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11-21-2002, 06:40 PM

It's not a thought, it's a wish...

The Three Wishes
by Brain Trepaning

The old man couldn't believe his luck. He pushed aside some crumpled
newspapers and exposed the prize. Half a pizza, still in the box, and it
couldn't have been in the dumpster for more than a day, two days tops. All
his life, the old man had been pushed aside, forgotten about in crowds, or
left behind. Soon, his anonymity became a way of life, subsisting on the
discards of others and the indifference of all. He lived moment to moment,
always had. Small affirmations, like half a pizza that still resembled a
pizza and not a grade school science experiment, assured him, in his own odd
way, that he did have luck in his life, after all.

The old man shoved the pizza, box and all, beneath his weather-worn coat. It
was a heavy knee-length brown-tweed coat with faux-fur collar, the soils of
many a sleep on the filthy city earth crushed into its fibers, never to come
out. His chest length grey beard was easily equally soiled, making it hard
to distinguish where facial hair ended and faux fur began.

With his dinner hidden safely away, the old man hurried out of the alley. He
knew people of his lifestyle had been killed for carrying less. As a matter
of fact, he knew it a little too well. He killed a man once, but no longer
remembered why. He just knew, in his heart, it was for less than half an
edible pizza. It was this memory, or lack thereof, etched in his character
that made him walk another four blocks east before he would feel safe enough
to bring out his food and eat.

It was in the last of these four extra blocks that the old man found the oil
lamp.

The lamp was half pressed into the lawn of an industrial warehouse building,
as if it had been stepped on or run over. But it wasn't damaged, at least
not the part the old man could see. The old man looked up at the smoggy
night sky and wondered if it had come from there.

He dug out the oil lamp with pre-soiled fingers. Besides some pressed on
mud, the other half of the lamp looked to be in as good shape as the side
that hadn't been pressed into the earth.

It was a rather spectacular lamp, now that the old man looked at it closer.
The shine was dulled from age, but there were beautiful, intricate, etchings
in the metal, like the pictures the old man saw at an Ancient Egyptian
museum display. He wondered if they told a story like the hieroglyphs of
Egypt did.

He stood and held the lamp in the light of one of the few working street
lights in the area.

There were several tiers of etchings, each tier following around the
circumference of the lamp. Human figures and tiny writing were etched like
comic strips into the metal of the oil lamp.

Curiosity, another of the old man's character traits, and a stronger one
than his fear of death, got hold of him. He sat on the lawn beneath the
streetlight, took out the pizza and ate with the same unwashed hands he used
to dig out the lamp. Two slices on each other like a sandwich in his left
hand, he fed his face while examining the lamp in his right hand.

He wiped the lamp on the lawn to clean off some of the earth covering the
etchings on the side that had been buried. Not quite successful, he wiped it
across his pants leg.

Still, it was hard to see the etchings.

He shoved the remainder of the pizza he was holding into his mouth and put
both hands into action cleaning the lamp, holding it in one hand while,
using part of his coat for the rag it was, he scrubbed with his other hand.

"If you keep rubbing it like that, it's going to catch on fire." a voice
said from behind the old man.

It was a woman's voice and it was entirely unexpected.

The old man stood and spun around in the same movement, trodding upon the
rest of his pizza.

"Where did you come from?" the old man asked, slipping the lamp into his
pocket. There was no way she had come up the street, he would have seen her.
The building behind him was almost the entire block in length and what
wasn't building was fenced in yard. There was no way she climbed over an
eight foot chainlink fence with barbwire icing in the dress she was wearing.

It was a full length pink evening gown, tight against her slim body, without
unnecessary frills. For a moment, the old man was entranced. It had been
awhile since he had had a woman acknowledge his existence, much less speak
words to him. Her presence softened his world for a brief time, then his
survival instinct kicked back in and his body grew a bit more rigid.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you." the woman said, taking a step closer to the
old man and reaching out her hand in a kindly non-threatening manner. "I've
lost something and it's very important. If can't find it, I'll be in real
trouble." She looked up and down the lawn.

"What'd you think bringing something important way out here in the middle of
nowhere?" the old man asked.

The woman looked at the old man with a slight scowl. "Are you going to help
me find it or what?"

"My time is valuable." the old man said.

The woman looked at the old man, her scowl now a slight sneer. "Yes, I can
see you are a man of great importance and expenditure." she said.

"Excuse me," the old man said, "but I believe you owe me for my pizza, since
I stepped on it because of you." "Help me find what I've lost and I'll give
you enough to buy pizza until you're sick of pizza."

"That's a lot of pizza." the old man said. "I really like pizza."

"I'll take that into consideration. Do we have a deal?"

"You better not be lying about the reward." the old man said, pointing a
finger at the woman.

"You'll have your reward. I promise you."

The old man looked at the woman.

The woman returned the stare.

The old man asked, "So, what'd you lose."

The woman smiled.

"A family heirloom." she said. "It's an old oil lamp. You know, like the
kind genies come out of. It's been in my family forever. I just have to get
it back."

The old man turned his attention to the ground. This reminded him of a joke
he once heard about the difference between an alcoholic and a junkie.
They'll both steal your wallet, but the junkie will help you look for it.
These circumstances, of course, were different. In this transaction, the old
man was doing nothing more than conducting business.

"I'll tell you what," the woman said, "you look over there and I'll look
over here."

"If you find it, do I still get the reward?"

The woman paused, then replied, "If I find it, I'll take you out for pizza.
Does that sound okay?"

"Not as okay as if I find it." the old man said.

"Then you better get looking."

The woman walked away from the old man, who headed straight for some bushes
that edged the building. Once at them, he looked to the woman, who had her
back to him. He reached into his pocket, took out the lamp and placed it on
the ground in the bush, pushing it into the dirt a bit. Then, he stood and
called out to the woman.

"Hey," he shouted, "I think I found it!"

The woman turned to the old man.

"You think you found it?" she hollered.

"Well, unless someone else lost a shiny oil lamp around here."

The old man stooped and picked up the lamp from where he had just placed it.
By the time he stood, the woman was at his side.

"You did find it!" she said. Then, she did something the old man hadn't felt
in a long time.

She hugged him.

"Wow, did I hire the right private investigator!" she continued, her
excitement making the old man feel just a bit guilty for his facade.

"So, not to put a damper on the moment but, now that you have your lamp
back, I hope you haven't forgot about the reward." the old man said.

The woman's smile didn't break. The old man took that as a good sign.

Instead, she pinched his cheek like his grandmother used to and said,
"You're so cute. Of course I haven't forgotten about the reward."

The old man didn't know how to take this. Was she coming onto him? Was that
to be his reward? Granted, it had been many many years since he had last
been with a woman, and she was beautiful, albeit young, but beautiful,
nonetheless. But, as enticing a fantasy as it was, the old man pushed the
thought out of his head. One quickie does not buy much pizza, he concluded.

The old man saw a pair of headlights coming up the street, still four or
five blocks away.

"If you could wish for anything in the world," the woman said, "what would
it be?"

Again, the old man entertained a brief thought of an illicit rendezvous with
this woman, right there on the moist lawn.

As the car came closer, the old man could see it was a white stretch
limousine, at least an eight passenger model.

He wondered if this woman was a model, perhaps a supermodel. He turned his
attention back to the woman.

"If I could have anything," he said, "I'd wish that car was coming for me."

The woman smiled. "I thought you'd say that." she said.

They both watched the car drive up and stop on the road in front of where
they stood.

"Okay," the woman said, "what else would you wish for?"

"What is this?" the old man asked. "Some stupid game?"

"Oh, c'mon." the woman said. "Humor me."

The old man didn't think too long about his next response.

"I'd wish I was richer than anyone else in the world."

"Wow, you don't think small, do you." the woman said. "Let's have just one
more wish. Anything you want. What would it be?" she asked, her face getting
a slightly more serious look.

The driver door on the car opened and a man, dressed head to toe with full
chauffeur regalia, including cap and sunglasses, though the sun was many
hours gone, got out and opened one of the side doors. Then, he stood beside
the open door, like a soldier at ease.

"Jeez, another? Well, with all that I already have, I guess I'd wish I had a
wish to give away."

"How truly noble." the woman said.

"But, nobility will not buy my pizza." the old man reminded the woman.

"No, you're right." the woman said.

Then, from a small handbag hanging at her waist, suspended from a small gold
strap over her bare shoulder, she produced a black credit card and handed it
to the old man. "But this will buy you lots of pizza."

The old man took the piece of black plastic. It didn't look like any credit
card he had ever seen. "What's this?" he asked.

"That's your key to the banks." she said. "I'm sure you will find all the
money you need in them."

The old man was bewildered. He looked to make sure the driver was still at
the car and not about to knock him over the head and have him taken off to
be the star of some snuff film where they get a couple of pretty woman to
make out with a derelict like himself, then they kill him.

The driver was still at the car.

The old man turned his eyes back to the piece of plastic the woman handed
him."You're giving me a credit card?"

"Of course I am. What good to me is a credit card with your name on it?"

The old man looked at the card.

His name?

On the card?

He could see words written on it, but he didn't know what his name looked
like written. He could barely remember what it was spoken.

"How did you get a card..."

"With your name on it?" the woman said, finishing the old man's sentence.
"In this day and age, it's a lot more convenient than handing over a sack of
money."

The old man got defensive. "If this is a trick, so you don't have to pay
me..."

The woman took a hundred dollar bill out of her handbag.

"Your life has changed in ways it will take a while for you to comprehend."
the woman said. "But, rest assured, this is the beginning of your new
reality."

She handed the hundred dollar bill to the old man.

"Go get yourself some pizza. The driver knows your favorite spot."

The old man turned to the car.

When he turned back to the woman, both she and the oil lamp were gone,
leaving the old man standing there with a hundred dollar bill in one hand, a
credit card in the other, and a stretch limousine waiting with a driver that
knew his favorite buck-a-slice pizza joint.

He looked at the hundred dollar bill in his hand and thought, tonight, maybe
he'd go somewhere else for supper, instead.

He turned and walked towards the car.

The driver straightened up a bit and smiled. "Good evening, sir." he said.

"Uh, good evening." the old man replied. He turned back to where he and the
woman stood only moments before. She was as gone as she had been when he
last turned to her, and there was no sign she would be returning anytime
soon. "Do you work for that woman? I'm sorry, I never got her name?" the old
man asked the driver.

"What woman, sir?" the driver asked.

"The woman I was standing with only moments ago."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't see a woman."

"How could you have missed her? She was dressed in a long pink dress."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm sure she was quite beautiful to have you so flustered,
but I didn't see her."

The old man didn't say anything for a moment.

"Who pays you?" the old man asked the driver.

"Why, you do, sir." the driver responded, a somewhat puzzled look on his
face.

The old man's face had an equally puzzled look on it, though it was buried
beneath his soiled beard.

"And you say you didn't see me with a woman."

"No, sir, I did not see a woman."

"No, of course you didn't." the old man said, his sight turning from the
driver back to the spot where she had stood, back to the trampled pizza
slices and box on the lawn, then down to his own shoddy attire and broken
shoes. "Of course you didn't. Please excuse me, I'm just a bit tired at the
moment"

The driver smiled his understanding.

The old man then entered his limousine for the first time, and the door
closed on his past.

At first, his attention was all over the extravagant interior of the car.
With more leather seats than he had friends to fill, a bar, television, and
two cellular phones, this car was a rolling entertainment unit. His eyes
wandered about, but soon he drew their attention back to his hands and the
contents thereof.

"Where would you like to go, sir?" the driver, segregated from the passenger
section with a black window, asked over a small speaker.

There was a red button next to the speaker, and the old man pressed it, then
spoke. "Let's go get some food." he said, looking at the hundred dollar bill
he held in the hand pressing the intercom button.

"Then," he added, looking at the credit card in the hand reaching for an
airline-size bottle of vodka from the bar, "let's find a barber and a
tailor. I've got some sprucing up to do."

"Yes, sir." the driver said, and pulled the car away from the curb.

As the driver turned the car around and pointed it towards the city's
innards, a childhood giddiness overwhelmed the old man and he burst into
laughter. If this was a dream, he hoped he didn't have to wake up. As he
laughed and wailed, tears of joy filled his eyes and clouded his vision. Had
it not been for that, he would have had one last glimpse of the beautiful
woman in the pink dress, as she flew off into the distant night sky, riding
a hand-woven carpet.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The old man woke the next morning with the hangover to end all hangovers.
The pain in his head was soon forgotten as his crust-filled eyes opened and
saw the blue silk slip covering the pillow his head lay on. He sat up quick,
far too quick for someone in his condition, and nausea crept up his throat.
He choked back the feeling and gazed upon the bed he was in. Larger than any
bed he had ever seen on display in any department store, there was enough
mattress surrounding him to comfortably sleep as many bums as it would take
to fill the seats in the limousine.

The old man couldn't believe his own thoughts.

His limousine.

His bed.

His room in what he imagined to be his house. These were his silk pajamas he
was wearing, his silk sheets he'd been sleeping on.

The old man turned his gaze to the ceiling, some thirteen feet up from where
he sat, and thanked God for the first time in his life.

There was a painting on the ceiling. Rather, a series of paintings, all
somehow connected. The old man tried to focus his hurting eyes on the
paintings but, in trying so hard, he brought on a dizzy spell and the nausea
came back with a vengeance.

The old man hurriedly got out of bed and headed for the open door at the
other side of the room. He had hoped it was a bathroom, and his hope wasn't
crushed. Across the threshold, he dropped to his knees and proceeded to
vomit into the most beautiful toilet he had ever seen.

It was then he realized his beard was gone.

With a rush of adrenaline the like of which he hadn't felt since having to
outrun a triplet of pitbull terriers that had really, really wanted to sink
their teeth into his stinking flesh, he pushed himself off the floor and
leaned his aching body on the bathroom sink. Surprisingly, the mirror was of
average size in such an otherwise proportionately obscene bathroom.

The old man looked in the mirror, then quickly turned his head in disbelief.

Still looking away, he raised his hand to his chin and felt naked flesh.

A shudder ran up his spine and he cringed at being so naked, so vulnerable.

His face. They could see his face. Everyone. Anyone that looked.

He put his face in his hands, his naked palms against his naked face, and
drew them apart again with such a start that he smacked the back of his head
on the sink, doing his hangover no good, whatsoever.

When the stars cleared, he looked at his hands like a high school kid on
acid, seeing them for the very first time all over again.

These weren't his hands.

The palms, they were soft.

There were no liver spots, no scars.

And his fingernails. Not even the best manicurist could have done that good
a job to his fingernails overnight. They were perfect. Not a hangnail, not a
chip. Not a fleck of dirt beneath them. Yesterday, traces of diseases long
believed extinct could have been sampled from beneath his fingernails. This
morning, they were impeccable.

Something very odd happened to him when he stepped into that car, the old
man began to suspect. Maybe the woman and the driver were in cahoots after
all, and the booze was ****ed. Maybe they switched his brain with someone
else's. Not that that in itself would have been such a bad thing,
considering the choice he got switched with. After all, with exception to
the hangover, this had turned out to be the best day the old man had ever
woken up to.

He put himself in front of the mirror again.

He pushed aside the brown hair that covered his forehead. There was no
lobotomy scar but, again, he threw himself away from the mirror in horror.
There was no lobotomy scar beneath the brown hair that covered his forehead
but, yesterday, there was no hair to cover his forehead, brown or any other
color.

He turned back to his reflection. There were still wrinkles on his face, but
no where near the cavernous etchings time had carved into his face when he
has last looked in a mirror. And he imagined the wrinkles he had then would
have only grown deeper, not smoothed themselves out a bit. Perhaps the beard
he had worn for almost two decades had pulled his skin more wrinkled than
nature would have otherwise. Maybe having it shaved off in his drunken
stupor released the tension and his face sprung back into shape. However,
that didn't explain the hair on his head, or the youthful body he now
realized he was wearing.

He pulled open the pajama top in such a hurry that two buttons popped off
and landed in the sink. He had never had as much hair on his chest as he did
at that moment, and he had never had such well developed pectorals. This was
the body of a man twenty years younger than he had been twenty four hours
earlier.

He was about to drop his drawers and see what other gifts had been endowed
upon him when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a new light.

He stopped thinking of his body and turned back to his face. It had been
many many years since he had seen himself without a beard, but he recognized
the face in the mirror as though he had seen it every day. And it most
certainly had never been his own.

"I don't believe this." he said, reaching out his hand and touching the face
in the mirror.

"I'm you. You're me." he said, his smile growing larger with each
realization and affirmation.

He saw a pair of prescription glasses on the sink counter. He picked them
up, put them on, and saw the new him clearly for the first time, trademark
windows to the world and all.

"I really am the richest person on this stinking planet." he said.

"I really, really am!"

Then, hysterical laughter came over him and he didn't say anything else for
a few minutes.

Once he regained his composure, he quickly threw on the clothes closest to
him and headed into the house to find the door out. It was a nice place, he
thought, but not where he wanted to be on his first day of untold riches.
How much was he worth, he wondered, as he headed down a spiraling staircase
made of marble with a wrought iron banister. There was a definite edge to
the house's decor, but he knew he had plenty of time to bask in it later,
when he was tired.

"Good morning, sir." a petite Negro woman in a traditional maid uniform
said, greeting him at the bottom of the staircase.

"Uh, good morning." he said, shooting his gaze all over the room.

Not knowing the maid from Eve, he took the look on her face to mean he was
acting a little odd. Was he acting a bit too excited? Was he not supposed to
say "good morning"? Perhaps it was the "uh". Yes, that had to be it. People
in his life's position didn't have time to say "uh", they just said what had
to be said, then moved on.

"Will you be eating this morning?" the maid asked.

He just about "uh"ed, but caught himself and paused instead.

"No, I'll be going out immediately and won't be back all day." he said.
"Could you please have my car sent around."

The maid looked positively baffled.

She "uh"ed, then said, "Are you alright, sir? You look a little pale."

"Yes, I'm fine. I just want to go for a drive, that's all. I just need some
quality me time."

The maid seemed a little more relaxed after that was said.

"Okay, have yourself a nice day." she said, opening the front door. Outside,
there was a red sportscar that he didn't even know the make of.

"That's my car, isn't it." he said to the maid, masking the question he was
actually asking.

"Yes." she said. "That is your car."

They both looked at it.

"I always park it there, don't I."

"Only when you're here."

"And the keys?" he asked, this time not masking the fact.

"Where they always are, I'd imagine." the maid said, her relaxed look now
growing a little agitated. "You really tied one on last night, didn't you?"
she asked, looking hard at his face. "I'll ask you again, is everything
alright?"

She put her hand on his arm, and he turned towards her.

"Things have never been better." he said, stepping slightly back and
distancing himself from her touch. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm the
richest man in the world and I want to go for a drive. Don't you have
something to dust?"

The maid looked as though she had been slapped in the face. Her mouth tensed
and her eyes narrowed. "Uh, yes, sir. Yes, of course I have things to do."
she said, shaking her head and disappearing into a room he didn't even know
the purpose of.

"Quit saying uh." he muttered as he walked to his shiny red sportscar. "It
makes you sound stupid."

The keys were already in the ignition. With the security he saw walking
around, while making sure they were keeping a healthy distance from his own
personal space, he had guessed that in the ignition was where he would
always have left the keys. He reached into his pocket to make sure he had
his key to the banks, his black card, with him. It was one piece of plastic
he was sure he would never leave home without. In his pocket it was.

He sat in the car and it was a glove to his body. He turned the ignition.
The car roared to life, then settled to a purr. He flipped down the sun
visor to shade his eyes, and something fell into his lap.

It was another black credit card, identical in design to the one he had in
his pocket.

He laughed and opened the glove compartment to toss it in.

Black plastic cards spilled out onto the passenger side floor, dozens of
them.

He couldn't believe his eyes. It was like gold bars falling off the back of
a truck, although he guessed the dollar to weight ratio was much greater on
his black cards. How much proof did one man need that he was wealthy beyond
all possibilities of ever being poor, he wondered as he picked up the cards,
returning them to the compartment.

He threw the car into gear and took off far too quickly for someone that
hadn't driven in over two decades. Fortunately, the driveway ahead of him
was straight and long. Lined with hedges, a sidewalk crossed it at its end,
an end that came a moment too soon. The car stopped as soon as it was asked
to, but it wasn't asked to until it had already knocked a pedestrian to the
ground.

He stopped the car and jumped out.

Splayed out on the lawn was a derelict in ratty clothing. The derelict had a
long grey beard not unlike the one he, himself, had sported only hours ago.
He dropped to his knees beside his fallen comrade, another of the forgotten,
the unwashed. There, but for the grace of God, was himself. His own filth
only hours behind him, he found the pungent aroma of the derelict to be
overwhelming. He put his hand beneath the derelict's beard and felt for a
pulse. There was one, it was a faint one, but a pulse, nonetheless.

The derelict coughed, a bubble of blood grew and popped out of one of his
nostrils. He opened one of his eyes.

"Help me." the derelict said.

"Of course." he said, rising quickly, wiping the tear from his eye. He
leaned into his car and looked for a phone. While there were two in the
limousine, he didn't see one in his own car.

"Dammit." he said. Where were all the security people now, he wondered. He
honked the horn for a couple of seconds to try to get some security
attention, then stopped, thinking of the broken man laying on the grass in
front of the car, right where the horn blared.

He hurried back to the derelict's side.

"Look, I live in that huge house way back there down this driveway. I'm just
going to hop in my car and head..."

The derelict lurched violently and retched a puddle of blood and bile.

"Oh no, hang on. I'm going to get you help. Damn, I wish I knew first aid."
he said. Then, the light went on in his head, and he remembered what he did
have.

He had a third wish, a wish to make someone else's wish come true.

"If you can still hear me," he said, "I can make you better right now, you
just have to wish for it. That's all you have to do. Do you hear me? I can
make your wish come true. You just have to wish for it, and you'll be as
healthy as you've ever been. Just wish."

The derelict mumbled, too quiet for him to hear.

He leaned his ear close to the derelict's bleeding mouth. "Just wish for
it." he said.

The derelict mumbled again, and he heard clearly what the derelict used his
dying breath to wish for.

The security was upon the scene immediately thereafter. Their first
assumption, from the look of sheer terror on their boss' face, was that he
was in danger. When he laid the derelict's hand on the grass and stood, the
security guards all breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief.

"Are you alright, sir?" one of them asked.

"Uh, I do believe I've just killed a man." he said.

"It was an accident." one of the guards said. "Those people jump in front of
cars all the time, to get insurance claims and stuff. This one just didn't
fall right. Don't worry about this. We'll take care of it." the guard said,
looking around and getting the nod of approval from the rest of the
security.

"Uh, fine." the billionaire said. "Just see to it he gets a decent burial,
would you? He seemed like he may have been a good person."

"Did he have any last words?" a guard asked.

"Yes, he did." the billionaire said, wiping a tear from his eye. "He said he
wished he was me."

"Ya, him and everyone else." the guard said with a chuckle.

The billionaire turned his back to the chuckling guards.

He started walking towards the house, his house, his smile growing larger
with each step. The first thing he was going to do was eat until he could
eat no more. Then, he was going to sleep until he could sleep no more. He
hoped the bed was a big one.

He couldn't imagine it would be anything less.

THE END

--

Brain Trepaning
Boring excitement into your skull
http://victorian.fortunecity.com/daddio/227

BeLikeWater I never said that Brain Trepaning was gay.. I just wanted to know how many of you guys thought he was... looking at the number of page views.. some of you guys think he's reaaAAAAALLLY gay.

Brain Trepaning quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted by VulgarTheClown
Who is this guy and why is he gay?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sounds like a dumb-ass clown and it must be because of genetics.

VulgarTheClown Who is this guy and why is he gay?

BeLikeWater that is so gonna be my new sig

cakewalkbaby hahhahaha who has reloaded this thread over 100 times already?
legend

Brain Trepaning Sex- test subject A and male
Researcher: Brain Trepaning

"Little death", or "petite mort" as the French originally called it,
refers to a specific type of sexual climax and not to orgasms in
general, as it is most commonly used. Through the ages, the term
"little death" had been confused largely because of Aristotle's
paranoid belief that each time a male ejaculated, he gave both a piece
of his lifeforce and a piece of his brain, bringing the man closer to
death. Tried and tested, we know a man doesn't lose any life by
ejaculating (save the moments it takes to ejaculate) and that for a
male to ejaculate once every forty-eight hours may very well be
beneficial to a man's good health and general well-being. The phrase
"little death" refers to a specific female sexual climax, having
nothing to do with males, whatsoever. As is most often the case with
female orgasms.

Test subject A (female, early twenties) was multi-orgasmic, whereas
the male (late twenties) was only capable of ejaculating once before
losing his erection. (Then he was flaccid for half an hour, or fifteen
minutes, if there was chocolate cake.) With test subject A, the male
had been able to produce three orgasms in a period of one half hour
while they were both fully clothed. The male had been able to
stimulate her breasts sufficiently to produce orgasms while
deliberately avoiding contact with her genitals. Multiple orgasms in a
short period were also possible with cunnilingus, with and without
digit insertion. While vaginal orgasms were heightened with variable
combinations of digit penetration in the vagina and anus, anal orgasms
were only possible with actual intercourse. On a single occasion, an
orgasm was produced by licking and sucking the test subjects armpit,
again avoiding any genital contact deliberately. More than one session
had produced climax by stimulating her bellybutton with his tongue.
She described the bellybutton orgasm as "just like I cum when I use my
clit".

The first time "little death" occurred was three quarters through a
session I ended up being particularly fond of. The male is quite
capable of maintaining an erection without orgasm for forty-five
minutes (I have studied the male with other test subjects prior to)
but was not always able to "pound her hard" as she "likes it" without
bringing himself to the brink of orgasm. Instead, he adopted a jazz
musician style of lovemaking, mixing and matching playful pokes with
deep hard thrusts and gentle smooth gliding, sometimes when she
expected him to, sometimes when she didn't. The session that managed
to produce her "little death" lasted an hour and fifteen minutes of
actual intercourse (always with a condom). In that time, I recorded a
total of twelve orgasms, nine before the first occurence of "little
death" and two after. The first orgasm that session came (no pun)
three minutes after initial penetration. The second, two minutes
later. The third about six minutes after her second orgasm. They began
to taper off after that, though the last two came in quick succession,
less than two minutes apart, but twelve minutes after she experienced
her "little death".

In one session, the male spanked A to orgasm, her buttocks a glaring
red. In another, he straddled her neck as she deep-fellatio-ed him
while masturbating herself to orgasm, gasping in air between strokes
of his penis down her windpipe. He had deliberately deprived her of
oxygen, utilized drugs, and introduced the occasional bout of fantasy
and physical pain to attempt to heighten her orgasmic peak, and had
been successful with most ideas.

All of these, while unique in their own stimulating climax, had been
"pleasurable, but nothing compared to" what was achieved that day.

She said she saw where life came from.

A bit of background history is important. Test subject A was a random
selection. Quite simply, she was sitting the closest to me on a bus
the evening I went out to find a test subject. (Prior to my going
independent, test subjects were screened and provided by a panel
[which is how I met the male], as described in the March issue of
Scientific Regeneration.)

The first three months were used to establish the facade of mutual
emotional bonding. Once the male had her convinced that he "love"d her
and this is just what he had to do for a living, the experiment was
able to unfold with little resistance.

I have, in past studies, established that there are variant degrees
and intensities of the female orgasm, each leading to the potential of
a more secure impregnation.

Impregnation, however, was not part of the research I had to do.

The purpose of my research was to find the strongest female orgasm, to
achieve a "little death" in a female test subject, a myth a man
believed in and financed me to find.

With the oxygen deprivation experiments, A experienced total blackouts
at points. She recalls mere moments before blacking out, then the
sensation as everything converged together as one again and her mind
awakened in a body having an intense orgasm. With the drugs, she
recalls being completely detatched from herself, like she used to do
the many times her uncle sexually abused her as a child. But when her
"little death" happened, she had complete respiratory and circulatory
shutdown for a period of one and one half seconds, as was recorded on
the machinery I hooked them to to monitor heartrate and such.

When the "little death" orgasm began, the monitors jumped at a rate
before unprecedented. Five to six seconds later, the charts weren't
wide enough to catch the full swing of the monitor's pen. Then she
went into a moment of cardiac arrest and, when she came to, stared
into the camera recording the sessions with eyes that had pupils
dilated so large there was no color and barely any white left. Just
black circles, taking everything in again, like they couldn't open
wide enough.

As I wrote earlier, I ended up being quite fond of that session
because, while I am to maintain a professional detatched relationship,
the male bettered his own physical capabilities by seventy five
percent that session, when time and exertion are considered into the
equation, and all because of a schedule I formulated. The notes
leading up to the session in mention tell that the male had been
having a rigorous two weeks physically, eating more regular and
fresher foods than before. (For exercise sake, I got him a part-time
job doing hard manual labor.) He maintained a regular sexual diet of
every forty-eight hours, but it was seventy-two hours between the last
session and the one that produced the "little death". He was far more
agressive than usual, pushing in deeper than he had before with more
force than he "knew" he "was capable of". Over and over and over
again. It was straight sexual intercourse, no drugs, no pinching, no
fondling, no teasing, and, oddly, no kissing. Just down-on-the-floor
pounding.

Test subject A had shown herself to be a "moaner", with a lot of "oh
please, oh please"s going on. The male came to know her preferences
well enough that a particular sigh or slight grasp specifically
located let him know what she required, such as a massaged anus or
fondled breast. There were no hints of additional stimulation needed
the moment we broke new ground, or rather, rediscovered forgotten
ground so sacred words were never used to historicalize the experience
because, as test subject A put it, "It's older than words".

The second time "little death" occurred was deliberate, as the first
was but this time I knew it was real, thusly achievable. While
impregnation was not part of the contract with my "sponsor", it takes
a lot of energy and thought to carry on a facade of love for a full
year, and it takes a lot more thought to feel out another human being
from the inside out, to get to know their every want, desire, need,
and fear. I had spent a lifetime developing intuitive skills and
instinctive behaviors, specializing in manipulation and forethought,
and knew it would be awhile before I spent this much time alone with a
single test subject again, so I devised my own hidden agenda. The male
and I reached a mutually beneficial agreement, and the experiment came
to fruition.

It has long been known that four parts need to be present for
conception to occur: three of necessity, one aesthetic.

The three essential elements for successful copulation with purpose of
impregnating are sperm, egg and electricity. (Past researchers once
believed the electricity part to be purpose, that if there was a need
for a person to be born, then the egg would be fertilized.) The male
electrical charge is inevitable, a direct result of ejaculation. While
this in itself is more often than not enough of a power supply to
jumpstart the sperm to life and impregnate, simultaneous orgasms of
the male and female could greatly increase the possibility of
pregnancy.

Both test subject A and the male had been tested and found to be
without any contagious STD's. The plan was to bring her to "little
death" while keeping pace with his own ejaculatory response sequence
so that he'd be able to tear the condom at the crucial moment for both
and ejaculate directly into her.

That was the plan, and the plan went well.

Two weeks later, after a little explaining and a lot of worrying (on
her part), it was confirmed. She was pregnant. She convinced herself
into an abortion, so an abortion it would be. A date was made, for the
tenth week. She had to carry the child around for eight weeks. (While
I could have performed the procedure myself, I chose to remain
ignorant of the tactic employed by such facilities to make a woman who
has made up her mind change it. I would have performed the surgery if
I had to, I just chose to wait it out, allowing for a spontaneous
stress management experiment, one could say.)

After the fourth week, her breasts had grown an abnormal amount. She
went in for an ultrasound which revealed she was pregnant with
triplets. It didn't change her opinion, the date was set and the
abortion took place. (Rather, the fetuses were removed.)

Keep in mind, the results of A are of only one person. She was
impregnated with a conception that developed into three seperate
entities when the male ejaculated at the same moment she experienced a
"little death". That is a fact.

The questions now are, does the same apply to other women? Are other
women capable of "little death" and does it require a minimum nine
months of intense mono-a-mono to understand seperate bodies to achieve
this? And, if a woman's conceptive capabilities lay in the intensity
of the orgasm she has during the moments surrounding impregnation, is
"little death" the female body's own fertility pill?

There are many mysteries that need to be answered but, for now, I've
done my part. There are different intensities of the female orgasm,
including one so extreme it literally kills the woman, for a brief
period. This orgasm is called "little death", and it may very well be
the doorway to life. If not, one thing is for certain, "little death"
is not a euphemism for orgasms, it is, instead