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Authors: Brian D’Amato
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but
everybody
dying is a bigger deal because then nothing means anything.”
“You mean like it does now?”
“Well . . .”
“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I mean,
mean
. You know, mean . . .”
“So anyway you think that’s just, that’s the boy of it,” she said. “Like, those pilots died happy.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“God, you’re so butch.”
Huh? I thought. “Wow. Thanks,” I said. “I wish I’d known that in high school.”
“And it’s like you don’t even know it. Which makes it that much eroticker.”
I mumbled something so incoherent I couldn’t understand it myself.
“I can’t get over how healthy you look,” she said. “You’re like, ruddy.”
“Rutty?”
“Have you been working out?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know . . .” I guess she’s right, actually, I thought. Ever since I’d knocked over that first domino this afternoon—despite the occasional twang of guilt, and even despite some trepanation, I mean, trepidation, or, let’s admit, fear—I’d felt this sort of . . . I guess,
warmth
. Hmm. Well, Jed, that’s the evolutionary psychology of it. Chicks always dig guys who’ve killed a few people. Or, evidently, guys who are about to kill a whole lot of people. It gives a dude a glow, like the third month of pregnancy.
Marena flopped mustelinely onto her side. “Okay, questies. What if I started making out with you right now?”
“Uh, well, I’d certainly reciprocate, for sure, I’d—”
“Don’t do me any favors—”
“No, I’m flattered, I mean—”
“Maybe I should get out my toy chest. You should see the thingy I just got.”
“Is it like, an orgasmatron?”
“Kind of. It’ll keep you going for, well, for a while.”
“Going, like, what?”
“Well, not quite climaxing.”
“Darn.”
“Still, that’s on the way.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. In the future, everyone will be able to sustain an orgasm for fifteen minutes.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. The very near future. So get ready.” She raised herself up in kind of upward-facing-dog position, stretched her head out on her long neck, and kissed me. I reciprocated. What if Max Sleeks in? I wondered. Better bar the door, Katie. Well, maybe he’s used to such things. Hot mama.
“Call A-sub-three,” she said. Pause. “Hi. Get me a half hour, okay? Yeah, Happy Rapture. Bye. Sorry.” She got my head in her hands. Whoa. What seemed like a hundred and eight fingernails swarmed over my doubly naked scalp, and I saw as well as felt schools of that silver glitter that fireworks makers call drizzle effects. I try to take my hat off indoors, but it’s a struggle, especially now after my head got shaved for the downloadings, and it was about the most gloves-offly intimate thing she could do, like she was slicing off my pants with bandage scissors. Wow, we’re making out, I thought, like I was back in fifth grade. Now one of her other hands was fumbling with my groin area.
“How about you fuck me like it’s still the end of the world?”
“Uh, mmm,” I said. Okay, I thought, one last time, it’s probably a good idea—but then at the same moment I thought how maybe I couldn’t deal with it, and/or, more importantly, it was feeling like Jed junior wouldn’t be able to deal with it. As they can, he could tell I was afraid of something.
Chill out,
I thought.
No fear.
Fear is the woody-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total erectile obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see the path where it has gone past on its path. And I will see that where the fear has gone there will be only a trail of tiny fearprints in the sands of the Erg. And only I will remain, picking grains of erg-sand out of my inner eye, like one whose water is frothy with liban and who has forgotten the ilm of his axolotls, one who—
Can it,
everybody
dying is a bigger deal because then nothing means anything.”
“You mean like it does now?”
“Well . . .”
“I mean, I wouldn’t go that far, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I mean,
mean
. You know, mean . . .”
“So anyway you think that’s just, that’s the boy of it,” she said. “Like, those pilots died happy.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“God, you’re so butch.”
Huh? I thought. “Wow. Thanks,” I said. “I wish I’d known that in high school.”
“And it’s like you don’t even know it. Which makes it that much eroticker.”
I mumbled something so incoherent I couldn’t understand it myself.
“I can’t get over how healthy you look,” she said. “You’re like, ruddy.”
“Rutty?”
“Have you been working out?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know . . .” I guess she’s right, actually, I thought. Ever since I’d knocked over that first domino this afternoon—despite the occasional twang of guilt, and even despite some trepanation, I mean, trepidation, or, let’s admit, fear—I’d felt this sort of . . . I guess,
warmth
. Hmm. Well, Jed, that’s the evolutionary psychology of it. Chicks always dig guys who’ve killed a few people. Or, evidently, guys who are about to kill a whole lot of people. It gives a dude a glow, like the third month of pregnancy.
Marena flopped mustelinely onto her side. “Okay, questies. What if I started making out with you right now?”
“Uh, well, I’d certainly reciprocate, for sure, I’d—”
“Don’t do me any favors—”
“No, I’m flattered, I mean—”
“Maybe I should get out my toy chest. You should see the thingy I just got.”
“Is it like, an orgasmatron?”
“Kind of. It’ll keep you going for, well, for a while.”
“Going, like, what?”
“Well, not quite climaxing.”
“Darn.”
“Still, that’s on the way.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. In the future, everyone will be able to sustain an orgasm for fifteen minutes.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. The very near future. So get ready.” She raised herself up in kind of upward-facing-dog position, stretched her head out on her long neck, and kissed me. I reciprocated. What if Max Sleeks in? I wondered. Better bar the door, Katie. Well, maybe he’s used to such things. Hot mama.
“Call A-sub-three,” she said. Pause. “Hi. Get me a half hour, okay? Yeah, Happy Rapture. Bye. Sorry.” She got my head in her hands. Whoa. What seemed like a hundred and eight fingernails swarmed over my doubly naked scalp, and I saw as well as felt schools of that silver glitter that fireworks makers call drizzle effects. I try to take my hat off indoors, but it’s a struggle, especially now after my head got shaved for the downloadings, and it was about the most gloves-offly intimate thing she could do, like she was slicing off my pants with bandage scissors. Wow, we’re making out, I thought, like I was back in fifth grade. Now one of her other hands was fumbling with my groin area.
“How about you fuck me like it’s still the end of the world?”
“Uh, mmm,” I said. Okay, I thought, one last time, it’s probably a good idea—but then at the same moment I thought how maybe I couldn’t deal with it, and/or, more importantly, it was feeling like Jed junior wouldn’t be able to deal with it. As they can, he could tell I was afraid of something.
Chill out,
I thought.
No fear.
Fear is the woody-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total erectile obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see the path where it has gone past on its path. And I will see that where the fear has gone there will be only a trail of tiny fearprints in the sands of the Erg. And only I will remain, picking grains of erg-sand out of my inner eye, like one whose water is frothy with liban and who has forgotten the ilm of his axolotls, one who—
Can it,
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