textfiles/sex/EROTICA/T/thestuff.txt

THE STUFF DREAMS ARE MADE ON
Voy, Paris/Kim
by James Kythe Walkswithwind


     The clouds looked peaceful today, or perhaps it was the smell
of the rain finally approaching, that made the tension in his body
finally begin to ease.  It had been hot, lately, much too hot for
his frail body to endure for long.  Nevermind he didn't have to
endure it, nevermind he could have returned indoors where the
atmosphere was kept at whatever level he desired.  It was much
better out here, with all the stifling heat the planet wanted to
throw at him.  Much better out here, where he could look up and see
sky.
     He had carefully never mentioned his slight claustrophobia. 
Too many years spent cooped up had made their impression, and
though he could have explained away his need for the outdoors
easily to a sympathetic doctor, he chose not to.  It wasn't their
business to know what went on inside his mind.  No matter how many
times they muttered the phrase 'mental health' and 'psychiatric
review'.
     The staff indulged his requests for attending the large
parties thrown by dignitaries for whatever purpose dignitaries
threw parties.  Every weekend someone took him, in a ground car, to
the sprawling mass of the city nearby and let him walk among the
hundreds of strangers, smiling and greeting and leaving behind him
a trail of whispered conversations.  'That's one of them,' they
would tell each other.  'He was one of the ones..'
     Usually he ignored those whispers.  Usually he concentrated on
surrounding himself with a thousand new faces, gathering together
in this building or that, at this pavilion or that one.  Always a
new place, always a new crowd of faces.  Sometimes he didn't
believe it was real.  Sometimes he raised his hand, about to ask
for the arch, knowing that this program he'd created was too real,
too satisfying to be anything but scary.  He would always stop
himself, though, knowing that any attempt at such nonsense would be
greeted with the quick presence of a nurse standing at his side,
asking him if he wouldn't rather sit down, perhaps even go home.
     He hated that.  The way they treated him like.. like a senile
old fart.  He hated the way they smiled patiently, as they indulged
his whims- as if the need for such things as these parties, these
days spent outside under the hot sun were anything but absolutely
necessary.  He couldn't explain that to them, he hadn't even tried. 
No one could understand, who hadn't been there.
     It didn't matter.  He didn't care if they understood, if they 
wanted to understand, if they even cared why he did these things
that he did.  He was old, and had "endured".. those two things gave
him an immunity like nothing else in the universe.  He could do,
say, be any damn thing he pleased and no one so much as rebuked
him.  He grinned.  And it wasn't like him not to take advantage..
     The girls had found their way home, of course.  He didn't know
if they had ever found their swimming suits, but in this day and
age who cared about a little nudity?  Especially the nudity of two
such wonderful specimens of the female person.  The head nurse had
simply shaken her head when she found out, pursing her lips as she
always did when she wanted to scold him.  But she only told him it
was late, and wasn't he ready to go to sleep?
     He rubbed a hand over his face, and looked up at the clouds. 
They would bring rain, in perhaps another few hours.  He watched as
they billowed in still motion, filling the northern half of the sky
with their soft grey and white puffs.  He had gotten good at
reading the weather, here.  So very good.  It came from spending so
much time on the surface, outside the comforts of the nursing home. 
He laughed at himself.  When was the last time he'd flown among
those kinds of clouds?
     When was the last time he'd wanted to?
     It hadn't taken them seventy years.  Despite their best 
calculations, despite every effort, it hadn't taken seventy years. 
He didn't know, know, exactly how long it *had* taken.  He could
have found out easily enough, had he wanted anyone to start
whispering again about losing his memory.  The last time they'd
started whispering that, he had found himself in a room with an
interviewer, impassionately explaining how necessary it was to
preserve his thoughts, his remembrances for history. The tapes and
logs were not enough, they said.  They wanted his impressions, his
views, his life recorded and preserved for people to read and learn
and understand.  
     To gawk at, he'd answered them. Entertained by something they 
could never hope to appreciate.  Amused by the drama, the
excitement, the tradegy.. The pretty young reporter had tried to
argue for her position.  He had an obligation, she'd said.  As the
only one who'd returned, it was his duty to tell them everything he
could.  His reply had been short, simple, and had made the head
nurse purse her lips when she found out. That immunity thing,
again.  He'd needed it, that time.  He wasn't sure he *could*
explain, anyway, why they had done what they'd done.  Why some 
of the crew had stayed behind, why the Voyager's logs had been
carefully transferred, why he had been the only one to return on
that small, cramped frieghter aching to be let out after so many
hours of manuel flying.
     He'd walked out of the room with his personal history safely 
inside him.  So what if it died, with him.  He didn't care.  The
only things he cared about now were these storms that swept across
the land, drenching everything in glistening patterns.  These
storms brought him the feeling that perhaps, somewhere, some part
of his life could make sense. That perhaps, somewhere life would
continue.  That perhaps, somehow, they would forgive him.
     Sometimes he thought he heard *his* voice in the winds,
telling him he was dreaming, telling him he was imagining things,
kidding himself.  But most of the time the storms simply came and
went, dropping their bundle on him and going about their way,
fading and regrouping as storms are wont to do.  Most of the time
his memories carried the voice away, as well, into the distance.
     Like the memory of the first time he placed his hand on his
friend's cheek, tenderly, feeling that warmth suffusing his skin. 
Looking into those clear, bright eyes gazing back at him with just
the barest hint of confusion, of disbelief, then the way they
shined as the realisation struck them both.  The huge stretch of
that smile, as that realisation was accepted, embraced, just as he
was then accepted and embraced..
     Or the memory of the first time they made love.  The awkward
way they'd undressed, both of them not sure if they should turn
away, give each other some privacy, or if they should boldly stare
in naked lust and appreciation at the body each was about to
explore.  Finally he smiled, than laughed, and soon they were
collapsed one on top of the other in a tangle across the bed.  The
laughter had given way quickly to passionate kisses, and fumbling
hands removed the remainder of clothing without further delay.  
     A thousand memories of the taste of his lover's skin, the
smell of his body as they writhed together, naked flesh pressing
tightly.  The way his fingers would curl through his hair, pulling
him forward, easing him away, guiding sometimes, sometimes simply
carressing as they joined. The feel of those firm muscles, tensed
beneath him, beginning their rapid trembles that bespoke of a
torrential rush of ecstasy.  The sound of their voices moaning
together, the contented sighs afterwards, the gentle laughter that
often punctuated their lovemaking.
     There was the memory of the time, a long time before those
memories, when they had sat across a table in the mess hall, saying
things they weren't sure the entire meaning of, but already knowing
they had to discover their hidden truth.  The way he had quietly
spoken of his feelings, couched carefully in terms of their
long-standing friendship.  The way the other man nodded, agreeing,
not yet saying more but with the signs obvious to anyone looking
back on them after.  Obvious the way those glances, those gestures,
spoke of more than simple friendship.
     Perhaps even the memory of the day they announced their 
engagement.  That stunned surprise which gave way to delighted
laughter - for everyone on board had known, and had been waiting
patiently (and in some cases not so patiently) for the two to come
to their senses and admit what they felt and do something
constructive about it.  The happy smile on the Captain's face as
she accepted the duty which was the most favourite duty of ship
captains everywhere. The bachelor's party, the night before,
carefully divided into two holosuites, but with a generous mixing
of attendees from one to the other- only the bachelors themselves
were kept in their respective parties, adhering to some tradition
no one remembered the reason for.  
     Or the ceremony.  The long nights spent designing the 
holoprogram, fixing details with the friends who had volunteered to
coordinate, arguing over whose culture and which traditions to
follow.  Making up after those arguments and realising the entire
ceremony was for the diversion of the crew, since they already had
everything they ever wanted. And then standing side-by-side,
finally, looking past the Captain at the backdrop of stars,
wondering if any of those stars would ever look familiar again,
wondering if this fantasy would ever give way to reality. 
Wondering if when they returned home, this marriage would remain.
     There was the last memory of that voice.  The last moment he
had heard his husband speak to him, the last time he'd felt his
hand on his arm, that light brush of his lips, feeling the promise
of more to come, later, after this duty's shift.  The gentle smile
untempered by the years, the bright flash of mischief he still,
still had never learned the reason for..  His last words he knew by
heart, there was no need to repeat them now.  
     It was most often the other memory, that served to rend the
need for distraction from him.  The smell of coming rains overcame
the stench of burning circuitry, the sound of the wind drowned out
the glaring klaxon of a red alert.  The sight of the soft, dark
clouds covered up the dark red blood, spilling all over the carpet
down here in the personnel quarters where things like this weren't
supposed to happen.  Damages and injuries should have been confined
to the other areas of the ship like engineering, the bridge,
perhaps even hallways but not in the rooms where people lived and
laughed and loved.  The rythmn of the falling rain changed the
pattern of his cries, the rising and falling of his voice as 
he wailed in denial.  The pressure of the storm removed the
pressure of those hands, pulling him away, holding him back from
holding that crushed body one last time..


     The storm was coming tonight, and would be here just as the
sun was going down.  It was a good time for a storm.  The day had
been so hot.


the end