Unknown - Posed For Pleasure

Her problem is not that this isn’t working, but that it’s working too slowly.

Once a week, what the hell is that?

What about evenings, week-ends, all-nighters?

What about… lunch?

What about, instead of waiting for him to get started, counting on him to kick this thing in the ass, she gets her own in gear.

If you’re gonna manipulate, dammit, manipulate!

Once a week is not manipulation; once a week is a hobby, a pastime, is only slightly more involved than the people who attend his weekly lectures- many of whom, she is certain, would love to hit the sheets with Armand Fortuna, some of whom have already done so in their minds, in their imaginations, in that world within their minds which, as Armand so aptly points out, is far, far more potent, far, far more real than any of them ever suspected.

But not, she reminds herself, more real than they suspect now.

So that there is that factor as well.

If she could go up to him after that first lecture, determined to act on her impulse, on her imaginings, what is to stop any of his audience from doing so-even if it takes the form of absolute gush, of some sweet young thing coming up to him and saying, “I just had to tell you how utterly fantastic I think you are!” ~ To which Armand would reply-what?

That she is too kind, or some such meaningless rubbish?

Perhaps.

Or-and in the midst of the heat of passion, she, actually gets goosepimples at the thought of this- the lightning could strike, the great man could look at the SYT (sweet young thing) and bingo! Instant Irene replay.

And that, Jessica vows, must not be allowed to happen.

It has thrown her off, this last thought.

So that now, Armand is reaching his peak alone, is reaching it, is soaring beyond it-alone.

So that all she can do is fake it, counting on her muscular control of her vagina to make him believe that it’s happening for her as well as for him, mechanically rather than reflexively contracting, again and again, as he shoots wad after wad into the depths of her pussy.

Fakery, yes; but fakery with a certain talent, a certain sexual athletic ability not to be found in your normal, everyday piece of ass, she tells him, silently.

And all in a good cause, which is herself.

Armand humps her all the way, then collapses on her, clinging to her, eyes closed, head resting on one of her breasts.

She runs her lingers through his’ hair on the back of his head, curly with the dampness of his sexual sweat-and her courage fails her at the sense of the power within that skull, at the sense of the vitality which flows within him.

Next week, she tells herself, next week she will have the nerve to expand their relationship.

“The medium of expression,” Armand announces, pausing to write that on the chalkboard, “meaning the physical means whereby we communicate that which is in here-” pointing to his head, tapping it with his crooked finger repeatedly, “-to the representatives of external reality-including ourselves! “Let us begin on familiar ground, with a bromide, a maxim, a piece of triteness.

“A picture is worth ten thousand words! “Certainly, one of my pictures has far, far greater validity than, say, ten thousand of my words.

“I fear that my teachers, from grade school through university, did not regard me highly as an essayist, and this with excellent reason.

“Why is that, ladies and gentlemen? “How can it be that one so adept, so skilled-you will forgive me, but, this is not the time or place for false modesty-with brush and pigment should be found thus wanting in verbal abilities? “Surely, that same mind, that same… imagination was at work in here-” tapping his forehead again, “requiring nothing more than to put down on paper the images herein rampant.

“And I dare say that most of you hardly find me inarticulate in discussing the arts-verbally-or you would not be here for this, our fourth assemblage.

“So then, what is my problem? “The answer is quite simple, actually-I don’t have a problem! “Do not, and never did! “Because, ladies and gentlemen, the medium of expression is the means of expression, and vice versa! “Let ‘me write that down, because that is my theme tonight, the rest being mere explication.”

And, back to his audience, he writes, on the green board, MEDIUM equals MEANS.

He stands there, looking at it, as though contemplating a painting in a gallery, then modifies it slightly, to yield, MEDIUM equals MEANS.

“An interactive process, ladies and gentlemen, a sub-process, if you will, of creativity.

“Absent a medium of realization,, we have no means of communication, the idea on hold-as ideas cannot be.

“Because ideas, my friends, do not keep, cannot be preserved-except when they have been realized, made real, communicated.

“Our thoughts do not remain unchanged. Our imagery is ever in a state of flux.

To say we feel the same today as yesterday is to say we are not a day older- a contention so ridiculous as not to require active rebuttal.

“Thus, when seized by the inspiration, by that complex of images which causes us to want to create, let us hope, let us pray that we have at hand the means to do so, the medium with which to express ourselves.

“A man may paint, and yet not write.

“A man may compose music, and not be able to draw.

“And so on and so forth, ad infinitum.

“Does that mean, then, that Mozart was less intelligent, less a genius than, say, Rembrandt? “Absolutely not! “Each expressed himself, his ideas, each realized- made real-his imaginings through different means, to which were attached different corresponding media.

“Had Mozart not had harpsichord and orchestra, how would he have brought into reality his masterpieces? “Would he then have become court painter rather than court musician to the emperor of Austria? Obviously not.

“And so we see the importance of the correct medium as the means of communication, of realization-hence my ulterior motive all along in giving such big play to our computer friends.

“They have at their disposal a truly marvellous medium, an interface between imagination and its realization, between the reality in here-” tapping his forehead, “-and that out here.

“The computer is, in fact, the ideal, combining both means and medium, that is, being both the action-programming-and the material of the creative process itself.

“Do you see it all starting to come together now? “We began with the relationship between reality, fantasy, and art, arriving at their rather astounding mutual identity.

“We then proceeded to data-the building blocks of the creative process, of which we have identified one major sub-process as the selection of data from this soup of information in which we are swimming.

“We showed first the misuse, the abuse, if you will of data, then proceeded to successful selection as an essential of this thing we call aesthetics.

“But here, we get down to cases, to making it happen.

“Fine that we have gained all these glorious insights, now, how do we get from here-” tapping his forehead, “-to there?” embracing reality with outstretched hands.

“Through use of the appropriate medium! “We have, in this room tonight, painters, writers of both prose and poetry, musicians, both composers and instrumentalists, dancers-I could go on and on.

“Yes, yes, relax, gentlemen, before you strain your tonsils clearing your throats. We also have computer programmers. You uh, you wanna stand up and take a bow? No? Then it’s okay with you if I continue? Thank you.”

“What makes one, what the other? “Obviously, medium, the means of expression, which varies…“

“Steve, my boy! So glad you could make its”