God, Sex & the End of the Universe

"And God said: 'DELETE lines One to Aleph. LOAD. RUN,'" were the words Arthur C. Clarke used to begin his thirty-one word short story about the end of the Universe. Beyond my initial surprise that God was using voice recognition software instead of running a mouse over some heavenly mousepad, I had to be impressed as one of the most highly rated Science Fiction writers ever could wipe out our Universe in just thirty-one words.

Certainly if Arthur C. Clarke could simply dissolve the universe in thirty-one words, certainly I could get either myself, or one of my gangly, surreptitious or misfit characters fucked in say eight hundred words or less. Ah, but what about characterization, how can anyone really get to know a character in so short a period of time. My reply is simply, why bother. I mean look at Mr. Clarke, his character, God, though supposedly well known, I mean I guess most people have heard of him, but who really knows the first thing about him.

Wars have been fought about this character God since time began. There was the Holy Crusades, all kinds of Jihads, terrorism in the name of God, or Yaweh, or Mohammed, or Buddah, or John Lennon, or whatever someone chooses to call him, hell, we have comic book writers getting knocked off all over simple arguments about this fellow named God, etc., etc. So anyway, back to my point, Mr. Clarke didn't worry about trying to characterize God, he simply let him act like the all powerful being he apparently is and let him DELETE the Universe.

If Mr. Clarke didn't need to worry about characterizing God, why would I need to characterize myself, or some other poor schlep trying our damndest to get laid. Okay, okay, it's a given that I probably know myself, but someone else? How can I possibly know that much about someone else to even try to characterize them?

Look at me, I just learned the other day that my wife of 34 years doesn't like shirts... okay, blouses or whatever the ladies call them, she doesn't like blouses with poufy sleeves. And yes poufy is a word, a very technical clothing design term, meaning... well poufy. Anyway, I just now after 34 years, learned she doesn't like poufy sleeves.

Of course when she actually realized that I had not known that she went into her tirade how I don't have a clue who she really is. And, in spite of my vehement argument to the contrary, she really is right. Here is this woman I have lived with, who I have kissed and occasionally fucked over a 34 year period and I have no clue who she really is. I mean I know where to use my tongue to make her come, or at least make her pretend to come and I know she will then do something to me to make me come, but damn, what else do I know.

Okay, her eyes are blue. Yeah I know that because I wrote a poem about it about ten years ago. Before that I would have had to look to be able to tell you what color her eyes were. Of course I can tell you, without any doubt, she had large breasts, soft rounded curves and a place between her legs where I'd love to put my tongue, my fingers, my cock and just about any other part of my body.

I dare say that my characters, while I really haven't a clue who any of them are, would also like to put their tongue, fingers, cock or pussy and just about any other part of their body in or on that place between someone else's legs. So as it all goes, I, as a writer, simply need to find a reason, place and time to collect one, two or more people, who, even if I create them, are complete, utter strangers to me and everyone else, and get them to put their tongue, fingers, cock or pussy or any other part of their body onto or in that very special place between another person's legs.

Of course, just like in real life, with so many people trying to put something of theirs between someone else's legs things are going to get screwy. That's what I, as a writer, am here for. To merely chronicle these odd attempts of complete strangers to get something between the legs of other complete strangers. Or, on the other hand, I guess I could just go fuck myself and avoid all the confusion. That should work, at least until God decides to whisper DELETE into the microphone and then watch his software do the rest.