Edward Lee - The Minotauress

(VI)

It was the most satisfying dream of his life...

At first.

As the Writer lay back naked on the bed, the activity commencing about him could only be called a "Seven-Girl Tongue-Bath." Hot tongues and sucking mouths ranged his flesh. Any errant glance showed him beautiful bare butts in the air, breasts in his face, swollen nipples brushing his lips. Wedges of smooth white flesh shifted all around him as these voluptuous servitors constantly traded positions to lave every square inch of his body—er, almost every square inch. His groinal area was deliberately neglected, to only incite him more.

What a great dream, he thought in the dream.

"Okay, girls," spoke a hot, syrupy voice. "Let's really work him over now... "

Bedsprings squeaked as his group of lovely attendants changed positions yet again, but this time it seemed as though they were assigned locations, and as this ensued, the Writer noticed Beatrice, Anita, Nyna, and several other of Mrs. Gilman's working stable, along with last but not least, Nancy.

Fuck, the Writer thought in a rare departure from his avoidance of profanity. Beatrice sucked his tongue. Two more girls sucked each of his nipples. Hot hands pulled his knees back toward his shoulders, and next thing he knew his right testicle was in Anita's mouth, while his left was being suckled by Nyna. A sixth girl slowly and very wetly laved his anus, and Nancy...

Sucked his dick.

It was Naked Twister, and the Writer sufficed as the mat.

Somewhere, a clock struck midnight...

And beyond the window... a wolf howled.

Every sensation of pleasure that his physicality was capable of feeling was stimulated and, hence, let loose. It built up from the Writer's brain to his groin, making him abstract that his penis was something like a Super Giant oil pool that had just been tapped. One eye managed to glance between both of Beatrice's sensational breasts just as Nancy was pulling an upstroke: the Writer's penis was so stuffed with lust-driven blood that it looked alien, it looked so much bigger than what he was used to seeing that he thought, Where did THAT hoagie come from?

Then Beatrice adjusted her position to suck his tongue more intently, and the view was severed. It was just luxuriant pillows of flesh now...

I'd like to see D.H. Lawrence write about THIS...

The sucking grew more precise at every area, save for his penis. Nancy had withdrawn the Mouth That Would've Launched a Thousand Ships. Though the Writer couldn't see, he could feel , and what she was doing now was clear: she'd made a tight ring with her thumb and index finger and had taken to stroking the spit-lubricated shaft with a finesse that seemed to draw every nerve-charged sensation in the Writer's body slowly to the vicinity of his groin. A handjob, he thought, executed with the adeptness of Dali's brush-strokes in SUEZ, or the prosecraft of Gore Vidal... Then, an even more titillating sensation blossomed at the very tip of his member. Holy smokes, that's good, he thought. Whatever it is.

"Time to take his business," Nancy announced next and began to shuck that spitty "ring" up and down much faster.

The Writer's entire body clenched; he was at the brink—one more shuck—then— This makes aesthetic celibacy worth it!— he was there.

That's when he heard a sound that seemed suspiciously similar to an old aquarium pump. Two and two were put together quite quickly, and in a lurch he pushed Beatrice off and looked down appalled to see Nancy slipping the vacuum tube to her Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System several inches into his penis just as his ejaculation unloosed. Sperm filled a foot of the tube in one second, then the machine continued to suck. Beatrice sat on his neck to pin him down, while Nancy chuckled in a manner that was witchlike. She kept the tube in long after the Writer's orgasm had ended. Clicking was heard next, as if someone had turned the machine's motor to High, and then the Writer trembled in place, feeling more than mere sperm being hoovered from his reproductive tract.

"Yeah, now we're gonna take all 'a this fucker's business," and all the girls laughed after that. Quite like witches.

The tube was kept in place for what seemed hours, and finally, when he was let up—amid still more echoic, witchlike cackling—the Writer looked down in the most abject horror and saw that the tube was actually dozens of feet long, and full of blood and pinkish testicular pulp.

Oh my God! Oh my God! the Writer lamented, and when he reached down to feel his scrotum, he found himself holding an empty sack...

That's when he woke up.

So convincing were the details of this dream and the clarity of its imagery that the first thing he did once his mind started clicking was reach down to his scrotum. Thank God, he thought when his testicles were still in evidence (not that, as a celibate, he actually needed them for anything). Then he groaned, thinking, What a TERRIBLE dream! Obviously it was just a spurt of Neo-Freudian symbology. The more desirable the woman, the more effectively her desirability emasculates men, he knew. A drifting hand told him with some distaste that the dream had been of the "wet" variety—his first in years.

A guillotine blade of sunlight carved into the room from the gap in the shade; it lay directly across his eyes, firing a headache of legendary proportions. I'm SO hungover, he realized. Last night at the bar he'd consumed much—probably as much as Dylan Thomas on a good night. He moaned out of bed in his underwear, preparing to head for the shower, when something caught his eye...

It was on the shade over the window.

Someone must've been in my room last night, he thought, but then rejected the conclusion when he found the door locked.

A new graffito, however, had been added to the others on the shade. It read as thus:

You live alone. You

dial your number by mistake

and someone answers.

It appeared to be written in the ink of his own black Sharpie, and— Hmm. Is that my handwriting? He thought so. The haiku was properly seventeen syllables and possessed the correct five-seven-five beat. Ultimately, though...

Why would I write that? he wondered. Well... Faulkner wrote parts of THE FABLE on his wall. Why can't I write a haiku on a dirty shade?

The problem was he didn't remember writing it. And if he'd written that?

The Writer scratched his shorts.

What else might he have written that he didn't recall?

He rushed to the Remington Model No. 2 and fixed his eyes on the page that had been hanging out of the platen for a month.

WHITE TRASH GOTHIC

CHAPTER ONE

There was a knock at the door. When Nikoff Raskol opened it, he espied a baleful purview of imprecations, an apophysis of dolorous spiritum— perforce: the Nietzschean Abyss. He'd dreamed of utter blackness, of dripping sounds, and screams, and it was all those things that he found himself looking at beyond the transom of his solitary motel room. The blackness that was somehow fulgent, in which traversed the fallow masses with faces like poultices and acuminated grins. His heart beat in mordant rubato when the gracile hand—certainly that of some outerworldly woman— reached out from the festering clough and took his own. He thought of light's absence in the flesh, he thought of ataxia undiluted.

Indeed, he thought of lost worlds.

The hand tightened about his. He was beseeched by eyes wide and lambent as diminutive moons, and the voice resounded as if from the highest precipice of the earth, to offer, "Come. Come with me... and see... "