Index Part 2

Subject:      CODY: THE GO BETWEEN
From: (Mithryl)
Date:         1997/05/27
Message-Id:   <5mfbhh$>
Newsgroups:   alt.personals.bondage,,rec.arts.prose

                         THE GO BETWEEN

                      by Cody Ann Michaels
                     c. All rights reserved


	For some time now, as some of you know, I have been struggling to
write something new, i.e. something that is not totally about myself. 
Felony Grep and Street were two possibilities that have so far not worked
out.  Then last night, I was watching Saint Joan, the Otto Preminger
(sp.?) movie starring Jean Seberg.  She was so beautiful.  What a gorgeous
face.  Those eyes!  I thought, she would have been drop dead magnificent
in a short black dress with high heels and stockings.  Even in rags, she
was tota lly erotic.  No wonder the French went mad over her.  God, in
spandex... well, the possibilities were endless.  Especially, considering
how the FBI hounded her down the same way the English did Joan.  You know,
I have to find out more about that.  Can any one send me any info?  So
anyway, the next day, I was getting ready to go to a modeling session and
all of a sudden I suddenly knew who my next character was.  Her name. 
English.  No first name.  Just English.  I thought, why English?  Why not
Smith?  An d I thought, no.  It has to be English.  I'm not sure why? 
Something about the way the English wanted Joan dead.  Insisted on it. 
(Just as J. Edgar Hoover insisted Jean had to die.)  I'm not sure what
this is all about.  English is a girl about my age.  As I see her, she is
a pretty redhead in a shiny black dress about the size of a man's
undershirt.  White panties.  High heels.  Exactly like the guy I'm
modeling for this afternoon draws me.  But English is not me.  I'm looking
at her picture in his stu dio.  One of them.  There are dozens.  And I'm
realizing there is a difference.  But I'm not sure what.  I have an idea I
will soon find out. 

	Send me any ideas if you're interested.




                            Chapter 1


	Later, I thought, why English?  Why give her that?  Wouldn't E. be
better?  Or, better still, just e?  That's as close as I could get to
nothing.  I seemed to recall that e was some kind of constant.  Like pi. 
But exactly what, I didn't know.  Or what i t was used for.  Pi was used
to calculate the area of a circle or the circumferance.  But what could
you do with e? 

	e was nothing.  She knew she was nothing.  I wanted her to stay
that way.  If she had a value, it could get in the way.  Of what?  I
didn't know.  I would have to find out.  Do research.  Discover the uses
of e.  And the value.  You'd like that, wouldn't you, I thought.  To know
that someone knew what you were worth.  But that would come later. Now I
was simply taking notes, staking out a story.  I had no idea where things
went, or how they were connected.  It was like a detective story.  I
remembered so meone had written a novel in which there were no e's.  In
French.  But this was not that kind of book.  Nothing cute like that.  Or
contrived.  That kind of thing always annoys me.  It's soooooo clever.  It

	Oh, e.  What are you?  I wonder.  So pretty.  So poison.  So
desperately desperate.  I love your eyes.  How big they are.  Like Joan's. 
Jean's when they burned her.  Those large rouged hollow eyes.  Everything
in black and white.  The cardinals.  The bi shops.  The French.  e would
have made a good joan.  Except for the hair, of course.  e's would be out
to there.  Ringlets and curls, and grey green eyes.  Joan's head was
shaved.  Like a man's.  Like a soldier's.  One of the points they got her
on.  She wore men's clothes and cut her hair like a man's.  Except most of
the men had more hair than she did.  It was 1350, for Christ's sake. 
(correction, please.)  Dante, the Franciscans and Umberto Eco's monastery
were all realities.  So was the black plague.  Though what I can't figure
out, if they had kept Joan in prison for nine months, how come it hadn't
grown out.  Like, I mean, where did she get a barber in a hole like that? 
By the time she was dragged before the inquisition, her hair should have
been down her back.  e's is to her waist.  She has the same face as Seberg
though.  Gaunt, hollow, ecquisite.  The priests wanted her to wear a dress
and act like a lady.  Joan spit in their faces.  If she had to crossdress
to save France, that's what she woul d do.  The English were annoyed. 
Actually, they didn't care what she wore.  They just wanted her out of
their hair.  The spandex was only an excuse.  A pretext to burn her. 

	Would somebody write and tell me what e is?  I used to have a book
of logerythms that had it in.  It was my father's.  He was an engineer. 
But I must have lost it.  Maybe that's it.  e is used to calculate
logerryythmns.  What does that mean?  I can't r emember what a loggerythm
was.  You used them to do short cuts.  In math.  But for some reason, it
never came out right.  Not exactly.  It was always a couple of points off. 
If you had to know something exactly, you had to do it the hard way. 
There was no shortcut.  I loved loggerrythms.  They were great.  I did
them in my head.  I useed e.  But what was it?> I can never remember. 
Stand up straight.  Head back.  Don't slouch.  Stick your chest out.  Pull
up your skirt.  Now march. 

	My English teacher told me not to do it.  It wasn't nice.  I
should wash my hands.  e, get up.  She got up and went into the bathroom,
and ran water over her fingers.  Her palms were still sticky.  e was only
a little girl.  She learned fast.  To coopera te.  Please.  Do what people
wanted.  Didn't you, e?  E. was bouncing off the walls.  There was a
separation going on between the French maid and the roman letter.  She
needed an accent mark.  .  Like a plumed hat.  The maid of Orleans. 
Right.  Ride on, Joan.  See where it takes you.  Jean knew.  It led
straight to Hell.  What was that all about, I wonder.  Can someone tell
me.  What happened?  Why did they burn her?  I heard she was a communist. 
Or had an affair with a nigger.  J. Edgar got burned.  H e gave the
orders.  The cunt was toast.  Actress and character looked at one another
over a long divide.   circled.  Closing.  She pushed her hair back.  She
got the other girl round the neck and pulled her head back.  Yeah.  Hold

	 held her.  Wait!  

	This was not going the way I wanted it.  I hadn't even established
e's identity.  Or what she was. 

	A reporter.

	An office worker.

	an editor.
a whore
a remember, for got's sake's remember.  a computer programmer.  I could
not remember. 

	I still see her in Alec's studio.  Where he was painting me.  The
woman on the canvas.  Alec was a pretty good artist, but I had trouble
remembering this was me.  I looked pretty sharp in that black party dress. 
All that hair.  I didn't know I was a red head.  Didn't remember.  From
when I last cut my hair.  It had grown back.  I felt strange standing
there in just my bra and panties.  Like a girl.  I tried to cover myself. 
The old men looked at me.  Joan before the inquisition.  Jean.  Before it
was al l over.  The devils of hell would whip her like this.  Women were
stripped in the middle ages when they were accused of something.  Joan was
no exception.  Her slim, emaciated body with its big breasts made a
delectable sight.  The men salvated.  She had the tits of a witch.  Big
and saucy.  Each as large as a cow's udder but with only one knob apiece. 
The English said she could fly.  Can't you Joan?  No.  My God, no.  They
pushed her off the tower.  She landed on the back of her neck on the rocks
below.  Poor little Joan.  They dragged her back to her cell and chained
her.  Now we play. 

	What am I doing?  Talking about?  e, shut up.  I'm warning you. 
The girls walked along the street towards the grocery store.  Fire Island. 
1995.  Remember?  She blushed.  The other put her hand over her mouth and
giggled.  During the week the dunes are awash with people acting out.  You
have no idea how carefully they have planned their projects.  Now was the
big day.  No one would be around.  No one would see.  e walked down to the
beach.  She would have a swim and then come back to the cottage.  In t ime
for supper.  e, you're going to have to clean up first.  e was the maid. 
And cook.  We hired her for the summer.  To wait on us.  All six guys and
their guests.  You can imagine. 

	I was the upstairs maid.  By the second night, I had a rash.  Guys
were all over me.  They couldn't get enough.  But as the summer wore on,
most of them wore out.  Two weeks after I got there, I had them under my
heel.  A dominatrix is much more useful.  You can get a lot done with a
dom.  Put it on.  I said, put it on.  You are not fucking me with your
naked penis.  That was quick.  e gave the orders.  This was a short cut to
Paris.  It took eight hours.  Six fraternity boys for the summer.  It's
not a bad equation.  If you can stick it out.  Some people cave in.  Can't
take it.  Go under.  But don't ever get trashed...  if you can help it. 

	Nothing.  Bad dreams.  Like something's coming.  Of course, you
can have your friend out for the weekend, Robert.  Just tell me when she's
coming.  Mark, there will be four of you for dinner.  Right.  Louis,
you're on table six.  Don't argue.  That's a d ear.  Incoming at six
o'clock.  Going to Fire Island for the summer.  Robin Byrd, my word.  How
are you?  What are you doing here?  I live here.  o. 

	o and e

	Side by side.

	for the summer.

	how about that?

	Hugh, would you not rock so loud.  Thank you.  These are my boys. 
Buzz, get Robyn a soda.  One of them was the father of my child.  I could
not tell who.  Tell me, what do you do nowdays?  I clean toilets.  No! 
Tell her.  Don't I?  Don't I clean your f ucking toilets?  Yeah.  Sure,
ma.  And fix meals.  Don't I?  Aren't I always making something for you? 
Aw, Ma, don't make a big thing out of it.  They call me, Ma.  The house
ma.  Just because I'm seventeen, doesn't mean I can't be ma.  Wait a
minute.  Y ou said you was fifteen.  Now you're admitting to be older? 
I'm fourteen and a half.  Fuck off.  Whap!  He slapped her in the face and
knocked her down.  Don't mess with me, mother.  The girl was sniveling,
rolling around on the floor.  One of the guys p ulled her up and stood her
against the porch colunn.  Then he drove his fist into her bare gut.  The
French girl would have bent double except they held her.  Her mouth opened
though, and her eyes shut.  She bit off her tongue. 

	Each evening they play a round of games with their hired girl. 
She has to accomodate all of them.  All their weird tastes.  Going from
one brother to the next.  And then saving it up for the next one.  That
was pretty grim.  She had to admit it.  These guys had a lot of rage.  To
work out.  To dissipate.  To try and understand.  To feel.  I feel your
pain took on new meaning as the summer wore on.  Once a week she had a
night off.  And then she would walk down the beach toward the pines and
the man who was waiting for her.  The next morning, she would return to
Point o' Woods.  And the boys who depended on her.  In nature, we see all
kinds of whores.  Not one of these animals is a good Christian.  Now pay

	The muskrat is a dead beat dad.

	So is a bear.

	The wolf takes many mates, but only one has cubs with her.  Is
this moral?  Ants do it.  Bees do it.  Even honey beeeeeeeeee's do it. 
Let's do it.  Let's fall in love.  Alligators on their knees do it.  Alpha
bakers in the trees do it.  They sang as the y came for her.  She ran up
the beach.  She was late.  We got a Mexican woman to cook for us.  She was
named Johanna.  That's what we called her anyway.  She knew when to
answer.  Lost in that land of e, we tried to find our bearings based on
what we knew .  Mengele transferred her in the trunk.  Now do you
understand?  It was a life saving procedure.  Give me a break.  e stepped
off the bus and walked up towards the building.  There was a puzzled look
on her face. 

	She was wearing a suit, brown with a plaid yellow jacket.  Her red
hair was combed back and loose.  She looked sideways.  As if seeing if
someone was there.  She carried a brief case.  And wore gloves.  Brown
leather.  As well as a tan overcoat.  The win d was blowing her hair back. 
The light caught the blond highlights.  She was still looking to her
right.  Staring.  At a motorcar.  She opened her mouth.  It went through
her.  You could just see her hands.  And a foot.  As she went down.  Then
you saw h er on the pavement.  Not pretty.  The car didn't stop.  Wasn't
meant to.  The girl was wearing a black dress and stockings.  Her dress
had been jerked up, showing her belly and lower torso. 

	I don't know what to do.

	You will burn, Joan.

	You will burn e
	no one will remember you.  Not like pi.  Peye will always be
remembered.  As 3.14 what was it?  After four, it was hard to remember. 
Was it one?  Or 5?  Six?> All of them sounded right.  Or wrong. 
Whichever.  e = mc2.  Was that it?  I don't think so.  no.  it was the
other e.  What was pi times e?  If e was a constant and pi was a constant,
would their offspring be constant, too?  She wondered.  As she waited for
them to burn her.  It was like on an assembly line.  The way they do it in
Texas.  Murder capital of the world.  The more you burn the more they kill
you.  e did not know.  She was confused.  A pretty little English girl
down on her luck.  Come in, my child.  She went in and sat on the sofa. 
They hired her to do odd jobs for them.  This was pretty odd.  What he
wanted?  In stockings and high heels?  Would I?  Sure.  If that's what you
want.  It was his dime.  Other times, I wasn't so sure.  You want me to go
where?  Out into the dunes.  What for?  Because I said so.  And besides,
he had a kn ife.  The tranquil breakers muffled the girl's screams.  Some
stay longer than others.  In the course of the summer, I can accomodate,
say, 250 frat boys.  And their girl friends.  Don't forget their girl
friends.  Why do you think they do this?  To impre ss their girls.  They
love to see me whipped.  I'm chained up like a dog, and they spend all
Saturday afternoon doing it.  Then I have to cook dinner. 

	Girls love seeing another woman whipped.  Especially if they know
her.  Several knew English from back in the city.  It was a big

	They knew what a stuck up bitch she used to be.  And here she was
getting whipped by a gang of fraternity punks.  Others knew about her. 
But did not actually know her.  Before this weekend.  Now they had some
idea of what people were talking about.  Sev eral girls had no idea what
was going on.  But they tried to be good sports.  I mean, how many chances
do you get to make an older woman crawl.  e was covered with bruises.  e,
remember, represents English.  And at any time, one could do a search and
repl ace, turning e back into it.  The process, however, would be
irreversible.  Because e would then blend into the several other places
English was used.  So to reverse English back to e, would be to lose
those, too.  The way the English lost France.  By the end, you wouldn't
have any English territory this side of the channel.  It would all be

	Now I blinked.  I couldn't see where this was going.

	What are you talking about?  Oh, English, don't give me that.  You
know what I'm saying.  You're doing this to yourself.  You've got to quit. 
She just laughed.  Lighting a cigarette.  The match flared around her
face, lighting it up.  Her golden tan.  I know what I'm doing.  Do you? 
We've been down this road before.  Get wise.  Come with us.  I can't
leave.  You've got to.  Let me alone.  Get out.  Junkie whore! 

	The two girls walked back to the house.  Joan rode her horse up
the beach.  The French troops overtook them.  Is that a landing craft? 
Ships were used in an invasion.  The men were good at that.  They came
ashore, looking for a fight.  The Gerries repul sed them.  The central
theme was that e was the carrier.  They had to find her.  Before Peye did. 

	It is customary when writing books to begin with an erotic scene
to catch the reader's attention.  To write good multiple choice questions,
a person must have a high degree of imagination for alternative logic
systems in order to make the incorrect choic es sound plausible. 

	Another possibility is to call upon the muse.  Once, almost every
poem had at least three or four stanzas dedicated to the diety and asking
heavenly guidance.  But nothing like that happens anymore.  Oh, heavenly
divine spirit, smile upon my labor and gu ide my word processor.  Tell me,
bitch, what happened on that pitious day they burned the maid in the
kitchen with cigarette lighters and lighter fluid.  Kerosene fire starter. 
Squiriting it on her.  Setting her snatch on fire.  Roast her again before
my eyes as I describe her miserable cries.  We can all write a story about
what we did to e.  It's going to be a long summer, cookie.  Get used to

	I'd rather be in the Hamptons.

	The atmosphere is more ambiant than here.

	Here, the ambiance is pretty pitiful.

	Maybe we'll drive out next Saturday.  No.  I'm serious.  Rent a
motel room for the weekend.  You can meet Rick.  What are you getting us
into?  Don't worry.  You'll love her.  He's in railroads.  It's very
thirtyish.  Tonight, we're going to the Pines.  The summer wore on.  In
that stinking cell.  I had to shit in a bucket.  Men peeked through the
door.  To see what I was doing.  They found their big blousy maid parading
around in her underwear.

Index Part 2