AT THE BOTTOM

Trapped within human flesh!

Virgil had always suspected he was something else, something *more* than
just an ordinary flesh-and-blood mortal. He had dreams where he broke free
of the prison of his physical body . . . set adrift in unbounded spaces,
floating like a gas-filled balloon among luminous spheres that pulsed
with the heartbeat of the cosmos. He perceived them as higher entities
of near-infinite power and wisdom. That was where he truly belonged --
in the realm of the spirit.

Escape. The thought had obsessed him for all the years of his childhood.
Through long, hard winters of being a misfit, of taunting and torture by
playmates and acquaintances. Through endless years of being misunderstood
by adults and forced to live by rules that made no sense to him.

He grew up and the dreams faded. College, a job, getting married, a
home and a mortgage . . . The adult world had no place for those who
were truly *different*, perhaps not even quite human. He had gotten very
adept at mimicking a normal person.

Some mornings Virg would wake, for a moment not comprehending where he
was, why he was lying on his back in this strange bed in this strange
place. Then came the sudden shock of seeing the alien creature beside him,
her breasts slowly heaving as she breathed deeply, submerged beneath a
blanket of sleep. His wife -- whom he was supposed to love and cherish. It
all flooded back to him, and he knew his proper place in the world once
more, and the crazy dreams receded.

But he didn't forget. He knew he wasn't like the others.

Everyday life dragged him down. He had too many bills to pay, despised his
job, and didn't much care for his wife. Making love to her was more of a
burden than a pleasure. More often than not, his dutiful efforts to please
her were a total failure. Psychological impotence, the doctors called it.

Escape. He had to escape. How? The dreams --



The spheres of light had spoken. He awoke, remembering.

The way out is the way in. 

Open yourself and let cosmic ??? flow into your core. 

The way in is the way out.

What did it mean? He couldn't know, but somehow he *did*. It was difficult
to accept. Repugnant, loathsome, unnatural. He couldn't face it, yet
he had to. He couldn't bear to continue living a meaningless, degrading
life. He would listen, listen to his dreams, and follow the True Path.

Sex . . . that seemed to be the key. His efforts to translate the
message of the spheres to human experience invariably led him to the
sexual realm. Not the crude parody of sex he had been playing at with
his wife, and with a few women before that. Not the normally accepted
variation of a man penetrating a woman. No. Not that!

The way in is the way out. 

"The way in" . . . into what? Into . . . into *himself*. Into his own body!
Into his own dark interior. Into the nether regions of his own flesh!

Open yourself and let cosmic ??? flow into your core. 

"Cosmic ???" . . . Might it be? Yes! It was a man's generative essence.
The emission containing within it the accumulated energy and creative
potential of reproduction. Sperm.

It was all very clear to him now. He would have to open his flesh to a
*man*. Let a man into him. Penetrate him. Fuck him.



What now? Go to a gay bar, let a stranger pick him up, and . . . ? No!
If he had to do this accursed thing, let it be even more impersonal, more
dehumanized than that. Let it be a random penis, attached by accident of
birth to a random male human. Let it be a random roll of the dice. That
meant "the trucks."

There was a loading area near the docks, all the way over on the west side.
Overnight, there were always a few tractor trailers and trucks parked
in the area, usually left open and unattended. Desperate, lonely men
turned up there in the hours after midnight for furtive interludes of
quick and sordid -- sometimes *very* sordid -- sex. The trucks.

The filthy interior of the truck stank of blood and rotting meat. It
was fitting. Virgil was looking for dirty and corrupt sex. He needed
to open his body, but wanted to keep his mind disconnected. Down went
pants and underwear. He bent forward over a splintery wooden crate,
and waited. Pale reflections from distant streetlamps cast a sickly
purple illumination. Sooner or later, someone would look in, see his
bare behind gleaming in the faint light, and do what came naturally.

Footsteps. Heavy breathing. Rough hands pawing his buttocks. The harsh
metallic rasp of a zipper. Sudden pain as something, something warm
and firm pressed against his exposed opening (asshole!), then, with a
sudden cruel lunge, rammed up deep into him. Stretching, burning friction,
pressure in far recesses of his gut. Being taken, possessed, used. Having
his inner chamber violated. Getting fucked. Getting fucked in the ass.

It ended quickly. A few brutal thrusts, then a piglike grunt and a
throbbing up inside him. Withdrawal. Retreating footsteps. The man
was gone. Alone again, with the cold night wind chilling his bare
buttocks. Wetness dribbling out of him. Blood? No . . . a stranger's
ejaculate.

It was degrading. Even worse than having to make love to a woman. Did it
have to be that way?



Late that night, Virgil dreamed again. The spheres pulsed their strange
messages at him as his wife slept at his side.

Anonymous sex was the wrong path. It had failed to engage him emotionally,
to *entangle* him intimately enough to burst him free from the bonds of
this stinking, human flesh.



"So, what exactly is it you want from me?"

"Mick, an acquaintance recommended you. He said you were the best man
to give me what I need. And I desperately need what you have to offer."

"And that's what?"

"I need . . . I need someone to fuck me. Fuck me in the ass."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"I should lower myself -- both literally and figuratively -- to have
sex with every needy guy who knocks on my door? Sure, no one appreciates
a good piece of ass better than I do, but this is a bit much. Tell me,
what makes you so special that I should spend time with you? For that
matter, what is it that makes your skinny ass so fucking special?"

"I'm not what I appear, Mick. Aren't you even just a little curious
about what it would feel like to fuck an alien in human flesh?"

"You're a complete whacko, that's what I think you are. But there's
something fascinating about you -- call it an aura of the exotic. Hey,
let me think on it.

"Tell you what. I'll give you a tryout. If it works out, we'll see how
it goes from there."



"Not bad, fella. You know the right moves, and you're nice and tight
inside. Could be you have potential as a bottom."

Being made love to by Mick had been quite a change from the sordid
encounter in the truck. Mick had taken his time, had patiently explained
to Virg the methods and nuances -- the ins and outs -- of anal sex,
and had been gentle and caring.

They had used quite a bit of lube, and when Mick entered him, Virg felt
a surge of electricity jolt through him, but no real discomfort. Being
filled by Mick -- being ass-fucked -- having a hard flesh shaft plunging
into the depths of his rectum . . . the stroking and the stretching and
the spasms of heat . . . all that was actually quite nice. His violent
orgasm had taken him by surprise.

"Good things happened to you, I see. Not everyone can come just from anal
stimulation. Not everyone can come so hard that he loses muscular control
and shakes and quivers all over. Your ass must be wired up directly to
your pleasure center. And, you know . . . looking at that sweet ass of
yours with my come still oozing out of it is starting to make me horny
again. Yep, hard as a rock, that's what I am. Ready for another go,
Virg baby?"

His ass was screaming to be filled once more, and he accepted Mick's
hardness into him with gratitude. It was intense, too intense. His flesh
was full to bursting, overflowing. He couldn't contain the massive forces
brewing within him, and it exploded the fragile eggshell of his human
form. He was rising, lifting out of his mortal flesh. His vision was
blurring and . . .

. . . Mick was sponging his face with a damp washcloth. "You passed out
on me there, guy. Just as you were starting to come, actually. Had me
worried there for a minute. I've heard of death by ecstasy, but you're
way too young to go that route. Welcome back."



Disconnected fragments. That was all Virg had left of his memories
of being . . . elsewhere. He recalled the first shuddering spasms of
orgasm, then the sensation of disconnecting, of lifting, of rising,
floating free from . . . everything. Then he was among the spheres. He
was communing with the luminous spirits on a plane beneath the physical
fabric of reality. He had become one of them, and he was one with them.

Plasmons. They were standing waves, microscopic ripples in energy fields
at the sub-quantum level. The shining spheres were miniscule sparks
of energy consciousness, and he had likewise become a quantum-spirit.
Immense power and infinite knowledge and wisdom pervaded that sublevel
of existence, and he bathed in its healing and life-giving radiations.

Life after death? Or can this be the one *true* life, and the other
. . .  death? 

Both. Neither. 



Half an eternity later (for time had no meaning there, but it must have
been thousands of human-subjective years) . . . the spirit-being that had
at one time in the distant past been Virgil felt once more the tug of the
flesh. Lost! The world, and humans, and fragile physical flesh. Autumn
breezes and the pungently sweet smell of burning leaves. The richly
complex taste of exotic spices. All the maddeningly perplexing humans
he had ever known. Dim memories of a Mick-someone and a wife that he had
never-expressed feelings for. Bitter-sweet regret and desperate longing
for warmth. Back. He had to go back.

We offer eternity, and life free from the corruption of flesh. You
are of us. Must you go? 

I must.



"Thanks, Mick. It's . . . good to be back, I guess. Funny thing, passing
out like that. How long was I away?"

"Maybe a half a minute. I thought maybe you'd had a stroke. I know I'm
pretty good at ass-fucking, but I didn't think I was quite good enough
to send someone right over the edge. Now you lay yourself back down,
guy. You need rest."

"No, thanks, Mick. I've got to be going, I think. There are things I
have to do. My wife -- I've all of a sudden realized I love her, after
all these years. Got to put the broken pieces of my life together."

"Well, I suppose there's no accounting for taste. So, there's no future
for the two of us, is there, Virg?"

"The future holds infinite possibilities. But not for you and me.
Goodbye, Mick."