Conan and Naomi (standard:non fiction, 1608 words)
Author: GXD	Added: Oct 19 2009	Views/Reads: 2998/1866	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Conan is a mischievous sex nut. Naomi wants things both ways: no sex. Can this be the solution to the world's overpopulation problem?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

bottle.  She sniffed gently to savour the residual perfume before 
discarding it in the laundry sack.  Conan visualized Naomi drawing out 
the black chenille bra, adorned with black voile flowers against the 
black lace trim.  Each bra-tip was fitted with a tiny protruding 
thimble, so it pecked at her dress or blouse or shirt, giving the 
impression of perpetual arousal.  The bra smelled of musky milk, of 
cat-fur, of talcum powder.  His mind's eye peered closely as Naomi drew 
down her taupe stockings, one by one, rolling them from the mount of 
her firm, well-tanned thighs down to each elegantly contoured knee, 
down the full and sensuous calf to her bony ankles, sliding her hands 
at each step along the sensitive bare flesh.  He began to run the 
fantasy again, only with panty-hose this time, when Naomi popped out 
from behind the door wearing a bikini and carrying an enormous laundry 
basket.  The bikini was adorned with mouth-sized crescent slashes, 
indicating (for the fish, no doubt) which parts were the tenderest.  He 
wondered if the textile had been treated with that nefarious substance 
that drives small fish crazy, so they would nibble at her bathing suit 
until it came off in the water. 

"I need you to help me at the laundry.  Can I borrow one of your
shirts?" 

Conan muddled around in his flight bag, handed her a clean shirt and
added "Can I throw these others in with your stuff?"  He held up a 
handful of grungy work shirts, redolent of grease and sweat.  Naomi 
wrinkled her nose. 

They had met in an ice cream shop in Bloomington, Indiana, sixteen years
earlier, and moved in together the next day. 

Conan remembered.  It was the mocha maraschino with a scoop of triple
ripple chocolate fudge.  Somehow, he had flipped the spoon and a blob 
plastered itself to his chin, his hands, his shirt and his pants.  By 
the time he pried it off, all ten fingers were drenched in 
cherry-chocolate. 

"Help me to lick them off," he had offered her, but she shook her head. 

"I don't suck ... fingers!" she declared firmly, stroking the stem of
her cocktail glass. 

Conan began cleaning up his own fingers, inserting them one at a time
deep into his mouth, running his tongue around and around while drawing 
each finger out very slowly. There was a satisfying "PLOCK!" as the tip 
popped out.  After the third finger, Naomi had reached over and grabbed 
his wrist. 

"I'll try a pinkie," she offered, "but if you smudge my makeup I'll
murder you!" 

It must have taken her five minutes to lick that pinkie clean.  When she
had done with it, the pinkie looked newborn and tingled with needles 
and pins.  That was in 1972. 

Conan agreed to help at the laundry and proposed dressing in his swim
suit, too.  She talked him out of it. 

"At least one of us has got to pose as a normal," she explained.  Conan
donned his tie again, brushed up his shoes a little, buttoned his 
jacket and carried the laundry basket out to the car. 

The laundromat was full of action.  Three men were dressed in straw
sandals and swim suits.  A fourth came in a moment later, sporting a 
marigold tutu, tights, ballet slippers and a little sparkling crown to 
match his beard. A pudgy woman also wore a yellow bikini, only the 
crescent slashes were black.  Two others were draped in saris.  One 
intoxicating red-head was dressed in nothing but a long silk scarf 
about 3 inches wide.  It surrounded her neck, crossed over her breasts, 
passed around her waist where it crossed again in back, reappeared 
below her hips then disappeared into her crotch, coming up in back 
again.  The ends were braided in a love-knot just above her belly 
button. 

Naomi left him staring and began to draw lingerie from her bag, one
piece at a time.  As if possessed, she squeezed each piece, caressed it 
lovingly, lovingly; then with a languid droop of her wrist, let it 
float down into the washer.  Conan wondered: to whom was she addressing 
her caresses?  Did her gestures seduce the washing machine?  Would the 
sultry odor of her underthings excite some invisible soul deep down 
among its gears?  He tried to visualize Naomi copulating, somehow, with 
the machine.  The dream came apart when she gave birth to twins -- a 
washer and a dryer -- with tiny human hands and feet, but no heads. 

"Have you any quarters," she asked him?  He pulled out three or four and
offered to insert them in the slot.  Some machines had little sliding 
coin trays, but Naomi's had a slot with an electronic digital readout. 

Before inserting the first coin, he licked it with his tongue, then
rubbed its milled edge very gently up and down the slot, allowing it to 
slip inside a little at a time.  In the eerie light of the laundromat, 
Naomi could feel the machine responding, bending over him.  Finally, 
after a little side play and many twisting rubs, he let the coin go in 
all the way.  The machine emitted a couple of metallic hiccups, three 
weak electronic beeps, and began the wash cycle. 

"Hey!" cried Naomi, "It's supposed to take three quarters!" 

Conan smirked.  "Never underestimate the power of Erotica!" 

"Erotica be damned!" she shot back, stalking out.  On her way, Naomi
slammed her hand angrily against the last washer in the line.  It 
emitted a couple of metallic hiccups, three weak electronic beeps, and 
began the wash cycle. 

Hours after Naomi's emotions had been dried and fluffed free of static
cling, she had to keep fighting off the image of a milled coin jiggling 
in a slot. 

Seattle, August 1989 - Gerald X. Diamond - All rights reserved


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