Message-ID: <27274asstr$973458614@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: anon.lcs.mit.edu!nym.alias.net!mail2news-x2!mail2news X-Original-Message-ID: <20001105060050.1667.qmail@nym.alias.net> From: nestique Mail-To-News-Contact: postmaster@nym.alias.net Subject: {ASSM} New Story: Exotic Love (mf interracial caution) Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2000 16:10:14 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman, Vulpine Theodore had a thing for Asian women. "It's not that regular women don't excite me," he explained, "It's just that they don't stimulate me at the profound depths that Asian girls do." "Why do you think that is?" I asked. "Well..." Smiling, relaxed, he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. Before he resumed speaking his eyes locked on something behind me, and darkened. I turned. A deeply tanned Caucasian woman walked past us in sandals, cut-off jeans, tear-drop shaped cherry-red sunglasses, and a tank-top that seemed to project her breasts across the entire field of my vision. "See, that girl's really attractive," he said, then nodded, exhaling luxuriously. "I know that. I can tell just by looking at her. But it's superficial: All in her boobies, those great jugs of wonder, and her mind-blurring eyes, her legs like scissors that slash up my resistance with each perfectly measured stride. But you know, with Asian women, it's beyond all that." I turned back toward the Caucasian woman, and watched her from behind. For a moment I was mesmerized; inwardly scrambled; my mind vaporized by the woman's savage physical beauty. When I turned back to Theodore, he rolled his eyes. "That girl? I could take her or leave her." "How are Asian women beyond that?" He laughed robustly, his shoulders bouncing. "Well," he inhaled from his cigarette again. "You may never know. I'm afraid you may never know." * * * It wasn't easy being Theodore. He had thrice been abroad to Southeast Asia, because he wanted "the real thing." With the kind of work he did -- retail at bicycle and skate stores, selling gourmet "kitsch-bars" at the swap meet, running errands for a real estate office -- each far-eastern excursion required nine months of disciplined saving. But he was hell-bent on knowing the unadulterated ex/er-otic wonders first-hand. "See, it's like near-beer. They move to America, or maybe their parents before them, and soon they start to absorb our culture. They do it really well -- sometimes better than we do -- but eventually you look them in the eye, when you get really close you can do this, and it's just not there anymore." "That elusive quality." "Sure, that `elusive quality' that pounds my heart against the inside of my ribcage fifteen hundred times a minute. 'Elusive' like a nuclear explosion in your skull." "Well, then you're suggesting that it's something cultural. I'm beginning to pin it down." "Speaking of pinned down, they have this great form of torture. It's commonly known as Chinese water torture, but really, it's a sexual metaphor, and Korean. They pin you down so that you can't move, only squirm a little, and they have this receptacle drip water onto your forehead until you crack. It's the nectar of love attacking you. Each drop that moistens your skin contains a little mirror image of reality, trembling as it falls through the air, and every time it splashes against your forehead, reality goes jagged -- then absolutely flat." "Has this ever been performed on you?" "Yeah, I have a kit at home." "You have your Asian girlfriends do this torture on you?" "If you can find some pinnacle act of intimacy, why not experience it? Why let life just pass you by..." Theodore had been ordered to leave Vietnam by the police in Ho Chih Min City, who accused him of pandering. For years, he had appealed to the State Department to write a letter of protest on his behalf. "When I was exiled from Vietnam, I felt like I had lost my manhood. But then I discovered Cambodia." * * * "Have you ever fantasized about having sex with aliens?" He once asked me. "To tell you the truth, I don't even know what sort of parameters a fantasy like that would have. You'd call me square, but my imagination just doesn't get fired up that hot." "Well, with Asian girls, it's a little like that. I mean, as close as you can come to the real thing. Only, it is real. Fantasy: you know, when I was a miserable little kid living alone with my mother, the only thing that made life tolerable was my constant day-dreaming. But fantasy mangles your sense of connectedness with reality. It slowly strips you of your will to live. Thank god when you're older desire takes the place of fantasy." "Okay, so dating Asians is your best shot at extra-terrestrial sex?" "Can you think of a better way to simulate it?" I tried to understand why Theodore would even dream of having sex with aliens. Maybe he surmised that aliens were incapable of communicating demands across the species-barrier; maybe he imagined them to have no concept of relationships, without which they'd be free from all of the entanglements and emotional complexities that come with relationships. Maybe he imagined that their bodies were evolved in such a way as to be able to propel him to transcendent levels of something redefining pleasure. But how did he imagine that Asian women were anything like them? "They're passive. Submissive. Obedient. Servile. Scraping. Yet also wildly protective of their own inexplicable dignity. Bob, to tell you the truth, I've never been able to understand them. They're beyond foreign. They make no sense at all, and yet they're purest form of human civilization." He leaned closer, and whispered urgently: "Sex with an Asian girl is like having your soul demolished and recreated in a sparkling, new form right before her eyes. You've never really sparkled before, have you, Bob?" * * * Theodore began collecting samurai swords well before he reached puberty. He had a library of Japanimation films, but denounced Pokemon as "Disnisei." He drank sake and Asahi beer, and dined exclusively at Asian restaurants, demolishing kimchi, udon noodles, soon dubu, and handrolls that looked to him like mangled rainbows strapped in leather dripping with soy sauce and wasabe. He listened only to Chinese folk and Japanese punk. He walked in the sun to induce squinting, and dyed his hair jet black. He read Lao Tzu, Sun Tzu, and Mencius, and wore a dungaree jacket with a gigantic yin-yang patch sewn on the back and sharpened chop sticks sewn into the shoulders -- concealed weapons. He had the Chinese character for "whore" tattooed on his shoulder, and wrote poetry under the pseudonym "Bo Tang." * * * He told me that when he kissed Asian women, it was like being drawn into a dream both magnificent and disconcerting. Sensations deepened without limit, scattered his thoughts like tiny black seeds on damp, warm soil under a nighttime sky. He became a terrified pioneer, plunging into a foreign world which both invited him and resisted him. His identity fluttered; he broke down in the face of pleasures that seemed barbaric in their intensity. Aggreffection, he called it. "I want you to meet Kiroka," he said. "Who is he?" "Come on! It's a she." "Why do you want me to meet her?" "She's a waitress as Fuji. It's one of the most happening Japanese dinner clubs in the city." Instantly I felt anxious. "Why do you think I should meet her?" "She's hot. Icy-hot. You need to experience this: It'll raise your level of everything." "I dunno, I'm pretty happy with all kinds of people. I don't reverse-discriminate. Look, I don't do very well in pre-planned dating situations to begin with." "There's no turning back, buddy. Take my word for it: Woosh!" * * * Theodore drove us to Fuji in his old Toyota Camry. The windows vibrated as his over-sized speakers pumped dissonant Japanese punk. A brass Chinese character dangled and swayed from the rearview mirror. "What does it mean?" I asked, touching the decoration. "It means the passionate flow of experience unifying all life in one metaphysical center. There's actually no accurate English translation. Hell, it's no wonder: just look how vacuous American culture is." The interior of Fuji was dark; throbbing waves of smoke glowed red and blue, and exuded human sweat. Bamboo curtains and rice-paper screens painted with raunchy geishas divided the space into odd angles. When the strobe lights hammered at our eyes, the place seemed like a labyrinth. Two solitary men watched television from the bar, smoking, and after we each drank two shots of sake, Theodore asked the bartender if Kiroka was there. He stared at Theodore critically, then snapped his head, No. "Later," he said. "She'll be here later," Theodore repeated to me. We waited at Fuji for two hours. Theodore showed me all of the painted screens and posters in the club, and was particularly passionate about a scene of a mountain carved into the shape of the Buddha. "It was actually a volcano," he said, "and four thousand years after it was carved into the Buddha's form, it erupted. The Buddha's head vanished; people assumed it had shattered completely, or flown into space. Eventually it was discovered in a swamp in Russia somewhere, and now there's a major international conflict over who owns it." He introduced me to several Asian waitresses, including Enoki, an extremely pale, skeletally lean Asian woman who appeared to be about forty and was missing most of her left ear. "Enoki was captured," he informed me discreetly. "Are you men happy?" Enoki asked. "Very happy," I said. "We're looking for Kiroka," Theodore said. "Oh. Her again, Theodore? One of these days you'll be too oldfor her." "She's very youthful," he admitted. "She's a slut," Enoki said. "Don't say that, Eni." "She spends half of her life in bed. She'll be here later." Over the next hour, Theodore became increasingly moody, impatient, and inebriated. He smoked half a pack of cigarettes, inhaling once or twice from each then stamping them out on the floor. He glared at my shirt, then insisted that we go to the men's room and switch. After another few minutes of waiting, he insisted on searching the ladies' room for Kiroka. "Doesn't that goddam slut bother showing up for work anymore?" He glowered. Finally he decided that we'd drive to her apartment. "I'm not sure you're safe to drive," I admitted fearfully. "Just watch me." * * * "I taught this girl to be independent," he proclaimed above the shrill Japanese punk as we drove. "She still lived with her three sickeningly Americanized brothers when I met her. Called her grandpa in Japan every goddam weekend. I told her, Look, American girls stand on their own: Get your own place; it'll be easier for you to date guys. Now she's totally dependent on me, but she'd never admit it." We pulled up to a two-story building with a doughnut shop at the ground level. "Kiroka!" He yelled as we got out of the car, then instructed me to walk behind him as we ascended the concrete staircase. "Don't let me fall on my ass," he said, "I'm fucking drunk, man." When we reached the top of the staircase, he was out of breath, gasping, and sweating profusely. Swaying, he fell to his knees in front of Kiroka's door. "Knock," he said, then vomitted. * * * Despite his condition, Kiroka was delighted to see Theodore, and welcomed him warmly into her apartment. "Wet towel?" She asked; Theodore groaned. Kiroka was certainly striking to look at: her shiny black hair was dyed blond at the ends, hung down to her breasts, and swished in front of a narrow face that gleamed with pasty white make-up and shiny lip-stick that made her mouth look like an open, bleeding gash. Her voice was melodious; she seemed to sing rather than talk. "My friend," Theodore gestured toward me deliriously, "He's never had an Asian woman." Kiroka studied him for a moment. "He's a virgin?" "No, no. He's just...sure, you could put it that way. So can you show him why I only date Asian women?" After an awkward silence, Kiroka turned to me. For as long as possible I kept my eyes on Theodore. Finally I met Kiroka's gaze. I jumped: she was wearing ice-blue contact lenses. She smiled. * * * Theodore told me that his father had died during his third tour of duty in Vietnam. "When I was a kid, I wondered: Why'd he keep going back? It was voluntary, you know. He won medals, for chrissake. And not only did he keep going back, he chose again and again to avoid high-level command work. He went back for the jungle, for the remote village battles, for the sweat, the mosquitos, the blood. Finally he was captured, tortured, and murdered in captivity. What do you think, Bob? Why'd he keep going back to Vietnam?" * * * Kiroka's bedroom was a monument to patriotic fervor, and Uncle Sam impregnated every square foot of it, with minature flags on popsicle sticks, bumper stickers proclaiming support for America's hired killers abroad, maps of North America in various stages of European conquest showing the territory acquired during the Louisiana Purchase and the Mexican-American War; her bedroom was an ideological swirl of red-white-and-blue frills, speckles, and glitter. Her bed was covered with a quilt made up of patches of differently colored cloth, each one shaped like one of the fifty states, all sewn together at random, with California next to Massachusetts, Florida abutting Ohio, and so on. Her pillow cases were U.S. flags. Kissing my neck, Kiroka unbuttoned my shirt, then unfastened her bra. She lowered herself over me, and dragged her breasts gently across my chest. Her long hair fell over my face, and I closed my eyes, resting my hand on the back of her head. She deftly unbuttoned my pants, pulled down my zipper. "Oh: you're very American," she said, then took my penis into her mouth. I heard Theodore heaving in the bathroom. * * * I did not sweat during my tepid encounter with Kiroka. Our actions seemed like a rehearsal of something scripted and unnatural; tentative, rather than tantric; skeletal scraping, layers of cool flesh lapping dryly. After I came inside her, she didn't lie still, but instantly began an elaborate cleansing ritual in the darkness. I smelled chemicals, heard rustling. Standing up, grabbing my pants from the floor, I mummbled thanks. She stood motionless, startled. "Will you ever come back Fuji?" "Fuji's wonderful," I said, patting her shoulder with a counterfeit smile. I apologized for the inconvenience, and left. * * * Theodore sometimes faded out during our conversations. Even in mid-sentence, he'd lapse into stiff silences, mental vacuums, his eyes cloudy and impossible to penetrate, his words scattering. Our evening with Kiroka seemed to vanish into a similar mental vacuum: he couldn't remember any of it. "But you had her, right?" He asked. "I guess." He looked at me, dumbfounded. "You guess?" "I don't think I passed the Asian test, Theodore." "What do you mean?" "If someone asked me, So is Theodore right -- does sex with Asian girls transport you to gagaland? I'd have to say, Well, me personally, not really." "Then there's something wrong with you." "And if they asked, Well, why does it have that kind of effect on Theodore? I'd have to say, You know, I really have no idea." "Your organ of passion is atrophied. The inner organ; the mechanism; the..." Theodore didn't finish his sentence; his eyes seemed to lose focus. Where did Theodore go when he went blank? What was happening to his mind? * * * In a dream warped at the edges, colors dripping and thick, Theodore envisioned himself wading into a wide, dark stream with vines dangling to its surface from an unbroken jungle canopy, leaves exhibiting a gentle but intricate geometry, colorful exotic fruits, plump with sweetness or poison. Beside him, reaching for his hand, a slender, youthful, long-haired Asian woman, Thai, or perhaps Cambodian, barely conversant with English, but so expressive to him of her needs and her deference. She is awed by his courage: the river breeds venomous snakes, fanged eels, lethal insects that drive through the skin. She gasps at the coolness surging up her spine; he tightens his grip on her hand, pulls her to him. As he guides her deeper into the river, their feet stroking the sandy riverbed, as the water reaches the level of her dark nipples, he tastes her bronze lips sweetened with tamarind juice. They embrace, their warmth accentuated by the breeze that seems to rise like an exhala! ! ! tion from the dark water. He loses himself in the sensation of her breasts against his chest, loses his hand in her midnight hair, and from somewhere she lifts out a dagger with a copper blade and plunges it into the corner of his neck and his shoulder. A bird screams, beats its wings. Like the water growing minutely stiffer, the fins of a fish brush over the tops of his feet, and his knees buckle. The river swallows him, darkens his vision. He feels the woman with the dagger reach under the water and touch his head, gripping his hair, shoving down, making sure he's under forever. Theodore inhaled from his cigarette as a customer walked in, and closed his eyes to try to preserve the fantasy. He heard hesitant footsteps approach the counter, but pretended he didn't notice. "Excuse me," the unseen customer addressed him. Acting startled, Theodore spurted out smoke in the direction of the Hispanic woman's face, then opened his eyes and apologized, chuckling. * * * Theodore was worried. "Can you tell if something's wrong with me?" I stared at him; his voice signalled urgency, deep-rooted tension. "What do you mean?" His hands brushed the air impatiently. "Is there anything about me that's amiss? You know me pretty well, wouldn't you say? Is there something wrong with me?" I didn't know how to begin to answer him. "My hair, Bob: See it? Look on top. It's getting thinner, day by day. You haven't noticed?" "No, not at all." "Well, you never get too intimate with me." "I never get intimate with you at all." "I'm serious. It's really happening. I can hardly believe it: I'm losing my goddam hair. Do you realize what this says about me?" Theodore was defeated; stripped of his youthful dignity; transformed into a walking monument to decay. Although he was still in his early thirties, he began practising memory exercises to make sure he wasn't becoming senile. He began having erection sustaining contests with himself to make sure he wasn't losing his virility. Whenever possible he tried doing new things, or old things in new ways; he called this "neurobic exercise," and it was designed to spark new cerebral life: he began exercising in the dark, taking all of his showers with a hose in his backyard, spending five minutes before each meal smelling his food, and, despite his agnosticism, kneeling down in the direction of Mecca five times a day to pray. Most importantly, he decided he must return to Asia. But this time his destination would be Senarta, a small island off the coast of Vietnam which, he assured me, received fewer foreign tourists than any other island on the planet. "It was a disease colony, then a penal colony, then a giant prison during the last civil war. Now this precious virgin island is the jewel of the earth, in my mind. I wouldn't be surprised if the people there don't even know that Caucasians exist." "You'll take them by surprise, Theodore." "Will they be able to tell me apart from them? That'd be the ultimate compliment, if I just fit right in. If they couldn't tell I was deformed, a cultural mutant." "Maybe they'll be able to tell you're different, that you're American and white, and maybe they'll love that as much as you adore their Asian-ness." Theodore glared at me disgustedly. * * * Theodore told me that North Korean women had developed a form of "breast-dancing," rather like Moroccan belly-dancing which utilized only the breasts. He said they had incorporated this breast-dancing into religious ceremonies, secular entertainment, inter-village diplomacy, superstitious medicine, and agriculture. "Argiculture?" "The thresh rice with their breasts. You know, knock the inedible parts off the freshly harvested grains. They get their breasts moving very quickly and forcefully, and beat piles of rice with them." "I'm sorry. I don't believe that." "Well, fuck you, it's true. But the really remarkable thing is the magic their breast motion is thought to produce, and the fact that they can do sign language with their breasts. Not just sign language, though; when they do this during lactation, the moisture of the milk on their nipples creatures a whistling sound as their breasts swirl through the air, and the whistling is interpreted linguistically. Imagine the realms of meaning that are opened up by this..." * * * Jonathan K. Moss was a widely respected authority on fetishes. He had traveled the world seeking out strange and exotic sexual fixations, fascinations, and "deviant response-patterns." He had infiltrated and thoroughly documented a secretive Atlanta sex club for women who achieved peak sexual stimulation only with men ten or more months behind on court-ordered child support payments; he wrote a widely-lauded case study on a Mississippi man who could only achieve erection while sitting in a dentist's chair with his upper jaw numbed with novacaine; he tracked down dozens of middle-aged Canadian women who regularly asked their husbands or boyfriends to bathe in iced coffee, or smear their skin with coffee grounds before engaging in intercourse; he spent a month with a Pacific islander who could only be stimulated by women whom he had seen riding reindeer; he interviewed numerous west-coast executives who reported that they could achieve full sexual gratification only while wat! ! ! ching film of animals being killed; he found a small Connecticut town in which reproduction had entirely ceased until the mayor erected a statue of a dinosaur in the town square, triggering an almost crisis-level flood of newborns in the local hospital nine months later. Moss' seminal text, "Other Ways," had a chapter on racial fetishes. I read it excitedly, eager to find some explication of my friend's bizarre predelection. Most of the chapter focused on Southern white women's fetish for African-American men, a fetish Moss believed was fueled by the thrill of breaking social conventions against miscegenation: "Precisely because her society's mores forbid intimacy with blacks, the fetishist is thrilled by it. Hers is the illicit thrill of flouting social rules and, in some cases, the thrill of a self-degradation which directs a sneer of defiance and contempt toward her creators, physical (parents) and spiritual (God)." This reasoning seemed inapplicable in Theodore's case since in our area there was no taboo about Asians and white people coupling. But another portion seemed at least arguably on-target: "Racial boundaries may be construed as personal challenges as well as cultural ones. The aggressive culture, one which measures its worth in terms of expansion, may be internalized." Also intriguing to me was this comment: "Once again in the racial context, we see that fetishes are occasionally used as substitutes for intimacy in that they safely contextualize emotional release, and dematerialize interpersonal rituals which shield individuals from pure self-perception." Theodore seemed to want to become Asian, but the Caucasian women Moss wrote about found it necessary to maintain, even heighten their Caucasian-ness in order to perpetuate the thrilling interacial tension they found so erotic. It seemed to me that the more Asian Theodore became, the less fuflilling his Asian fetish might be: the splendorous difference between him and his lovers would vanish. If he successfully redefined himself as an Asian man, wouldn't this lead to total disappointment? * * * I was with Theodore the evening before his departure to Senarta. Arrayed across his collapsable plastic dining table were eight or nine precisely folded stacks: four stacks of clothing, each a different category, one stack of small notepads and paperback books (the Tao Te Ching, the Analects of Confucius, the Book of the Great Learning), two stacks of cigarette cartons, and several stacks of what I assumed were gifts, or tradeable goods. "There are places in the world," he said, lifting one of the impeccable stacks from the table and placing it into a traveling bag, "That are nothing like America. Less stress, less materialism, less frenzied insecurity. Places where you can go, and it's like you're in another world. There are problems, sure, but they're all novel, and meaningful. And they all have solutions. Solutions that don't require degrading yourself." Before I left his apartment that night, Theodore gave me his jacket with the yin-yang symbol on it, with the deadly chopsticks sewn into the shoulders. "I might never be back," he said. "So I want you to have this. It's armor; nothing can happen to you while you're wearing this jacket. Don't abuse its power, Bobby." * * * I dreamed of Senarta several times after Theodore drifted from my life. I pictured vast desert beaches consisting not of sand, but of a hard, thick crust of dessicated mud surrounding a dense, low jungle of wilted plants, their branches clotted with spiderwebs, the still air mad with the buzzing of tiny flies. The driftwood on the Senartan beaches came from the hulls of wrecked vessels; the waters motionless, viscous like spit, and utterly clear. I envisioned Theodore as a solitary prisoner on this former penal colony, gazing not at the desolation but at a vast mirage of splendid, intricate beauty. I wanted to cry out, What's wrong with you? Are you insane? But I knew that my voice would be drowned out by the buzzing of flies. * * * I was leaving a job interview I knew had been pointless. I was good at sensing other people's disinterest in me; I wasn't as good at reversing it. I passed the burrito stand where I would have stopped if I had money. A man wearing a beard that looked like bread mold held out a Starbuck's cup to passersby -- "Spare change for food?" -- but he ignored me. I stopped, turned back to him, and held out my cupped hand. "Spare change for food?" I asked. The beggar glared at me, then shouted, "Get lost, you fucking loser!" I felt a flash of rage, my sarcasm totally deflected. "Fucking pity-boy," as he continued ravaging me, people turned to watch. "White trash scum. Why don't you go learn to masturbate, you adolescent twerp. Get a fucking heart; maybe then you'll have a life." I gestured disgustedly, then walked hurriedly away while he challenged me to a fist-fight, accused me of being a coward, and laughed at me. "Why don't you punch him out?" Someone asked. I wanted to turn life off; unplug myself; detach. And then I saw her. "Kiroka!" She was walking out of a fraternity house, carrying a small black purse in one hand and a backpack in the other. Her hair was bound in two long, loose pig-tails which were dyed in red, white and blue stripes at the ends. She looked up at me blankly. "Hey...how are you?" She slowed down, staring at me. "Hey, so," -- I didn't know what to say --"Are still working at Fuji?" She turned away from me without a trace of recognition, and continued walking. Returning to my apartment, I put on the jacket Theodore had left me -- the jacket through which no harm could penetrate -- and sat in front of the television until it was time to go to sleep. * * * I dreamed of a nocturnal breast-dancing ceremony in a jungle clearing encircled with torches. From within the impenitrable surrounding darkness, drums rumbled and whistles shrieked. The performer, an Asian woman with very plump breasts, had dipped her nipples in some luminescent chemical derived from algae: they glowed silvery green as she whirled her breasts through the air in complicated, criss-crossing circles. At times her breasts seemed to detach from her body, like swinging columns of light around her swaying, slender nakedness. I didn't see her eyes, or her face; just the hypnotic streaks of light spraying from her nipples throught the air. As her dance continued, it became more rhythmically complex, and the audience -- dozens of wide-eyed, dark-skinned men -- became more spirited, groaning with awe, crying out barbarically. Then she began striking things with her breasts; knocking small, dark birds from the sky, weaving them into webs of light, trapping them. ! ! ! On-lookers tossed fruit to her, which flew back into their hands peeled and decoratively sliced. Finally, three men from the crowd grabbed me -- I struggled helplessly as they dragged me forward -- and hurled me into the splendid but terrifying breast-rays. I felt my clothes fall away from my body in shreds; my hair cascaded to the ground; and one at a time, strips of skin dropped from my muscles, veins, and bones. I protested, frantic, but the flaying continued. Tearfully, I pleaded to the woman herself for mercy. Across the now tangled, patternless threads of light leading to her breasts, I saw her face. She was wearing irridescent blue contact lenses, but her features were mine. Mine. [end] . ------- ASSM Moderation System Notice-------- This post has been reformatted by the ASSM Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+