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What will happen when DX Machina meets Pendragon? |
| [Introduction]
Well. I reckon this will be one humdinger of a story, yessiree bob. I suppose there will be a likeable, but thoroughly self-deprecating guy who has magical and unbelievable things happen to him, caught in a melange of his own fantasies and the ever popular "GTS-universe." I believe he'll grow ( physically and emotionally ) along this journey and maybe, just maybe, he'll end up with the girl. Oh, and there'll be plenty of poontang. Probably. |
| I took a deep breath in, tasting the fumes of alcohol, marijuana, and women. This definitely was one of the oddest jobs I had ever had in my life. Yeah, being the pilot for the all-nude sky-diving team was unique, but at least after a while, I just got used to flying and didn't notice the dozens of people about to jump out thousands of feet into the freezing cold air. And yeah, it was kinda weird being the personal trainer for Yanni, but that was only for a few weeks. No no, this was much stranger, for me at least.
I was the male bartender at the only Lesbian bar in the metropolitan area. Of Salt Lake City. First off, since this was mormon country, it wasn't a "bar," per se. It was a "club" that happened to have a supply of booze for the club members. Secondly, flush your head of the images of lesbians from movies. Not every gay girl looks like Joey Lauren Adams from "Chasing Amy." Most looked, to paraphrase Hooper, like Ben Affleck in "Chasing Amy." Things went well, though. Good tips, and nice people. These were girls who liked who they were and liked having a nice time. No problems, no fights, plenty of free drugs. Once I got over the fact that his place of business, "Eve & Eve" was a stark non-sequencial blip on the whole Utah map, I really started to enjoy it there. So of course, once I got used to it there, something came along to throw my world out of whack. Her name was Amber. She was 18, 6 feet tall with Monroe-like cinematic beauty. Her eyes were the most clear, clean jewels. Her lips, two blushing pilgrims...well, you know. And, needless to say, she was a lesbian. The first night she came to the club, she came straight to the bar. Her parents had sent her to BYU a few months ago and she was going crazy from the lack of alcohol and sex. She sat by me as I made her White Russian after White Russian, listening to this gorgeous girl unload her soul on me. She told me about her uptight parents, her boarding school in Pennsylvania, her girlfirends. She told me about...well...her life. I kept mixing drinks for everyone else, barely breaking eye contact with this girl. I was infatuated. Before I knew it, the club was empty, save me and Amber. "Chris," she slurred. "How old are you, anyways?" I smiled. "I'm 22, and you're drunk. Let me get you a cab." So she got back to campus and into her dorm, and from then on, she stopped by every Friday night. It's not like she was missing the whole BYU social scene. But it all changed during her Junior year when... |
| ...Amber's dad stepped up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Chris," he began. "Son. I'd just like to thank you for taking on Amber. I know she went through some of God's trials in high school, but she really seems to be taking a turn for the better. But, I know that if you were to convert, you could show her the moral leadership..." And once again the speech came. I had heard it throughout the weekend and didn't mind hearing it one more time before our flight back to Salt Lake International the next afternoon. I did my patented "nod, smile, affirmitive grunt" reutine that had gotten me through...well...most of high school. Time passed. At around 8, Amber's dad had fallen asleep on his recliner to the soulful tunes of Orrin Hatch's new CD. Her mom had gone to sleep knowing that her only daughter was at a "scripture reading" with her friends Tracy and Morgan, who were in reality friends from bording school who flew in from *ahem* Oberlin for one night of sex with the frustrated Amber. After all, she hadn't gotten a decent lay since the time the lesbian bikers...well...yeah. I sat on the couch trying to watch scrambled porn on the TV when my left hand began burn. It didn't hurt, but a distinctive blue flame was licking from my fingertips, especially from my pinkie. From the odorless smoke, a tiny figure began to materialize from the fire. It was a slightly paunchy, balding thirty something wearing a University of Minnesota hooded sweatshirt. He was about an inch tall, standing in the palm of your hand. "Hi. I'm D...uh...my name is not important. Sorry it took me a while, there was this thing with this girl and the end of the world and Michael Eisner...it's all really complicated. Anyways. Right, the whole unrequited love thing. You think by loving this Amber girl more than any woman, than any person could will make her love you back. Sorry, the 8-ball says 'not likely.' But, we're not without pity. Sarah? Scott? This one's a little tricky, I'm gonna need an assist." As if on cue, two more tiny people, about mid-twenties appeared next to the mystery...uh...midgit. They all held hands in a circle muttering too low for me to hear. I felt like my entire body was being squished by a million vices. Or like that one time i mixed Jack Daniels, Cuban Cannabis, and grandma's cough syrup. When I woke up, I saw Amber's face looking down at me with nothing but love and affection. Then I realized why... |
| There are always these ideal pictures of threesomes, or 3.00001-somes, in this case. There is little sweat, lots of moaning, and no head butting while two go for the same nipple. They have an aura of perfection, like they are directed by John Hughes, a delightful romp through adolescent emotions culminating with a feelgood moment where everyone realizes they hate their parents. Or something. I listened to too many stoned movie clerks. Instead, there were gallons of sweat, more curses and sharp breaths than moans, and a pretty major head butting between Morgan and Tracy as I nearly found myself as part of Tracy's post-coital meal. It was more John Waters than John Hughes. In the few moments I had off while Amber's duo of lovers bitched each other out while trying to open a bottle of advil, I could finally take in my surroundings. Yes, I was clinging to my best friend's tit. We all seemed to be in a room stuck in the mid 1990's, so it was probably either Tracy or Morgan's room suffering from the "shrine" stage that a over-protective parent bestows on their child's habitat whilst said child is off at college. Sleater-Kinney was pasted on the walls, along with some homemade Fugazi wear. Amber seemed to be on a bed. The sheets were in a shambles. I had definitely joined this party after quite a bit of foreplay. And, judging by the drug store brand vodka bottle on it's side in the corner, it was quite the pre-party. Amber's panties were around her ankles. Her left foot was bare, her right had a sock hanging on for dear life. Tracy and Morgan made their way back to the Lesbian Mating Ground with their hands behind their backs. Slyly, Morgan held out a bottle of pills. She placed the lid between her tits and twisted. The lid came off. She dropped three pills into Tracy's palm. "What're those?" Amber questioned. "They don't look like advil..." I could feel Amber's body vibrate as she talked. "Am, fuck advil. These'll make tonight fucktastic," replied Tracy. "What are they?" "A B C D <b>E E E</b>," cooed Morgan. "Exstacy?" "Exactly." This was about when I tuned out. Not that I'm disinterested in my friend's drug use, but I heard those voices again and a strange pulling at my body. Soon... |
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