A piece I'm working on. Humor? Erotica? 19th-century-style bloviation? You tell me. Regard:
On the tide of recent events my mind turns to New Orleans. NOLA as I knew it, a suppurating Shangri-La where every facet of life and decay flourished in four-four time, is now forever bound down the backwater burgs of history. Those who knew the Big Easy will not soon forget it, nor will they recognize their gelid Gomorrah after it is rebuilt. The chortling developers will come in with their thumbs hooked through their suspenders and lay a plague of gentrification and commercialization upon the land. It will become a decadence-themed vacation destination complete with such attractions as Louis Armstrongs Jazzy Juice Joint, Marie Laveauxs Loa of Relaxation Acupuncture, and Hookers: The Ride. A garish caricature of its former self, New Orleans will then stand as a monument to opportunistic Stupidity until being finally, irretrievably swept to sea. Some things will remain the same, but in different ways. For instance people will still find themselves being fucked for a few dollars down there, yet now they will find no pleasure in it and indeed wont even have the chance to disrobe. Mark me well. So goes the American way.
Though I mourn New Orleans, I feel I am more fortunate than most. My two years there provide me with memories that I will cherish for a lifetime and whole weeks that I cant remember even now. I loved New Orleans, and in memoriam of that old city I now commit to tell of a love that could only have been possible there:
It is now three years since I met Christine and the Coke machine. Yet much like the sea in a conch shell, the sticky sublimity of our sexual trinity rushes to me still when I put an effervescent can to my ear. How tender to think that Christine and I led that perspiring machine through the archway of innocence. It would wait, humming in electric anticipation of our next rendezvous, perhaps seducing a few quarters from passers-by, whiling away the moments until Christine and I would come again, and again, and again! Those were the days. The memories come flooding back to me now like so much carbonated syrup.
With Spring in the air and my step I left the dorms of Tulane University that day. Jasmine mingled gently with the soapy-peach season, wafting upon the step of the budding student body; the sun-dappled skin of all inhibition lain bare by the virtual certainty of sowing seed for the price of a little courage. In that warmth everyone felt promise in their future and love on their threshold. I was perhaps uniquely representative of the current sweeping through the campus as I was on my way to learn the language of love. It was my first day of French class.
Entering the classroom early, I took a seat near the back of the room to appraise my classmates as they entered. My curiosity was not to be satisfied, however, as the first person to walk through the door behind me took the breath from my lungs and the reason from my head.
Christine. I remember nothing more of the day after first laying my eyes on Christine. She flowed into the room like cool water, undulating softly beneath her white cotton dress. Placing her teaching materials on the wide desk, a daffodil in her golden hair fluttered to the ground. She bent over to pluck it again. Two perfect ovals strained against their confinement, pleading with me to set them free. I was stricken. The ancient Greek philosopher-poet Clitores, most revered at Lesbos, put it thus, He spent, but love replenishes.
Eternity in an hour, said Blake, and so it was. Her green eyes seeded forests in which I lost myself. Arcane mysteries were revealed to me through her sacred gestures. She could not help but appreciate her effect on me. How laden with promise was her voice when she first spoke to me:
He vous, lidiot de clingnotement dans le dos, what did I just say?
To which I replied, Je ne sais pas, assuring her that I was born just that afternoon upon seeing her. Coquette that she was, she hid her approval behind a sneer and continued with the lesson. Capricious Fate decreed that we were not to speak but those two sentences to each other that first day. Concluding the lesson, she busied herself nervously with her teaching apparatus as I stood over her passionately clearing my throat. She pretended not to hear. Coy. Two can play.
When our workbook assignment came due the next day I had conveniently forgotten all about it. Her reprimand though overacted was a balm to my soul. It assured me that her feigned indifference to me was exactly that. Woman, me thinkest thou dost protest too much. The ball: in my court.
I digress here, gentle reader, to give a brief preface to my succeeding actions, which, to the uninitiated, might seem inscrutable, even foolhardy. I assure you that they were calculated with a measured elegance and were the sole reason for my later success with Christine. Sex, for most of the populace, is the be-all and end-all of their barely restrained desires. Like a starved dog they pounce upon any meat thrown their way without hesitating a moment to savor their victuals, and in record time are finished and begging for more. The connoisseur knows better. Sex is exponentially greater than the time spent on seduction. And seduction, far from common understanding, is not a one-way street. Seduction is the careful art of a chase between two mutually endowed predators. If one becomes too aggressive, the other is frightened and flees; if one is too relenting, they are soon overcome, come over, and passed on.
(To be continued...)
On the tide of recent events my mind turns to New Orleans. NOLA as I knew it, a suppurating Shangri-La where every facet of life and decay flourished in four-four time, is now forever bound down the backwater burgs of history. Those who knew the Big Easy will not soon forget it, nor will they recognize their gelid Gomorrah after it is rebuilt. The chortling developers will come in with their thumbs hooked through their suspenders and lay a plague of gentrification and commercialization upon the land. It will become a decadence-themed vacation destination complete with such attractions as Louis Armstrongs Jazzy Juice Joint, Marie Laveauxs Loa of Relaxation Acupuncture, and Hookers: The Ride. A garish caricature of its former self, New Orleans will then stand as a monument to opportunistic Stupidity until being finally, irretrievably swept to sea. Some things will remain the same, but in different ways. For instance people will still find themselves being fucked for a few dollars down there, yet now they will find no pleasure in it and indeed wont even have the chance to disrobe. Mark me well. So goes the American way.
Though I mourn New Orleans, I feel I am more fortunate than most. My two years there provide me with memories that I will cherish for a lifetime and whole weeks that I cant remember even now. I loved New Orleans, and in memoriam of that old city I now commit to tell of a love that could only have been possible there:
It is now three years since I met Christine and the Coke machine. Yet much like the sea in a conch shell, the sticky sublimity of our sexual trinity rushes to me still when I put an effervescent can to my ear. How tender to think that Christine and I led that perspiring machine through the archway of innocence. It would wait, humming in electric anticipation of our next rendezvous, perhaps seducing a few quarters from passers-by, whiling away the moments until Christine and I would come again, and again, and again! Those were the days. The memories come flooding back to me now like so much carbonated syrup.
With Spring in the air and my step I left the dorms of Tulane University that day. Jasmine mingled gently with the soapy-peach season, wafting upon the step of the budding student body; the sun-dappled skin of all inhibition lain bare by the virtual certainty of sowing seed for the price of a little courage. In that warmth everyone felt promise in their future and love on their threshold. I was perhaps uniquely representative of the current sweeping through the campus as I was on my way to learn the language of love. It was my first day of French class.
Entering the classroom early, I took a seat near the back of the room to appraise my classmates as they entered. My curiosity was not to be satisfied, however, as the first person to walk through the door behind me took the breath from my lungs and the reason from my head.
Christine. I remember nothing more of the day after first laying my eyes on Christine. She flowed into the room like cool water, undulating softly beneath her white cotton dress. Placing her teaching materials on the wide desk, a daffodil in her golden hair fluttered to the ground. She bent over to pluck it again. Two perfect ovals strained against their confinement, pleading with me to set them free. I was stricken. The ancient Greek philosopher-poet Clitores, most revered at Lesbos, put it thus, He spent, but love replenishes.
Eternity in an hour, said Blake, and so it was. Her green eyes seeded forests in which I lost myself. Arcane mysteries were revealed to me through her sacred gestures. She could not help but appreciate her effect on me. How laden with promise was her voice when she first spoke to me:
He vous, lidiot de clingnotement dans le dos, what did I just say?
To which I replied, Je ne sais pas, assuring her that I was born just that afternoon upon seeing her. Coquette that she was, she hid her approval behind a sneer and continued with the lesson. Capricious Fate decreed that we were not to speak but those two sentences to each other that first day. Concluding the lesson, she busied herself nervously with her teaching apparatus as I stood over her passionately clearing my throat. She pretended not to hear. Coy. Two can play.
When our workbook assignment came due the next day I had conveniently forgotten all about it. Her reprimand though overacted was a balm to my soul. It assured me that her feigned indifference to me was exactly that. Woman, me thinkest thou dost protest too much. The ball: in my court.
I digress here, gentle reader, to give a brief preface to my succeeding actions, which, to the uninitiated, might seem inscrutable, even foolhardy. I assure you that they were calculated with a measured elegance and were the sole reason for my later success with Christine. Sex, for most of the populace, is the be-all and end-all of their barely restrained desires. Like a starved dog they pounce upon any meat thrown their way without hesitating a moment to savor their victuals, and in record time are finished and begging for more. The connoisseur knows better. Sex is exponentially greater than the time spent on seduction. And seduction, far from common understanding, is not a one-way street. Seduction is the careful art of a chase between two mutually endowed predators. If one becomes too aggressive, the other is frightened and flees; if one is too relenting, they are soon overcome, come over, and passed on.
(To be continued...)
I have to admit coupling the experience with sympathetic visual stimulus sounds very interesting. Also coupling that with additional cranio-electric stimulation sounds intense. What exactly is the method of applying that electrical stim ? Again, Ive dealt strictly in sound which has been very effective for me. Sounds like all that additional stim might be somewhat of a brain fry...a bit counter to the meditative state induced by low frequency brain entrainment. Thern again it sounds like it may very well intensify the effects and/or open up some new doors. What exactly is your set-up then....mine is quite vanilla compared to your set-up from the sound of it.
btw...your writing has been an interesting read. I don't have time to comment right now as I'm catching a 5:00 am plane to Portland tomorrow morning and I've got to cut out for some z's but I'll stop by in the not too distant and chat more....thanks again for stopping by....
Cheers