Michael Tyler

Incarnate

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“I’m singularly responsible for welcoming nineteen women into the land of the multiple orgasm, for the warm re-embrace of heterosexuality in seven ladies and homosexuality in one college roommate. I am well groomed, well conditioned and well hung, the eyes of an angel and the cheekbones of a devil. I am, let’s face it, the consummate sexual being …”

 

As Edward continues my attention drifts to the television screen attached to the wall just above and behind. Tuned to MTV but with the sound mercifully muted, a young woman silently lip-synchs her latest pop wonder whilst writhing semi clothed around her apartment, the occasional pause to peruse her perfect figure in a three pronged full length mirror. The nymphet concludes her performance with a simulated lovemaking trilogy involving in order: a retail mannequin, a standing wall lamp and a dining chair.

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“… whereas within this community alone I am approaching epic levels of adulation … ” Edward pauses - almost too late I recognize a pause for emphasis, requiring some signal of recognition - 

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“I see … sure, sure.” I nod as I speak.

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With this Edward continues, “Yet this woman, this – God knows how to describe her – this … this affront to all that is good and comfortable and prescribed and … and … and …”

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“Standard?” I offer.

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“… standard, turns to me last night and requests two tickets for the game this evening, front row centre, and then returns to arching her back with ever so much nonchalance. Good lord, how is anyone supposed to perform after …”

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“You were able to overcome this inconvenience however?” I inquire, Eddie nods.

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“'Cause you’re a testament to the power of testicles.”

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“Undoubtedly.”

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“You’re a fully fledged fucking machine.”

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“Exactly.”

 

“You’re stirred and shaken and ready for baking.”

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“Precisely.” Edward regains composure and continues. “So, there I am, mid thrust, me on my knees, her on her knees, the universe on it’s knees, we’re all shouting and screaming and sweating, there’s cum in the air and sweet delight on the senses, the joyous muscles ache of a race well run … and yet there is a solitary sentence staring me down. ‘Tickets for tomorrow. Tickets for tomorrow.’ I blink through tears of sweat and duty and …”

 

“Conscientiousness?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Obligation?”

 

“Obligation … and down below she’s having the time of her life, bucking and sliding and thrashing about, I’m almost raw …”

 

A waitress sweeps by, brushing the sleeve of my suit jacket as her rear end sways to the beat of the jukebox. Platinum blonde bob, blood red nails, defiance in her eyes, she returns to her station with an empty bottle, a ten dollar tip, another story to tell.

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“ … so suddenly I’m sixteen again, not so much enjoying getting laid as desperately feeling the need to perform, my mind racing, thoughts zipping and zapping, ramshackle riot, synapse symposium … inspiration …”

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“Insurgence?” I offer.

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“Inspiration insurgence. I know only one thing for certain and that is I must regain some sort of authority. I must deny her the tickets before we are through …”

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Alone at the bar a brunette with waves down to her shoulders gently rubs the nape of her neck beneath the tresses, sips her champagne and sighs to no one in particular. Yet there is intimation of hard fought liberty in her posture and the seats around her remain neglected.

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“ … I am falling ever deeper into the abyss, depth without shadow, night without release. In desperation I fake orgasm and roll to one side. She takes matters into her own hands, writhing and bucking away, I feel I am unnecessary at best and this brings much relief. I manage a few sentences. ‘I need a shower. I need my own shower, my own soap, my own towel, my own bed,’ and with this I rise, dress and exit the apartment.” Edward takes a deep breath and wipes a hint of sweat from his brow. “I escape, barely, but escape all the same.”

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I nod as he concludes, lay some crisp twenties on the table, turn and depart. As I approach the exit I catch the eye of an olive skinned beauty, shoulder-less blouse and knee length summer skirt. She returns my gaze with an expression of utter indifference, perhaps thinly veiled scorn.

 

I stride past, I smile, I exit, I bite my lip, I grin for the first time that afternoon.

 

Michael Tyler has been published in print by Takahe, Bravado, and Adelaide Literary Magazine; and online @ PIF, Daily Love, and Apocrypha and Abstractions. He writes from a shack overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. He has been published in several literary magazines and plans a short story collection sometime before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and … 

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