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Momentary Avatars (f mast, voy)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
F Masturbation, Voyeurism
"Momentary Avatars"
by
The Impious Imp
Chapter One
"Distant Veiled Figures"
When I was a child,
I caught a fleeting glimpse
out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look,
but it was gone . . .
- Pink Floyd
* * *
May 13, 1981
She looked older when she opened the door but then again I
hadn't seen her in seven years. "Hello, Mother," I said. She
didn't say a word, just stood there and looked at me from behind
the door, her fingers curled around the edge of the wood as if it
were a shield. A frail Flavius Honorius holding back the
Visigoth, alone. By default I felt as though I were an invader.
If I had expected surprise or happiness I didn't get them.
After what must have been a protracted internal debate, Mother
opened the door fractionally, a hesitant gesture. I accepted and
stepped in.
Smells. Waves of encroaching dust held at bay by the
unflagging efforts of an ancient feather duster. Old leather
bound books and the delicate gilt edged paper between the covers.
Faint perfumes, fragrant ghosts of longtime inhabitants.
I could feel her disapproving gaze as her sharp eyes quickly
took inventory of me from my black high heeled boots to how short
my hair was cut.
"You're still dressing like a man, I see," she said as she
shut the door, pointedly not looking in my direction. 'Hardly,'
I thought to my self but I kept my mouth tightly clamped. It was
my jeans I'm sure, Mother never approved of slacks on women, much
less jeans and I'm sure that my all black ensemble only
heightened her disdain. I was suddenly conscience of how tight
the black denim was, plus the fact that my heels were the four
inch high heels that she probably thought of as "Shoes Only a
Prostitute Would Wear" or "Fuck-Me-Boots" although she would
never actually use such language, suddenly aware of how much
cleavage showed with four buttons undone on my ebony blouse.
I was surprised to find errant fingers seeking out a lock of
hair to tug, a habit I had formed when under pressure. She had
always thought short hair was for men.
I took off my sunglasses in the relative darkness of the
room, folded down one arm and slipped the other into the "V" of
my blouse to hang. Rebel-et posed with hands on cocked hip,
posturing in vain hope of projecting imposing edifice. Instead
it made me feel even more self-conscious.
I noted that she was dressed as she always had been - as she
always would be - in her white linen skirt, blue cotton blouse
(with only the top button open), sensible shoes and a light
sweater over her shoulders like a shawl. There was a lot more
grey in her hair than I remembered and she moved a little slower
too, she looked tired.
With the door shut, Mother straightened, tugged at her skirt
perfunctorily and marched to the television to turn it down. She
had the news on, as always, and I finally saw images of the Pope
being shot. I had heard about it on the car radio but seeing it
on television somehow made it more "real" to me. Reagan and
Brady had been shot two months before, it seemed to me that a
conspiracy was afoot, someone was out to get all the important
people . . . therefore I was safe. Of course, I had no doubt
Mother thought I was somehow responsible for all such atrocities
since we rebellious young people were responsible for all the
world's ills in her diatribes.
"I'm making tea," she said as she headed out of the room.
It was an announcement, not a request but I knew that I was
invited for a cup if I wanted one, if invited were truly the word
I was looking for. No "How are you" or "Why are you here." I
almost felt as if I hadn't left this place, it was as if the last
seven years had never happened, although the room seemed a lot
smaller than I remembered but the serene aroma of sun baked
carpet was the same. I tucked my fingers into my pockets and
followed Mother on her way to the kitchen.
A few steps and a wave of disorientation made my vision
waver and I suddenly saw the room through a change in
perspective. The furniture and room were larger, the colors
brighter and I could hear the rustle of a newspaper from the
kitchen. I hurried my pace, Daddy was home! My heart raced and
I felt the lightheadedness and buoyancy that had always preceded
rushing into his warm embrace but as I turned into the hallway
the colors faded, the house became colder and Daddy was gone.
Years gone.
Had I really expected him to be sitting in the kitchen
reading his paper, pipe clamped between his teeth? There was no
coming back from where he had gone. The smells and sights of the
present had conjured up a ghost from the past for me.
I passed through the hallway that ran the length of the
house, the stairs that ran beside it up to the second floor, the
wall beneath the steps still covered with old oval frames and the
yellowing photos encased beneath aged glass, light from the past
caught, fossilized and held to the tickle memories of those who
gazed upon them. My aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews all young
again, young as long as the images would last. I couldn't look
at the more modern frames. Frank would be there staring out from
under the panes and I was afraid he would come back to life if I
saw him.
I stopped at the doorway to the kitchen, my feet just inside
on the cold tile floor and I leaned against the door frame.
Mother seemed smaller, rather like the house, both were a little
more stooped. Her body hid the teapot on the stove but could not
shield me from the high-pitched whistle of escaping steam that
assailed my ears. The whistle cut off and the sounds of the
house quietly moved in like a slow acoustic tide. The hum of the
ancient refrigerator, the tick of the grandfather clock in the
hall behind me, the settling of the framework of the house and
the click of Mother's shoes as they made that sound that only a
mother's shoes on a tile floor can make. I had not felt as
though I belonged in this home for years and yet the familiar
sounds lulled me and gave me a comfort I had not expected. A
comfort I had not felt in this house since . . .
'Since Frank caught you . . .' shouted some part of my
brain to my conscious mind.
NO! I wouldn't relive all that again and I closed my eyes
as if I could shut out the memory but there was no defense
against attackers from within. I remembered . . .
. . . I remembered to close the door and wait until I could not
hear mother or Frank moving around anymore. I was afraid of
being caught and waited until I could hear the ticking of the
grandfather clock downstairs through the eerie silence of night.
I crawled under the covers and between the sheets of my bed.
Night was cover for me, the darkness crawled around you and
changed your familiar surroundings into mysterious places where
anything was possible. Posters taped to the wall were suddenly
just shaded papers, warped and colorless in the dark of night.
My room was a tank filled with the ink of night except where the
moon cast stunning beams, sparkling with dust, through the window
to my pillow. I had arranged my bed to allow the moon to radiate
it's light on me in the night. It was . . . romantic.
My body was just beginning to change and the cover of night
gave me the opportunity to explore the alterations in my body
landscape as well as to invoke a riot of new sensations. My
chest was becoming heavier, larger in concert with my hips and
there were other changes as well, little changes. My lips were
becoming fuller and my nipples were becoming more sensitive.
Brushing them with my fingers now provoked a response deep within
me. Sexuality was awakening within me from it's dormancy where
it had waited for my body to grow and develop enough that it
could emerge from it's chrysalis, unfurl it's wings and take
flight in a vessel befitting such a marvelous undertaking.
Changes were taking place with my thoughts as well, my
mind's eye turned more and more to images of men, men I knew, men
I didn't know: teachers, neighbors, the older boys in school but
in my mind's eye they were naked. I would awaken from sleep with
the image of my English teacher unclothed and lying in my bed or
a mental picture of Kenny Brooks, one of the older boys who had
noticed me in the hallways at school, without his shirt, lying
next to me in my room. Acres of male flesh presenting itself to
me to disperse the mysteries that male flesh held.
I closed my eyes and basked my face in the moon's cold light
as the pixie sparkle of dust flew through the beams and I
imagined my roving hands were Kenny's hands as I pulled up my
pajama top. I moved the cloth far enough that I could draw a
fingernail down my chest between my developing breasts and back
by hooking the bottom of my pajama top with one finger and
drawing it over my chest to expose my breasts to the cold of
night. I could feel my nipples tighten in the chill of the air,
a sensation which stirred a new and exciting something deep
inside me. My hands caressed my exposed flesh, flitted over
breasts which I hoped would soon know the brush of male lips and
the heat of Ken's tongue. I drew in a deep breath as I ran my
hands over my stomach to the protuberances of my ribs and my
budding breasts. My fingernails circled my nipples. I shrugged
out of my pajama bottoms and panties and pushed a finger between
my legs and past the lips hidden there. Here was an entirely new
world of pleasure that was just opening up to me and the price of
admission? Secrecy and fantasy.
Soon I felt the water well up from inside me, liquid to
prepare me for the entrance of male flesh, to lubricate myself
for the love we would create with our bodies, a self-generated
salve gathered by finger with which to moisten my secret flesh.
My legs kicked the covers off the bed and I writhed in self-
induced passion while imagining what Ken would look like as he
lay atop me, naked and beautiful. The image suddenly vented
feelings that my thin pubescent body could not contain. I lifted
my hips from the bed in an effort to meet a body that was not
there. My back arched, my body shook from the powerful, electric
feelings and soon I felt the delicate spasm of climax shudder
through me and a whispered moan of satisfaction escaped my mouth.
I lay spent with the comforting warmth of my palm cupped around
my private parts while leaving one finger inside and wishing it
was Ken's penis instead.
I opened my eyes and I saw my bedroom door ajar. I froze as
I lay splayed naked amid the twisted covers and sheets of my bed.
A shadowy figure stood beyond my door in silence and an icicle of
dread speared my heart as I feared Mother had caught me in the
act, an act she looked upon as sinful but the shadow was too
large. The figure became aware that it had been seen and moved
off and I knew who it was.
My stepfather had been watching me masturbate.
. . . I remembered. How could I have known what would
happen after that? Was Frank's voyeurism the lead to the other
incidents which followed? An avalanche can start with a pebble.
I should have said something right then but what could I
have told and to whom? 'Mother? Frank's been watching me diddle
myself in the middle of the night!'? No matter what the truth
was, I felt certain that I would wind up being punished for my
perverse actions and made to feel guilty for something that was
completely natural while Frank would have gotten off scot-free.
I looked back over my shoulder and saw Frank's face looming
out of one frame, his face seemingly aware of me somehow even
though he too was long dead. Another ghost still haunting me
from the past. The photo was of him and one of his buddies
holding up the largest fish they had caught while ice fishing,
blue parkas with the hoods down, their faces ruddy in the biting
cold of the afternoon, ice all around and a row of skeletal black
trees bereft of foliage grabbing for the cold, colorless sky as
if reaching for the warmth of the receding sun. I had seen that
particular picture a hundred times before but it was different
now. Frank's face was somehow disassociated with the rest of the
picture and turning toward me, animated and aware of my presence.
I was unable to turn away, caught like a rabbit in the glare of
an onrushing truck, transfixed and helpless.
The clatter of bone tea china wrested my attention and I
turned, shaking slightly, into the kitchen as Mother placed
delicate ivory cups on tiny plates before filling the cups with
steaming water. 'Damn you Frank,' I thought before moving
unsteadily to relieve Mother of the sloshing cups, she would want
to drink in the dining room. She always had and I was grateful
for the change of location.
At twenty five years of age I'm hardly old, yet neither am I
a guileless child. The surface of my life may seem placid to the
distant observer but turbulence and rocky crags exist just below,
my jagged origins lost beneath the sea of the present.
End Chapter One
Impy
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