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o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
o They have been submitted by people from all over the world. Also o
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Learning to Fly (F, tg)
By Kanthan Pillay (svpillay@princeton.edu)
The title of this piece is taken from the David Gilmour song of the
same name. I have no thoughts of publishing it, but have no
intention of allowing someone else to do so, so please excuse the
next three lines. Copyright (C) 1991 by Kanthan Pillay. Permission
is granted for unlimited free distribution via USENET. All other
rights expressly reserved by the author.
*****
She stretched out her leg languidly, raised it up, up toward the
ceiling, flexing her toes. Her other leg followed. Reaching out for
her feet with both hands, she took hold of the tips and stretched
taut, enjoying the feeling of her body seeming to yawn. Carefully,
she opened her legs wide, feeling her inner thigh muscles tense.
Lying with her legs spread in a V, she contemplated her toes.
Ugly, she thought. They were short and squat like a bunch of
misshaped grapes. So unlike his toes, long, elegant, articulate...
She smiled at the thought. He always said her toes were beautiful;
while his were like a bunch of bananas. But then he did have that
way of wiggling them so, like a concert pianist, and he had played
her body in that oh-so-delicious manner...
That thought combined with the vulnerability of her pose suddenly
made her acutely aware of her body and she snapped back her legs,
knees under her chin, hands clasped under her bottom. She frowned.
Silly, she chided herself. I'm alone. She stretched out her legs
again, spreading them just enough for her to run her finger gently
up her lips and onto her mound, scratching her curls with her
fingernails, then rubbing them down, then scratching them again.
Well, she thought, almost alone. She looked over to where he was
lying next to her, on his face, resting his head on his arm, his
other arm thrown lazily off the side. She ran a fingernail gently
over his bottom while stroking herself wondering whether he would
awaken. He was incredibly sensitive to her touch -- except when he
was away, like now. She sighed. Blue balls, she thought. I've got
blue balls. She looked down at her fingers tracing concentric
circles over her mound and ducking down between her lips, stopped,
and lifted her fingers to her tongue, smelling and tasting her
sweetness. She sighed again. Normally, this would not be a problem.
She would have played herself for an hour or so, playing around
with images of him doing wonderful things with her until when her
body could stand it no longer when she would feel his hardness
thrust itself deep into her while she squeezed her breasts and
stroked her glans and came and came and came except...
Except he was lying there next to her, at once with her and not,
and what was the use of having her fantasy lying next to her if he
wouldn't cooperate? And it was still late afternoon; he wouldn't be
back until the next morning, and she was as horny as a bitch in
heat. "Astral projection."
He made it sound so easy, looking at her in a way that sometimes
made her think that she should feel really stupid for not knowing
what she was talking about before she realized again that he didn't
mean that -- she knew how he looked at people he thought were
stupid. "Astral projection. It's really easy. People do it all the
time when they're asleep, only they call it dreaming. You simply
pull your mind out of your body and take it wherever you want it to
be." His voice had deepened and wheezed into a Rod McKuen
caricature: "We'll sail the sun, we'll ride on the rain, we'll talk
to the trees..." And then snapping back to his normal tone and
grinning: "We could fuck too. Do you wanna?" It was a few days
later that she realized that he had been serious, when he told her
about his flight to Venus, then to Jupiter a moment later, then
through the core of the Sun, then out to the quasars at the
furthest reaches of the Universe. "What's it like?" she had asked
him. "What do they look like?"
"I don't know," he said, looking somewhat downcast. "I can tell you
what it feels like. When you're outside of your body, you don't
have eyes, or a nose or ears or fingers. You can only feel inside
of of you. When I go to the Sun, I can put an image to what I'm
feeling because my mind has a picture of what I'm feeling looks
like. I can do the same with the clouds around Venus or the rings
around Saturn. But that's probably not what they really look like.
I know what they feel like. I can feel a quasar, but I can't tell
you what it looks like."
"What does a quasar feel like?"
"Sort of like my grandmother, like 21-year-old Scotch, like Phil
Collins playing the trombone..."
"But lover, Phil Collins doesn't play the trombone."
"That's what I mean..."
As usual, when he discovered something new and wonderful(and
generally bizarre), he tried to show it to her. But this was not
quite as easy as superimposing Ronald Reagan's head on Tammy Faye
Bakker's body on the computer screen. She got the giggles whenever
she thought of trying it. Crazy. And yet...
And yet there were those hours on end during which he was gone.
Here, but not here. And each time he got back, he was even more
determined to get back out as soon as possible.
"What are you looking for?" she asked him one day. He gazed blankly
at the TV screen while sipping on his coffee. Five minutes later,
when the scene of Nicolae Ceausescu's execution gave way to a
Phillip Morris commercial on the Bill of Rights, he said: "Life."
She realized that he was answering her question of several minutes
before. "I know it's out there. I can feel it. But I can't
describe it, because I can't see it. I've got to know what it looks
like." He grumpily lit a cigarette, stubbed it out, lit another,
stubbed that out as well, and relit the first one.
"Do you have any ideas?" she asked.
He exhaled lazily. "You know I once used to be able to blow smoke
rings? When I was a kid? I mean about 16?" She got up angrily and
moved into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of bottled water.
His digressions could be quite exasperating sometime. His voice
followed her in. "You know, if I can find someone out there who's
projecting at the same time, maybe I could slip into their body for
a while. Can you imagine what that would be like? Entering the
body of an entirely different life form? Feeling a whole new range
of sensations? Seeing through their eyes.? He paused: "If they have
eyes, of course..."
She thought of her own eyes now. He said they changed colour;
flecks of brown when she was mellow, icy blue when she was angry.
And when she was horny? He wouldn't say.
She closed them now, trying to reflect the colour within herself so
that she could see them, picture them. Her fingernail once more
traced a lazy path across his body. "Just close your eyes," he had
said. "Look up to the ceiling and try to imagine yourself hanging
from the ceiling looking down at your body. If you relax enough,
your mind will float up, out of your body, and you will really be
able to see yourself down on the bed." "How would I be able to see
myself?" she had asked. "I wouldn't have eyes."
"True," he'd replied. "But you will be able to feel what the image
in front of you is, and since the image in front of you is one that
you already have a picture of in your mind, you will be able to
see. People who are not congenitally blind can still see light in
their dreams even after their eyes stop working." He had grinned at
this. "I know this for a fact. I don't wear my glasses when I'm
dreaming."
But that eyebrow shape is so strange, she thought, and I really
shouldn't have my mouth open like that. Oh gawd, look at those
zits. Mind you, he's right. I do have nice tits...
Agoraphobia swept through her with hurricane-like intensity. She
shot up, bolt upright, biting her finger and looking around her,
feeling her heart beating between her earlobes. Shit! she thought.
She looked around. Twilight had fallen and the room was hazy. She
felt her pulse rate gradually dropping back to normal. Closing her
eyes, she took a deep breath, reaching out to scratch the sudden
itch under her... ...beard?
She tugged gingerly at it. This is crazy, this isn't happening, I'm
dreaming, I'll wake up and see everything's okay I will. Opening
her eyes again, she reached out for the light and switched it on.
Blurred... Everything was blurred... Like looking through a window
with Vaseline smeared all over it. She looked down next to her,
making out the slightly tanned pale shape of her body next to his
now dark brown almost black skin. She moved her face -- his face --
down next to that on her own body, seeing the features suddenly
coming into focus. Glasses, she thought, I need glasses. Fumbling
next to the bed, she found them and put them on clumsily. The
Vaseline washed away. Carefully, she stood up, feeling a sudden
wave of nausea as though she had climed onto a very high pair of
stiletto heels. Easy, she thought, you're six inches taller than
normal. Slowly, she scratched her beard.
"Oh shit," she said philosophically. She startled at the sound. His
voice sounded different from the inside. "Shit shit shit," she said
several times for effect, feeling the word rolling around her
tongue. "Shhhhhiiiiiiiit! Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshit. Shit?
Shit. Shit!" She stopped, looking at the cat which had just
strolled into the room and was regarding her balefully as if to say
"what's with you, bitch?" She stuck out her tongue at the cat,
thumbs in her ears and wiggling her fingers, and caught sight of
herself in the mirror. The image of her lover making faces at the
cat was too corny for words and she burst out laughing and was
again startled to hear his voice.
She had a sudden inexplicable craving for coffee...
Her cigarettes tasted vile, she thought, as she took a sip of the
coffee. So did the coffee. Two-and-a-half spoons of sugar later,
the coffee tasted better. The cigarettes didn't.
Peeved, she wandered into the bedroom and stood in front of the
mirror. Anonyance at the taste of the cigarette gave way to
novelty of the reflection before her, and with total fascination,
she slowly began to run her hands across her... his... body.
You're gorgeous, she thought. You're quite stunning, and you're all
mine. A familiar flush spread through her body and she continued
to lazily stroke herself, then looked down between her legs. The
sight of the arrogantly jutting protrusion startled her, and she
had to make a deliberate effort to force her hand down to grasp it
slowly, gingerly at the base. She closed her eyes, thinking back
to how she had held it before, with her own hand, the way he said
drove him quite rapidly to the brink. Strange, she thought. It had
always felt huge to her before. In his hand it felt a lot smaller.
But nice, she thought, opening her eyes and watching as she peeled
back her foreskin gently to see the glistening head underneath. She
looked into the mirror.
"Do it, stud," she whispered.
Flexing her fist around the shaft, she began to pump it, back and
forth, up and down, thrilling to the feeling. Harder and faster she
stroked, thrusting her hips arrogantly towards the mirror and
reaching down with the other hand to squeeze her balls the way she
used to. "God, yes, oh you're beautiful, oh yes, don't stop, don't
Stop, don't, Don't YESSSSSSS!!!!" The semen churned up deep within
her loins and shot out for the figure on the other side of the
mirror, coming to an abrupt stop at the glass. She jerked back and
forth a little as more welled up from within, spilling over her
fingers. Unclasping her fingers from the now subsiding flood, she
reached out for the mirror, tracing a wet path with her finger. I
love you, she wrote.
And minutes later when the pounding in her heart had slowed to
normal levels and when her breath returned, she discovered that his
cigarettes tasted a lot better than hers...
She relaxed in the bath for a long while after that, exploring her
lover's body, rediscovering those muscles, curves, shapes, those
arms, those legs; the newness of the familiarity was exhilirating.
And that bottom... she had often wished she were a man so that she
could fuck it... She was still discovering her own strength and
was dismayed when she squeezed half a tube of toothpaste onto her
toothbrush. Then the discovery excited her. Running dripping out of
the bathroom, she pounced upon a concrete block that stood against
the wall and lifted it, thrilling to the ease with which she did
so. She tried several sit-ups -- her body normally gave up on
those, but his seemed to handle them quite effortlessly. Her eye
fell upon the sketch pad. Picking up a pen, she began to doodle.
Minutes later, she triumphantly held up a picture of a smiling
penis waving a finger in the air and exclaiming "See! You can draw
after all!", then chuckled when she realized that she had signed it
with her handwriting, not his.
She went back into the kitchen to pour herself an iced tea, but
that tasted vile too. On the other hand, the orange juice tasted
great. That thought made her quite nervous for a while, until she
discovered the creative possibilities in peeing standing up, which
sent the cat scurrying for cover.
It was late at night when she finally made her way back into the
bedroom. And there he was, lying there, her body, her voice, his
mannerisms, his look of desire in her eyes.
"Hello lover," he said in a voice full of wonder. "It seems I found
what I was looking for." And he stretched her body out on the bed,
drew her legs up to her chest, slipped a finger down between her
legs into her glistening wet folds, and gently spread her... his...
lips open, inviting... "Fuck me," he said.
She felt her shaft stiffen gloriously and her balls draw tightly up
in anticipation and as she moved down onto the bed and onto him,
sinking herself deep into that exquisite wet warmth, she suddenly
knew. She knew what colour her eyes turned when she was horny.
for Kate, with love
Work: (609) 258-6488 Internet: svpillay@Princeton.EDU Home: (609)
396-9004
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