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Kael's Diary June, 1994 (1/3)
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, 1994 part one
archive name: kael.6.94-1
<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, 1994 "Closer" part one
Who knew I could ever be an adult? Oh sure, they always
tell you you're supposed to grow up, there are all of these so-
called adult people walking around as proof of the kind of person
you should grow up to be. But fuck all that, all right? I'm supposed
to be getting serious now, right? Well, in my own way I am. I sure
can look the part. A little flabby here and there, and my golden
hair is getting quite thin indeed on top. I'll be bald before I'm
thirty,
I'm sure, if I live so long. But for now I am twenty-five, going on
twenty-six, headed for the Millennium, and I'm gonna go down
screaming.
There I stood, wearing a cut-off pair of Dockers, an old
army belt, an over-sized T-shirt and a huge, structureless cotton
jacket that hung down past the ragged cuffs of those pants.
Combat boots, large wire glasses and long hair that defied the pre-
described onset of male pattern baldness. I stood, for a moment,
outside that old building, in that bad section of Cleveland -- I was
there because I worked there, me and everyone else sitting
around outside it on that balmy June evening, waiting for the
audience to arrive. It was a local theater house, one of the small
and less reputable ones, and we happy band of twenty-nothing
aged men and women had made it our base of operations. The
younger generation has no clear goals, no clear objectives? They
just couldn't see them. But then, any goal that doesn't include
ruling the world and enforcing your will on others always seems to
confuse Baby Boomers.
Take President Bill, for example. Oh, I supported him, and I
still do. But you have to admit that's what he's up to. That's what
all those who aspire to power attempt to do, but Clinton and his
whole generation aren't content to just rule, they want to mold the
world in their self-righteous image. My g-g-generation? We're
slackers, losers, we can't get our shit together. Uh-huh. Just
watch us. Oh sure, we'll prove you "right", who can actually
change the world? But cut us a break and don't turn a blind eye to
all the effort we put in.
...or, as Mike D says, "well you say I'm twenty-something
and so I should be slacking, but I'm working harder than ever, and
you could call it mackin'."
I say I stood there, outside the theater, for a moment. That's
because the next moment I had to dodge yet another of a series of
excruciatingly embarrassing blows inflicted by Jackie, with whom I
was having an amateur boxing match.
Jackie had been with our renegade theater troupe since
the previous summer and you couldn't call her beautiful. A pixie, a
sprite, a wood nymph, are these descriptions insulting? A remnant
sale fashion sense and a strong body odor. She stood five foot
two, her normally brownish-reddish hair now dyed to a fluorescent
blondish-orangish with deep brownish-reddish roots. Her hair was
like that of a six year-old boy, unkempt and dirty, even if she
owned a comb it would have been hopeless. Oh, and a voice like
a demonic child --Linda Hunt meets that dwarf from "Poltergeist",
on a pack-a-day habit. Odd freckles and moles, one clear bump
on her upturned nose, and teeth that looked like they had never
seen the fuzzy end of a toothbrush.
Jackie was a mess. And she gave every boy a hard-on.
Right then, she, holding two tight little fists, one clutching a
lit cigarette, receiving a playful head slap to the forehead from me,
tried kicking my shins. I lashed down and grabbed her by the
ankle. A normal person would have flipped out, panicked, lost
balance and cried out in surprise. Jackie put her weight on her
good foot, leaned into to my torso, and began pummeling my
ribcage. I let go of her foot.
This continued for a few minutes. Sid, Ryan, also hanging
around outside, waiting, begging for someone to finally show up to
see our performance, began to get worried that if someone did
show up, all they would see was that there was a fight going on
outside the theater, figure there's a good reason why they had
never seen this part of Cleveland, and move on.
"Hey guys," Sid said, "take it inside."
"You hear that?" I said, deflecting yet another hit aimed for
my solar plexus. "We're not being professional."
"You started this," Jackie said, pushing me with one free
hand, "you smacked my head."
I reached out and grabbed her hand that wasn't holding a
cigarette. "That's because you were being a PRICK." She writhed
in my hands and began kicking again. I let go and stepped back.
"Stop?" I asked, smiling.
"Whatever," she said, and said down on the curb, with her
back to the nasty, city-maintained "beautification" (see: "dying
shrub"). I sat down next to her.
"You guys cool?" Sid asked, sitting a few feet away.
"Shut up," Jackie said, "sometimes Kael needs his butt
whupped."
"I was kicking your ass," I said.
"I had a cigarette in my hand," she said, taking another
draw off of it. "Do you want one?"
"Nope," I said, "thanks." I hadn't smoked in two months. It
was looking like I might quit for good this time.
A deep, dark, maroon van pulled up to the curb, and we all
sat back. The driver's door sprung open and Gail popped out.
"Like it?" she asked.
"Wow," Jackie said, "that's great!"
"Kael and I picked it up this afternoon from the airport, it's
so huge inside," Gail said.
Jackie flicked her cigarette to the sidewalk, and calmly
stood up. She stepped in front of me, and pushed me backwards
into the bushes.
I yelped out in surprise as her wee fists began pummeling
the living shit out of me.
"You crazy little bitch!" I cried.
"How do you like that, huh?" she barked in that great,
hoarse, pinched voice, landing on me, battering me with a variety
of punches and slaps. I flew my hands up in a weak defense. A
swarm of bees rose from the nettles and flew about us.
"Get her the fuck off me!" I yelled, grabbing onto her wrists
and pulling her down close to me, but she just kept on smacking
me about. I managed to fling her to one side and get to standing,
but she was already there. Sid leaped up and stood between us.
"Oh get away," she cried at him.
"Cut it out, you two," he said.
"Oh, MAN," I whined, petulantly, "we were having fun."
***
The plan was simple. We'd perform our Saturday night,
eleven o'clock show, hop in this rented van sometime around one
in the morning and drive to Chicago. Our show, consisting of
originally choreographed and constantly updated dance slash
comedy routines, had been running every week for seven months.
We all needed a little vacation, and the cheapest one available
was a short jaunt to Chicago. Those of us who had work managed
to take a few days off, driving non-stop, the five of use who were
going would drive and hour apiece and sleep (yeah, right) the rest
of the way. We'd arrive Sunday morning and leave on Tuesday,
flopping on the floor at friend's apartment, shopping and seeing as
much alternative, inspirational Big City theater as we could.
Our show that evening was another disappointment. The
media had a thing against our little theater, and we found it
impossible to get any kind of free exposure. The usual trickle of
ten people came in, saw our show (we jumped and sang, danced
and pontificated, moved our tiny audience to tears and got huge
belly laughs) told us it was the most original and innovative thing
they had every seen in their lives and why were there so many
empty seats?
Oh well.
They left, we turned out the lights, packed the van, and took
off for the second city.
***
I love driving, late at night, my favorite music playing on the
stereo, a-c turned off, the window cracked open after midnight. I've
had a lot of experience taking long trips, driving to or from
Clemson as often as I did for six years, that one time I went all the
way to Florida, stopping once for a ten minute nap. Nineteen
hours was all it took, left at nine in the evening, I was in Bahama
City by dinner the next day. Never doing that again, I'm sure.
This time it would be for just an hour. I went first -- the van
was signed in my name. Jackie drove shotgun, Ryan sat in the
second, expansive seat, Satch and Gail tried to catch a few zees in
the larger, more secluded back seat. Sid couldn't afford the trip or
the time. Ryan, our seventeen year-old technical prodigy, by far
the youngest member of our modest theater company, had
purchased a copy of Madonna's contribution to the "Dick Tracy"
hype back in 1990, "I'm Breathless". It was one dollar in a bargain
bin, and we all listened to it. Funny. Ryan the high school student,
Jackie, the lower class punk and me, an affluent middle class
snob, and we all knew every word to that obscure collection of
great Steven Sondheim melodies and cheesy Madonna pop
tunes.
"Would you knock it off, please? ZIP! Thank you."
"Hey," Jackie said, picking up her purple, rattan, oh so very
bohemian knapsack. "What does anyone else want to hear?"
"That's not done yet," I informed her.
"Yeah," Ryan chimed in.
"I don't care," she said, "I'm sick of this."
"Put in the 'Twin Peaks' soundtrack," I said, "as long as
we're on this whole 1990 motif."
"You and your thing about chronology," Jackie said, "it's a
little tired."
"Hey, I'm a little tired," I said, "it fits. Anyone see a sign
for a
rest stop?"
"In about two miles," Ryan said.
"Coolee-cool."
Since Ryan was attending a public school for the arts, he
was able to tell his teachers that this was a special field trip he was
taking with the theater he worked for, which was, when I thought
about it, true. He was a hefty boy, almost taller than me, and a
much greater distance around. A red smear tore down each
cheek, just like the kind I had when I was younger, a tell-tale flush
that at the slightest moment of insecurity would flare up into twin
admissions of shame or embarrassment. Mine had died down a
little as I got older, and whether this was self-confidence
manifesting itself or just part of the aging process, I was glad to be
without them. Poor kid. They have the emotional scarring
capability of a hard-on in tight jeans, only you can't put your books
in front of them.
We stopped the car at the next rest stop, still miles from the
Ohio-Indiana border, and everyone switched places. Jackie took
the driver's seat, and once I came back from the pop machine I
found Ryan already waiting to sit shotgun. Satch and Gail
continued to snooze in the back. Ryan had no license yet, and so
the two of them would be taking us the rest of the way into
Chicago. I sat in the middle seat, and the three of us continued our
late-night pow-wow.
"Who put this piece of shit music on?" Jackie asked.
"It's Julee Cruise, it's 'Twin Peaks', man," I said.
"It's fucked is what it is."
"You're ugly," I said, "you know that , Jackie? You're so
ugly, it goes down to your soul."
"Whatever."
"If it means anything," Ryan kicked in, "I don't think you're
ugly."
"Yeah, well," I said, "we all know what you think."
Twin cheek flare-ups. Poor, poor kid.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jackie asked, hitting the
cigarette lighter.
"Yeah, what's that supposed to mean," Ryan asked, not a
little defensively.
"I just thought, you know Ryan, we've been through this," I
said.
"No, what?" Ryan said, turning in his seat to look at me.
"It's about your thing, you know, with boys." I said flatly.
"Oh, fuck you," he said, turning back around.
"No," I said, "I'm sorry, I keep bringing it up --"
"You've got to leave him alone," Jackie laughed.
"-- it's just," I continued, "Jackie has got this whole Dennis
the Menace thing going with her hair and all, it just made sense --"
"Thanks," Jackie said, mock offended.
"I'm sorry," I said, sitting back and throwing up my hands in
a mocking sort of acquiescence, "I'm sorry, I just thought it needed
to be said."
"The only one here with a thing for boys is you," Ryan said,
trying to rise to the occasion.
"Well," I said, a little sombered, "there's no need to be
hateful."
"Whatever."
"I mean, when I make assumptions on your sexuality," I just
couldn't stop this, "I don't mean them as insults." Ryan just sat
there and stewed.
"You're so full of shit," Jackie said.
"I'm just trying to be helpful," I said.
"You can help me," Ryan said.
"Anything," I said, "how?"
He turned back to face me, his cheeks turned a deep
purple.
"Shut the fuck up," he said.
I thought for a moment.
I nodded to him in closed mouth, wide-eyed, excited
agreement.
***
An hour and a half later, getting on four in the morning,
Jackie pulled our maroon rental into the next available rest stop
and we all took a little stretcher. It was Gail's turn, more or less
awake and refreshed, and it was me in the very back seat when
everyone got back from the bathroom.
"Hey, Jackie," I said, "come spoon with me."
"Oh-kay," she said, quacking like a ten year-old.
"Oh, man, "Ryan said, "that means I'm in the middle again."
"Did you want to spoon with me?" I asked.
"What do you think?"
"I wouldn't dare to presume."
Jackie stumbled into the back with me. I was lying with my
head to the port side of the van (uh, that's left to everyone else), my
back to the seat, on my side, and Jackie flopped comfortably into
my arms. My knees were a little cramped, I had one foot here,
another a few feet below and in front, I wrapped my arms around
her, my left under her head, that greasy, glowing, golden hair
under my nose. She smelled of patchouli, strawberry air freshner
and a lap around the block. I held her close, this man-child, this
freak of nature. A scratch on my calf, inflicted during the bee-bush
episode, rested uncomfortably on the back of the upholstered seat.
I fell asleep for a half an hour.
***
"Aaaagh," I said.
"Mm, what," she mummbered.
"My leg is way asleep."
"Wanna move?"
"Mm-hmn."
We shifted about. I tried putting my long legs anywhere
they would fit, but it was pointless. We switched positions, her in
the back, holding me, with my legs dangling out over the edge of
the seat. That wouldn't work. I ended up lying on my back, a little
of me hanging on the edge of the seat, I looked up into the ceiling
of the van, my left hand reaching over onto my stomach, she lay
next to me, on her side, back against the seat, her mouth an inch
from my ear.
One of her legs was tucked under mine. The other lay on
top. She held me in her arms. Her right hand gripped me around
my ribs, like she was helping me stay on the seat. She nestled me
close.
Her hand gripped my chest. Her breathing was a continual
repetition of tiny sighs in my ear, never losing tempo, only
increasing in volume.
Her knees squeezed together. That involuntary, right? I
couldn't help changing my breathing only slightly. I had been
asleep only a minute or two earlier. I was delirious. My chest rose
with uncertainty.
I turned my head to hers. I looked into her face. Her jaw,
slack, that small mouth, those chubby little lips, bucky little front
teeth, nicotine stained and nasty and adorable. Her eyes were
closed, her breathing heightened but regular. I opened my mouth
(what? what? what am I doing this for?) and drew my lower lip
against hers, and squeezing both of my lips against her lower one,
she pulled her lips together -- our faces were apart, our lips
cleared the distance, making a teeny little handshake.
We did it again, she still kept her eyes shut, were we both
asleep? No, I know I wasn't, her arms pulled me closer and I
swiveled my body to face her, and our lips pulled and pushed,
kissing again and again, tongues darting slowly, I put my arm
around her and caressed her little body and her hand came up to
touch my face. Her legs scissored around mine and the breathing
started to seriously pick up in speed.
And now it was a grope fest, albeit a slow one. I wrestled
my hand into her buttoned up, pea green shirt in a lame attempt to
fondle her tiny little breasts. She continued to kiss me every odd
moment, taking my lips in hers like a hungry bird, awkwardly
accepting a small morsel of food.
The truth is, this was not the first time we had kissed. The
first was on New Year's Day Night. That had been a Saturday
night and she and I and Satch and Gail had sat around after the
show, drinking what was left of the champagne and talking until
two. After those two had gone to bed, Jackie and I sat up longer,
talking it up until I had the balls to ask her to kiss me. At that
point
all I really knew was that I was horny, Jackie looked real sweet in
the candlelight, and Maria had really pissed me off on New Year's
Eve.
But those were just simple kisses. I wanted to pursue the
matter, I tried getting ym hands all over her, but Jackie talked me
down and I figured our relationship would be an on and off series
of months where we punched and insulted each other, and
isolated moments where we would just kiss. And being one of the
world's great kissers, a man who truly enjoyed just necking for
hours on end, I couldn't complain. Because she was good. Her
teeth were rotten, she smoked like a chimney, smelled like a man
and looked like a boy, but she kissed like a goddess.
I was not getting her normal kisses here, however. The
breathing was all wrong, less than assured, desiring more. I forgot
about her tits, they were nothing -- it seemed like they were
nothing to her. She kept tugging my lips with hers, urging me on --
-- I glanced upwards. The boy in the middle seat must
surely be asleep, right? --
-- we hadn't said anything. She gripped my behind and
pressed my groin firmly against hers --
-- and the music was playing, and the windows open,
Satch and Gail must be oblivious, they're miles away --
-- I tucked my pelvis back and rested a hand between her
legs. Hot, very hot, she must be steaming inside these tattered old
jeans. The soft, worn cotton was already damp with sweat, and
what else..? I slid my hand between her and she opened her legs,
one resting on the seat, the other against its back, and rubbed
where I could only assume the trouble was...
...and there was a hole.
No. No, you're kidding. I brushed a finger against it. Pubic
hair. No underwear? A hole?! She has GOT to be kidding. I was
beside myself with disbelief, awe, complete befuddlement and just
a little bit of restrained laughter.
Is this the trick hole? This woman has a trap chute in her
jeans?
She continued to pulse with almost imperceptible earnest.
I withheld my anxiety and pressed my middle finger into the hole.
Wet. Stewy wet. Swampy wet. If she didn't want me
prying into her jeans, violating her through a secret hole that just
barely (not even barely, let's face it) allowed my bony middle
finger, it was the last thing she was telegraphing. My face was less
than an inch to hers, my mouth less close, no more kissing , just
sharing of breath, my eyes only slits as I drove as much of my left
middle finger as I could into her. It was easy, in comparison to the
tight sheath of thin cotton I had just passed my finger through, her
secret part was warm and soft and slippery, I pressed into her like
so much microwaved Cool Whip. I pronged her as carefully as I
could, my finger up and into her jeans as far as I could put it. My
lips brushed against hers and they trembled slightly.
But I knew this wasn't enough. I withdrew the offending
finger, bent it as much as I could, the tight denim catching around
my flesh just below the second joint, that bulky ring on the adjacent
finger getting in the way, and I rubbed the tip, fingernail and all, in
a valiant attempt to find THE CLITORIS.
The free fingers of her hand were kneading my shoulder
and back. Her eyelids opened imperceptibly, those dark brown
orbs now completely black between slightly parted lids. She
panted straight into my mouth, closed her eyes again and pressed
her face into mine, firmly mashing my lips with hers.
Pulsing, pulsing, the blood was not making an easy way
into my crooked middle digit, and I found my mark -- at least, I
could only assume that's what it was. Our noses touched, we
shuffed sharply down each other's throats, our chest slammed
forcefully together, our legs a tangled mess somewhere down
there where I couldn't see. The flesh right below my fingernail,
thrubbing, over and over against this tiny knot, no, not tiny, it was
actually quite large, it stood out proudly amidst the squishy skin
and matted, moist hair. If I had ever before satisfied a g-spot, now
was the time to remember exactly how it was done.
Not too hard, not too soft, maybe she liked it hard? Maria
had always been very picky about how I satisfied her. Maria was
really the only person I did things like this to for the past four or
five
years. Funny I should think of Maria now. I thought of Maria
sucking off her manager at work in a van not very different from this
one and pressed on.
I kept up the pressure, the pain in my finger increasing
exponentially as it seemed to take on a life of its own, separate
from my hand except for the pain it supplied. My hand was baking
between her legs, she rocked in her seat and I tried to suspend the
finger in mid-air, just above her tender, tender fleshy bit, gently but
firmly and continually rolling it back and forth, slipping and sliding,
and her head bent back, her breathing never changing, and I
looked up at the seat back, had Ryan looked back here, and Jesus
GOD I am going to have to quit soon Jesus FUCK this hurts, and
still I went on, rolling and rubbing that thing, it was as big as a
house, it couldn't fit in the van, and my hand was screaming --
-- and she leaned her head forward, huffing silently, laid a
hand aside my face (hers glowing with perspiration) and pressed
her forehead to mine. I slowed my pace, withdrew from my
Chinese finger trap and laid my crippled hand delicately on her
thigh.
"Heh-mmm," I cleared my throat slightly, and kissed her
again.
She parted her eyelids. The eyes were brown. She
smiled.
"Heh," I said.
"Hmmmm," she said, an open mouthed smile, displaying
the dirty dental work.
"Ah," I said, "did you, uh...you know."
"Mm-hm," she said, nodding slightly.
"Lucky you," I said.
"Mm-HM," she said.
"I wasn't sure I found it," I said.
"Do you think anyone heard?" she asked.
"Do you care?"
"No," she said. "Do you?"
"No," I said, without a moment's hesitation.
"Hm," she said.
"I think," I said, "I can finally go to sleep."
"Yeah," she said, like a happy eight year-old.
The sun was rising behind us as we cuddled close
together. In a few hours we would be in Chicago, on a Sunday
morning, with everywhere to go and nothing to do.
"Hey," I said, reaching between my legs.
"What?" she whispered.
"I think I came."
She smiled her devilish smile and pulled me tight.
"Then we're both lucky."
***
*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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