Archive-name: Dreams/learnfly.mf

Archive-author: Kanthan Pillay (c) 1991

Archive-title: Learning to Fly



 

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

 

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