Feverborn
Page 68
Then there’s the fact that this amazing little clit men got screwed out of actually grows throughout a woman’s lifetime.
By menopause it’s seven times larger than it was at birth and fucking-A—there’s a reason older women are hot as hell in bed! Can’t imagine what kinda nut I’d bust with a dick seven times this size. Not sure there’d be anyplace I could put it, so I ain’t gonna bemoan that one. And clits are all different: some are little nubs, some are big, some hide, some protrude, and each one is as unique as the woman attached to it.
“Clits?” Jo says, blinking. “I thought we were talking about cabbies.”
“Clits, cabbies, different means, same end. Pay attention. You’re getting me off track.”
“I didn’t say one word about clits,” she says, looking pissy.
“You were thinking about them.”
She blows out an exasperated breath. “What about this test, the Knowledge? How does this have anything to do with me remembering where I put things in my head?”
“I’m getting to that. Goddamn woman, learn to take your time on the buildup. So the cabbies in London study for years, memorizing the patterns of twenty-five thousand streets, locations of some twenty thousand landmarks, and have to be able to plot the shortest distance between any two areas, including all significant places of interest along the way. Like two or three out of ten actually manage to pass the Knowledge.”
“And?”
“Their right posterior hippocampus is seven percent larger than the average person’s. Not because they were born that way, babe. Neuroplasticity.”
She blinks at me like she’s having a hard time understanding English. She mouths the word “neuroplasticity.” “You know this how? Why?”
“I drove a cab for a while. Coupla months.”
“In London?”
“Why the fuck do you think I’d tell you about a test I didn’t take?”
“You took a test? And passed? You drove a cab?” She’s looking at me like I’m from outer space.
“Do you know what the babes in London are like? How many wives fly in or out without their husbands from all kinds of international places? Look at me, honey. I’m a walking, talking, fucking Viking that loves to fuck. I had the run of the airport.”
“Oh my God. You were a cabbie to get laid.”
I wink at her. “Fun times.”
“Okay,” she says, shaking her head briskly, “we’re done with clits and cabbies. What does this have to do with my problem? Are you saying I have to increase the size of part of my brain? How am I supposed to do that?”
“Like the clit, the brain can change. The right posterior hippocampus registers spatial encoding—”
“I’m having a real hard time with your sudden language proficiency,” she says, eyes narrowed.
“Babe, I ain’t dumb. I’m efficient.”
She leans back in her chair, looking at me with a slow smile tugging at her lips, and she’s trying not to let it happen but all the sudden she busts out laughing. “I’ll be damned,” she says when she finally stops laughing, and all the sudden I don’t like how she’s looking at me. Like she sees something I didn’t want her to see. Don’t ever want a babe to see. I’m suddenly wondering how smart this arrangement was.
But in for a goddamn penny and all. So I start telling her about the theory of elaborate encoding, embellishing memories and inserting them spatially, tying them to a place, and suggest she use the abbey, because it’s so familiar to her. Some folks argue fictional places are superior, but when you already got a great big sprawling fortress you grew up in to use, why do more work than necessary? That’s pretty much the motto of my life.
“So you’re saying I encode everything I want to remember into various images and tuck them into different places at the abbey in my mind? Sounds like a lot of work,” she says.
“Yeah, but you only gotta do it once. And it gets easier when you get the hang of it. You gotta trick it up. Make it funny somehow. I remember this chick, I never knew her name and I wanted to file her and the woman was a serious-ass kink, so I called her Lola, you know, the Kinks—‘L-O-L-A low-la.’ ” I belt it just like Ray Davies, and fuck me they always did put on one helluva show. “I made her a bent paper clip resting in the fold of the sleeve on the Ray Davies statue in my study.”
“Paper clip? You have a Ray Davies statue in your study? What else is in your study?”
“Don’t be nosy, honey. It ain’t attractive. She was twisted. Like a bent paper clip. It worked for me.”
She ponders it, worrying that hot lower lip of hers that has some serious suction power. “And this really works?” she says finally.
“It’s all about taking control of your inner space, babe.”
She stares at me a long moment in silence. She opens her mouth and closes it again, rubbing her forehead. Then, looking like she can’t even believe what’s coming out of her mouth, she says, “Can we just fuck?”
I’m on her before she even finishes the sentence.
I think I just gave a whole new spin to talking a chick into fucking.
24
“I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long…”
“You want me to hunt the woman that looks like your sister?” Barrons said.
I nodded. I was sick of not knowing what was really going on in so many areas in my life. It was bad enough that I had this thing inside me that, if it had rules, I didn’t know any of them, but now there was some creepy trash-heap Unseelie out there that had managed to freeze me in helpless horror, even though my sidhe-seer senses were currently neutralized, and another unknown entity masquerading as my dead sister.
By menopause it’s seven times larger than it was at birth and fucking-A—there’s a reason older women are hot as hell in bed! Can’t imagine what kinda nut I’d bust with a dick seven times this size. Not sure there’d be anyplace I could put it, so I ain’t gonna bemoan that one. And clits are all different: some are little nubs, some are big, some hide, some protrude, and each one is as unique as the woman attached to it.
“Clits?” Jo says, blinking. “I thought we were talking about cabbies.”
“Clits, cabbies, different means, same end. Pay attention. You’re getting me off track.”
“I didn’t say one word about clits,” she says, looking pissy.
“You were thinking about them.”
She blows out an exasperated breath. “What about this test, the Knowledge? How does this have anything to do with me remembering where I put things in my head?”
“I’m getting to that. Goddamn woman, learn to take your time on the buildup. So the cabbies in London study for years, memorizing the patterns of twenty-five thousand streets, locations of some twenty thousand landmarks, and have to be able to plot the shortest distance between any two areas, including all significant places of interest along the way. Like two or three out of ten actually manage to pass the Knowledge.”
“And?”
“Their right posterior hippocampus is seven percent larger than the average person’s. Not because they were born that way, babe. Neuroplasticity.”
She blinks at me like she’s having a hard time understanding English. She mouths the word “neuroplasticity.” “You know this how? Why?”
“I drove a cab for a while. Coupla months.”
“In London?”
“Why the fuck do you think I’d tell you about a test I didn’t take?”
“You took a test? And passed? You drove a cab?” She’s looking at me like I’m from outer space.
“Do you know what the babes in London are like? How many wives fly in or out without their husbands from all kinds of international places? Look at me, honey. I’m a walking, talking, fucking Viking that loves to fuck. I had the run of the airport.”
“Oh my God. You were a cabbie to get laid.”
I wink at her. “Fun times.”
“Okay,” she says, shaking her head briskly, “we’re done with clits and cabbies. What does this have to do with my problem? Are you saying I have to increase the size of part of my brain? How am I supposed to do that?”
“Like the clit, the brain can change. The right posterior hippocampus registers spatial encoding—”
“I’m having a real hard time with your sudden language proficiency,” she says, eyes narrowed.
“Babe, I ain’t dumb. I’m efficient.”
She leans back in her chair, looking at me with a slow smile tugging at her lips, and she’s trying not to let it happen but all the sudden she busts out laughing. “I’ll be damned,” she says when she finally stops laughing, and all the sudden I don’t like how she’s looking at me. Like she sees something I didn’t want her to see. Don’t ever want a babe to see. I’m suddenly wondering how smart this arrangement was.
But in for a goddamn penny and all. So I start telling her about the theory of elaborate encoding, embellishing memories and inserting them spatially, tying them to a place, and suggest she use the abbey, because it’s so familiar to her. Some folks argue fictional places are superior, but when you already got a great big sprawling fortress you grew up in to use, why do more work than necessary? That’s pretty much the motto of my life.
“So you’re saying I encode everything I want to remember into various images and tuck them into different places at the abbey in my mind? Sounds like a lot of work,” she says.
“Yeah, but you only gotta do it once. And it gets easier when you get the hang of it. You gotta trick it up. Make it funny somehow. I remember this chick, I never knew her name and I wanted to file her and the woman was a serious-ass kink, so I called her Lola, you know, the Kinks—‘L-O-L-A low-la.’ ” I belt it just like Ray Davies, and fuck me they always did put on one helluva show. “I made her a bent paper clip resting in the fold of the sleeve on the Ray Davies statue in my study.”
“Paper clip? You have a Ray Davies statue in your study? What else is in your study?”
“Don’t be nosy, honey. It ain’t attractive. She was twisted. Like a bent paper clip. It worked for me.”
She ponders it, worrying that hot lower lip of hers that has some serious suction power. “And this really works?” she says finally.
“It’s all about taking control of your inner space, babe.”
She stares at me a long moment in silence. She opens her mouth and closes it again, rubbing her forehead. Then, looking like she can’t even believe what’s coming out of her mouth, she says, “Can we just fuck?”
I’m on her before she even finishes the sentence.
I think I just gave a whole new spin to talking a chick into fucking.
24
“I pushed you down deep in my soul for too long…”
“You want me to hunt the woman that looks like your sister?” Barrons said.
I nodded. I was sick of not knowing what was really going on in so many areas in my life. It was bad enough that I had this thing inside me that, if it had rules, I didn’t know any of them, but now there was some creepy trash-heap Unseelie out there that had managed to freeze me in helpless horror, even though my sidhe-seer senses were currently neutralized, and another unknown entity masquerading as my dead sister.
