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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