The Syntax of Seduction

by Carlos Malenkov

  She had a pockmarked face and a big fat ass. She was ungainly and lacking in social skills. Never mind that she was warm, loving, and, somewhere underneath it all, recklessly passionate. At 38 she was still a virgin.

  Her last attempt at a relationship, some years back, had been a disaster. Stanley ("call me Studley") had seemed to like her all right, but was ashamed to be seen with her in public. "My buds'd have a shit fit if they saw me hanging around with a fat chick," he admitted.

  "My girlfriends would have shit fit too, if they saw me hanging around with a musclebound moron like you," she laughed, "so I guess we have something in common after all."

  It ended on a lonely country road, when he tried to "persuade" her to give him head. "It's my way or the highway, girlie." Two hours it took her to walk back to civilization.

  Tilda was older and wiser now, but that didn't diminish her loneliness, her desperate craving for simple human touch. She needed someone who would caress her hair, look her in the eye and tell her she was special. Someone who would cherish her inner beauty. Someone who would care.

  "A good man is hard to find . . . " Wasn't there a pop tune like that once upon a time? For a woman in her late thirties damn near any kind of man is hard to find. All the "good" ones have long since married or settled into longterm relationships. All that are left are . . . the leftovers. The misfits and rejects and losers. She certainly belonged in one or more of those categories.

  Maybe . . . just maybe it was time for a change in strategy. If suitable men in her age group were scarce, then what about . . . younger men. Men in their late twenties. Men in their early twenties. Men just barely of legal age. Hell, even some of those eighteen-year-old kids fresh out of high school were starting to look mighty good.

  So, what did she have to offer to a younger man? Experience? She really didn't have a whole lot of that. Well, maturity . . . acceptance . . . warmth. And what was it a young guy wanted after all? A combination mother and lover. She'd give it her best shot.

  First priority was the minor matter of acquiring expertise in the art and science of lovemaking. Tilda began by reading the classics on the subject: the Kama Sutra, Richard Burton's translation of the Perfumed Garden, and Alex Comfort's The Joy of Sex. These dealt mostly with different positions and variations of intercourse. There was a marked scarcity of detail in the turgid prose, and a total absence of the esoteric gems of wisdom she had expected. "There's not a great deal that books can teach me," she concluded.

  Where to turn to, then? Well gosh, why not Aunt Karen? Even at the ancient age of sixty, she was still the black sheep of the family. During Tilda's childhood she'd often heard her parents whispering about Karen's alleged escapades with various boyfriends and paramours. Quite a racy reputation she had.

  "Aunt Karen, I seem to have a teensy little problem. I'm trying to jump-start my love life, but I'm totally ignorant of the mechanics of it. Yes, of course there are gazillions of books on the subject, but what can I learn from just reading?"

  "When it comes to the erotic arts, sad to say, books are pretty much a waste of time. Ah, Matilda, there is so much I could teach you, so much pain I'd like to spare you. Unfortunately, it's all too true that pain is the great teacher. Probably the best I can do is give you the the benefit of my own limited experience, then send you on your way. And, oh yes, please call me Kari, won't you? I simply despise 'Karen.'"

  "Any help you could give me, Auntie, I'd appreciate. I haven't had much luck with men my own age or older, so I've been thinking about younger men, much younger men. Does that knock you out of your socks?"

  "It would take a great deal more than that to shock me, my child. I've seen and done things that would chill you to the very marrow. It just happens that I was a member of the notorious Dr. Abelian's inner circle. You might have heard of him -- the man who claimed that 'orgone' energy, the power released by sex, was the key to eternal youth.

  "Oddly enough, Matilda, Abelian discovered that virginal males are the richest respositories of that particular fundamental force of nature. A sexual connection with an inexperienced young man, one whose emotions are freshest and rawest and unmuted, liberates a veritable torrent of orgone energy at the culmination of the act of love. The youthening and age-retardant effects of the orgone radiation affect everyone in the immediate vicinity."

  "And that's why so many older women are taking young lovers nowadays, Aunt Kari? For the rejuvenating effect? I assume this also works for older men with young girlfriends."

  "As it happens, my dear girl, having sex with a virgin female actually reverses the orgone energy flow. This causes the male partner to age more rapidly, to his utter dismay, no doubt. But yes, women in their thirties and upward can slow the aging process by 'breaking in' virgin males. Do you need proof? Look at me. Look closely."

  Aunt Kari unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled off her bra. She had smooth, unlined skin and her firm breasts showed not the slightest trace of wrinkles or sag.

  "You still doubt me, child?"

  As Tilda stood frozen, staring in shock with her mouth gaping open, Kari vigorously scrubbed off layers of pancake makeup from her face.

  "My gosh, Auntie, you could pass for my younger sister! I can't flippin' believe it."

  "It's all too true, Matilda. Absorbing regular doses of orgone energy keeps my face and body at a physiological age of twenty-five."

  "Auntie, you mean you -- you mean the wild gossip about you is . . . true?"

  "Don't rush to judgment, Matilda. Don't you realize that your own parents are of my own generation? I just happen to know a few of the crazy things they themselves did as they were coming of age. They didn't call us the 'Free Love and LSD Generation' for nothing.

  "To answer your question -- I have indeed taken 18-year-old boys as lovers, and not just for the rejuvenating effects. Quite frankly, I enjoy their youthful zest for life and their untainted enthusiasm for sex . . . their uninhibited horniness, to be disgustingly crude about it. 'Boy toys' indeed."

  "Why, Auntie, no!" Tilda snorted. "And just where do you go on your cradle-robbing raids? Bars? Dance clubs? You maybe make like the Phantom of the Opera and skulk around pool halls?"

  "Do you have any plans for tonight, Matilda? If not, I invite you to accompany me on a cradle-robbing raid, as you so aptly put it."

  Tilda and her Aunt Kari were sitting in the back row, listening attentively to a sloppily-dressed young fellow expounding with evangelical fervor on the glories of his favorite computer operating system.

  "What a bunch of weirdos," Tilda whispered across to Kari. "No wonder they're virgins. No self-respecting woman would look twice at one of these geeks."

  "Forget the clothes and hairstyles. Observe their firmly-muscled young bodies. Just look at those tightly-packed buns. It makes my ancient juices flow thinking about that sweet meat!"

  Tilda was starting to redden with embarrassment as the speaker continued his sermon.

  " . . . holding back the satanic avalanche of sludge from Redmond, Washington. Only Linux can save the world from . . . "

  These guys did take their computing seriously. It was like a religion to them. But Tilda was losing interest fast. In fact, she was having trouble keeping her eyes open . . .

  " . . . And this is Lonnie," her aunt was saying. Tilda jolted awake. "He noted your intense interest in his 'satanic sludge' speech, and thinks he'd like to get better acquainted."

  "Hell-hello, Lonnie. I was entranced by what you were saying. Really. And yes, I do believe you can save the world. Youthful enthusiasm, not to mention technical knowhow, can move mountains."

  "Uh, yes, uh, I'm pleased to, uh, meet you, ma'am. Your, uh, sister here mentioned that you'd, uh, like a demo of the programs some of our members have written. I'd be, uh, happy to, uh . . . "

  "Lonnie," Kari broke in, "would you be so kind as to accompany us home and show us? You needn't worry about me jumping your bones, ha, ha. Matilda here will be more than happy to protect your honor."

&
nbsp; An hour later, Kari was carefully unbuttoning Lonnie's shirt. "That's a dangerous-looking pocket protector, young fellow. You're trying to make a fashion statement with it, I presume."

  His answer came out as a strangled gasp, as her hand, which had been gently caressing his crotch, suddenly clenched shut. "That's right, my sweet, no need to bother with words. Your function to stay upright and do what mamma says." She helped him out of his pants.

  "All right, Matilda. He's ready. You can come in now."

  Tilda knocked softly and gingerly opened the door to the bedroom. She had on a diaphanous nightgown with nothing underneath.

  "Look, Matilda," Kari said. She was holding a small transparent cylinder directly in front of the bulge in Lonnie's underwear. The device was pulsating with a faint blue-green glow.

  "This is a virgin detector. Yes, really. Inside this container is a solution of finely ground-up electrically-charged particles of manganese dioxide crystals suspended in glycerine. It activates and glows in the near proximity of a male virgin's erection. That certainly seems to be the case here, as you've no doubt noticed.

  "Now, Lonnie, my good fellow, very shortly we'll be relieving you of the burden of your virginity. We require your consent, of course. If you have any reservations about this procedure, I'd be glad to help you get back into your clothes and drive you home."

  In answer, Lonnie buried his head between Kari's breasts. He was sobbing softly, but his hands were stealthily creeping around toward her buttocks.

  "Naughty, naughty. We'll get to that later. Meanwhile, your virginity belongs to Matilda. She's a virgin, too, you see, and something very interesting happens in a double-virgin hookup . . . under special circumstances, of course.

  "Now lie down on the bed, Matilda, on your left side, and pull your knees partway toward your chest. You lie down behind her, Lonnie. That's a good fellow. Clasp her around the thighs. You'll gently, very gently, enter her from behind. She has already applied lubrication, so after you break through her hymen, the going will be smooth and easy. Ready?"

  The virgin detector emitted a bright blue flash at the very instant that Matilda cried out as Lonnie entered her. Then it went dark, as it was no longer in the presence of a virgin. Kari bathed in the afterglow of the actinic orgone pulse that had saturated and envigorated every cell of her tired, aging flesh.

  Some minutes later, the two ex-virgins lay interlocked in a lovers' embrace. Kari found the scene touching, but her own resurgent physical desires could no longer be denied. "Matilda, you may get dressed now. Your presence here is no longer required. Lonnie and I have some unfinished business to attend to."

  On her way out, Tilda heard Aunt Kari ask Lonnie whether he had ever fantasized about fucking a woman in the ass. This certainly had been an eventful day.

  "Damn, Tilda, you're looking good. Your face has cleared up and you've done something nice with your hair. You could pass for ten years younger. If only it weren't for that enormous ass of yours . . . "

  "Yes, Sandi, it's marvelous what a little loving can do for the complexion. And my hair, oh yes, my hair. I sit and sort through memories for hours, running the brush through my hair, thinking, sighing, remembering his hand fondling that huge ass of mine, that huge, huge ass that he can't get enough of."

  "Listen, girlfriend. I sit alone in that big, empty house at night, and here you are with men swarming all over you like flies on shit. All my life I've gotten what I wanted. Always. I was Homecoming Queen and even won a few beauty contests in my better days. Now I'm in my late 30's and I'm competing with geeky sluts and fat, ugly hags -- no offense intended -- for quality men, and coming out second best. It's just . . . not . . . fair."

  "Fair, you say? Fair? I despise people with a sense of entitlement. You're a pathetic little whiner, Sandi, and you've never really amounted to much, and never will. That's the bad news. The good news is that as long as you keep your mouth shut and your legs spread, you'll probably do just fine. Just don't try to escape from your cozy little niche in the general scheme of things or you'll get hurt . . . badly."

  "Thanks, Tilda, you sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself. Where would I be without you?"

  "Think nothing of it. After all, what are friends for?"

  * * *

  FAT

  She peeked over her shoulder at the cruel wardrobe mirror. The new jeans more or less fit, but, oh, those gigantic globes jutting out like basketballs. That huge ass of hers ruined everything. Everything. Too fat!

  Jenna was just too damn fat. Even on her big-boned 5'10" frame, 280 pounds was way too much payload, and much of the weight was below the waist and concentrated especially in that enormous, pear-shaped ass. Just think, she measured an unbelievable 58 inches around the hips!

  She had been dieting all her life it seemed. Nothing helped. The pounds gradually accumulated and they stuck.

  A couple of Jen's friends had had finally opted for the magic bullet -- bariatric surgery -- the "fat girl operation." They had slimmed down fast after that, all right, but, at what cost? Imagine having most of your stomach tied off or outright amputated. Imagine being unable to eat anything more than mini-portions at meals, and still suffering from chronic vomiting or diarrhea -- take your pick -- according to what kind of bypass the surgeon installed. Imagine the significant risk of medical complications, not to mention shortened lifespan. Imagine mutilating yourself just because friends and family and the general public expect you to look like a supermodel. She had just three words for that -- NO EFFIN' WAY!

  And yet . . . imagine not being taunted by strangers every time you go out on the street. Imagine having a boyfriend to share your life with. Imagine being like everyone else and living like a normal person.

  This guy knew the score. Rubens truly appreciated beautiful female flesh. Looking up at the paintings, Jen wished she had lived in the seventeenth century, so her body would attract admiration, not derision. If only . . .

  "Remarkable, isn't it?"

  Jen jumped at the sound. The man behind her looked barely out of his teens. He stood a full six inches shorter than her. Skinny as a rail, too. Kind of cute, though.

  "Mister, I'm sorry if I blocked your view -- "

  "No, it's perfectly all right. Better than all right, ma'am. Your presence here seems to actually enhance the paintings. Somehow, you fit right into this ambience. It's as if you were the proud embodiment of all the women on the canvas."

  "What? You mean because I'm fat like they are? WATCH IT, LITTLE MAN. I could stomp you flat before you knew what hit you."

  "Milady, if you stomped me flat, not only would it cause me at least middling discomfort, but it would deprive me of the opportunity to explain how much of the radiance, the luminous serenity, the classic beauty you share with these women who walked the earth in a far nobler age. Rubens might well have immortalized you, too, had you lived in that particular time and place. . . . "

  "CUT THE CRAP!"

  He reddened and fell silent.

  "I don't know if this is some kind of creative pickup line or -- "

  "Or what? Can't you simply accept an unfeigned compliment? Please! Tell me if I'm wasting my time. Am I speaking from the heart to a brainwashed slave of pop culture, to a woman who hates her body, who hates herself for being gloriously fat?"

  It was her turn to redden.

  "And who the bloody hell are you to impose your unwanted company on me, buddy boy? As if I needed your, or anyone else's compliments."

  "Allon Markov, at your service, milady. My friends call me Lonnie." He smiled and bowed deeply from the waist. "I regret having angered you and will immediately remove my wretched self from your presence if that would restore your harmony."

  She paused, then held up both hands, palms forward. "No need, no need. We've both expressed our feelings, and I find you possess at least the bare rudiments of culture. I do believe I can tolerate your company at least a few moments longer. I'm Jenna Trepper. My friends call me Jen."

 
; "Jen, pleased to meet you. Would you permit me to give you a guided tour of the exhibits?"

  "I think I would like that."

  Despite her momentary flare of rage at the unexpected interloper, Jen had felt a rush of warmth at being the object of attention -- no, admiration -- of a man. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened.

  She couldn't believe it. She was actually starting enjoy the company of this sawed-off little pipsqueak. He had to tilt his head up to look her in the eye and she must weigh easily double what he did. Not to mention that he had to be -- what -- ten or fifteen years younger than she was. Yet, she felt some sort of weird . . . attraction to him. The way he looked at her made her feel . . . desired . . . even beautiful.

  "Thank you for a lovely evening, Jen."