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764. NuPlanetOne - 11/15/2007 2:38:31 AM “A taste wouldn’t ruin my judgment,” I deadpanned as my eyes took me over to a small sink with several bottles arranged next to it acting as a kind of mini-bar on a silver tray.
“Well, feel free to ruin mine,’ she shot back.
“This one?” I said touching the neck of the Johnnie Walker Red. She made an impressive pout and shook her head no.
“The Jack,” she grinned. That showed a tiny dimple in her left cheek.
“Two Jacks,” I said and grabbed two old fashioned glasses. “Rocks?”
“Underneath.” She motioned at the space below the Formica counter top that looked just like plain matched facing. A four finger sized hollow near the top let me pull out an under counter freezer drawer. Plenty of ice. The jangle of cubes infused everything with something and the thickness and purity of sound suggested some pretty good soundproofing. No calling for help in here, I thought.
“Look good?” I asked holding the finished glasses. She nodded.
“You work for Pappy?” She said with folded arms plopped on her tummy and her top leg wagging like a puppy waiting for a biscuit.
“Pappy?” I regurgitated mildly surprised. “No, one of the other guys.”
“Ha,” she yapped like the puppy cocking her head having seen the biscuit. “That really narrows it down.”
“Well, I thought we all worked for the same guy, you know, not counting side deals and private desires.” I handed over her glass and settled into my seat. A fascinating look of allure settled across her face as she reached out and took the glass. I remembered why I loved women.
“O.K. Then here’s to personal desires.” She offered her glass for a tap.
“And, let’s not forget side deals,” I added without conviction and clanked my glass into hers.
“O.K. Here’s to deals we desire, personal and otherwise.” Her right eyebrow went up and framed a look like a peep hole opening onto a quiet countryside. It looked inviting, but there were shadows.
“Very well, to desires.” I said, ignoring the shadows and curious about the stuff in the open. We stared till she blinked closing the peep hole and she got on with thinking.
“Vinnie wanted me to inform you that a certain party was in the building,” she said waiting to measure my response.
“Really?” I showed nothing. “All the way to the private lounge for that, O.K. What else?” I leaned back and took a sip of my drink. She watched that and sank down and back in her seat a bit.
“ Oh,” she said like she had the real news, “I just figured you might want to fuck my brains out.” She sat up straight like she was ready. Our eyes connected in a way that felt unrehearsed. Then she laughed, blushed a fraction unnoticeably, and propped her chin on her chest and showed a neutral grin.
“Wow! I hope that was your idea, and not Vinnie’s.” I chuckled and let it lay there. She lifted her head and pushed her fists into her sides like she was resetting her spine. It pushed her breasts out and stiffened her neck. She was definitely itchy, or something.
“Well, Vinnie often gets that idea, but he’s disgusting. He smells.” She pinched her nose with two slinky fingers on her right hand. She was pure femininity in that pose, fingers on nose, left hand buried in her side. Cleavage bulging. Scrunched pout. A total distraction.
“I smell O.K.” I said pretending to sniff my underarm. “You know, in case I got that same idea,” adding with a voice that came from my mouth but was encouraged by inspiration below my waist.
“Ya,” she cocked her head, “sometimes it’s good to put all your ideas right up there on the table.” She relaxed back into her chair and uncrossed her legs. Her knees banged together like she was holding in a piss.
“Definitely. Lay it right out on the table.” I said watching those knees in a robotic tone mocking the subliminal.
765. NuPlanetOne - 11/15/2007 2:39:13 AM “Yup. Always best to get right down to the thrust of it. Grab the thing head on.” She made a sweet little chuckle and popped forward and rested her arms on the edge of the table. She swigged down the rest of her drink and tipped the empty glass in my direction. I looked at my drink, fearlessly examined her sudden cleavage, then downed my glass. I adjusted my inspiration and headed over to the mini-bar. I could hear her knees swooshing behind me.
“Double up cowboy, I’m feeling kinda goofy.” She told my back. I couldn’t tell exactly what level of sincerity I was wading into, or, was it some kind of bonding? I had decided I needed to trust her, even if the way I was thinking was influenced by two lovely, knocking knees. She hated Vinnie. That was real.
“So,” I said as I splashed the Jack onto the ice, “This certain party I’m interested in. Where in the building is she exactly?” I turned and strode back to her carefully like I was carrying nitroglycerin into the mine shaft.
“Vinnie didn’t say,” she warbled as she took the handoff a little rough like she didn’t care if the mine exploded. “But, I happen to know she is next door having a workout. Probably all lathered up in a sweat right now.” Her eyes rolled gleefully as she nibbled off the top of her drink. I nibbled mine.
“Well, then. Good for her,” I said then got back into her eyes as if to be rid of the subject. Her knees were quiet. She stared me down. It felt like she was trying to decide whether or not to prolong the distraction. Her eyes were beautiful, an incredible color. I watched them. Her knees started banging. She had the grin back and the irises softened.
“Yes, screw her!” She glared narrowly like she was locating the crosshairs in a rifle sight. “We don’t need her at this little gathering!” She pushed back and swung the leg back over the other one. She was all puppy again.
“So what’s the deal with Ollie?” I just threw it out there. Kinda like I was curious about the competition.
“Oh, poor Ollie,” she said. “Don’t know what I’m gonna do with that boy.” She let go a sigh like a mother that just got the news that the lad had bee suspended from high school.
“Ya, Vinnie seemed crazy about him too.” I said it like I had just realized it.
“That fuckin greaseball! He treats Ollie like shit!” The glare was laser like. Like she was a sniper with a shot. She just needed to pull the trigger. “Nothing better happen to that kid!” Her eyes put the crosshairs on me. I could tell, I had seen that impersonal determination before, she could pull the trigger. “What’s Ollie got to do with anything going on?” She half demanded with a little tinge of dread. Then a cool threatening stare. “Is he part of your business here, tell me!”
“Don’t know, nothing I’m aware of,” I said as if I was genuinely surprised by her declarations. And she searched me. Tried to look all through me. I tried to look like I knew nothing. I tried to look like I was captivated by her every expression. It was easy. I was captivated. We sat and stared.
“O.K., sorry. It’s just, Ollie is important to me.” Her head tilted away a bit as if she was trying to hide a piece of her face. The part with her soul.
“I understand,” I said with eye movement following her eye movement.
“No. No you don’t,” she stared straight ahead. “It’s not that. It’s not romantic. It’s personal. It’s important.” She let out an exasperated sigh and let her arms drop to the floor as she slunk down in her chair. She put her chin on her chest and her hair fell forward. She started laughing then quickly sat back up and delicately picked up her glass. I watched every moment of it. I tried not to think too hard about Ollie. Or what could happen to him. I was real busy thinking about her.
“O.K., it’s important. I’ll remember that.” I said it like I took note of her insistence on Ollie and her hatred for Vinnie, but swung it over to Tony.
766. NuPlanetOne - 11/15/2007 2:40:12 AM “What is more important right now is where Tony’s focus is this evening. He is part of my business tonight and I need him to follow the script, even if I’m still writing it. Your boy Ollie is fine with me. Your word that the kid is O.K., is plenty. Because you are O.K.” Her eyes followed the speech with a slight blink at the mention of Tony but locked on to my stare concerning Ollie and herself. It was like an agreement with contracts to follow. She unscrunched her shoulders and put her left hand on my wrist.
“Are you hungry?” She asked like she was really concerned about it. I put my other hand on top of her hand. Her eyes went up to mine immediately then back down to the hands, then up again. As soon as our pupils locked on each other I felt the twinge. I knew nothing else mattered at that moment in time. And the twinge was a kind of adrenalin drenched fear and exhilaration. I have never been able to understand why it only happened with certain women, why I couldn't conjure or force it when I needed it or thought I was in love or felt an attraction. And I could count on one hand and a thumb how many times in my life I had felt it. One time it cost me my marriage, another time it cost me my best friend, and once it nearly cost me my life. And all these things buzzing around the glass bubble of this sudden enchantment, rapping on the glass, unable to shake my focus from even considering the consequences. For as her fingers moved just slightly up my arm every pore and folicle and strand of hair in thier path exited a pleasure and wanton anticipation like she lit each one and anything literate or consequential belonged to another reality.
"Sure, let's eat," I half whispered. Our eyes ebbed and flowed as in the same tidal surge obeying the moon.
"Wait," she said while the waves settled to foam to bubbles knowing the next crash is coming. She slid out of her chair and came around and went by me keeping hold of my hand. Her other hand hit a wall switch and the naked hard edged flourescence was gone. A soft night light off in a corner, the mild glare of a microwave, the red glow of an exit sign and a splash of light from the hall turned the room into a place that matched the lure and circumstances, at least, in the bubble I was in. Then she stepped into the bubble. And it was warm.
767. NuPlanetOne - 11/15/2007 2:41:57 AM She came back with my hand and put it on her right thigh as her left leg slid past my chest and her butt rested on the table edge where a plate of food would belong. I faced the plate and slid my chair back a bit then pulled her slowly down onto my lap. Her back was rigid against the table and in a dense slow breathing moment our mouths found each other. There is no way to describe, really, actually, how intense and carnal that first bolt of electricity can reverberate and override any logical thought or priority. It is like the life force that is pounding beneath the surface of all living things explodes into existence and moves the mind and body in a dance of greed and cooperation that each gender neccessary to mix the primeval elixir submit and engage in the profound exchange of cells and fluids, so that the force might continue. Lust, however described or pronounced floods chemically from the most ancient spot on the Helix and washes away pain and suffering and fear and holds them in stasis so that the host may survive the moment and create, in the short blip of time allowed, one more life. I have thought of these things, afterwards, of course, as now I was paralysed by the smell and sounds and taste of the wonderful creature writhing in my arms. And the kiss, her toungue, her breasts squashed hard into my chest, her bottom grinding into my crotch; me, trying to force the motion of our heads, gain control, quide her to the table, sense her thoughts, prolong each second forever. Her, receptive, forceful, reluctant, pliable, recoiling, unrelenting, gushing with anticipation. Pushing her torso onto the table, her hands pulling my hands to her breasts, forcing her top up. Exposing her perfect nipples hard against my soft fingers, buttons that I flick and press and take into my mouth. Smothering and suffocating my head with wonderful arms holding me onto her chest while pushing down slightly, then pulling me up in a shudder, pushing me down, then up, as my hands, each one holding and molding a breast now pushing against the pull. Holding her back onto the table letting my toungue find her stomach. Tasting the top of a hip, finding the tiny zipper on the back of her skirt. 768. NuPlanetOne - 11/15/2007 2:42:43 AM Not once wanting to go fast or slow or wanting anything specific, just instinctively gliding the skirt over warm flesh and getting it off and away. Kissing her abdomen and sensing the moisture and suspense of the impending exploration and aware that my own genitals were hungry for inclusion. Then feeling with a hand for my belt but quickly putting that hand on her thigh and letting two fingers ride slowly up the edge of her panties just slightly disturbing her pubic hairs that waited at the outer limit of her vagina. Like a knee hit with a hammer she jerked up and looked quickly down as if she had surprised a thief, then jammed back down onto the table grasping my head and hair like a tether to soften the landing. And I went quick to the task. Panties peeling, holding legs aloft, then spread, inner and upper thighs tasted and teased. Torturing the outer rim and circumference at the center of those legs until, like a cobra, a strike. Having seen, and knowing how ferociously a woman can experience an out of body other worldly orgasmic phenomenon, hardly prepared me for how fierce and possessed Sofina now felt under my darting toungue. It was like I was holding down a cyclone I had managed to wrestle to the ground. As in waves with thighs trying to squeeze the thing to death she locked and unlocked her legs about my head and I gasped between bites and breaths for air. She would pull me out and stare trying to communicate or recognize or decide how to absorb the pleasure and persistence of my eager generosity. Until she did decide and clamped my head tight and moved my face all over and into her center a final long second then pulled me out and up and rubbed my lips and chin all over her tightened stomach muscles. Again our mouths locked and I felt her hands quickly getting my pants down and with both hands moving she began to relieve and massage my aching errection. She jerked her head from mine and slid her arms through my armpits and tried to pull me up. I rose and stood and felt her warm fingers come round my waist and buckled slightly as she moved her mouth up and down and over, gliding and sucking. And I braced my self against the table to endure excruciatingly the will to hold it back. And as I fought her off me and pushed her back to the table her eyes flashed open unblinking and she said, "No. Fuck me.Yes." Her eyes never closed like the gaze of the newly deceased startled to death. And as I moved myself in and out of her the gaze became a magnificent grimace and she crossed her hands on her chest and I could feel her legs stiffen and toes separate and point. Her head rocked side to side slowly and I prayed I could have one more second. And it hit. "Oh. Oh. Now. Yes. Oh! Now!" And she jerked and pushed her hands at my chest and froze and as I let go with all my might she froze an eternal second as then in a series of shudders and moans, it was over. 769. alistairconnor - 11/15/2007 10:53:58 AM It was over...
Seems a shame to break the silence.
OK I admit I flipped the pages, now I'll go back and read the pool game.
Well actually I'm at work so perhaps it'll wait. In any case, the organic process of a short story growing into a novel is a beautiful thing to behold. Your prose has a luminous quality, Nu. Interesting that it seems to fuse with your poetry when you're on the subject of sex.
770. NuPlanetOne - 11/18/2007 2:41:16 AM Thanks alistair,
It is a laborious thing, especially with limited time. I can see oh so many flaws that would need fixing, especially one huge one concerning the safety played during the nineball game. It was really a push out maneuver, and I had begun the fix, but I forgot to include it. Anyway, writing about sex without being literal or pure graphic is very difficult. I hope I can get better at that. I hate when writers avoid it. On the other hand, there is actually money to be made writing about that paticular primal necessity. 771. webfeet - 1/8/2008 6:53:45 AM I don't know if sex actually sells, Nuplanet, or the illusion of it, but I am compelled to mention that when a sex scene brings to mind fight scenes in 'The Trail of the Pink Panther' between Jacques Clouseau and his black belt valet, it may be better to airbrush those dangerous liaisons zip zip from the lens.
I think that's why many writers shy away from 'the act' and go for stolent moments and the soft lens fading discretely, like in a Cary Grant movie. Cowardly? Oh, oui. And, yet, no-one would want to steal those moments away from Sofina. Not me. Not you. Not anybody. But it might be wise to compare her to a cyclone or a python or a barnacle-tearing octopus--but not all three.
Anyway, I enjoyed it. Especially 'No. Fuck me.Yes." 772. alistairconnor - 1/9/2008 5:48:50 PM Well if that was so lousy, Bibiche, why don't you give us your version? Hmmm?
Or anything else... How's your fictional life these days? 773. webfeet - 1/10/2008 8:31:35 PM Seems only a fortnight ago I last wrote..and yet the calendar, chunks of which have been torn out, tells me otherwise. Since it's only 1:17 here in New York, I think I'll resist opening the decanter of Madeira and tipping some down my throat in toast.
Cher, alistair, I wasn't calling Nuplanet lousy. I love Nuplanet. I mean that. That's like calling myself lousy, you try out new things; that's part of the creative life, and anyone who is creative and holds the arts sacred, as I do, knows that. Ilove all creative people because the world is populated with dullards. And parents are the dullest people of all. Or, at least the ones I seem to meet.
I would say ribbing if it didn't make me blush, or gently teasing--is probably a better word, since it made me laugh more than a little. I mean, sex is notoriously difficult to write about--there is some award, is there not--for the lousiest, most ridiculous sex scene?
I was going to write my own insane version of a round robin Christmas letter here, called Goodbye Xanax, but I decided it was late..and I went to bed. Without xanax, that is.
Through sheer will, intense discipline and the circumstantial privilege that my daughter is now in nursery school full-time--all have enabled me to write a manuscript worthy enough to attract the eye of a literary agent in NYC. She is pursuing a 2 book contract instead of one which means I have a lot of tap dancing to do in double time.
It's like being an ingenue from the sticks arriving on Broadway, "Throw a steak at me! I can dance, I say!" And then, dancing, dancing, dancing off a cliff..
Part of what I realized when I actually got brutally serious was how much more fun I had writing here during frivolous periods in my life--and how much better at times it was--rather than when I had to put my foot to the pedal and really, really work.
Anyway, it looks like you have a new cherie and are spry as always, and I only hope you and the girls are happy and well.
As I wish that for everyone else here on the Mote! Especially you, Nuplanet!
774. webfeet - 1/10/2008 8:35:58 PM And the example of when I wrote effortlessly well is not the above-referenced snippets. That's garbage. Actually for a vain writer/stylist like myself, those passages--maybe a sentence I actually kept- are poor examples of my work.
The 'Murder of the Goth' story I began in 1999 which I just re-found--and I am eternally grateful because I'm so careless with technical things; and that ugly cheap computer broke down, my notes were lost, and I never saved it, I thought it could never be retrieved. That was a good story. I may one day go back and finish that!
775. alistairconnor - 1/11/2008 3:14:36 PM well shit, pick a random page from a chapter you're pleased with and post it as a teaser...
Have you erased yourself from the novel with successive drafts, or is it still autofictional? 776. NuPlanetOne - 1/15/2008 3:08:09 PM Thank you Webbie, if I may. I guess I was trying for eroticism, yet pornographic overtones and undertones, if you will, do ambush less prurient depictions, I suppose. My problem is that giving Sofina this lusty portrayal is necessary to contrast with Tony’s girlfriend once I have decided which of the two will be the Heroine in the plot. If and when I actually develop one. In any scenario, I will have to sacrifice one or the other. That aside, your point is well taken. I do not want to leave the graphic out of the sex, but it is hard to keep the porno totally at bay. Having studied the sex scene I can see how it needs to be in there, but I also can sense that perhaps I could describe it in a less than orgasm-worship kind of way. I want my hero to appreciate the mysterious side of femininity, yet not be naive about it. He knows that both sexes cheat, steal and murder. Yet, unfortunately, he is hopelessly attracted to women. Not as equals, but as an only hope for an equal companion. The world he moves in is dominated by testosterone driven alpha males and various other dogs in various stages of alpha-in-waiting type conspiracies hoping to instigate a coup. So pretty much all the women he encounters will be a suspect co-conspirator. The roles for women in his world are waitresses, bar maids, prostitutes, and the girlfriends and wives of wiseguys and law enforcement. He can’t trust any woman any more than he can trust any man mixed up in any of his business, even if he sleeps with them along the way. My goal might be to find him one he can trust completely in his world, because there comes a time, I believe, when a person realizes that they can’t change who they are or the world as they perceive it, but they can change it into an approximate perfect world and can find a perfect companion with whom they could share it. I want to believe that it is possible to come somewhere near that ideal.
In any case, I am rewriting the scene so it fits a little better. Oh, and yes, Sophina must retain the ‘fuck me’ utterance. If only for your sake
777. webfeet - 1/18/2008 8:39:26 AM You know, I'm not really in the habit anymore of throwing my charms out so carelessly these days. At least, I just don't feel like it. As an alternative, I can be the fiction. I can be a character here.
Yes I've erased myself. Is that what I'm supposed to say? I took this gigantic pencil and now I am just this dot. here. You can't see me.
Nuplanet, remember, you have got to hang all those thoughts onto a plot. A real one. Unless we're breaking out into new sci-fi territory here, I don't follow the alpha conspiracy idea, but romantic disillusionment, however, is always workable as a theme.
Why not put Sofina into a pasta pot, alla vongole and get back to the food writing, which you excelled at? Sex and food. That's easy. Try to pare it down to easy. Think of it that way.
'naked hard-edged fluorescence'. excellent. You always have these really eye-popping descriptions. And, unless you're planning on killing Sofina off (which wouldn't be a bad idea, she sounds dangerous!) don't compare her jouissance to a corpse.
I think there is really nothing lonelier than writing.
778. alistairconnor - 1/18/2008 1:36:39 PM I think there is really nothing lonelier than writing.
Is this a measure of maturation as a writer, to make the transition from exhibitionism to ... pudeur?
Probably just a measure of your professionalization. We're probably not able to provide any useful feedback. Not without some serious effort, anyway.
The whole question of exhibitionism/voyeurism is obviously central to the autofiction genre : this is perhaps why I was wondering if you've grown beyond it.
I sort of agree with you with respect to Nu's orientation : I've played enough pool to enjoy that side, but I've never really related well to the "alpha male" theme, in life or in art, so it doesn't grab me in the same way the "Chicken Piccata" thing does. Possibly the food descriptions are true pornography : I know how to cook, but I'll never be able to cook that well, so I enjoy it vicariously, projecting myself into the protagonist...
On either theme, I agree that plot is essential, once you've left the short story format. 779. webfeet - 1/19/2008 9:23:06 PM I never wrote here for useful feedback. I wrote to entertain and because people asked me to. I don't think that makes me an exhibitionist.
Part of the development of the voice, is to test its resonance with your readers. This is either something you have or you don't. Most writers have a voice, or they wouldn't go into writing but need help, like Nuplanet and I do, with structure and in harnessing their thoughts together into a cohesive, narrative form. But yes, the mote did help me define and develop my voice, certainly. The more everyone enjoyed it, the more of an incentive it was to create. It's very simple.
I'm not a shy violet these days, it just doesn't interest me to share this unless it's a finished product.
And as for plot, you begin to realize how useful and how very okay it is to use literary devices in order to round your ideas out, and to put all the uneven parts together. The writer who I quoted here, David Mitchell, compared characters to hangers, upon which you can hang your thoughts.
There has to be an unconscious message that must bear upon the reader, subtly, with every chapter, and it has to be consistent. I find you can get almost pathologically analytical when you try to make everything gibe, but that's how it works. Ohherwise, you have no believability and will lose the reader in the shadows of your own thought.
780. webfeet - 1/19/2008 10:30:29 PM You know what would be fun, Alistair, to read your dating tales!
Ha! Got ya. Who'se the autowhatever it is now? 781. alistairConnor - 1/21/2008 12:15:10 AM You know, I've been dying to do that... I'm certainly enough of an exhibitionist. And it would be cathartic, now that that part of my life is over. It would put some distance between now and my belated adolescence. And there is certainly enough raw material, even if I stick to the literal truth, for some pretty amusing writing, stuff I would never have dared to invent. If I can find the voice.
But I think I would need some sort of theme or moral, something to make it more than mere anecdote. These tales are certainly not exemplary : cautionary, perhaps? How about an anti-manual for the middle-aged divorcé?
How about "The low testosterone lover"? Do you think that would sell? 782. webfeet - 1/22/2008 5:31:58 AM Well, no.
But I do see an amuse bûche about a coureur du jupon who was once a happily married vegetarian living in a pasture? Something like that?
Only you can define the theme, but you might not know what it is until you start writing. You're not just going to find it out in the mulberry bush. It's probably better to go into it not knowing; otherwise, it's likeyou're writing a third grade book report, and you have this assignment hanging over your head: what's my theme?
I would start out by making a sketch of three disparate women you've dated, either recently or in the past. Really sit there and take out the charcoal and let your thoughts wander a little, without purpose as you contour their form, letting memory work itself upon your canvas. And then you'll find a theme within yourself.
Or, start with something painfully funny, a sex scene, perhaps, and work it backward.
783. judithathome - 1/22/2008 9:23:08 AM It shouldn't be so difficult to write...just start out and let it flow. You needn't worry about or follow the rules. The thing is, get it started and go from there.
These days, writing doesn't even need to make sense...collect a bunch of short pieces and call it something and you're good to go. Doesn't meed to be true or real or even literate.
The secret is to get Oprah interested. ;-)
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