FSF, October-November 2008

by Spilogale Authors

  "Next to the Web."

  "Better. The brassiere is itself a kind of web. It traps guys. It's a kind of Protocol. It restricts, restrains. It shapes and displays that which it conceals. It focuses the regard. It presents."

  "Well said,” she said, adjusting her cups, first one and then the other. “Plus it keeps the green light on."

  We both looked at the TV. 07865.

  "Were it to come off,” she said, “the light would go red and they would all be gone.” She reached out for a cigarette.

  "I wouldn't miss them,” I said. I gave her one and lit it, being careful not to touch her fingers with my own.

  "I might,” she said. “They're paying for my XLinteL99."

  We talked of sports and sonnets and she saw me out at five.

  I felt my clients departing, all eighteen of them. I still could feel the glow.

  * * * *

  Eula-Cam.

  I scrolled through her Free Stills until I was gone. She was on the couch, alone, in bra and panties, putting on lipstick. The label said Deep Rose.

  I clicked. She was reaching behind her back with long fingers to unhook her bra.

  I clicked again and I was at the end of the Free Stills.

  END USER LICENSE AGREEMENT.

  I almost clicked on I Agree. Then I thought of the seven thousand other guys. She was taking it off for them.

  I was beginning to hate them, every one.

  * * * *

  The next day she was late, for the first time. “Where you been?"

  "A girl likes to shop,” she said.

  "On the house,” said Lou, setting down two glasses, one white, one red.

  "Down to seven,” she said, checking out my Fauxlex as I lit her Camel. “They're jumping ship. And yet, you're back."

  "They're a fickle bunch,” I said. “They like excitement. Nudity. Nipples at least."

  "And you don't?"

  "I'm a romantic, remember? Intimacy's my thing."

  "Hard candy's mine,” she said, puckering her lips. “That's what I was shopping for."

  I followed her upstairs. She folded her Burberry over the chair and let me watch her walk across the room in bra and panties. It was a different bra. I could see her nipples through it.

  Round little shadows. “Doesn't count,” she said, looking down approvingly. “As long as they're covered."

  "Protocols,” I said. Her panties were sheer too, except for the little triangle that barely covered her pubic hair. Even with just eight clients—no, nine—I was glowing like a stove.

  "Now they're back,” she said, leaning over me to glance at my Fauxlex. “What is it with you guys and panties, anyway?” She sat down on the couch with her feet pulled up underneath her and her knees just slightly apart.

  "Honey, do you have to ask?” I thought that was clever.

  Instead of answering, she closed her eyes and leaned way back.

  "It's the little triangle,” I said. White silk, or something very like it, pulled tight between her thighs. “It's like the pubic hair I'm not allowed to see. It says, Here."

  "Well said,” she said, lifting one leg and hugging her knee to her breast. The triangle narrowed to a soft white lane that led down out of sight. The silk road.

  Her eyes were closed. Mine were wide. I felt a glow.

  "They present. Like the brassiere, they display what they conceal,” I said. “There's a certain intimacy in the presentation."

  "And in the regard as well,” she said, her eyes still closed.

  I supposed I should be flattered.

  "Indeed, you should,” she said. She opened her eyes and reached out for a Camel, carefully, and we shared the wine and talked of cabbages and kings.

  The silk road faded in the failing light.

  At five she showed me out, and I felt my clients fleeing. All but one. He stayed with me till six, and so did the glow.

  Eula Cam.

  I clicked through Free Stills, and there she was in bra and panties, seeing me out. Closing the door with the fingertips I had never touched.

  I could almost hear her saying, “Tomorrow, then?"

  Tomorrow, then.

  I clicked again and those same fingertips were inside the waistband of her panties, about to slip them down.

  I clicked again and the EULA filled the screen.

  I wasn't even tempted to click on I Agree. It wasn't what I wanted.

  I clicked BACK until I found her putting on her lipstick.

  Deep Rose.

  I left it there. What I wanted was to read her lips with mine.

  * * * *

  "What's with the hard candy,” I said. “Are you trying to quit smoking?"

  "Hardly.” She reached for my Camels, tapping the pack on the bar. “A girl likes to have something to suck."

  "Sorry, guys,” said Lou. “I got a complaint. You'll have to take the cigarettes outside."

  "We have to talk,” I said, outside. “I'm thinking of quitting my job."

  "I've been thinking too,” she said, in the elevator, looking up at me. I leaned over to kiss her but she stepped back, just one step.

  The elevator door opened.

  "Don't do anything rash,” she said, glancing at my Fauxlex. “You still have one client left."

  I was feeling rash. “I'm feeling rash,” I said.

  "It's a sort of new feeling, isn't it,” she said, hanging the Burberry carefully over its chair. “For such as us."

  I nodded. She was wearing little pink panties, and the not-so-little pink bra. The original again. I sat down on the rug and checked the TV.

  9865.

  "You could make them go away,” I said.

  "Too soon,” she said. She pointed at the TV: 9904. “My XLinteL99 is not quite paid for."

  "I can help,” I said. “How much do you owe?"

  "You're already helping,” she said, sitting down on the couch across from me. She opened her thighs to show me her little silk road.

  "I want to be alone with you,” I said. “Is that too much to ask?"

  "What about your cyberhosting job? You still have one client left."

  "I know how to get rid of him,” I said. I reached for her hand but she pulled it back. Teasing me?

  "Not so fast,” she said. “Look."

  We both looked. 10007.

  "Now we can talk alone."

  She reached behind her back to unhook her bra, the most intimate of moves. It would be ungentlemanly to say just what she showed me; and more ungentlemanly still to deny the glow they gave me.

  The light on the TV was green at 10011, 10012, then suddenly red. 00000.

  "Alone at last,” she said. “My XLinteL99 is finally paid off. Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?"

  "Read my lips,” I said, getting up from the rug. “I still have one client to get rid of. And I know how to do it."

  I reached for her hand but she pulled it back. “Not so fast,” she said. “I have something to show your last client. A little farewell gift. I want you to feel the glow."

  She slipped her fingertips under the waistband of her panties, just like in the still, and pulled them off. She lay back on the couch with her eyes closed. “You always said you were sort of a looker."

  I sat back down. Her very white thighs were opened, very wide.

  "You're something of a looker too,” I said. It was only one client, but the glow was strong.

  "I suppose I am,” she said. She reached out to take my hand and the glow was gone as my last client was bounced. Replaced by a stronger, more intimate glow.

  "I like this glow better,” I said, and I kissed her.

  And she kissed me. Our tongues played chase in her mouth and then in mine, and then—

  "What's this?” I said. Mumbled.

  She spit it out, delicately, into her hand.

  It was a chip. Why was I not surprised?

  "Double the pleasure,” she said, tossing it onto the rug. “And double the fun. Now come here."

&nbs
p; I came there.

  * * * *

  Five o'clock came and went. She put on her lipstick, a touch-up, and that was all. Deep Rose.

  "It's Rose,” I said. “Your name. I finally got it."

  "I was beginning to wonder,” she said, pulling on her panties and lighting a Camel, our last one. It was also white. She left off the little pink brassiere.

  Her not so little nipples were also pink. Wet pink now.

  "I guess we're both out of a job,” she said. “What now?"

  "You mean forever, or this evening?” I asked. I took the cigarette from her fingers, being careful to touch them as I did.

  "Both,” she said. “Let's start with this evening."

  "For that, my sweet Rose,” I said, “there are Protocols."

  For once she looked worried. “Protocols?"

  "Chinese or Thai?” I said. “Eat out or order in?"

  "Thai,” she said, smiling. “And I'd hate to have to dress for dinner."

  "I Agree,” I said, picking up the phone.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Poem: December 22, 2012 by Sophie M. White

  This wasn't supposed to happen.

  —

  I had climbing roses tattooed

  Down my spine

  And I got so many piercings

  My earlobes stretched

  Halfway to my shoulders.

  —

  I helped one neighbor's Chihuahua

  Get to another neighbor's Rottweiler

  And I loaned my garage

  To a death metal band.

  —

  But this wasn't supposed to happen.

  —

  The Mayans, Mother Shipton,

  And a handful of web sites said

  Yesterday's the Last Day,

  The Final Curtain, the END.

  Why shouldn't I have listened?

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Short Story: Whoever by Carol Emshwiller

  Carol Emshwiller's fiction first graced our pages some fifty-two years ago. Over the years, she has contributed memorable stories such as “Pelt,” “Acceptance Speech,” and “Creature.” Her latest story is an engaging and charming take on the themes of identity and memory.

  I forgot who I was. I suppose it's just as well. This doorway, where I lie, is dirty. If this doorway is my doorway and if I'mdressed as I usually dress, then I can't have been a very respectable person. First thing I'll do, I'll go get something else to wear and then I'll find a good place to live. Something more like the new me. If this is a new me.

  I wonder what I look like. My hands seem strong. My fingernails are clean. I'm not too fat. Am I the same sex I used to be?

  Did I actually wipe out my own mind in order to start from scratch? Did I do it deliberately or was it by mistake? But what a good idea! I'm glad I thought of it. I probably got sick and tired of the way things were back in my former life.

  But first I have to find a mirror to see who I am now. Or a shop window.

  I get up and brush myself off. I feel a little wobbly but I don't want to stay here. Thank goodness nobody saw me lying in this dirty doorway. At least I hope nobody did.

  I walk along beside the shops. I glance at myself but just every now and then. I don't let myself stand and stare at me. I don't want to be too open about it. People would think things.

  What I see is a woman, not young. That figures. I'm exactly the age when it's logical to want to change your life. There's still a bit of a future in front of me.

  But what about this town? It looks a little strange, though maybe it's just my nice new view of everything.

  And what is the language here? I heard somebody passing by and I couldn't understand a word she said. Of course that doesn't mean anything. She could be a foreigner. I wonder what language I'm thinking in. Wouldn't it be nice if it was French? I wonder how many languages I know. How do you find out a thing like that?

  I wonder what other things I might be good at. I might even be able to play the piano. I wonder if I can find a piano and check on myself. Can I paint and draw? Can I ride a horse?

  Should I try some skill right now? But there's no handy piano. I'd like, if not the piano, then the violin. I hope I don't know how to play the banjo. I want a higher class life.

  I cross the street to a newspaper stand and look at the headlines. I don't recognize the writing. Have I forgotten how to read?

  Well, I wanted a whole new start—at least I think I did, and what better way than to appear right here knowing absolutely nothing? Just think, I can be anybody I want.

  I should start planning right now. I wish I had a notebook. I'd start writing down possible ways to be. I can even pick what age I think I am. I'll say forty. Or better yet, thirty-nine.

  But this is bothersome. I'm hungry. How am I going to get something to eat? I looked in all my pockets. I don't have any money of any sort. Not even in my bra.

  Is it just like my old self to run out without any money? Or was I in a hurry to escape from a husband and didn't have time to get my money? Maybe I need to change my looks in case of being recognized.

  I don't have a single bit of identification. Though, if this is to be a whole new life, why would I care? Except it's disconcerting. Too much freedom. Maybe I should have started more gradually—changed myself little by little, one step at a time. I jumped into things without thinking. That shows what I used to be like. I just left myself here in my oldest clothes.

  But I shouldn't be too judgmental of my old self. Perhaps I had my reasons. What if I had too many children and was trying to get away? Maybe only for an afternoon? I must have thought: How nice to be all alone. I should enjoy it. And I do. But I shouldn't have gone quite this far. That old me must have been impetuous—probably always in a hurry.

  * * * *

  I start walking—a nice fast clip. Thank goodness my former self is in pretty good shape. I can't wait until I come upon a piano or a violin.

  This seems to be a big town. Perhaps I thought I could get lost here. I'd better watch out. Somebody may come along and take me back to a family full of children.

  I walk faster. I take a sharp turn. I double back on myself just in case I'm being followed. (If I find myself wobbling, I want it to be in a nice clean fancy doorway.) I avoid everybody that walks near me and looks suspicious and lots do. It makes my progress slow what with all this doubling back. Of course I don't know where I'm heading, anyway. Just out of here.

  When a large chubby man looks at me as if he might know me, I duck into a dusty little bookstore. Thank goodness the man walks on.

  But a bookstore is just what I want. I need a notebook.

  There's only one man in there sitting at a cluttered desk near the front. He's skinny and ugly—graying and balding. I'm quite taken with him.

  He says, “Good morning,” without looking up. And in my language.

  "Do you have, perhaps, a shopworn notebook you were going to throw out and the nubbin of a pencil you could spare? I'd like to pay but I've mislaid my money."

  He looks up, suspicious. Studies me. I must look honest, or maybe just pitiful, because he says, “Of course.” He finds a nice new notebook and a really good pencil.

  "Oh, these are much too good. Please, just something worn out."

  "That's all right. I can spare them."

  What a nice man. I decide to tell ... well, not all, but some. “I'm starting over. I need to make a list of all the new things I want in my life."

  "I guess we all do that at certain times in our lives."

  It occurs to me that I'll need a name. I'd better think of one I like. Isabel? Charlotte? Lillian? I suspect that those are names I always wished I had even before I forgot who I was.

  "My name is Geraldine. I play the piano."

  Oh, well, he'll never find out. Maybe I'll not ever find out either. Perhaps rather than looking for a piano, I should avoid them.

  I wonder if I can get him to ask me out to lunch.

/>   "Is there someplace where I can sit and write in my new notebook? A diner or café where they'd let me sit without buying anything? As I said...” (I'm making a point of it) “...I haven't a cent."

  And it happens just as I want it to.

  "If you can wait until my helper comes, she takes over for an hour at noon, I'll take you out to lunch. Don't worry, I'll keep quiet so you can write."

  Perhaps he's as taken with me as I am with him.

  I say, “I don't usually dress this way, you know. I had to leave in a hurry."

  Of course he's not dressed all that well himself. His jacket is quite threadbare.

  "I used to have a nice silk scarf, all tans and browns and yellows.” (I wonder if I really did.) “I wish I'd brought it. I feel funny in these clothes."

  "It's not a fancy place, but they let you sit as long as you want if you buy something first."

  * * * *

  We sit by the window. He watches the people going by outside while I open the notebook as if I'm getting ready to make notes. But what to write? That I'm feeling so good about this new life? That already good things are happening? But, in case he looks, I don't want him to see anything like that. Instead I write: Piano, practice!!!!

  If I were writing this for me I should be writing something like: make money. Maybe: Find my talents and skills. Maybe: Must find place to sleep tonight.

  But, anyway, right now I'd rather talk. I say, “I used to always be on the go. I never stopped to think before I did something."

  I write: THINK three times with several exclamation points.

  "Do you think writing it down will help?"

  He shrugs.

  I say, “I've swept away my past.” I say, “Have we met before?” I say, “I do love books."

  My new self talks and talks.

  I think to write: STOP TALKING, but instead I stop. I write: THINK!!! a few more times.

  I hope he doesn't ask me where I'm from. Where should I say? Perhaps I'm from some other time. Like from the future. Perhaps I can bring these people new technology they've not conceived of. I hope I'm not from the past. How does one find out a thing like that? Finding out if I play the piano will be a lot easier.

  I say, “I'm going to call my notebook: The Diary of Lost Time."