Porno Muse, or One Sadly-Vulgar-Hooligan Story
From the author: My heartfelt gratitude to Marina Dmitrieva for her taste and help in selecting clothing for the heroines of this story. Without her help, it wouldn't be what it is. Marina, once again — a sincere "Thank you!"
***
I'm about to explode like three hundred tons of TNT,
Inside me — a charge of non-creative evil:
Today the Muse visited me!
She sat a little while — and then she left.
She had her weighty reasons,
I have no right to whine and moan:
Imagine — a Muse, at night, with a man…
God knows what people will say about her!
V. Vysotsky. "Plagiarist's Song". 1969.
"The door opened. She stood
before me, all flustered in anticipation of the upcoming madness that awaited us beyond the threshold of her bedroom, which until then had known only chaste marital embraces and innocent sex in the ageless 'missionary position'. Now this bedroom — and us along with it — were about to plunge into nights before which the orgies of Caligula and the debauchery of Sardanapalus would pale, and even the air of this innocent-looking bedroom understood this and tensed with anticipation, like a member tenses in an insatiable, lustful female vagina awaiting its long-awaited orgasm…"What kind of nonsense is this, forgive me Lord, though the Lord has absolutely nothing to do with it…
I decisively pressed the rectangular key marked with a cross, and all the text I had been struggling with for the last forty minutes disappeared from the laptop screen in a fraction of a second. However, the speed of destroying anything — be it books, cities, or food on a holiday table — never surprised me. If there's one thing humanity, like the genie from Arabian tales, has achieved unprecedented heights in, it's this, and should I, its humble representative, lag behind in this art?..
But after the era of destruction always comes the era of construction or at least reconstruction — according to the classic revolutionary formula: "We will destroy the whole world of violence to its foundations, and then…" And it was with this "and then" that I was having problems right now.
Behind the wall, in the bedroom, my wife was sweetly snoring, lulled by another "marital duty," but I couldn't sleep. At first, I lay next to her, hands behind my head, studying the ceiling while simultaneously peering into the vague content of the shadow-thoughts wandering in my head; then, when these phantoms began to acquire more or less bleeding flesh, I quietly got up, put on my home pants with blown-out knees; half-naked, I went into the next room with the library and, turning on the laptop (I didn't turn on the light — I love this mysterious feeling generated by the night, and the glow from the screen was quite enough), began to shape the incoherent, bleeding thoughts into words and sentences (yes, I sometimes suffer from graphomania, for which I sincerely repent to all future readers of this incoherent midnight delirium). In turn, the sentences that had acquired flesh and blood turned into sperm-splattering paragraphs, and the phantoms themselves acquired quite finished outlines of some erotic fantasy. And so, when it came to the most interesting part…
I closed the laptop and looked around with melancholy. What could inspire me? — it started so well… I ran my eyes over the meaningfully darkening spines of books, but the classics of prose and poetry, both high and erotic, for some reason didn't inspire me at all. The thought flashed to visit a site with porn videos, but I immediately dismissed it: those "apples" depicting passion where there is none and cannot be never really attracted me before, and especially today… I wanted something sharp, refined, unusually exciting and yet close in spirit, contemporary. Hmm, contemporary…
Oh, of course! How could I forget!
I opened the laptop again, found the folder with the neutral inscription "Rock-n-roll," opened it, and began to skim through the familiar song titles. Of course, why didn't I think of it right away: a selection of appropriate rock hits — that's what I needed! After all, the very phrase — rock-n-roll — in Negro slang means "to fuck," and even some dances, if I remember correctly, were once called "vertical sexual intercourse"… Truly, Ostap Bender was right — the West will always help us!
All that remained was a mere trifle: to form the appropriate selection of songs. Preferably — in ascending order, so that the last one would be like an orgasmic flash. Well, for me, a former drummer of our university band, which in its time played almost all the rock classics of the 20th century, this really wasn't difficult.
So, to start: "Good morning, little schoolgirl." I always liked this song in the version by "Ten Years After," although everyone and their mother covered it before them. But this cheeky, loose, attacking guitar of Alvin Lee and his demanding vocals… I vaguely recalled some apocrypha that he supposedly even added a final verse to the classic version, where the hero, exhausted by masturbation and endless fantasies, directly tells this very schoolgirl what he will do with her while her parents are away… Perfect for a starter.
Next… "Gloria." Also in the same vein. True, Van Morrison was modest in his time: describing the moment when the girl climbs the stairs and enters the apartment of the guy waiting for her, he preferred to limit himself to an unambiguous hint, after which all his comrades in "Them," to a two-chord "garage" melody, burst into a hymn in praise of Aphrodite, beginning with the orgasmic cry "Glooooooria!!!" But one must consider that Van Morrison wasn't some "Chicago Negro from the Mississippi shores" who "sings what he sees," but a quite white-skinned Irishman, and this was in 1965… So — a very edible continuation. The main thing is to forget that you know English, so that room for imagination remains.
Sooo… what next? "Wild thing" by "The Troggs." Also classic English erotic "garage," especially with this breathy "you move me…" True, I also liked this song more in a version — this time by Jimi Hendrix. Ah, how dashingly he made love to his guitar at Monterey under the rhythm section of "bass-drums" in this song! And then he doused it with gasoline and smashed all the equipment with it, burning — a direct illustration of the style "then let no one have you!" In the sense that after me — only death and silence… Here, even if you don't want to, you'll start thinking about the relationship between "sex-orgasm-death."
Well, that's already philosophy. I need something else now — simpler, so to speak… No, I sent this little song to the selection too, can't do without it. "The Troggs" will sing, but I'll imagine Hendrix. Hmm… my train of thought has taken a strange direction… well, okay — no one will know about them anyway… And here's "Backdoor man," especially by "The Doors"… mmm, what a delicacy… I even couldn't resist and quietly sang the first lines: "Oh, yes, yes, yes, I love from behind. The girls will understand what I'm singing about…" There can be no questions here, definitely — into the selection. What guy doesn't dream of a girl allowing him… ahem… from behind, so to speak… Especially one who saves her virginity for her husband…
I skimmed my eyes over the lined-up compositions. Quite decent. What to finish with "something like that" — something "so the piano doesn't sound like a piano"?
Oh!!!
"Led Zeppelin." "Whole lotta love." Here, any comments are superfluous. "You need coolin', baby, I'm not foolin'. I'm gonna send you back to schoolin'…" A beautiful final chord, after which an intellectual orgasm is guaranteed even to a creative impotent.
So, friends, ready for battle? Seems everything's in order… the total duration of the songs just corresponds to the average duration of sexual intercourse… Well, all that's left is to mentally shout three times "Freebie (oops, I mean Muse), come!", turn on the selection — and you can wait for the descent of God's grace…
* * *
"You called us, mortal?" — a quiet, gentle female voice suddenly came from the sofa standing near the wall opposite the table with the laptop.
From the surprise, I almost missed the chair, grabbing the back with the soft upholstery just in time, thereby placing my mortal body sideways right on the very edge. Then, turning to face the back, I sat down more firmly and tried to see the owner of the marvelous voice. The thought flashed to turn on the light…
"Don't turn on the light, don't," the same voice asked. "You'll see us anyway, if you want. It's not difficult…"
"Us?…" I was completely bewildered. That it wasn't my wife sitting there on the sofa, I understood from the very beginning: though I'm a fantasist, not to that extent, and my wife wouldn't behave so mysteriously. But who then?… and how then?..
"Listen, mortal, maybe you'll finally stop asking stupid questions and finally look at who has come to visit you? Maybe pay at least some attention to us, huh?" — This was already a different voice — deep, pleasant, with chesty intonations; it sounded mockingly and clearly belonged to another visitor.
"And by the way, we'll answer your next question right away — yes, we can anticipate thoughts. Especially if our interlocutor looks at us like a sheep at a new gate. We simply have no other choice." — This little voice sounded even gentler than the first and seemed like a fairy-tale overflow of some magical instrument unknown to science. After the last phrase, three suppressed giggles came from the sofa.
"Aha… so there are three of them…" I finally managed to gather the thoughts scattered in different directions into a more or less coherent pile and squeezed out:
"Excuse me, but you… who?.."
I guessed that this wasn't the smartest question in this situation, so I took the laughter from the sofa as due. The answer was somewhat unexpected:
"And who did you want to see yourself?"
By that time, I had already "numbered" these voices for myself, to somehow orient myself in the situation, so I easily determined that this was the "second" voice. Before I could properly gather my thoughts and answer worthily about who I wanted to see at such a late hour, the third voice intervened.
"I think," it murmured most tenderly, "that he wanted to see that dark-skinned man who skillfully wields his left hand and treats musical instruments so poorly." — The little voice giggled innocently.
"Dear Sadb," the first voice addressed her with soft reproach, "still, you shouldn't mock the mortal. We've already frightened him with our appearance — see, he still can't come to his senses."
"Moreover," added the second, "you embody meekness, not caustic wit."
"That's me at home, yes, with my beloved Finn — the goddess of meekness," the third little voice meekly objected. "But here, in such an environment, am I not allowed to mock a little? Especially such a convenient opportunity…"
Just as everything in my head was beginning to gradually line up into some ordered system, the last phrase knocked me off track again. So, not only did they worm their way into my apartment in an unknown way, sit on my sofa, climb into my subconscious and manage it like at home, but they also mock me!..
"Mortal, I wouldn't advise you to think like that," said the second voice. "Or we might well accuse you of a false call, and then…"
"Better for you not to know what will happen then," the first voice concluded soulfully.
I don't know what made a greater impression on me — whether the warning soulfulness of the first voice or the open "I'm coming at you" of the second, but I finally coped with the whole storm of conflicting emotions and impressions and more or less calmly said:
"Dear ladies, why threaten right away, huh? I didn't mean at all in my thoughts what seemed to you. It's just that… mmm… your visit is somewhat unexpected, especially since I still don't know who you are…"
"I like his naivety," said the second voice. "Or he skillfully pretends. Yes, earthly men have degenerated, no doubt. Even in such a trifle as their own thoughts, they are afraid to take responsibility…"
"I'm afraid, dear Aoede, that you are right," the first voice said sadly. "And it's strange for me to understand that such men are still allowed to drink from your Castalian spring. With us in Asgard, for example, only the worthiest of the worthy are admitted to the mead of poetry. And even then, they are recognized as such only later in a special test where they must compose one song in twelve different meters. And here it feels like this mead is being sold on tap by a wandering trader, like cheap beer at the market."
Asgard? Hmm… Asgard… I called upon the depths of my memory, and, to my surprise, it obligingly produced what we were once told in university lectures on ancient literature. Finally, it began to dawn on me who my unexpected visitors were. Of course, much was still unclear and unfamiliar, but even what was gradually understood was completely fantastic and implausible…
"Why are you silent?" the second voice addressed me.
"I think," I said slowly, carefully feigning uncertainty. "I, it seems, was calling a muse…" — I needed to confirm my guesses, however incredible they seemed.
"Praise the gods," the second voice said with relief, "it finally dawned on him. Goddess Freyja, have you finally used your seidr to enlighten this mortal?"
With the last name, a sharp spotlight beam seemed to burst into my head. Freyja! Oh, I'm such an ass! What an ass I am!!!
"He can be dealt with," commented the next jumps of my thoughts by the voice of the third visitor, who was called Sadb.
"Dear, enough of this unworthy way of amusing yourself for a goddess," Freyja responded and addressed me: "I see you are finally beginning to understand who we are and how we got here…"
Truly she justified all the epithets addressed to her in the sagas: while she was sure I understood everything, there was complete chaos in my head.
"Well, don't be shy," Freyja said encouragingly.
I nervously swallowed and began:
"If you were composing a poem in praise of Aphrodite now, for example," Aoede joined the conversation, "then Erato would definitely visit you. But we have no muses for prose. That's a low genre for a muse, mortal."
"Then forgive me for the question," I addressed her, "but who are you? I only know your name, but nothing more…"
"To know the name is already a lot," she responded. "You haven't even told us yours. Though it's not necessary. We always know who we are going to… It's not surprising that you know nothing about me. I am not part of the sacred number of nine, whom Dionysus Musagetes leads and of whom Pierus of Macedonia spoke. I am older than them. And only the venerable Pausanias told the world about me, and he called me the Muse of song."
"Muse of song?" — I was bewildered again. "But…"
She laughed:
"How unperceptive you are, mortal. Truly, all the gods of the universe need much patience to deal with the likes of you. Remember how you called me. Remember what incantations you used to summon us…"
Incantations?..
I involuntarily glanced at my laptop with "Whole lotta love" paused.