Sulu/Rand by Farfalla; rated R
Janice is leaving the Enterprise tomorrow.
blueberrysnail @ yahoo.com
All my life since I was a little boy, I fell asleep at night with one arm thrown around
an extra pillow, sleeping on my stomach but with my body leaning into the pillow. That's how
Janice and I lie in bed, sleeping, or talking, or just listening to each other breathe. She fits
into my sleeping posture so naturally, as if my pillow had come to life, grown a pair of arms, and
used them to reach straight for my heart. I've heard other couples complain about having too many
arms and legs in bed, how extra limbs seem to get in the way and lose circulation, but it doesn't
happen to us.
Riley and Chekov kid me about her hair sometimes. You know, the predictable cracks, like, "Not
tonight, Hikaru! I just did my hair." Nah--with her, it's more like--"I just did my hair--so I've
got to be on top for now." Amazing--she rides me like a circus performer, and the damned weave doesn't
budge! I chalk it up to witchcraft.
Everyone's always wondering about that hair, anyway--how does she do it? What does it feel like?
Is it stiff with hairspray and fixative, or is it a wig? No, no--it's soft, and it's just remarkably
obediant. Although, if bobby pins ever became an expensive commodity, she'd be broke before you could
say conditioning rinse.
She's famous aboard the Enterprise. Even crewmembers who don't know her name recognize the weave.
She says she's going to cut it down when she gets back to the Academy--which is how I know she's
really mine, even in her absence. The hair is obvious. Everybody's seen it. But only I aboard the
ship have *smelled* it, have run the bewitching, shimmering strands between my fingers and inhaled
the floral glory of her locks. She can chop it all off to look more professional as an officer, but
she'll still smell the same.
My favorite place to smell her is between her breasts, dessert for my hands that they are. I smell
the fruit of female sweat/deodorant at the end of a long shift, the smell of her body, real only
on her flesh but lingering on the uniform she discards on my floor on her way to my bathroom. I smell
it casually in her absence.
Now I wonder how long the scent will stay with me, now that she will be back on Earth.
I have a fantasy. Someday, I will become an old man, a sage and aged samurai of the stars, and
if my dreams come true, I'll be captain of my own starship. In my fantasy, Janice comes with me,
serves with me. That's possible now, with her starting officer training. She knows I think about it,
and hopes for it too, with all her might.
I am not scared of what she felt for Captain Kirk. Someone like Chekov would be insecure, and
pass gas verbally with a lot of macho bluster. All that does is drive a girl away, because she can't
help who she's attracted to. It doesn't mean she's indifferent to what you have to offer. In a case
like Janice and the captain, most likely she even resents her feelings, futile as they were--a waste
of energy. To condemn her for them would show a lack of friendship, and my love for her has always been
based on that most pure of foundations.
She loves me because we are real together--we are not yeoman and pilot or Pacific beach beauty
and twenty-third century samurai. We are two people who make each other laugh, who adore reaching
our hands towards special spots to make the other one shiver with delight, who can sit and take a
meal together in absolute silence and still feel perfectly companionable.
She leaves tomorrow. I look forward to her happiness as she enters this chrysalis, to emerge as
a more educated, more qualified person and with a better sense of self-worth. But in these days and
lonely nights that follow, my body will sting for the feel of her soft skin, her alabaster
whiteness curving in voluptuous perfection, ripe bosoms like fruit topped with coral nipples, like
the cherries on two scoops of ice cream.
Tomorrow she leaves. Tonight, I want her to embrace my face with her thighs. I will listen to her
moan and whimper and I will grind my maddeningly-teased hardness against the bed in time with the
gyrations of her hips. I will suck her labia into my mouth and clasp both her hands in mine, her
fingers tightening as she nears release. All is fruit, all is wine, all is Woman...
I bow low, no, I am on my knees that we live in a century where a separation of this magnitude spells no
requisite death of such an experience. With the technology of subspace communication, we will never
lose each other's lives. Like the fine but resilient strands of hair she always leaves behind in my
bedclothes and on my uniform, I hold in my fingers the glimmering strands of what we are, and let them tie
us together across the universe.