Short Stories by bonVìbré Prosim

Careful, some of these are adult rated. So kids, outa here before the potty troll gets you!!!


(Click on the graphic of choice or none):
YOYO (a short-short story).
THE ZAP (the first chapter of the novelette "ZAPPED").
THE WAR IN BALTIMORE (dedicated to my mother).
The Big Soixanteneuf


Relatively speaking, there aren't so many, yoyo's that is, around anymore. Sure, you can find them in the toy section of a supermarket, but now no kid of class plays with a yoyo. In the early 1950's, there were an enormous number of yoyo's on the scene for all classes. Periodically, the yoyoman would appear on the school playground. Maybe a sportily dressed fat man with a tie and pimples, a fast talking slick clothed processed jiver, or a haggard looking "poor white trash." Whichever he was, he was always champeen (champion, to the erudite) yoyoer of someplace sometime, and all us pre-teens would gather round his "walking the dog", "killing the jap", "worm ouroboros", and "superman" demonstrations. In response to his efforts, we would all beg, borrow, or steal (after all it was an "lower" class Black community) money for a yoyo.

The finest performance I witnessed was the "life" which used two yoyo's. Picture this: the first yoyo "walks the dog", melts into "round the world", and begins the "worm ouroboros" in the tail position. A split second later, #2 yoyo imitates the first, and does the "worm ouroboros" in the head position a little faster. When #2 catches #1, they "cats cradle" and "frying pan" in unison. The demonstration is completed with #2 performing "atom bomb" and "round the world" while #1 does "spilt milk." Burning the "life" impression in to my personal history was Mop-Boy, a neighborhood legend. When he was 7, he was caught "doin' it" to Choo Choo, his 9 year old cousin, in the girls bathroom. Some feat of bravado, for the girls bathroom was the same as the boys (girls could go the first 30 minutes of an hour - boys the second 30 minutes) in the two room wooden elementary school allowed our neighborhood in those "separate but equal" days. When Mop-Boy was 11, so it is said, he was 6 feet tall (at least a half foot taller than his parents or the adult height of any of his nine siblings. When he was 13, he single-handedly beat up two men from the "East Side" who were messin' with Choo Choo. Mop-Boy was the only neighborhood kid to play on the Colored senior high school basketball team for five years - three times as a 10th grader and twice as an 11th grader, and the first from our city to sign with one of the several imitation Harlem Globetrotter teams.

So here we were, watching Mop-Boy two months before he was to play Colored pro basketball, watching Mop-Boy one month before he died (overdosed on heroin), watching 6foot 9inch Mop-Boy with his "processed" hair and fashionable Italian pointy-toed shoes doing the "life." He did it not once, but three times, just in case anybody missed it. W O W !

At 50, I, a Mathematics Professor on a Saturday morning, reflect upon yoyos - you know the kind, whose emotions travel up and down the string between elation and depression - reflect upon the real yoyomen people whose relationship with the opposite sex sometimes looks like "life", other times like Mop-Boy's life.

© bonvibre&daughters 4/25/93


We all know mens' room media, right? Crudely penned coupling nudes, stupid rhymes, and ignorant slander. But this one got me, "Do you realize one out of every three Americans is psychologically unbalanced? Think of your two closest friends. If they are okay, then YOU ARE THE ONE." I read, and thought of them - my closest friends that is. I must be the one, yet I should have known. After all, there was last night.

I had answered her Buffalo News personal: Attractive WDF seeks financially secure, gentle, honest, caring, open, intelligent, professional man of character, 35-50, who enjoys nature, dancing, quiet times, and the unconventional. Smokers tolerated, alcoholics not.

And I gave her the ZAP when we met.
What is the ZAP? In 87', my work required frequent travel between Vienna, Austria and Bratislava, now in the Slovak Republic. On one of these trips, curiosity stopped me at a Gypsy fair where I found instant comraderie with the video game (yes, they even had PacMan) manager. Petr was short fat and ugly, I don't mean ugly by western cultural standards (what ever those are). I mean pure objective ugly (what ever that is). But his wife and daughters were incredibly beautiful, and I could sense some connection between him and his female co-workers.

One evening near the end of a bottle of homemade Slivovitze, Petr said (and I translate), "You are one of us." (Only half true. My mother was born in Novi-Sad near the Hungary-Yugoslavia border, but my father was the son of an Iroquois tribal subchief.)
"Yet, like all American men, you have no gonads. Because you lack the pretentions of your countrymen, because you are cuckolded this very moment, because you are also physically unattractive, because I have no son, and because I like you, I will teach you a a trick, a technique, handed down from father to son, for stimulating the center of a woman. I call it THE ZAP."

Now, I don't think I'm ugly. However, I am 60 pounds over-weight, so women often consider me a nonentity. I am also a true skeptic; that is, I neither believe or disbelieve an untested by me theory. Thus, with an innocent's open ears, I listened.

"In all people, the primal source of life sits below the waist. A man's power is like a sharp sword with hilt in the head and point exposed between the legs. A woman's power is like an oak tree whose trunk is her trunk, whose branches are in her arms and head, and whose roots spread invisibly between her legs searching for water. However, each woman has a small sword and each man has a small tree.
"For many people, the sword is the challenge of young Arthur - stuck in a stone. Many people have warped and tangled roots stealing water from each other. The roots generates creativity, the sword applies creativity. Thus we have the Almighty's third purpose for sex, after children and relaxation: to inspire and make use of creativity, whether in the arts, crafts, politics, science, or sports.
"Some women need their roots untangled, most women need their sword drawn. Upon encountering a woman to ZAP, take a silent slow deep breath releasing it gradually, feeling it from toe to head. That releases her sword, but you must untangle her roots at the same time. So fix her with a warm stare in the eyes while inwardly retracting your penis into your balls - the way you prevent yourself from urinating at improper times. "It is is best if you have no thoughts at all while ZAPPING, and most important not to ZAP with any intention or hope to screw her. This defeats the purpose, and occasionally causes inconvenient flacidity."

Of course, there was some truth to it all. He was correct about the cuckolding in Vienna, whether I was there or not, and I have been single two years. Though I am unsure about his philosophy, my experiments have ascertained a change in the female's unconscious appreciation of me. And I gave her the ZAP and now there was this slightly tipsy fortyish woman on my couch.

"Listen, Jan." she said with the perequisite soft "J". "Here's what none of us girls reveal at our woman's dinners: Once, a long time ago, I was soft and moist and supple. It was a time, when staying thin wasn't obsessive, when I didn't suffer from lower back pain, when I wasn't on my way to a psycho-therapist like so many other women. When I was in high school, any idiot could forsee the kind of man I would marry, what our children would be like and the sort of home we would live in. Anyone could have predicted then that my life would drained by pretentions and boredom, that my time would be bleached by conformity as my hair and skin are by sun and wind. "I want to live, I want to know what's really in me, and I want some daring. For too long I slunk around in security, while my ex (-husband) spunk around in secretaries."

Later breaking a long kiss, she rose lighting one of my cigarettes, walked slowly towards the mirror - the closet door was reflected there. She opened the door and stepped inside, turning on the bathroom light. Looking at me over her shoulder, she eased her stockings down, her skirt down, her blouse off. Then her hands moved behind her back to remove her bra. She hung it on the kitchen doorknob and stepped out of her panties.

I must have stared for minutes, before realizing there was nothing between her legs. I don't mean that her panties were off. I don't mean she shaved. I mean that nothing was there, just smooth skin, not even a wrinkle, no hair, definitely no genitals.

Her tongue touched her lips making them glisten, and my need for her grew beyond intense. Without a word she reached down, took my hands, and raised them to her nipples, all four of them. Resisting this unusual experience, I slipped my left hand lower. I felt nothing there.
Now, a 46 year old novice I am not. Though I've never read the Kamasutra, I have familiarity with at least fifteen positions. As a twenty minute footrub, and a thirty minute backrub had brought me to this place, I thought to continue this venture into the unknown. But then I noticed the absence of anything between my own legs.

There are some things which grow tired fast. One of them is recurring dreams, and far too many nights had I awakened from the aforementioned experience. So I am the unbalanced one, and I ought see a psycho-therapist. True to taurus' nature, I possess enormous inertia. That is, I'm hard to stop when moving, and hard to move when resting. Thus, it was seven weeks before I entered the clinic at 1 E. Zuruch Drive.

"Good morning, I'm Suzanna and you must be Mr. Hunter. That will be 75$. If you fill out these forms, Dr. Benjamin will be with you shortly."
It was a good Buffalo morning, about 80 degrees under a bright August sun, and she was a delicious red-head 30 or so. So I gave her THE ZAP. She uncrossed her legs, shifted her hips, and blinked her green eyes as some color became visible through her make-up. She tried to recover by speaking, but what came out in a rush was, "I'd ... I like to dance Mr. Hunter. Do you?" I do, and my, "I'd love to!" was no lie.

"Before marriage, my husband and I went dancing three or four times a week. Now the only dancing I do is with my girlfriends on ladies night at the Marriot Hotel..."
Just then a door, outside of my vision, closed and she continued, "but really Mr. Hunter, you must fill out those forms."

Dr. Benjamin's office is, for the most part, non-descript. A plain grey desk, a couple of straight-backed black upholstered chairs, a red-brown synthetic woven carpet, and a fake wood bookcase/file cabinet under a small window overlooking the parking lot. Incongruous to this room was a Tibetan mandala over the client's chair. Incongruous to the mandala and consistent with the room was Dr. Benjamin, or Jimmy as he asked me to call him, a short crewcut marine type wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
It was the shirt that did it, I guess, because I ZAPPED him. Sure you can ZAP men, but I wouldn't try it with homosexuals. ZAPPING straight men causes them to laugh. He did, and so did I.
"Hmmmm....... That was good Jan, so why are you here?"
I told him about the recurring dream.
"How much sex have you had recently?"
"At least 250 times last year, thirty times this year, but alas, none for the past five months."
"Hmmmm....... So precise. Do you keep a list?"
"No." I said. "I know that until March women mostly fulfilled my sexual needs, and I made a calculation."
"Hmmmm....... How many women have you had sex with?"
"Eleven last year, one this year. And that's a problem. I have many, about nine, not including my ex-wife and three old lovers, good female friends. They all claim to like me intensely, and they confide in me their deepest secrets. But none want sex.
"I console them in their pain, share in their excitement, massage their aches. I walk in the woods with those who want that. I dance with those who want that. I am quiet with those desiring silence. I listen to the talkers, and talk with the listeners. From them, I keep no secrets. Those who've had sex with me tell others I am unmatched in bed. But none want sex."
"Hmmmm....... Do you have male acquaintances?"
"Not counting my co-workers, I have four good buddies I talk or go out with from time to time. But I don't desire sex with them."
"Hmmmm......." he said. "Are you religious?"
"I would say, 'Yes.' But many people would disagree with my unconventional practice. For 20 years, I have worked within the Aklhaldon system. It is a 3000 year old spiritual martial art from southern Africa...."
"Hmmmm....... I know of it. Jan, you are a truly unusual man, extremely balanced with a genuine love for humanity. So why do you need sex?"
"For my work. I do classified work for our government. Without sex, my work has an automatic flavor, no creativity; it just comes out mechanically."
"Hmmmm....... Does masturbation help?"
"It keeps me barely functional." "Hmmmm....... Perhaps, your problem has something to do with the nature of your work. Can you say more?"
"Hmmmm....... Officially I am a nuclear engineer, but primarily I am ..." I said hesitatingly, "I don't like to say what I really do because of unpleasant consequences."
"Jan, all things said here are totally confidential, and it is important that we delve deeply in to your psyche. We must explore it now or later. So you decide."
Not wishing to spend an unnecessary amount of money, I told him, "I am an assassin, and now I must kill you - even if it is mechanical."

I swiftly did my work on Jimmy and exited through the window. After changing my disguise in a restaurant a few blocks away, I reflected upon his words. But my thoughts were interrupted by the touch of a chubby waitress.
"Excuse me sir, we are quite busy here. If you want to order, do it now."

©bonvibre&daughters 12/11/95


(dedicated to my still teaching 83 year old mother's career as an Educator)

It was a dreary Baltimore afternoon for the salesman selling porno magazines to a very old ragged woman, but what does an old woman need with a girlie mag? She must to be too old for such tripe. Perhaps it was a son or no ... a lover, a 120 year old man waiting for the pictures to stimulate their love.

"We have all that anyone could want," the man said, "opposites, the same, pictures, no pictures. We have Czech and Kenyan imports today, deys hot."

"I don't know," she said, "imports are too much."

"Yeah, they're hot. I ordered them myself. Few words, interesting arrangements."

"Imports are not right," she said.

"Yeah," the magazine seller said, "It's good day for imports. Drizzly cold, may be snows comin'. 'n import is a fine thing to settle wit today."

"Neh," she said. "I don't like imports, and it ain't gonna snow. I think the rain will stop, the air will clear, and I'd like a Playboy."

The salesman was stunned. He did not like selling his stuff to old ladies. They made him nervous, waiting for him to sell illegals, and then pounce. He didn't want to talk to her anymore. So he took her money and placed the magazine in a bag for her to place inside a bag within her bag. It was most unpleasant for him and after she left, he closed up shop for a coffee next door to calm himself.

Like a tractor, the woman trudged up the street pulling her prized logs, her legs, along the sidewalk, clutching the Playboy in bags. One hundred three white marble stoops away, she searched out keys in her bag of brown bags and faded cloth. She opened the dear friend, her door, to him, eyes fading, ears fading, anxiously waiting the promised surprise.

Victory was in reading, her first thing outside of adult reading class, to her man, and, as she read, she dreamed of their ninety years together. Victory was this first reading to her seventeen years senior man, who barely understood pictures, and never print. Her first words cleared drizzle within and without.

©bonvibre&daughters 5/23/96 revised 12/16/96

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