The Green Lady 🗽 The Luxorium spaceyacht

The Little Fucker

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The other members of the reception staff called Aziz a crude street thug dressed in a silk, gold-embroidered jama. They called him “the little fucker,” and repeated the expression, mono en seda, mono queda – a monkey in silk, same old ilk.

But this wasn’t how Aziz saw it. His fucking had a very particular end, and he was very effective in reaching that end, which he enigmatically referred to as Howard’s end, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimbourne.

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Innocent Fuckers

With innocents like Prester John, Aziz was mild as a lamb. Master of the resident files of The Luxorium, Aziz knew that these innocents were good people at heart. The only problem was that they weren’t very good at understanding the nature of the heart. He was at pains to explain to them that the heart wasn’t some detached organ connected to morals and abstract concepts like love and forgiveness. Rather, it was a muscle, and this muscle pumped blood everywhere. The innocents needed to be shown, as delicately as possible, that their hearts were connected to their cocks. 

Aziz would first rub his hands, drip some extra-virgin olive oil on them, and gently work his way down. He told his fellow receptionists, “They need to be fingered slowly and fucked gently.” Aziz would then increase the pressure and speed at each encounter. After a week or two, they were confident enough to walk into the boisterous Lord Jim’s or the elegant Nostromo’s, find a partner, and go back to a suite without thinking something was bound to go wrong.

The receptionists had to admit, “He’s a little fucker, but he’s the best little fucker we’ve got.”

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Selfish Fuckers

The opposite of the innocent fuckers were the selfish fuckers. These had very refined sensibilities — a prerequisite for residence on The Luxorium — yet they denied and brutalized the refined sensibilities of others. These selfish fuckers were treated to what Aziz called the ram.

When the selfish fuckers beamed up to The Luxorium they were immediately sent to their rooms, which were in fact more like closets or cages than rooms. The fuckers were denied access to the tennis courts, gyms, lounges, libraries, massage parlours, theatres, Turkish baths, opera houses, wrestling matches, and the enormous Fuckatorium that never closed. Yet once they were broken in (on what Aziz called bareback mountain), they could join the civilized world of men. “Just as Shamat did so many years ago,” Aziz would note. "She fucked Enkidu into becoming civilized.”

Once inside their little rooms, the selfish fuckers saw a thin bed, a stove-top, a mini-fridge, a small table, and a closed-circuit TV. On its grimy screen they saw images of open doors and windows, through which men of all sizes and types were undressing each other and — but at this point the screen always went blank. The selfish fuckers were left there, pressing the ON button of a screen that had stopped showing them anything at all. 

Generally the civilizing process took a week or two, unless Aziz did the civilizing. By far the best at his fucking job, Aziz could whittle the process down to three or four days. When a fellow receptionist told him he went too fast, and too far, Aziz snapped back, “The selfish fuckers shouldn’t be babied. They should be fucked into understanding where they are. And where they are is a floating paradise, filled with the most extravagant amenities and the most creative minds in the universe. Do you think it’s a coincidence that half the great artists in the cosmos are gay? Besides, if you civilize the selfish fuckers this way, they have a better appreciation of the finer things in life.” 

Indeed, once the civilizing process was complete, the unselfed fuckers were given a spacious apartment, and the best food and drink. They were also given the space to explore art, poetry, music, chess, math, dance, drama, sexuality, and romance.

Whenever The Luxorium stopped on a friendly planet, it would challenge the residents to games of sport and sense. It cleaned up in every category. Luxuriants were especially good at theoretical physics, backgammon, squash, and night tennis, where the pink lines and the bright yellow ball are all the spectators can see.

“But first we need to show the selfish fuckers that they aren’t, as they’ve always believed, superior to everybody else. Their refined sensibilities and talents shouldn’t make them feel better than others, but should make them help others to feel better about themselves.”

With some bitterness in his voice, Aziz concluded, “Our first job is to show them that they aren’t even masters of their own little room, their own domain. The domain belongs to everyone, even to those they barred for centuries from their exclusive clubs.”

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Reception 

Aziz flicked a switch and the chair onto which Curtus had been beamed dropped in a split second through a trap door, which then shut back up immediately. Curtus dropped to the floor of the reception platform. Looking angrily toward the reception lobby, Curtus yelled out, “What on earth is happening? I insist that someone tell me what’s going on!” 

Aziz looked at the dark pink face on the other side of the thick plexiglass. He turned the lights out, left the lobby, and went to lunch.

After lunch, and a detour to the room of a pretty Starlitboy, Aziz went back to the lobby and turned on the lights. Curtus was no longer saying anything, or demanding anything, He sat on the floor with his back against the wall. Aziz asked, “So Curtus, do you know where you are?”

“No,” he replied.

“You’re on a spaceship called The Luxorium. You’re a lucky man, but not quite yet. First you’ll need to learn a few things.” 

Curtus refused to speak. He would show his jailer that he was above whoever he thought he was. He wouldn’t put up with this treatment. Like Gandhi, he would resist by doing nothing at all.

“Curtus, we know all about you. To put it mildly, you’re hardly a saint. So I suggest that you stop playing the martyr. Stop playing the selfish game you’ve played all your life, without the slightest blush or shame. The longer you play that game, the deeper your memories will be of the humiliation. All you will remember will be the self-inflicted humiliation.”

“We know about your indifference to the problems of your world. We know you shunned everyone who tried to get close to you, anyone who asked you for help. We also know about the way you used your secretary. By the way, Phyllis is now in one of our palatial suites. At this very moment her cock is being sucked by an American football player who likes to dress up as a maid.”

Curtus’ face turned a deeper shade of pink. Yet the colour still came from anger, not shame. He pulled his hands tighter to his knees and ground one fist into the other. 

“If you think you’re too good to be told what to do, or to conform to the regulations of The Luxorium, please advise me. I can have some gruel slid under your door in five or six hours.”

Curtus sat on the floor with his back against the wall, thinking, fuming.

Aziz pressed the issue: “Would you like to decide now, or will you tell me when I come back in several hours?”

Curtus answered curtly, “Yes, yes, just get me out of this fucking place!”

Aziz responded, “I’d watch your language. While there is definitely fucking in this place, it’s not by any stretch of the imagination a fucking place. Are you really in a position to speak like that? As one of your heroes likes to say, You don’t have the cards.”

Curtus was furious. He didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve such abominable treatment. Yet his tormentor was right: he didn’t have the cards. 

“Yes, OK. I’m sorry. Can I please get out of here?”

Aziz touched a button and the door to the lobby opened. Curtus was stiff from sitting in one position for so long. He got up as quickly as he could and joined Aziz in the lobby. Aziz said curtly, “Follow me.”

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Victory Gin

Aziz led Curtus down a bare grey hallway. He turned the corner and continued down another hallway, with bolted doors and small barred windows all the way down, down a flight of stairs, and into another hallway of bare steel walls, doors, and lockers. 

At one of the doors Aziz waved a fob and a small steel door opened. The two bent down and entered a small steel room, which had no windows and smelled like onions and old grease. The room had a straw bed, a mini-fridge, a stove-top, a steel chair, and a small steel table on which sat a closed-circuit TV.

Aziz was not without a sense of humour. On the steel table was a small glass and a full bottle of Victory Gin.

Despite all of Curtis’ pretensions, he had never read Nineteen Eighty-Four, and therefore didn’t get the reference.

Aziz told him, “Curtus, you are in a spaceship that resembles Paradise. But until you drop the snobbery and egotism, you’ll remain in this room. You’ll remain in this room for years if that’s what it takes.”

Aziz then left the room.

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A day later, he saw Curtus again. Curtus was a changed man. He told Aziz, “I’ll do anything, change anything, if only you get me out of this room.”

Aziz replied, “That’s all fine and dandy, but are you ready to join the others? Are you ready to stop telling everyone what to do?”

Curtus stood up and said, “Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever it takes, as long as I get get out of this” — he paused here to find the right word — “this room.”

Aziz spun Curtus around and pushed him onto the bed. He yanked his pants down. Curtus twisted his neck to see behind him, and saw that Aziz pulled a small curved knife from his waist-band. Aziz asked angrily, “Do you always have to be on top? Do you always have to do all the screwing?” He put the knife back into its sheath, and asked in a calm, even gentle voice, “Will you let me do what I want?”

Curtus resented being pushed around, but he didn’t see any way out of the situation. He was desperate for sex and he wanted Aziz to do what he imagined he was going to do. But he didn’t like the way Aziz was going about it. He especially didn’t like the look of the knife. Was that really necessary? It was a coercive, heartless manner of getting his way. It was … exactly … what he’d done all his life.

In any case, he had no choice. He just didn’t have the cards. So he said, “Fine, do whatever you want.” He arched the small of his back and spread his legs slightly.

Aziz grabbed the bottle of rancid olive oil from the kitchen counter. He splashed it in a jagged line down Curtus’ spine and used it to finger his asshole. Lifting his jama, he stuck his cock in and fucked his ass hard for about half a minute. After taking his cock out, he left the room, locked the door, and went back to his office.

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Next: 💍 Les Mouches

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