THE SECOND PERSON




You walk into a room full of strangers and every eye in the place is
on you. You think maybe you left your fly open or there's a huge food
stain on your shirt. Those women over there by the wall are laughing,
and you're dead certain you're the one they're laughing at.

You're feeling like a two-headed freak and unsure of yourself, and you
need a woman so bad, if only for reassurance that you're still part of
the human race. That's the reason you came to this damned party, even
though you hate parties with a passion.

Over there! Over in the far corner a woman is standing all by herself.
Yes, so maybe she's fat, quite a bit chubbier than contemporary fashion
allows, and maybe that's why she's by herself. Could be she's a social
outcast . . . just like you.

You walk over and catch her eye.

"Hello there, party person. Cold in here, huh?"

"Well, actually, I find it uncomfortably warm. And, should I know you from
somewhere?"

"The emotional temperature, I mean. People here seem intent on freezing
the two of us out. And no, you don't know me. . . . But that can be easily
remedied."

She lowers her head and stares at the floor. Maybe she's run out of words.
Or maybe she's just uncomfortable looking at you. So where do you go from
here?

"We have something in common," you say. "Maybe you could help me figure
out what it is."

"I don't . . . "

She's crying, softly. Maybe you pushed her too far, too fast. But there
are definitely possibilities here.

"Neither of us belongs here," you say. "Let's go out on the patio,
where we can talk without all those cold, unfriendly eyes on us."

You sit on opposite ends of the bench. She's painfully shy, you think. But
you already knew that.

"So, where do we go from here?" you say.

"We don't seem to be going anywhere at the moment. Just sitting on this
cold marble bench."

"And the stars don't burn with cold fire in the night sky. And my heart
doesn't beat loudly in my chest. And cold sweat isn't trickling down my
back. And I'm not tense and nervous sitting near a woman that I don't
dare reach out to. And I'm not a bloody fool, now am I?"

"And the words finally flow, do they not?" she murmurs softly.

And she reaches out a hand to you. And you take it.

And so it begins.


    It wasn't that way at all, you know. I wasn't even planning to go
    to that damned party until I found out he would show up there. Yes,
    I'd had my eye on him for quite a while. And the poor fool didn't
    even suspect.

    Fat! That asshole called me _fat_. It took almost a year of
    high-caloric nutrition to restore me to a properly voluptuous feminine
    figure, the kind likely to catch his eye and lead him to think I'd be
    vulnerable to his lame attempts at pickup lines.


You lie there perfectly content, watching her magnificently sculpted
breasts rise and fall in soft slumber and inhaling the talcum-powder
scent of her bountiful pink flesh. The magenta light of dawn is just
beginning to peek through yon window, and you wonder if she'll be up
for another tumble when she wakes.

She is, and as she leans forward straddling you and her long blonde hair
brushes against your face you think that your entire life has been
leading up to this one gloriously sensual moment.

She smiles wickedly and she speaks, and what she says utterly destroys
the romantic moment. Just as it utterly destroys _you_.

"What are we doing here, the two of us? We're fucking, all right, but why?
_Why_? Haven't you stopped to wonder why I'd be attracted to a nonentity
like you? Haven't you wondered _just who I am_?

"Well, let me tell you then, bucko. I'm not really a woman. In fact,
I'm not even properly human. I'm a _wizard_, you see -- an _Erotic Story
Wizard_. Yes, you heard me correctly. I'm functionally equivalent to that
little icon you click on when you want the computer to write a sex story."

You start to say something, but your voice tails off into a rattling gasp
as her pussy squeezes down _hard_ on your member.

"Oh, yes. In all important respects, I _am_ a woman. But that's not my
real purpose. You see, there are all these half-baked author-wanabees
running around, polluting the literary landscape, so to speak. And that's
a serious problem -- a problem I was created to solve.

"Listen fellow, I'm here to train you. I'll show you what sex and
lovemaking is all about. And, even more important, I'll teach you
how to use language effectively. By the time I'm through with you,
you'll never write in the second person again. That's chickenshit.
Bush league. Strictly for amateurs."

You start to say something, but then you correct quickly yourself.

"This aspiring lover of women and writer of erotic fiction is well and
truly grateful," the man on the bed whispered hoarsely.

The woman bent forward and kissed him full on the lips.

"Maybe there's hope for you after all," she said.