As with most of my e-rotica, this one is a story with sex rather than the other way around and thus does not have an immediate climax....so to speak. Chapter one received criminally low scores from downvoters (placing it in the ranks of stories that repeatedly misspell "orgasm" and have no compound sentences) apparently upset at the story's title, neglecting the finer points of plot and the coming conclusion. If the same happens for chapter two, I will disable voting again.
Re-cap: Humble logician Yusef Muhammad of the University of Minnesota woke up to find an irrefutable argument on his blackboard that proved the supernatural as humans understand it, meaning God or Gods, ghosts, spirits, etc. does not exist. Naturally this drew criticism and praise. It also affected those close to him, including frequent student Ellen with her seemingly heterosexual room mate Mary Beth, fellow professor Tina and her effeminate husband, and department's head Arthur Zimmermann's adoring secretary, Fanya. Is God's wrath the strongest restraint on bad behavior? Is Yusef truly infallible?
Applause thundered within packed auditorium's sound resistant walls, the protests outside grew as faint as a fluorescent bulb's gentle hum. This particular speaker was such a hot commodity that he could only play the largest venues short of stadiums. Stadiums naturally were a grave security risk considering the number of death threats his tour organizers received on his behalf. This theater was smaller than he was used to but the demand remained high and continued to soar the more he continued. The public's itch it seemed could not be satisfied as the speaker's celebrity ascended to an unknown plateau. Realizing the importance of his speaking tour, the city had universally agreed to ignore its own occupancy ordinances and let people fill the aisles and line the walls.
"Thank you," Yusef tried to overpower their applause to no avail. "No really, thank you," he smiled and pleaded, his hands asking for quiet. His modestly false smile bathed the crowd. "Please, please, this is too much!" They gave a standing ovation and blew whistles that pierced Yusef's ears but remained trapped and filled his already swollen head. Though embarrassing for the first few weeks of his book tour, he had come to adore their exaltation of his unimpeachable brilliance. After a minute or two, the applause finally faded and they sat down. On cue, a few stage hands carried three standing microphones into front of the aisles and plugged them into outlets at the stage's base.
"Don't all rush to them now," Yusef warned. Before the organizers had learned their lesson, people would run and tackle everyone in their way to ensure their question got asked. "First off I'd like to pre-emptively answer some of the most commonly asked questions on this tour so we can get this all squared away," he continued as he casually unbuttoned his dress shirt's cuffs and folded them back. "I did not set out to destroy religion, I merely sought the pursuit of reason and a better understanding of the universe," he started off with half a lie.
He never told anyone except for Arthur how couldn't remember writing the formula even though it was in his handwriting. He did however continue to disseminate the formula for understanding—this part was true. "I will sign copies of my book for a half hour," he continued to answer questions he knew would come. Money, along with understanding the universe, was the other reason he disseminated. "My favorite color is red," he drew some laughs from the crowd. Jerking to a stop, he leaned against the podium and leered at them. "I'm not kidding. That's a fairly common question," he answered sternly. Though he gave more such answers for the next five minutes (he knew what to expect by this point), the moment he finished, the microphone lines snaked down the aisles. He pointed to the first one on his left. "You there."
"Yes, um," stalled a twenty-something man with sweeping blond hair and spectacles without a frame around the lenses. "I just wanted to say that, all my life I've felt like there was something wrong with me for not believing in a higher power," he pushed the nose bridge higher. "Praying seemed silly to me but now I can be, uh, free from this all and so I thank you," he awkwardly ejaculated. Most of the audience were young persons from San Francisco's High Schools and Colleges; slowly taking their first breaths of free choice and living, the times when their developing minds would determine what jobs they would hold or what God they would pray to, he was instilling the burdenless liberty of atheism as the natural human condition whereas many Continental philosophers had argued to the contrary. As he saw it, he was setting the world right even as he witnessed the glimmer of God's light disappear from the eyes of youth. The audience applauded the blond man's statement.
"Well thanks, but I forgot to mention," he held up one finger, "that I only allow one 'Gee you're great' statement per lecture," he humored. "Though I appreciate them, they take too much time. Next person please," he used that same hand to point to the woman at middle microphone. His eyes wandered a bit down the line and fell upon a young Asian woman wearing a woman's white dress shirt and a green plaid skirt like a parody of a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, distracting him from the asked question. Patiently awaiting her turn, she held her hands behind her, rocked a bit on her heels, and glanced at the backs of the audience's heads before her to occupy herself. Yusef, a recent and enthusiastic connoisseur of readily available women, found this culmination of his two newfound fetishes irresistible and he could not take his eyes off her. Suddenly she looked directly at him, catching him in the act, smiled, and winked knowingly.
"...and so your move was entirely irresponsible," the woman he had called on earlier continued, unaware he had ignored most of her question.
"I, uh," he frowned as his hand massaged his temples, "do you actually have a question?" he interrupted.
"No."
"Then move aside," he shooed her away, "and let that woman take her turn," he pointed to the next microphone though his eyes dwelled on the patiently waiting self aware fetish. The questions continued until finally his raven haired angel stepped up to the microphone and awaited her turn. His heart thundered in his chest.
It was not to pass however because as the person in the first microphone began, only one question away from her, the protesters outside burst in and disturbed the satisfying air of anticipation for his every utterance. Undermanned for such throngs of people, the theater's security was overcome but, remembering the disastrous protests during the Schock Prizes, unwilling to use their guns or pepper spray lest the media brand them butchers.
"ABORTIONIST, SATANIST, GOD-KILLER..." they charged as their placards flashed hand painted slogans and equally insulting remarks.
"Please keep this outside," Yusef shook his head with weathered disregard. "You're allowed to protest outside just not in here, okay?" He vainly reasoned with the mob. They could not hear him above their shouting but it was unlikely that they would have stopped anyway. Yusef had long since learned one cannot rationally argue with irrationally religious people—especially in this new day and age. The police, prepared but not deployed for the inevitable, finally arrived to relieve the burden from the guards. The righteous protest, buoying the zealous Faithists into an artificial high of moral outrage that neglected rationality, emanated an aura simultaneously buffering them from the threat posed by the men in blue but, like an addict fearing the withdrawal, reminded them that their high was fragile and temporary. Protesting against an irrefutable professional consensus takes a special kind of person, one who rejects to better informed judgments of others and instead goes with their gut, the "yuck factor", that claims any progress as anti-thetical; this same factor fought Copernicus, the Wright brothers, and, at least in the uniquely misinformed and conservative American public, stem cells, and gay marriage, and would eventually lose—but not soon enough as far as Yusef was concerned.
Since most of the great protests in history were done by liberals demanding reform, there had been little theorizing of just how conservatives, effectively the franchised complete with home field advantage, could protest so heartily. In the preceding years Yusef had personally heard some members of the Christian right complain that "activist" judges were white-outing God from the government and history; that there was a blatant war on Christianity. Never mind that activist judges told Topeka, Kansas that "separate but equal" was unconstitutional. So the Christians, angry, bitter, and frustrated with their nearly complete domination of American politics and judicial appointments for 225+ years were not gonna take it anymore. Unfortunately for Yusef he was far more dangerous and an easier target than any activist judicial system.
Five minutes passed and still the crowd would not disperse. Yusef looked helplessly to East Asian beauty at the microphone. She shrugged her shoulders just as a burly officer freed himself from the fray and hopped up the stage, replacing Yusef at the microphone.
"If ya'll don't leave we'll have to use the pepper-spray!" he screamed into the mic. Still the mob would not move. "Alright, that's the way you want to play it. People," he swept the air to cover the swath of the audience, "I'm gonna have to ask ya to leave using the emergency exits so the spray won't affect you. " Yusef nearly begged him to reconsider but instead looked helplessly for the young woman in the bustling crowd. Her hair flew high when she turned to face Yusef, briefly sharing his look of longing before turning around and calmly walking away amidst desperate audience members.
Those darn protesters had ruined his chance to get with that attractive young woman. Of course they may have saved him a mess of trouble if it turned out she was under 18. That first night in Sweden, where the woman in the red dress threw herself at him, he had done many no-nos. He fucked her without protection and, because his passion had overwhelmed him, forgot to pull out and filled her with his hot seed. Second, because she looked old enough, he did not check her ID even for reassurance. He knew better now and not two weeks ago when a girl who looked well into her twenties nearly serviced his johnson before he had the presence of mind to ask for her drivers' license. When she confessed she was not even old enough to drive, he pulled up his pants and made a quick exit.
With his questions and book signing cut short, his organizer informed him he had an hour and a half to kill before they need to leave for another commitment. Thrilled at the prospect of free time, he insisted he be left alone to sit and read somewhere. Before heading out however he changed his dress shirt and pleated black pants to a plain gray T-shirt and deep blue jeans. His security adviser recommended he change clothes as often as possible so he was less likely to spot but the most famous face in the world tended to stick out anyway. He also grabbed a Giants cap to blend in with the locals and large black framed sunglasses to protect his eyes from the afternoon light as well as a deranged fan/critic's recognizing glances.
He sat outside a coffeehouse just blocks from the auditorium, nearly burying his entire face into his novel. His eyes went from left/right top/bottom but his mind retained none of it; he thought about Tina. Since most of his free time of late was spent in bed with groupies or an infatuated co-ed, he repeatedly forgot to call her. The divorce from her outted husband had been hard, or so her weekly messages to his voice mail revealed, but his recollections and uneventful free time rarely coincided; he reached into his pocket for his cell.
"Excuse me?" a soft voice interrupted amidst the vibrant rush hour street noise. His unseen eyes looked up to the source of the feminine voice. Surprised, he placed his opened book face down, removed his hand from his pocket, and crossed his arms as he looked his standing guest up and down.
"It was hard to recognize you without the fetish," he said deadpan. "So why'd you dress like that in the auditorium? To get my attention?" he asked.
"Well," the woman began, "it was a less hostile way to ask my question and they were the only street clothes in my abbey. Dressed like this," she swept her hands down to signify her black garb, "people tend to act differently."
"I've yet to answer a question from a nun," he answered honestly, continuing to examine her habit. The stiff black robe, her flawlessly white collar, and the coarse wool hat that merely contained her long black hair, ensconcing her soft high yellow skin, cheekbones, and stretched eyelids in piety only seemed to make her more appealing. Though Yusef had met a few young nuns as conventionally beautiful as this one, he always just saw them as nuns. Not "untouchable women," thus implying desire, but as nuns pure and simple. "You know, you're right. I would act differently. In fact, right now, I'm remembering you in that uniform and now in your habit, and I'm still quite attracted to you," he said bluntly. The nun blushed at his forwardness. Before his book tour he would have never said such a thing out loud but the nun smiled pleasantly. "I suppose if I first saw you in that get-up I'd think nothing about how gorgeous you look." She blushed deeper but sat down at his table rather than walk away.
"It's good to know I'm still attractive."
