A short story for this coming Halloween. For you.
by Doris and Don Dawn
Remember the guy who sold us a Half-Volkswagen worth of pumpkins and potatoes from his own fields? He lives in the village next. And just called to say ‘I know what you’re doing in your second live.’ Then he politely invited me to pose on his pumpkin filled fields. This Wednesday evening. On Halloween, yes.
Sharing the news with Fotomann, his eyes glow of mischief. “The fat guy with the pumpkins? He knows that you’re posing naked, does he?”
“He told me that he knows everything, that he is a faithful fan on my sites. On all of my sites.”
“He’d require a VPN to access your hardcore content. Hmm–”
“You’ll have the opportunity to ask him. I wish to go. What do you say?”
Hesitating a bit, Don looks at the floor, on the walls, through the window in the kitchen, at this adorable little orange tiger fixing us from the sill on the veranda side. He says to me, “very well then, I didn’t see this coming. And what if he wants more than photos? Will you fuck him?”
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” I sense a mild electric charge spreading around the backside of my thorax, left and right. “I like that you care for me. However, it is you who taught me about cuckolding. I know you have a compulsive desire to share me with other men. But, at the end of the day, he can’t fuck me. I already told him about my boundaries. This unless you wish to offer him a handjob or, maybe, a blowjob?”
My husband’s eyes grow bigger, wider, worried, more and more. “Okay, okay. Was just saying. No handjobs. No blowjobs. Neither of us will make contact with the host of the pumpkin field. Okay with you?”
“Ah, well. As far as I know you, and your fans, there comes a moment when men’s minds turn off. You’ve learned to master that kind of power: turning men on, nether on, and minds off. Your charms, candid as they go, work like a breeze of spring –in one’s pants, and like a fog of winter –in one’s mind.”
“You wish to say something?”
“I wish to say that when I watch the poor guys, drooling at you, loosing their control, I kinda feel empathy for them.”
“Empathy? Really? Those guys fantasize to fuck your wife, and you–”
“And I know that you won’t fuck one of them. You’re such a tease. Yet not a fuck. They call me the lucky guy, dreaming for a bite, visualizing, picturing themselves in my shoes. Thus, I dunno how, my subconscious enters this game, suggesting some kind of reward, a handjob, maybe a blow. Dunno.”
“Don! Hope you don’t wish to blow the fat guy with the pumpkins.” Horror on my face. How would I kiss my foolish hubby? Horror. Horror!! I can tell you that.
“I won’t blow the fat guy, Doris. Calm down. Not even a handjob. Because I plan to bring a new gadget with me, to run some tests from his pumpkin fields.”
“A new gadget? What gadget?”
“A scalar cooler.”
“What’s a scalar cooler? Ah… those lightning rods you’re talking about. How many of them? Twelve, I guess. Uhm, thought that you’ll leave them for my bean plants. Oh, and also to serve as a most needed screen for the casual voyeur climbing on roofs.”
“You’ll have them back for your bean grid, and for the green screen of your desire. Just let me bring four of them with us. Wish to plant them in each corner of the pumpkin field. To make a square.”
“And how do you expect to stick those three-meters long rods into the ground? The earth is hard, and rocky. You certainly know that. Well, not as much as I do, must admit.”
“Does the word scalar ring a bell? See this cuff? I’ve got several dozens more.” With a hand gesture, Don invites me to the Atelier –our unfinished business. Then up the ladder –where I have to climb ahead of him, always, don’t know why. “Here, look.”
“These are female screws. Well, quite voluminous, but nevertheless. What’s the big deal with them? Why do you call them cuffs?”
“Ah, there’s a mystery in every little thing and you know that. My lovely bunny.” I return his grin with a wink. Yes! It seems to me that I do nothing and some guy –on the other side of the planet– gets excited. “You are right, these are ordinary nuts. Stainless steel, chrome and nickel –to which I’ve added bismuth ferrite so that…”
“You painted them or what?”
“Ah. Not exactly. In the cauldron.”
“My cauldron? The one that I use in summer to cook our treasured national dish?”
“Exactly. That very cauldron. It hangs nicely in the opposite corner of the garden, far far away from the house. I placed the sphere inside it, grounded, then I feed the signal through the ports inside the carcass. It generated a directional beam. Sort of painting but from inside out. At the atomic level of resonance.”
“Like 3D printing?”
“You got it. My classy cougar. See? This is the mystery of your irresistible moves. And faces.” Could sound as a compliment, but I know, deep inside my soul, that he’s over his ears in love. Yes. A force coming from above, or beyond, or both? That I can’t understand. That I can’t control, nor undertake. It’s not me. But it’s on me, around me. All I can do is giving thanks, being grateful and –trying some empathy, not much!– considering giving a blowjob to the fat guy with the pumpkins. What a crazy and dirty and despicable thought! Shhh, can’t tell Don about it.
“Too late, honey. You’re keeping a bismuth baked nut in your hand. All your thoughts continuously copying to my mind. As they arrive into yours, unfiltered.”
“Damn. Sorry, Don. I didn’t mean it. I definitely don’t wish to suck on any cock, other than yours. Forgive me. Please!!” Puppy eyes.
“Forgive you for what? For a rebel thought? That is not even part of your consciousness. That landed on your mind just like that. Coming from nowhere.”
“From nowhere? Why not from somewhere?”
“There’s no somewhere for naughty thoughts. Naught to naught. Null to null. Nothing to nothing.”
“Oh well, again your cosmic existentialism taking over. I won’t suck the fat guy. I have no plans to suck any other guy but you! Let me suck your dick now. Because, naught or not, I do have an urge. That I know where is coming from. That I know where is going to. That I need to satiate my body with. Give me your sperm. You Teddy Bear. Come!”
No way he can avoid this act of aggression. His ragged jeans rolled down, his hand jerking patiently, his eyes bigger than the lenses of these peeping cameras. His mouth muted behind a smirk.
It’s magic to men. Wondering, I ask myself what did I do, other than expressing my sentiments, my desires, my needs.
“Right, my dear, your feelings, your desires, your wantons. Not your worries, your deceptions, your missed expectations. You being yourself, here and now.” How about I put that thing back in its box. Because, you know, exposing the nuts and bolts of your magic would eventually break it. “All it takes is to stay honest to yourself. First and foremost!” That’s what I try to do, I think back at his spoken remark. Before I free my fingers from the hexagonal piece of stainless steel. And whatever he’d been baking inside it. Using my summer kitchen cauldron. Can you imagine?
Monday went, like Tuesday did, and here we are: Wednesday afternoon, five o’clock.
“Doris, could you please give me a red rag?”
“Dunno if there’s a clean one. Do you need a clean one?”
“Nah, anything red and dirty would do. I just need to hang it at the extremity of these rods. Because they go more than one meter behind the end of the car and I need a signaling method, to make them visible in traffic.”
I run to the garage, dig a couple of brown boxes, and bring him a pair of red socks. “These will do?”
“You’re welcome. Don’t forget to put the bag with the cameras in the back of the car.”
“I’d rather have you hold that bag in front, next to your feet. Because I wish to keep the cameras as far as possible from the cuffs.”
“The nuts, female screws, remember? They could drain the batteries, even affect the electronics in the cameras.” Says he carefully arranging four long boxes –heavy, thin and long metal boxes– in the back of the car. Two to the left, two to the right of the four rods –bundled together like in fasces.
A quarter of an hour later, we shake hands with the fat guy, next to the drive. Pumpkins left and right. He invites us to his backyard, then farther over the fields behind his home. Pumpkins everywhere. Not piled up in attractive formations, like those carpeting the lawn between his house and the road. Here you can walk freely among all these gourds of different shapes, lengths and sizes. A thought… No. No! No-no-no. Pass behind me, you dirty, crazy, nonsensical thought. I don’t need your inspiration right now. Go away!
Where’s Don? Comes the thought next. Ah, there he goes, for the rods. The fat guy –ain’t it interesting that he hasn’t got a name, at least in this story, so far– is helping him with hauling the irons and planting them in the four corners of the field. He wished to bring some tools but Don dismissed that. His body language can be more convincing than words. His palms, sliding up and down, in parallel, describe an imaginary column of marble, that would go up, up to the sky, according to Don’s hands.
I am too far from them to notice if those cuffs –as he calls the baked nuts– have been introduced around the rods. I don’t know. But hey, wow! Spiraling on its own, the female screw that has been obviously put on the ground –this is why there was no way I could see it– is pushing the iron down into the earth. One third in. So one meter in and two meters above. My crazy man and the fat guy with pumpkins are only giving a hand to keep the rod vertical until it will reach the prescribed depth.
A similar story, from corner to corner, will repeat for the other three rods. Like a vast and dark, and gray, blanket, generously dotted with orange, the field comes to life, seemingly pulsating, or following a rhythm, not sure. But I know what my shoes tell my soles: that the ground beats. And I can tell what all those pumpkins around us, hundreds if not thousands, are doing: they bounce!
“What is going on? Don! Hey, can you hear me? Something is happening with the earth under our feet. Hey!!” Undisturbed by my shouting, by my waving hands, he keeps detailing some weird stuff to the fat guy. Why weird? Because I can read his body language. I’m pretty sure that the man thinks he’s crazy. And lucky. Because of me. I am the reason. I’m always the reason. It seems.
Decisively, I go to him. To talk, to ask, to inquire, to require. But, as soon as I step out of the perimeter, the drumming of the earth comes to an abrupt halt. I could see the pumpkins falling flat, like dead skulls, or bones, huge bones, or skulls, covering the entire field. Moving not. Like dead.
“Hey Doris, good that you’re here. We were talking about the photo shooting. Some questions, I was telling Mister Z., are better addressed to you directly. I’m your man, ya know, but you’re your own master, and mine, if you know what I mean.”
“Don. Don! Shut up! Haven’t you noticed that all this field was shaking, like a drumhead. Can you?–” I stop. I close my mouth. Both men stare at me, quite surprised. Their silence speaks to me. I don’t wish to look hysterical, not to sound crazy. So I’d better shut my mouth up. Opening my eyes wide, measuring Mister Z., from his torso up to his hat, then back down to his torso, I ask with the first smile that comes in handy. “Yes, Mister Z., I’ll be delighted to hear your questions.”
“Lovely Doris, let me thank you once again for accepting my invitation. I am an avid fan of yours. Have seen all your sexy photo updates, most of your clips too. Let me say that some of them, I consider to be art porn movies. I know that you’re an amateur but does it matter if you get it hard in my pants?, if you keep a grip on my mind? I fall asleep with an image of you, I dream of you, I wake up with another image of you. I am charmed by you.” As he speaks, holding his breath, I change smiles, one after another, trying to look interested, doing my best to pretend I am curious and bitching myself about why can’t I be more empathic with this man. Why am I so cold? Why am I NOT like in my photos and videos? Why, Doris, why?
“Lovely Doris,” continues our host, “I wish to offer you an unforgettable Halloween night. I wish for you to feel in your own element, to be at ease with everything around you. To enjoy what you do, the way you’re teasing us all in front of the camera.” The man is genuine, welcoming, obliging, driven by all of the best intentions, and etc. Still, I don’t feel myself at large. He can sense that. Because he keeps insisting with all the amiabilities in the world. In his world. And when exhausted, he takes the list from the beginning. Again.
I feel like a cat out of her forest, captive to an alien ground, surrounded by strangers, by the unknown. I don’t like it. At large? In my own element? You gotta be kiddin’ me!
I keep mum, hiding behind all the smiles I can get. “I’ll walk around,” say I to Mister Z., “to accommodate myself with the elements.” Turning back, I step inside the perimeter –about which I’ve totally forgotten. Dum, dum, dum. DUMM – dumm – dumm. DUUMMh. The pumkins get mad at me. A sideways blink reassures me that the men haven’t noticed a thing. So why bother asking them. Again.
Touching the first gourd that came under my feet, I press. It hits back. Like a fish, struggling out of water. The next pumpkin gets to feel my palm. I caress it. Gently. I even try to speak to it, the way I do to my cats, or to the neighbor’s dog. It purrs. What on–? The pumpkin purrs?? Have I checked myself lately? Don’t answer that question, dear. Don’t even think that question. Stop thinking! Yeah!!
What a beautiful world. Silence. No more jumping pumpkins. No more drum beating earth. Think not. Contemplate. Rejoice.
“Oh! Hello! Hello there. Miss Doris? Hello and be welcome to our home. God brought you here!” I can see a well-built woman approaching with open arms, a wide smile on her face, joy in her eyes and a voice to fill the mountains. “I am the wife. So glad to meet you, finally, in the flesh, in the real world. Come, join me at the table, there on the swing. Let the men do their talking. Let us know each other. I mean, better know each other. If you know what I mean. Heh, heh, heh, heh.”