Lightning Bolt (Part 1), inpired by Doug, written by Stick_Fig"Honk, honk."The moment pushes slowly through my mind.Every single bead of sweat dripping down my face emphasizes the exact moment, the moment where sexual prowess and deviance combined with pain and torture that few have seen roll through their minds.The drops of semen are signs of my childhood past and my child's future.My friends at the school for the gifted would not have any part of this. They would think it was too pedestrian, as they smoke their cigarettes and "hang out" in a local coffee shop.But no. Their cigarette smoke that wafts through the thin air that they breathe is pedestrian. They create the feeling of modern L.A.; I'm reliving Shakespeare, in a severe and carnal way that nobody except myself and Lightning Bolt know about.It all started so simply.My brother, Douglas, was sitting at home inside the living room. The living room, so indistinguishable from so many others. The TV was the centerpiece then, but now it is the sensational feeling that comes over me as I walk inside of there. As Douglas watched the television, which spent hours sucking the life from his existence, I stood behind him. Mom and Dad weren't home.The cerebral moments of this society were the kind that faded much too quickly for mass consumption. The sexualizing moments, however, were the ones that took their place.Something about Douglas' demeanor struck me -- he had none. He was watching a documentary on The Beets, how their putrid "music" became the most listened-to tripe on the face of this planet. He sat there with Lightning Bolt and Porkchop. As the light emanated through the television set on this Saturday afternoon.I remained silent, staring at them, trying to comprehend the moments deemed necessary to watch anything on this brain-eating mechanism other than "Shakespeare on Ice". The minutes wasted. I studied the nuances, the lighting, the experiences laid out by the room -- everything except for the television.Suddenly, Lightning Bolt got up, mumbling something about getting a glass of water. Sensing a need to, I followed him.He walked into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard, and slowly turned on the faucet. His eyes, so wide. His skin, so soft, so green.In previous cultures, racism was prevalent. Green people were treated as an anomaly of culture, a dog in the eyes of a white bred human such as myself. But the rushes of pelvic action were fabled as above and beyond any that a white male could offer.I walked up behind him and said hello.Lightning Bolt paused, and nervously glanced. "Hey, Judy. I thought you were gone.""Not really," I responded. "I was just in my room, watching a movie.""What movie was it? Some art flick?""Well, I guess you could say it was. It was dark and it was enthralling."The art in the film, however, influenced my fourteen-year-old mind in ways that cannot be described. The scenes of female empowerment spoke to me, as did the scenes of male empowerment. She winced in a combination of horror and pleasure I cannot equate without screaming, reenacting it myself. I felt prepared to reenact it."Well Judy, what was it about?" Lightning Bolt made a noise which I would grow to know as a prison and a sanctuary. "Honk, honk.""It featured a man and a woman, deep in empty love, combining their living pleasures and bursting into flames of enticement and shock."Lightning Bolt did not understand my line of explanation. He would soon find out."Wow, that sounds like a cool movie Judy. I like explosions," he responded, half-confused. "I'll have to check it out sometime.""Well, if you don't mind ditching Douglas, I'll allow you to come up to my room and watch it with me. It was good. I think I'm ready to see it again.""Sounds great! Honk, honk!" The fact that he was so naive made him the perfect target.And so began my sexual conquest of Lightning Bolt, one that would bring my greatest fears and fantasies full-circle in a pool of blood, sweat, and sexual desire that Doug could only dream of with Patti Mayonnaise.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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