Message-ID: <35155asstr$1013209808@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe) X-Original-Message-ID: <5a5d3dd2.0202080043.5935aa14@posting.google.com> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: 8 Feb 2002 08:43:36 GMT X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 8 Feb 2002 00:43:36 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} cuyahoga.007 [urfe] [new] Date: Fri, 8 Feb 2002 18:10:08 -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: gill-bates, newsman . :: as falls cuyahoga, so falls cuyahoga falls :: Vanessa Cuyahoga, pouring gin into a shaker. That looks good, Mom, says Addison. No, says Vanessa, dolloping a judicious allotment of vermouth in after it. It's not like I've never had booze before, says Addison. Addison, dear, I let you fuck whoever you want whenever you want. Vanessa's tits shimmy under her gauzy black peignoir as she shakes it with one business-like hand, ice chucking, liquor sloshing. The least you can do, fetching the strainer, is follow my rules about alcohol and drugs and smoking. Strainer in place, she pours with a practiced whip of her wrist. The least I can do, says Addison, is pretend to follow them. You never let me do anything. Vanessa sipping shoots her a sour look. It's true, says Addison. Vanessa sets her glass down. Well, Edie. Perhaps your father would be more permissive? Edie giggles. My dad would freak. If he saw you with a cigarette? Or a martini glass? Vanessa swooping across to the kitchen table from the bar. Or if he saw you eating out my daughter's pussy on a rock by the Falls? And Edie blushes and looks down and away. Addison snorts and kicks up one foot under the table, finding Edie's lap on the chair across from her. Hey, says Edie. Stop. Addison cocks an eyebrow at her. Vanessa setting the martini glass on the table puts one hand on the back of Addison's chair. It's just you and your mother, then, Edie? I've got a brother and sister. Well, half-brother. He lives with, unh, my dad, actually. And are you girls out at school? Scooping up martini for another sip. Addison snorts. Yeah, Mom. We're in the GLBT club and everything. We march. We wear little pink triangles on our backpacks. We are gonna do the kiss-in next week, says Edie. Only Addison wants us to wear short skirts and feel each other up. Ow! Goodness, says Vanessa. Stroking Addison's cheek. That does get the juices flowing. Tilting Addison's head up, Addison's lips parting, bending down to kiss them. Edie's eyes half-closing, smiling, as Addison's bare toe kneads her underwear. Her hand idly stroking Addison's calf, under the cuff of her pyjama bottoms. Good martini, says Addison, licking her lips. You hush, says Vanessa. Stroking Addison's hair. So were you practicing upstairs today, in your room? Crossing now around the table to Edie's side, against the wall. All afternoon? Yeah, Mom. We need a lot of practice. Mmm, says Edie, shuddering a little. Breathing out her nose, and in her mouth. Vanessa, stroking her shoulder. Toying with a spaghetti strap. Tell me all about it, says Vanessa. We just fucked. That's all. That's all? Just came home and crawled up each other's cunts? Mother. You are so vulgar. Both feet in Edie's crotch now, working. It's a perfectly valid word. Sliding down to cup a breast, Edie inhaling sharply. So tell me. I'm dying to know what you girls were up to in that room, all afternoon. Fingers nipping under the tank-top now, along bare skin. Gee, Mom, says Addison. Edie's hand on the table clenching, a small white-knuckled fist. Where's Dad? What's he been up to? In the bathroom stall, door locked, standing over the bowl, one hand on the slick blue wall, braced. Fly open, swollen cock in the other fist, silent as he works. The first jet of come a long shallow arc, lost against the wall somewhere. Second more of a fall, into the bowl this one, dissolving in sudden tendrilled oily clouds upon the shock of contact. The third dribbles. Eyes fixed on the little wire-and-bead mandala, resting on the narrow shelf above the toilet's flush sensor, maybe the height of his waist. Mandala in his hand now, Jackson Cuyahoga waits with mothers, business partners, boyfriends, kids where the security checkpoint bottlenecks the concourse. He tosses it once and catches it and then flips it to a startled young man, very blond, with a thick black leather bag looped over one shoulder. The very blond young man manages to catch it, nearly drops it, hooks it with one finger. Doctor Cuyahoga, he says, in a voice turned and smoothed by a Scandinavian accent. Doctors see patients. I just think a lot. Call me Jackson. Did you check anything? The very blond young man shakes his head. I travel lightly. Jackson nods. It's in the tunnel to the parking garage that the very blond young man says oh, I think I've heard of this before. Yes? says Jackson, punching the elevator button. It's a model, says the very blond young man, fiddling with the mandala. A metaphoric representation. There's a ding, and the doors of the central elevator slide open. Awful solid for a metaphor, says Jackson, as they step in. He punches the sixth floor button. It's a model of the universe, says the very blond young man. He's squashed it into a flat ring, a rosette of interlocking wire circles, a scalloped butter-cookie shape. The birth of the universe. The flat plane, the, and he opens it, hooks his fingers in the center rings and pulls it open, blooming, a flat ring now surrounding a central bulge like a wire-frame flying saucer, the Big Bang, he says, pulling it open further into a small irregular globe. The fluorescent light catching the small orange beads. The universe. No. I can't remember - there is more to it. More shapes you can make. The very blond young man has squished the center of the globe, pinching it tight, forming two symmetrical lozenge shapes. He grins. Universal mitosis? Jackson shrugs. I don't know, he said. You tell me. I just thought it was a kind of a neat toy. Ah. Torvald. Doctor Cuya - Jackson? Yes? You understand what this semester will offer? I am to basically act as your assistant. Access to your notes, your research, the Lab, time at the Observatory, the Seminar... The elevator dings. The doors slide open. The sixth floor is almost empty of cars. Some ten spaces away sits the Range Rover, alone, an odd color in the orange sodium vapor lights. Do you understand what it entails, then? says Jackson, stepping out, one hand in place to hold the elevator doors. Your, says Torvald, not stepping forward, your reputation has proceeded you, Doctor. He adjusts the weight of the bag on his shoulder, but still does not step forward. Relax, says Jackson. Nothing's going to happen in a parking garage. Oh. I just don't like parking near anyone else. Oh. You've already made your decision, Torvald. Torvald half smiles, half shrugs. I suppose I have, he says. In the car, Jackson pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Offers them to Torvald. No thank you, sir. Jackson shakes one out, takes it in his lips. Starts the motor. Pulls a butane lighter from his jacket pocket and flips it open, lighting his cigarette. You don't mind, do you? he asks. No sir. A reputation? says Jackson, as he puts the car in gear. Just that - you are allowed, ah, certain indulgences. Because of the work you do for your government. Jackson snorts. That's a damn cynical way to put it. As Jackson is paying the parking attendant he looks over at Torvald. Sleepy? It was a long flight, sir. I have a little detour in mind. Take us forty-five minutes or so. Would this be one of your certain indulgences? Jackson seems amused at the idea. It's dark out on the highway. The occasional white light shining on this or that sign, the islands of red and orange and yellow lights at offramps and overpasses. The blue lights shining inside from the dashboard. Jackson's face underlit, his cheekbones dim muffled lines of light, the coal of his cigarette a minor counterpoint. Torvald leaning back in his seat, his face turned to the side, the speed of their passing unseen in all the darkness. His eyes closing, his mouth setting, his eyes opening, slowly blinking. A riot of light sliding by, taillights stuttering, an unmarked cop car, cherries spinning red and flashing, spotlight and headlights on a sporty yellow hatchback, pulled over on the left-hand shoulder. Jackson's hand flicking the turn signal. Pulling right towards an offramp. Torvald, shifting in his seat. Resting an elbow on the door, his cheek and chin on his hand. His other hand toying still with the wire mandala. Looking over to Jackson and scratching the back of his neck. Jackson, his dark sweater, his black jeans lost in the darkness. A pinkish orange street light slides past and suddenly there he is, bodied forth, dark against the lighter color of the leather seat, and gone again. His eyes never turning from the road ahead of them, narrow now and rather steep. Paved, but not too well. Trees loom thickly to either side of the headlights. Jackson takes a deep breath, his cigarette flaring, leaning forward, plucking it from his mouth. Stubs it out in the central ashtray. The sound of gravel under the tires, sudden, sharp, crisp. Well, says Jackson. The car stops. He yanks on the parking brake. Shuts off the headlights. Well? says Torvald, looking about the darkness. Come with me, says Jackson, opening his door. Up a rise on foot and then beneath them, glittering, a sea of stars: house stars and sign stars and logo stars, street stars shooting for the vanishing point out there somewhere, freeway stars like snakes swooping and curling over it all and filled with crawling and flying car stars, and towering buildings full of stars, clustered here, and over there, and there. It's beautiful, says Torvald. Yes, says Jackson. But was it made for us? I'm sorry? Here we stand, says Jackson, the only two beings who could possibly appreciate this, all this. This beauty. Surely the only likely explanation, the only conceivable, possible explanation is that it was created for us? That our presence here, as observers capable of appreciating what we see, is the desired end result of all those zoning and planning laws, the invention of electricity, the automobile . . . those lights . . . Your analogy is flawed, says Torvald. Oh? says Jackson. You are attempting to ridicule the anthropic principle, says Torvald. But all of this, these lights, were created by us. For many different reasons, but all for us, and what we need. And our presence, here, at this place, has everything to do with the view. He looks sidelong at Jackson. Or almost everything. We - you and I - are here not by accident, but by design . . . Or so you presume, says Jackson. Torvald shrugs. Or so I presume. I do not like reducing anything to two choice, or options. This, or that, says Jackson, turning and climbing back down the slope. Torvald follows. The universe is more complicated than black and white. Nonetheless, and he turns, leaning against the front grill of the Range Rover, the engine tocking as it cools, nonetheless, there are two broad paths these next few months can take. And academically, professionally, there is very little difference between the two of them. A moment passes. Torvald stands in the trail before the car, looking down, Jackson a dark shape in the darkness, the car gleaming faintly behind him. Scientifically? says Torvald. Scientifically, says Jackson. I would say that there is more to science than academics and professionalism. Far more. I appreciate this, says Torvald, but I thought we had agreed: I have already made my choice. He shifts his weight, but does not step closer. Choices can be unmade. Changed. When someone says, there is no turning back, that's almost always precisely because there is. Ah, says Torvald. We play a game, says Jackson. Because a game has rules. It can be stopped or started at any point. But we play a game because it can be won. Or lost. Played well, or badly. Do you understand? Torvald opens his mouth to say something, and stops, looking back up the slope at the dusty rosy glow of the city stars. There are, he says, dozens of coincidences in the formation of the universe. Parameters which, if they were not what they are, to a ridiculous number of significant digits - well, there would be no stars, no heavy elements, no planets. No us. I see, says Jackson. Folding his arms. The gravitational constant, for one, says Torvald. Its ratio to the mass of a proton is ten to the negative thirty-eighth power. Unthinkably close to nothing at all. But were its strength increased by just two factors of ten - just two, ten to the negative thirty-sixth - I know the math, says Jackson. - just that much more, and stars would last ten thousand years, not billions. Life would never have a chance to evolve. Life as we know it, says Jackson, but Torvald keeps on, doesn't hear him. How can you look at that, at the ratio of the mass of the proton to the neutron, at the frightfully complex interaction of electromagnetism and strong and weak nuclear forces, how can you look at all of this and not see the hand of design? I don't know, says Jackson. How can physicists can look at the frightful complexity of the universe, its unthinkable size and scale, at our unutterably insignificant place in the scheme of things - how can they look at all that and forget their basic responsibility? Which is? says Torvald. And Jackson grabs his collar, reaches out and takes it in a fist, quick, and just holds it, hold him at arm's length. Why did I do that? he says. I, says Torvald, I don't - Tell me. Why? Hypothesize. I - you. You want to - prove a point. You - Jackson crooks his arm and Torvald takes a step closer, and Jackson's fist twists in the collar of his shirt. Why? says Jackson, and Torvald says you, I, you want to intimidate me, overpower me, you want to dominate me, you, and Jackson says, Which is it? and Torvald takes another step closer, he could put an arm around Jackson now but he doesn't, Jackson's still leaning back against the car but now he straightens up, leans forward a little, Which is it? And Torvald says, You want me. Is that it? says Jackson, in his ear. I, says Torvald. I. I don't know. There is no why, says Jackson. His voice so quiet. There is no why. There is only what and how. Einstein took care of where and when pretty handily. He smiles, his lips parting just slightly, the surface tension of the thin film of saliva slicking them pops. I grabbed you. I pulled you closer. There is only what, and how, says Jackson, and why is just a story we make up to tell ourselves and it has about as much bearing on reality as a comic book or a video game. They stand there a moment, not moving. Jackson holding Torvald's shirt in his fist, his forearm pressed against Torvald's chest, his cheek against Torvald's cheek. His breath on Torvald's skin. Torvald looks down, away, swallowing. His Adam's apple jumps, bobs. The minute - the instant - you start looking for why, you've forgotten the purpose of science. Jackson's voice a whisper. The instant you decide, maybe this is the reason why, or that, you've given up. The moment you think maybe all this was just swept into being by some unknowable Creator at the snap of his monstrously ineffable fingers, that all this happens because it was meant to, you've given up looking for what, and how. You've abdicated your basic responsibility. The minute - The moment you ask yourself why, says Torvald, looking up again, quietly, into Jackson's ear, you've started playing a game. And Jackson leans back, looking at Torvald. Smiles. Your first point, he says, and he kisses him. Torvald is rigid, surprised, it's just Jackson pressing his lips, his mouth against Torvald's. His hand knotted still in Torvald's shirt, his forearm pressed against Torvald's chest. One of Torvald's hands opening, closing, unsure what to do. The other wavering. His shoulders slackening, his mouth opening. His head turning, his tongue licking. His arms coming up now to wrap around Jackson as Jackson's other hand comes up to cup the back of Torvald's head. Why, says Jackson, against his lips. Because you want me. Why, says Jackson, loosening a button on Torvald's shirt, and another. Because I'm young. Because I'm - Torvald's hands tugging at Jackson's sweater. Jackson stepping back against the car, more buttons opened, his hands on the bare clean skin of Torvald's chest. Why? Because I'm brilliant. I'm beautiful. Hmh, says Jackson, smiling tightly. His hands on Torvald's hips, on the buckle of Torvald's belt. Why? Because you want me, you want to mold me, show me, convince me - Jackson swinging Torvald around suddenly, laughing, Torvald's back now against the car, his belt buckle clanking open. Oh, my, says Jackson. I, says Torvald. Why? says Jackson, his hands spreading Torvald's fly, Torvald's cock sliding forth, hesitantly half erect. Why? Because, says Torvald. You're gay - Jackson on one knee before him. Why? Because, says Torvald. Because. Because. His hand on the back of Jackson's head. Oh, because - And Jackson says nothing at all. Oh, says Torvald. Oh - The engine tocks once more. Somewhere the sound of propellers, a helicopter. Rotors. Perhaps a jet engine, there's been a constant susurrus of engines, of wheels on pavement, of wind somewhere. The dim and rosy glow of the city cut jaggedly by the slope's leafy silhouette. Oh. A scrape of gravel as Jackson stands. Oh. Takes Torvald's face in his hands, long-fingered hands, the glint of a ring, rosy silver in the darkness. I don't, says Torvald, as Jackson kisses him, as Torvald kisses back. Torvald's cock still gleaming upright, the head of it bulbous, wet. Jackson leaning against the car, pulling, guiding Torvald on numb feet to one side, around him, behind him now, hips to hips, Torvald's head leaning back against him, one foot toes up, heel useless in the gravel, Jackson's hand around his waist, Jackson's hand on his cock. Torvald's hand splayed on the hood of the car. Groaning. I don't. I don't. Shh. Jackson's hand sliding slick along Torvald's cock. His heel dragging in the gravel. I don't. Shh. Oh. Oh. The come in one long stream, lost in the dark. And again. A sound like momentary rain. Oh. Jackson, licking between his thumb and forefinger. Smiling. You, says Torvald. No, says Jackson. You're hard, says Torvald. No, says Jackson. I felt it. You - No, says Jackson. He takes Torvald's hand, pulls him close. Kisses him like taking a bite from something. Torvald's eyes closed, licking his lips, licking the air. Not yet, says Jackson. Not now. Not here. Why not? says Torvald. They stand there a moment. Torvald's pants hanging open, his cock slowly curling in upon itself. Shining wetly even now. Jackson's hand running through Torvald's hair. Jackson's head shaking, his lips quirking in a flat dull smile. Torvald buckles his pants as Jackson shakes a fresh cigarette out of the pack. I'll have one of those, says Torvald. In the car. Trees to either side of the headlights again, but also mailboxes. A streetlight, the color of luminous pink grapefruit. Some music, stately, serialist, plays over the speakers. Tell me about gravastars, says Jackson. I, says Torvald. Shaking his head as if shaking water from it. I haven't read the paper. Mottola and Mazur? Yes, says Jackson. I haven't read the paper. Read it, says Jackson. We're going to be looking at the possible implications on Smolin's theory of the natural selection of universes. I don't, says Torvald, but Jackson doesn't hear him. The idea that maybe a gravastar could serve equally well as the birthpoint of a new universe, he says. I, says Torvald, and then oh. Oh. He frowns. In the shallow well in the dashboard before him the wire and bead mandala. He takes it in one hand, poking it with the other. It's a question of the entropy, he says. To start, says Jackson. Gravel again under the tires, sharp, crisp. Of course, if I had been Mottola and Mazur, I'd have named it something else. Oh? says Torvald. The car stops, Jackson jerking the handbrake up. In front of them a Mazda Miata, roof up. The lights of a house through the greenery there, a front door. Opening. Sounds like something from a bad Star Trek, says Jackson, trailing off. In the doorway there a woman, tall, silhouetted, dark hair to her shoulders, quite obviously naked beneath the gauzy black peignoir tied loosely at her neck and waist and brushing her bare ankles. A martini glass in one hand, raised to her lips, tossed back. Turning inside and gone then, the door still open. I, says Torvald. Um. I should probably, says Jackson, shutting off the engine, warn you about my wife. :: as falls cuyahoga, so falls cuyahoga falls an object lesson.007 --n. :: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www/ http://www.ruthiesclub.com/ nickurfe@yahoo.com This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere. "Prospero's magic" from the Prospero's Books soundtrack by the Michael Nyman Band. . -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+