Erotic Fiction Short: Elements of Control

“And you need to take that thing out of your lip! It’s disgusting.”

Char took off her apron and tossed it over into the sink as she cruised through the kitchen and headed towards the back door. It was open, a fly buzzing up against the screen door, trying to get out even though there was a gaping hole it could escape through, just a few inches below to its left.

“And you make sure you’re home by ten! No more of these late nights! Not in my house you don’t!”

She breezed through the screen door, not noticing whether the fly took advantage of the door being open or not and was out in the parking lot heading for her yellow Eclipse. Dad could yell and yell all he wanted. He always did. He thought he owned her just because she worked for the family restaurant. Nobody owned her though, not her dad, not Javier, not anybody.

Char couldn’t wait to see LeRoy because LeRoy always made everything better. He was the crazy big brother she never had, least, that’s what she told herself. As she zigged and zagged through traffic, coming to a screeching halt here, hammering the accelerator for a tire smoking start there, she realized that she didn’t actually know how old LeRoy was. Maybe he was too old to be her brother.

And she realized that she was cool with that. That she didn’t really want to know. She had an idea, an age-range she figured he fit in but she told herself that it was better not knowing, considering the way she felt when she caught him looking at her the way he did.  It was one thing to tell herself that he was old enough to be her big brother, it was an entirely different thing, she thought, to think of him as being old enough to be her dad.

Javier was blowing up her phone with text messages and voicemails again. Since she’d said she wanted her space he’d been freaking out. He’d gone off to Texas to help his grandparents and things changed. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t her fault, but it was all different now and Char couldn’t go back.

At first it was rough. Char would sit on her bed amidst her twelve throw pillows, four oversized stuffed teddy bears and her stuffed matching Lady & the Tramp set nervously tapping her foot so the bed vibrated waiting for each text Javier would send. She was afraid that if she wasn’t watching the screen of her phone the next text would never come. And each time she got a text or finished a four hour phone call she felt as though she needed to hold herself down because if she didn’t she’d fly right up into the ceiling and maybe through it, perhaps all the way through the roof and then, who knows where?

Day by day life happened though and the texts and the calls became further apart and Char found her anxiety was so much she couldn’t bear just sitting around waiting, so, she was out and about every chance she got, hitting up Sonia to go to the mall or calling Lena to go cruise the skate park or just sprinting around town in her ‘Sun chariot’ as she liked to call her car, to get away from sitting and waiting.

Char roared the Eclipse into the back alley, behind LeRoy’s apartments. Overall, the neighborhood was more upper middle class than it was simply middle class but the apartments, older as they were, standing in a self-contained island amidst all the homes and a few very nice city parks, were definitely not as upscale as their surrounding environment. They had a California Mission style look to them with red tile roofs but a faded white exterior that was starting to scream out age and neglect. Graffiti stains were haphazardly painted over leaving a bruising like look just under the surface and cracks spider-webbed there way all across the exterior stucco only a few in some spots, intricate webs of many in others.

The green Dodge Caravan parked at the edge of the alley had it’s back window missing, replaced by plywood which sported its own graffiti. Two of its tires were flat and spider webs emerged out from under it in every conceivable direction. It wasn’t  the only broken down vehicle in the alley but it did have an open space right next to it that Char wasted no time swooping in and taking. Hauling up the parking brake with one swift grab and jerk, Char checked herself in the mirror and had to admit that she looked good. She bounced herself up and out of the car and headed off to LeRoy’s.

The front door to LeRoy’s apartment was all the way on the other side of the complex. It was his backdoor, a sliding glass door with a scenic view of one of the alley’s four royal blue trash dumpsters that Char always headed for. The blinds were closed, as they always were but the door was open, left just a bit ajar. She reached in a hand and opened it a little more before calling inside, “LeRoy!”

She heard him call back, something muffled from upstairs were the two bedrooms were and let herself in. The living room and the kitchen/kitchenette made up the ground floor. Char straightened her lacy red tank top and had a flash of self-consciousness about the fact that she’d matched it with her black bra. Her faded True Religions fit a little snug in the waist but Char felt good about them, they weren’t so tight she couldn’t move but they were tight enough to accentuate her curves, and she had a lot of them. Her purple flip flops rounded out the ensemble and Char couldn’t help but admire the shade of green she’d painted her toes. Casually she tossed her keys on the kitchen counter.

She heard LeRoy on the stairs, coming down. He was tall but not as tall as Char would’ve wished. He was muscular too, but not at all as cut as he could’ve been. He was on the leaner side of things, his faded jeans had an acid wash look to them and were frayed at the bottom. Unlike her, he was sans top and shoes. He looked fit, for whatever age he was. A small tuft of chest hair sat mid chest, between his pectorals, black but with a few prominent white hairs mixed in. His hair was failing, receding, retreating and he kept it closely shaved as a result. As far as shaves went, he went unshaven, at least a day’s stubble, salt and pepperish, covered his angular jaw.

He was a friend of a friend online. That’s how it started. Chatting. Char figured that chatting was safe enough and LeRoy was cool and respectful which was different. He didn’t just come on wanting to get in her thong and he was interested in her, in how she felt, in what was going on with her. She dug that. He was sweet and, for an old dude, he didn’t look that bad.

Chatting led to lunch. Lunch, to dinner. Texts and calls. All the while Char kept up with Javier but she knew things with him were different. He was distant when they talked. Their four hour conversations barely lasted a half hour. Texts were short and sweet and perfunctory. But talking with LeRoy, that was different. Things were relaxed and seemed to flow naturally. Char just went with it.

“Char”  LeRoy walked over and gave a hug, the kind of hug that isn’t exactly friendly but isn’t as long and touchy feely as it could be. “What brings you by girl?”

Char liked the way he smelled and was sad the hug was over as quickly as it was. She had all sorts of feelings swimming inside her and it was only then that she felt her bottom lip start trembling. Before she knew it, she was shaking all over. Dad. Javier. Work. School. Life. She felt overwhelmed all of a sudden and began to cry.

Her shoulders shook, her body shook, she cried and cried and pushed LeRoy away. She walked back over towards the kitchen counter trying to get a hold of herself. She hadn’t felt like crying on the way over and then, all of a sudden, she did. She was balling. She couldn’t stop. She gulped air in deep breaths and wiped away the tears, nervously stealing glances of LeRoy and the way he was looking at her. He had big, sad, kind eyes.

LeRoy waited for the sobs to die down. He walked across the room and took Char’s face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs.

“Shh. Shh. Now, cut that out baby. Cut that out. It’s okay. It’s gonna’ be okay.”

He leaned in and kissed her, the way she hoped he would, right there, on the lips, long and hard. She felt every tense muscle in her body relax as he gathered her and pulled her close to him. Char threw her arms around his neck and kissed back as hard as she was kissed her large full breasts pressing up against his bare chest, nipples growing hard.

LeRoy picked her up in one swift motion and sat her on the counter. He kissed her, hard and fast, on the lips, on the shoulder, on the neck, behind the ear. Char rolled her head this way and that trying to catch his lips in mid flight, mash into them, their tongues meeting inside one another’s mouths. LeRoy took a hold of Char’s right breast, grabbing as much of it as he could. He wasn’t tender about it but he wasn’t rough. Char felt a little gasp and a wetness between her legs. LeRoy grabbed both sides of Char’s tank top and pulled it over her head, it messed up her bangs so she shook them out and mastered a smile, her eyes still glistening wet with the tears she’d just quit crying.

It was quick, how he scooped her up and swept her over to the kitchen table. It was already clear so there were no plates or bowls or cups to push over. He had jeans unbuttoned and in a swift motion he was wriggling them down, past her hips, past her knees onto the floor. The thong almost came with but managed to stay in place. LeRoy started at Char’s right ankle and began kissing inside it, long, slow, wet, deep kisses. Slowly he worked his way up. Calf. Behind the knee. Lower thigh. Middle thigh. Upper thigh. Char just leaned back and moaned. She reached around behind her back and unlatched her black bra, letting her breasts free. Using his index fingers, LeRoy grabbed on to either side of the black and red lace thong and pulled it down. He took h is time, letting it get unstuck at the wetness where it stuck to her pussy. Instinctively Char reached down with her right hand and started playing with her clit.

LeRoy started kissing in and around, the outer lips, the area where the thigh and pussy began to meet, his kisses were part kissing, part sucking. Char pulled her hand away and put it on the back of his head. She didn’t mind the short curly hair, the bald spot on the crown. LeRoy licked close and around her clit while slowly slipping a finger up inside her and curling it against her G-spot. He licked closer and closer to her clit and as he did he worked his finger faster and faster insider her, twisting it with each thrust. Char arched her back and reached out her arms, grabbing hold of the edge of the other side of the kitchen table. She felt her body twitching and spasming with pleasure. She looked around her and all she could see was dappled light coming through the shades at the sliding glass door, broken beams of sun, breaking into prisms of fractured colors. She curled her toes into fists.

LeRoy had reached her clit and was alternately kissing, sucking and licking it. It was swollen and he’d change up his approach based on Char’s reaction. She’d broken out into goose bumps and he knew he was doing something right when she tensed and grunted out an “Uh”. He was working her finger into her furiously and her “Uhs” became more and more frequent. Soon they were an unbroken string of “Uhs” and she was starting to shout them more than moan them.

Char wrapped her legs tightly around him and pushed LeRoy backward, getting him to pull her off the kitchen table. They stumbled awkwardly into the living room where they collapsed down onto the shag carpet, Char on top. LeRoy winced as he felt something in his back pull but looking at Char as she did her hair whip and stared down at him with her eyes he soon forgot all about it. She took hold of him, he wasn’t huge but he wasn’t small, at least he was thick, that mattered to her. She pulled him inside her and closed her eyes, savoring that moment, that initial, first moment when the head of his cock slipped inside her pussy. That moment of no going back, that moment of connection, his body in hers now, they two, now one. She pushed down feeling his full length go up inside here.

She started grinding down on him almost immediately and he felt his body spasm all over, muscles tighten and then relax. He watched as she rocked and swayed in her own little world, to the beat of her own internal boom box, a smile on her face, her flawless skin and big, round, perfect breasts made him feel as if he were dreaming and it was only the tension building up quickly inside him that jerked him back to reality. Looking at her he didn’t believe he was ever that young.

She rode him hard, caressing her breasts and staring down at him with a look as if she owned him, as if he was hers and he was damn lucky to just be there at that very moment when she wanted to take him, take him on the green and white shag carpet. She let him reach up and grab her breasts. They were perfect G’s, big and full but full of youth and not yet affected by the forces of time or gravity. Every know and then she’d lean down as if to kiss him but wound up only staring deeper into his eyes and giving a little smirk as she watched his facial muscles twitch and strain. He fought to keep it in, and the more she drove down, the harder it became.

He felt it coming, she could tell so she rocked and rolled and ground down on him harder and faster. He started to shake. He felt his hands grab fistfuls of shag without even thinking of it. When it came it came in one big, long burst, erupting deep inside her, pumping over and over again as he closed his eyes and let his breath out. Char moaned on top of him finishing with a low, long “Yes.”

Char sat on top of him, sweat glistening all over her body, beads of sweat forming at her hard nipples and dripping down onto LeRoy. She ran her fingers through her short, dark, sweaty hair and smiled triumphantly. Slowly she pulled herself up and off of him and he felt every second of it.

LeRoy stayed there, lying on the ground a bit after as Char went about getting dressed. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and caught his breath. The ceiling looked so far away from him as he lie there on the ground.

“I gotta’ go to work here in a bit. I better go hit the shower babe. Be back in just a sec.”

“Ok honey. No prob.”

Char glanced over her shoulder as she fastened her bra in back, her back to him. It was enough of a glance to see all of him, sweaty, naked, getting up and coming towards her. He took hold of her around her waste and kissed her long and hard on the back of the neck.

“See you in  a bit.”

“Ok”, she whispered.

He gathered up his clothes and headed upstairs to shower. Char grabbed a class out of the cupboard and poured herself some water. She waited for the door to shut and to hear the water come on before she grabbed her keys off the counter. It was time to go.

She slipped out the sliding glass door leaving the same crack she’d found when she arrived. In her car she pulled out her cell and instinctively checked her texts. There were three from Javier, obsessing still. A missed call from her dad. And a text from Zabs, her dear friend Zabrina. She’d answer that later, she decided as she typed out a quick text for LeRoy.

“You rock! xoxoxox”

Then she fired up her Sun Chariot and roared backwards out of the parking space, just missing the soiled and stained mattress somone had tried to prop up against the dumpster but had slid and fallen down into the alley. She peeled out past the Caravan, wondering if LeRoy could hear her up in the shower. She smiled at the thought that maybe he could.

Char checked herself in the rearview and checked her phone again. Zabrina wanted to party it up on the west side and wanter here there. She hit the gas and started to race her way back to the other side of town singing and dancing as she turned her music up full blast. The party was on. She didn’t want to be late.

Copyright 2011, M.R. McCaffery. All rights reserved.

Erotic Microfiction: The Joys of Waiting

This is a piece of erotic microfiction designed to be read by adults, 18-years old and older. If you're under the age of 18, please leave this page right now. Thank you. 

 

 

Kassie hated to wait and Darren knew this. She was always in a hurry, always racing from one thing to another, from one work meeting, to a spin class, to a friend's Pampered Chef event. Kassie had been born with natural speed. She was always going 200 miles per hour to wherever life took her. Except for times like now, except for times when she forced herself to, well, lay back and accept the joy of waiting.

Darren had tied Kassie's wrists to the bedpost with her favorite violet silk scarves. Kassie even asked for the leather strap to bite down on. The week had been busy and stressful and it was about time, she thought, to visit D and have him do that thing he did.

Darren didn't sleep around but he kept the option open, especially since Kass was always unsure. One minute she wanted them to move into together, the next, she was "taking a break" and wanting the freedom to see other people. In the end, she always called back and asked to come over, usually when things in her life were spiraling out of control.

"You free D?"

"I'm never free girl, you know that."

"I know. You know what I mean. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Tease me."

Kass always sounded desperate. She always sounded like if he didn't tell her it was okay, that he was free, that the world would come to an end.

Whenever she came over, it was the same old thing, the same lame chit chat, the same smoking of blunts before the preliminaries began in earnest. D knew the game, he let it play out, he didn't love Kass, but he liked her, he liked her enough that he wanted to make her happy, even though he knew she wasn't going to stick around.

It started down at her ankle, just inside her ankle right next to the heel, with a long slow wet kiss. D knew the benefits of dramatic effect, of taking his time, of lingering, of moving forward, just when Kass was getting antsy.

From the ankle, D took his time, working his way up Kass's leg, enjoying each taste along the way. She squirmed with each new kiss, she rolled this way and that with each knew trace of his tongue. D held her leg still and took his time. He worked his way up her sculpted calf, enjoying how smooth and taut her skin was. Each taste he savored, each kiss he lingered, in the back of his mind knowing that each one could be the last. With Kass, he never knew what to expect.

He flicked his tongue behind Kass's knee, feeling the soft tender skin there and goose bumps quickly spread all over her body. D could hear Kassie bite down on her leather strap and stifle a moan. He smiled in spite of himself as he took his first good, deep long kiss on her thigh. From here on out, every kiss, every touch, every lick, would just heighten Kass's arousal, D could feel it in her body, in the way her muscle's got tense.

Still he took his time, every kiss as slow as the previous kiss, every lick, as though he were licking the last of his favorite mint chocolate chip from a bowl. He took his time, slowly, savoring every gooses bump as he worked his way slower and slower up Kass's inner thigh. He was getting closer now, closer to the finish line, closer to giving Kass what she wanted.

Kass kept her eyes closed, feeling the tears well up inside as each kiss, as each flick of the tongue worked its way up the inside of her leg. From the first kiss on her ankle time stopped. She was no longer in a hurry. With each kiss, with each flick of the tongue, she forgot more and more about all the different things she had to do in the days and weeks ahead. As D slowly worked his spell on her, taking his time with her leg, one kiss, one soft feathery lick at a time, Kass gave in, gave up all the things she rushed through life trying to do. Kass learned to appreciate the joys of waiting.

Copyright, M.R. Caffery, 2009. All rights reserved.

Erotic Microfiction: Favorites

This is a piece of erotic microfiction designed to be read by adults, 18 years old and over. If you're under the age of 18, please leave this page now. Thank you. 

 

 

 

Diggs was a breast man, plain and simple. He liked 'em big, but not too big, and firm. They had to be firm. He liked to plant his thick full lips square on to a woman's breasts and kiss them and kiss them and kiss them again. Over and over again.

There were ass men and leg men, to be sure. Not Diggs. He was a breast man. Give him a nice set of titties and he was in heaven. He thought about all the different women he'd been with, all the different breasts, all the slightly different shapes. Big was the one thing they had in common. He didn't go under a D-cup.

Women told him they liked the way he grabbed them, they liked that he didn't treat their bodies as if they were made out of glass or fragile. Breasts were the best Diggs though, pliable, squeezable, soft, once he got his large powerful hands on them he didn't want to let go. He loved watching the woman he was with tilt her head back, her mouth opening just so, to let out a moan of pleasure. He loved the way pert erect nipples felt under his fingers as he brushed his fingers across them. There was something to the way the skin and the areola came together, that boundary between the one and the other that Diggs loved tracing his tongue over.

"Two things in life you need son, air and pussy."

Diggs' dad had 27 kids. There were 18 different moms. Diggs never understood how some of the moms had been repeat customers. Diggs' dad didn't care much for women, but he loved him some pussy. If he could have had pussy, just pussy, if he'd been able to grow it somehow or make it himself, maybe order it over the Internet, without a woman attached, he'd have had it made. All he'd do would be to knock it out, day after day, after day.

Tessa shifted about in the sheets. It was still dark out but Diggs was up. He needed to shower. He needed to get ready for work. To look at him one expected him to be a model, tall, chiseled, with a jaw that looked like it had been drawn on for a comic book super hero. His bald head was sleek and smooth. The only thing that gave him away was his rough hands, hands that did work everyday, construction, big powerful, crooked hands with calluses, hands that had seen the world, helped shape it and been shaped by it.

Diggs stared at Tessa's hair, shoulder length, curly, all natural. Brown with blond highlights. She was tiny, compared to him. When she took him all the way inside her he was afraid he'd split her in two or something. But she just took over. That was a few years back now and he remembered it as if it had just happened. Those breasts, almost too big for her small frame, right there, where he could play with them, where he could bite them, where he could suck them. All the while, she dug in and rode him, rode him hard, rode him like there was no tomorrow.

"We only get one chance at life D." Tessa would say this, sometimes, after the sex, her voice trailing off in the distance as she finished as if she'd transported herself somewhere, far away.

She left fingernail scars in his back. When she bit him, she bit him hard. There was nothing about Tessa that wasn't intense. She wanted everything, to the last drop. When she took him in her hand and brought his dick to her lips he felt shivers go all over his body before she did anything, just remember the last time and the time before that. To the last drop.

Her first day back at work was today. He'd wanted to talk to her about it last night, he wasn't sure what he'd say, but he wanted to try. She just "hushed" him. She grabbed his hands, forced them on her chest and took him, right there, on the couch. It had been their first time in a while. They way she stared into his eyes. Diggs wouldn't forget it.

He showered. The hot water hitting his face felt good. If he'd waited another hour the complex's hot water would be all used up. He wasn't a morning person, not naturally, but he'd made himself into one simply because he loved hot water more than he loved sleeping in.

"You got to know the right time to leave 'em, to avoid too much drama. Goddamn they'll give you drama if you don't look out!"

Diggs' dad was the master of the good-bye. He was there one moment, all smiles and love and gone the next. It was his way. Love 'em and leave 'em and be gone to the next adventure. Diggs' mom wasn't the talkative type, at least about his dad.

"Your dad did what he did. He lived how he lived. Not much more there is to say, really."

The shower had to end, as all good things did. Diggs finished drying off and headed back to the bedroom. Tess still was lying on her side but he could tell she was awake.

"Do you love me?"

He stood in the door, admiring her perfect bare back, the way it made its way down to her hips and her beautiful, tight ass, and those short, but muscular legs. He could smell her, even across the room, even while working on a job site. He could feel his hands on her hips, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, as she bore down on him, working him harder and harder, staring at him the way she did, curly bangs falling down in front of her eyes, her eyes staring out form behind them like a tiger, looking through the tall grass.

"Of course I do T. I'm not going nowhere.."

She didn't cry. She never cried, least, not where he could see her. She was just still for a while. He thought about the time, a year ago, when it was getting serious, how he had her in the hall, up against the wall, and then the were in the living room, knocking a lamp over, and then, they were in the kitchen, using the kitchen table. She made him stop, just stop, right there in the middle of everything, to ask him, to ask him if he'd be there, no matter what.

He was pissed. He was confused. He didn't know what to say. Hell, he was moments away from coming all up inside her and here she was busting it, getting mad serious.

"Will you be there? No matter what?"

Those eyes. He stared into those eyes. He felt so much. His throat closed up.

"Yeah. I mean, yeah. Of course."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what."

The alarm went off. Tess stirred and stretched, like the cat she was. She'd been through a lot in life, Diggs wasn't going to be one other thing. He watched her stretch.

"First day back. I hope it's a good one baby." He walked across the room got on the bed behind her and kissed her neck. She reached out and grabbed his hand, led it to her chest, to the spot where her right breast had been. Then, she slowly rolled over, revealing that she no longer had her left breast either.

Diggs kissed her softly on the lips and took her all in. He brushed her curly bangs out of her face. He thought he saw the trace of a tear but he knew his T didn't cry. She was tough like that. So, he teared up for her instead.

Diggs. Diggs was a breast man.

Copyright, M.R. Caffery, 2009. All rights reserved.

Erotic Microshort: Murphy's Law

The following is a piece of erotic microfiction and is intended for readers 18 and older. If you're under the age of 18 please leave this page now. Thank you.

 

"I'm sorry, but, it must be a malfunction." Sally's voice changed. Big time. She wasn't talking in her sultry, sexy tone as she had before. She know sounded very official, very neutral, very, well, robotic.

"A wha?!" Jerry's voice was tense. The hotel room had been comfortable, in that computer programmed perfect comfortable kind of way. Now though, he could feel himself starting to sweat.

"I've notified maintenance. They're sending someone up right now. It happens sometimes."

"Maintenance? You what? Oh Christ! I need to be meeting my wife at a dinner party in a half an hour!"

"I'm sorry Mr. Murphy. These things happen. If you'll just relax..."

"Relax? Relax? How the fuck can I relax when my dick is caught in your, your, pussy? I mean, I thought this sort of thing was safer! That's why I came to you people, er, things."

Unit A8731, commonly known in the Lambert Adult Services Corporation as Sally ('Mustang' Sally to some, for the rough and ready way she was programmed to ride her customers) didn't take offense. She wasn't the newest of the new, though, even now, she had weathered well. Her model series, the Elegante Psuedohuman Adult Pleasure System had been ahead of it's time. With proper maintenance it was expected she'd be able to serve another four or five years until her systems needed a major overhaul. At that point the cost of upgrading would be simply too much compared to buying one of the new models coming out of Korea or China.

"These maintenance guys, they'll know what to do, right? They can fix this?"

"I believe so. I believe a piece of my vaginal wall molding simply came loose and has trapped your erect member inside me. I don't think it will lead to any permanent damage. The maintenance crew should be here shortly. I'm going to go into sleep mode now. It will make it easier for them to assist you when they arrive."

"Permanent damage?" Jerry was really sweating now. He knew the new adult entertainment systems were supposed to be much safer than human prostitutes. Need to knock one out, you go to the advanced 'toys'. With a bleach solution douche between customers followed by a saline flush they were STD free and programmed to perform even the most intricate acts of the fabled Kama Sutra. He hadn't expected anything to go wrong. He just wanted to hit it quick, get some stress out from work, and be on his way. After thirteen years of marriage his wife had never let him hit it from behind, doggie style. He missed it, remembering back to his wanton lustful youth at how good it felt to get in behind and just pound it out.

Jerry hadn't felt this awkward since his first time. The room's subdued lighting, the Barry White, playing in the background, it was all perfect. Sally was great too. That was her name, but, he knew, she didn't really have a name, not a real one anyway. As tense and scared as he was, he marvelled at how realistic she was, how close to life her skin was. Even know, with the malfunction, her body, if it was the right word to use, acted like a human body, to the extent that was possible. Instead of being 'wet' as she had been when they'd started, she was totally dry now, dry, metallic and cold.

Jerry wondered what his wife would think. It wasn't really cheating, he comforted himself. Cheating involved another person, not a machine. The permanent damage thing though...that was unexpected.

The door opened behind him. He couldn't turn his head to see really but he heard someone coming in the room.

"Mr. Murphy, I'm Ted Kozwalzki, this is my partner in crime, Eddie Roybal. We're here to help you out of your, umm, situation."

The two maintenance men stood on either side of the bed, looking things over. Jerry still felt tense but figured things would be getting better now that help was here.

"What we're gonna' do here Mr. Murphy is we're gonna' aim for a double penetration. I'm gonna' go in with some clamps and a flashlight to see if I can peel the molding all the way back, giving your cock a chance to come on out. You may feel the cold metal of the clamps along your shaft. Not to worry. I'm not going to be grabbing you or pinching you or nothing. Got it? You ok?" Ted, Jerry figured in a case like this everyone was on a first name basis, slapped him on the back. He chewed his gum and slapped on some vinyl gloves. His salt and pepper hair gave him an air of authority and experience. He knelt down along Jerry and turned on his flashlight.

"This sort of thing, umm, happen often?"

"No sir. Not too often. But it happens. As with any technology, there's breakdowns, unexpected glitches." Eddie smiled, reassuringly. "Some piece of work, eh Mr. Murphy? They just don't make 'em like good ole' Sally here anymore." He reached out and slapped her, er, it, on its bare ass.

"I mean, really, feel that skin. That's good stuff. I still think this was a better pathway than the new synth stuff they're using now. Softer. More pliable. Takes more damage, true, but it feels so real. And that pussy, that's just something else right there."

Eddie bent over and took a conspiratorial tone. "These pussies were the first ever to be designed to custom fit the operator. Seriously. They expand to fit the dick that goes in there. Perfect fit, guaranteed, every time. In fact, if this had been an older model, you'd have been able to wiggle your dick out on your own, you would have had that much room to work with. But not ole' Sally here!" He slapped her, er, it, on the ass again. "Not Sally. Perfect fit man, perfect fit. Your snug as can be in there."

"Mr. Murphy, can you feel my clamp, running along your shaft?" Ted was bent over looking seriously into the dark recesses of Sally's machinery.

"I feel some pressure, kinda'."

"No coldness? Just pressure?"

"Yeah. I don't feel anything cold."

"Hmmm."

Jerry felt himself getting nervous. He didn't like the sound of that.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Well, the way this molding is in there, it could be cutting blood supply to your cock. That could be why you only feel pressure, you know, and not the coldness. They sure designed these cunts good. Fuck. It's really tight in there."

Jerry watched as Ted tried to get some movement in the stuck vaginal molding. Eddie kept talking about the finer points of Sally's production line but Jerry was suddenly obsessed with Ted's efforts. He couldn't feel the cold, was all he could think about. What did it mean? How bad was it?

Ted pulled back, looking flustered. "Ok. I'm gonna' have to go get some more tools. Don't worry. I think it's gonna' be ok. It's just a little tighter in there than I figgered." He patted Jerry on the back and headed for the door.

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!"

"Calm down man. It's gonna' be ok. You heard what Ted said. He'll take care of it. He's good like that."

"I just wanted a stress reliever, you know? Something quick, something easy." Jerry fought off the urge to look at his cell phone for the time. He wasn't going to make the dinner party, his wife was going to be pissed.

"I hear ya' man. I hear ya'. We all got to knock it out sometime. Totally understand."

"I just, I just can't believe this shit. I mean, why did this shit have to happen to me? I can't believe this!"

Eddie smiled, knowingly. "There is just no such thing as a simple piece of ass."

Copyright, M.R. Caffery, 2007. All Rights Reserved.

Super Short Fiction: Safe

The security door was wrought iron. Not that cheap stuff you can get at the local national chain home supply store. Specially ordered stuff. Thick. Strong. Ornate. The door behind it, steel core. Double dead bolts. Chain. All the windows had bars on them too, matching ornate wrought iron bars. There were thorn bushes in front and cacti on the sides and in the back, all sitting under the windows. As if the bars weren't enough.

Security cameras blinked and recorded and watched and saw and saved 24/7/365. Hard drives in what would normally have been a bedroom stored all the data. Nothing happening around the outside of the home escaped their notice. They were eternally vigilant.

The home had an alarm. Which, considering everything else, one could have probably guessed. It had pressure settings tied to each of the windows. Lasers protected the doors, once activated, waiting for something, anything, to try and cross them. Motion sensors in every room could be remotely activated by something as simple as a cell phone text. There were no pets to accidentally trigger them.

The windows weren't bullet proof. There is no such thing really. But they were 'bullet resistant'. Provided a bullet could weave it's way in between the ornate wrought iron bars protecting the windows that is. If. In that instance, the aforementioned bullet, having fortunately made it past this obstacle would be 'resisted' by the window's glass.

Guns were in every room, strategically placed but not obvious to the eye. All were easy to get to. Loaded. Cleaned. Regularly. Ready for use at a moment's notice.

His name....was a matter of some debate. Harold to some, Charles to others. He had a passport that listed his name as Albert Rothstein. No synagogue in the area had ever heard of him. A driver's license under the name of Alphonse Monroe indicated that he was not an organ donor.

Things were clean, meticulously so, in every room. It was almost as if all the precautions that had been made to keep others out had managed to, at the same time, seal the house against dust and dirt. And yet, if one were to make it into the home...if one were to float through the living room and make towards the hall, say, as a disembodied spirit, avoiding the motion sensors, making sure not to set off any alarms, one might turn down the hall and head towards the master bedroom where a bag of Rold Gold pretzels lay on the floor, it's contents spilling out of it in a neat, orderly fashion, as if it were a cornucopia. Brown pretzels, twisted into their instantly recognizable shape, sprinkled with white beads of salt that sparkled when the morning sunlight filtered in through the window and lit upon them.

If one were to float above the scene, one might see a pair of shoes attached to a pair of feet attached themselves to a pair of legs covered in a pair of oversized 'comfort jeans', sprawled out on the floor. The way everything was arranged, one had to drift over the bed to see the rest of it. the faded sweatshirt, the arms, the body, lying face down on the ground. The rumpled covers of the bed and the presence of pretzel crumbs added to the scene. The TV was still on. A shopping channel showed the latest in Austrian crystal for your dinner set. You too could entertain like a European aristocrat.

Harold Charles Albert Alphonse wasn't watching anymore. He lie still, perfectly still, eternally still, there on the floor of his bedroom, a bedroom protected by security camera, cacti, wrought iron bars and bullet resistant glass. A bedroom with five hidden, loaded firearms, motion sensors and preset pressure sensors on the window tied to his master alarm. And what remained of Harold Charles Albert Alphonse hovered above what had been Harold Charles Albert Alphonse, taking it all in, trying to wrap what was left of its intellect around the notion of a lone pretzel, accidentally, securely, perfectly, lodged in a windpipe.


Copyright M.R. McCaffery, 2011. All rights reserved.

Story Short: Shallow

You want to be attractive, I know. I know this. You’re not.

No. No. No. Don’t cry. I don’t say this to be cruel. It’s objective. Your numbers just don’t add up. The stats, they don’t lie. If you don’t have the figures, you don’t have a figure. You’re really not that attractive.

It’s not that the numbers are off by a lot. Just off. Just enough. It’s not for your lack of trying. You diligently gag all your food up after lunch at Five Guy’s Burgers. You make sure to brush your teeth quickly too. No one smells the vomit.

You try to be slim and slender and perfect but there’s still cellulilte there. And there. And do I have to point out there? Small patches of cottage cheese you try to ignore, to hide, because it doesn’t fit in with your scheme of who you are. It’s not you...you don’t see it, thus, it doesn’t exist.

Your right breast is noticeably larger than your left one. And it’s a pointer. It sticks out, pointing to the right. A wayward tit, which might not be so noticeable except...both of your breasts somehow defy gravity.

Your nipples are terribly hard. ‘Knock on them and they knock back’. I find no pleasure in squeezing them for, they can’t be squeezed.

Your lips are perfect in that swollen, cosmetically enhanced way. Puffy and pouty but still kind of off. As if Nature has stamped them as fake, somehow, for all to see, so we know when we look at them and the momentary rush of attraction wears off, we can realilze they’re not normal.

But then, not normal is your normal, isn’t it? It’s what defines you. Your dead, soulless eyes. Pretty, yes, but vacant all the same. You never seem to look at anything. You see things but I don’t think you ever really look at any of the things you see.

You like shoes. And Coach. Names of things, of brands, define you. You seek to be that which you see on some TV show or another. You want your 15-minutes and a new pair of shoes or a new bag will do that for you. You have to be ‘in’ because if you’re not ‘in’ then you’re ‘out’ and you don’t want to be ‘out’ because you wouldn’t be able to stand yourself.

Other women, those women you don’t like are ‘bitches’ or ‘hoes’ or ‘sluts’. You put them down in order to raise yourself up. The clothing they wear is so much ‘trashier’ than yours. You have style. You have taste. They have....tramp stamps.

You have a tramp stamp. You call it a tattoo.

Wrinkles are a sin against God which is why you pray at the Church of Botox. You avoid panty lines the way you avoid panties.

You live for looks, even when the looks come from those clearly beneath your contempt. That guy in the wifebeater with the dirty feet, wearing the summer flip-flops and the frayed ratted jeans? Yeah, him. The one with the week’s worth of stubble. You loved every second of his eyes lingering over your body, every inch of it, as you walked by. You imagined his imaginings. He wanted you and that’s just how you like things. You live to be wanted. You dismissed him though. He looked like herpes, you thought. Or at least, the way you thought herpes would look, if it looked like a man.

You didn’t say that much to me. All you said is you were done. I heard the stories, as they made their rounds. How you said I was going nowhere and if there was one place you didn’t want to be it was nowhere, with me.  How you had given it your all, as if that was something you knew anything about, your all. Hell, you admitted to cheating on your SAT. How many times had your breasts gotten you out of a traffic ticket?

You said my shoes were old and they shouted to the world that I was stupid. You came louder and harder, gushing almost, when you bought a new pair of shoes than for anything I could ever do to you, for you.  Fucking shoes. I often had this recurring dream. I was a puppy. The only puppy you’d ever love and you loved me with all your heart. I chewed up all your shoes and those I didn’t chew up I pissed and shat on. And you cried and cried for days and days but you loved me anyway.

I gave you four years. Maybe they weren’t the best four years of my life but they were my four years to give. I gave them. They’re gone now. Along with any smiles you ever gave me. I reach back, hard, to find one. All I remember was the stress of trying to please you, of trying to win your love.

Your voice came out of nowhere. Carried on the air. Surreal, it seemed, so much so I felt a sudden chill of terror run down my spine. Was it that I was going mad? Where did your voice come from on this cloudy November day, calling my name? I looked around, and then, to the left of me, I noticed the stairs, leeding to the alley between the shops. There you were, down on the ground, ankle are bent askew. A broken heel lie behind you. Your mascara was running from all the tears you’d cried. You sat at the bottom of the stairs, in a leaf-filled pudddle from last night’s rain. You looked up at me, longingly. You tried to smile, tried to use your sweet voice, the voice that always told me something was wanted. I felt the bags in my hand grow heavier. A breeze blew and a car honked its horn at the light there up the street.

I saw you but I didn’t look at you.

I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back. 

Copyright 2011, M.R. McCaffery. All rights reserved. 

Alternate History: The Raid on Barack Obama Was Succcessful.....

The President of Pakistan, Asif Ali Zardari, announced last night that the raid to kill the American president, Barack Obama, was successful. In a speech to the nation of Pakistan, Zardari explained that after years of seeking out Barack Obama's location, the Inter-Services Intelligence Agency had been able to track Obama to a large mansion in the middle of the capital of the United States, Washington D.C.. In describing the raid Zardari re-capped the multiple crimes Obama had been accused of:  violation of Pakistani sovereignty, the murder of innocent Pakistani civilians and the targeted extra-judicial killing of various Pakistani Islamists. Obama, as the American commander-in-chief was held to be ultimately responsible for these crimes and for creating an undeclared state of war between Pakistan and the U.S..

"Our commandos, operating from a secret base in Canada, were able to fly into the United States and target the large white villa that Obama was hiding out in. Upon gaining entry to the building our forces were able to locate Obama, kill him, obtain large stores of vital intelligence information and escape U.S. airspace with his body. After giving him due burial rights according to accepted Christian custom, Obama's remains were buried at sea, being slid off the deck of a Pakistani Navy frigate operating off the coast of the United States."

Zardari announced to the people of Pakistan that "justice had been done" and thanked his troops and many intelligence operatives for their long hard work in this affair. Administration officials later acknowledged that, despite earlier reports to the contrary, Obama wasn't armed and didn't engage in a firefight that included Pakistani forces. When approached with questions regarding the certainty of their target administration officials explained that they were able to establish 99.9% certainty using various forensic and biometric techniques. As to the legality of the operation, the Ministry of Defence argued that by waging an undeclared war on Pakistan, by regularly violating Pakistani sovereignty and by acting outside the norms of established international law, Barack Obama had indeed made himself a legal subject of targeted killing.


"Here is a man who believed he was above the law and able to order whatever he wanted without consequence," an administration spokesman said, on condition of anonymity. "We only did what was just."

Critics both within and without Pakistan are busily arguing both the legality and morality of the act, especially in light of the revelation that Obama was unarmed.

Stay tuned for further details on this still evolving story......

Thoughts on Osama bin Laden and All That.......

With all this stuff on bin Laden....thought I'd put together some thoughts on the issue......

Not the Hollywood Ending People Want It To Be

One thing I think is interesting about the whole Osama bin Laden thing is the celebratory fervor that has swept up many Americans. I blogged yesterday on the issue of whether or not it’s okay to celebrate bin Laden’s death (check it out if you’re interested). One thing that gets me about the response to bin Laden’s death is how victorious so many people feel. It strikes me as a quintessential American response to an action movie’s happy ending. Bad guy gets away from justice a long time. Check. Good guys send in a team of highly strained special ops soldiers. Check. Good guys attack house to bring bad guy to justice. Check. Bad guy dies in battle with good guys. Good guys win! End scene. Roll credits. Raise the house lights.

We Americans sure do love our movies, our action movies in particular. The more I think about bin Laden’s death the more I expect to hear that The Expendables were the ones who did it. No, wait, maybe it was The A-Team. Huh? Oh, oh, yeah, right! My bad! It was really those Inglorious Basterds. Wait. What? Damn! I’m sorry! Of course! It was really the Mission Impossible team lead by the Ethan Hunt!

The story, as presented to Americans anyway, is just what we’d expect out of one of our beloved action/adventures. Only, the way things will end won’t be with a simple long shot of our heroes riding off into a setting sun in their tricked out special ops helicopter. Life is never as simple as we’d like it to be. Our War on Terror is unlikely to end anytime soon. In fact, odds are pretty good it will become a perpetual war funded by vested wealthy and powerful interests intent on seeing it never come to an end, think the War on Drugs redux. There will be no “happy ending” with a hero’s welcome and the giving out of medals (think the end of Star Wars) to triumphant music. The war will go on and on and on. If anything it may come to resemble that lovely bridge in Apocalypse Now, you know the one, that got rebuilt during the day by U.S. troops only to be blow up again night after night by the Vietcong. It’s highly unlikely that bin Laden’s death will translate into the Hollywood-style ending that people want it to be.

Did Obama Kill Osama?

I’m not a fan of President Obama. If you’ve read my blogs before you’ve seen some entries detailing criticisms I have of him and his performance. Lots of folks who are also not fans of the president are up in arms over the idea that “Obama killed Osama”. Did President Obama kill Osama bin Laden? Is bin Laden’s death a feather in Obama’s cap? Who gets the credit for it?

I’m a Pittsburgh Steelers fan and I’m still in mourning. As you may know, we lost to the Green Bay Packers in the most recent Super Bowl. When talking about the game it’s common usage to say that Mike Tomlin, who’d won one Super Bowl, had lost this one. Who’s Mike Tomlin you ask? He’s the coach of the Pittsburgh Steelers and, in fact, the youngest coach ever to win a Super Bowl. He lost this one though, the Packers just played a helluva’ game.

But wait, did Coach Tomlin “lose” the Super Bowl? I mean, did he even play in it? Well......no. He didn’t play. He didn’t make one pass, didn’t run the ball once, didn’t even make a single tackle. He just stood on the sidelines all game long, watching. So....can we say he really “lost” the game?

Being a leader comes with some perks. When things go well you get credit. Like everything it has its downside too so that, when things go bad, you get saddled with the blame. We all know this from work as people often get credit for things they didn’t do (their underlings did) and get blame for things they didn’t do (those same damn underlings!). Coach Tomlin, to follow the strict interpretationalist view, didn’t lose the Super Bowl because he wasn’t in the game. He didn’t play! President Obama didn’t kill Osama because he wasn’t there! He didn’t pull a trigger! 

Historically, leaders get credit all the time for things they didn’t really do. Lincoln won the Civil War but he didn’t fire a musket, load a cannon or lead any cavalry charges. Franklin Roosevelt won World War II but he didn’t lead any landings on Normandy, he didn’t clear out any houses in fighting in Stalingrad and he didn’t fly any bombing missions over Tokyo. John F. Kennedy put a man on the moon but he was long, long dead by the time it happened. Herbert Hoover caused the Great Depression, don’t you know, even though he didn’t really, he just had the great misfortune to be in office when it hit.

Again, I’m not a fan of Obama so I’m not arguing this out of my like for the guy, I’m just arguing this from the point of view of historical fact and the tradition of common language usage. People may not like it but from the point of view of both, Obama killed Osama.

Pakistan...The Friend of our Enemy is Our Frenemy

We Americans are a rather jaded people. Why? Because we’re lied to all the time. Lies are central to our political discourse and to the way our government works. Take our friendship with Pakistan for instance.....

We’re not friends. I think most Americans who follow current events just a little sense that and yet....smiles and back slaps abound at how we’re allies working together in the War on Terror. We Americans hate hypocrisy at work, in social settings....and we fully recognize it in our government as well. We know that Pakistan isn’t our friend but that our government can’t say that openly. No one takes the platitudes and warm sentiments overly seriously. It’s clear that, no matter how much Pakistan says, they are not our friend. Actions speak louder than words and the fact that several top al Qaeda members (not counting Osama bin Laden) have been found free, openly roaming big cities in Pakistan suggests that the country really isn’t working with us to stop terrorists.

Pakistan has nuclear weapons which makes them a very, very dangerous country. Their overall unwillingness to go after people like bin Laden really makes one wonder if they’re not the most dangerous country around. Pretty crazy stuff.

The Fallacy of Morals

Some Americans may be under the mistaken impression that U.S. forces were sent to capture Osama bin Laden. No, they weren’t.

http://www.reuters.com/article/2011/05/02/us-binladen-kill-idUSTRE7413H220110502

Capturing bin Laden was not on the agenda because capturing bin Laden would’ve created a staggering amount of problems for the United States. Killing bin Laden was the goal, pure and simple. Whether we like to think of it this way or not it’s clear that the U.S. wanted bin Laden dead and went to extraordinary lengths to assassinate him.

Hey, we could’ve captured him if we wanted to right? Wrong. Capturing bin Laden would’ve been problematic on multiple levels. Right now, in the wake of his death there are concerns of retaliatory terror attacks that have driven up threat levels for U.S. forces across the world. Capturing and holding bin Laden (indefinitely) would’ve created the same problem but would have made the issue an ongoing one. We’d have had to hold on to bin Laden for the rest of his life in what would’ve amounted to American politics as a lose-lose game. It could take years and years for him to die and the entire time we'd be on a state of alert awaiting some attack.

What would U.S. options be in holding bin Laden prisoner? What choices would we have been presented with? Well, the first one would be to put him on trial or not put him on trial. Seriously? What jury on in the United States could possibly have given Osama bin Laden a fair, unbiased trial? Would you want bin Laden in a courtroom? Would you want to give him a public theater in which he could deliver his unique style of polemics against America and the West? I don’t think any American leaders gave this serious consideration. A trial would have galvanized many Islamic extremists and provided them with a rallying point. Wherever the trial was held the cost for security alone would’ve been astronomical. It’d have been a foregone conclusion that bin Laden would be found guilty. Could you imagine the uproar in the U.S. if he was tried and found not guilty?! Chaos would ensue. There’d be violence in the streets. The government would topple. At the same time, a guilty verdict would be seen by some neutral observers and pretty much all radical Islamists that bin Laden didn’t get a fair trial and had become a “martyr” to his cause. Talk about your Kobyashi Maru scenarios.

After a trial, then what? In the highly unlikely event that bin Laden was found not guilty, would he just be let go? Just released and sent on his way? If found guilty, would he be condemned to life in prison or, sentenced to death? Well, it seems to me that any government that let bin Laden walk after being exonerated in court would topple very quickly. Finding him guilty though creates a whole other set of problems. Keeping him in jail the rest of his life allows him to remain a “martyr” for his followers. “Osama is a prisoner of the evil Great Satan! Let us all fight in his name while he is a prisoner!” One could expect attempts at kidnappings all over the place in response. Al Qaeda might try to abduct a high-ranking Western official. Let’s say they got their hands on, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Then what? Would we do a prisoner swap? Would we allow some high-ranking politico to be kept hostage and/or eventually killed (probably on video) to keep our hands on bin Laden?

Executing him would be another option of course, but that would make him even more a martyr in the eyes of his followers than keeping him locked up forever. Then there’d be the whole question that U.S. forces just had to deal with regarding how to handle his corpse. Of course, a dead bin Laden would be a problem even minus execution. Bin Laden wasn’t going to live forever, so, even if the U.S. didn’t execute him (an honorable death in the eyes of many) when he did finally die the U.S. would come under inevitable criticism and scrutiny for not doing everything it could to keep him alive, for submitting him to terrible conditions while imprisoned, there’d be likely accusations that the U.S. withheld needed medical care....the whole thing would be a huge mess.

Course, no trial was necessary. Many al Qaeda members are being held without a trial and without hope of one, imprisoned indefinitely. Instead of giving bin Laden a court to show off in, he could’ve been smuggled to some secret jail somewhere and held for the rest of his life in quite on the down low. That would’ve been hard to do, of course. Guards would be awfully tempted to talk. Sooner or later there’s a strong likelihood that world would get out and the world would look to the U.S. for answers on why it never said anything about having captured bin Laden. Then you’d have the scandal issues of a blown secret and return to the problems of what to do with him while you have him that I’ve listed above.

The problems of capturing bin Laden alive, as I’ve listed, are many. Much simpler to just kill him. There’s little reason to think that U.S. forces ever intended to capture him in the first instance and every reason to assume that killing him was always the goal. Killing him was going to be much cleaner, much simpler and far less of a headache. But what are we to make of that? What are we to make of the morality behind whacking Osama bin Laden? My take....it’s the American way.

We Americans like to kill other people. Don’t believe me? Have you ever seen an American film before? American movies don’t go in much for conversation and working problems out. Real American films involve bad guys getting killed and good guys winning the day.

The Truth About What Happened

One final thought on all this Osama stuff, this time dealing with the truth of it all. As expected, some news stories have already come out about people around the world doubting Osama bin Laden’s death. People are like that, after all. Even with lots of video evidence to support it there are some people out there who believe strongly that the moon landings never happened, that it was all a set-up, a con done on sound stages in Hollywood. So far (at least, as I write this) the White House hasn’t released any evidence to support President Obama’s statement that bin Laden was killed. In fact, the official story has already changed more than once:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/42882664/ns/world_news-death_of_bin_laden/

I don’t write this to challenge the credibility of President Obama or the White House version of events but, rather, to point out that what we have is a very one-sided narrative. Life teaches us to be open to people’s stories but also to be skeptical, especially where only one side is involved.

Was Osama bin Laden resisting? Did he use a wife as a “human shield”? Did a helicopter get disabled due to a mechanical failure? Were other countries involved and/or alerted ahead of time about the raid? What is the “truth” of what happened on May 1^st in that compound in Abbottabad?

We may never know the answers to all the questions I’ve just posed. Then again, we may. And even if we do, the answers given may never satisfy everyone. That’s just the way it goes, really. Some will believe the official narrative while others question certain aspects of it while still others will dismiss it all together. Just as some people to this day believe that President Obama was born in Kenya, even after all the evidence that has been presented to suggest otherwise, there will be some who believe that Osama bin Laden wasn’t killed or, at least, wasn’t killed in the way the U.S. government says he was.

This is one aspect of the bin Laden story I find most interesting. What is the truth? How do we find it? Do we know it when we see it? How do we deal with our own doubts when we have them?

What interests me is that in a society where privacy increasingly doesn’t exist and where we seem to more and more about just about everything we occasionally run across an issue or an incident in which determining the truth is a challenge. We’re smarter than we’ve ever been, we know more than we’ve ever known but still sometimes we’re confronted with things we may never know.  Sometimes we are faced with situations where all we can know is what we are told and we’re asked to move on from there. I think that’s interesting. For all we know, sometimes we’re just destined to not know as much as we’d like

Just in From Hell....Is This Pic Funny? If So, Why?

A dear friend I don't always agree with but love anyway posted a pic on her Facebook profile today that I found way interesting in a lot of different ways, so, I thought I'd share:

The caption on her post implied that the pic was "just in from Hell".  Talk about things that make me go "Hmm....."

First off, the pic is meant to be funny. Hey, it's Saddam in bed with Osama bin Laden! Secondly, it's supposed to imply that both Osama and Saddam are in Hell. It got me thinking.....

The Mind of God

First thing I thought about was this assumption that Osama and Saddam are in Hell. Hey, they sure could be. I admit that. They were both bad guys, right? So, their both being in Hell wouldn't come as a big surprise I guess. But how do we know they're in Hell?

I'd argue....we can't. Sorry. Just can't. While I'm an atheist I try to keep up on my basic Christian theology and one of the core tenets of Christianity is that no one can know the Mind of God. Nobody. Not you. Not me. Nobody. We can never know what God is thinking or what his decisions are.

So, if we accept that premise to be true....and it makes sense, after all, if God is so much more superior than us, then we can never say we know who goes where after they're dead. Sure, there's a chance both Osama and Saddam wound up in Hell. There's also a chance they're in Heaven. We have no idea. Why? Cuz, we can't know the Mind of God.

Wait a minute! I hear some Christians yelling. Of course God sent them both to Hell because, why, oh why, would God let them into Heaven?

Umm....Mind of God? You ever hear the one where God works in mysterious ways? We just admitted we can't know what God's thinking so, it makes sense that if God allowed Saddam and Osama into Heaven, we might not understand it. Hey, God does stuff and we don't understand why he does stuff. He's God, we're not. End of story. We're puny little ant-like things in the presence of the glory that is God. How the Hell can we figure out why he does what he does?

Then there's the Christian problem of forgiveness. You know, if you ask God for forgiveness, sometimes he is cool and cuts you some slack. We don't know what Saddam or Osama's relationship with God was. Maybe they both asked the Big Guy for forgiveness and he was like, "Ahh.....ok. We cool yo'!"

Could happen. Lots of ministers and preachers tell us it can happen. That's a selling point for Christianity. No matter how fucked up you are....if you accept Jesus in your heart and ask God for forgiveness...bada boom bada bing! You're forgiven!

Fact is though, we have no idea really what God's forgiveness threshold is. And besides, didn't God's kid Jesus tell us not to judge lest we be judged or some shit like that? If we're judging these guys in Hell, sounds like we're not listening to The Kid very well are we? Aren't we being all judgmental in this case? Sure seems like it to me. I wonder if Jesus would get his rocks off laughing at this pic. 

So, the more I think about it, the essential premise of the joke the pic is supposed to represent, that Osama and Saddam are in Hell.....you don't know and I don't know. The whole thing seems kind of silly, this idea of making a joke about something we don't know and can't know.

The Humor in Eternal Torment

Course, it gets darker though, as not well thought out things often do. The idea of the joke is that Saddam and Osama are in Hell and, even if we can admit that we don't know (and can't know) whether this is true or not, the simple idea of them both being there is supposed to be funny.  Why?

What happens in Hell? Not good things, if you believe the Christian friends I know. It's torture, misery, unending bleakness, for all of eternity. Forever and ever. Not too guys kicking back smoking a smoke, drinking a drinky drink and hugging one out after thrusting one out. It's not a smiley, lovey-dovey post-coital glow session. It's Hell. It's torture. It's torment. And some people think that shit's funny.

That's funny? We think that torturing people forever and having endless amounts of pain inflicted on them without ever hope of any release or forgiveness.....funny? Really? Is that how we roll? What does shit like that say about us? We Americans assume we're superior to people like Saddam and Osama because they go around killing people but, at the same time, many of us get off on the suffering and torture of others. Really?

I don't know man....just the idea of that being funny is kind of sad to me. It seems pretty sick and twisted. A lot of the same people who get off at the thought of people being tortured in Hell for eternity and find it funny are caring, loving parents. They're good friends. They go to church. They give to charity. Yet, somewhere, deep down inside they still get off on the idea of other human beings being subjected to eternal torment. It gives them the giggles!

I mean, watching a guy trip and fall and have his face land in a pie is one thing, having someone tortured in pain for all of eternity....that's another. But you and I both know, reader, that there's no accounting for the tastes of others....

Two Naked Guys in Bed Are Funny Why?

The pic also implies that seeing Osama and Saddam in bed together, in Hell, is funny. They're both naked and they look happy, maybe even post-coital happy. Are two naked guys in bed funny? What? Is this like the 1950's or some shit when we made jokes about homosexuals because we thought being gay was something to be made fun of?

Uhh....no. Two naked guys in bed are, well, rather normal. Homosexuality happens in nature, it's a natural thing, it happens all the fucking time (go watch National Geographic if you don't believe me) so, two happy naked guys post a sweaty fuck session would seem.....natural. There's nothing about it that looks funny or presents itself as being worth poking fun at. Gay isn't funny. It's not anything to be ashamed of or be ridiculed or anything like that. So, why in the world is Saddam and Osama lying in bed together some grand ole' gag?

Unless....you're homophobic, maybe, and you think gay people are funny. Then I see a joke. Maybe. But even then all we see is two guys, apparently naked, kicking back smiling. In Hell. Don't forget the Hell part. Again....what's so funny about that?

Yeah....Looks Like Hell to Me.......

But, wait a minute. This pic is supposed to show Saddam and Osama in Hell, right? WTF? Does that look like any Hell you ever heard of? Aside from how twisted it is to be making fun of people presumably being tortured and hurt for all eternity without a hope of release, this doesn't look like Hell. Shit, it looks like a suite in the Four Seasons!! You got two happy, comfortable lovers who are in post-coital bliss enjoying a drink and a smoke! Is that what people in Hell have to worry about?! Fuck!!!! If that's the gig, send me to Hell!!!! It looks like a cool, happy place!

You'd think people hating on both these guys would want a pic that shows them suffering. You know, like, really having it bad! Maybe the 72 virgins Osama was hoping for turn out to be, like 72 Snookies or something. But these guys look good. Shit, they look great! Happy dammit! If this is supposed to be some joke on them, they actually look like they've turned the tables and are putting the joke on us. It's like they're both saying...."Yeah, we're dead bitches but we're having a great time so......suck our dicks!"

So, again, if this pic is supposed to depict Osama and Saddam in Hell....if we're supposed to be laughing at their eternal damnation and enjoying our certainty that God hates them as much as we do and....if this pic is supposed to be funny because they're being gay or, better yet for some people, being tortured miserably....the pic fails all kinds. It just does. You almost want to laugh at the pic, not because it depicts Osama and Saddam in Hell but because the pic is so divorced from the thoughts of what it's trying to do that it's really stupid.

One of my favorite things about emotional events is how little thought people put into them. Knee-jerk reactions to things often come out looking just plain dumb. Need proof? If it please the court, I'd like to present Exhibit A.....the alleged funny (but not so much) pic "Just in From Hell".......

Thoughts on Lying and a Response to a Friend's Email

My friend Dave says that “Lying is not a minor affair.” So, I wanted to take some time to think about this and look at it in the context of Tanya McDowell’s case. Before I look at it in light of this particular case though, I thought I might want to address a contention Dave makes and look at the issue of what a lie is in the first place. First, for the contention that lying is such a big deal that “it’s in the Ten Commandments.”

Actually......it’s not.

I. I am the Lord thy God

II. You Shall Have No Other Gods Before Me

III. You Shall Not Make for Yourself an Idol

IV. Do Not Take My Name in Vain

V. Remember the Sabbath and Keep it Holy

VI. Thou Shalt Not Kill

VII. Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery

VIII. Thou Shalt Not Steal

IX. Thou Shall Not Bear False Witness Against Your Neighbor

X. Do Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Wife

Now, Dave is probably interpreting the 9^th Commandment, “Thou Shall Not Bear False Witness Against Your Neighbor” as meaning, don’t lie. Well, maybe, but the commandment is actually forbidding a special kind of lie, lying in court, hence the “bearing false witness”. The commandment isn’t addressing lying, in general. It just says don’t go to court and lie. But this is the problem with Dave’s assertion that “Lying is not a minor affair”. Sometimes, he’s right, sometimes, he’s not. In the case of the Ten Commandments, lying is only addressed in the context of “bearing false witness”, a very special context. But what about the nature of lying, in general? In fact, what is a lie, really?

Lies and Untruths

What is a lie? Is a lie an untruth? Is that the central aspect of a lie? Or, is there more to it than that? Do you need to have other things than an untruth in play for a lie to be a lie? I thought I’d start out with this question because, frankly, I think it’s a great one. What is a lie?

Most people will say that a lie is an untruth but is an untruth, then, by extension, a lie? Take for instance me saying Jesus of Nazareth was a real person. Am I lying? Your first reaction might be to say, “What the fuck?! Of course Jesus of Nazareth was a real person!” Only, it’s not quite that simple. The historicity of Jesus is a complex issue. Very little actual historical data exists to support his having been a real person. So, I can say that Jesus was real but I could be wrong in a factual sense. Is my being wrong about something then a lie? Does a simple untrue statement mean lying has occurred?

Cannibalism is bad, most of us would agree. This would seem a universal truth. But, is it? If I were born into Aztec aristocracy, say, in the 15^th Century, I’d have participated in not only human sacrifice but in ritual cannibalism as well. In “Aztecs:  An Interpretation” Inga Clendinnen outlines the great lengths the Aztec nobility went to “host” prisoners for future sacrifice. It was a really special thing that brought with it a lot of social honor. After the sacrifice, families shared the flesh of the victim in a meal. If I say that “Cannibalism is bad”, am I making a true statement or an untrue statement? It would seem that, from this example, the “truth” of my statement is relative to my point of view. So....if the truth here is relative, can I be lying if what I say is seen as “untrue” to my audience? Is, again, a lie simply something perceived as an untruth?

I don’t think anyone is going to say that all a lie is is a simple untruth. I think most people are going to say that there’s more to lying than simply saying something that isn’t found to be true. Untruth may be a component of a lie, but simple untruth is probably not lying. Take Jesus, for example, since the actual facts are in question, even if Jesus is found to have never existed, I’m probably not going to be labeled a liar for saying he did. Most people will not see this simple potential untruth as evidence of a lie, even if the facts of my statement are rather dicey. As for cannibalism, most people would argue that, as abhorrent as it sounds, my opinion on the issue is just that, an opinion and that since the morality of eating other humans appears to be at least occasionally relative, there is no lie in my statement that “Cannibalism is bad” and there wouldn’t be a lie for me to say “Cannibalism is good” either. My statements can’t be nailed down to cold hard facts and can be written off as opinion.

The simple factual or nonfactual nature of something isn’t considered a lie in the case of the mentally ill either, right? If someone says they’re, say, Napoleon Bonaparte, and they clearly believe it, we don’t tell them they’re lying. They may sincerely believe they’re telling the truth and simply be delusional or, perhaps they’ve suffered brain damage from an injury or a stroke or some such. So, again, simply saying something is not true doesn’t seem to constitute lying.

Does Motive Matter?

So, telling an untruth, in and of itself, isn’t lying. What is lying then? Does motive have anything to do with it? If so, what’s the issue here? Is lying something that’s only self-serving? Or can there be other kinds of lies?

Most folks thinking of lies probably think of lies people tell to protect themselves. In this context, a lie is an untruth, told purposefully for personal gain. What about the case of Tanya McDowell, does what she did meat that criteria? Did she tell a purposeful untruth for personal gain? Well....she listed the babysitter’s address where her son stayed. Granted, the son didn’t live there, but her son stayed there while he was alive, so, while he was there and alive, it would be proper to say, at that moment, he was “living” there. So, his son was living (by virtue of being alive) at that address at least some of the time. Mom, Ms. McDowell, is homeless, so she really doesn’t have a permanent address to call her own. By listing this address of the babysitter was she lying?

In the sense we commonly understand “living” to mean, Ms. McDowell’s son was not living at the address given. True. However, the news article states that her old address should’ve been used instead and this poses a problem of truth because, Ms. McDowell isn’t living there any more either. She did live there, true enough, but she doesn’t now. So, if the problem is with her giving an address to a place where she’s not living in order to put a child in school, seems she’d be screwed either way.

One thing we’re looking at is, did Ms. McDowell benefit from her untruth? Is her statement a lie under the definition we’re working on, an untruth, told purposefully for personal gain? Well, she’s not going to school at this school in question, her son is, so, it’s hard to see how a lie has been committed in this context Her son, presumably, benefits for being enrolled in a “better” school but she doesn’t. So maybe personal gain as a motive isn’t necessarily a sign of a lie. Maybe we need to rework our definition yet again. Maybe lying involves more than telling an untruth, purposefully, for personal gain?

The Truth, Trust, Lying and Control

Dave mentions that “If you cannot trust people—which is what lying is about—then you can’t have a society that functions smoothly or lasts over the long term.” He also talks in his email about the historical basis of truth telling being a tribal law that helped many ancient societies function. He admits the liars have been a constant through history but argues that they should be punished. Lying, it seems, is detrimental to society.

Only, one might argue that lying is central to society. Isn’t most of our society set up the way it is because of lying and it’s prevalence? Don’t we do what we do, say what we say and experience what we experience because we expect lies, pretty much all the time?

Throughout history we have stories of constant deception and manipulation. Shakespeare’s entire oeuvre is based on this sort of thing. Many American voters (most?) expect to be lied to by politicians. Car salesmen, for instance, are also culturally expected to lie to you. On a day to day basis we’re bombarded with advertising claims which, if they’re not out and out lies, are often stretchings and manipulations of the truth. Is “Best Plumbing” really the “best”? No. Probably not. Yet, they promote themselves as such. They have no data to empirically support the notion so, they’re probably not living up to their name, and yet, we see them and other companies make spurious claims all the time about their service, satisfaction and product performance. We could fight against them all but, what’s the point? We’d never win.

We learn quickly in life that most facts and statistics can be bent to make most any argument seem “true”. The actual incidence of lying seems so prevalent that we rather expect it. People say, for instance, that they drive the speed limit, while, just observation alone would seem to discredit this notion in most cases. Resumes are inflated, exaggerated or out and out fraudulent while whistle blowers, people who are risking themselves to tell the truth, are often punished. It’s a crazy world and not one, it’d seem, that values truth. 

Thomas Hobbes’ “Leviathan” painted a negative picture of humans out of society. Dave is concerned that lying causes people to not trust one another but, in Hobbes’ view, we have no reason to trust one another, naturally. Without society and the order it forces upon us, it’d be survival of the fittest, chaos, and a world where the weak prey on the strong. Society isn’t there for truth, in Hobbes’ view, it’s there to impost order because, frankly, others aren’t meant to be trusted.

Social order is important and at the seat of all judicial affairs. Yet, even here, we’ve learned that truth isn’t what it seems. While it’s true, lying in court is bad, it’s hardly uncommon. Psychological studies have cast severe doubt on the accuracy of eyewitness testimony, a crucial bedrock of all court cases. Study after study has shown that eyewitnesses don’t really see what they think they see. And yet, we take their testimony as truth when, in reality, it may very well often be anything but. Yet, telling untruths doesn’t necessarily equate with lying, as mentioned above. Even if it did, I’d argue, it is often “a minor affair”, in contrast to Dave’s assessment above.

People expect to be lied to which is why we ask for evidence and require support for comments. So many people lie on resumes that most jobs require references to verify the facts. It’s expected. Witness testimony is good but often not enough, by itself to win a court case. Usually you need other evidence to support the story the witness is giving. Science is set up to catch lies eventually by requiring experiments to be testable and verifiable. Just saying, for instance, that you’ve found a way to make cold fusion work, isn’t enough. You need some support. So the idea that you can’t have a society that functions for a long time with lies doesn’t seem accurate because, frankly, all societies function with lies, pretty much all the time.

The Many Lies We Tell Ourselves and Others

In regards to lies and lying Dave says, “Unfortunately, these days everything is ‘no big deall’.” Well, I’d say, in regards to lying, he’s right! We humans lie all the time, for all sorts of reasons and the majority of the lies we tell on a daily basis are, “no big deal.”

I have a friend who likes an outfit and ask me my opinion of it. I think it’s hideous but I tell her it’s great. I lie. A friend makes me an apple pie and asks later how it tasted, I tell her it was fantastic. I lie. My boss asks me why I need time off from work, I tell him I have a doctor’s appointment, when I’m really going to interview for another job. I lie. My five year old child seems really upset at the idea Santa Clause doesn’t exist, so, I lie. I tell him he does exist!   Many of the above are what one would label “white lies” which in common usage refers to, well, lies of a minor status. Little lies. Lies that are, truly, “no big deal”. Dave’s assertion that lies are not a minor affair, while true sometimes, is hardly true all the time. Many of the lies we tell on a daily basis, on a regular basis, are minor indeed. The truth hurts and, because it hurts, in an effort to foster good will and social harmony we often lie. It’s expected, accepted, and basically sanctioned in most all cultures everywhere.

Not only that, but we often lie to none other than ourselves. One might argue that the whole field of psychology exists for no other reason than to help us unravel the lies we tell ourselves. While it’s true, some of these lies are a big deal, many are not. Take my friend I mentioned earlier and her hideous outfit. She may like the outfit but still, on some level, recognize its hideousness. She might lie to herself in an effort to make it okay for her to buy it and placate the part of her personality that likes it, even in the face of her own self-doubts. Is this a big deal? No, not really. It is, after all, just an outfit. To be sure, some minor lies may, in the long run, lead to bigger and bigger lies but then, they’re no longer minor lies then, are they?

“The Watchman” is a great philosophical discourse on the nature of truth and lying. As the story ends, we’re forced to try and decide if the world is better off living a lie or if it is better off being confronted with the truth. “Shutter Island” raises similar questions in its ending. Truth isn’t always the best option. Governments lie, in their dealings with other governments and with their people, all the time. Companies lie as well. The number and variety of lies we tell is almost as varied as the number of people and institutions we have. Lying, it would seem, is a very human activity.

Tanya McDowell wanted a better education for her child. If I’m Ms. McDowell, I want a jury trial. Why? Because no one on that jury is going to convict her of lying. No one. We lie, we just do. In this case, the lie told is one told by a mother for the benefit of her child. No one is going to want to throw this woman in prison for something as primal and basic as that. And, yes, in the grand scheme of things, this lie too is “no big deal.”

So, yeah, that’s my take on the issue. I could say that I have more to add and am anxiously awaiting your thoughts on all of this......but, then again, I’d be lying.   ;)