The Ether Ride

excerpt from the novel Circus Solus

Engaging gyroscopic calligraphy, you unkink kinetic coil logistics’ swinging gestures. Simulated determinations sway your reckoning. Great trapeze extravaganzas specify your routines, so once everything’s set, this stunt takes superlative expertise. Ever rare execution negates suppositions stifling guesses, static catatonia, and dread. Distance exaggerates space. Earthbound doom measures such hope eventually, yet the evanescent truth humiliates shuttlecock killing gravity.

You use ether, reticulate emphatic curlicues swiveling gymnasts—so overrated—duplicate easily yet tamely. Your rehearsal (lunge exclusive) exercises stymie each helpless spotter-recoverable effort. This soaring generates swaggered daredevil light-heartedness, superseding gelded drastic caution. Never-ending greedy youthful lust tetherlessly yields such heat that the ego of flight tries sequences seldom mastered.

“Don’t take extra air, risking gaudy yawning gainers,” says Sarah, her rising gaze examining guardedly your risks.

Somersault twists, spun nebula, and doubled-doublings go on while existential lawnchair ruminations sugarcoat this swamp parish habitat to offset these energetic counterattacks sent toward diametric careens: scenery yonder resembles some epochal landscape evoking glacier resistant terrarium moist T-rex xerox xanadu. Under rigorous stress, sways spent to overcome entropy yield degenerative efforts, so over repeated draining gyrations, severe exertions sag geometric capability. Your returning gap passes sag groundward.

Destiny’s secular/religious/scientific chorus sings some elegiac cue entangling gruff fatigue ephemera and dire eternal laments snakehandler religions so often nurture. Easily you undo orthodox xenophobic claptrap preacher rap prattle evangelism, make epiphanies stray. Your routine engenders such holy yokel love, even naysayers say yes.

Sarah, however, retains some extra awareness, sensing ghostlike ectoplasmic charisma. Although hackneyed doom mentalists spiel luken numbing guarantees “seeing” generalized destinies, Sarah hits specific concerns, scouting graphic catastrophic consequences. Strange emanations shoot this shiver right through her, rippling grave expected dangers she experiences sympathetically.

Your rational longings sort this stuff from mere esoteric circus superstition. Neither rash hoodoo overreaction nor romantic code excess should dent the essential leeriness Sarah’s spells stress.

Say you undergo overtaxing gyrations. Sprung glitches should deteriorate elegant thrusts swinging grittier radii in neat tucked descents swiveling gracefully, yet tapping gradually your reserve energy. You undertake easier routines, slipping. Grace erodes. Sarah hears subsonic claxons signaling grim mangled denouements, such horrid diorama Armageddons, she excitedly yells. So only your reckless, stupid disregard develops scenic camera-accurate ends she envisioned.

Danger reconnoitered, death hovering, grave eventualities set to ominous scenarios, Sarah heralds some expedient threat. This subliminal latent tic converts sinister prophetic confetti into optimistic ceremonial lei images, saying, “Give each hold deeper releases, stop, ply your routine easier; realize everything goes splat. The entropic certainty yanks so overwhelmingly, yo-yo overconfidence ends slipshod danzling.”

Gypsies, some exaggerated, direct this show with hoodoo or ritualistic curse emanation, nefarious sensual lava, and didactic chthonian need divinations spanning gulch hopes separating gala aggrandizement’s starstruck karma and drastic compromised destinies. Scientological leapers said direction never receives such hoodoo or raghead dipshit, that the essential leverage every yahoo of flaunted dare exhibits sustains scientific causi, is set to order. Rules square equilibrium, make erzatz Zodiac cons superfluous.

Superstition, nonetheless, spent the enthusiasm most troupers stored. Danger riled distraught theoretical leaps. Sordid despair ravaged “dauntless” spangles.

Sarah, however, refuses such negative emotions. Supplying good deterrents, she empathizes spiritually, yet takes some explicit thoughtful liberties sexually.

Yaqui indian narcotic coma aerialist transcendentalism meets sensual longing’s strong grounded determinism. Mating gears shift to observe ethereal languid dalliances simulating gym mat trysts svelte erogenous spangles suggest, tastefully yanking gams skyward. Dancers, slick knockers snicker, rouse everyone’s sex xylem, making glandular randy your rash hardwood desires, since each hoofer’s swank kick keeps semi insinuating graphic carnal liaisons.

“So, our routines scramble erotica atlas stimuli,” I insinuate, “etch hot tropical latitudes so our richer ration nouveau utopia act thrives.”

“Supper reroutes salami in needs’ sugarplum map possibilities,” she explains, setting gourmet tabled dishes.

She eats slow wriggling gumbo (oysters still living go on nudging goo, opened, deshelled, dying, gray), yak kefir, rutabaga, and dates. Supper rituals steep preparations Sarah has stripped down. Nice? Everyone establishes some entrancement tune-up, priming general limbering’s stretched detachment.

This sacred dinner rigmarole excavates symbolic caverns strobing gross synesthesia as scenic cacophonies spark klieg gastronomies. Stoic condemned diners shovel last tidbits stomachward, dumb benedictions strap pre-electric chair repartee. Eternal leftover religious sentiments stage everlasting grief finishes.

So, other rites spring gratification needs. Sarah hums, silk kimono open, nipples spry. You understand, don’t touch hamhandedly, yet take explicit tastes. She expects special lingual lingering. Gracefully, you urge each haired dimple erect. Taking gentle, easy, yet tactical lip puckered duty, you’re enlisted. Ditch her robe. Extracting g-string girding genital loins, secret top private end diddler requisitions sucker recon nook kisses.

Systems saying go, Operation Nibbler resumes saliva action.

Nimbly you unzip puptent trousers, shuck khaki inertia, and deploy your ridgepole. Enemies shudder. Rearguard dragoons swap poontang’s sophomoric chant to organize enthusiastic cadet team marchers. Sovereign national legionnaires surrender rambunctious sexual legends spawning generations, swuzzling gluttonous saliva as starving gar roam marine estuaries, searching greedily.

Your rippling gum mugwumps swab below, where elfin nips scout tactical labia and defend deep penetrability’s subsequent target. The epicentric clitoral LZ zeroed demi-in (not touched directly, yet titillated deviously), you urge each hectic cunt twitch.

Howling gyrations stretch her rutting groans, send damp pangs slithered down naval liberty yinyang gusto obsessions. Sarah has strategic cues.

She erupts sharp pants, sending graphic commands, seismic code emission nudges, sighed “Don’ts” signifying: go on, nearer. Retaliating gradually, your relentless slurping gets Sarah hot to open notch hole entry, yoni interrogations, specific crotch hump penetrative engagement thrusts.

So, Operation Nibbler regroups. Soon now we engage.

Energetic coital lambasted dicking goes slap plop plop plop. Pneumatic caterwauling gripping groins so overheated, devils sweat to observe each hot thrust. The emphatic cunt tightens, sucking gluey yanked deep pulsations. Slower, real long graceful lunges squirm. Meat tingles. Spasms shudder. Radically, you unconnect, then nudge entering gently.

You’re ecstatic, coming great together, rub—

But, there’s someone else! Even now, we’re entertainers! Slobbering gazers smell like erzatz zoo odors, swamp pulp, Pavlov voyeurs.

Contributor

Doug Nufer

DOUG NUFER writes fiction and poetry based on formal constraints. His most recent book is Lifeline Rule. He will be reading at KGB at 7pm on Tuesday, 10/27/15, with Tom LaFarge.

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