thoma@reed.UUCP (Ann Muir Thomas) (07/31/85)
*** REPLACE THIS LINE WITH YOUR MESSAGE *** WELL, NO IT'S NOT... He was learning the way of the lonesome soldier, surrounded in the days and isolated in the nights. Carrying arms that were useless because the enemy they were meant for was not aware of being an enemy to anyone, he roamed over the Island, alternating between furrowed-browed contemplation and superficial contacts. (Here, were this an ordinary piece of erotica, I might describe his physical characteristics, starting with a general vision of healthy male attractiveness, then proceeding to describe for several pages each feature of whatever the ideal male is, down to graphic detail of the genitalia (which items, once upon a time, somebody created for writers of erotica to portray so the reader wouldn't notice that the storyline was weak). But to do so would be to reduce myself to cliches or flowery metaphors; besides, you, as the reader, should be able to visualize your own ideal male, the one you would go crawling into bed with if you dared (males in the audience, please note that you too posess such an image, although he may be buried away under the pretentions of heterosexuality (OK! OK! This is the Island, so I can't get away without saying that the same goes for the Lesbians who may be caught up in the pretense of homosexuality)). That is what "he" is to me, and my ideal is not yours and yours is not mine. So erotica this is not. Shall I give him a horse? Such a romantically military notion, a horse, don't you agree? But alas, he's an Islander, and they haven't the money for both tuition and horses (or so they say, to impress their friends). A dog, perhaps, that's Island-- but no, he doesn't like dogs, and the point is his solitude, in which there can't even be the redemption of canine companionship. But to return to the tale itself...) On this night, his mood was contemplatory. For tonight, at least, his role had been played, and the mask ahd been exchanged for the sword. As he wandered, he kept one hand on the sword's hilt, so if he chanced upon the enemy, he would be ready. (Ready for what? you ask, beccause as he himself would tell you, you do not know him nearly as well as you would like to think you do, and you don't understand the dangers of a woman. She is any woman, this enemy, and she would take no pride if she knew that he found it neccessary to defend himself from her. So now you ought to realize that he's no phallic god, this hero of mine, no ever-virile machismo stud conquering countless women with the classic combination of good looks, worming words, and agile tongue, and satin sheets. No, this one, he'd run from satin sheets, especially if they were purple, but he's still my ideal male. Like I said, this is not ordinary erotica...) As he came closer to the Magic Grove, he saw two figures run into the trees, but he thought nothing of it, because everybody knows that the Magic Grove is a place for play. In fact, once upon a time he had played there, with a little girl who fancied herself a woman. But such frivolity was quite thoroughly pushed aside now, the little girl long lost to the tyranny of love and stifled creativity. When the two figures emerged from the magic grove again, he saw that they were cowled monks. There's a reason behind every name, and the Magic Grove indeed works a peculiar sort of magic at times. In the case of our soldier, it transformed his mood into complete awareness (which, some would argue, consists of no mood and every mood at once). These monks were yet another legend of the Island, a place which is certainly fertile with potential legends; they had chosen celibacy rather than taking up arms, and religion rather than the hedonistic atheism which identified the Island in its long-defunct heyday. It wasn't absolute celibacy, because the monks were known to go willingly into the narrow beds of men on occasion, only to return to their vows the next morning, leaving sticky sheets (ah! you think, finally a lapse into standard erotica, but no...) and sixty cents for their laundering. At the same time, they were posessed of an enigmatic sensuous quality, visible even beneath the cowl. (Alas, I could quite easily lapse into erotica now, so it's time to bring our poor soldier back into the story-- if I'm not careful, he'll go wandering off in search of adventure while I take the pleasure of describing my mad monks to pratically orgsmic heights) The soldier pondered seeking their favor; complete awareness is an interesting aphrodisiac, and it brought to him the need for (sex?... it's a bad word here, entirely too sharp. Say it...see what I mean? The word is almost as violent as the act itself...) men, who didn't require defense; they didn't ask to see behind the mask, and the act was the act, a release without the nightmare of exposing the soul "before, during, and after." In such directions his mind wandered. But it was a shock to him when the monks removed their cowls to worship in the moonlight. (It ought to be a full moon, and the monks, being true Islanders, ought to howl at it, but just their celibacy contradicts this and suggests that they aren't ordinary Islanders...so the moon is new, and the monks are silent.) Certainly no one should have to wear a cowl, but he felt immensely betrayed because the monks were women, and exactly the shameless, naked, dancing variety that he feared the most, the sort who were impervious to both mask and sword....(Oh my! Erotica is a very tempting escape now. I could, if I chose, describe my monks in terms of the ideal female, the perfect counterpart to the ideal male, but the monks aren't identical twins, and once again, I'll leave the image to you. All the terminlogy and concentration on certain hormonal endowments ought to bore you by now. Dammit, they are just beautiful!) Yet he found himself dropping his sword, and with it his solitude, and striding forth to join them, and... (...with that picture in mind, I'll leave the conclusion to you. We are all supposedly enlightened about such things; besides, you wouldn't agree with the ideal ending for my ideal male anyway. What do you think two naked women in the Magic Grove on a new-mooned eve would do? And what about our formerly protected, not-so-virile soldier? It would be ironic and completely satisfying if he reached the women and just stood there, and it wouldn't solve anything if he had sex with them. For the last time, the ending's yours, because this isn't entertainment or erotica or anything really. I don't care if you have a paper due tomorrow; you probably aren't going to finish it anyway. So think about this soldier's problem (surely he's not your ideal male anymore, unless you have some kind of suicidal urge to help people who don't want to be helped), and see if you can solve it, because I couldn't.) a.m.t. March/April 1983 minor revisions: 4 July 1985
moriarty@fluke.UUCP (The Napoleon of Crime) (08/02/85)
Hey, buddy, when I was at Reed, I used to hang around the Magic Grove too,
and I never monkeyed with auto-erotic stuff like that. I read Willa Cather
there, and built submarines out of Legos, and sacrificed a few bassets.
3, in fact.
OK, OK! So I *didn't* read Willa Cather there! I read
_Reed_Fleming,_World's_Toughest_Milkman_ (a fitting figure for
net.bizarre... Judge Moriarty is just too impartial, or at least tries to
be...). And I ENJOYED it! Yah!
"Aha! Pronoun trouble!"
If he's not one thing,
he's another. ---> Moriarty, aka Jeff Meyer
John Fluke Mfg. Co., Inc.
UUCP:
{cornell,decvax,ihnp4,sdcsvax,tektronix,utcsri}!uw-beaver \
{allegra,gatech!sb1,hplabs!lbl-csam,decwrl!sun,ssc-vax} -- !fluke!moriarty
ARPA:
fluke!moriarty@uw-beaver.ARPA