On Red Herrings

In medias res...

"Think what you will, I liked the book," the tall, lithe redhead professed as she poured salt on the floor. "A mad prophet meditates on a mountain for ten years with an eagle, a symbol of pride, and his serpent, a symbol of wisdom, then comes down to share some of the insight and understanding he's realized when along the way he meets a saint; it sounds like the beginning of a joke. The saint tells him that if he really wants to help people he should stay away and pray for them. And what is his pithy reply? God is dead. He then continues on his merry way to spread the good word. It captivated me from the beginning."

"So long as you knew how to take it."

"With a grain of salt and shot of tequila!"

"Nietzsche said to take all of it or take none of it," the petite brunette pointed out as she reached down to place a candle in the holder on the floor.

"Yeah; but he didn't mean literally, Raven. He meant that divinity, or fate if you prefer, cannot be held accountable for the actions of a person. We determine our existence through our actions, existentialism 101. We cannot blame others for our actions; we must own the responsibility ourselves."

Raven stared in silence for a protracted moment at Emma. "This coming from a woman who has me arranging candles around a hexagram of salt on the floor?"

"Right!" she agreed. "We have to be proactive in life to make things happen!"

"That is not what I meant," she objected, shaking her head.

"Then what did you mean?"

"What goes around comes around―karma; whatever you want to call it. You just said that you believe that our existence is a direct result of our actions..."

"That's right."

"...and yet you have no qualms about trying to play puppet master with someone's free will."

"None whatsoever."

"Why?"

"It doesn't exist."

"What doesn't exist?"

"Free will."

"You're joking."

"Hardly. Free will means freedom to act; however, an action necessarily requires an agent to cause it―it can never be free and exist without someone or something setting it in motion."

"Cute," Raven smirked.

"And true!" Emma grinned.

"Okay. Again, just to be clear, you're not worried about karma fucking with you for you fucking with someone else?"

"That's exactly what I'm counting on."

"What?"

"This spell fucks with his mind and then he comes and fucks me."

"And then comes again?"

"Exactly! I knew you'd understand!"

"You're hopeless."

"Nope; just creative."

"Why don't you just walk right up to him and ask if he wants to fuck? ―that'd probably do it."

"That'd seem slutty."

"Opposed to the inherent nobility in casting a fucking spell?!"

Emma rolled her eyes at this as if dismissing a crazy person, but she couldn't help but grin.

"Then get drunk, show up at his place with a bottle of booze and Xanax and let nature take its course."

"I want this to be special."

"Practicing witchcraft to get a guy to fuck you is special all right!"

"Unlike you, I'm picky and have only had a handful of lovers."

"That's your deal, not mine. I know who I am and I like to fuck―it's a perfectly natural thing to do; and when I want to, I go find some lucky soul and do just that."

"And you think that's respectable?"

"Opposed to casting a spell?" Raven reminded her.

"Point taken. But if you don't agree with it, then why are you helping me to do it?"

"I'm curious to see if it'll actually work."

"Fair enough," she conceded. "Now what do I do? You're the expert on this stuff."

"I've never cast a spell like this before. Believe it or not, I had to search high and low to find one that is actually supposed to manifest lust properly."

Emma cocked her head. "So you've never used it?"

"Nope; but it said explicitly in the grimoire that it is for unrequited sexual longings."

She shrugged her shoulders insouciantly. "Where do I start?"

"First light the candles,"―which she did―"then take off your clothes, take this piece of paper, and go to the center of the circle."

Emma pulled her t-shirt over her shoulders and let it fall to the ground as her shorts slid down her legs to meet it there. Wearing nothing but a silly smile, she took the paper from Raven and stepped to the center of arcanum attention.

"Consecrate the circle with the verse I taught you,"―she did so―"now read aloud the words on the paper; since you don't know Latin, I've written them out phonetically; just pronounce the syllables as they're written out." She did this too. Nothing happened.

"He's not running through the door and I don't feel any different."

Raven pensively bit her lip. "Just wait a minute."

A minute passed.

"Nothing whatsoev―" she began, but at that moment, something did happen.

The candles flickered as a breeze blew―which is an odd thing in an enclosed living room―and then they all went out simultaneously. "What the fu―!" Emma started as another gust of air hit her; and as it did, all of the candles sprang back to life limning her and all within their range. Raven's jaw dropped; she began to stare. "What the―?" Emma began, again, but was interrupted by her popeyed friend.

"Holy shit!" Raven grinned. "Would you look at that!"

* * * * * *

"You had writer's block," Mason reflected, "I offered to help. You had me pick you up and take you to a strip bar and voilà! ―two hours later you're cured!"

Atticus smiled contentedly. What had just been said was, for the most part, true, no denying it, and he could only continue to smile as visions of scantily clad flesh danced about in his mind... But then his reverie was interrupted.

"Tell me why that worked."

"A woman's body is quite inspiring."

"How elucidating, but that didn't explain anything."

"You said to tell you the why not explain."

"Smart ass."

"Maybe." He shrugged his shoulders. "But that makes it no less true."

Mason sighed in resignation. "Alrighty. Explain why that worked."

Blithely, "Why?"

Exasperated, "I'm your friend and editor who just spent time and money with and on you at a snatch shack!"

There was silence as Atticus pondered this. His first thought was, Pussy's inspiring―and while this is true, that probably would have only aggravated the situation; besides, it really was more of an equivocation than an answer. He continued to ponder. Then, in Socratic form, he set sail.

"What is art?"

Perfunctorily, "Taking what we see and hear every day then revamping it as we'd like to see and hear it."

"Hmmm. Good answer. Not the one I was aiming at, but good all the same."

"Then what were you getting at?"

"Art is a neurosis."

"What?"

"Our ego is how we are presented to everyone else―the I―but that is not all that we are comprised of. The unconscious mind is very real and longs for air. Artists, be they writers, musicians, painters or fluffers―"

"Fluffers?!"

"Just making sure I still had your attention," he grinned. Mason shook his head. "So artists of whatever form have a direct line into their unconscious where it is allowed to breathe, where it can work in conjunction with the ego to create a new form, a new life. That is art."

"Interesting. Why is it then that in all but all of your stories the principal characters are a man and a woman?"

"Dialogue between the ego and the unconscious: one makes ridiculous statements and then the other tries to rationalize out a happy medium; ergo, a new creature is born."

"Right. But you still didn't answer my question."

"Sure I did."

"Then please spell it out for Mr. Gump over here."

"You took me to a strip bar..."

"Check."

"...and that naked flesh stimulated some of the baser parts of my ego."

"..."

"As my ego was stimulated, my unconscious didn't want to be forgotten about so it showed its ass, so to speak."

"And that is inspiration?"

"In one of its myriad forms."

"Well, then I guess it was worth it. All I wanted was for you to get past your writer's block so you could finish the book."

"But I still have writer's block."

"What?! But you said―"

"That I'm an inspired inebriate? Absolutely."

"Meaning?!"

"I'm not quite ready to couch phallic diction in yonic imagery."

"That's not bad; you should use it in one of your pieces," he smiled, knowingly.

Atticus grinned. "Don't you worry about that."

"All right. Well since you're not inspired to write, what are you inspired to do?" he asked as he pulled to the curb outside Atticus' house.

Atticus got out, shut the door, leaned to the car window and beamed, "Go fuck my neighbor!"

And he was off.

* * * * * *

"Holy shit! Would you look at that!" Raven marveled as her eyes all but popped out of their sockets.

"Look at what?" Emma echoed as she eyed her frozen friend. "It's not like you haven't seen me naked before or anything!" True. Granted though she had never seen the tall scarlet B-cup with her slim, lissome and sinuous body standing in the middle of a hexagram after an overt act of paganism; but there's a first time for everything. It then dawned on Emma to follow her friend's gaze; she blushed when she realized where those eyes were focused. She quickly swept her hands in front of her cunny and screamed.

She looked down at the zenith of her well-trimmed gossamer of strawberry-blonde pubes, moved her hands, and then saw for the first time what her roommate had been staring at in wide-eyed open-mouthed awe: her once already over-sized clit (if there is such a thing) had been transmogrified into a large cock, hanging from between her labial lips for all to see. She stood there vacillating between consternation and stupefaction, as if uncertain whether she were awake or if this were but a dream, a hypnogogic hallucination, perhaps. Diffidently, she reached for the pendulous stranger, wrapped her fingers around it, and then it started to twitch with life―she was not dreaming.

"This can't be happening, this can't be happening," she began to croon, but without letting go of the swelling muscle. Her trance was broken when Raven stepped forward grinning with undaunted zeal and reached for the cock.

"Oh!" she crowed with a triumphant smirk. "It's real, all right!" She wrapped her fingers around the head and the exposed flesh not already grasped by the proper owner. It was becoming larger, and they both began to slide their hands up and down the swelling shaft. Emma stared, released her grip, and then snatched Raven's away. "Stop that!"

"You were doing it too!" Raven shot back.

"I know! And I've got to stop it!" She walked to her bedroom door, grabbed her robe, and then put it and a petulant pout on.

"It felt good, then?"

"I don't know," she mused; "but it didn't feel bad."

"I suppose the spell worked then."

"THE FUCK IT DID!"

"You, a woman, are standing there with an all but erect penis in your possession, and you think that magic didn't produce it?"

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT!"

"Fact is that the spell is for unrequited sexual longings; namely, and ironically, something to fill the void within: hence, a dick! ―just what you asked for!"

She turned as red as a fire engine. "DON'T JOKE! THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANTED!"

"That remains to be seen."

Emma's hopeful gaze turned into a hard glare.

Raven smiled. "Have a seat; I'll get a bottle." Both did. She also brought two tumblers, topped them off, passed one, ―both were immediately quaffed. "Gotta love tequila," Raven reflected as she filled them again.

"What am I going to do?!"

"No," Raven corrected her; "what are we going to do?" Emma looked up and wanted to smile. "This is partially my fault; you would never have done this without my aid. It seems only proper that I help you remedy the situation."

Emma did smile. "Really?"

Raven nodded. "Yep; but I need to think for a minute." She took a long pull from the tequila; Emma followed suit. A few minutes passed in contemplative silence.

Tck, tck, tck...

Raven began to smile. "By its very nature a spell is temporary," she ruminated aloud, "so it will wear off; how long it will last is a different matter. But one thing that I am sure of is that it was the efficacy of the spell to provide you with a tool to achieve the end in mind―no pun intended―and before it can be dispelled it will have to be used."

Emma's eyes got very large and questioning.

"No, no, no!" she repeatedly rebuffed her friend―――for a fleeting moment, in her mind. However, when she spoke, "No, no, no!" came out as, "Well, if you really think it'll help." So, with tantamount sympathy and curiosity―actually, curiosity was paramount by a solid eight inches―she...

"Slowly, Raven, slowly," she gasped as her eyes flickered shut while the guest of honor stood at full attention. Her hands found their way to Raven's head as it rhythmically bobbed up and down.

She moaned. Raven sped up.

"Slowly, Raven, slowly," she panted, she purred; but it made no difference. As if precipitated by her presumption in the matter her hips began to twitch and then to spasm as her volcano began to spew: she quavered, she quaked, she cooed―――ooh!

At first, Raven managed to chug it all―but it didn't stop coming. Try as she might―and she tried―she could feel it seeping out the sides of her saturated mouth. In resignation, she withdrew her mouth entirely, then quirked her brow.

"Why'd you stop?" Emma sighed, her cheeks suffused with a rosy hue―and eyes still shut.

"Your come is glowing."

* * * * * *

Grinning like a loon, he strolled across his lawn with the poise and aplomb of a four-lettered word. He saw Emma standing on the porch, in his mind, with her arms outstretched and―

A breeze broke his conceit.

He caught a waft of his own funk―you cannot sit in a dark, smoky, strip-club engaged in various forms of sybaritic amorality without having a less than savory air―and came to a grinding halt. He looked to her house, then to his; to her house, then to his; hers, then―Ten minutes! he thought, and hightailed it to the shower.

* * * * * *

"Well, that didn't work." Raven wiped the glowing goo from her lips and chin... she eyed it suspiciously.

"Sure it did," Emma sparkled; "I came!"

"Yeah,"―matter-of-factly―"and you still have a dick."

That dimmed her lights. Emma began to pray into the neck of the half-empty fifth.

Raven went to the bathroom, washed her mouth out, washed her face, looked at herself in the mirror and thought, What the fuck?! When she returned, Emma was cleaning herself up in the kitchen and Raven couldn't help but watch and wonder what they were doing wrong, what they were missing. She cogitated it all as she watched Emma stroke clean the―

"I know what has to happen!" Raven ejaculated!

* * * * * *

It was a beautiful day Atticus thought as he strolled down the sidewalk, his head in the heavens, building castles there. The sky was clear as if angels had washed it that morning. When he arrived at Mason's office, he lightly rapped on the door as he opened it and went in. This was not usual.

The first thing that Mason noticed as Atticus entered was that he wasn't just grinning ear to ear, he was beaming. This also was not usual. Atticus had a natural inclination for being sedate and self-possessed―apropos for his dark hair, grey eyes, and Roman features. On occasion a small, knowing smile would form at the corners of his lips as one of his many phantasmagorias flitted through his mind―but never beaming; which lead to the second thing that Mason noticed: Atticus was glowing. Not glowing, mind you, like a sheen of sweat was covering him and being naturally refracted by the sun up on high―it was mighty bright, and the large bay windows welcomed it in,― nor glowing like he'd just taken a bath in a toxic waste disposal center; there was something, a je ne sais quoi, as far as Mason was concerned that he just couldn't put his finger on. He couldn't help but smile, and was about to ask the reason of this reinvention when he spied in Atticus's hand a manila folder which was being placed on his desk.

"That's it," Atticus clarified. "That's the ending."

"You finished it, really?"

He nodded.

"No wonder you're glowing!"

He tried not to laugh. "Right." He turned to leave, was at the door, and―

"Where are you going? You're not going to hang around while I read it, answer any questions that I might have?"

He smiled. "Nope. It's lucid; no esoteric rhetoric. In fact, this―us here right now, having this conversation―is part of the story too."

Confused, "This is the end of the story?... That doesn't make any sense."

"No," Atticus clarified. "This is the penultimate piece of it. There's more innuendos and Freudian bric-a-brac than you can shake a phallus at which the ending ties all together into something almost as beautiful to behold as a daisy-chain." And then he turned and left.

"Strange fellow," Mason mused as he grabbed the folder, opened it, began to read...and began to grin.

* * * * * *

As I left my house and crossed into my neighbor's yard I'd somehow managed to enter into a

fugue. Time became blurry, balmy: there was no conscious beginning or ending to the concatenation of events that transpired―it'd become some ineffable thing.

Eff it.

I knocked on the door.

Raven was standing there with mischief in her almond eyes...a hell of a lot of it. "You're right on time," she assured me with a grin that would have sent a sane man running for the hills; "come on in."

I followed the petite brunette clad in a t-shirt that barely came to the apex of her curvy thighs nestled nicely in a pair of white cotton panties putting into perfect relief her firm little bubble butt and a pouting pudendum―both as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin. Bibbity-boppiting along, she...

We three were sitting around the dining room table drinking tequila; I couldn't stop staring at Emma. I'd always thought her to be cute with her light-red hair, bright emerald eyes, the light sprinkling of freckles that crossed her pert little nose and faded onto her cheeks...

"I need your help," said Emma with a voice as soothing as a warm massage oil for the soul.

My lucky day.

Raven told me what Emma'd wanted to do with me earlier, and still did.

I grinned.

Then she confessed what they'd done.

I was flattered―and confused. It sounded like she'd just said that they'd...

Then she admitted what'd happened.

I smiled and waited for the punchline.

She iterated.

I continued smiling, obliviously.

Raven sighed; Emma stood and open her robe.

Some punchline.

"...and that's the only way the spell can come off," they harmonized like the pair of sirens they were.

"But you didn't know that this would happen; how do you know that that will work?" I had to ask; or at least, that's what I told myself. They both smiled.

Raven stood, went to the bed, sat against the headboard, and propped up on the pillows with her legs wide apart. Lust began to swirl around in her eyes like jet-propelled water in hot tubs; and speaking of hot tubs, of things hot, wet, and spinning into a nexus of potential...

Her fingers pushed her little cotton panties aside and they began to caress her visibly wet pussy. She smiled at Emma and me as she began sliding first one, and then two fingers inside her honeycomb. I could hear the slurping sounds it made as if they were the dulcet rhythm of all existence echoing in my ears.

Emma stood and disrobed allowing her ithyphallus to stand full, firm, and unfettered by the unnecessary restraints of clothing as she took aim for Raven's exposed and sweetly agape vulva.

Raven wrapped her legs around Emma's taut waist as her hips heaved to receive her. She slipped a hand over Emma's thigh, then ass, then slid a hand to her paramour's glistening labial lips―she inserted first one, and then two fingers inside of her; and then...