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 to warm them up, 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 break.

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 expected executive treatment, some sort of Epstein wing of the spaceship where they could fuck everybody over and call it fun. But instead, they were immediately sent to their rooms, which were in fact more like closets than rooms. The Management, not believing in Heaven or Hell, decided to dispense justice just the same. The selfish fuckers were thus 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 the Management wasn’t without a sense of forgiveness and grace (although at times they mistook a graceful thigh for a change of heart). Still, while the system wasn’t perfect, it allowed the selfish fuckers to redeem themselves as quickly as possible and join the rest of the fucking ship. Once they were broken in — on what Aziz called bareback mountain — they could join the civilized world of men. “Just as Shamat helped Enkidu do so many years ago,” Aziz would note. "She fucked him into respectability.”

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 live-feed video streaming of wide hallways and open doors, which were meant to symbolize the way they might go, if they behaved themselves and stopped acting like selfish fuckers. The camera angles were just wide enough to give the selfish fuckers a glimpse of men 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, romance, and more sex than they could imagine.

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 (and thoughts of private clubs for Englishmen clanging in his head), 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 had been studying Curtus’ file for the last half an hour. The only thing he could say about it was, “What a selfish little fucker!” Aziz pressed a button and Curtis was escorted into the room and told to sit down on a chair which was facing a desk, yet behind a plexiglass divider.

Aggressively, Curtus demanded,“Who are you? Where am I?” Aziz didn’t even say hello. He merely flicked a switch and the chair dropped in a split second through a trap door, which then shut immediately. For a fraction of a second Curtus froze like the Road Runner in mid-air, then he fell in a crumpled heap to the floor. Looking angrily at the man sitting at the desk, 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 room, and went to lunch.

After lunch (and a detour to the room of a pretty squidlady), Aziz went back to the room 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 opened up from what seemed like wall. Curtus was stiff from sitting in one position for so long. He got up as quickly as he could. 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, 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 half 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 jumped up from the bed and told Aziz, “I’ll do anything, change anything, if only you get me out of this fucking room.”

Aziz replied, “Ah, I can see that you’re not ready to join the others.”

“Sorry, 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.”

“I can see that you are willing to make this change for yourself. But are you willing to let others do unto you what you would do unto them?”

Aziz eyed the olive oil, dribbled some onto the muscles between his thumb and index finger. He then made an obscene gesture with his other index finger through the greased hole. He wanted to make sure Curtus knew what he meant.

“Yes, yes, do whatever you want. Just promise me you’ll let me out of here.”

Aziz spun Curtus around and pushed him onto the bed. He yanked his pants down, and asked him, almost shouting, “Do you always have to be on top? Do you always have to do all the screwing?” He then asked in a calm, almost gentle voice, Or 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 wanted Aziz to do what he imagined he was going to do. But he didn’t like the way Aziz was going about it. Was this 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 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 lifted his jama. Afterwards, he left the room, left the door open, and paid another visit to his pretty squidman.

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Next: 💍 Les Mouches

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