Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Tales From The Savannah.

The young woman in Starbucks beamed at me. I mean, a thousand watts of feminine gleam from the deepest well of the ancestral memory locked in her junk DNA. She turned, and stuck out her hips, and ran her hands across her bottom, and then turned back to see if I was looking. A billion bits of reality coursing out from a spirit and physical form designed to attract since the single cell turned bisexual. I cannot, I said in DNA, as I looked down.

She was undeterred. No mere mortal, this one. Something about me triggered impulses that were automatic and ferocious -- she bared her teeth at me in a sex-smile, and advanced, turning to one side at the last second, passing within millimeters of my olfactory nodes to ensure a full dose of the mating pheremone, streaming from her like a perfect aura of goddess will.

I, locked in my cage, shivered in the assault. I know where this goes, I said, in sixteen minute twitches of facial muscles, and a posture learned from chemical compounds. I know where this goes. A symphonic burst of endorphins, new locks, the scent of pregnancy and sympathetic weight gain, deep chemical happiness to carry through sleeplessness and teething and worry, rinse, repeat, and continue forward until the chemicals fade and reveal me: unworthy, small, and dorkish. And then? Hell. Children raised by other men who do not chemically love them. Guilt and longing and despair and the Deepest Sadness Of All.

No, I cannot be there. She read my signs, shrugged, and moved on. Still, a small last flash of smile, to leave me with the feeling that I should leap, that I had made a terrible mistake by shunning perfect DNA. My mind knew other, but my cells tugged, still tapping toes to the ultra-ancient Primal Song that drives us all, us Patterns, us Systems, us Creatures.

The Drive.

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