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 Subterranean Heartbeats (Book Excerpt)by Diana Kemp-Jones The Alternate Universe of Diana Kemp-Jones Page 2 of 2 Floyd held his breath as he felt himself sucked in by a creeping element of unreality. He remained fixed at the window, waiting for something to happen. His heart skipped a beat as the lights in the sixth floor suite directly across the street from him dimly lit up. The shadowy illumination revealed a dark-haired woman preparing cocktails at a bar while a muscle-bound jock wrestled with a flaxen-haired girl draped over the back of a stark white leather couch like a fur stole. Oblivious to his cramping muscles, Floyd stood transfixed while the acrobatics continued atop the glass dining table. He swallowed convulsively, his body shaking from a combination arousal and revulsion of as he pressed himself against the bug-encrusted window screen. Perfect bodies gleamed in the subdued light, the brunette's spill of ebony hair a whipping mane as she and the blonde a vigorously rode the jock. "Whores" he muttered. "Sluts you belong on the street all of you" His rambling continued, punctuated by the occasional dry laugh. He felt the blood rush to his face as his body unwillingly responded, his hand automatically completing what his fevered imagination conveyed. Dismally, he stared at his soiled shorts, the sordid episode typically representative of his life. The binoculars, ignored up to that point, beckoned enticingly from the credenza. They had been a birthday present from his parents, an expensive toy he seldom had occasion to use. Reaching for it, the weight substantial in his hands, his initial fumbling produced nothing but blurry images until a freak adjustment focused the lenses onto a living, breathing fantasy. After a few weeks, he realized the routine seldom varied. Dropped off by the limo driver in the early hours of the morning, the woman customarily mixed a shaker of drinks before engaging in the evening's performance. The nightly shows intrigued him by their blatant exhibitionism. They aroused latent emotions buried deep within his psyche, disturbing feelings that he had never properly fulfilled in the flesh. It seemed inconceivable to him that he would ever be more than a spectator in life, his pathetic smattering of sexual encounters confined to the grubby dives infesting the strip. Each fumbling, dehumanizing episode only emphasized his isolation, his seedy partners barely concealing their boredom and distaste. His thoughts refocused on the current drama across the street as the trio assembled around a glass coffee table and bent over a series of neatly drawn white, powdery lines. He could almost hear the nymphet's high pitched laughter as she openly fondled the jock. Glancing at her with a feral expression, the jock grabbed the shrieking girl, his tightly muscled body gleaming as he pinned her onto the white fur rug. The brunette reached over and stroked the girl's silken hair, her gaze enigmatic as she slowly turned and smiled at Floyd. He gasped, the contact between them like a physical jolt. The blinds clattered as he backed away from the window, the binoculars dropping to the floor. "Whore... slut ... whore slut" he murmured in a perverse litany. Stumbling onto the couch, he sat blinking owlishly, his eyes pivoting from the window to the television. An inane European game show blared, its adult content confining it to a late slot. He irritably muted the volume, his gaze fixing on the overpainted blonde hostess bursting from her gaudy sequined dress. The woman moved like a heifer in comparison to the mysterious brunette across the street. "Whore," he muttered, the fullness of her taunting smile fueling the pressure in his loins. "You're all whores. All of you" Sighing wearily, he rose from the couch and shuffled into the kitchen. Perusing the stained, mostly empty shelves of the fridge, he retrieved another can of generic beer and sipped without tasting it. He reached into the freezer and withdrew a chicken pot pie, the meal a pallid, unappetizing lump in a paper container. Tossing it into the microwave, he stared bleakly at his balding, nondescript appearance in the greasy door, his squinting, piggy eyes reflecting the emptiness of his life. The Alternate Universe of Diana Kemp-Jones Copyright© 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002 Diana Kemp-Jones, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. |
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