tagHumor & SatireSela Down Under

Sela Down Under

byperse©

"Now, imagine you are standing at the top of a large stone stairwell. As I count backwards from 10 to 1, you begin to slowly descend the staircase. 10...9...8...7...6"

...Without the slightest precognitive heads-up, the bottom half of the stone staircase unanimously decides to rebel against the monotonous, piss-ant role imposed upon them in this rather unimaginative meditative drama. At least ten renegade steps flee with giddish delight into the dark and foggy recesses of the subconscious night, denying you the graceful descent you expect and more importantly, believe you deserve as a paying customer.

Surveying the scene into which you have abruptly fallen, you quickly forgive that one treacherous flight, deciding they must represent nothing more than a freak glitch in an otherwise normal subconscious. What a relief! The temperature is perfectly tepid and the sky perfectly blue. As you sit up, the cushion of grass undulates beneath you like a vat of emerald green Jell-O. Only softer. And much less sticky. Come to think of it, it really isn't like Jell-O at all. As you pronounce this insight aloud ["I say, it really isn't like Jell-O at all."], the billowing green beneath your naked buttocks becomes much more like an oversized waterbed. Yes...yes, that's much more appropriate. Blanketed with...a thousand squirming kittens. You leap to your feet as you detect a few vagrant fur follicles squirm between the cheeks that belong to your unclad bottom. You are equally disturbed both by the purposefulness with which the furs in question seemed to probe the posterior in question and by the fact that there are so many orifices exposed for the probing. You quickly make your way to more stable ground.

As you carefully extract the last of the few brave souls to reach their destination, you cannot help but begin to doubt the wisdom of your own strange journey. You are assaulted by the fear that at the end of this brave and noble quest for some morsel of personal truth upon which to rebuild your disjointed self, you will find only a perverted old man in offensively lime green pants and a wicked, wicked smile.

You slump back onto this rather disconcerting impersonation of a lush green meadow, and attempt to excuse yourself from the pity party in progress long enough to regroup. "Wait for your guide..." you hear a voice in your head say. That's right...that's right. I've just got to wait, you reassure yourself. Wait for my guide. There's always a guide, you know. All the self-help books say so. You begin to speculate on what form your unconscious might choose to embody on this momentous occasion. The moment in which your inner guru makes a long overdue debut. Perhaps a monk of Asian descent. Those seem popular these days. Or perhaps a Native American wise woman, her untamed mane flailing defiantly against the wind. Or maybe...

You wait eagerly for what seems like eternity, in dreamtime that is. Eventually, a guttural tune begins to creep into your auditory ambit, clawing rudely at the mellow melody now struggling to play back-up to your cosmic groove. You try to will this unpleasantness away, focusing all the ethereal energy you can muster onto beckoning your belated Buddha. But the more you beckon, the louder it creeps until...

the gruff growl of a baritone in heat belts out a line that, were it not performing for such a sparse (not to mention unwilling) audience, could very well have shaken the cornerstones of musical foundations.

"I got hair on my chest! I look gOOOOd without a shirt!!"

The Improbable Pan

What this songster lacks in subtlety he doesn't seem to make up for in pitch, you silently note with an air of snootiness intended to mask increasing uneasiness. Oh, but Sela, you do feel uneasy. You try hard to maintain a disinterested annoyance toward the self-indulgent grunts still masquerading as music somewhere in the not so distant space behind you. This proves to be a difficult feat as the fuzz on your neck and pussy give yet another standing ovation to the raspyrogue. The ruckus keeps getting louder, and since you have no reason to presume that basic laws of physics don't apply in this wonky waste yard of nodular innocuities, you have to conclude that the rogue is gaining on you. Not a difficult feat, since you haven't budged an inch since his diddy began. In fact, all instinctive knowledge you once had about how to loco mote in La-La Land has pulled its own Houdini. You muster enough mustard to spin yourself around. A man who boasts about his chest isn't the sort of man to whom you wish to flaunt your bare bottom.

Shit! You mean SHIT! The rogue isn't moving, it is the ground beneath you that's slip slidin' away.

"Swish back little prack, smack him in the back. Gate fake fuddle rake, dancing like a snake. Come one, come all! See the fall! See little sally fuddle them all. Paul is a dweeb, but that don't mean he ain't got a nipple interrogating, investigating his stipulated pansy-feet man this awful lawful night. Lawful, you say?!? If that's where you've been dawdling, cowardly sap, You've only remained a pawn, wriggling toward dawn while Convention stands sternly over your imprisoned member, waving around but as frigid as December...

...Nobody's business and nobody's foolin' so the jig's up, Baby and my knees are shakin.' If you've got the bustle, I've got the hustle and there's plenty more here to fortify the lustful. Nobody's sayin' it don't seem silly, but if silly isn't your filly, you'd better pass on this Grade-A, Bonafide willy!"

This can't be happening, you think. Surprise, Sela! It's a surprise party for you! And this bash has been years in the making, so go on, be polite. Afterall, look where your snobbishness has gotten you? Dropped flat on your plumpish rump in the middle of Willy's Wonderland.

"What kind of guide are YOU???!!!??" you wail, most insensitively.

"Who did you expect, baby cakes?"

You refuse to answer this question. Perhaps he is some sort of shape-shifting demon who will take whatever you expose to him about your mind's inner workings and use them later in an elaborate plot to seduce you under false guise. That'd have to be a pretty nifty guise, you think, choking on the fumes of bodily aroma wafting from his person. A careful blend of American Spirits and regular unleaded. Damn biker hippy. You shudder think what kinds of microorganisms are multiplying rapidly in the depths of his polyester trousers.

"Just showered that." He leans in, winking at your left nipple.

This is ridiculous, you say. Look, I think there has been some sort of gross, and I do mean gross, mistake here. I am...Well above all, I am a feminist. Do you know what that is? No, I don't suppose you would. And no, it is not some unshaven butch dike megabitch...

"Do you want to put my nose in your mouth?"

"No! What the fuck—"

"—Just for a moment or maybe two...to feel my nostrils bathed in the warmth of your oral cavity would bring me the most exquisite satisfaction—"

"SHUT UP!!!"

"Ok, next time then. I see you need time. And time is one thing we have plenty of..."

Sela opened her eyes abruptly.

"Sela, are you back with us, then?"

Sela squirmed a little in her chair, trying to work her crotch away from her soaked panties.

"Sela? I seem to have lost you for awhile there. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

What had she said while she was under? She flushed with embarrassment. There apparently were sides of herself she wasn't ready to share with the doctor, that she was barely willing to acknowledge herself. I need to go. She picked up her things and headed brusquely toward the door.

"Sela! Wait a minute! You forgot your assignment." Sela stared at the doctor impatiently, eager to get out the door before her nipples started to billow in her clammy white t-shirt. "...yes?"

"There's a music store down the street. I'd like you to pick up some Tom Waits...have you heard of him?...No. No, I didn't think so. But I think you'd enjoy him nonetheless. Why don't you bring him along to our next visit."

"Fine...fine... Sela said absently, thankful she hadn't given away any of her little subconscious secrets. As she shut the door, Dr. Manson broke into a full, wicked grin.

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