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The Big Stupid Review


American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
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Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream - 9

By Jim Chaffee

Chapter 9
Flabby Sheaves

Dina lifted her crop top and let peek from below a pair of gnarly brown splotches surrounding nipples like amputated pinkies.

"You like these?"

I blurted "No."

She stared in amazement, then peeled off the shirt. The appendages hung against her slender frame like tubular bladders flattened and distended with the weight of some coagulum compacted at the ends. They stretched from below her shoulders high up on her torso along the indentation of her armpit, wide apart on either side of a bony sternum. Shapeless and skinny, and adorned with perhaps the ugliest tits I'd ever seen.

"Come on," she said, "suck them. Men love them."

"Let's get high," I said, moving over to the couch with the bottle of Wild Turkey. I took a slug, then brought out the nose candy and another joint. When she leaned over to toot it seemed her udders brushed the floor.

I didn't want coke and let her toot again, instead taking another belt of the booze.

She sat on the couch and looked at me. "You don't like me, do you?"

"I like you fine, though I don't know you well."

"That isn't what I mean and you know it. You don't like the way I look."

"You're not my physical type. I prefer rounded tits that stand up and point out. Round asses that aren't flat. Hips. Maybe even brunettes."

"I don't get it. Here I am, a woman most of the men in the world want to fuck, sitting in your apartment with no blouse, so wet between my legs my panties are soaked, and you're turning me down?"

"Not turning you down. Just not inspired."

She grabbed the lit joint and took a vicious hit.

"You have a bong?"

"No. I do have a pipe somewhere. Why?"

"Let's do some of that sinsemilla. I can get you more."

"I have enough. Let me make up something special."

I grabbed newspaper and rolled a monster cone of a spliff with maybe a quarter ounce of the Columbian, then rolled a small tight one with the sins. We sat on the floor in the enclosed porch and smoked the spliff until we were so fucked up we could barely move. A green anole on the wall eyed Dina and displayed its red throat flap. Eventually we migrated through the loft to the balcony and ducked through the low window.

"Wow," she said. "Bourbon Street?"

I moved next to her and put my arm around her bare waist. "Yes, ma'am, that it is. And to your left, across the street at the corner, the biggest gay bar in the South." We smoked three varieties of hashish and the night brightened, crisscrossed with red streaks. I fired up the sins. We smoked and watched the parade of prowling men, the young hustlers on the corners waiting for suburban scores driving down Dumaine.

"Wow," she said. "Wow." She might have said it several more times.

She dragged me inside. "Shower," was all she could croak.

I showed her and she held onto me, helped me out of my shirt, encouraged me out of my shoes and pants and underpants until I stood naked in the gloom and she bent to her knees and diligently sucked my cock, slurping and drooling and repeatedly burying it to the hilt, face against my groin, licking my balls, pressing it deep into her throat which felt rough and constricting and not all that pleasant.

She took off her jeans and guided my hand to a shaved groin with only a blonde strip running up the mons like a tidily mowed patch of dead grass.

In the shower she scrubbed me as if I were a classic car making ready for a show, paying particular attention to my erect cock and my anus which she lathered farther inside than I found comfortable.

"Mmm," was all she murmured as she went to her knees again and sucked my drooling erection, lapping up the secretion. "Now me," she said and I soaped her down.

She directed me to her hanging boobs whose nipples at my soapy touch knotted like warts, splotchy dun aureoles crowning the ends of the rounded bulbs like carpet domes the texture of gooseflesh. She leaned into me and licked my face and my shoulder as I rubbed her nipples. She scrubbed her own nether regions as rigorously as she'd done my ass. We toweled each other dry and she demanded I snort coke with her.

Pulling me over to the bed she saw our faint reflections in the mirror.

"My God. Perverse."

Perverse the word. Nothing ever described to me by fleet sailors regarding Hong Kong brothels came close to this woman's meticulous ministrations. She knew her way around the male physique: what to try for expected responses and how to manage them. She brought me to orgasm so many times I lost count. Insatiable had no meaning in my prior experience. I'd run out of steam and she'd sit me on her face, drive her tongue so far up my asshole she French kissed my prostate, and I'd climb erect again. I fucked every hole, asshole to mouth to cunt to mouth to asshole to cunt, ejaculating in each of them. Numb, I passed out as she sucked my dick; I dreamt an extended orgasm in a warm mouth.

Unkind light blasted me awake. Warm flesh against me, fetid air and sheets and a body, an arm, a bag of a tit flopped across my chest. I shook myself free, rolled away. She whimpered but didn't waken.

I got up to make coffee. What a fuck story. Bad enough with Lori. Now this one.

I drank the coffee and showered. Every time I passed the bed her miserable carcass sprawled in some hideous position, baggy tits, skinny ass, flesh rolls here and there. Mouth open, drooling. A pair of lizards tattooed on the back of her left shoulder.

I gave her an hour and then shook her.

"Time to get up. I got shit to do today."

She sat up and blinked. "What time is it?"

It was pushing ten. "Going on noon."

"Jesus," she said. "We just got to bed."

"Well, I got stuff to do."

"Can't you do it and let me sleep a little longer?"

I didn't know what to tell her. You're a skank. I don't want your ugly ass around here. Get the fuck out and don't come back.

"You can't stay."

"What? You're throwing me out?"

"No, but you need to get up. We can have coffee and pastry at La Marquise. Then you need to get on your way so I can get to work."

"What kind of work? Reading for your thesis? Or you hustling the street?"

"My advisor's bugging me to get some shit underway."

"I know about that. I won't be in your way. Go get your coffee and whatever and then when you come back I'll get cleaned up and we can have lunch and talk. I want to know you better."

I left her and went for a walk. What a fuck up. She would be trouble to get rid of, but more trouble if I didn't get rid of her. I needed to figure out how to do it without being brutal, and now it seemed she was no bimbo, either. She'd see through whatever I said. Insinuating I was gay wouldn't help; she'd likely find that more appealing.

I walked down to the river and paced the Moonwalk, watching the tugs pushing their cargoes downstream, keeping them from careening off into the shore with the current at the bend.

I decided to be honest with her.

When I got back she'd cleaned up, made the bed, made herself coffee and stood watching the prowling men in the street.

"You said it was going on noon," she said. "It's just eleven now. I think you're an asshole."

"I am. That is what everyone tells me and I think they're right. I'm insensitive, self-centered and have no concern for anyone. I'm not a nurturing human."

"Take off your pants. I want to see your leg. I felt it last night and it was covered with scars."

"I'd rather not display it in the daylight. I don't wear shorts. I'm not proud of it."

"Come on. Let me see it. If you do, I'll leave after lunch."

I dropped my trousers and she came over to run her hand along the purpled maze of twisted gashes.

"Jesus, what happened?"

"I got shot in that leg. Several times. Turned it to mush. They essentially rebuilt it."

Her fingers explored furrows and ridges, probing excavations and caressing gnarls.

"It's ugly," I said. "It makes me weak."

"There were some serious holes here."

"Well, the word was six or so, but it was hard to tell."

"Muscle damage, I guess."

"Yep. Shattered the bones. Shortened, tied, some muscle just gone."

"But not as ugly as I, is that it?"

"You're not ugly."

"Come on, don't bullshit me. You thought I was ugly from the beginning. I knew you weren't gay cause even gays like my boobs. But they are ugly. I know it. Men who like them are fucking idiots. I am an ugly woman."

"You're sexy."

"Bullshit. Not to you. I work hard to create sex. Did I work hard enough last night?"

"I thought you liked sex."

"I do. But it's work, like anything worth doing. You dig mathematics, but it is work, isn't it?"

I didn't say anything. She didn't give me a much chance to consider the question.

"Was I good last night?"

"Too good for me."

"Whatever the fuck that means. You shot a huge load in my mouth while you snored."

"I passed out. Drunk, drugs, Christ I had more orgasms than I recall ever having in one night."

"Then I was good, but not good enough to stay."

"Why the hell do you want to stay here? It's a dump in a gay neighborhood. There's only one bathroom. I hate to share a bathroom. There's only one bed, and I don't like to sleep with anyone."

"It's deeper than that. I know it. You don't want me around."

"That isn't it. I don't want anyone around. I don't have time or space."

"Walk me to my car. I'm not sure where it is."

"You don't want to eat somewhere?"

"I don't want to put you out. Besides, I'm too ugly to take out in public. Just walk me to my car and I won't bother you again, Mr. Butcher."

So I did. Then I returned and got back into Postnikov, Chapter Three, Riemannian Spaces, which began with a painfully fucked up discussion of Riemannian connections. His definitions had turned ambiguous, the notation no longer specifying what lived where, the covariant derivative with respect to an arbitrary vector field zero but not zero when applied directly though it ought to have been unless that meant something else. I looked back at his discussion of covariant differentiation and parallel translation along a curve, wondering now if I had understood any of his approach at all. Not a good sign, given I'd slogged through that territory twice before.

I tossed the book aside and left to get beer and burgers at the Port of Call; to listen to the jazz on the juke box.

© Jim Chaffee 2011