#77 - What?? - Angels Short
#77 - What??
To be fair and honorable, it is best to say that Rachel Serraffield Eisenreich was hoodwinked. Although not in the habit of being a complete sucker, Rachel suffered from delusions that would plague him for the balance of his considerable life. One of these delusions was the quiet and earnst devotion to the protection and aid of the fairer sex, which gave a usually suspiscious teenager a blind spot a mile wide which practically begged please kick me here. Mia Naaktgeboren liked to tell herself that she was never one to deny Rachel anything for very long, provided he asked for it nicely.
So after the affair of the cola-everclear-rohypnol cocktail and the extensive photographic evidence Shaktiel was likely to produce at any given moment from the confines of her bra, Rachel decided that having been taken advantage of in a most embarassing manner, the only right and correct thing to do would be to take responsibility for the violence of her deflowerment like a man and live with the consequences. Exactly why he was responsible for the indelicate breaking of her hymen outside the glorious institution of wedlock when he had been entirely unconscious at the time Rachel did not even attempt to explain to himself, but it probably had something to do with the fact that his grandfather was the angel of forebearance and that he had been raised Catholic. He went to confession and was absolved, but he still felt somehow related to the bacteria living inside public toilet bowls. This was augmented by the fact that while he had all the guilt and responsibility, he did not have even a fleeting spasm of pride over the experience, being that he did not remember any of it at all.
It was bad enough that he had banged a girl he had known since she was in daipers. It somehow made it extra worse that he couldn't even congratulate himself on her being satisfied.
This, he decided, was very unmanly and very highly embarassing.
So when Easter holidays came and the hedgerow went to Heatherbluff and Shaktiel was often to be seen spinning around on the hardwood of the ballroom as she kept herself in proper condition for the dancing of Giselle, a preformance rapidly approaching, Rachel spent equal shares of time staring at her from the corridor and putting forth the public impression that he would rather have his kidneys removed through a straw than be forced into her company.
In the end it is perhaps not surprising that they ended up together in the attic as Shaktiel crowed and danced about, hopping from foot in her supreme and brain-jellying triumph until he got fed up with listening to her and they actually got to business. It was a great deal of awkward bumping and scraping as he dragged her out of her leotard and she unkindly broke two of her nails on his belt, and then it was his mouth and his hands and both of them fell on a threadbare divan with an unpoetic thump which caused it to belch forth an unwholesome cloud of dust. There was a great deal of scrabbling and wiggling, and at one point she kneed him very impolitely in the solar plexus, although she claimed that this was an accident. Although it was hardly the time or the place he was strangely fascinated with her feet and gave her ankle a very premeditated kiss before they both dissolved into a hot, hormonal mess, where Rachel did the least amount of clear thinking he had ever done in his life, especially when she caught up all at once and made a strangled sound like someone had run over her toes with a loaded wheelbarrow. At the time he thought he had accidentally banged her head against the hardwood arm rest, which he didn't feel too badly about, considering the knee he'd taken to the gut. It was only afterwards that he began to think of things, when the sweat was cooling on his shoulders and he actually had the presence of mind to notice the spotty stain on the ancient divan, that he began to realize things were not entirely as they seemed.
Unsurprisingly, he swore. First in German, then in Norwegian, of all things.
"I'd ask 'Who do you kiss with that mouth, Cloud?' but I guess I already know, don't I?" she laughed madly and probably a little too loudly with a drunken high that could not be entirely in appreciation of her own cleverness, squirming to collect her leotard so that they could claim some sort of innocent occupation should they be discovered.
With a charming level of subtlety he pulled on his trousers and then pointed deliberately at the spotty stain. "Mia. What. is. that."
She looked at it critically for a moment and he could watch her heart beat so hard that the hair that hung against her chest tremored with it as she formulated her lie.
"It must be spleen juice, from my spleen. I guess you were too rough!"
"Shaktiel."
She sighed, resigned that the proverbial jig was up and struck what she felt was a very winsome and fetching post, pillowing her cheek against her folded hands.
"Well, what do you think it is Macguyver?"
He put his shirt back on and ran his hand through his hair, tugging on it hard before cracking his knuckles and then flopping bonelessly back on the divan.
"All right. Start explaining."
"What, you slept through all of Prof Delaney's important lectures? Even the ones with the pictures? Okay, I'll start: kids, we all know what it's like to feel ashamed about having certain kinds of feelings -- "
"Shaktiel."
She leaned on her hand a little disillusioned, "I somehow feel cheated that you've done most of your name yelling after you were done fondling my incredibly hot, naked body." She stretched her legs and wriggled her toes in the air experimentally. "You see, puppet, it's like this. I must appologize because I wasn't really totally honest with you when I told you the poignant story of your deflowerment at my capable hands!"
"Keep going," he said, fearing and dreading any of the possible explanations that would soon spout jubuliantly from her lips.
"Well, that beautiful story I told you I was forced to make up entirely myself!" she did not seem particularly upset, more satisfied, like an obese cat who has eaten an entire pork roast. "Maybe I should write totally hot novels."
"The pictures," he sputtered, and she shrugged.
"Oh, I still had you down for the count, Seabiscuit. Only, well, rohypnol is really only useful as a daterape drug on like, little spindly girls. You have to weigh more than a pile of bowling balls -- I am speaking from experience here not only because I had to drag your drunken carcass into the house but also because you were just on top of me!" she reminded contentedly. He groaned and she grinned, insufferably pleased with herself, "You are totally the biggest dope ever. All I did was get you out of your clothes and take some instructive pictures. You mostly drooled on the bed. I had to wash all my sheets! It was so gross." She was unable to contain herself any further and again lost herself laughing half-crazily against her fist. "My favorite part of this heart-warming story is that maybe you could have figured this mystery out if you had actually, you know, looked rohypnol up in a book or something. You are so gullible." She finished, and punched him in what she felt was a very affectionate way, "So how does it feel to be a consenting adult?!"
"It sucks," he said.
But maybe that wasn't totally honest, either.
*
To be fair and honorable, it is best to say that Rachel Serraffield Eisenreich was hoodwinked. Although not in the habit of being a complete sucker, Rachel suffered from delusions that would plague him for the balance of his considerable life. One of these delusions was the quiet and earnst devotion to the protection and aid of the fairer sex, which gave a usually suspiscious teenager a blind spot a mile wide which practically begged please kick me here. Mia Naaktgeboren liked to tell herself that she was never one to deny Rachel anything for very long, provided he asked for it nicely.
So after the affair of the cola-everclear-rohypnol cocktail and the extensive photographic evidence Shaktiel was likely to produce at any given moment from the confines of her bra, Rachel decided that having been taken advantage of in a most embarassing manner, the only right and correct thing to do would be to take responsibility for the violence of her deflowerment like a man and live with the consequences. Exactly why he was responsible for the indelicate breaking of her hymen outside the glorious institution of wedlock when he had been entirely unconscious at the time Rachel did not even attempt to explain to himself, but it probably had something to do with the fact that his grandfather was the angel of forebearance and that he had been raised Catholic. He went to confession and was absolved, but he still felt somehow related to the bacteria living inside public toilet bowls. This was augmented by the fact that while he had all the guilt and responsibility, he did not have even a fleeting spasm of pride over the experience, being that he did not remember any of it at all.
It was bad enough that he had banged a girl he had known since she was in daipers. It somehow made it extra worse that he couldn't even congratulate himself on her being satisfied.
This, he decided, was very unmanly and very highly embarassing.
So when Easter holidays came and the hedgerow went to Heatherbluff and Shaktiel was often to be seen spinning around on the hardwood of the ballroom as she kept herself in proper condition for the dancing of Giselle, a preformance rapidly approaching, Rachel spent equal shares of time staring at her from the corridor and putting forth the public impression that he would rather have his kidneys removed through a straw than be forced into her company.
In the end it is perhaps not surprising that they ended up together in the attic as Shaktiel crowed and danced about, hopping from foot in her supreme and brain-jellying triumph until he got fed up with listening to her and they actually got to business. It was a great deal of awkward bumping and scraping as he dragged her out of her leotard and she unkindly broke two of her nails on his belt, and then it was his mouth and his hands and both of them fell on a threadbare divan with an unpoetic thump which caused it to belch forth an unwholesome cloud of dust. There was a great deal of scrabbling and wiggling, and at one point she kneed him very impolitely in the solar plexus, although she claimed that this was an accident. Although it was hardly the time or the place he was strangely fascinated with her feet and gave her ankle a very premeditated kiss before they both dissolved into a hot, hormonal mess, where Rachel did the least amount of clear thinking he had ever done in his life, especially when she caught up all at once and made a strangled sound like someone had run over her toes with a loaded wheelbarrow. At the time he thought he had accidentally banged her head against the hardwood arm rest, which he didn't feel too badly about, considering the knee he'd taken to the gut. It was only afterwards that he began to think of things, when the sweat was cooling on his shoulders and he actually had the presence of mind to notice the spotty stain on the ancient divan, that he began to realize things were not entirely as they seemed.
Unsurprisingly, he swore. First in German, then in Norwegian, of all things.
"I'd ask 'Who do you kiss with that mouth, Cloud?' but I guess I already know, don't I?" she laughed madly and probably a little too loudly with a drunken high that could not be entirely in appreciation of her own cleverness, squirming to collect her leotard so that they could claim some sort of innocent occupation should they be discovered.
With a charming level of subtlety he pulled on his trousers and then pointed deliberately at the spotty stain. "Mia. What. is. that."
She looked at it critically for a moment and he could watch her heart beat so hard that the hair that hung against her chest tremored with it as she formulated her lie.
"It must be spleen juice, from my spleen. I guess you were too rough!"
"Shaktiel."
She sighed, resigned that the proverbial jig was up and struck what she felt was a very winsome and fetching post, pillowing her cheek against her folded hands.
"Well, what do you think it is Macguyver?"
He put his shirt back on and ran his hand through his hair, tugging on it hard before cracking his knuckles and then flopping bonelessly back on the divan.
"All right. Start explaining."
"What, you slept through all of Prof Delaney's important lectures? Even the ones with the pictures? Okay, I'll start: kids, we all know what it's like to feel ashamed about having certain kinds of feelings -- "
"Shaktiel."
She leaned on her hand a little disillusioned, "I somehow feel cheated that you've done most of your name yelling after you were done fondling my incredibly hot, naked body." She stretched her legs and wriggled her toes in the air experimentally. "You see, puppet, it's like this. I must appologize because I wasn't really totally honest with you when I told you the poignant story of your deflowerment at my capable hands!"
"Keep going," he said, fearing and dreading any of the possible explanations that would soon spout jubuliantly from her lips.
"Well, that beautiful story I told you I was forced to make up entirely myself!" she did not seem particularly upset, more satisfied, like an obese cat who has eaten an entire pork roast. "Maybe I should write totally hot novels."
"The pictures," he sputtered, and she shrugged.
"Oh, I still had you down for the count, Seabiscuit. Only, well, rohypnol is really only useful as a daterape drug on like, little spindly girls. You have to weigh more than a pile of bowling balls -- I am speaking from experience here not only because I had to drag your drunken carcass into the house but also because you were just on top of me!" she reminded contentedly. He groaned and she grinned, insufferably pleased with herself, "You are totally the biggest dope ever. All I did was get you out of your clothes and take some instructive pictures. You mostly drooled on the bed. I had to wash all my sheets! It was so gross." She was unable to contain herself any further and again lost herself laughing half-crazily against her fist. "My favorite part of this heart-warming story is that maybe you could have figured this mystery out if you had actually, you know, looked rohypnol up in a book or something. You are so gullible." She finished, and punched him in what she felt was a very affectionate way, "So how does it feel to be a consenting adult?!"
"It sucks," he said.
But maybe that wasn't totally honest, either.
*