| Subject: BEER AND OYSTERS |
Author:
McJude
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 09:25:16 11/16/02 Sat
This story is based on a line from the song FOOL AND HIS MONEY, by John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. It is R-ish (maybe even PG-13-ish)as far as sexual content, but quite dark. I find it ironic that a loving sexual story will be rated NC-17 and you can put a lot of violence in something and still have it be PG-13.
I thank Julia once again for her job as a beta, finding the little things and asking the big questions.
BEER AND OYSTERS
BY McJude
I listen to him breathing roughly while he sleeps. His body is bruised and battered, but that will heal. I wonder about his mind. I wonder why of all the genetic stock that exists in the universe Paul Museveni chose human genes as the ones to alter to create our species. I am sure most Nietzscheans have wondered that at one time or another. The obvious answer was that he too was just a kluge and created us in the image that he wanted himself to be. Sometimes it bothers me to be a reflection of someone's fantasy. But then, usually I am thankful that I am not just human.
He pretends that he doesn't see the difference. He refuses to notice the things that differentiate him from me or, for that matter, him from any of the myriad of species that he interacts with on a day-to-day basis. Humans were known for their attempts to eliminate those who were not exactly like them, even when they only existed on that miserable excuse for a planet called Earth. They had no idea, absolutely no idea, what they were going to encounter when they left their green marble and took off into the chaos. Yet, he seems to belie the history. All men are equal in the sight of god or Dylan Hunt.
It should have been just a routine trip to a trading sector to pick up supplies. There was nothing we really needed other than to restock our larder and refill our fuel tanks. It should have been a break from the string of adverse situations the entire crew had been placed in lately. I hesitated to go with him, suggesting he take Beka or Trance, both of whom need a respite as much as I did. I have been hesitant to be alone with him, for we both know that there are things that have happened that have not been discussed. I had chosen not to talk to him, and he had respected my decision.
I had vague memories of this place. Not bad memories, in fact some of them were pretty good. So good not to be diluted by the fact that the last time I was here I had killed seven people and had been indirectly responsible for the deaths of thousands more. I wonder how much more the total has to rise to before I, like the humans, would have committed genocide. Why would I find solace in the fact that the individuals killed were from several different sentient life forms? Just murder, not genocide, I reassure myself.
I chose to find my comfort in a lowly life form -- the common oyster. A mollusk brought by the humans from Earth before they completely polluted their waters. They even committed genocide on the oyster -- or for that matter two thirds of the life forms on their sorry planet. But the chefs here, from some unknown source, have stocked their kitchens with the finest of oysters. Dylan and I, masquerading as comrades, set off to find and consume as many as these mollusks as we possibly could. It seemed a mission that we might really complete and enjoy.
* * * *
"When we were cadets we just used to dig them out of the beach, rinse off the sand in the seawater, slice them open with our knives, drop on some hot sauce, and slide them down our throat." Dylan demonstrated the final two steps with the prepared oysters on the place in front of him. "Sometimes the oysters didn't like the hot sauce and spat it back at us." His face was animated, as he repeated the act again. I am sure the idea of eating something that was still technically alive had a lot more macho charm before the arrival of the Magog.
"And just how many would you and your friends consume at a sitting?" I was curious because when we sat down Dylan had quickly ordered five dozen for the two of us. The waiter assured him that there was a sufficient stock in the kitchen and that they would keep better in the cooler than on our table. Dylan had reluctantly agreed to a plate of twelve, to share with me.
"Depended on whether or not there were women present." He said with one of those elusive Dylan smiles. "You know they are aphrodisiacs?"
"Which you need with women, but do not need with your fellow male cadets." My face shows no emotion to keep him guessing.
"Right." Then he realized that my statement could have been taken two ways, I could tell by the look on his face. "They are all protein, except for the hot sauce."
"Which contains capsicums that increase blood flow and enhance tumescence." It is a battle fought with facial expressions, without words to get in the way. Not that Nietzscheans ever needed such a chemical boost. I noticed him signaling the waitress and saw that all but two of the oysters on his plate had been eaten. I hadn't touched mine.
"Nietzscheans always eat oysters with women, and we eat them very slowly. Sometimes we carefully detach them from their shells with our tongues." I demonstrated.
"Quite a feat, Mr. Anasazi. But since your sex is only for procreation and usually prearranged, why would you bother with such simulated foreplay?"
"Because we can, Dylan, because we can."
He tried several times to emulate my actions, but was unsuccessful even with the oysters that had been for all practical purposes unfettered from their shells by the chef. He got juice all over his face which dribbled onto his high guard uniform. I would have felt sorry for him it I hadn't been enjoying my second dozen oysters so much. The fact that we had each consumed several litre bottles of brown beer didn't hurt either.
* * * *
When we finished and discovered we had some difficulty walking, Dylan suggested we visit one of the numerous gentlemen's clubs on the drift. I have never figured out what human males saw in women they didn't know taking off their clothes, but I have stopped wondering. Women they had no chance of meeting, knowing, holding or fucking. The women have to be thinking "Here he comes now, just another fool and his money." But Dylan pays the cover charge for both of us and buys more beer. I sit back and prepare to watch him make a fool of himself, again.
I find the women no more attractive, lithe or supple than those on our ship. The women Dylan rejects because of their inferior position on the staff hierarchy. I always secretly wonder if Andromeda, at private times, exerts her position above him as the "ship." It would be fun to watch the dear captain kiss her holographic boots. The women on stage remove their clothing and writhe as greasy men stuff money into their underwear. Dylan has told me that such so- called-dancing is a good way for young women to obtain financial security. I scoff. Any female who would stoop to dance like this to earn money is probably throwing it all away on drugs and drink.
I drink disinterestedly, thinking about more oysters, while Dylan watches. It is not until late that a dancer appears that peaks my interest. She is everything that a Nietzschean does NOT look for in a female, too much make-up, over coifed hair, narrow hips yet at the same time I am fascinated by her high cheekbones, light brown skin and long legs. She is tall. I am sure that even without the extensions of her platform shoes and over-teased hair that she would be as tall as either Dylan or myself. I watch those legs, which travel right up into her well-formed ass. Then I get it. Dylan doesn't seem to.
She reaches down for Dylan's hand and pulls him onto the stage. Even in casual clothes he shouts High Guard. I am sure Dylan would shout High Guard even if he were naked. I was right about the heights. She looks down on him, with the shoes. He looks uncomfortable. She grinds her pelvis into his and bumps her hips. He looks horny. Damn it Dylan, don't you get it. He takes money from his pocket and tries to stick it under the front of her high-cut costume. She takes his hand and puts the money down her cleavage. He runs his hands down her ass; she promptly shakes in the face of another customer. Sit down Dylan, you're making a fool of yourself.
* * * *
When her show is finished she comes over and sits at our table. The hair is obviously a wig and I fear a true smile would cause the make-up to crack and flake off. It is a strange perversion of humans to do such things. Something I will never understand. She smiles at me, perhaps fascinated by the similarities in our skin color.
"I'd love to have you kiss me all over with those soft lips of yours, big guy." She says to me in a soft, low voice. I have not encouraged her. I refrain from an "in your dreams" comment and defer to Dylan. It bothers me that she is playing up to me. Dylan doesn't seem to mind; his thinking seems to be taken over by a part of his anatomy not familiar with rational processing.
"How much?" He asks. I secretly hope that it is out of his price range.
"You --" she pokes a long-nailed finger in my chest -- "I'd do for free. But, captain, it's going to cost you $1000 thrones." I shudder. I know Dylan has that much in his pocket. But why?
They sit and drink with me for a while. Her skirt falls open and Dylan's hands are all over her long legs. I believe the alcohol he has consumed has seriously hampered his judgement. I can only hope that he sobers up before he decides to leave -- with her. He doesn't and he does.
* * * * *
I seriously think about stopping for another dozen oysters before going back to the hotel. A part of me would like to see the look on Dylan's face when she removes her clothing, that long black slit skirt and her pale lace panties and he finds that little (or will it be big) surprise tucked between her legs. Maybe he will be lucky and find that she has had the surgery, but I doubt it. Those who flaunt it like that delight in the thrill of discovery. I've always thought that men that didn't know were just denying something in themselves, but with Dylan I am not sure. Sometimes he is just that naïve. I hope she has given him a great blow-job first. Maybe the combination of oysters, beer and cum will be enough to make him just go with the flow. I am sure she will enjoy Dylan's large cock up her skinny little ass -- if it ever gets that far.
But it didn't. As I work my way back to the hotel I see her running toward me as fast as she can in a skirt with a broken heel on her shoe. Blood is running down her chin, turning her make-up into war paint. Her wig is askew. I hope Dylan is all right. Funny how he can single-handedly take out six Drago Kazov's without mussing his hair, but the three guys who followed them out of the bar seem to have done a job on the two of them. Torn leather and bruised ribs. Fortunately they only wanted to pummel, not geld. I rectify the situation, help him to his feet, guide him back to the room and let him sleep it off.
* * * *
I don't even want to call people like those that attacked them men. I am sure they felt all macho while they were beating and kicking. Perhaps if you hadn't jumped him from the rear you might consider a victory over Dylan Hunt a sign of adequate testosterone. It is just one of the things humans do to make themselves feel adequate, when they are actually so subaltern.
"Tyr." He opens his eyes and looks at me through darkened eyelids.
"It's all right. You're back in the room."
"Raymona?. . . .
"She's fine. I gave her money for a cab."
"But, Tyr. . . she's a . . . ."
"I know, Dylan, I know."
"She went to kick the guy in the groin, and her underwear split. She was taped . . . "
"Don't worry, Dylan." I hold his hand gently in mine, wondering that it might not be exactly what he needs at this time. His hand is shaking and tears are running down his face. I pretend not to notice. I know he doesn't want me to see him this way.
"It was a show, Dylan." I know he knows that. Still I feel that he is reassured that I understand.
I am thankful that he falls asleep and is not aware of the fact that I continue to hold him close to me and run my fingers through his fine hair. I will never tell him that there are now three more dead bodies on this miserable hole of a planet thanks to Tyr Anasazi --three kluges who will never again have the chance to curse the future with their homophobic genes. If only they would learn to live and let live.
The strength and superiority of my species comes from inside. It does not come from the outward manifestations that fate and a mysterious tunnel so violently rent from me. I am still a Nietzschean, even as I kiss him ever so gently on the forehead and wonder if fate and fortune will ever give me a chance to express what I feel for him right now, under the influence of beer and oysters.
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 