tagHumor & SatireLila 3: The Freeing of the Pervs

Lila 3: The Freeing of the Pervs

bySoul Janitor©

It had been more than four years since I'd seen Lila when my divorce was finalized. In that time, I had gone from a wild and carefree sex maniac whose goals and ambitions were seemingly limitless to a jaded and defeated shlub thanks to the efforts of one Doris Kapecknick, who made marriage into something akin to Martin Sheen's boat ride down the Nung river in Apocalypse Now. When I married Doris, she was a bright, attractive, aspiring sculptress. The second that two karats her finger, she was transformed into a minivan-wanting, short-hair-cutting, Everybody-Loves-Raymond-watching whiner whose idea of eroticism was accidentally saying the F-word when she stubbed her toe during one of her ever more disturbing morning weight checks. Her ceaseless cooings about motherhood finally drove me to the breaking point, and one night after watching her eat an entire pound cake over the course of "a special night" of Will and Grace, I proposed a simple ultimatum: either relax your absurdly antiquated views about anal sex or forget about spawning tikes with yours truly.

So much for being married!

I found myself at age thirty-two an unencumbered man once again, a little older, a little wiser, but still very much steadfast in my desire to seek out every available nubile female in town and leave them all walking funny. Then there was my whole Martha Stewart thing, which I realized was a bit of a longshot, but damn, did I want to slide America's Most Wanted into that pilaf-preparing tootsie.

I proceeded to strike out miserably with the opposite sex at every bar, dance club, and bowling alley lounge within two hundred miles. Moves which had once guaranteed me the phone numbers and e-mails of pretty girls suddenly got me nothing more than curious stares. Strategies which had once assured me of getting to at least third base now resulted in weak pop-ups behind home plate. I was totally out of the game. I swear to God, I was very nearly rejected by the motionless image of redheaded twins on the cover of Swank. I finally understood what Eugene Levy must go through every day of his life.

What I needed was a baptism by fire, a sure thing to get the lava flowing again. That was when I thought about Lila.

Lila, whose lithe frame had undulated around me so many moons ago like a giggly anaconda devouring its horny prey. Lila, whose blonde hair had been like thousands of soft fingers stroking every erogenous zone on my body, including two or three science hadn't even discovered yet. Lila, to whom the concept of wild sex demanded nothing less than a top-of-the-line steel trapeze, a full eleven-man soccer team, and six trips to the pharmacy for more heating pads and ChapStick. Lila, who had once coaxed a fountain of sperm from me merely by writing the word NOW on a Post-It note and pasting it to my sweaty forehead. I needed to find her fast before the world of sex passed me by in its cherry red Ferrari and chucked an old Pepsi bottle at my head as it did.

I tried everything to track down that magical pixie who could renew my outlook on life and grant my wangie as many wishes as it needed. I combed the internet personals for any sign of her, I interrogated friends, I hired a private detective to track her down. I even placed a fraudulent claim with the Missing Persons Network to get her face plastered on a milk carton. Unfortunately, the only photo I had of Lila depicted her riding me in the back of a Meals on Wheels van we had seen on the street while shopping for scarves, and it was sadly deemed unsuitable for public distribution.

Finally, a vision came to me in a dream. In it, I was floating naked over St. Louis, gazing down at a post-apocalyptic world ruled by gigantic super-intelligent Sunkist oranges. Willie Nelson tried to shoot me down in his zebra-striped fighter jet, but I was too wily for him and together with Yosemite Sam I eluded danger and went on to own the world's largest licorice plantation. Then Lila appeared, whispering, "Oh, stop already. I'm living at Harmony Hills."

Harmony Hills, I thought to myself as I showered the next morning. Now we were really through the looking glass. Harmony Hills was a place enshrouded in mystery, like Stonehenge or the John Tesh estate. It was said to be everything from a maximum security convent to a nudist colony for zombie midgets to a marijuana patch so vast it could mellow out the entire state of Israel. I drove down I-34 in my used Kia Sephia (Doris got the Honda in the divorce, that icky tramp), and soon breasted a hill which revealed the quote unquote splendor of Harmony Hills. The sign on the gate read NO TRESPASSING NO VISITORS NO PHOTOGRAPHING THIS SIGN NO LOOKING IN THIS DIRECTION MILK DELIVERIES IN REAR. A man who'd had satisfying sex sometime in the past five years would have turned around right there and then and contented himself with just a few more months of masturbating to the Tanya Harding wedding night video. But not I. I had not been so determined to enter someplace since Sally Triplett from eleventh grade civics class had told me that I absolutely could not do anything more than finger her as we watched The Aristocats together.

I parked my car out of sight and crept through the dense woods toward the perimeter fence. When I reached the twelve foot electrified monster, I scrambled up a nearby tree and dangled from several high branches before dropping down inside the property, tumbling to the ground and rolling as soon as I hit to avoid several broken bones.

(Okay, there was no perimeter fence. I walked through six feet of ankle-high grass and was pretty much at the front door of the main building. Leave me alone, I'm trying to entertain.)

The central mansion was roughly the size of the Superdome, and had all the welcoming atmosphere of Lenin's tomb. I spotted an open window on the ground floor and crept in through it, the only time I had penetrated a truly hostile fortress since I eased myself into Cassie Simpkins from twelfth grade biology class in the back seat of my Pacer even as she cried out that God would punish us forever. (And hey, it turned out that He did!)

I found myself in a vast hallway leading to an endless array of rooms. The decor of the mansion's interior stunned me to my very roots.

On every wall were framed paintings and photographs showing acts of sexual congress plucked from the imaginations of some seriously perverted dudes and dudesses. I walked along looking left and right at naked bodies entwined deliciously in the national pastime, my mouth agape and my erection practically leading me down the hall. Here was a 4 x 6 painting of two people shnazzing shamelessly on a tropical beach. Here was an even larger photograph of a brunette goddess winking at the camera as she laid a soft tongue on the tip of something that could only be described as, well, the opposite of soft. Along came a painting that at first I had trouble making sense of, until I realized I was looking at not one, not two, but fourteen women sixty-nining in a bed that seemed to go on for miles. Thirteen of them were really, really good-looking, and the fourteenth just needed to part her hair on the other side.

I had struck paydirt of the highest order! An entire enclosed society of perverts who were obviously secreted away somewhere engaged in an orgy on the grandest scale ever conceived! Surely they'd have a need for a technical advisor! What lay around the next corner? I wondered. Diamond-studded fishbowls full of condoms? Complimentary sex towels in all colors of the rainbow strung on a laundry line made from satin G-strings? Perhaps even a living nativity of the Kama Sutra involving half the population of Vermont?

What lay around the next corner was Lila herself!

There she was, silently mopping the marble floor of the main ballroom, where there was no balling going on as such, just a whole lot of empty. The ceiling featured what I'm sure was the largest pornographic drawing in the celebrated history of the visual arts. It was kind of like the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, yet subtly different because this focused a little more on poolside doggie-style sex.

I gasped when I recognized Lila. She was wearing a floor-length dark blue prison dress, her hair was tied up in a schoolmarmish bun, she wore no makeup, and the polka dot toenail polish she'd sported long ago (an incredible turn-on for no understandable reason) had been replaced by, well, just toenails.

"Lila!" I cried. "What have they done to you?"

She turned, smiled, and stopped mopping momentarily. "Hey, you," she said. "Welcome to Harmony Hills. So glad you've decided to join us."

"Join you in what, exactly?" I asked.

"Why, freedom from sex," she said mildly. "Harmony Hills is a shelter for those who find too much sexual gratification in this world. People come here when they are absolutely overloaded with pleasure and wish to free themselves from the destructive grip of too much blissful lovemaking."

"Did you just use the term 'lovemaking'?!" I asked her, wondering if I was still in a dream. "Who taught you that hideous word?!"

"When I came here three years ago," Lila went on, "I was engaging in intercourse seven or eight times a day with total abandon, so happy that I nearly missed the whole point of living. Here, I was taught how to be miserable and frustrated. Finally, I have meaning."

"But what about all the eye-popping hardcore stuff on the walls?!" I asked, baffled.

"That's there to desensitize us," Lila said. "After so much time wandering these halls and seeing so much sin wherever I looked, I felt nothing at all about sex. Now I spend my days worrying about world economic issues, obsessing over my health, and generally feeling tense and uncomfortable. Soon I'll truly be a fully-rounded human."

Three men appeared behind Lila, dressed in similar institutional garb. They smiled sexlessly at me.

"This is Elbis, Thurman, and Rodney C.," Lila explained. "They and all the other men here engaged me in sexual union when I first arrived, over and over and over again, in every room in the mansion in every conceivable position, using every conceivable toy, until I was totally sated."

"She was quite lovely when she came here," said Thurman, a geek if ever I saw one. "Now her inner loveliness has finally emerged."

"Inner loveliness, right," I said. "She looks like a pancake with hooters!"

"Ah, we used such insensitive words before we came to Harmony Hills," piped Rodney C. "Sad days those were indeed. Won't you now accept us as brothers and sisters and live out the rest of your days amongst our glorious eunuch family?"

"Sure thing, freak show," I said, nodding cheerfully. "I just need to go to my car and get my toothbrush. See ya." With that, I turned and strode out with purpose and dignity, turning my nose up at these hopelessly misguided fools. (Okay, actually I ran like a sissified girlyman, my arms pinwheeling like a Hanna Barbera cartoon character. I thought the Harmony Hills freaks might be one of those cults that couldn't let you live once you knew their secret. There was no such drama as I dashed out of the house, and in fact, Elbis called after me to help myself to some mints from the dish beside the front door.) It was three hours later when my genius re-asserted itself and I realized I had to go back to Harmony Hills one more time, to unleash my brilliant plan on the monsters who had taken my Lila.

After I finished watching the eleven o'clock and eleven-thirty episodes of Family Feud on the Game Show Network (Damn you, Doris, what did you make me into?), I crept back onto the Harmony Hills Estate. I snuck unseen to the main dormitory and found Lila's name on the directory—there were three L. Von Sniftermelons listed, so I had to take a lucky guess—then I snuck up the stairs and knocked gently on her door.

She opened it in a nightgown about as sexy as one of those anti-radiation suits the Russian dudes wore at Chernobyl. She seemed surprised to see me.

"Lila," I said, clasping my hands together and sinking to my knees, "I see now that I need help too. After I left here, I had impure thoughts about every woman I saw, including the ones on a commercial for the Special Olympics. Won't you show me the golden way of No-Sex Zen?"

"Oh, of course I will!" Lila said happily. "This will be great. We can even be lunchline buddies when spring rolls around!"

"Super!" I exclaimed. "But let us not look to the future when so much work needs to be done this very night to save my soul! I need to rid my heart of the foul demon Sex by whatever brutal means available!"

"Hmmm," Lila said, pondering. "I seem to remember you and I having a great deal of intercourse some years ago....and you did not seem to tire of it."

"Indeed, Sister Lila," I agreed. "I was one sick monkey."

"I think it will take some very intense immersion therapy to cure you," she said. "Three, possibly even four weeks of constant union."

I clutched my head and looked to the ceiling in agony. "I fear the immersion!" I cried, "Yet I must do what must be done."

Lila picked up the phone. "I'll call Thurman. He'll arrange for several partners in the morning. The Burrit sisters are usually available—they're a little overweight, but the extra pounds have made their scars less noticeable somehow."

"But Lila," I said, "it was always you I lusted for most. Until I am cleansed of the desire for your body in particular, all the other therapy will be quite useless, no?"

"Mmmm, interesting point," Lila said musingly.

"And for that cleansing to take hold for good, don't you agree that you and I should engage in union for two to three weeks straight?"

"Wellll....." Lila said, scratching her head, "I do want to help..."

"Please, Lila," I said. "I need you to reach out to a suffering spirit."

She sighed. "All right. If it will help you see the light." With that, she excused herself and went into the bathroom for a few minutes. The first stage of my plan had gone off without a hitch. Now, if I could somehow reach deep down and summon the ability to please Lila's neglected bits, I was confident I could get her out of here. Stages two through seven would involve a slow re-introduction for Lila to the joys of gadoogling, and future stages would hopefully culminate in our execution of a sexual maneuver known in the equatorial continents as 'The Left-Handed Mummy', a drawing of which I had spotted in the dorm lobby three floors below and which would have sent millions of lonely male eBay bidders scrambling for their Visa cards.

I was in for yet another shock. When Lila emerged from the bathroom, I was greeted with an erotic vision that eclipsed any I had previously known. She had covered her ruby lips in bright red lipstick, allowed her blonde hair to cascade loose over her shoulders, and changed into a see-through black negligee and high heels.

"Jesus, Lila!" I said. "How come you have such hot clothing lying around?"

"Oh, this," she said, bored. "I figured your stunted male psyche, having been conditioned from an early age to become aroused at the sight of a woman in come-hither attire, would demand such vapid sexual trappings to become excited."

"I see," I said slyly. "What are the other trappings to which I have become enslaved, do you suppose?"

"Oh, dirty talk is another evil we here at Harmony Hills have overcome. For instance, I suppose if I said I wanted you to shnazz my brains out with your long, stiff sausage, and that my scrumptious thelma was getting wet just thinking of having you slide it in there while you nibble on my perfect breasts, you'd display the typical sad Pavlovian response of all males."

Pavlov was doing his thing, all right. I unzipped the fly of my jeans and lowered them a little to allow some precious oxygen into the busting front seam.

"My urge as a backward male to dominate you is asserting itself already, Lila. I think I'm right on track. Sometime in the next five seconds I want to reduce you to a servile object and have you fellate me, then, when you beg me to allow you to swallow my Hot Whip, I'll wish to mount you from behind and shnazz like precocious puppies in a public park."

"Precisely," Lila said, nodding in an intellectual manner as she reached a velvet hand out to free my seeing eye dog. "Your openness to this therapy is definitely going to hasten the process of you becoming a true soul." With that, she sank to her knees, lowered the shoulder straps of her negligee, and guided Herr Director to the softest spot between her blinkers. She made it draw a little wet circle there, my pre-pop glistening in the lamplight. She rubbed the head of my foghorn against one lickable, then the other, and finally took it into her mouth, displaying that she had lost none of her old oral expertise despite the fact that her mind had apparently hopped the soonest flight to Denver for a couple of weeks of skiing and Bible study.

I won't bore you with the details of our encounter—you're not reading this for some transient sexual thrill. Suffice it to say that I gave my all to please Lila, whose disinterested yawns were insultingly frequent. I gadoogled her just the way she liked, me standing beside the bed and her laying on it, her legs held high in the air by my trembling hands, slow going in and quick on the outstroke. She seemed only bored. I snacked on Vitamin P for a solid hour, thinking I had her sailing over the edge of ecstasy when I heard a satisfied grunt, but when I peered up at her face I saw that she was only reading the Sunday paper's Style section and had seen there was a sweater vest sale at Sears. I even attempted Lila's old favorite stunt, a trick she tastefully called The Last Supper, but the only milk we could find on such short notice was two percent, there was not a single swizzle stick to be found on the estate, and my car battery was sorely undercharged. After three hours of non-stop shnazzing, my orgasm was so intense I swear it made me two inches shorter.

"That's an excellent start," Lila said as I lay on the floor like a dying carp. "Why don't you take five minutes to towel off, and we'll begin again."

I felt like Max Von Sydow taking a breather in The Exorcist, wanting only to find the nearest Iraqi bar and down a few shots of Pakakakakaki before sleeping for the next twenty years. "Lila," I said, "I've really had enough for one night. Get me in the morning after the breakfast buffet, okay?"

"Oh no," she said sternly, hauling me up. "We've to got to get every ounce of union out of you for good. Now you have exactly three hundred seconds till your wangie has to be hard enough to take a stroll down Baltic Avenue, so get moving!"

Well, my friends, it went on like that for two weeks. Day and night, Lila's choodle was either pressed firm against my face or wrapped snugly around my pretzel rod as I held on for dear life. Eating, sleeping, and water intake were afterthoughts in Lila's unforgiving regimen. Before coming to Harmony Hills, the most orgasms I had ever experienced in one day was five. Lila had to sign an abacus out from the east storage room to keep track of mine now. Let me tell you, by the tenth orgasm of the day, the other parts of your body start asking you some serious questions. You know you're in foreign territory when you're less concerned about keeping the new delivery of love-latté from hitting your sweetie in the eye than in what that bizarre moaning sound in your appendix could be. By orgasm fifteen, the visions set in. I distinctly remember carnalizing Lila from behind against her balcony railing at three in the morning of some unknown weekday, then pulling out to spray on her back, only to witness what little silkymilky I had left float mystically into the sky where it was scooped out of the air by tiny green Amish coppersmiths who tried to sell me some discount phone cards. I believe my nineteenth orgasm of July the seventeenth occurred when, in my coital delirium, I began to hump the fire extinguisher mounted next to Lila's door.

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