The New Flesh

“And steeples pierce the cloud on her shoulder And the streets that the fisherman combed When his long-legged flesh was a wind on fire And his loin was a hunting flame.” - Dylan Thomas
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“I'm sorry, sir, we no longer carry those sorts of books. You should know better.” The officious young sales-clerk shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “In fact,” he continued sensing his advantage, “I could report you for even asking.” Beads of perspiration appeared on the forehead of the disheveled looking middle-aged man on the other side of the counter as the store employee continued. “They keep a national registry now of everyone whose, well, you know … whose tastes run in that direction.”
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By now the other customers in the store had taken notice of the conversation. Camera phones were discretely recording the encounter. Embarrassed and more than a little concerned about how much attention he had attracted, Ashe, the man making the inquiry, buttoned his stained and tattered overcoat and left the bookshop.
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Outside, a harsh November wind was blowing and it had just started to rain. Ashe turned and made his way three or four blocks north on Front Street. Before long, neon lights from the peep shows, strip joints and seedy bars that proliferated in the area reflected garishly off the wet pavement. More than once he had to rebuff the lurid offers made by the barkers and hustlers standing in dimly lit doorways trying to drum up trade.
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Looking down at his hand he noticed that, somewhere along the way, he had acquired a flyer advertising one of the adult movie theaters he had passed. The paper was wet from the rain and crumpled from the pressure of his fist. As a result, its colors had begun to run and merge. The image it once bore of a large-breasted woman with moist, pouty lips had become hideously distorted. Ashe wasn’t sure how much more he could take. When the urge hit him like it had this evening, there was only one thing that brought him relief. Still, he had to be careful.
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Head down and collar up against the chill, he turned off Front Street and found himself on McQuaid Avenue. The neighborhood was even more rundown. Both sides of the street were lined with disreputable looking hotels advertising hourly rates. Ashe remembered when many of those same places were luxury establishments catering to the rich and famous. Off to his left, old St. Mary’s Cathedral, once a magnificent structure, was now a hulking ruin. Ashe’s shoes, socks and pant legs were soaked; he had been splashed when a carload of teenagers drove purposely through a large puddle at the side of the road. “There you go, ‘Pops’. That’s the closest thing to a bath you've had in a month” they jeered as they went roaring by.
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As he passed the mouth of Kleghorn Alley, Ashe felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a wan looking young man of twenty-five or thirty-years-old with short, dark hair. Now, I’ve done it, he thought. It’s bad enough that I lost my composure at the bookshop but now I’m going to be mugged.
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“Hey, mister,” the stranger said as he gripped Ashe’s elbow lightly, “I saw what happened back at the store. I can get you what you want.”
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Ashe considered fleeing, but before he had a chance, the younger man made a series of arcane gestures with his right hand. Almost reflexively, Ashe followed suit. Without another word, the man with the black hair turned and started walking quickly down the Alley. In the throes of his compulsion, Ashe followed. Overhead he saw a network of rusted fire-escapes. The yellow light oozing from around curtained windows cast eerie shadows on soot-stained brick.
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They walked in silence for five minutes or so. Just before they got to the end of Kleghorn where it debouched onto Wilson Boulevard, the man in the lead turned and descended a series of worn, concrete steps. He rapped three times on the frame of an ancient door inset with two large panes of leaded glass. The entire structure was covered by an iron grating. Ashe heard the sound of a bolt being withdrawn and a chain being unfastened. The door opened slightly and then closed again. Ashe heard the sound of another chain. The door reopened and the two men went quickly inside.
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If Ashe had been surprised by meeting another individual in public who obviously shared his predilection, he was utterly shocked by what he now saw. In the first place, the man who admitted them was clearly the oldest person he had ever seen; he was stooped, with long grey hair and a grey beard stained yellow by nicotine. That someone like this had so long escaped the government roundups and subsequent “re-education” programs of the last ten years was nothing short of a miracle.
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What really took Ashe’s breath away, however, were the books and magazines. There were shelves upon shelves of them piled high. Like a somnambulist, he lurched forward and began tracing the lettering on the cover of one and rubbing his hands lovingly over the spine of another.
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“As you can see, sir,” his young guide said, “Mr. Rood has the finest selection of such volumes left in the city. Browse around as long as you like. Obviously, we have to insist on your complete discretion.”
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Ashe had a thousand questions but he was too absorbed in the books to give voice to any of them. He picked up one particularly attractive volume and opened it at random. His breath caught in when he saw the illustration: a half-naked woman astride a strange beast with numerous heads and spiky, menacing horns. It was all there within the pages – adultery, incest, rape and perversion. Thumbing back to the front of the text, he came upon another image. This time he gazed at two nude figures – one male and one female – in a decidedly suggestive pose. The couple was surrounded by lush, exotic vegetation. Ashe’s palms were sweaty and his pulse was racing as he began to read: "In the beginning …"

"Exegesis"
Copyright: © 2009 James C. Clar

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James C. Clar's work has been published in print as well as on the Internet. To date he has written over 200 stories in a variety of genres ... fantasy, science fiction, mainstream and noir. A few of those stories are even worth reading. Fewer still might even be worth remembering!