Luke Rheinhart - The Diceman

She walked over and turned on the television set, fiddling carefully with the dials and adjusting the volume quite high.

When she moved away from the screen three young men were twitching away and playing loudly some rhythmic tune

which was world-famous and which I almost recognized.

I was paying fifty dollars for this? No. Osterflood was paying. I relaxed. - `You want some hash tonight?' she asked

Osterflood. He was brooding into his half-finished drink.

`Yes,' he said.

When Gina returned from the kitchen this time she had a small pipe, apparently fully loaded, since she handed it to Osterflood and he lit up right away.

He passed it up to her and she took a long toke and then sat down on the couch between us, leaning back and reaching out an arm to hand the pipe to me. I'd read someplace that the United States Marines found marijuana and hashish excellent aids to the performance of their duties, so I took a healthy puff and passed the pipe back to her.

After only about three or four puffs by each of us, the pipe seemed to have gone out, but after a few minutes, as I was watching a handsome, sincere American clobber a greasy Latin American type on the TV screen, the pipe appeared under my nose again nicely lit. As I passed the pipe back to Gina, holding the smoke in my lungs, I smiled at her, and her soft baby face and large brown eyes looked sorrowfully and innocently into mine. If only she doesn't talk. Was she Negro or Italian? By the fourth toke of the second series I was really enjoying the rhythm of the deep inhale, the earnest American talking, frowning, driving his jet-powered jeep, then the blossoming beneath my nose of the gem-studded pipe, the inhale … As I passed the pipe back to her this time, I felt like smiling at her again, hoping she was enjoying the show too, and I watched with interest as she put the pipe in her mouth and Osterflood's hand bloomed into view just below her chin, clutched like an octopus onto one side of the v of Gina's sweater and then in slow motion flew away, sending the buttons in front popping off onto the living room rug like machine-gun pellets. Gins continued her inhale and handed the pipe back to me, her eyes focused on the ceiling. I looked at the pipe pleasurably, examining the lacework of fake gems around the outside of the bowl, looked at the small, black, charcoal-looking lump inside, and took a pleasant, long toke. ABC, I now noticed, was presenting `CIA in Action' a new adventure series, and when the commercial for Johnson's Baby Powder ended, two earnest Americans, one of whom I remembered seeing earlier, began talking about a Red plot in front of a backdrop of toiling peasants.

When I turned lazily to hand Gina the pipe she was sitting exactly as before, her head back against the couch and eyes ceiling-ward, but nude from the waist up. Her two breasts rose on her chest like two mounds of molded honey, with two neat circular sculpted crowns of brown sugar at the peak of each rounded, honeyed hilt.

Without smoking she passed the pipe on to Osterflood on the other side of her. The pipe went flying off onto the living room floor on top of the buttons, the sweater and the bra. He had bashed at her hand.

`Get up,' Osterflood said.

Slowly, like a sated leopardess, she stood. I could see Osterflood now and he was staring at her bleary-eyed and without expression, neat in his soft, gray suit.

`You bitch,' he said dully. `You cunt-caked bitch.'

'I was smiling to myself without thought, leaning back and examining with aesthetic bliss the curve of Gina's right breast, which stuck out gracefully in front of her right arm like the .prow of a boat nosing out from behind a cliff. An earnest American jawed aggressively with a greasy American just-at the tip of the short bowsprit.

`You slut,' Osterflood said just a bit louder. `You juicy-jointed sewer. Shit-slitted slut. Slime-oozing whore.'

Gina was fumbling with the belt and then one side of her feather skirt and after a moment or two; the skirt dropped like a guillotine to the floor at her feet. She was now totally nude. A long lovely scar ran down the back of one thigh.

`You bitch!' Osterflood screamed, 'and he staggered woozily to his feet and wobbled uncertainly for several seconds. There was a scream from the TV screen and I glanced idly over to see one of the Americans pick up one of the peasants and throw him onto a manure pile where another peasant could be seen struggling ineffectually.

I turned back just in time to see Osterflood grab Gina's curly dark hair and throw her back onto the couch. She bounced once, in segments, and then sat quietly, her large brown eyes looking vacantly at the ceiling.

`Feces!' shouted Osterflood. `Female feces!' I smiled friendlily over at her.

`It's going to be a nice evening,' I said pleasantly.

Chapter Eighty-one

I have been a woman on hundreds of occasions: in my dice life, group dice therapy and in our Dice Centers. I've usually enjoyed myself thoroughly. The only time I haven't enjoyed being a woman is when people have thought I was a man. For example, my experience with the Cleveland Brown defensive tackle (he used to be a truck driver - of Good Humor Ice Cream trucks) was at first unrewarding because he wanted me to be a man and I thought he was a man. Confusion of roles is always difficult.

I found that being a woman physically was more difficult than being one socially and psychologically. Sexually it was a big disappointment. I simply don't have the right equipment to enjoy being laid. It is much more pleasant in bed to play a passive `feminine' role with an aggressive `masculine' woman than with a real man. The pump of a penis in the anus is, to be precise, a pain in the ass. The feel of a nice hot prick moiling in one's mouth is certainly an experience that everyone should try, but is for me one of the minor sexual pleasures. The flood of hot semen into the mouth is pleasing enough if one takes any pride at all in one's work, but it is at best a psychological pleasure rather than a physical one. Choking on over-salted soup is not my idea of sensuous bliss, but I admit my limitations.

The appeal of being a woman - at least for me - lies in the freshness of the experience and in the passivity, the masochistic passivity I might even say. There is something basic in wanting to be dominated by a superior creature #161;whether man or Die. Responding to men respectfully and passively has never been my majority nature, but the times the Die has ordered me to play a woman have uncovered the latent slave in me.

And certainly being a woman is absolutely basic for every man in our society. And vice versa for women. The human is built to imitate, and every male has stored within him a thousand female gestures, phrases, attitudes and acts which long to be expressed, but are buried in the name of masculinity. It is a tragic loss. Perhaps the single greatest contribution of our Dice Centers is that they create an environment which encourages the expression of all roles; it encourages bisexuality. One might even more honestly say full sexuality, were honesty one of our virtues.

I have been a woman on hundreds of occasions and I recommend that every other healthy, red-blooded American man be one too.

Chapter Eighty-two

Dicemasters train young people as well as old. Two Dicemasters each had a child prodigy. One child, going to buy bubble-gum at the store each morning, would often meet the other going to the same place.

`Where are you going?' the first asked one day.

`I'm going wherever my dice fall,' the other responded.

This reply stopped the first child, who immediately went back to his Dicemaster for help. `Tomorrow morning,' Jake Ecstein told him, `when you meet that smart aleck, ask him the same question. He'll give you the same answer, and then you ask him: "Suppose you have no dice, then where are you going?"