Matriculation

Sadie glanced up at the clock over the hearth and checked her appearance: her tight jeans and her halter top, which  fitted her like a second skin. She inhaled her own scent, decided it was just right. Suddenly there was a rap on the apartment door. The clock chimed 8pm. Good, she thought, right on time. Pulling open the door, she greeted her lover with a pink-lipped smile and a sultry, “Hello there!”

At 10pm, Stan unlocked the door and entered the apartment. There he found Sadie, freshly showered and waiting expectantly for his return. “How’s it going, Sade?” he asked with obvious affection.

She smiled welcomingly and walked up to enfold him in a warm embrace. “It’s fine, now, baby,” she murmured as she kissed him with passion.

“What are you plans for tomorrow night?” Stan asked his wife.

“I’ve got to work on my thesis again, Stan, until about eleven this time,” replied Sadie.

Stan frowned slightly. “Then I’ll have an hour to kill before I come home,” he observed. 

“Why don’t you take in a late movie, sweetheart?” said Sadie. “The time,” she promised, “will just breeze by.”

Stan smiled. “I’ll do that,” he decided. The next afternoon, at two p.m., Stan, after making tender love with his wife of three years, embarked for his job at a Knoxville Walmart, where he worked as an assistant manager.

 At 10 p.m. that evening, Sadie sat at her computer desk, working on her PC. She wore a business suit, but was nude from the waist down. Her breathing came in rapid bursts and a thin trickle of perspiration streamed down her throat and onto her starched white shirt.

“How’s it comng?” he asked.

“Is that a pun?” she asked breathlessly.

He only chuckled.

Stan sat across the table from Sadie in the breakfast nook. She was pecking away on her iPad. He asked, “So how long till graduation, baby?”

She didn’t bother to look up. “17 days,” she replied, tap-tap-tapping on the virtual keyboard.

“It’s taken a while,” he commented.

“MBAs don’t grow on trees, Stan. You have to work for them.”

He nodded. “I know.” After a few minutes of companionable silence, he asked, “Have you seen your faculty advisor lately; is everything on track?”

She looked up. “I saw him last night. Everything’s on schedule. I graduate at the end of the semester, provided I complete my thesis.” At Stan’s unspoken question, she said, “And he’s still helping me with it.” Stan nodded.

Sadie lay upon her king-sized bed, her wrists bound to the bedposts, and squirmed furiously.

“Don’t come yet, honey,” purred the man with the really big cock. “I’m going to fuck you all night.”

“You…you can’t,” she said breathlessly. “My husband will be home by eleven.”

The man grabbed one of Sadie’s ass checks and squeezed evocatively. “I got news for you honey; it’s quarter past already.” He chuckled, the way he always did.

Sadie regained her equanimity and told him, “Get off me; I can’t have Stan walk in on us!”

“What do I care what the cuckold walks in on?” asked the man, who was pumping away rhythmically in and out of Sadie’s vagina.

“Because, he’ll kill you!” she told him sharply. “Stan’s twice your size!”

The man immediately stopped, pulled out of Sadie and ejaculated on her midriff. Hurriedly he began getting dressed.

“Untie me!” implored Sadie, struggling against her bonds. He only smiled his oily smile and exited the bedroom, leaving her bound and the door open. Sadie heard the door open and slam shut. “Shit!” she said helplessly.

Two days later found Sadie before her faculty advisor’s administrative assistant. The MBA student had received her summons by email. Ms. Kohler, who had worked for Dr. Stern for decades, smiled up at the striking young woman. Just the way that Justin liked them, she thought with a sad shake of her head.

“I hope I’m not late,” apologized Sadie, peering over the venerable Ms. Kohler’s desk.

“No, dear, you’re on time,” said Kohler with a soft smile. “But you know what they say?” Sadie cocked her head in a quizzical manner. “It may be later than you think,” remarked the white haired woman.

Sadie frowned thoughtfully, but offered no reply. “I could come back later, Ms. Kohler, if it’s inconven…”

“No,” the older woman said. “I’ll tell Dr. Stern you’re here. Go on back.”

Sadie travelled down the corridor, past the rabbit’s warren of faculty offices, coming at last to a thin, hollow wooden door with a small sign emblazoned with: “Prof. J. Stern, MBA Advisor.” She knocked.

“Come in!” snapped a harsh voice.

Sadie passed through the portal. “You wanted to see me, Dr. Stern?” she said.

Stern looked up with a neutral gaze and said, “Yes, come in, Miss Devereaux.” Sadie took a seat. “I want to discuss your final project,” he began.

“My thesis?” she asked. What was this all about? she wondered. She’d already received approval from the committee the week before. All that remained was for her faculty advisor to sign off on it.

“I’m afraid that your thesis, if we dare it that, is not acceptable.” Sadie’s mouth fell open. “It’s totally inadequate per the parameters of the department,” he elaborated. “I’m afraid you’ll have to start over; develop a new thesis, conduct new research, and write it over. I will, of course, be there with you all the way.” He chuckled darkly.

“I…don’t understand,” she said, but she felt she was beginning to. Stern had a good thing going, and he intended to hold onto it. He was a horny old bastard, she thought crossly.

“Nothing to understand,” he said shortly. “Start over, do it again.” He stood, thereby ending the conversation and dismissing her. “And next time,” he said icily, “don’t threaten me with your Neanderthal of a husband.” Sadie automatically bristled defensively. “I’ve easily got 50 I.Q. points on that sonofabitch. And don’t you forget it!” Sadie stared at him. “Let yourself out,” he said, and sat back down. “Oh,” Stern addressed her retreating back, “I’ll see you on Wednesday, as usual.” Sadie continued walking.

“What,” cried Stan the next Wednesday, as they sat for lunch in the breakfast nook, “you have to work again tonight? I thought your Wednesday nights were over with. What gives?” he asked unhappily.

“This is the last time, I promise,” replied Sadie, crossing her heart with her fingers. “We have to go over the final chapter of the thesis. Then it’s over,” she promised.

Grumpily, Stan accepted her explanation. After all, Sadie had never lied to him before. “Gotta get to work, babe,” he said, rising to his feet. ” ‘Ol Sam Walton won’t take any excuses.” He smiled at his wife and soon departed with a twinkle in his eye. He thought, not for the first time, how lucky he was to be married to such a sweet girl.

Eight o’clock that evening found Sadie back in her bedroom with the indefatiguable Dr. Stern, who appeared to have overmedicated on Viagra. He had Sadie face down on the mattress and was enthusiastically thrusting his large cock into her vagina, from the rear position this time. “Sadie,” he muttered pointedly, “I wanna be your back door man,” and he cackled like he always did when he thought he’d been clever. At length, he finished his business and thrust his first two fingers up her butt. She jumped, full of revulsion. Again he laughed hoarsely. “Don’t bother to get up,” he told her mockingly, “I’ll see my own way out.” And he was gone.

Finally, Sadie arose from the scene of the crime and gathered her robe about her. She glanced at her cell phone: 9:30. She would have time to shower and rinse the filth from her body before Stan got home, but she’d have to hurry. Padding across the bedroom, she opened a dresser drawer and fussed for a moment with the micro-camera that had been humming away. She flipped it off. She briefly tested the audio component. Stern’s ragged cackle emanated from the tiny speaker. There could be no mistaking the faculty advisor’s ugly laugh. Tomorrow, she would have another meeting with the professor. She held the small tape in her hand and glared determinedly into her dresser mirror.

Six weeks later, Sadie opened a manila envelope affixed with the university’s return address. Making something of a ritual of opening the letter–she had foregone the traditional graduation ceremony at the college– and extracted her diploma and displayed it proudly for her husband. He congratulated her wholeheartedly on her accomplishment. “Look, babe, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but getting a degree is one thing; finding just the right job is something else again. Know what I mean?” he asked.

“I thought of that too,” she told him, “but hard work is the way you get anything. Just like with the MBA–I’ve got a plan.”

Buried Swords

Bethany shuddered. She knew some of these men. How was she supposed to respond if she encountered them at the grocery store or Wal-Mart after this?

“Hey, hey, Lady!” Another came in punching a fistful of crumpled bills at her. When she took them she found they were unaccountably wet. The man pulled his mask off and threw it over the counter. She had to duck to avoid it. 

More and more men showed up. They just kept coming. The gray security box she’d brought was overflowing with cash. She’d never seen the library this crowded before. There were people everywhere but no one was reading. 

“Is this…the place from the ad?” Another had approached the counter. Crestfallen, Bethany nodded and took his fifty dollars. The man first removed his mask, then his long overcoat. He was completely nude underneath. He ran in to join the others. 

Bethany had never heard such sounds before. It sounded like fifty mothers furiously scrubbing their hands with dish soap or maybe an army of bored children squeezing their palms down in their armpits to create suction and the flatulent sound that goes with it. But these weren’t mothers and they weren’t children. They were all gross and hairy men. 

There was no way to open the windows after hours but the odor had become overpowering. The funk of an uncountable number of men, naked and fucking each other, spread across the two stories of the library. 

She’d never seen anything like this before, never wanted to. A pudgy man wearing only a black vest, nothing else, had allowed himself to be strung up in the air, face-up, his knees tied to his elbows. He was bald on top but had wiry silver hair sprouting out of the sides, like some aged clown. He was being violently thrust into the crotch of another man, while yet one more pushed him by the shoulders to add force. It sounded like they were killing him. It looked like he might die. But Bethany stayed away. She’d made this horrible bargain and was now bound by its precepts. 

“Don’t interfere.” Gilbert had commanded. He was the one who’d set this all up.

“Yes sir.” She’d said. Since Covid things had been bad. Her husband had lost his job. Every other day the city was threatening to lay her off. Someone had overheard the mayor asking what was the point of paying librarians to work from home because it wasn’t like they could stack book shelves from home. Six years of college for a master’s in library studies and everyone still thought her job entirely consisted of stacking books all day. 

“Look, these folks know and accept their risks. Despite what you may see, do not ever interfere. Do you understand?” 

“I understand.” She’d said the words but really had no idea what it all meant. The way Gilbert had been explaining it, these were just people who wanted to be around others. They needed a place where they could gather and not have someone bothering them about masks and social distancing. 

“We just want a little normalcy.” He’d said and it seemed like an okay deal at the time. She’d keep the library open after hours and for fifty bucks a head these people could use the facility. 

People. He’d used the word “people” but these were all men. Throughout the night only one woman showed up. She was a gussied-up blonde whose mink coat and sheer party dress must have cost a lot of money to make her look so cheap. 

She was drunk and stumbled in seemingly unable to walk in her own high heels without draping herself over the little guy with the thinning shoulder length hair who held her up. They were both giggling and laughing. She had one of those high-pitched chortles that one’s never supposed to hear in a library. 

At first the couple made their way to Bethany. As they got closer, near enough to see the “party” going on inside, the woman stopped in her tracks and gasped.

“C’mon baby, this is what we talked about.” He cajoled.

“I’m not….I’m not going in there.” The woman held her hand up to her mouth and her many diamond rings and silver bracelets shown in the light. 

“We came all this way!” The guy had all the charm of an impatient boss. Bethany was only three feet away but she didn’t even pretend not to be watching the fight go down. Anything was preferable to the horror show behind her.

“No!” The blonde wanted no part of what she saw in there. Kinky coked up key parties were one thing. Maybe even the occasional Anything-Goes-Party-Bus but this couple had just peered into the abyss of male sexuality run completely amok and she didn’t like it one bit. The woman turned and hobbled away like a damsel in distress as her knight in Drakkar Noir and artificial tanner chased out after her. 

It sounded as if the building was filled with ghosts and MMA fighters. Bethany could hear nothing but a symphony of moans amidst the ubiquitous slap of skin hitting skin at high velocity. 

No one considers themself a prude, Bethany no exception. She’d read Fifty Shades of Gray with one hand. Her husband liked to tease her whenever she brought home a romance novel with a hunk on the cover. As an avid book lover she prided herself on the fact that she’d even read a gay romance novel or two. But nothing had prepared her for this. First off there was no romance, at all. The only kissing she witnessed seemed violent acts of aggression. There was no tenderness, not even smiles. At best, the men performed their acts like disinterested masseuses and at worst, they seemed hateful. It was as if the other man’s body had done them a great dishonor and they were now exacting revenge. 

A dead bird being picked at by insects. A fat person dancing. A dog with his face caught in a jar. These are things you just can’t look away from.  Well it turned out, so was a library full of middle-aged men lubricated in oils and one another’s juices, congealing their bodies together in arrays that seemed to defy the understood limits of human anatomy. 

The intensity and extremity only increased as the night wore on, accelerated by a series of unspoken dares. You could have told her that these men were possessed by devils or under the influence of alien mind rays or even an elaborate hallucination brought on by stress and Bethany would have eaten it up. She’d have loved an excuse, any excuse, other than the horrible truth that was so vividly being displayed before her. These were just men. Behind every smile, every suit and tie, everyone’s grandpa, their fathers, all men, were just like this on the inside or if given the opportunity. Willing to turn it all over, to let themselves digress into heedless, wanton lust.

Bethany wept until she had no tears left. Her water bottle had gone missing and she did not want it back. She felt robbed of her energy and her smile too. Her body sat there numb and empty while the minutes on the clock mercifully ticked down to two o’clock. The deal was that everyone would go home at two. 

There were no complaints, like when a bar closes. There was no talking. Just a crescendo of moans topped off with each man apparently doing an impression of the sound he’d make if murdered.  

Then they shuffled out, putting back on their clothes and masks. The businessmen went back to being businessmen. The homeless piled on their rags and left. Nobody looked anyone else in the eye, especially not Bethany. 

None of this had gone how she’d expected. She looked out over the library and gasped at the mess the men had left behind. 

“Hey, don’t worry, most of that will dry off by morning.” Gilbert was the last one out. He was fastening the buttons on his shirt. 

Bethany looked down at the floor, unable to reply. 

“I can tell you’re a little shell shocked. But you gotta understand…”

She looked up at him.

“This is the fucking apocalypse.” He put on his face mask. “It’s not like we expected. No fiery comets and no angels with trumpets but this is it. Maybe it’ll take five years, maybe even fifty but we’ve all felt it. We’ve lost something and we’re not ever getting it back. 

“Locked inside. We’re cut off from our friends, our family, our coworkers. That cute new thing at the office who you’re now never going to get to know any better. The friend you’ve been meaning to get around to visiting, you won’t. You’re not going to bump heads with your soul mate reaching for the same book at a bookstore. That gravy train of human progress has derailed. It’s all downhill from here.”

“How does any of that explain…this?!” 

“They took sports. We’re not supposed to play basketball or wrestle. We can’t watch a game and cheer together. Just like a woman needs affection and emotional support, men need to feel one another. Competing with him, fight him, fuck him. Bury your sword in him, figuratively. Half those guys aren’t even gay. We just need to taste his sweat and press our bodies against his. We need to breath heavy, work together or maybe against one another.  Women need affection, men need this. People need food, water and some sort of physical reassurance from another human being to know that we still exist.” 

Bethany hadn’t thought she could get any more depressed tonight. 

“So are we set for Tuesday night too?” 

Bethany wanted to throw up. Then she looked down at the gray box that sprung open like a jack-in-the-box made of cash whenever she opened it. She looked at what she could see of Gilbert’s face behind his face mask and then out to the mess in her library. The defenseless books so fouled that she’d have to pick them up with a grabber and drop them into the incinerator. She didn’t know if Gilbert was right, if this was in fact the apocalypse. The emotional roller coaster she’d just taken for the last four hours, the sights she’d seen, had left her without the energy to care one way or the other. 

“Fuckit.” She consented. “Just next time, if they want to use books for their little props, they need to bring their own from home!”

“Yes ma’am.” Gilbert gave mock salute and escaped back into the night. Bethany affixed her own mask, turned out the lights and said goodbye to all the lonely books. Her husband was still awake when she got home. He had nowhere to be in the morning. They cuddled up together and watched some TV. Happy to have one another in the face of a possibly ending world.

George and the Winged Woman

What’s to be done? It’s all gas fumes and highway. George Sudsby looked at the tip of his pinky finger as he drove. It was melting, leaking a purple liquid down what remained of his finger. This was not a good sign. His father and grandfather had both melted away like this, disintegrated into a puddle of purple liquid. Now George was dissolving, and he was only thirty-three years old. His father was in his fifties when this happened to him. So was his grandfather. But you never knew about these things.

He thought he had time. He was in love. Didn’t that count for anything? When he died, a little bit of passion would be gone from the world, too. He had Celeste, a winged woman. She wasn’t always there, disappearing and living her mysterious other lives for weeks, even a month at a time. She didn’t belong to him. She didn’t belong to anyone. But she always came back to him, and George always welcomed her. 

There was no physical pain, so that was something at least. 

The thick purple liquid foamed as it ran down his pinky finger. George gave the car as much gas as it could take. Maybe he could outrun his own destruction. 

Ring ‘em up. Ring ‘em all up. The woman whose groceries he was scanning smiled and said, “I have a coupon for that.” A coupon? Of course she had a coupon. George’s pinky finger had fully dissolved down to the knuckle. He had a bandage over it, but how long could the illusion hold? It didn’t hurt, and George wondered if the process would be completely without pain. He recalled that his father seemed to take it all in stride. He even made jokes about the situation.

The woman whose groceries he was ringing up smiled at him and said, “I have a coupon for that.” A coupon? Of course she had a coupon. George wanted to jump up on the conveyor belt, kick off all the groceries, tear his Walbeens shirt off and say, “Your coupons are only good in Hell!” Instead, he only nodded, and looked at his missing finger. He hoped he didn’t dissolve too much at work. He didn’t want to have to bother with cleaning up his own spill. And he knew they wouldn’t let him go home. Not as long as he could still ring up groceries. And he would have to lose both arms and at least one leg for that to happen. 

He wondered if he was in the winged woman’s thoughts at all. 

The whiskey in the soda can underneath the register felt so good every time he took a nice swig. Fuck it, and so what if he was caught? He would be dead soon, anyway. That had to count for something. 

Fully drunk when he stumbled and bumbled off work that night, swaying from one side to another, George found himself in the alley by his apartment building. His right hand had only started melting a little, so it was possible to hold his dick steady as he took a long and satisfying piss. What a fucking relief it was. Could he have made it to his apartment? Possibly, but he mostly just wanted to feel like he was pissing on the planet itself. The guts of it.

A voice from behind: “Spare a coin or two?”

George shook and replaced. He turned around and standing pretty close to his face was a very disheveled man. His eyes were yellow and his pupils were vertical slits, like a cat. George dug through his pockets and came up with a couple of coins. He put them in the man’s hand.

“Say,” the man said, “do you know the winged woman?”

A sudden surge of jealousy. But, no, she would never associate with a man like that. And yet…

“What do you know about her?” George said, a little more aggressively than he’d intended. 

“I sometimes see her at that window.” He pointed at a tenth story window in a building across the street. His building. Relief. It was George’s own apartment. 

“I know her,” George said.

“Quite a spectacle,” the man said. 

In his apartment, George turned on the lights and sat on the recliner. He turned on the TV. The rebels had taken over Tulip Zone. It bordered Tranquility Zone II, which was where George lived. He wondered if they’d make their way over and try to liberate his zone. The rebels were militantly pro labor union, and George figured that might make things easier for him at Walbeens. 

If he made it that long. There was purple all over his pants. The rest of his right hand was melting away, and rapidly. Okay, not much time now. At least it didn’t hurt. But George was still terrified. What would death be like? Would it just be a turning off and then nothingness? Or was there something beyond?

The hand was gone now, melted away. 

A gentle tap at his window. It was Lucy, the winged woman. She hovered, smiling at him. He waved her in with his good hand. She opened the window and flew in. 

“I’m not doing so good,” George said. 

She let her wings rest on her back and walked over to him. She stood in front of him and started to cry.

“How long?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” George said. “But it doesn’t hurt. It should hurt, right?”

“I’m glad it doesn’t hurt,” she said. 

Now both hands had melted to the wrists. 

“I don’t think I have long now,” George said. “I’m scared. I’m really scared. I don’t know what’s next.”

She squatted down and ran her finger over his forehead. “Peace is next,” she said. 

“It was always hard sharing you with other people,” George said. “With the world. I was always happy for your success, but jealous.”

“What can I do for you?” she said.

“One more flight. Please.”

She stood up and scooped him up into her arms. She cradled him like a baby as both of his arms started to melt away. It was happening fast now. 

Out the window and into the air. He couldn’t really see anything because there was purple in his eyes. Everything was melting now. 

The last thing he heard was the winged woman’s piercing wail, the saddest cry of mourning that he’d ever heard. My god, he was going to miss her.