Erotic Jean Smart

There she was, a wonderfully sexy Jean Smart, lounging on some kind of bed-like surface, wearing nothing but a pair of delightful black velvet high heels. She was happy to be where she was, and I was pretty stoked as well.

She was a professional, long since used to doing this kind of thing, so all I had to do was keep the camera steady and just clicking off those digital files. She was louging, rolling, stretching, bending, spreading, doing just about everything I could think of in erotic photography before I could even ask he to do it. She was a step ahead of me the whole time. Naturally, there were a great many poses and actions I was thinking about, beyond the realm of tasteful and even semi-tasteful boudoir photography, but I wasn't going to head there quite yet. If she was ahead of me, maybe she'd just get there and I'd happily follow. Just gotta wait for the context, see how things are going, and then decided about what to do. I was plenty happy with the situation right then, but it could always get better. As for actual sex, getting it on with Jean Smart, I just really couldn't place myself in that scenario. Too far out, too far down the fantasy pathway. Sure, it'd be a hoot, and I'd jump right on in, but no need to think on what was most likely to be the purely fantastic.

Even in my dream, I wondered how it got to be Jean Smart here, posing so deliciously for my own private erotic photography. She was a mighty good sport about it, and appeared to be enjoying herself. I had no recollection of a contrat or details on payment, but there was the niggling feeling that I might get handed some kind of obscene bill for modeling services or some such. Just had to remember if I'd signed a contract or not.

And why Jean Smart? Of all of the fantasy women, why her? Nope, I never had a thing for any of the "Designing Women" (http://www.topthat.net/DWT/index_alt.html) bunch, and absolutely detested that dumbass show. Delta Burke was a massive turn-off in every way, coming off more like a drag queen than some kind of zaftig southern belle with attitude. No amount of make-up and trendy, expensive clothing could fix her, ever.

Dixie Carter just didn't do it for me. Sure, she was the older, classier one, but still came off as cold and detached, a southern belle Joan Crawford, to my mind all smiles and gen-u-ine southern hospitality until you got behind the curtain and you saw the vicious, manipulative psychotic autocrat. That was just my impression. She was great to look at, but her character didn't work for me at all.

And Annie Potts. She was great in her early nubile phase, when she was in Ghostbusters. Petite, with that cool red hair and enough drawl to really make her something to pay attention to. But as she got older, she didn't keep that look and attitude, just got older, and less and less attractive.

But here was Jean, and she was hot. She most certainly without any clothing, and only now did I notice she had on some wonderfully matching jewelry, subtle and classy gold and diamond earrings and a bracelet, and a nice necklace. That and the heels was all there was. And she looked great there, as I clicked away with my puny digital camera.

War on Mars

How weird it was, to step onto the surface of the planet, to realize that I was standing on another world. To look up later in the evening, and see no moon. Familiar stars, sure, but our moon apparently gone. Very disconcerting, to realize that you can't seen something you've always known, but didn't realize it until now.

But the surface is just like home. Same vegetation. Clear air, no different than home. Just no cities. Everything a pristine wonderland of just flora. No fauna yet, still too much terra-forming to complete. I thought of it as an explorer to the New World might have, except there weren't any Indians to encounter. Thinking a bit more, like thinking on the moon, it was strange to walk an utterly silent forest, to see the grass swaying in the breeze, but see or hear no birds. Not even bugs. Beautiful, without a doubt, with such a clear promise for the future, but also very strange and out of the realm of the normal.

But I was here to fight the war. The unseen enemy was inside the planet, deep, and we were going after him.

I was at the rear door of the massive Chinook as it spun up for liftoff. The drop door was open, and the pilot was going to keep it that way as we flew. I was waiting for a few more to hop on, then I'd step on and we'd be off. I was a little more senior than the others, apparently. I wasn't in charge, but I also had a lot of freedom based on what I assumed to be a slightly higher rank. We were all in full battle gear.

As the helo lifted off, I could feel a clearly unusual shaking and vibration. Instinctively I rolled down the drop door and out of the helo, falling the ten feet or so to the dirt as the huge green thing struggled above me. Glancing up as I fell, I could see the problem; the idiot pilot hadn't even started the rear rotor. He was trying to fly the thing only on the front rotor, and it was failing. The helo was still climbing, but only barely, highly unstable. It was at about forty feet now, and things were going badly. Why didn't the pilot just set it back down? Nope, too easy, too cowardly for a jock-pilot. No glory in that, an admission of failure and weakness. No, he was going to fight through it.

As he did, it rolled over onto its side and began to fall. I hopped a wall as the spinning rotor hit the ground, splintering into supersonice shrapnel that ripped through the tree leaves above me like a weedeater. Limbs and leaves and branches were coming down, a sound of fluttering and splintering and cracking, and the scream of the Chinook's turbine as it came down.

I heard the thump, and was up in time to see the fireball erupt slowly from the crumpled airframe. It was on its side, the fuselage caved in from the impact. Only a few troops staggered out of the open back, then the flames filled the dark interior, and no one else came out.

Bam--I was up on a bluff, the burning wreck now below me to the right, a good 2000 yards away. I was looking down a beautiful vista of a sweeping green-grass meadown, right down to a wide and shallow river, a shimmering silver-blue, then another rise on the other side, up to a ridge higher than our own, a good 7000 yards away.

I guess I was on an aircraft now, as I began to fly low and fast down the slope, toward the river. A helo appeared to my left, flying across our path. I was worried, but saw it was above us. We crossed simultaneously, the helo no more than forty feet above us as we accelerated over the river. I felt I could reach down and touch the water with my hand, we were that close.

In a blink we were atop the opposite ridge, and I saw the massive gash in the planet--I had to remember that we were on Mars--below me. It was a huge abyss, a dark hole stretching down into the interior of the planet. Not a Grand Canyon, or even a volcanic caldera, but a massive hole, an entry wound down into the planet.

We descended in a circular flight, and I saw the regular rectangles indicative of the enemy in teh walls of the cavern. We let fly with our missiles, which hammered into the honeycomb in the walls. Explosions and flame filled the whole space, orange and flashing yellow, fascinating and beautiful in the darkness of the bottomless cavern. We were hammering the bad guys, but the extent of the honeycomb around us was more than we could handle with our limited ammunition. We'd have to pull out and come back. I wondered why they weren't fighting back, and if and when we came back, how well prepared they'd be.

I began to wonder about the nature of "the enemy." I couldn't even see them, and they weren't fighting. Who were they, and what was the nature of our fight? I was fighting because I was told to, because I was told they were a threat. I wasn't see that threat, or any indication that there was a threat. I began to doubt the mission and the war.

Hey, There's the Pope

Sitting in the hard wooden pew, in a very open and airy church. It's large, a very big space inside, but sparse, a lot more like a Luthern or Episcopalian structure, lots of wood, with only very modest decoration all around. Lots of natural light, but none of the often gaudy colors of stained glass streaming through. Sunlight coming from behind me, over my right shoulder, wonderful white-gold bars of slanted light angling down to the foot of the altar.

And in the middle of the mass, there's the Pope, right up there in the middle of it all. It seems that it's a regular mass, but what's he doing here? And why isn't this place just absolutely packed? I mean, there is empty pew space to my left, all the way to the aisle, room enough for another dozen folks. No one standing in the aisles. Come to think of it, no security at all, at least that I can discern.

And the Pope is yabbering away the mass words, just dribbling them out as he's done thousands of times before. I can't help but wonder if the words just don't spill out on auto-pilot, the meaning of the day-to-day mass lost after so much repetition. Sure, the meaning would come through on the Biggies, the Christmas masses, the Easter masses, but for something like today? I have to wonder if he's really feeling it, really into what he's putting out.

And what the hell am I doing here? I'm an atheist, for Chrissakes. But it's interesting, something new, and maybe the Pope will offer something of interest.

There's a question-and-answer, but the Pope is answering confusingly. There's a swanky cardinal in the pew in front of me, and all this guy does is clarify and refine and qualify every utterance the Holy Father puts out. So why isn't this crimson-bedecked guy, right down to the gloves, up on the altar holding the press conference? And why doesn't the Pope tell him to shut the hell up and sit down?

The Pope looks pretty healthy, a little guy with a big head. His English is excellent, but thick with his native German. He speaks clearly, to my listening fully in command of what he's saying and wants to say. Except this dickhead cardinal who keeps interrupting and making stupid qualifying remarks.

Then communion comes around. It's not traditional Catholic communion, the everybody-go-to-the-altar thing, but is more of a Church of Christ communion, with the wine coming down the rows in tiny little glasses in those fascinating round, silver holders. My two kids want a drink, and I've got to be a lot more stern that I thought I'd have to be to get them to be quiet and to keep their hands away from the holder. I'm not about to take any of this stuff, but I'm respectful enough to keep the kids quiet and focused. After all, we're in church. I may not believe in any of this bullshit, but I'll be polite enough to show respect for others' beliefs, as hollow and meaningless and baseless as they are.

Then comes the hosts, like little beige Necco wafers in neato little wooden bowls. Everyone just grabs one and pops it in, mumbling their rote "Body of Christ" as they do so. Yep, this is a departure from the Catholic communion I saw as a kid.

I just push the wine and the hosts on down the row, taking them and passing them on. Neighbors are around, and they notice that I'm not partaking. Whatever, although I'd like the opportunity to clearly and all at once explain to them where I'm coming from. I'd like to do that, but won't have the chance. I'll just explain myself and my beliefs as opportunities arise, in the weeks and months and years that follow.

Traffic Altercation

I was headed down the gentle sweep on the six-lane concrete connector in town. The weather was beautiful, a flawless sky of purest clear azure above, the sun beaming brilliantly, and the river bouncing golden sparks below the white concrete bridge. The concrete of the deck was new, pure and yet unmarred by the passage of so many vehicles. Great day to be out, driving, driving anywhere.

I was in the left lane, and drifted left into a lane that I could see would veer to the left. An exit of some sort, apparently, and I went with it, for whatever reason. Once across the river, the road began to rise with the bluff, and I could see a few hundred yards ahead a sort of T intersection, another road entering from the left. My lane continued on as a feeder for the road I'd just left, and a left-turn lane began to open. Traffic entering from the left had their own merge lane on the left, and the whole feeder led right back to the main travel lanes from which I'd exited just before.

I just kep going, straight along the feeder, headed back to the main road. Where to? I have no idea, but I had exited left for some reason, and then was getting right back onto the main road for some reason, whatever it was/they were.

As I prepared to merge, I glanced over my right shoulder to check. There was a just a glimpse of a white vehicle there, but not too close, so I gassed the car a bit and slid into the merge lane, then merged right. There was a stoplight turning red, so I slowed. The white vehicle was right up my ass, tight, the only explanations being he'd charged there to try to cut me off, or to protest my merge in front of him.

As I rolled gently to the stopline and halted, I was no longer in a car but kind of on foot. I had a big mattress sort of thingy, like a big dog bed, soft and fluffy, but not heavy at all. I plopped it down at the stopline and sat down on it, Aladdin-style. That's when the white car behind me inched up and hit me. I was offended, scared at first, but it was only canvas and some polypro fill in my doggie-bed-vehicle, nothing to get worked up about. No scratches, no dents, no injuries, so what should I get uptight about? Sure, the guy did it on purpose, but he was just an ass, so best to just let it go.

The light changed, and I on my magic dog bed glided forward, taking my time, but also not intentionally dawdlilng, not trying to pick a fight with the guy behind. The nature of my propulsion in my, ah, unique mode of transportation was not a concern at all. A few hundred yards down was another stoplight. I was going straight, and the white car, which I now identified as a beater white boxy Toyota or some such, whipped into the right lane, came up alongside me, and the guy leaned out and spit the biggest honkin' phlegm gloob I'd ever seen onto me and my cool doggie bed ride. Okay, ya fuck, it's go time.

Since I was so low to the street, all I could do was reach out with a fist, and as hard as I could I pounded flat and hard into his left rear quarter panel, smack in the center. The effect was exactly what I wanted, the metal buckling in and a huge, prominent dent appearing in the panel.

White Toyota guy was waiting for a comeback, as his reaction was immediate. He pulled up over the curb onto the sidewalk, and was out the open door almost before he had the car fully stopped. Me, I was still sitting, literally, in the main travel lane. No reason to get upset, not yet. I just sat there, crossy-legged, waiting for things to develop.

He charged toward me and I held up a flat hand in admonishment, "Let it go, pal. Just let it go."

He stopped, not ready for that kind of approach. He took another step and I again warned, "We're even now, and if you're smart you won't push it."

I could see his brow wrinkling in thought, my words replaying in his head, his mind churning through the individual word meanings, adding up the bigger meaning, working through a couple of scenarios and possible outcomes. He was cogitating hard, only now starting to think ahead to what might develop now, what I'd been doing since I exited the road before the bridge and he'd tapped me.

He looked like a Weird Al Yankovich without the cheezy moustache, but with those same dated aviator frame glasses, the lenses thick inside the frames with green mold and grime under the glass. He matched his car, cheap and beat and poorly maintained. Except he had jet-black dreads, long too. And a soiled Disneyland Goofy hat, with the muzzle of Goofy jutting out jauntily toward me. A fascinating picture, I noted.

He'd made his decision, and charged me. As he did, I simply stood up, to silently emphasize my size. As I rose to my full height, he measured out about 5'8", to my 6'4". That didn't deter him at all, and he came at me. I reached out and tweaked the Goofy hat nose as hard as I could, and it stunned him like I'd hit him. I couldn't tell if he was hooked to the nose, or just that offended by my desecration of his treasured hat. He came at me again, really hot. I knocked him down, to discover, only now for some reason, that below his soiled school-gym-gray baggy shorts, he had prosthetic metal legs. Kind of like really shiny chrome erector-set rigs, with lots of struts and bracing. It was a strangely mesmerizing visual presentation, the metal and its arrangement.

But he was still fighting, and fighting hard. He was unhinged, going all out, at least trying to go all out. But off his metal feet, there wasn't much he could do. I simply pulled both metal legs off, out of the dirty shorts. I bent them over and over, folding them like an aluminum can, and threw them into the street. Only then did I notice a small crowd had formed. The crumpled legs were being hit by the passing cross-traffic, flattening with every strike.

I sat back down on my doggie bed vehicle, and merged slowly back out into traffic to continue on my way.

Lame

It was the downtown scene, but not in the heart of the city itself, but in one of the outlying, mini-downtowns outside the main core. Not quite suburbia, but still its own little mini downtown. And I was in the scene.

I was producing and directing and finding all of the talent for a new show, on public access I could only guess, called simply "Lame." It was ironic and bitter and biting and socially commentative all at the same time, depending on your point of view. Or it could be purely artistic. I offered no comment, only featured performers and others willing to go on camera and simply do what they did.

Today was some guy from Japan--who couldn't speak a lick of goddamn English--and his gig was eating strangers' toenails. He'd cut them, fondle them, and then just chew them up, right there on the street. He was clearly a fetishist, from the pure rapture he exhibited in the practice, but there was more to him, I felt. He'd just get people to agree on the street to drop their shoes and socks, and he'd snip all kinds of toenails right there, and then just pop them in. There was more than enough pure carny in this act, but I felt there was just a little more. He was equal opportunity in his act, which I loved.

I shot quite a bit of him doing his thing in various venues, but then turned to some kind of act that I knew to be arriving via parachute. I was in an open-air mall, about three stories around me on all four sides, and I wasn't too sure about the safety of them coming in. I didn't know anything about the act, what they did and how, and if it would even be interesting, but I was more than willing to film a few folks drifting into this open-air mall in broad daylight without any warning.

I wondered if there was any liability in it for me.

The Salt Cave Abyss

I was approaching what I knew to be, what I'd been told to expect, was the most awe-inspiring natural geologic formation in the world. Even more spectacular than the Grand Canyon, Victoria Falls, anything like that. It was the Great Salt Cave Abyss, a yawning, jagged gash deep into the earth, stretching down and down and down, and on and on, as far as the eye could see. I was really looking forward to it, and couldn't help but feel a dread.

Ahead of me was a shoddy plywood wall. Maybe 20 feet high, it ran about 60 feet from side to side. Folks were peering around the sides, through the poorly sealed seams, and even below it in some spots where the ground was uneven. Who would block the view of the abyss, if that's what this was? And how was a screen of this size blockign the view of a hole that was miles and miles in size?

I sidled up on the right, and it was a sort of cave, an outcropping/cliff rising to my right in a gentle arc, up and over the partition. I just stepped around it, and looked to my left to see the abyss. No abyss at all. It was just a smallish cave with salt crystals everywhere. I felt like I was standing inside a geode. It was impressive, sure, but no great abyss, not even close. The space was small and close, and humid as well, with a strong saline smell--duh. It was a geologic oddity, a natural wonder, sure, but nothing on a grand scale.

Then I heard the disturbance outside and turned and ran up the stairs of the building that had sprung up behind me, where the large partition/wall had been. I ran up to the open window, looking out over a greenish meadow, the grass short and well-maintained. A crowd was coming towad what appeared to be the town frontage, as I leaned out and peered left and right.

It was a military unit, and apparently was my military unit. I couldn't remember if I was a cadet, or a soldier, and what my unit would be doing out there, walking toward where I was, in apparent anger. Why wasn't I with them?

I ducked inside the room, stepping back into the relative darknes inside so I could still watch and yet not be seen. Then the room started to shake, and just like in tha climactic scenes of No Name City sinking into the mud in Paint Your Wagon, the entire room started to sink down, until the window sill was even with the ground. They were either going to march right on in, or I was going to go out. Well, I wasn't one to await the inevitable, or dodge my duty, so out I stepped, into what I was not sure.

Indoor Football

Inside an empty house. No furniture, but the fixtures are all still there. Bare floors, no carpeting. All of the windows still in place. And I'm guessing we're in the dining room, at least that's what it seems given its placement in the house, the ceiling light, the modest paneling.

I'm in full football gear, but a practice jersey. We're in the red mesh penneys, and the other guys are in blue. We're in a scrum in the middle of the room, some on the deck and others on their feet, and we're all battling over the ball, which I can only guess is at the bottom of the pile. I feel a coach nearby egging us on, calling out pointers, but I can't see him.

This isn't football, and it's not rugby. It's no game I'm familiar with, although the various component parts seem clear enough. I'm guessing we block, and whoever has the ball is in control and likely to win. That's enough for me to figure out, so I'm ready to go.

Suddenly the ball is ripped out, up and out of the wriggling pile on the floor and it's in the hands of my team. Five of us head for the corner of the room, a couple of blues chasing. We round the corner with a flash of kitchen, then it's another sharp left through the empty family room. As we rumbled through the family room and into the front foyer, again angling left, I hear one of the guys say clearly, "Let's take it around again and stick it to the blues." So we form up tight, holding onto each other's jerseys, a five-guy ball-carrying element. We turn the left from the foyer into the empty living room, and I suddenly wonder why we aren't having problems with gaining our footing on the hard bare wood floors, given the football boots we're wearing. The noise of the studs on our boots is deafening as we rush into the living room, the wide open portal into the dining room right in front of us, with the remnants of the just-completed pile just starting to sort out.

We pull even more closer as we take the final rushing strides toward the pile, oblivious to whether there are blue or red players in front of us. The other guys are just seeing us rumbling toward them, and they're trying to organize a defense. But they're not ready, not together, not linked or cohesive. We've got the ball, and we're going to run it right down the throat of anyone in our way. As the first cascading ripple of the hit reaches me, back in my third position, everything shifts.

It's now after practice, and we're all at a large table, right there in the same dining room. We're in our playing pants and the t-shirts we wear under our pads, still sweaty and hot. The table is circular, and big, maybe 15 feet across. We're all around it, what I'm guessing to be my team, maybe 20 of us all together. I think a coach is talking/lecturing, but I can't be sure. I'm fascinated to watch what I guess to be some kind of strange team ritual. There are a couple of large shallow bowls, made of that elementary school cafeteria, mustard yellow clay-plastic material to make them indestructible and impervious to all damage. There's a single large plastic spoon in each very shallow bowl, almost a big plate other than it's subtle depth. Filling each bowl is a thick red salsa. I can smell it, unable to tell if it's fresh or factory. Each player takes a big spoonful and just slurps it down, then pushes the bowl back toward the center of the table. There's no apparent order in this, and no one appears to be in a rush. I wonder if it's spicy. To me it looks like some kind of strange communion, something that everyone just does, sharing from the same bowl and the same spoon. I can't think of a reason why in the world the communion medium would be salsa, though.