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How to Survive Nuclear Attack
Useful tips for surviving nuclear attack, dirty bombs, or suitcase nukes.

 
   
 
  American Hiroshima
Tsunami
Earthquake
Tornado
Hurricane
School Shooting
Volcano
Asteroid
Nuclear Winter
Bird Flu - Avian Influenza
Nuclear Attack
Honeybee Extinction
Wildfire
The Last Days



by





Full up to the gills with the Valley and the fast fools who run it, I headed on down to dear old fast disappearing Monterey to get a breather for a few days … Now, when I got there I found they were having some kind of festival of the arts around the pier and one event was a big belly dancing show put on by some belly dancing club, which seemed to consist of almost entirely voluptuous, even fat, middle aged ladies just astruttin their stuff to this Mideast snake charm wahwah, and the interesting thing was they all seemed to be making a great show of what fat could do, how wonderfully fat could wriggle and bounce and blob to the music, just all of them having a fine time of if, in particular this really quite sizeable chick (young, but gloriously globed and grandiously gross, with huge helpings of just completely unashamed slobslatternly FAT) who seemed to be saying with her every wonderful wriggle and wobble ,"Ain't this the sexiest stuff you ever seen in your stupid, virtuous, healthy, fat deprived lives, you skinny hearted knaves?" ... Really, it was quite a show. Thing is, there's nothing titillating or coming on about belly dancing, at least any I've seen. In fact, it seems oddly chaste and veiled, and yet there is tremendous, sinuous energy in the forms themselves... well, neither here nor there for that, I suppose. Point I'm making is that, in the first place, I like 'em fleshy; I like tits 'n ass and all you can grab while you're takin a ride with a lady, but this show was about just the sheer beauty of FLESH, of FAT, of unashamed embodiment and, even though the point didn't seem to be to make you stand to, watching the youngun doing her turns I wanted me some of that Salome and …

Well, as luck would have it, when the show was done she fell right into my arms.

Yeah!

I was on my way over there to say how pleased I was with her performance when she slipped on a mic cord and suddenly I was holding her like you would a heavy sack of feed, then more tenderly as she recovered herself …

"Sorry. Wow, I'm just so graceful," she says.

A little breathless and embarrassed, of course, but I made a big gentlemanly show of brushing her off and patting her, finishing off with a little brace to both her fat, bare arms and I says, "There, now. You OK?"

And from there we found our way somehow into this fussy little lady's tearoom with a private alcove all to ourselves, I don't remember how or why, but there was some small talk and many compliments thrown her way by me and others who passed our table, followed by discussion of the craft between just us.

"It's not a striptease, see," she is saying. "Not a tease at all but the whole thing, the flesh, all of it, nothing withheld … Maybe a …"

"Maybe?"

"Well, a promise. I give out a sort of promise, I guess, which you're not supposed to but I want that part there, you know? I guess it's wrong to but I like that," and she smiles, saying it.

"The promise," I repeat. "What is it? What are you promising?" (I'm trying very hard not to look lewd here.)

"Well, the part that says yeah there could be sex to it, I mean a thing beyond just the good flesh and the rhythm. Now that's the sacred part, she says, the sacred flesh, the sacred fat. You think it's good and it'll be good. It's good and you like it, so you show how you like it, but only in such of a way so it can't be there like a showcase for meat like, or on display like that says all fuck me."

"Well, who says?"

Her eyes widen somewhat. "Fuck me? Fuck me? You mean that, right?"

"No. Well, yeah. I mean, you said only she says not supposed to, your flesh should just say flesh and fat and so on but not - "

"Oh, yeah. Naomi. She's the Moth Wife."

"The what?"

She laughs. At my expression, I suppose. "I don't know, it's a translation, I guess, but yeah, the Moth Wife, she says."

"Only you want to say fuck me."

She looked at me without expression for a long time. I almost said something, anything, but then she lightly bit her lip and her whole face opened wide with fear. "What are you gonna do?" she said, and there was fear in her voice, too, a quiver. I didn't know what to say. What would she do? What could I say that wouldn't make her get up and run away screaming? - this was all so sudden - or just start right in making loud accusations so everyone could hear how I was being abusive. Everybody is getting called abusive these days and summoned to the courts over nothing, some innocent remark you make that's heard the wrong way, or it could have a double meaning to anyone and so you get sued.

"What are you gonna do?" she said again. "Are you gonna touch me?" (her eyes were glazed, she spoke in a flat tone), "you gonna touch my belly? I saw you looking at it. Do you want to touch my belly?"

And now those eyes are wide and feral, yet still afraid. She's talking about something way way down in the night, way back there in a dream of animal kisses, juice running down the sides of your merging faces, tumescent tongues all in a tangle of furious, eucharistic feasting and … and yet she's all sunlight. I imagine her under me, under the noon sun and pounding into her as her blub thighs force me further in, and then her feet beating against the bed out on some rooftop in Alexandria, while way below the sea slaps the sand like meat on a platter. Slap! Slosh! Slither and sizzle … Ah, rare white desert girl, were you washed up here from the heart of some shipwreck, some lost throw, some … some …

"Are you crazy?" I said now, coming back. "You're crazy, huh?"

She tossed back her tea.

"Fuck. Sure I'm crazy. Aren't you crazy?"

Her foot was now resting against my crotch under the table, her naked foot, and the big toe was, she was expertly …

"Yeah. I'm crazy," I told her, giving it up now, relaxing.

Because she was in control now. She was going to take me down, enfold me, and finally engulf me in her pleasure. She'd command my lips and tongue and the use of my hands and fingers and the toes of my feet she'd put to uses such as she was using her own upon me, and Oh them toes, she … she even let me come that way, I shouted and almost kicked the table over. No one noticed, she'd drawn a fog around us.

"The Moth Wife," I said, giggling as she led me up stairs to her place. "Where do you get these things out here?"

"You can laugh," she said in an echo that went up into the hot dark above. "Go on and laugh, idiot. She'd fuck you to death. You're lucky she won't, though."

"Am I? Am I? Has she done it before? Fucked men to death?" and I giggled uncontrollably.

"Come on. Be careful. There's a bad step. OK. That's good. That's good. Enter now. Enter here."

* * *

Suddenly I was running. A wall of flesh was after me, huge tits and asses were after me. They would explode against me and cover me with milk and blood and fat and woman goo of all sorts. Women swallowed the night like a cock; they sucked and devoured, they covered the moon with cum, using wide, soft-bristled glue brushes. Woman flesh and fat covered and smothered. I moved in a wobbling, wriggling world of perfumed and sweaty flesh, I breathed flesh in for air and drank and kissed and ate it. I was both in love with all that is and yet terrified of any singular thing. The woman world absorbing me, pixilating me to bleeding bits she sucked in through her pores as she danced her dance, yet I ran still, I was integral and wholly me, man, male, made male thing running naked in the night under the first stars but the breath I gulped in was her breath, which was thick and heavy, heavy air made of thick, sexual skin and I seemed to be perpetually coming; I was swamping through running puddles of thick, hot jism, with blood and cunt juice mixed all in with it like some evil swirled dessert, and she was breathing and breathing, the others, too, warning me against entry in this way. You poor fool, you poor, sick fool; you can't dance, don't ask. Her tits fill all space, her cunt is a tent under heaven with a hairy old Allah judging us from above, a merciless, supreme pimp in the night crying havoc against his own whores, who paint and invite and say No with their colored veils. Fuck me fuck me fuck me, no you can't fuck me … They are chasing me though the alleys of Alexandria, judging me, writing my name in unclean blood upon every wall. "Infidel!" they cry. "Fuck me, infidel!"

* * *

I lay heavily upon her, gasping like a near drowned man, both of us all sweat and spit and cum, the little dark room thick with sex smells, perfume, Arabian incense. At some point she grunts and gently rolls out from under me, letting me fall like a dead man to the floor.

"OK? Will you go?" she said from far away someplace in the house, it seemed very far away suddenly. Was it such a big house? I don't remember it being so big.

"Please," she said, right beside me now. "We're really not supposed to do this. It's bad. I mean, if you were my husband, even."

I was trying to disentangle myself from the bedding.

"Come on. Can you please."

"Well, look, I'm …"

"God damn it!"

"OK to curse, huh?" I said. "That's not a big nono?"

"Cut it out. Just …"

"Yes yes. Yes yes."

I was up and dressing. I wanted to paste her one in the mouth except I don't do that, not even with men who, for the most part, deserve it at all times. Not out of some moral principle but because I'm chicken.

"You won't come back, right?" she pleaded at the door. "I mean, you won't try to do it again."

"No. Never," I promised her. I held up my right hand in some faintly remembered scouting gesture. "Get yourself a gate keeper, though," I suggested then. "Big guy. Mustache, you know. Maybe a small hat. A derby hat, too small for his large Mongoloid head. Great effect. Offputting. Even scary."

She started screaming. She threw pillows, a fish bowl, flowers, anything.

I ran.

A Gypsy type guy was hanging out on stoop across the street. He was smoking a twisted cigar. He raised his head in greeting and gave me the high sign, you know, how was it? I kept on running. I was always running lately, it seemed, even in my dreams. No telling what would happen next. The whole Belly Dancing Association of Monterey could leap out of doors, fly from the windows on bat wings and fall upon me for the final kill, infidel sumbitch fucking their women like that, their Vestals what's more, what an oink, and for it I must surely die, of course, in some painful and extraordinary way. I run and run. I fly down quaint old Cannery Row, which is suddenly a wet, menacing street of crime where there is no promise of tomorrow, no relief of dawn or commerce or glitzy tourist boutiques and fake fish and octopus that look you straight in the eye like a man. I am lost forever in a pirate's fever dream of retribution and I shall not want, I shall not want. No, nein, nevermore, I shall not want…







ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brent Powers is a retired failure, living in the San Francisco Bay Area. He is the author of the novel, The Dog's Tooth (Xlibris, 2002), which a few discriminating people have been known to read. He has published short fiction in Pedestal, Right Hand Pointing Left, Doorknobs and Body Paint, and the forthcoming Prairie Dog 13. He says that he writes because he has to.




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