MATADORES DE SUENOS PERDIDOS f/m/f Sex and Suicide Part I Kryptonite: Extra-terrestrial mineral that is impossible at ordinary temperatures and pressures by the rules of physical chemistry. In the superman myth kryptonite is both a source of life and death. Shall we say it is beyond good or evil, male or female? Year is 2024: There were two handsome, well-endowed women modestly undressed for July sitting at the last table of hotel-bar that rose up near the Snake River challenge to Ansel Adam's Grand Tetons. Appropriately, the club was called by the locals, "Matadores de Sue os Perdidos" (Killers of Lost Dreams) The club, like many famous landmarks in the US Federal Park System constructed in 2020 by the Morgan Company Inc., imitated the "Fall of the Universe" standard for decadence and depravity. D&D, known in the past as Dungeons and Dragons, had found more than a new association. The game lifted one veil of consciousness illustrated like Grimm's' fairy tales: no greater fatuous display off female genitalia could be constructed. Models of the cloud formations like the New Business Model, displayed in class jars, had been pickled with the seminal extractions of the failed freelancers. At that moment, "the Fall," as it was known, stretched the musical boundaries to become the anthem of the Popular Rave group, Marginal Intent. Because of the overpayment of participation fees, the planned and very formal suicide of 345 (liturgy by OMNI) by the sinking of a large raft in blood fed waters off the coast of the Coral Sea failed only because 24 people survived. It seems the sharks would not eat them. One of the survivors said that one of the sharks whispered to her that they were related. Further, the shark said, "I was her natural niece. It was that "darling Rave, as it was described, that was Prophet and script for the next thousand years. This interesting cultural advance, as a it was described by publicist from within the Rave organization, made human decline the operating system for a new network of self programming computers and networks. The Descent of Man and its his and her wardrobe made the old fashioned geek show a tame anachronism if one could compare historical phenomenon. Suicide in the year 2024 was considered socially acceptable and encouraged to support the human sink-holes like the most of the Matadores clubs that proliferated when alienation became ordinary sin one step up from Mortal or as one wag said, immortal. In 2011, the Department of Interior, by special exception of the US Congress, began leasing land in the park system to corporations to pay for maintenance of the Federal Park System. No one protested the rapid growth of commercial clutter. It was if the wilderness, no longer valued, was squandered as a more usual political fuel. Cost management and cost accounting, one index of life style, The US Federal government run by a consortium of private business knew that this grand lottery, or pyramid scheme, could not be sustained. The US Constitution amended finally amended in 2009 began that antisocial walk towards the take over of the Executive Branch by US Corp, Inc. The CEO of US Corp became with the much contested election of 2020, President of the United States affirming the direction of governments towards the full integration of new business model with a political process that was more representative of a more affluent but less intellectual middle class. Many claimed that a Constitutional amendment "was without sufficient "demonstration of new process" as the scheme was not sufficiently different (in consequence) from the system by which the US Post Office operated when it became a private business and lost its Constitutional authority." So ruled Chief Justice Manuel Perrante in his majority decision (7-2) of the US Supreme Court (July 3, 2019). MARY IRISH AND JANE SICILY FIND IN THE OTHER THAT WHICH IS CALLED "MURETE" DEATH HAS DOMINION AND LUST IS FIRST FACT AND AN "UNCOMMON" PSYCHOLOGY Imagine, getting drunk, watching old fashion lazar music streak red, blue, in a variety of sync, as your eyes searched over the edge of the 20th floor into the fog of dull city cars and taxis blaring in the traffic below like a lake of anger and dirty steam floating on par boiled macadam One woman, the much taller one, had auburn hair with gray eyes. She called herself Mary Irish. The other, dark and just as pretty with a touch of a turn to her mouth was Jane Sicily. Tonight, Mary wore a white silk blouse cut to the center revealing all but her nipples, and Jane's almost the same was made of magical material that made the garment transparent an opaque depending on the heat of her body. Jane's transparent plastic cloth blouse felt like silk. The material developed recently by a 26-year-old chemist who named the silk like cloth "Lucy Silk" after the inventor's girl friend. The make believe fantasy cloth quickly became known as Lucifer's silk. No matter what the origin of the cloth, or its revolutionary polymer chemistry, Jane's pregnant nipples stood up like erotic statues against a dark brown field in the naked room. Mary, Jane's girl friend for five years, could not keep her eyes off Jane and her blouse. Mary would turn away from Jane from time to time, almost surprised by her embarrassment, as Jane did, when Mary shifted her legs to expose her freshly shaven pubis sculpted, as Mary said, "like a heart with a red patch of floss." Every Sunday night, about nine thirty they would come back to this club, sit at this same table, and talk about the same guys they had fucked or would meet someday. It was girl and boy talk. Usually, it was all the same. Like many others, Jane and Mary came to "Matadores" not for the watered down booze, the fake music or the clutter of pick up lines and passed out memories. They, with the multitudes as chorus, gathered at the railing to watch folks jump from the roof top garden through the silent canopy of arc lights and air drives. The gusts of powerful air (kin to the anti gravity exhaust of the modern Jet plane) caught the folks that jumped to propel them upward. Caught by gymnasts employed by the hotel, the "heroes" returned to the roof of the club were celebrated as the matadors of death It was not a perfect system. Some of the jumpers you did not catch the cyclone. Only jumpers authorized by the hotel jumped with any hope for survival. It was known by "regulars" at the club that most of the successful jumpers wore a hidden computer that guided them through the gusts to safety. Others who jumped for personal reasons (and there were many of them) usually did not survive. Like most illusions, the protected jumpers knew that they were protected. It was "safer than a parachute jump" the management of the hotel advertised. It was quite a spectacle. Imagine jumping out of the sky near the Grand Tetons the Snake River winding in an arc below your fall. Many were tempted who were not authorized jumpers. For those not protected who jumped anyway few survived. Most of freelance jumpers who did not survive the free fall jump used self-programmed computers. Management did not try to prevent the unauthorized jumps. It served their interest to have some die. In fact, some of the contracted jumpers died. The system as designed was imperfect. Once a week or more frequently, "free lancers" as they were called, jumped off the roof proving again that stupidity and bravery are cousins. When you jumped, throwing your arms back, letting the wind enter your mind, keeping your feet together, which was considered a safety trick, making your body mass a more regular shape, you would tumble into oblivion. Wearing all the finery you are your ego or lack of one allowed you tumbled edge over edge listening to Beethoven or Bach played by your supporters (or paid worshipers) as your fare well anthem. Raising your eyes to God or Mammon as one survivor said in a recent interview, you felt at that pause of no return that your life and its works depended on your courage. Proving you could do it, using free fall parachute jumps for practice, "you felt the surge of magnificence," he said. "Living or dying," the man said, "did not matter. It was, as the God Wind said, the survivor jumper, a free lancer, said, reciting Wind's poems like he had written the mantra himself." He said, "it was partially sport and acceptable suicide." At least twice a week, usually on Friday night, at least one free lancer stood at the railing and tried to jump. No one would stop him. He had an entourage. Sometimes he did not jump, leaving the railing, most found the bar and got drunk. Most, if not all of the freelancers died, but that was the risk you took when you stood up at the railing pushed aside fear and let go as you tumbled down to become a footnote to history at the back doors of what some called a beautiful death. If you jumped, living or dying in the attempt, you placed yourself in the range of the Tetons and you believed, or at least you said you did, that your life had been or would be renewed. Many of the jumpers were like the actress Dorothy Bouchier, great, great granddaughter of the famous English actress Chili Bouchier. Meet Jane Sicily and Mary Irish Tonight at "Matadores de Sue os Perdidos" was no different. If you sat down just for a moment with Jane and Mary at their corner booth, hidden from most of the crowd, but in clear view of the space where the protective railing lowered to make it easier for the jumpers, you could hear the twenty-two year old Jane tell Mary talk openly about their sex lives. "This guy, you know," Mary said, as she played with the top edge of the blouse that barely covered her breasts, "fucked me so hard last week I felt it for three days. He was not subtle at all," she stopped for a second, lowering her hands to her best friend Jane who would be twenty-five in a few months. "I met here last week when you had to leave early, Mary continued, looking at Jane whose nipples shimmered as her body warmed making her blouse transparent. "That guy, stoned on his ass," Mary said, "made me come when he slapped my ass. Haven't had that done since we played DOM games in High School. Jane, content to look at the animated Mary as she talked, listened content to absorb the truth of bullshit as Jane often called it. Not saying one word, Mary continued. "The fucker was a shit, bottom line." Turned on by her story, Mary moved her legs back and forth in her seat. Wearing a very short white skirt, every time her legs moved, the skirt would ride up exposing her plum, as she called it, when she allowed it. Always in control, Mary left nothing to chance. If she moved her top, letting her breasts show pushing the small pears out, her breasts barely rippled the cloth that held them in. Mary continued, lighting a cigarette. "When I reached down to rip his nipples he pulled away. He didn't mind fucking my ass with his thick cock. He was just too big. No, really, trust me on this, he was too big." Doubt if I will fuck the selfish shit again. Next time some guy with a huge dick insisted on fucking my ass, I would insist that he let me fuck his ass with a strap-on first. Some kinky guys really like that. You knew one, Jane. I know you have one. Harness or double dildo. "Yes, both" Jane said, smiling, amused by Mary's story, Jane imagined how she seduced Mary that first time many years ago. Ignoring Jane, Mary rushed on. Jane leaned back, happy to be quiet, listening, and she encouraged Mary to continue. Getting back to the story, Mary continued. "If the guy let me do him with my harness, I would hurt him to the same degree he hurt me. If he were cool, when he did me again he either would hurt me or would be too gentle. Sympathy or rage, does it matter, Jane thought, pretending to laugh at Mary as she continued to mock sex, some man or men in general, Jane thought. Jane loved men and women. "I am a true bisexual she told her mother when she asked Jane if she would ever married. Her mother answered. "I am one too." Jane thought of that story as Mary continued. Jane interrupted Mary asked, "What happed with the guy last night," I was not there. As she spoke, Jane looked down at her transparent blouse shifting it slightly so as her nipples hardened, as the temperature rose, her magnificent breasts, my one vanity, she told everyone, dominated the room like the Tetons in the surreal landscape panorama background to both women. Stopping to take several drags on her cigarette that she just lit, "You promised to tell me when we talked on the phone this afternoon," Jane wanted Mary to do the talking. "You mean when you were getting fucked it yourself, dear Jane?" "Never mind, Mary. Please." "The guy I met here last night. I told you about him. I met him here last month during the great jump off. He was weird. He's a freelancer. Never met one before. They usually travel with their own troop. Just like the regulars here, they do not mix with the patrons. This guy is different, Mary said. He is softer and I am not sure I like him much. I felt sorry for him when I took him home, and besides I was horny, and he is one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen. All muscles when you look at him. When you touch, he is soft, female almost. Not very human. We might see him here tonight. I will introduce him. Want him for yourself? I share." "I don't like weak men," Jane said. Why would I want to fuck him or even let him make me come? It is true I do like strong-minded intellectuals. They can really take you, and are not going to let you continue with out a challenge. Say it like it is Jane, Mary said. They won't take your shit. I like them that way, but when it is over, I want them to come back to me. I will not go to them. No, I do not care if I am the one in control or not, I want them that way," Jane insisted as she looked towards the place at the edge of the room where the men and some women would jump tonight. "Who wants a pussy, Jane said, surprising Mary. Jane rarely used street talk. "If I wanted a sissy, a little boy, I'd find a slave in the yellow pages," Jane continued pleased with how she shifted her language. "Besides, Mary we like different men and yes, women." Jane never said "and women." The last phrase of the sentence trailed off. Gaining composure, realizing what she had just said, Jane said, "Isn't this the reason we get off so well together." It is more than being bisexual Jane thought, or getting over the fear of being with your own sex that first time. Jane crushed her black cigarette in the ashtray scattering the dust as she spoke. Why do I never say what I am thinking when it matters, she thought? "Yes," Mary said, "get off says it best darling." I don't really like sex with men when it gets too complicated. Just like a man in that way. After I come, and he comes, I want him to go the fuck home. Feel differently about women, but then I rarely go there, and when I do I want it perfect." Mary knew she had not told the complete truth. She preferred to project an image, Jane thought. Ironically, Mary was more active as a bisexual than Jane. Unlike Jane Mary denied her compulsion. Just having fun, she would say, when challenged. What Mary did Jane realized, looking at her now, talking about this or that in graphic sexual terms, was pretend to be straight. Jane believed that Mary did this, knowing the woman for ten years, to keep her life less clutter. Jane knew that Mary preferred women. Mary told Jane that one night when they were both drinking and smoking some good shit. When Jane asked Mary about what she had said the next day, Mary dismissed it. "Never said that," Mary told Jane. "You must have been hallucinating. We have to stop smoking and drinking." "We won't stop any of it, Jane remembered telling Mary who had laughed it off. Forgetting is the easy way out Jane laughed to herself remembering that Christmas party last year, and looking back at Jane who just said, "I love your blouse, Jane, you're gonna drive the fuckers here crazy. Think I may take my top off later. Jane looked at Mary, lowered her eyes, and told her how expensive the blouse had been. "I wanted one every since I saw that movie star Dorothy Boo (AKA Dorothy Bouchier). Jane hated small talk. "Mary, she said, "don't you find that you miss too much when you take on a mask, assume an attitude," digging at why Mary liked to push herself "back in the closet." Why can't she just say the word bisexual, Jane thought. Well, at least she is responsive. Why do I want her to say, "Look, I am bisexual, world. Take me." "Miss what," Mary said, cutting back into Jane's trance. "All you get from some fucken guys is strained conversation and bullshit pillow talk. You can't believe all men are liars, Jane said, speaking softly, slowly to keep Mary from jumping at her, trying to pound back as she often did. When Mary did that Jane usually got bored with Mary, and Jane tonight turned on by her girl friend intended to seduced Mary not that she believed that would be difficult. Jane loved how she and Mary looked together. Tall and short. Dark and light. Foul -mouthed slut and intellectual. Yet, we did switch personalities. That made the balance more than perfect, Jane sighed while Mary continued, listing the plus and minus qualities of many of their shared lovers. Jane struck by Mary's passionate descriptions remembered the videotape that they had shot of making love when they were in High School. We thought we were special, Jane thought. We even let the guys shoot the video, but we did not fuck them afterwards, Jane remembered. We locked ourselves in the bedroom and told them to fuck each other. Mary did wake up early, and I found her locked with both the guys. "Guys are shits, Mary continued her litany. Jane, interrupting Mary said, "I like the connections no matter how forced." Jane beautiful face and eyes danced while she spoke, lowering her hand to caress the inside of Mary's upper arm the patters of letters that spelled out "sex me." "What? I am not full of shit. Sure," Mary said, sitting back, annoyed, but not wanting to get Jane in one of her, I am smarter than you moods. "Men never acknowledge how we let them escape judgment when their I am the best fucker in the world performance sucks," Mary said, "looking hard into Jane's eyes, but putting her hand on top of Jane's keeping her hand there when Jane started to move away. "I know you have stroked the ego of a man who could not get it up. Why do you let him pretend he likes sucking cock and clits more than fucking? You know they do not. "Some do, Jane said, moving her fingers to the under cup of Mary's small pear breasts, "I just love a man who is honest. "I know if I am even partially responsible for some of the mask, how can I not expect men and yes women too to give back when and if I cannot give. "Give back. Guys know themselves. Being like them is the only way. Take and fuck 'em up first. Jane, my darling, how can you be so naive." "Not believe," Jane openly said as she , tenderly massaged Jane's breast, watching Mary close her eyes, tighten her thighs, putting her head back, she let Jane continue, saying only, "don't stop," when she thought Jane was stopping. Feeling is dangerous for Mary, Jane thought. Mary sensing Jane, knowing she could often hear Jane's mind not as words but as mood, stood up forcing Jane to stop. Going back to the conversation, almost as if the caress of her breasts had not happened, said. "Sure. Swear you are not stoned now, and I might believe that the hotel's regular jumpers do it without any protection. That life is not fixed. Fate contrived. What is my responsibility? How do I both acknowledge fate and contrary to reason accept responsibility and consequences for what I choose to do." You remember our conversations in college. You always believed in free will, and I in the unavoidable fates. Barnard was good for that. Why did we go to the same school Jane? We do things too well together. "I know I was selfish." Jane answered. "That is why I prefer the company of women." "Sure we are," Mary caressed Jane's hand reaching out to really hold both of them bring their hands up to Jane's mouth so Jane could kiss and then suck for just a moment the tips of Mary's fingers. "Fucking guys," Mary continued, "we get to clean the bed, wash the dishes, suck them off, make them come. We get the illusion of being powerful. Don't think they want to give any of it up." "We are more fucken powerful," Jane said. "What shit, are you kidding me, Mary laughed?" Jane suddenly pulled her hands back and turned away from Mary, and said nothing. "Fuck no," Mary was intent now in winning her points. "Don't you just love the way you can make them do what you want just by rolling your ass to the left or right pretending to screw, but if you are genuine, enjoy the quiet of the after shocks, and just want to be still afterwards, they squirm, feel guilty, and are anxious to get up and out of there. Well, so do I. I want to be rid of them too at the proper time. I really like faking them out," Mary said, going in circles, repeating her arguments, knowing she had no control, but consciously not admitting any weakness. Lighting up another cigarette helping herself to one of Jane's, Mary continued relentlessly, "Have you ever tried to fake hard breathing," "Exhausting and looks shitty, doesn't it. I practice," Mary bragged. "That is how I get it just right. I can twist my ass in a subtle screw; they always come when I want them. Never tell them you got too bored to come. You know what I mean." "Why bother," Jane offered. "If you have to fake it, what's the point?" "It feels good to fuck 'em up at times," Mary blew smoke away from Jane, feeling sure of her, thinking she had won. "Keeps the game tighter," Mary finished. "Oh, I see. It is all a game. That's "fucked up' (saying the phrase intently) and you know it, Mary. How absurd. Do you really enjoy being poked and used by some fucker who wants only to get off? Worse, do you want to be one of them." "II know," interrupting Jane, Mary said, "never tell a man you faked it. Looking around the room, nodding, realizing that Mary will never understand that there are times when all relationship is power, and times when there is more to it. "OK," Jane said, anticipating Mary, "You know my problem. I am not sure of anything anymore. All that I believed is like the jumpers finding solace in death or faked heroism. What can you believe? We are here. We enjoy the excitement. We come here to meet men and women, live vicariously through their struggle, so we can fake one of our own. Jane stopped speaking in mid sentence and Mary turned in her chair putting her legs up on another chair, leaning back, opening her legs, and flashing her cunt at this guy and Jane who sat a few feet away. "Yes, I want only truth and not I believe there is none," Jane continued, "I know you enjoy it, Mary. I saw you and the guy. You know the brothers we fucked together in Rio last year. Did not understand a word of their Portuguese but they had rough hands and seemed as if they never got soft. I like that sometimes like you I want the illusion without the truth of it all. Now, I am lost, just like the name of this sad fucken club we attend like church at least twice a week. The locals gave it that name." Locals, what the fuck do you mean, Jane. You know, Mary, the kitchen help. The unwashed we ignore. The sad fuckers who work ten hours a day so we can suck rich cock. "My, my Jane what has happened to you. Never heard you curse like this?" "You just are never there," Jane said, upset now, pulling her hands back from Mary's. " I am never there. Shit, I am the only one who understands the new rules. Earth to fucking Jane, where the fuck are you?" Suddenly Mary's mood changed. She had been there before. If you made Jane angry, you lost the night. "Isn't worth it," Mary said, leaning over to Jane, placing her head on Jane's shoulder, Mary looked upward at Jane who was not surprised by Mary's abrupt change. In response, after a few moments, Jane wrapped her hands around Mary's face and tickled that spot behind her left ear that Mary loved to be caressed. Jane hated and loved when Mary switched, gave it up, rolling towards her belly up like a bitch dog. Having listened to Mary's pretense at power, Jane felt uncomfortable with the change in position, but she brushed Mary's hair from her eyes. Teasing now, Jane continued, aggressive, she exposed the brown edge of Mary's very comfortable nipples. Finally after a moment, Mary reached up and kissed Jane lightly on the mouth lingering softly opening Jane's lips, and just as suddenly as she kissed, Mary pulled back, putting the back of her hand up to her own lips. "You taste like fucking," Mary said. "I told you on the phone I was engaged all afternoon," Jane laughed. "In fact I was fucking him while we talked and planned tonight." "I knew it was a man. You taste like cum and toothpaste. How weird, but I like it" "What an imagination," Jane teased back. "You are faking it. I really brushed my teeth. I am very clean you know." "Not like me," Mary added. I like funk. "Not sure about that Mary," Jane said, choking and laughing as she sipped her drink. I loved making love to you after I watched you make love to that guy. You know what I liked best. Watching him get off ogling us. What an ellipse, no an flattened sphere like the earth." Jane played with napkins, while she talked drawing abstract doodles that seemed calm given the rise and fall of the conversation. Maybe I should just take her home tonight, Jane thought as Mary continued to talk so everyone within ten feet could hear what she said. At this place, most did not care. They were there for the show, the jumpers. At that moment, a freelancer had just left the railing. Said he needed to pee. Leaving he did not return. Some of us do have good sense, Jane though. Watching Mary smile and greet some guys they both knew, Jane thought, I love sex with her, Jane thought. Mary asked. "Why are you staring and laughing at me," and saying that Mary pulled sharply at Jane's arm jostling Jane's very large breasts stretching through invisible silk. "I love that blouse, so fucken evil," Mary said. "I want some." Jane took Mary's hand, after gracefully removing Mary's cigarette, and pulled it to her breasts, letting Mary feel the transparent silk again. Mary just listened and said nothing. "Yes, " Jane whispers, can you feel the child in my womb growing to my nipples? Mary did not know that Jane had confirmed the pregnancy. "Just found out for sure today," Jane said. They said I must be in my fourth month." How did they miss it for two months? I wanted it so much." "Did you use the Sperm Bank down at the Top of the cliff? That is the agency April had used. I am not ready for a kid, but when I am, that is it." "Bill, Mary's Brother, helped as you know," Jane added, almost as an after thought. "He made love to me before and after we went to the clinic to get it done. Yes, I knew I was taking a risk with paternity but he used a rubber both times. I hate condoms, but I needed something else. Maybe reality, who the fuck knows?" "What if the fucker broke?" "Then it would have been very interesting before the DNA came it. Bill was great. He has three kids and a wife, and I am not sure what they would have said. "I wish it had been my brother," Mary said, sincere, and perplexed by the change in conversation. Yes, that would have been nice, but maybe too close. He turned me down. Said your sister-in-law would leave him "She's a stupid cunt," Mary said. "Now, who is putting down women," Jane shook her head. "Nerve mind," you know who I got," that Cuban Ball player, "Domincanus" -- The one who quit baseball for what they are calling now legitimate porn. I picked him out of a catalogue. I had to sign a release of course. Cost almost $20,000 and I could get as many "shots" as I needed until it was done. "For that money, you could have just fucked him, Mary looked at Jane's breasts." "I love that Jane said. "What is that?" When you stare and trace my breasts. Remember the models and the contour drawing we did at the League. Remember when that girl came up to us and asked if we were lesbians, and how embarrassed we became. Ignoring Jane, Mary was thinking of that handsome Domincanus and his huge cock. Beautiful Porno, Mary said, repeating what was obviously in her mind. "He probably sucks," Jane said, "slam bam guy," Jane said. "Who knows. Did you know he has blue eyes and very dark skin when he tans? He is the most graceful man I have ever seen. Actually, come to think of it, his eyes are transparent like my blouse. I wonder if his eyes get dark when he is cold," Jane seemed almost serious. While the women talked, Mary gently played absent-mindedly with Jane's breasts. Jane's torso moved slowly to the pace and rhythm of Mary's hands feeding the ache inside the sway of the music. As Mary touched the underside of Jane's breasts, Mary opened and closed her legs. "You make me feel wonderfully odd," Mary said. I can feel you and the whole room watching. I love it. It makes me want to come so loud the whole bar would be our witness." Jane did not say anything. Both women were silent. It was obvious they were looking inside the Tetons and the white clouds that covered the mountains in summer When the woman screamed after jumping off the roof, Mary turned into Jane, silently questioning. "How can we let them," Jane answered. Feeling the hypocrite, neither Jane nor Mary had run to the ledge like most of others at the bar. It all happened quickly. The woman rolled her legs over the ledge and without saying a word let go. Ignoring the excitement, but noting that she had looked away from the hotel jumpers gathering around the railing, Jane led Mary's hand her belly that was pierced in three places. Jane had many piercings over the years, but had tired of them except the one in her navel, and another in the hood of her clit. Jane had bought the ring as a present for Jane's birthday. "Is there anything wrong," Jane asked. "You're shaking," Mary said, "No nothing at all," Mary's voice suddenly had changed from the pursuit of pleasure to the search for faith. "I just wonder what will come of us, sometimes. I believe in only myself. No, forget it, I don't even believe in you and I" "Philosophy my dear," Jane said, softened her voice. "Just laughing at how absurd we are. Here we are out on the town wanting some new and good sex, and we are caught up in this silly silent background dialogue about suicide and mountains and, yes, feeling each other up, teasing but not really wanting to be alone together." Off center, Mary answered whispering and nibbling and licking at Jane's belly ring, "how could I not want you" "I love you Mary," Jane said, whispering so it would linger longer. You are fucked up, Mary said, perplexed by Jane. Always so fucken serious. Can we just have fun? As she spoke, Mary pulled away from Jane, crossing her arms, she pretended to look askance, and Mary said, "what about me. You can have mine any time. Yours are at least two sizes larger. You have lost weight. What are they now? 38 D. I lost 30 pounds. I am much shorter than you." Pausing, Jane suddenly said. "What are you talking about Mary. I do not love your breasts. I love you. "Well I love your tits, and that's it, Mary mocked. Come on girlfriend, Mary bit her lips, and pretended to dance, be loose. "How could I not love yours," Mary said, cupping her breasts in her hands. "These are puny compared to yours." At that moment, Mary and Jane started to laugh. Jane first. Sometimes self discovery runs into a dead end, and listening to them, you couldn't help notice that their talk seemed as if two streams of darling, sexy egos were spread thin over the veneer of the mindless fuck music that blared off the edge of the Ansel Adams landscape. All of this was obvious foreplay and prelude to the folks who would jump to a new life or death later that night. At that moment, Jane thought of the jumpers, and realizing that they gathered in an invisible room below, they waited for eternity. I admire their bravery, Jane thought. I must admit that it really turns me on almost as much as Mary, or Robert, when I am in the mood, for a man who knows how to at least be patient. END PART I of Three Parts ---------------------------------------------- These Sites reflect my life in writing and are offered to readers free of any cost to further share my work with ASSTM Readers. http://www.taximurders.com Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.farragher.com the Selected Poetry of Sean Farragher http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon The Journal and Poetry of Laurie Fallon Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Thomas Farragher under US and International Copyright laws. All rights reserved. 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