Ficlet - Perfectly Straight. PG.
This is set Pre-One. It is a followup, of sorts, to Celibate. Crit is always good.
To procrastinate is human. To actually get anything done is - well, not divine, but certainly at a higher state of being than procrastination.
Every human alive feels the urge - that desire to put the unpleasant thing aside and do something else for a while. It arises out of a subconscious wish that the thing you don't want to deal with will resolve itself if you ignore it.
Often, it does, and it rarely does so in a way that is good for you. And so we usually drag ourselves out of the rut and face whatever thing it is that we've been avoiding.
There was once a man who did not procrastinate. But everyone thought he was a twat, so we will not concern ourselves with him.
Rimmer was a master of procrastination. He had that subtle art of procrastination, that master's touch, that allowed him to pretend to be actually working on the thing he was supposed to be working on, while all the while actually working around it. He was a cut above. He would not rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic; he would look at the compass, clean it, polish it, check its proper functioning with a magnet, and make thorough comparison of magnetic north versus geographic north, all in the interest of not checking to see whether they really were headed for a massive mountain of ice.
However, even a master procrastinator has to take an evening off. So it was that on Friday night, Rimmer was procrastinating (the avoided issue being, as always, the upcoming astronavigation exam) in the most blatant manner possible. He was attending the weekly meeting of the Love Celibacy Society.
He was not enjoying it as much as he might have, however. The skinny, long-necked man who usually ran the meeting was not there. He was serving an extra shift as punishment for being caught drilling a peephole from the gents' toilet to the women's. His perfectly rational explanation - that he liked looking at naked ladies without having to pay for a dinner and movie - did not satisfy Todhunter, who sentenced him to a draconian one-month set of Friday evening shifts.
His replacement was a fat fellow named Harrison, whose cleft chin bobbled and wiggled when he spoke like the buttocks of the nude dancers in Frank's old movies. The man had a pair of breasts that, from what Rimmer had seen in the shower and in Frank's old movies, would rival a voluptuous woman's. However, Rimmer was willing to deal with the man for this evening. This evening was a special evening.
Harrison hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. He spoke breathlessly, as if even that effort had been enough to wind him. "My fellow Celibates," he wheezed, "before we convene our evening's festivities, I have an announcement to make. Certain rumors have come to the attention of the managing board of the Celibates. Rumors that some of our number might be," he squinted as he looked around the room, then spat out the next word, "gay."
Rimmer discreetly brushed a spatter of saliva off of his shirt.
"I just want to make it clear," Harrison continued, "that this a society of straight men. Just because we are Love Celibates does not mean we are poofs!" He glared at the assembly as if someone had just accused him of being such a creature. "Now, if any of you are smegging gay, pull up and get out of here. You're not wanted. We are a perfectly straight bunch."
The group all looked at Harrison expectantly. Nobody stood and left. Harrison surveyed the assembly, his squint making his deep-set eyes appear even tinier. "Well, then!" he said briskly, after that pause. "Now that we have that out of the way. As you all know, tonight is Hobby Night - a night to share the hobbies and other creative pursuits that you, er..." vocabulary failed him, "pursue when you are not pursuing women. First up tonight is Second Technician Arnold Rimmer, with his collection of twentieth-century telegraph poles."
Harrison sat with a relieved grunt, and Rimmer stood, pulling out his book. He thrilled with delight at the rapt (well, perhaps 'rapt' was not quite the word - 'bored' might be closer, but at the moment, Rimmer did not give a good smeg) audience. This was the kind of thing he lived for. Getting up in front of a group of truly manly men, real men, men who did not care to waste their time pursuing women, and showing his pride and joy - his pictures of lofty telegraph poles. Long, firm erections shot straight for the sky on every page he lovingly turned, their thick, hard shafts never failing to fill him with excitement.
To procrastinate is human. To actually get anything done is - well, not divine, but certainly at a higher state of being than procrastination.
Every human alive feels the urge - that desire to put the unpleasant thing aside and do something else for a while. It arises out of a subconscious wish that the thing you don't want to deal with will resolve itself if you ignore it.
Often, it does, and it rarely does so in a way that is good for you. And so we usually drag ourselves out of the rut and face whatever thing it is that we've been avoiding.
There was once a man who did not procrastinate. But everyone thought he was a twat, so we will not concern ourselves with him.
Rimmer was a master of procrastination. He had that subtle art of procrastination, that master's touch, that allowed him to pretend to be actually working on the thing he was supposed to be working on, while all the while actually working around it. He was a cut above. He would not rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic; he would look at the compass, clean it, polish it, check its proper functioning with a magnet, and make thorough comparison of magnetic north versus geographic north, all in the interest of not checking to see whether they really were headed for a massive mountain of ice.
However, even a master procrastinator has to take an evening off. So it was that on Friday night, Rimmer was procrastinating (the avoided issue being, as always, the upcoming astronavigation exam) in the most blatant manner possible. He was attending the weekly meeting of the Love Celibacy Society.
He was not enjoying it as much as he might have, however. The skinny, long-necked man who usually ran the meeting was not there. He was serving an extra shift as punishment for being caught drilling a peephole from the gents' toilet to the women's. His perfectly rational explanation - that he liked looking at naked ladies without having to pay for a dinner and movie - did not satisfy Todhunter, who sentenced him to a draconian one-month set of Friday evening shifts.
His replacement was a fat fellow named Harrison, whose cleft chin bobbled and wiggled when he spoke like the buttocks of the nude dancers in Frank's old movies. The man had a pair of breasts that, from what Rimmer had seen in the shower and in Frank's old movies, would rival a voluptuous woman's. However, Rimmer was willing to deal with the man for this evening. This evening was a special evening.
Harrison hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. He spoke breathlessly, as if even that effort had been enough to wind him. "My fellow Celibates," he wheezed, "before we convene our evening's festivities, I have an announcement to make. Certain rumors have come to the attention of the managing board of the Celibates. Rumors that some of our number might be," he squinted as he looked around the room, then spat out the next word, "gay."
Rimmer discreetly brushed a spatter of saliva off of his shirt.
"I just want to make it clear," Harrison continued, "that this a society of straight men. Just because we are Love Celibates does not mean we are poofs!" He glared at the assembly as if someone had just accused him of being such a creature. "Now, if any of you are smegging gay, pull up and get out of here. You're not wanted. We are a perfectly straight bunch."
The group all looked at Harrison expectantly. Nobody stood and left. Harrison surveyed the assembly, his squint making his deep-set eyes appear even tinier. "Well, then!" he said briskly, after that pause. "Now that we have that out of the way. As you all know, tonight is Hobby Night - a night to share the hobbies and other creative pursuits that you, er..." vocabulary failed him, "pursue when you are not pursuing women. First up tonight is Second Technician Arnold Rimmer, with his collection of twentieth-century telegraph poles."
Harrison sat with a relieved grunt, and Rimmer stood, pulling out his book. He thrilled with delight at the rapt (well, perhaps 'rapt' was not quite the word - 'bored' might be closer, but at the moment, Rimmer did not give a good smeg) audience. This was the kind of thing he lived for. Getting up in front of a group of truly manly men, real men, men who did not care to waste their time pursuing women, and showing his pride and joy - his pictures of lofty telegraph poles. Long, firm erections shot straight for the sky on every page he lovingly turned, their thick, hard shafts never failing to fill him with excitement.