NASA Image of the Day

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Search for Air - A Discussion of Process

He was slightly bent over, one hand on his hip, breathing in and out laboriously. Spittle was hanging from the end of his nose. He turned his head rapidly, sideways, to peer up at her, through one open eye, pirate-like. The other one was squinted shut. A glob of the nose spittle flew up and hit her in the eye. She smiled, unfazed, like a surgeon.

"What was THAT?" he whispered, weakly.

"Eight solid hours of induced laugh therapy", she intoned. She wiped the nose spittle glob out of her eye with her shirt, sighing with satisfaction. "I learned it from a slightly odd Indian man who most people thought was just psychotic. He turned out to be a genius, therapy-wise, despite being alone a lot." She smiled at him again, watching him anxiously, like a bug.

"I may have overdone it a bit, but I didn't want you to think I had been neglecting you. I just get very focused." He was coughing, and gripping his side.

"Is it supposed to result in this much sharp, stabbing pain?" he answered between coughs.

There was a little spittle lodged in the corner of his mouth, foam-like, which he couldn't quite manage to wrap his tongue around. The tongue itself was hanging out of his mouth, dog-like, fighting for cooling air, like a lizard - and, really, to shepherd more of the air stuff into his lungs. The resulting intake of breath was interspersed with a strange moaning sound. He was terrified he'd have to urinate next, and destroy the whole carefully orchestrated process of bodily functions he was still, at the moment, mastering. He could only imagine what he might have looked like, to someone passing by....

"Stop, oh stop", he gasped.

"Are you sure?" she said. "We want to try and push this to your burn limit, if we can. The effects last longer." She was squinting, as if she had a tic, where the spittle had flown into her eye, as the cool air hit the wet surface. A mad image of Groucho Marx flew into and out of his head, briefly, standing there. He felt lightheaded.

He was staring at her face, helplessly, gagging at the tic. He thought he might die at any moment.

"Can't you just stop all movement briefly?", he moaned, finally. The tears had slipped out of  his left eye, and were pouring down his face. The body was showing its rebellion against stroke.

"Liquid release!" she blurted out. "Usually it's the other end! You're really worked on the control focus exercise, haven't you? Good for you!!!!" She was relentless. He thought she might end with "my little elf man", or something equally impossible. He was allowing himself the moan sound mixed with air, generously.

"Ahhhhhaaaahhhhhh errrr mroooow, " he said. He crossed his legs, still bent over, and fell over, at last.

"I'll be right back", she said. "The phone's ringing....."She trotted off, like a pole vaulter. He noted, absently, that although the rest of her body moved - including her breasts, which jiggled slightly above the underwire bra beneath her shirt - her head, like a bobbling dashboard doll, remained unflinching, like a strange orb eye, or a rock, with hair on it. The sound of his moans bounced off it, echoing slightly in the afternoon sunshine, as she retreated.

He lay there, silent in his sudden private moment, looking at the dark stain on his trousers, and sighed. He was her slave, he knew, happily.  He felt wonderful, despite the nasty smell. He barked out loud, suddenly, for no apparent reason that he could understand, feeling free at last. Martin Luther King Jr., he knew, would have understood. He looked upwards, slowly: the dark cloud had lifted.  

Never again would he refer to himself as Schleprock. She had won.