Progression

And so it was, all sense of commitment Joe felt toward Casey was lost. After patchwork instances of reflection were endured, the realization came to Joe that attempt was simply not worth it. She was not his, and although this fact was a startling revelation that came about in a drug induced haze... it was simply that: fact.

Alone in a mass, Casey was not by his side. She was nowhere near him, not in eyesight and not in any of his other senses. Fire-lit faces matched the profiles of all of the demons in his past. Rejection, he felt. Though was it?

He was a junior in high school, in the throws of loving his one and only; his high school sweetheart. It was prom night, and they were ready. More than ready, in fact, after an evening of limo rides and spiked punch. The two decided to part early from the evening of bad rap songs and poor dance re-mixes. Joe and Marie had already been dating three years, since the beginning of freshman year and the urge to take each other was present, though for fear of losing each other, they held off. Until that night, it was.

Lake country was their residence so isolated areas were not in few. They parked his old beater mobile near a lake front and for a moment, they sat in silence simply smiling at each other. With solid eye contact and a gesture on Marie's part, the two passionately began kissing and with what almost seemed like an instant, their love for each other was choreographed into a dance that prolonged the rest of the night, until five the next morning.

Joe delivered Marie to her doorstep with a kiss on the lips and an "I Love You."

The next few weeks went by and their love was stronger than ever. With the novelty of their new found sexuality not at all ceasing to wear off, they knew each other better than they ever thought possible. On the last day of school, though, Marie did not appear. Joe received no phone call, no notion of his love being ill in any way. He endured the rest of the school day, the finality of his junior year intensely setting in, and on the car ride home an unsettling feeling arose in his gut.

As he turned the corner near the location of his home, Marie's parents vehicle was ominously parked in his driveway with both of his folks already home from work. "Oh no," he thought. He marched up his sidewalk to the door of his house and as he looked through the window, he saw all parties involved with tears streaming down their faces. He barged through the door to see resting on the kitchen table a positive pregnancy test and a suicide note. His heart dropped and as he lifted the note, tears smeared the ink. It read: "I'm sorry. I wasn't ready, and now I'll never be ready. Joe, I'm yours always and forever. Mom... dad..... I'm sorry to disappoint you. Sincerely, Marie."

While reminded of the finality of his only love in this life, he knew that he couldn't let Casey go nor could he deal with never fighting for one that he loves. He snagged a joint from some generous passers by to help mellow himself out from coming down off of this evening's X and sought out to find Casey.

He toured through endless myriads of individuals, making love and letting loose, bathing in the sweat of the people surrounding him. Hours that felt like months dragged by with no luck of finding his Casey. He went back to the tent in which not long ago had been the location of their hazy physical event and he found her there, nude, on the cusp of sleep.

He laid next to her and whispered in her ear, "I'm not giving up on you."

Devils

Parker charged through the masses, parting conversations with his rough shoulders and ignoring the calloused moans of people who'd forgotten how to fuck for love. He pushed his legs hard, driving into the dirt, running until his lungs caught fire and he thought his stomach was going to burst open. When he finally stopped, dry heaving thick ropes of spit and mucus into the dirt, he found himself alone.
Like Jesus in the desert, he thought between heaves.
When the spell passed him he lumbered weakly to a stack of crates and sat down.
"What am I supposed to do?" He asked aloud and bent over to set his dripping face into his palms.
"About what?"
Parker jumped, pain shooting through his stomach from the sudden exertion. A man was sitting a few feet from him in the open flap of a blue pop-up tent. His face was clean and aged, crows feet in his smile. He was peeling an apple with a short knife, cutting thick slices of the red rind and popping them into his mouth.
Parker caught his breath and tried to return the smile as best he could, "Sorry, you scared me a bit,"
"You scared me some too. Watching you trying to vomit wasn't a pleasant thing," he replied, "If you want my advice you need a few less demons in your life son."
Parker laughed at the notion of having any demons in his life, but only for a moment. Only before the memory came back to him, to which he nodded and balled up his fists.
"I don't have any demons," he told the man.
"Oh," the man said, "suppose then that you won't be interested in my story?"
"Why don't I tell you one instead," Parker replied, his head slowly sinking back towards his palms. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tried to get it all right.

Once upon a time there was a man who loved a woman so deeply that he had nothing but her in his life. Her eyes were his eyes, her hands were his own. When they slept in the same bed her warmth kept him alive, kept him able to keep waking up in the morning. It kept him honest.

One day while the man and the woman were together in their house, talking and musing with each other, a terrible idea came into her mind.
"Man," she said sweetly, "come with me to bed."
The man checked his watch and saw that bed time was not for many many hours. Surely she was not feeling well and needed to rest, and so he told her he would follow her. She was his warmth, where that went so he went.
In the bedroom she undressed and seduced him. She took him for herself, body and soul, devouring what was not hers to take, what was his to give and be received, not pillaged and brutally swallowed. She had everything from him in slow droplets of sweat and desire. When it was over, the man had a craving for it that would gnaw on his bones forever.
They did this for a long time, lived in this squalid existence for an interminable amount of time, until one day the woman came to the man with shadows beneath her eyes.
"I'm with child," she spoke and the man's heart sieved it's trust and desire into nothing. In its place there was great fear, and because of the fear, great sorrow.
Sorrow that he swore never to speak of again, though it may cost him his very soul.

The man in the tent nodded, the smile not having left his face.
"Not all devils come from outside of us, son." He said and laughed, carving all the while at the fruit.

Church Bells.

A Sordid Affair of Cock-Stunted Scoundrels

"You're all going to Hell!" Parker shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

No one paid him any mind, so he continued.

"I mean it. You'd better listen up, because Jesus would like to have a word with all of you! You're all going to burn hotter and faster than that blasphemous doll you've built. God doesn't take kindly to deviants or drug addicts or," he paused for a gulp of hot, salty air. "P-Premarital relations," he managed. "And you two, over there! The two guys kissing each other! Don't think I - and God - don't see you!"

The gentlemen gave him a quick glance and, upon not finding him to their liking, resumed their examination of one another's tonsils. Parker frowned and crossed his arms across his chest, kicking the toe of his shoe against the top of the produce crate on which he stood. Mali, still suckling at the neon straw protruding from her glowing drink, danced and swayed around him, convinced she could see the wind.

"You really shouldn't be doing that," Parker scolded.

"Come off it, Parker," Mali retorted. "Lighten up, you'll live longer."

"I don't care about how long I live," Parker huffed. "I care about getting into Heaven when I die." Again, Parker swallowed hard. "And I care about you getting into Heaven."

"Not much chance of that," Mali said, dropping her drink and flashing her chest to a wandering group of grey-haired lesbians striding by. The ladies applauded the show, one drooling slightly and another coming to her rescue with a tissue. Mali laughed, winked, and resumed her wild dancing.

Parker was appalled.

"Don't you get it?" he demanded, descending the crate with unsteady feet. "God cares about you. I-I care about you. But what you're doing - giving in to these sinful temptations, drinking of the serpent's teat, flashing your... your b-breasts to those daughters of Gomorrah - well, Mali, it doesn't make Jesus love you any less, but it's certainly not helping matters!"

Mali stopped dancing and turned to face Parker. "I know what you're after." She grinned devilishly, her round face licked by firelight.

"You do?" Parker asked, taken aback. Silently, he cursed Gordon for letting loose his most entrusted secret, then cursed himself for cursing, only to then find himself quite confused.

"Uh-huh," Mali said. With the same fervor she had delivered upon the aging lesbians, she again gripped the seam of her shirt and tugged it under her chin, exposing her chest to Parker.

Wild-eyed, Parker threw his hands over his eyes, screamed, and bolted into the crowd.

Mali watched him go, confusion and a hint of disappointment reading in her face.

"He's an odd one, he is," came Gordon's unmistakable twang from behind.

Mali turned and squealed happily, nearly tackling Gordon in a hug.

"Might want to put the ladies away," Gordon said, his voice slightly robotic. He didn't look Mali in the eye.

Mali looked down at herself and realized her shirt's hem was still resting on the tops of her breasts. She quickly pulled it down to her waist and laughed.

Gordon nodded, but continued to stare straight ahead into nothingness.

"Gordon?"

"Yes, Mali?"

"Gordon, what are you on?"

"Acid, Mali. I have eaten acid this evening."

"Oh," Mali said. She waited a moment, letting the silence insist that Gordon explain how he'd happened upon his party gifts. Gordon, in his numb state, didn't take the hint. "Well, have you seen Jamie? Or Joe and Casey?"

"I have seen them," Gordon said, nodding again. "I have seen everything. I have seen the wind and the music and the burning future of all mankind."

"Oh," Mali said again. "Neat."

I have seen a man who dressed himself in women's clothes. I have seen a woman give birth to a serpent. I have seen children playing in the memories of their grandfathers, though pushing a tire with a stick will only lead you to the end of the road. Not one of whom was any stranger than the man I see over there.

Mechanically, he lifted an arm to indicate a middle-aged man seated perhaps thirty yards away with his back to them. Mali followed his gesture, but decided to wait for an explanation.

This man, whose name is actually Roger Lenin, will tell you his name is David. David, who is really Roger Lenin, works as a contractor for his brother-in-law. He rises with the sun, placing blankets and pillows in their appropriate locations and angles once having crawled from bed, and puts himself together in the early light of dawn. He showers, scrubbing each of his armpits over half a dozen times with lavender and vanilla body wash - though he, like most men, will spend more time washing his balls than any other part of his anatomy. He will then shave, meticulously careful not to nick the underside of his chin, for it is what he considers the most painful place for a cut. 

He brushes his teeth until his gums are raw and bloody.

"Must get the dirty out. Must get the dirty out," he says to himself through foam and fluid.

He will proceed from his wash room, barefoot and smelling of oxidants, and make his way to his armoire, from which he will select just the right shade of beige for his tie. His underroo's are always fresh, crisp, and clean, as are his socks. His wardrobe of collared shirts is definitively osseous. He only owns three pairs of solid black Dockers, which he rotates throughout the week and hopes no one ever notices. He laces his shoes always the same, first the right and then the left. Before he leaves his home, he consumes half a banana and two cups of coffee. He always, always, always tells his houseplant to mind its manners that day.

This morning, Roger Lenin - who calls himself David - forgot to brush his teeth.

He murdered his brother-in-law, and his sister, and their two, smiling babies, before driving his VW Golf as far as his gas tank would allow him, which explains how he ended up here.

Mali shrank into Gordon's side, clutching his arm like both a weapon and a shield. "Do you mean it, Gordon? Did that man really kill people?"

Gordon laughed, though it came out stilted and lifeless. "No, Mali. I told you, I'm on acid."

"Oh," she sighed with relief.

"Parker's in love with you."

"WHAT?!"

Transgressions

It started out simple. While the Candy Man discussed the nature of another very present "Man," both Casey and Joe become lost in one another. The effects had set in and they were experiencing one another in a very new fashion. With each touch, each rub, electricity filled the air, encouraging more.
They each disrobed without a care to who was present. Ecstasy coursed through his veins into hers. His hands ran the whole of her, a feeling Casey encouraged. It was heated, a passion that couldn't be communicated by Joe in mere words, like a moment in time that had no definition. As if the only perceivable way to delineate the mood through Joe's eyes would be to apply passion rapture to every sense simultaneously to a point that borders on overwhelming. As it ended, Joe collapsed on the tent floor, breathing in the fumes of a newly lit cigarette, the feel of sweat still on his lips. Joe wanted to kiss her but refrained, out of an instilled social fear of tasting himself. Instead, he simply allowed sleep to take him.

He woke a short time later, still very much in a different place. He rolled over to find Casey curiously absent. After some rough re-robing he ventured outward. The air hit him first, a stench unfamiliar, but potent nonetheless. The lights followed, flashing, signaling, a kaleidoscope of patterns filled the area and Joe's first thought was "So this is what I a rave looks like." He then embarked on his quest to find his princess. With each passing nude couple, with each swinger group engaging in public passion, Joe swelled with more and more feelings. He wanted to have her by his side.

After interrupting several open couples, running into over a dozen painted individuals to the point where he himself resembled a child's finger painting and right over narrowly dodging a giant phallic statue, he found her.

There she was, the first woman to excite him, to ignite his very existence. The love of his life..........

with her tongue firmly planted in another woman's mouth.

To Joe, it looked like passion. He had never seen a woman kiss another woman in such a fashion that wasn't scripted.

"What are you doing?"
"I'm enjoying myself, what do you care?
I thought guys like this kind of stuff anyway."
"I'm not that kind of guy, I care about you. I love you."
"Aww Joe, I don't mind being a one man gal, I love you too.
But if you ever want her to join, just let me know. I'm willing to share."
"As tempting as that sounds, I want you to myself."

Joe said nothing. No matter how he scripted it in his drug induced head, he had enough sobriety to know that's not how it would play out. Instead he watched and listened for some sign.

Their make out session ended and the girl, a petite Italian who could easily be considered a minor, but more than likely fell in the category of college student, pushed her blue bangs out of her eyes, flicked her multi-pierced tongue at Casey and inquired about Casey's story. They moved through the crowd with the thought of liquid sustenance in mind while Casey narrated to her new found companion the story of her accompanied travels. Joe listened patiently, hoping his name would at least come up. It did not. The olive skinned deviant then inquired as to what inspired Casey to kiss her.

"If I'm attracted, I'm attracted. I believe there are different levels to everything, love is no different. Sometimes I want a snack, other times I want a full meal. Like this one time, we were at this poetry session. We were all putting some stuff together, real good shit you know and I wrote this piece. It's about this girl, back home. It's a long story. Anyway, it was so heart wrenching putting to words how I felt that after I read it I sought something. I needed just a glimpse of what I had, I just needed a taste. I ran to the bathroom and this hippie girl followed me. She loved it and wanted to know more. We walked to the back alley before my group left and I just opened right there, and she felt it. She felt my passion and so we ended up kissing. We both knew what it meant, so it wasn't going to be a thing. Then this incredibly naive kid Parker sees me and gives me the shittiest look, like I just spit in the eye of Jesus or something. I asked the lady to wait a minute and walked over to him, grabbed him by the color and made him promise not to speak a word. The others wouldn't understand.

Love doesn't have a face or form. It's not a concept that has parameters to hold it. Any social mores people have about the idea are just that: social. They are based on a society that wants to give definition, give ideas like love a paradigm to fit. You know the concept of marrying out of love is only about 200 years old. Means before then this institution of marriage had parameters for a very long time that's very different than what we hold today. Does that make it any more or less right?

Evangelicals and the sort hold their notions of love and marriage in such a high regard but the truth is, it's no different than the pagan rituals they frown upon. Do you know the origins of the wedding ring? It predates any designated religion. The premise behind it is pretty fucked. Back when humankind was still very primitive and warring on a constant basis, a tribe would capture another tribe, kill the men and enslave the women. The women were tied together, around the wrists, the neck and the feet. As time wore on, the tribe would gradually lessen the amount of rope used as long as the women remained docile and subservient. Eventually they would simply tie string around the woman's finger to remind her always of her servitude. You really think I'm going to subscribe to the notions of love from an institution like that?

I go with my heart, at least I know it's origins, and why should I be prohibited of enjoying myself and my company, man or woman? I just want to feel the world, to feel something beautiful. And I will always seize the day."

The azure haired beauty stood for a second and replied, "Wow, deep, and thank you I think."

Joe had left long before Casey finished her story, his only driving thought was "Where is Parker!"

The Lucky Ones

As Jamie and Gordon are exploring the galaxy via an acid trip, Joe and Casey were off exploring the wonder that is Burning Man. All around them were nude, and presumable intoxicated, people, all of them singing and dancing as if they didn't have a care in the world.

"This may possibly be the most fucked up thing I have ever seen, ever." Joe proclaimed as he studied his surroundings.

"You ain't lyin." Casey said. As they continued to wander, a man dressed in what could would be described best as hippie attire approched them.

"What are you lovely beings up to on this fine evening?" the man asked.

"Um, pretty much trying to figure this place out. This is our first time, so this is all still ikind of a shock." Joe explained.

"Well, they key to figuring this out is stepping inside the Man's head. You two just need to see through his eyes." the man says.

"Who exactly is this Man?" Casey asks. The man simply pointed to the burning statue of wood in the distance. "He, my lady, is The Man."

"Well, how are we supposed to see through a wooden mans eyes?" she asks. The man then pulls two small pills from his pocket, one in each hand.

"Isn't this where you tell us to see who far the rabbit hole goes?" Joe asks, taking one of the pills and examining it.

"No, this is where I tell you that after tonight, you will never see the world the same way again." the man says. Joe looks at casey, as she takes the other pill from the mans hand.

"When in Rome." she says, as she pops the pill into her mouth and swallows.

"Eh, fuck it." Joe says, as he pops his. "So candy man, where are you heading tonight?" Joe asks.

"No exact location, just where ever the Lord takes me." he answers.

"Well, if you've got a few minutes, you wanna chill for a bit? You did just give us pills without telling us what they are." Casey says.

"That sounds great. I have a tent set up not to far away, we can hang there." the man says, and they all begin their walk to the strange mans tent.

They enter the tent, and the man sits on one side, with Joe and Casey on the other. Casey leans against Joe, who akwardly puts one arm around her.

"Tell us a story Candy Man." Casey says.

Love. That is it. That is the one eternal tie that binds. It is the one thing that man respects and fears. It brings unimanginable joy, and unbearble pain. To the lucky few that find it, it makes them the happiest people on the big rock. But there are the unfortunate ones who never do find it. They roam the planet alone, miserable, waiting to die. Some would say though, that they are the lucky ones. They boast that they have no ball and chain to carry, no other half to answer to. They never have to worry about the problems of a relationship, or the fear of betrayal and rejection. But these are the naive ones. I would rather die a man destoryed by heartbreak, than die a man whose heart was never touched at all. if love is the death sentance that they say it is, then I will gladly carry that cross with me, and laugh in the face of the fool who doesn;t, because I was one of the lucky ones.

The man finishes his story, and looks to Joe and Casey, who are in the throws of a feverish make-out session, with Casey straddling Joe, who is thinking himself to be the luckiest man on the planet. The man laughs quietly to himself.

"My work here is done." he says to himself, as get stands up and leaves the tent.