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shared.
It was absurd.
All Meg had learned about love in her thirty-three years told her that one needed time to know someone before sex meant anything at all. Not so now. Orgasm, precisely synched and blessed by an angelic presence, opened them up, brought out the best in them, made plain the divinity they shared, the unequivocal love that spilled out of them and into them. At last, their orgasm peaked for real this time, a tower of Everests high. They started an extremely long slow descent, wheeing and wowing like a quartet that Verdi had never quite managed to compose.
Michael gestured at the Orgasm Fairy, who at once vanished in a flurry of sparkles. Her loss devastated them all. “I’m sorry.” The archangel was touched by their bereavement. “Sorry as well about-” but he didn’t have to conclude the thought, for he had swept her and Hap up in his arms and was already on the move. The young man’s pussy-prod slipped out of Meg’s fist as her mate’s own quim-pleaser de-vulva’d with a pop from the blonde’s mouth, like an all-day sucker eased out to renew the joy of its insertion. Anguish warped the young couple’s faces, an anguish mirrored, Meg knew, by hers and Hap’s.
The archangel sped them backward along their route, soothing, cuddling, assuring them that all would be okay. And Meg felt the sorrow of parting from perfection, even as Hap and Michael embraced and consoled her. Their bedroom bloomed up about them. Aromas of arousal floated in the air, a delight and a torment: her arousal, and Hap’s, and that of the unknown pair.
“Happy trails,” said Michael.
“But how will we find them again?” Even as the words formed on her lips, he gestured above her nightstand where a paper wafted down like a feather, falling between her clock radio and her crook-necked lamp. Names in gold script, a phone number writ large.
“Wait!” cried Meg.
The angel halted in his swirl.
“Please,” she said. “What’s heaven like?”
Michael smiled. Just before he vanished, he uttered a soft single word. Meg couldn’t parse it but it went straight to her heart. “Oh, Hap,” she sighed. “We are blessed indeed.”
“Yes, Meg,” agreed Hap. “We are.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” In her eye, deviltry glowed.
“Youbetcha!”
Together they leaped for the phone, laughing as they fumble-punched its buttons. The phone at the other end, in a California mansion by the sea, rang once before it was picked up.
As for Michael, he was ready to fall abject at the feet of The Lord, particularly since even God’s toejam gives off an irresistible ambrosial scent akin to that of aroused organs. But there was no need to grovel.
The Head Cheese beamed. The Orgasm Fairy’s hands were busy beneath His robes.
God nodded. “Good work, boy. You wasted no time correcting your mistake. Five deaths is too damn bad, I’ll grant you. But hey, it’s a small price to pay for the emergence of this delightful creature. That’s very nice, little one. Your mouth, please.” She complied.
“Besides, Michael, look over yonder.”
Upon a nearby cloud sat the puddled couple, still puddled but blissed out. They were making goo-goo eyes at one another and squirming in the most heavenly of ways. One flesh they had become, united as blissfully as the androgynous creatures Plato had painted in
Next cloud over, the trio of lovers from that extremely well-known theme park were whole again, flames undone, their huge cartoon heads alive and integral to them. The sight pleased him. I wish I could describe them for you. But the aforesaid theme park and the exceedingly famous characters these three had once depicted-which now, in some peculiar way, they had become- are the intellectual (yeah, right, make me laugh!) property of a highly litigious and soulless corporation. Still, I think you can guess who they are by the shapes of their ears, the fuzzy grays, the bright yellows, the telltale hat with its telltale hue and ribbon, the eyelashed eyes. I have unshakable faith in the imaginations of my readers.
“Henceforth,” said God, “I entrust the Orgasm Fairy with the task of ensuring that simultaneous orgasms don’t happen. As she is so very talented, however, she shall be allowed to bring lovers of her choosing extremely close to simultaneity, to join in if she likes, and to give them unforgettable joy. Only the good ones, of course. The nasty, naughty, Godforsaken baddies-by which I mean the bluenoses; the intolerant blithering screwballs on the extremes of an issue; busybody anti-choicers; the so-called Christian right who are misguided miscreants all; soldiers everywhere who allow themselves to be duped by the murderers who appear to be in charge of their lives, but really aren’t; dolts, bullies, short-sheeters, tireslashers, blasted numbnuts tailgaters, and others of that nasty little ilk-shall go straight to hell. Ain’t no way I’ll give those little bastards and bitches any pleasures worth the having.
Michael tried to hide his concern.
“Hey, pardner,” said God, chucking him under the chin without moving from His throne, indeed without so much as uncup-ping His hands from the Orgasm Fairy’s sweet pair of luscious, prick-sproinging boobies. “Cheer up. You done good. But I have other plans for you. I’m considering, maybe in five years’ time, a sort of vacation…”
And as God filled Michael in on what the archangel’s duties would be in his absence and the Orgasm Fairy’s head dipped like a feathered cuckoo-bird craning for water, a quartet of TV’d moptops, ’midst twists and shouts as hearty as sex itself, sounded their second chord.
Robert Devereaux is the author of
“On the Dangers of Simultaneity, Or, Ungh, Mmmm, Oh-Baby-Yeah, Aaah, Oooh… UH-OH!” by Robert Devereaux, © 2000 by Robert Devereaux, first appeared in
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