Story: Attack of the Infinite Monkey

My poetry muse had struck during dinner, so the setting sun found me curled on my couch with my journal and a pen. Archaic though it may be, it makes a difference.

I write for a living, cranking out political commentary and articles for my bread, butter, and beverages. I also write novels and other stuff for the fun of it because bread and butter by themselves get awfully boring after a while. Over the years I’ve discovered that each style of writing has its own utensils.

Non-fiction demands speed, accuracy, and easy access to a universe of facts. That means computer. I also use my computer at home for writing mystery novels but only after I’ve disabled my e-mail, web browsers, instant messaging, and games, lest they distract my weak and feeble mind. If I’m on the road I can use my Palm Pilot, which inspires entries that are concise (which makes sense) and wittier (which does not).

However, my computer and handheld are both useless to me for writing poetry. I’ve tried and nothing happens, I might as well be sitting in front of my toaster oven. For poetry I have to have pen and paper before my mind will relax enough to let my emotions out.

I also need silence, which was scarce at the moment because my girlfriend Lucy walked over and stood in front of me to sing “Happy Birthday” at the top of her lungs. She was holding a very large box wrapped in the newspaper comics section.

She finished with a ridiculously deep “and many moooooore!” and dropped the box on my lap. It hurt, this thing was heavy. Suspiciously heavy. I looked up to see if Lucy had unobtrusively dived behind something large and blast-absorbing while I was preoccupied with the ribbon.

Nope. She was still standing there, twirling a strand of her long, blond hair between her fingers, waiting for me to open my brand new engine block or whatever the hell this was. “Go ahead, goofy. Whip it out,” she said with a grin, clearly enjoying herself.

“Why not,” I said. “I’ve had a good life.” I tore the paper away to reveal a very solid cardboard box, and then opened that to reveal… a typewriter. An old one, as if there were any other kind these days, but a really massive old one, totally manual, the kind with the little round keys perched in neat rows on slender black stems. A black and red striped ribbon ran from the two large spools on top. The decal on the paper table declared in bright gold letters that this was a “Royal,” and I didn’t doubt it for a second.

I set it down with a grunt and swept Lucy up in my arms, swinging her around the apartment. “This is great! Thank you! Where did you find this?”

“Not telling,” she said, “but if you need parts or more ribbons I know where there’s a place. Totally coincidental, me knowing that.”

“Of course. And I believe you.” I bent down to inspect my prize more closely. My nostrils flared at the faint smell of machine oil mixed with the sharper tang of a new ink ribbon. Ancient writing senses tingled. I touched the carriage return lever and marveled at the ease in which it ratcheted. “What brought this on?”

“Hello? Birthday? You told me once about playing with your grandmother’s old machine, I thought you’d get a kick out of it.” She knelt down besides me and gave me a squeeze. “Besides, who knows what you’ll write on this?”

I stood up and gathered her up in my arms. “I’ll write you love letters,” I said, nuzzling her neck. “Long, passionate, badly mistyped love letters, reeking of carbon paper and WhiteOut, as God intended.”

“As long as you spell my name right.” She curled a finger over my belt and tugged towards the bedroom. “C’mon,” she said playfully. “Now you have to thank me.”

An hour later I was back at my new toy, but I felt troubled. Across the hallway Lucy was sprawled across our bed, glowing blue in the moonlight and looking like a lunar landscape, all curves and slopes and rises. The sex had been wonderful, as always, but something was off.

We had collapsed on the bed, still kissing and laughing, and we broke to pull our clothes off. I had some trouble with my socks. We kissed again and stroked each other, teasing and tickling and caressing until our breath became ragged. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, careful to avoid her neck because she’s ticklish there. She trailed her hands across my chest and no lower because she gets a little shy around my genitals, but we’re used to working around that.

When we were ready she reached over her head to the nightstand and pumped a dollop of lotion into her hand. She kissed me quick and applied it where we needed it, jumping slightly at the cold. I rolled over her, keeping my weight off, and rubbed the head of my dick against her moist slit. She sighed and relaxed her thighs, opening herself to me. I kept rubbing until the lotion covered both of us and then I let my weight push me into her slowly, a half-inch, then back out, then again until I was completely in her.

She reached up to hold my shoulders; I set my hands to the sides of her head and our dance began. I always go slow to give her time to adjust and that lets both of us build our fires to the boiling point. She raised her hips to urge me on. I went faster, pumping away, pulling up a little to let her get her hand between us so she could bring herself right along with me. I gasped and burst inside her, fighting to keep going long after I was spent and dwindling so she could come under me with happy moans.

After she fell asleep I crept out of bed and now here I was, staring at forty pounds of metal, trying not to be intimidated. The typewriter seemed to be waiting for something, and I began to suspect it was waiting for a real writer to come along. It was grinning evilly at me.

Heck with this. Writer’s tip #1: Write something, no matter what. Then at least you have something to edit. I stuck in a sheet of paper, smiling at the barely-remembered feel of the platen ratcheting, and typed “Dear Lucy.” The sounds of the keys striking cracked! In the still room; Lucy snored gently on.

“Dear Lucy,” I typed. “I love you. This is the perfect present and I thank you for it. You always know just what I need, even before I know it myself. Right now I’m looking down the hall and I can see you laying there. You’ve kicked the covers off like you always do and your hip is rising above the sheets like a snowy mountain, cool and untamable. But I can tame you. My hands ache to grab your hips and flip you over, exposing your sweet, rounded ass to my hungry gaz”

I stopped, horrified. Where the hell had that come from? I shook my head and laughed a bit, trying not to notice how heavily I was breathing. “Okay,” I said out loud. “Pen and paper for poetry, computer for politics, typewriter for bad porn.” I grabbed a Coke and chugged half of it before sitting back down and trying again.

“Dear Lucy. I love you. Even after two years my heart jumps whenever I see you. When we’re in the mall and we go to different stores and then I come back and see you across the crowded room, I can’t believe that you chose to be with me. You’re incredible. I see other guys looking at you and I think how lucky I am. I see guys come up to you whenever I’m not right next to you and they hit on you, and I just want to roar and smack them away from you. You’re mine, you belong to me, and I will fight for”

When I pulled away I was panting like I’d run a marathon, and my head was pounding. What the hell? I don’t write stuff like this. I don’t even think stuff like this! This is stalker shit, this is… this is my subconscious or something. It’s like my monkey genes woke up and asserted my alpha maleness or something, and that was just wrong. We didn’t spend millions of years evolving up from apes so I could go caveman on my girlfriend.

It was the typewriter. Had to be. Tapping away on this thing was bringing out some weird kind of atavistic ur-writer in me, the kind that smokes nonstop and dies of alcohol poisoning. The kind that wasn’t me.

Still, I felt… powerful. Strong, in a way I never had before. I stood in the bedroom doorway and looked at her. Lucy had rolled over in her sleep and was now on her back, naked to the waist, her full breasts rising and falling gently.

I wanted her.

I still loved her and I still needed her and I still respected her as a person, but just then I wanted her with an intensity that frightened me. I took a step forward, shaking, and then threw myself back into the living room and behind the typewriter.

“I’m not like this,” I typed, although I’m not sure who or what I was trying to convince. “I don’t listen to my animal instincts. I’m a civilized man. An infinite number of monkeys might be able to type the works of Shakespeare, but my inner monkey needs to shut up. I don’t do brutal.”

It wouldn’t be brutal. I could feel it. It would be forceful and definite, but it wouldn’t be brutal. I’d stop if she wanted me to. I knew it. I pounded on the keys, reveling in the simple violence of smacking metal keys into paper until it wasn’t enough anymore.

The bed creaked when I sat on it. I laid my hand flat on her stomach and stroked it gently but firmly, taking possession of it. This is mine, I thought, and I felt guilty and strong. I stroked up to her breast and I grasped it, gently but firmly, and enjoyed the fierce pride of ownership.

Lucy opened her eyes. “Wha…? Honey? Are you–”

I leaned over her and took her mouth. My tongue easily captured hers and made it mine. She gasped and came fully awake, looking into my hunger, and her eyes widened. As I watched they darkened to a deep and smoky pool I’d only glimpsed before and never understood. I knew what it was now. I’d found her monkey.

I trailed my tongue across her cheek. She shivered with the feel of it. I whispered hoarsely into her ear, “I want you,” and just as she arched her neck to push against me I ducked my head and bit down on her shoulder.

She cried out. Part of me wanted to stop, make sure she was okay, but the monkey reveled in the way she pushed her ass back against me, the way she moved in my arms. I reached around and slid my hand down between her legs to circle her clit, already buzzing and hot. I caught it between my fingers and tugged on it and she cried out again and reached back to grab my hair and pull my lips to hers. We kissed savagely. My fingers slipped deep into her where she was boiling hot and getting wetter by the second.

She reached around to grab my cock, yanking at it, pulling it closer to her. I closed my eyes to relish the feel of it before I grabbed her hip to hold her steady and sank into her hard enough to smack against her ass. We screamed at the connection, my thrusts branding her inside, making sure that she knew forever that she was mine. Lucy lurched forward to grab my butt and pull me frantically towards her, into her, urging me faster and faster, harder and harder.

I didn’t care about her pleasure, even as I angled to maximize it. I didn’t care about keeping my weight off her; I pushed her into the bed and pounded harder. I didn’t care about being sensitive or about being careful or whether or not we had simultaneous orgasms. I was taking her, and I felt free.

And she took it. She took everything I had and coaxed me harder, making me fight to stay on and not get thrown off the bed. Her muscles clenched and her teeth were bared and she laughed a deep and guttural laugh that didn’t come from a human throat. I gripped the side of her neck in my jaws and felt the hot pulse, just under the surface, calling to me.

There were no missteps, no goofs, no “sorrys.” Everywhere I touched her, she burned. Everywhere she touched me, I ached. Everything I said to her made her moan and clutch at me like a lifeline. Every thrust pushed a cry out of her throat, deep and guttural and heartfelt. I lay completely on her, my groin chasing her clit all over her pelvic bone, and I rode her into a red-hot place where all that mattered was feeling and passion and fire.

I roared when I emptied myself into her, pounding hard enough to shake the bed. In response she pushed harder back, screaming with me and shaking with her own bursts. I collapsed on top of her, still fully hard inside her, and she whimpered and squeezed me and shuddered through another climax. We were both drenched in sweat. The tiniest movement caused both of us to gasp again and we pushed gently against each other, quivering in the aftershocks.

Te last thing I remember, as consciousness began to creep back and my monkey scuttled back into my hindbrain, was me whispering into her ear, “I love you,” and feeling her shiver at the sensation.

I awoke, alone. The bed looked as though hippos had been wallowing on it. I was sore in a dozen places. And she was gone.

I couldn’t believe what I had done. My lovely, my tender Lucy, and I had all but raped her. How the hell could I ever face her again? Had she left? How could she ever trust me again? I wasn’t even sure that I trusted myself. Even in my shame I felt the stirrings, knew I wanted her still, knew I could take her again, and it frightened me. The monkey is always under the surface, waiting.

A noise startled me and I looked up to see Lucy standing in the doorway. She was gloriously nude, draped in the torn sheet, looking like a ravished goddess. In her eyes was the look that lionesses use to tempt their mates. “Type something for me,” she said in a husky voice.

I started to say something, to apologize, but she stopped me with a look. “A little rough for every day,” she said, chuckling, “but right now I want you to write something for me, right there on that machine.” She turned and looked back over her bare shoulder. There were red marks on it, bite marks, and they thrilled me. “I’ll be waiting for it.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, but her voice carried back. “And then it’ll be my turn.”

Inside me the monkey laughed. I began to type.

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