|
Nurse Jones: Posting from Beyond
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.
From: [email protected]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Nurse Jones posting from beyond
Date: 18 Nov 92 17:33:33 GMT
>From Nurse Jones, Spring, 1992
[Another entry in my Turing Diary. I wrote this after I had lost
my account. I was feeling a bit depressed at the prospect of
being netless for the rest of my natural (Bzzzzzt!) life.]
Oh my. Anita called to tell me that someone is reposting my
year-old diary, The List. So even though I haven't given her a
copy she's finally going to get to read it.
I feel obliged to comment on it in the hopes that some day you
will know how I felt.
Embarrssed.
Honored.
I've been too embarrassed to give Anita a copy of The List. And
now TheClone, apparently has taken that decision out of my hands.
Embarrassment is, as you might know, not entirely a negative
state of mind for me. Clone, you gave me That Feeling, even
here, isolated as I am, outside The Net. That's a long way to
reach with such a delicate touch.
I guess this means that I'm being slow-motion long-distance
topped by my Turing Diary. That's nice, somehow. It's odd, the
kinds of intimacy that can develop over The Net. Isn't it
Michael? Michael? Are you there, Michael? (sigh...)
Those of you that are left that knew me might remember that Jay
shaved my head about this time last year.
I feel so weird about it now, but it seemed so wrong/right at the
time. I feel lucky to have had that month. It's rare to have the
opportunity to live out a fantasy.
The List didn't even get posted until several months after
my hair had started growing back, but even then I got a lot of
mail from other women (men didn't seem to comment so much -- I
wonder why?) that were bothered, squicked, or horrified at what I
had let Jay do to me. I occasionally go through the campus of the
local university and see women with Sinead O'Connor hair. It has
become almost acceptable...(?) ALthough I was billiard-ball
smooth. Maybe I was ahead of my time. Maybe I'm just justifying
it to myself, trying to make myself feel normal.
It was so easy to slip deeper into The List once I had started,
and there was no outside referent -- no job, no friends, nothing
but this big empty house in a strange -- in fact alien --
environment (for me, being from Indiana, the subtropical South is
strange and alien). At every step, I felt as though I was being
daring, doing new and strange things, but I wasn't hurting
myself, so I kept on.
Here's an example of how it happened: Those of you that have
read about it know there was a List of stuff I would let him do
to me. It seemed so abstract when we made it up. Later, it was a
little scary, but I ALWAYS knew it wouldn't hurt me physically,
not for real. Shaving my head was on The List.
Once, before he shaved me, we were making love and he
stopped in the middle and looked down at me. He was holding my
head between his hands, and he brushed my hair back from my face
and held it smoothed back against my head with his hands. I could
tell from the way he was looking at me that he was imagining me
with no hair. Then he kissed me and the moment passed.
Several days later, I was standing in the living room looking
out the window in my bathrobe after a shower. I was absently
running my fingers through my hair, combing tangles out and Jay
came into the room and glanced at me.
I looked at him and pushed my hair back the same way he had,
and I held it that way for him to see. I made it a deliberately
ambiguous gesture -- as though I had paused while combing tangles
out. But my heart was suddenly hammering, and I felt very daring.
As though I had challenged him to do it. I really didn't think he
would, but it was on the List, and I knew what he was thinking;
he paused and looked back at me. I just didn't know if he really
would do it. But taking the chance... that was ... I dunno. It
was exciting.
So now all 12 parts of Column One of The List are going to
scroll slowly through ASB and Neets is going to see them and and
then she's going to come over here like she does almost twice
weekly already these days and she's going to ask me about The
List and she's going to recognize the places in the house where
it happened and ask questions. I should never have posted the
stupid thing. I could *die*.
And I can't even whine to ASB.
I feel so isolated.
Which reminds me of something.
Ever hear of Aimee du Bucq de Rivery?
Anita ran across her while she was doing some research for the
painting she's doing of me. She was reading about the
Orientalists, a bunch of victorian artists that were tittilated
(is that one t or two? Four, actually) anyway, they were
ttitilatted by harem scenes, exotic women, anything oriental, in
fact.
It turns out that Aimee was a cousin of Josephine Bonaparte. In
1781 she had just left the convent where she was educated and was
promptly captured by Algerian slave traders cruising the
Mediterranean for french dumplings. She was then -- at age 14 --
sold to the Grand Imperial Whatzit of Turkey, where she was made
number one wife. They took away her western clothing, her pubic
hair (apparently they are very strict about this in harems), her
bible and her rosary, and trained her in the erotic arts of the
seraglio, and she STILL refused to embrace Islam, imagine that.
Well, I don't know about *you* but I know when *I* would have
given in and, um, embraced....
Yep. Take away my rosary and I'm done for.
Anyway, the western world thought she was a goner (i.e. dead)
until years later she managed to get a letter smuggled out of the
harem. It reached her family.
A message from a ghost, sent to a world she was no longer a part
of. Sort of like this post. They never answered her, though.
Noone ever saw her again, she never left the harem. They never
even tried a diplomatic channel. She had become an embarrassment.
She was defiled. By a buncha heathens.
A very proper religious family, they were. I wonder how she felt
about them as the years went by and they didn't answer her
letter.
There were frequent diplomatic contacts with the world that had
abandoned her, and the walls of her harem/prison were only a few
feet from the room where her husband/owner met with members of
her former social circle. And the French ambassador -- the man
who, if he could be made to officially acknowledge her existence,
would have had to act on her behalf to save his own honor.
She even glimpsed some of these meetings briefly.
Then everything changed. She had a son, destined to become The
Even Grander And More Imperial Whatzit and she didn't wanna leave
anymore anyway, merci. She actually became the eminence grise
behind the throne of the Ottoman Empire (or whatever Turkey
called itself at the time) and was manipulating Turkish foreign
policy and having a grand old time running the aging Sultan and
his heirs and the entire country. She molded her son into
"Mahmoud the Reformer" and he eventually disbanded the dreaded
Janissaries.
By killing all 5000 of them. One of your more extreme approaches
to reformation.
>From which you might be tempted to deduce that Aimee had brought
up Mahmoud as a French Catholic, but no ... he was just a
conscientious reformer.
She died in the harem after receiving extreme unction and a
rather lengthy confession from a priest imported especially for
the purpose. From all reports he was a bit shaken by the
experience. Her tomb is a stone's throw from the Hagia Sofia (AKA
the "Blue Mosque") in Istanbul. Today, right now, this very
minute, her bones rest there. Of course, then it was
Constantinople.
Imagine. Constantinople. 1781. Fourteen years old. What an
adventure.
Imagine what her life must have been like. Stolen by slavers. For
real. Sold. For real. Taken to a harem. For real. Knowing that
people she used to rub elbows with socially, people she knew,
people who *knew* (unofficially) she was a captive there, were
visiting the sultan's court, yards from where she was kept, and
she could have no contact with them. Ever.
When Anita ran across her name in a book on orientalist artists,
I did a library search for "Rivery" and came up with four
references. Given the circumstances, it isn't surprising that
very little is known about her. That bit about her pubic hair was
in a biography of her ("Valide" by Chase-Riboud, 1986) that was
necessarily highly fictionalized. "The Wilder Shores of Love" by
Lesley Blanch seemed to be more factual.
Anyway, I ran across some interesting terms in a chapter on the
chief eunuch in the sultan's harem. Tribadism, irrumation, tete
beche, feuille de rose, culumonus. Not one in the dictionary.
"Tribadism" was the subject of a thread once, but I didn't follow
it. I just know one of you experts knows what these terms mean
and would just LOVE to show off if I could only ask.
Maybe this will get posted some day.
So anyway, based on the only surviving painting of her, done just
before her capture, Anita has decided that I look enough like her
to serve as a model for a painting of Aimee. She has started it
already. The style is that of the darling of the orientalists, a
fella called Gerome. The title is:
"A private sale"
I don't suppose I need to tell you who is being sold. Apparently
you get a discount if you take me without the clothing option.
Nurse Jones,
on special
this week only.
Big savings
out here in the
twilight zone.
|
|
