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Love's Sweet Savage... Picnic!
by The Enigmatic Big Miss Sunbeam
"What sort of movie?" "A space movie, an old-fashioned one filthy with irony, mon capitain. It's such fun to see your primate imaginings." "The last time we watched a space movie which you picked out," they looked at each other and smiled, "I was sore for days." "Jean Luc, I just wanted to see if that were really . . . feasible." "Q, at the beginning of the film, a disclaimer came on and said that these were robots. The extrusions depicted were not lifelike. I was a fool to let you do . . . what you did." Q didn't respond, but merely touched Jean Luc's face. "Q, we could watch one of our old favorites: what was that one called? Hard Chocolate with Randy and Miguel? Most amusing. Surely you have not become immune to the charms of Randy and Miguel?" Jean Luc looked at Q who sniffed. "And, wait, isn't there a well-reviewed sequel: Hard Chocolate Comes Again?" "I want DRAMA," Q interrupted. "I want tension. From the first time Randy meets Miguel at the gym, we know what's going to happen. I want . . . a twist, somehow. I mean, everyone can get buttfucked, that's okay, but I want to be surprised at how they get there. My request: Astonish me! Isn't there some old space movie with boys! With irony! With a surprise ending!" Jean Luc reflected. "The audio-visual department at the Academy had an amazing archive. And there was one . . . one great old film we saw that might fit the bill: it has space and," he nodded to Q, "a seemingly omnipotent evolutionary force and . . . two extremely nice-looking youngsters. It's called 2001: A Space Odyssey." Q smiled a long smile. "Oh, yoohoovius, Miss Computer Lady, unspool 2001 for the bride and me." Watching movies with Q was a busy experience: sometimes he was content to lie with his head in Jean Luc's lap, and sometimes he wanted to hold the reclining Jean Luc in his arms, and sometimes they would both lie down, and Q would roll over on Jean Luc and hug him or pretend to shiver at the exciting parts. He did all this during 2001. "So what did you think, Q?" Q's eyebrows came together: "Why did they drop the most interesting character at the beginning?" "The monkeys?" "Oh, for God's sake," Q said in an exasperated manner. "Honestly, Jean Luc, not the monkeys. I'm talking about Dr. Heywood Floyd." "Heywood Floyd? What? That scientist who goes to the moon?" "Was he not a dish? Or my name's not Q? Whoaaaaaaaa." Was Q joking? One never knew. Certainly Q's were glazed and distant, as if sincere. "Even discounting the primitive filmotography of the past --what was Kubrick using for a camera, an oatmeal box? -- even so, Heywood Floyd manages to impress. What an ultra-dish! What a big tempting he-dish! Can you imagine being in his arms I bet he kisses divinely." "Q, stop this." "He's what I call a real man." What the . . . "I'm a real man, Q, you know. Actually, I think I am perhaps more real than Heywood Floyd." "Jean Luc, Jean Luc, Jean Luc, you really are an obtuse piece of flotsam." Q rolled his eyes. "What is reality? He's got a chin dimple!" "I have a chin dimple! I also have several other dimples than you have expressed delight in." "So you really didn't get it, huh, Jean Luc? I AM surprised. That's so depressing. Because they really didn't give Heywood a fair shake. Hello, I'm Stanley Kubrick and we're going to drop the exciting scientist-on-the-moon subplot to show space ships. Yessireebob, my movie is your one-stop shopping place for all your pictures-of-space-ships needs. Vroom. Vroom. Space ships docking. Space ships floating. Space ships hurtling. Oh look, here, this is a good one: a space ship with a little man walking around on it. Seventeen damn minutes of a space ship with a little man walking around on it. Is this film-making at its finest? Or what? Oh, like space ships are a novelty! Ha! I want to remake the movie, Jean Luc. I want a better, sexier and yet more sensitive 2001 Space Odyssey. I'm furious with the . . . don't they know what a treasure they have and discarded." His eyes grew damp and large. "My movie the way it should be." They were in bed: not touching. Jean Luc lay in shock while Q was working away on his script: "See, we go on a picnic in the pines and there are . . . bears! And I save Heywood! And, see, he clutches me and we're in a tree and I say are you hurt and he says I'm scared of bears and I say let me hold you! I'll protect you from bears! Or is that too sentimental?" "Q, this is ridiculous." "And there's this other story I could do: Heywood's captured by moon men! Yes, it's 2002: A Totally Different Space Odyssey." "There are no men on the moon." Q's mouth dropped open. "Your moon's been colonized for four hundred years." "I meant, I meant, in the context of his world, of Heywood Floyd's little world, there are no aliens on that moon." "Oh, excuse me, Mr. Copernicus, I guess I didn't say which moon. You think YOUR moon is the ONLY moon. Well, moo to your moon, there's about 80 million different moons, most of which are crawling with men. And some of the more picturesque but nonetheless queasy-making moon men get my precious Heywood Floyd and . . . do they rape him?" "Q!!!!!!" "I love the remarkably suggestive scene in 2001 where he goes to the bathroom. Because he will . . ." Q's mouth dropped open and his breathing became disconnected. "Have. To. Take. Parts. Of. His. Body. Out. Of. His. Pants. One. Or. More. Of. Which. Is. My. Favorite. PART!" Jean Luc's eyes were strangely stinging. He said in a clogged bitter voice: "Are there any other favorite parts of Heywood?" "Oh, he has a resonant purr of a voice." "I as well have . . . a . . . resonant purr of a voice. Many have told me this." "Then we go to a disco! It's disco night with Dr. Heywood Floyd imagine, that voice whispering sweet nothings in my ear." "My understanding of discos precludes whispering." "There's a . . . like a . . . " Q was brainstorming, "it's a cross between a dungeon and a swimming pool and it's warm and our skin is glassy with sweat and we kiss. Actually, it's like an aquarium and we slowly approach each other like . . . giant mournful . . . snails, see, and . . ." Jean Luc had picked his costume carefully. He had thin black silk pajamas bottoms and that was it. If, for example, but this seemed highly unlikely, but, if he were to become aroused, and he wanted to know just what he could be expected to become aroused at, at Q saving Dr. Heywood Floyd of 2001 A Space Odyssey from bears?, hardly, Jean Luc actually couldn't imagine being aroused ever again in his life, but, for the sake of argument, if he did become aroused by some curious space accident or anomaly, well, his arousal would be obvious. He turned on his hip as if he were fascinated by Q's idiotic prattle; perhaps Q would see his manhood and be reminded of . . . his manhood. "I am not good at fiction, Q, but I did write you a haiku." "Oh, that's sweet." Q licked the end of his pencil. "Listen: okay, it's all part of a unified story: I could make me a little movie of this, see, we're, okay, like, we're on a dude ranch, see! Do you know what a dude ranch is? I don't think you can comprehend; okay, then, it's a working farm and we sit on a split rail fence together. Heywood and I are both wearing tight jeans and boots and white shirts open at the throat and cowboy hats and I caress his ass with one hand and keep the other hand on his bulging package at all times. Is this hot or what, mon capitain?" "I wrote you a haiku." "That's sho nuff dear, Jean Luc. Listen: oh now, this is a good one, see, we're on a submarine, and I'm the newest crew member. I'm a moody intellectual, you can tell because I wear little gold wire-rimmed glasses. The sub is led by gruff Captain Heywood Floyd and a motley crew rounds out the cast." "Q, do you not see the absurdity here? I'm a gruff captain - IN REAL LIFE. I have a REAL crew best described as motley. Even you in your own way are a moody intellectual. You realize your subtext?" Q looked at Jean Luc as if he were invisible. "So it's my first night on board and we're sitting around the submarine supper table telling titty stories and the first officer, bearded, rough, says, Aye, Captain Floyd, don't you think it's time for a little . . . rockin robin. The crew giggles and Heywood says, well, and the damnedest thing is that everybody, including me who's never heard the phrase before, knows what the rockin robin is he's going to be the sailor who gets it up the ass all night long by the crew. I do some quick math: 30 sailors minus one rockin robin equals 29 ass excursions. I say in my moody and intellectual way: who's the rockin robin, Captain Floyd? And he sips his coffee and says in his resonant purr: the same man who was rockin robin last time. Well, that lets me off the hook, but I'm curious. And who might that be, Captain Floyd? Captain Floyd smiles that mysterious Captain Floyd smile at his first officer. It's always the newest man on the crew. Oh, hell! Busted! Start stripping, boy, the captain orders. And so I do; actually, of course I want this on some level. Who's first? I say. Cap'n's privilege, says the first officer. He swallows. I swallow. The crew swallows. You want me on the table? I ask. Oh, yes, oh yes, Heywood breathes. And we . . . do . . . it. As the great Bessie Smith says, we all get together for an all night strut and what we do is tut-tut-tut! All dick, all night, every color, every size, and all Heywood all the time." Jean Luc frowned, his dark brows brought together in a Promethean scowl. Q's revolting submarine-ass-fuck story was having an amazing effect on his breathing, and Q's teasing him this way would go on for hours if Jean Luc didn't stop it. Now. "Q, I wrote you a haiku." Q looked at him and smiled the smile of a rascal. "It's for you, Q." "Share it." "I like it on my knees. I like it up the ass. I like it in public." Q stuck out his tongue and bit it, and then he lifted his dark beautiful head, proud as a Caesar's, beautiful as a goddess's, dearer to Jean Luc than life itself. "Do you hear a bear growling, mon capitain?" And they were at the picnic off in the pines. Loblolly pines. Jean Luc looked down; he was wearing white biking shorts. A red checked tablecloth lay beside them. At a distance, he could hear the excited shouts of swimmers. "Where are we?" he murmured. "It's called Lake Parker, but that doesn't matter. You have beautiful legs, you know. Get on your knees for me." "Someone might see us." "We won't go all the way; I'm just going to pat your bottom a bit." Jean Luc looked at Q. And got on his knees. Q did pat his bottom and then drew lazy circles with his fingertips on Jean Luc's shorts. And then he began to touch Jean Luc more insistently through the shorts. And Jean Luc backed into his hand. "Let me pull your pants down a bit, just to see it." He lowered Jean Luc's shorts a little and put the palm of his warm large hand between Jean Luc's legs and Jean Luc pushed into it. "You want it. You aren't wearing underwear." "No, I suppose not." The shorts were a thin nylon which slid against Jean Luc's skin. Q tightened his hand over Jean's Luc's cock and moved it slowly at first, then more rapidly. "No one will see us if we just pull these down a little and the air will do us good," and Jean Luc let Q pull his shorts off. "I feel silly." "I want you to feel differently." And Q closely caressed Jean Luc. "Do you feel that?" "Q. What if someone comes along?" "We'll tell them you lost a contact lens." His hand was against the curve of Jean Luc's body. Then Jean Luc felt some sort of lubricant, cool, and Q positioned himself, big, blunt, wet, against him. Shouts from distant celebrants. The air smelling of the loblolly pines. The grass rustling under Jean Luc's knees. And Q pushed in and pulled back almost instantly - "What?" said Jean Luc. "Just getting you ready. Just making sure you're ready." "Put it in again," Jean Luc groaned. "I have to have that." Q worked himself all the way in and rested a moment so they could feel and think about it; then Jean Luc began to twist against Q's thighs. And Q moved slowly, in small jerking motions, "Good, mon capitain, you are always good." "Your cock is so big. I like being on my knees and elbows; I like this separation of mind and ass -- the tension between the two makes . . . ," Q pushed into him harder, "me," Q pushed again, ". . . ooof." Q was thrusting more rapidly then and the distant swimmers' laughter and shouting the smell of himself, of Q, that mysterious sex smell, he pressed himself against Q, harder, bigger Q. He felt he could turn himself almost inside out to get more of Q's cock. If he spread his legs, Q could get in further Q was pumping him now, breathing hard, being hard. He had an image of himself holding those silky nylon shorts to his dick, moving into that softness while Q fucked him from the back, grabbing his ass, the modesty of putting the cloth against his large nakedness, the shamelessness of Q in his asshole, he could move the nylon against his . . . was Q bigger now, that lubricant was something, was Q naked, he looked back and could see Q moving, determined, eyes closed, Q's shorts down to his knees. "Q, Q," he whispered, "get my nylon shorts and let me come into them." Q grunted, almost there, but he grabbed the shorts and clutched them to Jean Luc; the silk felt cool and there was no traction. Oh, suppose Q was fucking Jean Luc though his shorts and Jean Luc's hugeness was visible through the thin white nylon shorts and Jean Luc very clearly saw the brazen posture in his mind's eye and he began to jerk into the nylon Q was holding and Q gripped him more tightly through the fabric Q's ass, Q's dick, him, Q's nuts grinding against him, and his ears sang. Then Q was coming, "the shorts, damn," Q was saying in a rough whisper, "everything." And then everything was quiet: no wind, soft grass, the sun a twisted star at the end of the loblollies. Even the swimmers were tired. And they were back on the bed in Jean Luc's quarters. "Oh," Q sighed, "you are wicked kinky, Jean Luc. And the very mention of Heywood Floyd's name does this to you. My!" "I didn't get threatened with bears, Q. but I gave it to you anyway." "I figure Heywood's a lot more demure than you are. Not as big a slut. I really have to work it to get into Heywood Floyd." "Q, I do not care to be unreasonable, but enough is enough. Choose: me or Heywood." Actually, Jean Luc was teasing Q. He simply wanted to sleep. "I know I'm naughty, Jean Luc, naughty and greedy. I deserve a spanking at least." Jean Luc looked at Q: "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm reserving my spankings for . . . wait, oh, yes, for Portia - yes, for Portia in Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. Yes, that's the fictional character I've fallen in love with. So you'll have to get on a waiting list." "Jean Luc, you bitch!" And, in a way, things started all over again. The End |