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Kael's Diary June, 1989 (3/3)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
"Kael's Diary" is copywright 1994 Millennium Productions and is
reprinted here by permission.
This story was originally released on rec.arts. erotica
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Title: Kael's Diary: June, 1989 part three
archive name: kael.6.89-3
<Author's Note: this is one chapter in my on-going sexual self-
examination. Theoretically each part should stand on its own and
their chronological order is irrelevant.>
Kael's Diary: June, 1989 "One of the Millions" part three
Successfully, I emerged on the other end of a long,
oppressively hot Clemson day. Since that point in the afternoon
when I had left Alex, sticky and satisfied, I spent most of my time
darting in and out of ridiculously air-conditioned establishments.
Later in the summer of 1989 the median temperature was around
sixty, but this day in June suggested it was going to be as
unbearable a season as the summer of 1988 had been, that
summer of record temps and horrible drought.
I recalled that past summer, before Quintel had moved in
and it was just me and Nancy in that strange, strange, Escher
painting of an apartment. Both Nancy and I had signed up for the
same film criticism class (summer session is not a time for physics
courses, thank you) and we would drag ourselves out of our beds
at eight, the thermometer already pushing eighty, the friendly sun
already painting my room and most of the rest of the place, and
venture bravely into the early morning heat haze. And every day
we would breathe a sigh of relief to dip into the cool surroundings
of the film arts building. Into our chairs we would slide, all ready to
enjoy "La Strada" or whatever classic in cozy, chilly surroundings.
And every day, about twenty minutes into the flick, our skin, only a
half hour previously slick and gross now goose pimply and
shivering. We never learned. We earned, deserved pneumonia.
But this day, the sun had gone down, and it was nice, nice,
seventy degrees nice, and I was headed for Theatre Hell; Boys
Side, for there was a party going on, and I would be, oh, a fool to
miss it.
If Theatre Hell; Girls Side was a testament to the
stereotypical whims of college females; cleanliness, potpourri and
shrines to dead or nearly dead film stars in their prime, then Boys
Side was just as predicable, and even moreso.
It was dank. It was moodily lit. It was woody. You stepped
in the front door, and even in broad daylight, you could only see a
few feet in front of you, in the front hall, the banister ran up to
nowhere, walls ran up into total darkness, it felt cramped and
claustrophobic, except the corners and where the floor met the
wall seemed to go on forever.
And once you reached the end of the hall and stumbled
upon the sitting room -- pretension met utter slovenliness. Large,
overstuffed chairs and couches, stuffed to the point of splitting, and
some already had, a pipe in an ashtray, decanters of brandy and
cognac (some actually half full) sitting up or falling over, half read,
dog eared books and magazines, posters for George Romero
films, and absolutely everything, everywhere one looked, was a
uniform shade of brown.
I passed safely through all of this, I knew my way around, I
was a regular.
"Hello! Hi! Tomorrow? I guess I'll see you next fall.
Congratulations! Tell her I said hi. Damn you look good. Yeah, it
is dark in here. What the hell is he doing? Great. Excuse me, I
need to get to the fridge."
I shook hands with everyone I knew, who was everyone,
and the place was stuffed. Semi-tasteful classical music played
and I shuffled my way to the kitchen and over to the refrigerator. In
went a six of cheap beer, out came a sparkling wine cooler, that
seemed like a fair trade.
Half past ten, the horizon had cleared the sun almost forty-
five minutes earlier. No lights came through the cracked window
panes, not even from the neighboring houses. The crowd was
thick in that tiny little place; practically everyone who was left
before finals were over had been invited, and they weren't many,
but they were all there. They were all friends and close
acquaintances, and those I didn't like weren't important enough to
leave the room over.
I took a seat in one nasty Naugahyde chair (brown).
"What's up, Kael?" someone asked.
"Oh, nothing," I said. "When are you taking off?"
"Tomorrow."
"Me too," someone else said.
"Hey, where's Vera?" someone else asked. I looked over
and saw Thad coming into view. Oh, oh, Thaddeus. One year
older than me, and a year behind in studies, he'd transferred in
from somewhere. The first time I met him I loathed him. The first
time I saw him was on stage, he was in one of the first one acts of
the fall season and I had to admit he was funny. It was him and
Laura in this piece, I can't remember what it was, some wedding
slash comedy slash horror thing. We were in a make-up class (I
mean, a class in the instruction of how to apply make-up for
theatrical purposes, not, as you may have thought, a make-up
class for something missed or failed) and we learned early on that
we were each ridiculously fond of ourselves and prone to wit and
insults. He proved an easier target of course, standing a few
inches shorter than me (and a lot of people, for that matter) had a
premature bald spot on top of his head, and, of course, just wasn't
as clever as I was. Am.
"Oh, God, Thad," I said, rising to meet him. "Give me a hug
you great, black bastard." He strode over, laughing, and threw the
arm not bearing a bag of presumable alcoholables around my
neck.
"Kael, you beautiful prick," he chuckled.
"I had no idea," I said, as we parted. "She came up to me, if
I had known..."
"Oh, forget it," he said. "We weren't getting on very well,
anyway. Have her."
"I don't think she's one for being had, Thaddeus." I
waggled my bottle at him. "Shame on you and your little sexist
mouth."
"Bless you and your little sexy mouth," he said, and backed
towards the kitchen. I smooched his way, and he smooched back.
I sat back down.
Sitting on the floor, holding a beer, in front of the couch
next to my naugathrone, was Marge. She was one of Kristie and
Vera's quiet friends. She had also been the costume designer for
a play I had written and directed that quarter. Her head was a mop
of dirty orange hair and she had a round face with tiny little eyes
and liked to wear huge round glasses. Would comparing her to
Thelma from Scooby Doo be an insult? I don't mean it to be. Her
posture was always a little droopy, and she had a thing for army
fatigues.
Tonight however, there she sat. Someone I had never
even really talked to before. Tonight, she was wearing a black
halter top, black stretchy-kind of sweat pants, and some leather
slip-on shoes.
"Hello, Marge," I said.
"Hiya, Kael," she said. I was given the impression the beer
in her hand wasn't the first on that had been there that evening.
"How have you been?"
"Great, Kael," she said, smiling up at me.
"Making all gone with your finals?"
"All gone."
"Then you," I said, "deserve a horribly indulgent back rub."
"Oh, yes I do," she said, and scooted over between my feet
on the floor.
My long, thin, lithe, white fingers came to life on Marge's
neck and shoulders, working loose any last tensions of her
freshman year at the University of Ohio. A small knot of flesh, a
bundle of nerves, I would use the very tips of my fingers, working
several of them in rhythm like I was writing on the world's smallest
typewriter, and that knot, that bundle would gradually disappear,
and Marge's little gasps or grumbles of pain would drift into sighs
and coos of relief. And then I'd do it again somewhere else.
Marge. Her eyes closed, her jaw slack. What went on
inside that head? So quiet, such a cipher. We didn't speak much,
as I rubbed and kneaded I was talking mostly to other people, the
musical tastes of the tenants of the house (albums by Tangerine
Dream) gave way to the auditory desires of the rest of us (Bob
Mould's new solo album "Workbook") and we all drank and
reminisced and my hands were getting kind of tired, I had already
taken care of most of Marge's back and was ready to take a break
--
-- when the lights went out.
"Awwwwww," came the collective sigh of mock pity from
practically every corner of the house. There shortly followed a
series of whoops and giggles.
"Ah, SHIT!" I heard Jack call from the kitchen. Jack was
one of the fellahs who lived there, so it was his right to yell that.
He
and some others began scurrying in and out of the sitting room,
looking for, finding, and then lighting and placing various candles.
I, discovering some strange, newfound enthusiasm for my
task, continued to massage Marge's back. I had decided to
concentrate on the lower part, the "small" as they say of her back.
My hands, next to each other, facing out, down between my calves,
plunging those mighty fingertips into the flesh just above her
behind, where the muscles get seriously tense. I pulled up her
shirt a little and laid my naked fingers against her bare back, down
there. As I continued to work my hands, the motion became less
and less of a sincere attempt to loosen aching muscles and relieve
tension, and more and more of a soothing rub meant to make the
receiver feel...well, it's only to feel good, isn't it?
The room was virtually light free. A few candles burned in
various places, casting an odd, active glow on anything close to
them, but not too much light on anything further away. All attempts
to locate the problem or rectify the situation seemed to reach a
standstill. The lights were out, who cared?
Sparse conversation, people moving in and out of
darkened doorways, no music just the soft, late-night sounds of a
deserted college town street wafting through the opened,
shattered window.
I can't recall what anyone said. I don't really remember
anyone speaking to me. I certainly can't think of anything I said to
Marge, or she to me, all I know is we sat there in that crowded,
balmy, cave-like room, and I put my hands all over her back, she
leaned forwards for me, sat back as I worked up her neck,
balancing her head, scritching through her scalp, her head came
to rest, bent backward, into my lap, and I smoothed out her face,
pulling back her hair, working out the greasy flesh of her (for the
first time, to me) revealed forehead, and drew my thumbs across
her eyebrows and across her cheeks, and then down her lips,
carefully touching and stretching every square inch of her face, the
line of her little chin, and then, bringing her slowly, so slowly, over
minutes of time, she was sitting again, she was getting quite used
to my touch, and trusting me more and more, (people were seated
on a couch close by, but neither of us had said anything to them in
almost fifteen minutes, and Alex had already been through and
gone, I must have said hello, and Thad, like we give a shit, right
kids?) and her head lolled forward again and my fingers dwelt on
her shoulders pressing in and relaxing her even further (did I stop
to drink some more? I must have) and down my hands went
working free the unexplored muscles of her chest and both hands
pressed onward, sliding both palms over her breasts and
squeezed them lightly and cupped my hands around them and let
my fingers lift them up, and index finger and thumb now gently
discovering each small nipple beneath the black cotton cloth and
there I played for a moment, just casually feeling up Marge in that
room full of friends, in the dark.
***
An hour gone past, the lights were still out, and word had
come through that it was in fact a fuse in the house and not the
whole street that was out. No one, however, could be bothered to
fix it.
My hands came to rest on Marge's shoulders. I leaned my
face close to her ear, and could see her eyes were closed.
"Marge?" I whispered.
"Mm-hm," she said, in that marginally conscious manner.
"I didn't lose you did I?"
"Nope," she said, "Thank you, I am just very, very, very
relaxed."
"That was all right, then?"
"Yes," she smiled, "thank you very much."
"Marge," I said, "it's kinda late, you wanna go?"
"Yes," she said, craning to look up at me with those little
eyes. "You'll walk me to my dorm?"
"I was going to ask if you didn't want to watch Christmas
specials back at my place."
"Oh, yes," she said, "I'd like that."
***
Twelve-thirty in the A.M. Deep within the demented
apartment, the architect's house of pain, was this "room". It had
four walls, oh sure, but they didn't come together at right angles.
One of them was so short it was practically triangular. And small.
The 19 inch television sat on a wee table against one wall and
Marge and I sat on a horrid green couch against the opposite wall.
My feet rested on the tee vee table. Marge sat to my side, my arm
around her, she leaned against me.
We were glowing blue. "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas"
played out on the set before us. While "wanna come back to my
place to watch Christmas specials" may be one of the more
ridiculous pick-up lines of all time, I am nothing if not honest.
"...it was Cindy-Lou Who who was no more than two..."
I slipped my hand into her sweat pants. I was surprised. I
lifted up the waistband slightly. I could see a tuft of dirty orange
hair.
"You don't wear underwear?" I asked.
"No," she said matter-of-factly. It was kind of a stupid
question, my hand in her pants and all. I turned my face to hers.
"Are you going to want to spend the night?" I asked her.
She looked up at me rather sleepily and gave me a big,
thin smile. "I'd like that," she said.
"Good," I said. I leaned in and brushed my lips against
hers. She gave me a little kiss and I kissed her back.
"You kind of like me, don't you?" I asked.
Yes, it was as stupid as the question about her underwear.
***
Darker still now. No candles, no blue tee vee glow, just the
scattered beams cast from parking lot lights, broken up or blocked
out completely by a conveniently placed desk.
The accumulated heat of the day clung to every inch of that
tiny little room. Condensation, warping the Robert Smith poster,
dripping from the plaster bust of Elvis, the walls were slick and the
mattress never completely dried from the night before. The whole
nook smelled like Kael.
Gray white skin in that darkness, head resting comfortably
on a thin cotton pillow, shoulders back against the bed, soft curve
of breasts, their orange nipples wide and soft and flaccid (oh yes,
they always have to be "erect", don't they) one single stripe of
sweat slowly sliding down her slender belly, curving in and down,
her arms at her sides, her hands reaching up, and her fingers
coming to rest on either side of my head, my tongue out and
pointed, tasting the doughy skin between her legs, salty and moist,
I used my fingers to open her a bit more, and using my thumb to
rub against that swollen knot (a simile; unlike with the muscles of
the back, massaging this knot relaxes no one) and she moaned
and gasped and her legs, propped up on either side of me swayed
back and forth.
"Hmmmmmm..."
My head bobbed up and down in an amusing fashion, I,
propped up on my knees, my butt sticking way up in the air, one
free hand gripped my erect penis which bobbled freely between
my legs, and using my thumb and index finger I briskly pinched at
its underside.
She breathed softly, sudden, occasional gasps, it was slow
love folks, no one was going anywhere, except perhaps to sleep.
We were each very drunk. At least I know I was pretty drunk, and I
thought that she was. She never said. She had never said much
anyway.
Little girl, only eighteen, moody and sullen, so many
secrets, and how had she gotten here? What was she doing in my
bed? How did I arrive at this place, here, jaws open, tongue out,
slapping it and flicking it against her most private part. Always
hiding under a mop of hair, always dressed in baggy, concealing
clothes. Had I ever considered she had breasts, let alone those
displayed there on my bed? Did I ever give a second glance at the
shape of her hips? And there they were, rising suddenly and then
resting, her small behind settling into the dunes on that floppy
mattress.
Why was she here? Simple. Because I had asked her to
be.
I rose up, standing on my knees (my head only a foot or so
from the ceiling) and pushed my hair back out of my face. My face,
glistening with sweat, my penis, turgid before me, its head so
purple and shiny, precum slooshying from its tiny mouth and
beginning to run down its length. Marge lowered and closed her
legs slightly and I slithered beside her.
"You're wildly attractive, Marge," I said.
Her eyes, barely slits now, widened considerably. "You
think so?" she said.
"Yes," I said, smiling, all teeth and glowing gray eyes, "I will
admit you make it hard to notice."
"I do?"
"Well, I would be the last person to encourage a woman to
show off her body," I said, "and that's the last thing you ever do.
'Nuff said."
"True." She smiled at me.
"But I can see all of you now. And you are very beautiful.
And I am overwhelmed."
She beamed.
"And I'm not just saying that to get you in bed with me."
She laughed. I kissed her little pug nose and kissed her
mouth. We kissed a while.
"I think we should do it," I whispered. "Do you think we
should do it?"
She nodded. I leaned over the edge of the mattress and
ran my hand through the narrow space in the skeletal spring set
between the mattress and the floor in order to locate a box of
rubbers.
I used to be really, really good at putting on condoms. I
took my position, kneeling again between her legs, peeled open
the package, pulled out the party favor, and rolled it into place.
Marge spread herself wide (but not too wide, I noted -- for a
moment I feared virgin) and I placed my hands along her thighs,
sliding down and placing my thumbs at the base of her vagina,
sliding them up its length to test how wet she was (she was) and
leaned over her. My hips adjusted, using my fingers I nudged my
penis-head against her and began to slide it in. I held myself up
with one arm, my face hovered against hers, and she looked at me
with awe and surprise. We kissed again, as I continued into her,
coming to rest, my butt between her thighs, deep brown, curly hair
nestling among dirty orange, the hairs becoming entangled and
entwined, until I backed up and out, and then down and in again.
Slow.
I leaned on my elbows, I grabbed Marge's head in my
hands and we kissed kindly and timidly. My behind arched up and
down, her hips shifted slightly, sweat began to cascade down my
back towards my shoulders.
I worked her and kissed her. An entire day's worth of
courted and suppressed orgasm began to build within me, I rocked
a little harder and Marge's closed her eyes.
My rhythm began to build and she just lay there, moaning
so quietly, gasping for occasional surprise breaths. I began
pounding my hips into hers, my bloated and splitting dick, its
blood pulsing in my head, I gripped her shoulders tightly and held
on as long as I could, the pain was horrific, and still she lay there,
not giving any indication of pleasure, arrival, her world was far
from mine.
I shuddered. I slammed. Those eeny, clenched muscles
inside my penis, tormented and tender finally gave way and sploot
after sploot of molten me hammered into a wall of sheer latex.
Marge rocked her head back and made no sound. I grunted and
hunh-hunhed and squeezed my hands into her shoulders, a tight
vise-like grip. My legs went see-saw and my feet were fists.
And then it was over. I gasped for breath and lifted myself
off of Marge, reaching for a Kleenex to remove our protection,
throw it in the wicker waste basket. I lay back next to her, and put
my arms around her.
Hmn," I said, already drifting away.
"Hmn," she said.
"Was that okay," I asked.
"Mm-hm," she said. "That was okay."
"Wanna go to sleep now?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
So we did.
***
"Kael?"
Another morning in Clemson, Ohio. Another day. The sun
was all over my room, stuck to every wall.
"Kael, wake up."
I was in an early morning stupor, the previous day's
activities, not yet enough sack time, the heat...I could go on. Vera?
Marge kneeled next to me. She was dressed.
"Kael, I have to go."
"Whutimizzit?"
"It's almost eight-thirty," she said, "I have to pack. I'm
leaving tomorrow. Will you call me when you get up?"
"Okay." I rolled over.
"Kael," she said, "would you like to have breakfast? At my
dorm or something?"
I had already fallen asleep again.
"Call me when you wake up, okay?"
"Mm-hm."
"Kael?"
***
I did not call. I meant to call, I did not call. That day I
ran
into Vera who chastised me for not having called the day before or
telling her about the party. I wasn't in the mood.
"You, Kael Goodman, are the single most conceited person
I have ever met," she said.
I stared at her blankly. "So?" I said.
She threw up her hands in disgust and walked out of my
life.
When I finally remembered that Marge had told me she
was leaving the next day, I called, but there was no answer. I
called again the day she was supposed to leave, and there was
again no answer. I called the next day, and when there was still
no answer I went round to her dorm room and saw the check-out
slip on her door.
I felt sorry I had missed her, ever though I had done it so
effectively.
The following fall I learned she hadn't liked the University
of Ohio very much, and transferred to a school on the coast. I also
learned from mutual acquaintances that before she even came to
school she had once attempted suicide.
Casual badgering of her friends on campus for some
reason never led to my actually procuring a phone number or an
address where I could reach her. I kept asking and they kept
saying they would give it to me, but it just never happened.
I've heard she's doing well, but I've never seen or spoken
to her since.
***
*Special note to all "Diary" fans: thank you all for your letters, and
if you like my work but have never written me, please do so,
because I have a special announcement to make which I will send
personally to anyone who has ever given me their support.
Mail to: [email protected]
You'll be glad you did.
-- KG
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ON SALE NOW: Kael's Diary #1 -- neurotic erotica for the modern lover
send $5 to: P.O. Box 210034 S Euclid, OH 44121-7034
write to me at: [email protected] for more information.
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