness of it all -- corroded the last remnants of her pride, her sense of self, her very personhood. In the darkest depths of despair, a small voice within her cried out, and she surrendered herself completely to those mischievous daemons and demigods who toy with the strands of Fate.

  And an immense blast of heat surged up inside her as the PASSION exploded forth from her gut. HER THIGHS THUNDERED . . . and . . . THE WORLD ROCKED.

  Every window in the house had shattered and the lights were out. Stray wisps of smoke were drifting out of the circuit breaker box and some of the water pipes had burst. Car alarms were wailing in the street.

  Marvin lay curled in the fetal position under an old quilt, mumbling to himself and whimpering. He hadn't moved for hours. He had bitten partway through his tongue and there were smears of dried blood on the left side of his face. Alexxia wondered if she should call an ambulance.

  Nowadays Sandy is married to a balding, middle-aged schoolteacher in a small town in upstate New York. Their sex life is fairly conventional, and they never, never engage in ass play. They've been talking about adopting another child. She's just one more fat, frowsy suburban hausfrau, and that suits her just fine. Her life as Alexxia, the rock star, is only a distant memory.

  Marvin was conditionally released from the psychiatric ward last year. He has resumed part-time duties as assistant chief software architect at Monoposoft Industries. At every opportunity he sings the praises of Thorazine.

  * * *

  THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH

  And then I'm softly touching you, gently caressing your lips with mine, holding you so very close.

  I'm a man of letters. A scribe. In the olden days a practitioner of the craft would have been writing letters and filling out official papers for illiterate peasants and laborers. In this age of computers and the Internet I write personal ads and letters for semi-literate software engineers and tongue-tied technical types who can't express in words their deepest feelings toward a woman. Thus did my heart, ice-bound, melt in your warmth. Anew, I live encircled in your arms.

  My clients pay five dollars per word, and no one has yet asked for a refund. After all, I sell words of power, the power to change minds, bring tears to the eyes, and unleash mighty emotions.

  Let me tell you a story. This took place back when I was just starting out, some thirty-odd years ago.

  One of my first customers was a particularly difficult case. The fellow had just turned 18 and was still a virgin. He was an absolute disaster -- catastrophic acne, ears that stuck out like an elephant, clumsy and uncoordinated, and with the world's worst case of body odor. Not to mention having a terminal case of social ineptness. The only thing he had going for him was inherited wealth. Money out the wazoo.

  I took him on as a test case, a challenge. If I could help this sorry specimen of humanity find someone to produce an heir to the family fortune, then I could help anyone. Not to mention that it would establish my reputation once and for all.

  "First off, Miles, shower regularly. That'll enable you to get within hailing distance of a woman without her running and screaming for help. (It also happens to be a matter of my own personal comfort while I'm in your presence, guy.) Sure, there's nothing wrong with the natural smell of sweat . . . unless it's week-old, rancid sweat. And, oh yes, using mouthwash once in a while wouldn't kill you, either.

  "Now, as to the wording of that ad, are you absolutely sure you want to mention the matter of, well, anal sex? Isn't that getting a little ahead of yourself? First you want to get a girlfriend, and maybe worry about what the fun you'll have later."

  Back then, ass play hadn't gone mainstream yet. It was still ultra kinky -- a perversion -- and according to conventional wisdom, anyone who liked that sort of thing had to be secretly gay. . . .

  He insisted. It had to do with some kind of personal fetish. Something about gaining total power over a woman, owning her, body and soul. Come sail with me Upon the sea Of heart and mind And you shall find A love that binds.

  We'll navigate Yon narrow strait To lands unknown Up windward pass Into your . . . soul.

  It was a rather roundabout way of trolling for back-passage sex, but at least it more or less rhymed. He paid my fee and took out a two-time insertion in the Personals column of a well-known weekly.

  "Hello, Mr. Wordsmith. I got a response from a woman who's interested in me. Wants me to write her a letter telling all about myself. Needs to be persuaded that I'm the right one for her. So, how much extra if you take care of that for me, too?"

  Complications. It seemed that my pimply teenage ugly duckling millionaire needed extra services. Well, why not? Money was hard to come by back in those days.

  Dearest Kindred Soul,

  Do I long to gaze into your eyes, breathe your scent, caress your cheek . . . and melt in your arms? Do I wish share with you the sheer joy of just being alive? Does the eagle rejoice in its flight and do the stars burn in the deep velvet of the night?

  Touching, connecting -- that furious spark when two become One. It's so much more than the joining of the flesh, you know. And the most intimate form of the Loving Act is what was hinted at, drawn in faintest outline in my clumsily worded attempt at poesy.

  Am I financially secure? Let me tell you a few things about being born to wealth. It means never knowing want or unfulfilled desire, and yet that makes ever so much more precious the first flower of a woman's passion. Now, that is true wealth. And it can't be bought.

  Take me as I am with all my warts and blemishes. I'm human, and so, I imagine, are you. Gloriously, beautifully human. I could learn to cherish you in time. And you, perhaps you might find me worthy, too.

  Yours in hope,

  Ugly Duckling

  "Hello again, Mr. Wordsmith. She wants to meet me in the flesh. What do I do now?"

  "Why, meet her, of course." You fool!

  "I'm not sure I can deal with that. What would you charge to handle it for me?"

  As I said, money was scarce back then, and I agreed to give it my best shot.

  An interesting problem. Stand in for lover boy, win fair lass, but not for myself. Now, how to go about this?

  Salutations, My Lovely.

  I must confess that in my eagerness to caress you with my eyes I have neglected to mention one minor detail. Tragic misfortune has left its scars on my features, and although I am told it lends me something of the look of a dashing scoundrel, nonetheless vanity forbids me revealing my naked face to you all too soon. Alas, I must, for our first meeting at least, remain shrouded. I shall wear a mask.

  A mask! I invite you to accompany me to the annual United Charities Masquer
ade Ball this following Saturday evening. Indeed, a masque!

  Your Duckling

  Fortunately, I had about the same height and build as the real Duckling. If I could somehow coax or entice My Lovely into developing affection for myself -- the impostor Duckling -- then presumably the real Duckling could take it from there. This was beginning to resemble a bad Victorian novel. And, sure enough, the plot was starting to thicken. People assume that a scholar, especially a word merchant such as myself, must be a shy, retiring man. That is not necessarily the case. Observe how well I can handle myself. . . .