A micro-story.
the boy was sick of it and stormed out. he went for a drive. he started to think more seriously on his dream. no responsibilities. no cares just laying around all day with his pixie, getting high playing video games fucking, no disturbances. that would be the life, he thought, and wondered if this room would be his paradise. he wondered how long it would be before he could visit it.
but as he thought of this room he began to consider its true possibilities. he was not the same man from two years ago who thought all happiness could lay within such a room, shut off from others. when he visited now he could not see any windows, just a fish eye view of the bed like from a camgirls laptop. where was the light coming from? he had to gently push the resting bong and her resting head out of the way for him to stand up, dizzy from the weed as he always was, but giddy as he was too. and as he walked across the room past dim lamps he arrived at a curtained window. he opened the drapes and slid the glass upward to open it, and he did. far across the expanse of green grass was the sunset, its blinding beauty perfectly concealed just behind the leaves of a distant tree. the air was cool and clean. he wanted to go outside. as he stepped out, the overhanging shingles of this buildings roof creaked but supported his weight. there were two chairs there, fold outs, with an ashtray on a table between them. it was always there.
if he had to overthink his fantasy with such scrutiny then maybe the rest of it was flawed too. how did you eat or drink? was there a door into the rest of the house? did you need to visit the rest of the house? was that really important? maybe after a time it was. and as he asked himself these questions these things began to materialize in his dream. there was a door that was unlocked, and led downstairs to a kitchen, rich with his favorites. the house was old fashioned and in need of some work but he had time now to work on it himself. he wandered in a circle through the open doors that took him around the first floor of the house, past the wood fireplace and the antiques his parents had given him, all with a home. and he opened the front door of the house and stepped past the shoe rack and its contents that were neatly tucked away, and outside into the fresh endless ocean of blue sky and green grass and the nature that lived within it. he was constructing his dream home now. it was no longer a fantasy that was the dream but a life, something meaningful beyond the surface of his day to day.
so his surroundings changed. was the girl still the same? was she still the redhead with the freckles that he had seen a million times since his childhood? the tiny stocking clad sex goddess that fulfilled his every desire when he wanted it? but she wanted it too. that was always the paradox. when he wanted to fuck she was already horny. how horny had she been? always? when would he have had a moments peace? the girl of his dreams had never left him alone, she was always there ready to play street fighter or to talk. talk about what? did they ever watch tv? was there ever a tv in that room or was there only ever a webcam there, so people could view him in his minds eye like they would view an animal at the zoo? watching them have sex. watching him. mocking him for his size. paying to mock him. paying to watch her. no one ever pays to watch the man. did his dream girl cook him meals? was this heaven or was this a kind of hell? the girl sprouted horns and took on the features of an imp, her tail long and sharp like a whip. it curled around the boys neck and lifted him off the flats of the front deck, back through the door and up the landing back into her arms. i thought you were asleep, he said. i was but now i am not. his body is trained but his mind has awoke. this is how she was constructed, not as herself but for him and what he wanted whether good or evil. and it didnt matter what the surroundings were or how they touched him because he would always be a slave to her, because it was never about fueling a fantasy but abetting a loneliness.
he didnt have to choose this loneliness anymore if he could just go home and say he was sorry. as soon as he had stepped outside he admitted defeat and began his reconciliation.
//jf 11.18.2019
theory of a daskeman 