" . . . well, we right away drove up to the nearest convenience store and bought half dozen state lottery tickets. I figured, why not, maybe reverse anal would do an extra-good job on jiggering the odds. And, guess what."
"What? You won?"
"Eighteen fucking thou, we won. Five out of six. And, it would have been a shitload more if 60 other people hadn't also picked those same numbers. And, we were only one off on the sixth. Just a hair shy of winning the Big Enchilada. Fifty-five fucking million."
"You have my sincerest sympathy."
"No need for sarcasm, Mick. And, I really do deserve sympathy. As it happens, Sandy ran off with every last cent of the $18,000. Last I heard she was somewhere on the coast making a career for herself as an entertainer. An honest-to-goodness rock star, if you can believe that shit. Only, she's calling herself Alexxia now. And, I'm flat fuckin' broke. In spite of my so-called luck."
"Hey, Julie. Let's assume for a moment that something really did happen, that somehow anal sex did alter your luck. But, you know, the flaw in all this is . . . Why now? Why you of all people? It seems to me that if ass-fucking buggers the odds, then someone would certainly have noticed by now. All those hetero couples throughout human history who ever tried sodomy and all the gays who've been sticking it up each other's asses, and nobody's ever parlayed it into gambling winnings? Sounds pretty damn unlikely to me."
"Unlikely? Mick, why don't you just come right out and say impossible? No, it's all a figment of my imagination. No, sodomy doesn't confer an evolutionary advantage. No, Alexander the Great, a practicing bisexual, wasn't a conqueror. No, Julius Caesar -- 'every woman's husband and every man's wife,' as one historian put it -- wasn't one of the finest military strategists of all time. No, Oscar Wilde wasn't the most famous playwright of his time. No, Arthur Rimbaud wasn't a great poet. And so on."
"Hey, fellow. Just taking the contrarian point of view. From my own experience I know how anal can enhance a person's life, above and beyond the sensual pleasure, I mean. And, you know that I know. We've known each other -- how long now? I'm your friend and confidante, after all. Me, Mick, the gay man everyone turns to for advice on matters relating to the gay life."
"Yeah, Mick, that's why I'm spilling my guts out to you. I think I'm on to something. Something potentially very big. And, I'm asking you for help."
"What kind of help?"
"Help in figuring this thing out. And, help in doing something about it. You see, there seems to be a kind of problem with all this. Every time I get on a lucky streak after anal sex, the luck is just a teeny bit flaky at the edges. I don't quite win big, or something happens that leaves a rotten taste in my mouth. There's got to be something wrong somewhere, or maybe I'm doing something ass-backwards."
"Sure, Jule. It does make a weird sort of sense, now that I think about it. Even those historical examples you cited were flawed. Alexander the Great gobbled up a huge empire, all right, but he died young. Caesar was stabbed in the gut by one of his trusted friends. Wilde ended up in the slammer -- disgraced, dishonored, and bankrupt. Rimbaud had a tormented life and died young. And, so on. Could be this is something you'd be better off leaving alone, guy. Quit while you're ahead, as the saying goes."
"Dammit, no! I'm not a quitter. Especially not when it comes to big bucks. And, you've probably figured out by now what I'm going to ask of you."
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it? And, as it happens, I'd be happy to oblige. More than happy."
Getting ass-fucked by a real cock, and a man who knew what to do with it was an eye-opening experience. Or, maybe an ass-opening experience, to be more precise. Mick's hard flesh felt warm and and vibrant, and somehow more alive than a silicone replica. Even through the condom, Julian could feel the special pulsating energy of anal sex. I'm being sodomized -- ass-fucked -- by a man, and I like it. Does that make me queer?
---
"A five million lottery payout! That's almost 2 big ones apiece, even after taxes. Or, it would have been, Mick. If only the damn IRS hadn't frozen the damn payment."
"Sorry about that, guy. It seems that I neglected to mention a minor glitch I'd had in my return a few years back. A little venture of mine that didn't quite work out, but the Feds were a bit peeved that I couldn't come up with a couple of dollars worth of back taxes and . . ."
"Shit! Well, nothing like trying again. What say this time bareback, since we've both tested clean for all the nasty bugs."
Now that had to count for something, Julian thought. Being able to actually feel your partner shoot his wad deep into you ought to stir up the good-luck daemons. It wasn't so much the feeling of wetness up in your gut as the knowledge that the man fucking you was squirting his jism up your plumbing, right up into your fundament. There was something disturbingly profound . . . and fundamental about that.
---
"So, we hit it big at the blackjack tables. Very nice. But, the casino manager calls us in for a quiet little talk and more or less implies that if we have any ideas about trying to cash in our chips, something very bad might happen. The management doesn't much care for cheaters, even cheaters clever enough to conceal how they had been cheating."
"Yeah, well, getting dealt two dozen blackjacks in a row does look a little suspicious, wouldn't you say?"
"Damn fuckin' luck. When it rains, it pours . . . and then your basement floods."
---
He needed a seven to fill out the inside straight. There was a shitload of chips in the pot and the guy calling himself Deuce, sitting across the table, was picking his nose and mumbling to himself. The other dude, One-Eyed Jack, looking like Captain Kidd with his black eye-patch, seemed to be quietly chuckling. What in the hell was so amusing?
This was the finals at the Nationwide Poker Shootout, and Julian could pocket a couple of million if he played it right. Those chumps thought that knowing the odds and how to read faces and body language gave them an edge. Well, he had a better edge. He had skewed the odds in his favor a while ago in the restroom off the lounge. Mick and he had taken turns plugging each other in the behind. Both cock and asshole were still a bit sore, and just thinking about it gave him a hardon. Well, maybe there'd be time for an encore later. Meanwhile, got to concentrate on the situation at hand, namely the hand at hand.
Seven of hearts! Call. Cards up. A straight beats three kings and two pairs. The other players were trading strange looks as they got up from the table. Half-hour break for lunch. Time enough for another session in the bathroom, maybe. But, no, he was tired and it was getting to be late in the afternoon. Anyhow, his ass was too sore.
---
There comes a time when everyone's luck finally runs out. Julian's time came when the Black Helicopters landed on his front lawn, flattening his black dahlias and smashing three ornamental flamingos.
The men in uniform were very insistent. He had no choice about accompanying them. And, of course, they were authorized to use any necessary force to prevent him from causing a disturbance. Or, so they said.
The cabin interior was quite luxurious. Julian could have sunk right into the plushly-upholstered bucket seat and relaxed . . . if only the shoulder and lap belts trussing him up so tightly didn't make him feel like a fattened calf being transported to the slaughter house.
---
There was an intolerable itch in the small of his back, but he couldn't move his arm to reach it. His wrists and ankles were manacled directly to the damn chair. The painfully intense light shining directly into his eyes made it impossible to see anything.
"We have been watching you for some time now, Julian. Unfortunately, you seem to have made quite a nuisance of yourself with your uncontrolled use of the Gift."
"Gift? What gift? And who the fuck are you guys anyhow? Kidnapping me and keeping me prisoner! Just wait till the police get a hold of you."
"The police, my dear Julian? We own the police. Who do you think runs things from behind the scenes, to keep the peons from fucking up the System too badly? Ye
s, fucking things up, just as as you've been doing these past few months."
"So, you're some kind of all-powerful secret cabal -- the invisible, enigmatic Rulers of the World? Ha! Looks to me like you're just one more jumped-up bunch of crooks. Lawyers, bankers, politicians, and thieves. And kidnappers, to boot."
"My dear fellow, we will take into account your deranged state of mind and disregard your insults. The UN Quadrilateral Commission for the New World Order has not, in fact, kidnapped you -- just taken you into protective custody. We've removed you from circulation temporarily . . . until you can be trained to behave in a more responsible manner. Unbeknownst to you, your disruptive self-centered behavior has caused untold mischief, and endangered not only your own miserable person, but impacted on long-term projects affecting the international financial community. That cannot be allowed to go on."
---
Julian learned to restrict his use of the Gift. He had to. The alternative was having a sizable portion of his brain surgically removed.
Only one person in a hundred million has the Gift. The energy these "gifted" ones release during and after anal sex radiates Epsilon Uncertainty Waves. These distort the probability matrix in the immediate vicinity. It skews the odds and upsets the Natural Order of Things. And, of course, it unsettles certain people, the people who control the world's wealth and finances. . . .
Sooner or later, the odds always catch up with the individual who meddles with them. He starts having "accidents." His health deteriorates. He drifts away from friends and family and gradually becomes isolated. He slowly loses his will to live. It's a dangerous lifestyle. And, it's certainly not worth any temporary benefits.
Anal sex generates spontaneity, novelty, and variety. It brings into being new combinations of things. It freshens up the planetary ecology. . . .
It seems that the World-Mind needs to reboot itself every once in a while. When things get in a rut. When life gets too stale. When a major change is needed. But . . . what's best for the Ecosystem of Life as a whole isn't necessarily best for the individual. Unfortunately. And Bad Things eventually catch up with the Agents of Change -- the gifted few whose practice of anal sex distorts the odds.
Nowadays, Julian is a good boy. A very good boy. Except for a once-a-month closely-supervised visit from a certified sex therapist, he's totally celibate. He's not even allowed to masturbate without permission. And, getting his chastity belt unlocked for even a few minutes means filling out in triplicate all those multi-page forms . . .
THE TOKEN
Dave had heard the stories. See, there was this magic token that would let you make any woman in the world. All you had to do was hand her the token and she'd instantly flop over on her back and spread her legs for you. First, though, you had to get the token.
"Still don't believe me, chump? Well, what about Jack Miller? Fat as a blimp, face uglier'n a toad's belly, and couldn't hold up his end of a conversation to save his worthless life. Just the same, he manages to crawl into Jocelyn's pants. Right purtiest woman in this corner of creation and she falls for the world's biggest bozo. Falls hard, too. Had to be the token, now, din't it?"
That damn token. It was just an urban legend, right? A myth. A friggin fairy tale. So why did all the guys talk about it as if it were real? And, how otherwise to explain all those weird happenings? All those classy women with repulsive slugs for boyfriends?
Down on his luck, Dave was. Since Marianne had dumped him a year or so back, he'd had a long and lonely dry spell. It wasn't that he was that bad looking or anything, just so damn shy. It was just plain hard chatting up a woman you'd just met, and getting to know her better was such a hassle. Man, if he only had that damn token . . .
It was sitting in the dirty display window of the rundown curios shop. Just an old brass New York City subway token. Pretty beat-up looking, too, with spots of corrosion and green crud. No, it couldn't be that token, not hardly, but still, it was a token. Dave paid the buck fifty the old geezer behind the counter wanted for it.
Sheeit! The guys would laugh their asses off if they found out. Yeah, he'd really been taken for a ride on that one. Paying good money for a magic token. Oh, well, a fellow could dream, couldn't he?
Speaking of dreaming . . . well, why not put the subway token under his pillow when he went to bed? Couldn't hurt, could it? All right now, make a wish. Wish I may, wish I might, get lucky with this token tonight. Well, at least the damn thing rhymes. Should be good for a wet dream, at least.
The dreams were strange. Beautiful women, half-naked and tantalizingly out of reach. Beckoning to him with lewd gestures, promising the most obscene pleasures if he'd only give them . . . the token. But, no, he had to hold on to it because otherwise something bad, something very bad would happen. He woke up in the middle of the night and the sheets were sticky with come. He was thirsty and his head hurt.
He saw her on the bus the next morning. She could be the one. Long, flowing blonde hair, dangerous curves, and a luminous smile. If only she'd smile for him that way. But, hey, that's why he had the token.
He got up from his seat and walked over to her. She eyed him suspiciously.
Now! Gotta be now, or I'll lose my damn nerve.
"Uh, lady, I have something for you."
Startled, she looked up and snarled, "Get away from me, you creep!."
He scuttled off, down the aisle, as far away from her as he could get. He sat down all the way in the back end of the bus. Shit! If he couldn't even get the token into her hand then it wouldn't work. Maybe he was going about this wrong.
Hmm. First, I maybe ought to first get to know a woman. Then, get her to trust me and feel secure enough in my company to take small gifts from me. After that, the token. Hey, this is beginning to sound like Relationships 101. . . .
He already knew her. For gosh sake, he said hello to Marlene every morning as he walked past the reception desk into the office. Lately, she had been looking up at him and smiling. Oh, and was that a special twinkle in her eye when she asked how he had been doing? Hey, what the hell. He'd buy her a bouquet of wildflowers one of these mornings on his way to work.
"Those are for me, Dave? For me? Oh my, how sweet!"
"Well, I'm glad you like them, but I gotta get to . . ."
"Now, don't you run away from me! I happen to think you're a special kind of guy and could be I've had my eye on you for a while now. Come on, make an effort. Get over that shyness of yours and do what you should have done months ago. Let me give you a hint: I'm free after work tomorrow and . . ."
The movie wasn't one that he ordinarily would have chosen. But, damn, he had almost forgotten how nice it was to be sitting next to a real live woman in a dark theater. When her warm hand slipped into his halfway through the main feature, the shivers started running up and down his spine. She liked him! Hot damn!
Dinner with her -- at a real restaurant, fuck those fast food joints! -- was a delight. ("I'll take the fried shrimp, and duck l'orange for the lady.") Food just tastes better when your girlfriend -- gotta love that word -- is sitting across from you with the candlelight sparkling in her eyes. They had so many things to talk about, so many things to discover about each other. Damn, this was exciting.
She gave him a quick peck on the lips at the door to her building. "Dave, I like you. I like you a lot. But, we need to get to know each other better and I need time to get used to having you as a boyfriend. I wouldn't feel comfortable inviting you up to my apartment just yet. You do understand, don't you?"
He understood, all right. He'd just have to be patient. Damn, how he hated that word. Gotta go through the whole song and dance of second date, maybe even third or fourth date before she drops her pants for me. Shit! And, here it's been so long since . . .
His hand closed on that disk of corroded metal in his pocket. Use it now? Why not? Take the shortcut. The bypass to paradise. Get a quick piece of ass and see what develops.
"Marlene, I've got something for you. A token of appreciation.
"
She reached out for it and bent to examine it in the dim light. Her eyes got a glassy look and she began to collapse in slow motion. Dave put his arm around her to hold her upright. "Keys. The door. Open it."
She was breathing shallowly and her face was pale. He turned the knob to the bedroom door and eased her down onto the bed. She lay there on her back, blinking, looking up at him. Her mouth was slowly opening and closing, as if she were trying to force words out but couldn't quite manage.
He flipped up her skirt and eased down her panties. Her crotch was shaved. Damn! Why he could just put himself into her, slide right into that waiting pussy and there was nothing to stop him. Nothing.
Afterwards, he straightened out her dress and covered her with the blanket. On his way out he happened to glance back. She was shaking a fist at him and there was a look of murderous hatred in her eyes. He quickly pulled the door shut behind him.
The Syntax of Seduction Page 23