Storymania - Out Of The Ordinary World Part 2 by Metzger

Out Of The Ordinary World Part 2
Metzger

The evening sky darkened across the horizon like a shadow following an automobile. Dusk intruded the city landscape perpetually faster, until all of Ash street was a faded curtain, an inchoate window. After last nights escapade I needed time to process all of the experimental motions. The things happened in a blur. I felt, more than experienced Kate’s being. She was now a colored picture in my mind ready to be painted, which had waited long enough.
I sat down at my gray counter, booted the peaceful laptop allowing it the customary three minuets to blush a lucid backdrop of Killington Vermont countryside and rested my tired thoughts on an adjacent purple swivel chair. Exhaling fully, I pushed my palms together and concurrently dug my elbows into the homogonous fabric. Pulling up my writing archive, which I had first created as publishing major at Bard, reminded me of my first poetic invention Catharsis (Incidentally it was supplemented in the student- run newspaper “Kumquat”, where its rapid commission won faster acclaim, resulting in a sowing of royal oats throughout campus, allowing me to bed three different women in the week after its circulation).
“Two for Travel” the folder icon beckoned, Open me! complete me, and give college freshman in Minnesota the chance to have a big city fuck vicariously. That’s what its all about I figured, help those along who will never spend a night with a gorgeous broad in a suite above Central Park. Well, at least never in reality. I began where I had last finished off.
She gripped my hand tightly, levying her passion acutely onto mine. Twice the pleasure when she worships you I imagined. Isn’t that what they say…All of those innocent fucks back in Chicago were just a surface anomaly, a red flame hardly flickering tightly between us. She was a blue and irrepressible conflagration. Trying to fold herself into my mind. Breathing a note, breaking my silent interior. Making an older man scream for more, and then climax. Perception amounts only to the fundamental plateau of emotion. She was giving an incredible blowjob.
Ok I said to myself, laptop-resting solemnly in front of me. Pretending that it was a pair of female legs I gazed out at the philosophical ideal I had so obstinately created, “what a rush!” I thought remembering her. I turned to my radio and played the third track on the So album by Peter Gabriel. The light streamed into the window crook aligning the unseen spheres of literary conscious capital. My economic weight rested a little beneath my pocket and on the other side of my trousers. The writing would be the day.
She crept away from the sofa. I leaned in, just to be closer, for a few more moments and breathe her atmosphere. The level headedness had left me after the fifth glass of Chateau Lafitte and after another I would loose my sexual function. The terrible problem with this girl was that she just didn’t appreciate the fine things of life. The kinder moments, God they dwindled at my age, but perhaps just the same I enjoyed them far more. Her beauty had no limit, and she was no intellectual lightweight, but the cantor at which she rode the steed of life was hideously tentative. I should have been with someone her mother’s age (these young girls incessantly vexed me, but they were so lovely to bed). I reached over the table and grabbed a strip of biscotti.
Lydia, the name of a fine exotic well natured daughter of Noril’sk [some where…north central Russia], was a pragmatic clairvoyant. Instead of the relaxed flavor mama that would deliver the 8:oo dinner with a strawberry twist I got a half droll crazy. Earlier tonight we contacted the spirit of Amada Familure, the nice of a great, unbeknownst to me, liturgist. She was apparently a frame of reference for a sonnet in the late 18th century about a group of runaways searching for a land of their own. Odd stuff if you ask me but it really got Lydia going for sure. Anyway we contacted her, and for the most part she was a fairly hip broad. She coughed a lot, but that was hardly an issue.
Amanda, or Mandy as she called her self, was geriatric during the connection and was speaking in the third person about her earlier years. She had some nice thoughts, rolling hills in Switzerland, travels throughout Western Europe. She gave a vivid account about a night in Madrid when a young man stole her heart and pulled her into an ageless romance, spanning race, wealth, and moral understanding. For the most part I just slowly sipped my wine, cheering her on, and accelerating the passage of her forty-five-minuet venture into Lydia’s Belmont apartment. A most unlikely process I was willing to go through just to see her with her shirt off(terrible prude), but the innocent flashed a rare and significant gleam across my countenance. It made me remember that she went to Bryn Mawr, thus sparking the erotic remembrance of another college encounter that I had past experienced. The dreams lead on.
Her clairvoyance wasn’t just trippy, and ended up having a fantastic tangent on my normally stressful attitude towards dating. (That’s right I even got her flowers, which I normally just leave at the side of the bed after the fact. God I was an oak that night but what kind of girl doesn’t have incurable psycho-emotional dilemmas and is interested in me. My cheap life had ached for meaning). I poured my heart into her that night. Leaving my lifeless authorship behind, entangling a new persona that could have never fit. Well at least if it had I would not be telling this story.
So she could actually tell the future, and despite that she always said we had telekinetic resolve, I knew from the moment that she actually deeply judged me I would be out the door. And so it goes.
They say for a writer the passage from page to page is like a symbolic reentry and departure from the womb. Every thing that is learned is used to fill what is blank, and the reeducation comes from the entire process of writing more. With Lydia and I, it was a search for a perfection that none of us could rightly have expected to ever find, but we soul searched the other with a greater intensity despite this fact. I was caught inbetween a figurative suicide with the collapse of my royalties, and she was simply overwhelmed with the possibility of being normal. My sophistication, that existed in peerless unequivocal art form, was daunted by her outward sympathy for me. I was a genius of a lost world, but the perception she gathered was intrusive, loosing my guard. When I had eventually loosened my pants for the moment of injustice, her pleasuring me, I was held captive. Taken away to the furthest shore, reaching a moment of triumph, perhaps even forming a love that forgot selfishness. She would also talk.
She amused me. She told me that I would never understand that full meaning of Lawrence’s Rainbow; one of the few common reads that we shared. She said that she would give me the most pleasure that a man could ever experience, and that she would then have to run away. She enticed my wit by asking quick questions concerning what makes a book worth reading, and what makes a poem flourish in the midst of Dillan Thomas and other pathfinders. I would smile and call her an artist in her own right, explaining that the way she handled my wang was unprecedented. She would speak of the hills in Switzerland.
After the night of our visit by Amanda she called to say that she would have wait until the weekend to meet me again. I felt a small burning somewhere local to my pancreas and allowed my lower jaw to separate itself from the rest of my face. I told her that I loved her but that only made her laugh, once more delving into the superficial path that had made me a sleaze creator (the horizon line of my soul rested somewhere between the midsections of a man and a woman, this enamored the print in my large type books and the images possessed by there readers). I wanted her to be different but I realized that you cannot change a pioneer. I was the doctor of my own division into sorrow, but that wouldn’t start until after the weekend.
After hearing her voice I left my apartment, crowding the papers of my current novel beneath my shoulder. The outside of my home, calendar Ash Street, was a balance between noiseless peace and wonderful accusations. You always wondered walking down Ash. Why was there wind and the leaves remained frozen. Why did the plumbing never rattle or the dogs never bark. My hearing must have expired, or perhaps I was already dead and in heaven, creating a path of happiness only to be read on lifeless pages. Maybe this was a trick performed by a deity to torment a disobedient servant. Somewhere I could have been Johna, or a least a similar crawfish to leap ship. The calm was disturbing.
I grabbed two slices of Mushroom from Emily’s and dashed for my car parked three blocks down the road. The dusky Chevrolet had seen more action than its master, old bugger. I really felt for her I did. If cars had minds they really wouldn’t want me as their master. I left tissues all over the back seat, food crumbs in the stick shift. I had never once cleaned the carpet, she was an abused beast. Even her color had faded. But at least she wasn’t unimaginative.
I drove to a place I normally went to when I wasn’t with a woman or I didn’t want to be with one. It was a little hole in the wall called Vincent’s over on 4th street. Nice people. I could never hit on the waitresses, too young and spiritual. They always made you fell like you were doing them a favor when you ordered a drink. Like they were too pure too touch the thing and wanted to get it into your hands as soon as possible. It was a form of catharsis leaving them a tip too, pertinence really. And I loved the whole oral exchange; it went like, “How are you? What do you think of the music; these guys are somethin’ huh? It’s nice to see you. How is the job (they didn’t know that I was a writer, which I didn’t consider an occupation, more of a mission)? They relay were nice people.
I stayed at Vincent’s until about half past ten and then went home caught the eleven o’clock news. I slept like a baby, as usual. That’s what really knocked me out. All of these high-end evangelists and stuff couldn’t sleep a wink. You could really tell to from the rings under there eyes, it almost seemed like they never stopped doing the good work or something. I always felt generally happy. That must have ment something about reality. Maybe God was just a figure of our minds. And that figure required some form of worship, some attitude of service. But the type of service was self fashioned, an introspective development. For some it was to explain to others what was right. For me it was just to explain. To sort of humor people with themselves. That was what my books were really about, bringing people back, to people.
That weekend I got to see Lydia again. It was really nothing like I had expected. When I arrived at her apartment she was cleaning. She looked surprisingly more normal, less intimidating with her good looks. She had U2 unforgettable fire playing on the radio. Everything matched the attitude of a practical romance. A love for the need in each of us. She wore red; it was like something from the sixties.
We ended up cleaning for about another half an hour until she slipped out of her loose day dress and we made love. She was came forth with passion, breathing deeply, making noise; unlikely for a girl that had previously always acted like a Quaker.
Our moments were only cheapened by the shade of the wall paper, which was green and seedy. But the rest was a true fulfillment of the libido. Like the first time ever, in a car or somewhere unideal we felt the sense of mind over matter, natural instinct taking course, lucid body touching.
She was gorgeous; she had a thing layer of perspiration covering her face and top of her chest. She smiled and was girlish, lavish in her nude body, feeling perfect next to mine. She graced her hands against my back as we continued our rhythmic motions. Like the tides of the see our love evolved deeper and more bold. I felt a spark of nonphysical emotion, making my stomach slight butterfly, and my eyes gently water. I knew that the peace that she brought would always live on in a memory, even if she had to leave.
The time we spent was precious, inventing a mode of continuous nirvana, and an incalculable decent from normalcy. The love she evoked caught me, rapturing my six senses. I still dream about her to this day. The ending is never completely like the last, but I wake up full of contentment.