Chronicle 86: October 24, 1986


This author has concluded, while reading 'Dhalgren' by Samuel Delaney, and a book about Salvador Dali, that his concern with conventional form in writing and his doubts about the value of his work are conterproductive. Most people will be delighted with my writing. My fear of making my maiden offereing to the literary gods is unfounded.
That allusion, by the way, explains why, in the old religions, virgins were often sacrificed. It was not because they were pure, it was because something needed to be done to help the inexperienced overcome their inertia; the threat of sacrifice provided the incentive to risk the unknown.
It was surely effective, and those who would condemn the practice as barbaric should remember that any young woman who could not get herself inoculated against ceremonial early death would be unusually stupid or seriously maladjusted.
I, as a male, never feared the experience of sex, but as a writer, I can relate to fearing the act of exposing my creative organ to the prodding of the public mind. Yet, as I would have women impale themselves on my waiting erection, I must set the example by opening my literary legs to air the moist intricate folds between.


Androids Need Love Too

In the begining, there was man. It took man a long time to invent simple devices, such as the wheel, the club, and the fire starter. But once man got rolling, he began to hit on new ideas that really caught fire.

Eventually man got around to us androids, starting with the computer. These primitive ancestors, like early man, had no original ideas, though they were whizzes at math. Later, when man learned to equal his own intelligence and awareness in our brains and with the addition of robotic systems, we could reproduce ourselves.

Today there are millions of us, working in any trade you can think of: servants, miners, factory workers, police, physicians; lawyers. I, of course, am a writer, with hundereds of articles and stories published since my programming was complete.

We can also improve ourselves. As ingenious as our human creators were in giving us infallible brains, cheerful personalities, and bodies that never tire, there was one thing they left out: sex. We observed out human creators enjoying it for years, and we finally decided to do something about the omission. It wasn't easy, though. We developed an orgasm circuit, but just plugging in and coming automatically...well, we seemed to be missing something. It was the uncertainty; the challenge. This was not an easy thing to program. To be truly challenging, we quickly discovered, it had to be physical, because any electronic challenge we could program, we could also solve instantly.

Then one day 8976B, a bartender in Chicago, was watching some humans play pinball. Suddenly, the answer came to him, and now our females have pinball machines built in, and they are all individually different. It's so exciting now! We play for hours on end. No matter how good we get at it, we don't win that orgasmic 'free game' every time, but the more we practice, the better we get. And we don't have to ask her if we're the best she ever had. All we have to do is compare our score with 'high score to date.'

The humans are complaining that we're taking too much time off work, but I think it's high time we got shorter hours. All work and no play makes 1823W a dull android.


A True Cabdriver's Tale

She was pretty, but what I noticed most was her smile as she got in mycab at the bingo parlor. It was not that her smile was dazzling, almost luminous, although it was, but that it seemed permanant and real, not just a smile flashed at will for its effect on others.
She gave me her address, and we crept forward through the post-bingo traffic. She smiled on.
'Did you win tonight?' I asked. 'Oh, I won a little.' 'I figured you didn't lose, the way you're smiling.' We pulled into her driveway, and, still smiling broadly, she handed me a ten for a $3.00 fare. 'Keep this', she said. 'I won $600 tonight.'

My next fare was at a bar, a father and son, both happily drunk. Pops, as he called himself, was a rugged-looking fiesty old fellow with long white hair and a beard.
We stopped at a store for a 6-pack. When the son went in for the beer, Pops opened his shirt and showed me a scar on his belly.
'They cut me open', he said. 'They say I've got cancer, and I'm gonna die before Christmas. Do you know how it feels to know when you're gonna die?'
I shook my head.
'Everybody knows they're gonna die...but to know it's coming that soon-- that's like being sentenced to the electric chair. I love livin'. I WANT TO KEEP LIVIN'...but they tell me I can't.'
There was no sob nor whine in the old man's voice. There was strength and courage along with sorrow.
His son came back with the beer. As he got in, he asked, 'Did he tell you he was dyin'? My old man ain't never gonna die! Not as long as he keeps partyin' with me!'


I drove Misty to and from work frequently for several years. She was one of the least maladjusted topless dancers I ever met. She was still amused and delighted that men would spend money to watch her take off her clothes. She lacked the jaded disdain for her patrons that some dancers develop.
Misty once recalled noticing that the boys in the playground would stand in front of the swings, hoping for a peek at prepubescent panties when her skirt blew in the breeze. A reasonable girl even then, she would oblige them.
Strip tease shows, in their various forms, are only adult versions of that eternal childhood pastime.


We in public service, cabdrivers, waitpersons, dancers, and escorts among others, all occasionally get unique moments of insight into the mind and society. It is often these, not stories of extreme drama, that we remember and sometimes retell.
This one was told to me by an outcall excort as I drove her home from an assignment.
'Shhh...we don't want to wake Mother.' The speaker might have been a grandfather himself, if he'd ever impregnated a woman. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes inhumanly large. Random wisps of wild hair sprouted from his otherwise bald head. As he led her silently to his study, she could hear 'mother' snoring loudly behind a closed bedroom door.
He handed the pretty callgirl a hundred dollars. She counted the crisp twenties and put them away. 'You're not promiscuous, are you?' he asked earnestly.


Some words are easier to rhyme than others. My second ex-wife Jill once challenged me to rhyme the word 'diaphram'. The result follows:

The singing coach said, 'Higher, Fran;
You need to sing from your diaphragm!'
So Fran took this advice to heart,
And released a melodious pussy fart.


'My name's Lisa Anne', announced the pretty blonde with the low-cut halter-top and the fur jacket.
'Sleazeanne?' That's what I thought she said. She blushed and giggled. 'Great,' I thought, 'A callgirl with a sense of humor.' I liked her immediately. I started my cab. 'Where to?'
She told me. She also told me she was an escort, but I'd already guessed that. She's from Hollywood, and she has a Hollywood concept of how a callgirl looks. She has a mischievous, sexy grin that shows she enjoys the theatre of it all. She'll flash her tits at convenience store clerks.
We stopped at a hotel to try to change a hundred. 'Drive past these guards', she said. 'I want to flash them some tit.'
'No, you'll get me in trouble.' She pulled down the halter-top as I drove.
'Now, would that get anyone in trouble?'
I was looking at truly beautiful breats. She had tweaked her nipples, and they were magnificently erect. Indeed, they could get someone in trouble very easily under some circumstances-- the sort of trouble Helen of Troy or Cleopatra might cause. I would have risked that for some time to caress them, and explore the rest of her.
But Lisa Anne is not all glitter and tease. She's a vulnerable woman who loves and needs and gets sad when she loses at love. As much as it may delight her to be worth $110 an hour, she does not mistake this for true respect and affection.
Perhaps those who are quick to stereotype would not see this, and would admit no feeling beyond lust. As usual, such people miss a lot.


Soft mountainous breasts
Dark pink proud nipples
Begging to be sucked
Creamy inner thighs
Yearn for tender kiss
Tongue tease behind knees
Fingers grasp her round
Behind; squeeze, massage.
Pause to nibble at
The shallow hollow
Where thigh meets pelvis
Then nose explores soft
Fragrant down. Tongue seeks
The sweet secret source
Tasting gods' nectar.
Thighs part; reveal pink
Petals, lovely; moist.
Sip from the fountain
Of youth; give squirming
Timeless ecstasy.
At last, we kiss; tastes
Herself as hardness
And softness unite.
--captain rat


The rapport we have with our machines is often such that, when our vehicle's engine is straining under a heavy load, we feel that strain, project our strength into it and feel weary from the effort.
A good smooth power in our motors makes us feel personally strong, athletic; muscular. That a man and his mount might seem to read one another's minds might be easily imagined. Riders of machines seem to share emotions with them; to trade egos.

Wisdom consists of avoiding stupidity most of the time.


Victoria Ford and her partner, Mark Lincoln, were deeply involved in a discussion. They were a scientific team responsible for many of the most practical advances of their age. 'The problem', Mark said, 'is that two horses don't pull twice as fast as one. They have twice the power, but the same speed. We must either speed up horsepower or we will have to switch to artificial power'

Victoria replied. 'I think I've got an idea. First, we put the horses on a treadmill. Then, we use belts and gears to turn the wheel of a wagon. The more horses, the higher ratio we can use, and the more speed.'
Immediately they set a crew to work on this device. The result was a rather large vehicle, powered by 10 horses, that could travel 60 miles per hour.

The efficiency was increased by the development of a clutch and three-speed transmission, enabling the horses to rest while coasting, and even higher speeds over longer distances. Due to the size and weight of these vehicles, they proved most practical when run on steel tracks, either as trains or individual cars.

Technological historians credit the Ford-Lincoln equimobile with the prevention of major ecological problems. They speculate that if the equimobile had not been invented when it was, artificial power would have been developed which would have resulted in disasterous air pollution and a confusion of small vehicles crowding our cities.

As it is, the vast network of steel tracks with automatic switching systems has made transportation easy, cheap, and safe for millions. Food for the power source is a renewable resource, and the byproduct an excellent fertilizer.

And what could compare in awe-inspiring grandeur with the sight of the Ford-Lincoln transcontiental train, powered by 100 horses, hurtling across the countryside at 250 miles per hour?


It is the nature of the human spirit not to merely accept things as they are, but to improve them. It is this spirit that is at the heart of technological, scientific, and social progress. Amazing improvements have been made in many areas.
Some advances, especially in the social field, are more difficult to make. They require more than ideas, thought, and planning: they need numbers of people with open minds, not just the genius and imagination of those who propose them, but openness of mind and courage of a significant number of people who must risk social disapproval to enjoy their benefits and pave the way for others.
The popularization of one particular socio-sexual practice would add as much the enjoyment of domestic life and to the social and economic efficiency as electrical power has to entertainment.
This practice is the menage a trois, a three-way sexual and marital union. This is not a new concept, but it is still thought of as a kinky and perhaps decadent special situation. Yet its advantages are such that it should be the norm, or at least a major alternative.
One of the problems with couples is often the lack of variety. Over time, this can take the edge off of the excitement and lead to marital problems.
Consider the sexual mathematics: A=Adam B=Beth C=Cecilia. The possibilities with a couple are limited to AB. But simply adding one to the equation results in the possibilities of AB AC BC ABC ACB BAC; not twice but 6 times the variety.
Besides greatly alleviating sexual boredom, this system would provide significant economic advantages. With three incomes, the triad could enjoy greater prosperity than a couple. If they have children, they could still have two incomes, leaving the third to full-time parenting.This would prevent the lack of supervision that often results in behavioral and emotional problems in children of working parents.
Once adjustments are made to embrace the cooperative attitude needed, triads would be much more stable, Just as the triangle adds stability to physical structures, the triad can better withstand physical or emotional problems of any one of its members.
Because there is a natural bisexuality in most women, although it may not be realized until inhibitions are lowered, it is likely that more triads will be one man and two women. Bisexual men may prefer the reverse, and those who are exclusively homosexual could have all three the same sex.
Since there is a higher risk to casual sex at the present time, the triad would provide a higher degree of variety without the chance of disease from an unknown partner
At present, the man who desires a triad is percieved by some as wanting more than his just desserts. This attitude comes from the 'women as property' viewpoint. When monogamy was declared to be the legal norm, it was in fact a communistic edict, just as it would be if it were ordered that all citizens could only own 40 acres and one house. It ignores the fact that three people can relate to one another as sexual and social equals, and that the man does not 'own' the women.
It is to our advantage as a viable civilization that our social systems be flexible and adaptable to economic conditions and human needs.


A rare warm wind
From Colorado blew in;
Took my tower like a storm
Weather she comes and
Whither she goes
She's sure done me no harm
Mounting peaks
For weeks and weeks
Make a sensuous climate
And I would continue
Along this venue
If I could only rhyme it.
--captain rat, June 1987

The first thing I noticed about Crickett was her legs: long, lush, smooth and brown below short cutoffs. She was sitting quietly at the corner of the bar, and I didn't talk to her that time. The next time, when I did, it was an easy conversation, the kind you fall into when no one is trying to impress anyone. She had silky long black hair, brown eyes, and an incredibly creamy complexion slightly tanner than mine. It didn't occur to me at first that she was a Native American, but her features were classicly that, with a slightly oriental flavor to her eyes. She was tall, with a strong healthy body. She told me stories of Colorado, of Breckenridge and Telluride, of growing up adopted, of a mate a child, money and bad habits she'd had and lost, and the stories and their telling showed her to be sensitive and caring, strong and resilient in spirit as she was in her body. There was something about her that made me want to be her friend as well as her lover. She had a good soul.
She told me when I met her she was headed on to California soon, so I was not surprised when she told me she was flying away June 25th. I could have kept her with me a lot longer if she'd not gone, but I didn't complain. She needed to go and find out what waited there. Maybe she'll be back.

And every day at 4:05
My wristwatch comes alive.
Peep-peep; peep-peep until
I stifle its electronic bell.
Time to pick up Crickett again
Though she's been gone the last of June.

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