Chapter Two
Bonegeek: "I hope we've changed narrator here, or else we're back to the whole transgender thing again."
The Anthropologist: "Damn you, your first person narrator shifts and unspecific anatomy?"
Huddled against the cold inside my flimsy cardboard box in the alley, I scratched my balls then cupped my hands around them for warmth...
The Pedant: "Why would they be warm?"
Big L launches into an explanation which boils down to them being like an Elephant's ears.
Their hairy presence...
The Pedant (a brief): "Eew!"
The Balance: "He's living in a cardboard box, he probably can't afford razors.
...somehow solid against the night, reminded me that I was a human, a man.
Big L (cupping): "Yup. Still there..."
The Anthropologist: "Hairy warm balls..."
The Pedant: "Jade Lee! Rescue me!"
Cold bit through my cloak and trousers, even through the newspaper I'd scavenged from the street. Winter's touch had a way of seeping through the brown cobblestones...
(The Chronicler notes the cloak, trousers but not shirt. More importantly, these are important clues as to exactly what the fuck is going on with the setting of this book.)
With my shoulders huddled against my chin,
Big L and the Balance furrow their brows and try this position out.
(Yes the homoerotic struggle implied there is intentional. They should be used to it by now.)
...my knees nearly to my chattering teeth...
Bonegeek: "You may need to act this out."
I wanted to cast a spell to warm my bones. But spells cost energy, and my fat stores were nearly used up.
The Balance: "Biochemistry!!"
The Pedant: "These people do not know how to draw energy!"
I didn't want to waste muscle-I needed that to survive.
The Pedant: "Eat somebody else's then!"
An icy blast of wind attacked my box, ripping through it like it was silk.
(The Chronicler would like to note that silk is actually quite warm.)
The night would be hard, and I had just enough fat to get through. I closed my eyes and cast a spell.
With my spell of delusion I found myself back in my wife's kitchen...
The Balance: "Why won't some sort of alcohol-based delusion do?"
The Anthropologist: "Because in the alcohol-based ones the pink elephants won't stop watching him."
Bonegeek: "I'm struggling with the pronunciation of his name here... Gauge? Gouge? Geyj?"
(His name is, incidentally, written "Gage," like one of the many street names for marijuana and the widely used but incorrect spelling of "gauge".)
"Mmmm," I answered, walking behind her and snugging her tight bum to my groin.
The Anthropologist: "We don't have a category for ass."
You feel good." I sniffed her hair and said, "And you smell like bread."
The Pedant: "Presumably we now know what she's his ex-wife?"
The Anthropologist: "Yeast infection?"
She planted a quick kiss on my lips. "That's dinner you smell-pheasant soup with masawa tubers."
The Anthropologist: "Tubers really doesn't sound very tasty..."
"And bread?"
"And bread, fresh from the oven with a big thick crust just the way you like it."
The conversation rambles into whether or not a bread-scent can be sexy.
The Anthropologist: "It depends on how lonely you are and how near the bread is..."
The Pedant: "I thought it's more customary to use apple pie."
The Balance is trying to look above it all.
Big L: "You need the cane."
Luca: "And a hat."
"And for dessert?" I asked, kissing her longer and slower than she had me.
"Have you been good?" A suggestive smile played on her lips.
"I can show you good." I pulled the kerchief from her shining hair and let it fall over her shoulders.
The Anthropologist (drinking): "That was a hair comment."
The warm firelight made...
The Anthropologist (drinking again): "Fire."
the strands glow all different shades of gold.
The Anthropologist (drinking more): "And hair again."
Lyric turned toward me...
The Chronicler: "She's called Lyric?!"
... and let the tips of her breasts caress my chest.
Big L: "Is she baking bread nude?"
The Chronicler: "It is his fantasy. He can do whatever he wants."
Tilting her head, she smiled in my eyes and said, "Prove it."
The Anthropologist (wincing uncomfortably): "He smiled in my eyes?"
I pulled her with a demanding kiss.
Big L: "Is that pulled with a capital P?"
I kissed the side of her mouth, then the front, licking her bottom lip and tugging it into my mouth.
The Pedant: "What do her hormones taste like?"
Her lips were soft and warm, as welcoming as her kitchen.
The Anthropologist: "This is some sort of homemaking erotica..."
The Pedant: "There's linoleum on her tongue?"
The Anthropologist: "Is there going to be some sort of plot twist involving him threatening to divorce her because she someone else was let into her kitchen."
Big L: "He's been eating her loaves as well."
The Balance: "Thick crusty loaves."
Her mouth was hot and wet for me.
The Pedant: "Implying it's not otherwise?"
My tongue met hers, tasted her, drank from her. My mouth claimed hers.
The Balance: "He put a small flag on her tongue..."
The Chronicler: "That's quite some metaphor mixing."
She confessed her heavy need to me with a gasp of anticipation.
The Balance: "I can't help but hear 'need' as 'knead,' like dough..."
Why had I ever stayed away so long?
"Lyric, my love, I can't live without you. Without you I'm nothing. Nothing."
Big L: "It's too cold to wank!"
The Balance: "I can only cup my balls."
The Anthropologist: "In his box."
In her arms, It was like yesterday never happened. Time receded into nothingness, right here in Lyric's kitchen.
Bonegeek: "There's an extraneous capital there."
(The Chronicler observes it could well be a Very Important It. Or a typo.)
Lyric swept her arm back across the counter, pushing dishes out of the way.
The Anthropologist (marking it in the Book): "Is that a FIZZICKS?"
I wanted her more than I wanted dinner.
The Anthropologist: "Really? Wow?"
Big L: "We've already deduced he has very little body fat left. Can he afford to have sex before dinner?
The Chronicler: "Still his hallucination."
... stroked her shoulder blade with my fingertips. Sounds of longing escaped her.
The Anthropologist: "And then ran away, really happy to get away from this book."
Her pink nipple pearled in my mouth under the touch of my tongue...
The Chronicler: "Is that like pebbled but more classy?"
Bonegeek: "Or maybe it was secreted by her breasts and then congealed."
... and I palmed the other so it wouldn't get jealous...
The Anthropologist: "Has he named it yet?"
The Balance: "I'm sure palming means that he's stealing it."
The Pedant (with a cackle): "The Russian transgender black market will play much for these..."
Her small breasts were perfectly shaped. They melted into my palms.
The Club: "Ewww!"
Bonegeek: "Toffee breasts."
"These have haunted me," I said to her...
The Anthropologist: "Her boobs are ghosts."
Big L: "I'm just imagining cold dead clams as her breasts."
The Balance: "Only one. He's palmed the other one."
"You've haunted me, too, Gage." Lyric stretched to meet my lips, and I shook my head at my luck, to have a woman so faithful and true...
The Anthropologist: "Except when she lets another man into her kitchen."
Was ever a man luckier than me to have a beautiful and caring wife waiting for me through the hardships of my quests?
(The Chronicler notes that he really, really is deluding himself now. But we'll get to that.)
"I've missed your kisses like the desert misses the rain," she said.
The Anthropologist: "Now she's stealing lines from bad pop songs."
She gave a fluttering sound of desire.
Bonegeek: "Can we have your best fluttering noises please."
The Balance, being the best noise-producer of us all, produced an admirable insectan flutter.
The Anthropologist: "Doesn't sound very desiring."
The Balance tries again and then is reminded of the "Weird Insect Vampire Thing in the book I was reading the other day."
"You taste the same," I said, like it'd been years instead of weeks. "You sound the same."
The Anthropologist: "You still taste like bread."
The Pedant: "You should get that yeast infection looked at."
(The Chronicler notes that we still really don't know what exactly happened between him and his wife except that she's his ex in some way, be it separation through death or other means.)
But I couldn't stand to leave the warmth of her kitchen. "Let's stay here."
The Anthropologist: "He is justifiably food-obsessed, what with starving outside of hallucination land, but what's with the kitchen-obsession?"
The Pedant: "Kitchen is just a euphemism."
The Chronicler notes that the Cookie theory of the current divorce rate in America. ("It is time, women of America, to come to your senses. Halt the alarming increase in the divorce rate. Bring the homemade biscuit back to your breakfast table. We can all work together. You make 'em, we'll eat 'em. What could be more fair?")
Of course, now that The Chronicler bothers to look it up, cookies (and kitchens) have become a surprising symbol in America when it comes to feminism.
The Book of Wrong with all its doodles by the Anthropologist is, at this point, passed around the room.
The Pedant: "The Sarah Palin sex witch scares me."
I closed my eyes and inhaled. She smelled so good, so ready for me. She smelled like she loved me.
The Balance: "Damn trixy nose!"
The Anthropologist: "I don't really want to imagine the scenes where the hero and the heroin meet. She likes biochemistry and he likes food..."
I ran my fingertips over her clit...
Big L: "This book has a very high concentration of the word clit and nub."
Bonegeek: "I've never seen so many nubs!"
The Chronicler: "Well, that is possibly a good change from all the cock-centric sex scenes where they explode into orgasm at the touch of the hero's mighty manroot."
The Anthropologist: "This is possibly the one with the most foreplay..."
The Pedant: "Involving bread."
The Anthropologist: "The only one with more foreplay is probably Come to Me and that was nullified by the fact that she's an amnesiac six-year-old succubus."
Bonegeek: "Explain to me again."
The Anthropologist: "Though that probably cancelled out any empowering effect of the foreplay. The Lolita-complex business... they had to stop every five minutes so that the heroine can go: 'Oh? Am I supposed to do that? Is that supposed to happen? I don't know how sex works even though I've been a succubus for a thousand years.'"
I buried my face between her spread thighs, eating her on the counter like she was a banquet....
The Anthropologist: "Food..."
Her high-set nipples were still pearled in desire...
The Pedant: "I heard that can be a problem with prosthetic nipples."
The sagging effects on boobs with prosthetic nipples are explained and it's all very unpleasant.
I didn't tease. She wanted surcease now.
Bonegeek: "That's a really weird word to be using."
The Anthropologist: "Maybe she's trying to be all Shakespearean about it?"
The Chronicler: "Still fundamentally problematic since it can mean the opposite, what with it meaning a cessation."
Resting my palm on her flat stomach, I smiled, happy to have done something nice for my wife.
Big L: "But he wouldn't do the washing up."
The Anthropologist: "Especially since she's been cooking complicated things all day in the kitchen."
... rubbing the moisture seductively over my shaft. I was ready to explode.
The Pedant: "Like in Conan the Barbarian. All the woman he has sex with catch fire!"
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