Gifts of the High Ones

by Daniel J. Cottle

This piece was a winner of the Circlet Press “Future of Valentines Day” Microfiction Contest 2008.

I spent most of the winter as a girl. When I wasn’t cruising the museums for nerdy homos or gorging myself at the Thai eateries, I helped Brad in his latest business venture: selling pastries to yuppies off the avenue. Every Wednesday I would get to help mix up the lemon meringue—giggling, licking citrus from my fingers and generally exulting in my femininity. But by the first warm breeze of the new year, my cock was itching for action. At that time it was still my metaphorical cock, and it was metaphorical itching, because: ew.

So that was how I came to be in the service of Ari, the androgynous Norse angel, flat on my back on a rented beach-side slab being deflowered for the seventh time. The Ritual of Repeated Virginity is very special to us. Each time I switch, Master is the first to claim me. And let me tell you, it gets hotter each and every time. Right now, Master is using his tongue to make rune patterns all along my hard-on with religious-ecstatic fervor, dedicating the act, no doubt, to the All-Father by way of Freyr. We like Freyr. Master believes that our most erotic moments are gifts from the Great Engorged One himself. He peers down from his borrowed high seat at Hlidskjalf, looking out over all the world, and pauses for a moment to take an interest in our mortal copulation. Freyr bestows upon us sacred secretions to lubricate our most intimate moments, bringing us charms of strength and endurance so that we may ride at a gallop like Sleipnir and never tire. Oh, but had I eight arms with which to please my master…But gods are gods and men are men. We settle for four limbs, and whatever else the perverse genius that is Homo sapiens sapiens cares to think up. We make do.

The warmth of the heat-lube kicks in and I’m bucking, thrashing. If Master doesn’t get a black eye or a bloody nose in the process of taking me, she insults me and calls me easy. I give Master what Master wants. Pretty soon I’m calling out oaths to the High Ones, as my neural net dissolves into an electric haze on the precipice of that blessed singularity where all rationality and reason fall away. I cross into the Other World, the cyberworld, the real world. Who the fuck knows where I go? But Freyr’s is the hand that grips me and takes me there. Master observes with a clear sense of pride as I fade into the white noise, then brings me out of it with a sharp slap. I giggle and roll over, feeling the nano-‘ceptives go to work on my cock. They tickle and fizz, wiping out all the semen on the molecular level and leaving a minty-fresh scent. You can get nanotech in all sorts of flavors. This was the cheapest that the shelves of Rite-Aid had to offer.

“Cheap, minty whore,” Master groans, making a show of wiping out his mouth with a perfect porcelain finger.

“We can’t all be mead-soaked Valkyries, Master. Perhaps you should increase my allowance.”

“And give up this trashy seaside fairytale? Not a chance.”

“The great Ari Audun, desire of gods and men, still a fucking cheapskate.”

We unzip the main flap of the tent and the sound of the waves rolls over us. The liquid sun melts into the ocean like Orange Crush. I lay back in Master’s arms and drink it in. A rough ocean breeze cools my body, which is still glowing a bit from residual rune-charms and the dying nanotech. Millions of tiny explosions tickle and shine as the bots use up the last of their fuel and settle into an ashen dust so fine I cannot possibly feel it, but do. Beach-goers stroll by, failing to notice us in our privacy tent. That’s good, it means we got our credits’ worth on the rental. Privacy tech is a funny thing. It gives people this feeling that something is nearby, even if they can’t quite put their finger on it. These days I think most people have gotten used to that feeling.

“Tech, magic, curses, charms, hacks, enchantments. Most people couldn’t care less what it is, but we’re all living it. We’re living it, baby.” Master isn’t really listening, just holding me.

My attention is drawn out to the horizon where the laser-light shows have started their annual competition. The East bay is swarming with neon hearts and cupids. Flowers and pink balloons dance in a cunning mockery of human mating. The pirate signal starts up in the West, moving in like a storm on the wings of night, drawing its battle lines. The militant anarcho-artists first learned to hack the light show ten years ago, and now people camp out and set up picnics just to watch it. Desperate university students sit out on the shore with bottles of champagne and three or four friends, passing the joint and practicing armchair philosophy of the highest degree. They like the light show. It becomes a symbol of their tattered future, the broken expectations and the unworthy fixations of modern life.

Me? I think the light show is pretty cool. It’s all part of the Ritual. An angry Santa in a fascist uniform marches across the darkening sky and attempts to club an enormous pair of lips with the disembodied head of Christ. I look back at Master and her eyes are fixated on the horizon as if it were showing the last battle for Asgard at the End of Time. Fire and ice commingle in the darkness of his pupil and a tear is produced, dripping out the side, rolling down the untainted cheek.



“What shall I be next Valentine’s Day?”


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: