Jessica Pt. 02

While my body bends and melts with his, I am absorbing his acts and adjusting to his motions. I am his to do with how he pleases. I feel... content, giving Tom the illusion he is daddy and I am a naughty girl, getting into another bout of trouble. He disciplines me by spanking me with the direct swat of his fingers. He caresses my smooth ass. He rams me until I ache and feel so sick and full that I wish only for him to stand in me and come inside--lay waste to the leisure he has granted to pave way to that wonderfully gratifying spike of ecstasy.

In sex, I feel more emotion and life than I know that I am capable of knowing. I am whole. I am pleased. I am filled, and I am up. There is no better feeling than that of being driven through a wealth of feeling that cascades through me like a waterfall, to the height and climax of pure bliss, only to look off and see and feel the cauliflower clouds come sweeping through my body. Sex is part of who I am.

As the morning sun breaks through the slit in the blinds, I die upon the bare mattress of his shit-stained room as Tom towers in me. My legs vibrate with the full strength that erects all inner pleasure. My fingers clench and tighten, digging their fingernails into the dough of his back. My ankles rotate and my feet wiggle to the tips of my toes. We are an acute angle: his back curves as the cloud passes into me. My eyes roll into the back of my head. A wonderful wail of a scream escapes my lips and springs throughout the walls boxing us in this cage of pure primal passion. I press my palms into my forehead as the last of Tom sputters to its gorgeous end--and he falls over me, sighing.

"You are a ten." I say, feeling his life flushing between my legs as he unplugs and releases me.

"Ditto. I do this a lot--you might have noticed." I am all ears and fine with hearing about such absolute statements. "Haven't met anyone who could keep up like that."

"This is my talent." I say, spreading out at his side on the rectangle of the bed.

"Good round." He says and starts putting on his jeans. I watch his back as he pulls his T-shirt over it. Will the rest of the world know when they see him? Will the rest of the world know that Tom is a God in bed at expressing his love for his partner? Will he turn the heads of others as he walks down the street, on his way to wherever he's going? Will they know right off that he is more than a simple human being? I did. But I'm not normal. I am as inhuman as I appear human.

"You know how to use your equipment effectively--a rare feat with few visible rewards." I begin to put my gown back on.

"No one's ever put it that way. Guess rewards are all I see." He smiles. His words somehow make sense to me. This must be what they call an epiphany--where something magically clicks, though I have yet to hear an audible click.

"One for the history books." Tom grabs his keys. He was only here for one reason, and it's the same reason I am here. How very peculiar that we could wind up in the same place at the same moment.

"I will get some history books for that one." I say, following him out onto the sunny morning walk.

"You're cute." He beams, closes the door, and we go our separate ways.

I return to my room and rest until the baking white of afternoon light peaks through the window. I don't believe I am in need of revitalization, but the day is a lousy time to proceed with my vagrant lifestyle as I've yet to meet someone perchance to school me in the ways of human communication.

After leaving my room with my bag slung over my shoulder--I am wearing the blouse and slacks from Sak's again--I don't bother checking out because I'm pretty sure the desk manager was keeping visual tabs on my room. That concludes he will, more than likely, request more sufficient payment than a simple BJ.

I make my way through the city streets, walking tirelessly to nowhere as the sun gradually descends in the sky. The clouds return, and after being splashed with mucky water similar to that through which I was birthed, I change into a sweater and jeans--one of Melissa's more casual outfits. I am striding between buildings that look down on me.

This is a dangerous street. Everyone is happy. There are couples all over. They hold hands and smile into one another's eyes. Hormones shoot in all directions from these creepy beings: teenagers. I am apparently not far, in appearance, from a teenager, but I cannot imagine being one of them. Even looking like them, partially developed and mentally stupefied, would feel incredibly awkward.

I see college boys kissing college girls, boys holding girls, boys touching girls in their no-no places. I feel alive--human, in essence. I am fascinating. The words bleed into my mind with the simple turn of my head. I gaze at the message peering back at me within the box on the curbside. It is the Los Angeles Times and I see a man who is as familiar as he is significant to me, but a person whom I have never met in my time of being awake these last two days.

He is an older man: bald, fuzzy gray orbiting the back of his dome. He is chunky and cute in a college professor way. This man is Dr. Farmer. Dr. Farmer has a PhD in neuroscience and robotics, and teaches at California State University in Los Angeles. He is my father. I would recognize his face anywhere. I survey the paper closely and find that this is not happy news of my poor father. The article about Dr. Farmer here is nothing more than an obituary. He was killed in a mass riot. The rest of the story is lost behind the yellow box that houses this newspaper.

Looking about, the street-side suddenly goes very quiet and deserted. There is no one to request two quarters from so that I might find out the rest of this dire information. I notice a Barnes and Noble resting like an evil castle on the hill overlooking the valley of commercial district I've gotten lost in. Bookstores are always a good source for useful information, particularly on current events. Perhaps I'll find a newspaper there capable of indulging my interest.

I pass from corner to corner, merging with the crowds of pedestrians who are all so busy, talking on their phones, texting on their phones, taking pictures with their phones, filming with what looks like more of their phones. I meet the steps of the Barnes and Noble and enter through the gateway at the top. Inside, some of the people are scholarly, others look like children being forced to read for reasons that aren't their own. Why anyone would be disappointed in learning is beyond me. I find a stack of Los Angeles Times papers sitting in a cradle by the front counter. This is obviously a marketing gimmick, designed to inspire the impulsive buying of something that catches the reader's eye. Suffice to say, this has worked on me, but I don't plan on paying for this newspaper.

I pick up the paper's front and the story unfolds before my eyes.

My father was killed three days ago, him and another man named Dr. Richard Beasley. They were killed by rioters for... the sake of innovation? Information on Dr. Farmer and Dr. Beasley is classified and has been confiscated by the police as evidence. There was, apparently, some group efforts to cease the professor's research, and when word got out of what the two were really doing, these human rights people came in and went ahead and killed them.

How nice.

How pleasant.

These people are so backward: they kill the ones who are trying to fix the world for the sake of the status quo. Changing things for the better is an idea that has completely deserted humanity. There are no specifics on the professors' deaths so I lay the newspaper flat, smile at the cashier behind the counter who is giving me the evil eye, and leave the book store.