“The medium of expression,” Armand announces, pausing to write that on the chalkboard, “meaning the physical means whereby we communicate that which is in here-” pointing to his head, tapping it with his crooked finger repeatedly, “-to the representatives of external reality-including ourselves! “Let us begin on familiar ground, with a bromide, a maxim, a piece of triteness.
“A picture is worth ten thousand words! “Certainly, one of my pictures has far, far greater validity than, say, ten thousand of my words.
“I fear that my teachers, from grade school through university, did not regard me highly as an essayist, and this with excellent reason.
“Why is that, ladies and gentlemen? “How can it be that one so adept, so skilled-you will forgive me, but, this is not the time or place for false modesty-with brush and pigment should be found thus wanting in verbal abilities? “Surely, that same mind, that same… imagination was at work in here-” tapping his forehead again, “requiring nothing more than to put down on paper the images herein rampant.
“And I dare say that most of you hardly find me inarticulate in discussing the arts-verbally-or you would not be here for this, our fourth assemblage.
“So then, what is my problem? “The answer is quite simple, actually-I don’t have a problem! “Do not, and never did! “Because, ladies and gentlemen, the medium of expression is the means of expression, and vice versa! “Let ‘me write that down, because that is my theme tonight, the rest being mere explication.”
And, back to his audience, he writes, on the green board, MEDIUM equals MEANS.
He stands there, looking at it, as though contemplating a painting in a gallery, then modifies it slightly, to yield, MEDIUM equals MEANS.
“An interactive process, ladies and gentlemen, a sub-process, if you will, of creativity.
“Absent a medium of realization,, we have no means of communication, the idea on hold-as ideas cannot be.
“Because ideas, my friends, do not keep, cannot be preserved-except when they have been realized, made real, communicated.
“Our thoughts do not remain unchanged. Our imagery is ever in a state of flux.
To say we feel the same today as yesterday is to say we are not a day older- a contention so ridiculous as not to require active rebuttal.
“Thus, when seized by the inspiration, by that complex of images which causes us to want to create, let us hope, let us pray that we have at hand the means to do so, the medium with which to express ourselves.
“A man may paint, and yet not write.
“A man may compose music, and not be able to draw.
“And so on and so forth, ad infinitum.
“Does that mean, then, that Mozart was less intelligent, less a genius than, say, Rembrandt? “Absolutely not! “Each expressed himself, his ideas, each realized- made real-his imaginings through different means, to which were attached different corresponding media.
“Had Mozart not had harpsichord and orchestra, how would he have brought into reality his masterpieces? “Would he then have become court painter rather than court musician to the emperor of Austria? Obviously not.
“And so we see the importance of the correct medium as the means of communication, of realization-hence my ulterior motive all along in giving such big play to our computer friends.
“They have at their disposal a truly marvellous medium, an interface between imagination and its realization, between the reality in here-” tapping his forehead, “-and that out here.
“The computer is, in fact, the ideal, combining both means and medium, that is, being both the action-programming-and the material of the creative process itself.
“Do you see it all starting to come together now? “We began with the relationship between reality, fantasy, and art, arriving at their rather astounding mutual identity.
“We then proceeded to data-the building blocks of the creative process, of which we have identified one major sub-process as the selection of data from this soup of information in which we are swimming.
“We showed first the misuse, the abuse, if you will of data, then proceeded to successful selection as an essential of this thing we call aesthetics.
“But here, we get down to cases, to making it happen.
“Fine that we have gained all these glorious insights, now, how do we get from here-” tapping his forehead, “-to there?” embracing reality with outstretched hands.
“Through use of the appropriate medium! “We have, in this room tonight, painters, writers of both prose and poetry, musicians, both composers and instrumentalists, dancers-I could go on and on.
“Yes, yes, relax, gentlemen, before you strain your tonsils clearing your throats. We also have computer programmers. You uh, you wanna stand up and take a bow? No? Then it’s okay with you if I continue? Thank you.”
“What makes one, what the other? “Obviously, medium, the means of expression, which varies…“
“Steve, my boy! So glad you could make its”
Jessica, brow knit, looks back over her shoulder, to see the broadest man she has ever seen in her life approaching the podium, perfect white teeth brilliant In his deeply tanned face, hand out-stretched.
They shake hands to one side of Jessica.
“Armand, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world! “I admit, I had my doubts at first, but tonight, forget it.
“I acknowledge you as my spiritual leader!”
And, to Jessica’s surprise and Armands raucous laughter, Steve goes down on one knee, grasps Armand’s hand, and kisses his knuckles, exclaiming, “Your eminence!”
“Get up, ass hole! “Oh, Jessica, this is Steve, whom you may recognize as the reigning Mister Galaxy.”
“Mister… Galaxy?”
“Why yes,” Armand says, sharing Steve’s look of mild surprise, “that’s a rather prestigious-okay, okay, that is THE ‘prestigious title in the wonderful world of bodybuilding, which is also an art, and probably the purest example of art there is,”
“I’m just sorry I missed the first three lectures, Armand.”
“Not to worry, when the book comes out, I’ll see you get an autographed copy.”
“Gee! Autographed!” Steve aspirates, wide-eyed.
“Smart-ass!” Armand says, playfully punching Steve in the abdomen. “Come on along with us to my place, why don’tcha, Steve? “Little wine, little bread and cheese, little uh… conversation, and we can all get better acquainted.”
“I’ve got a better idea, Armand,” Steve replies, “what say we all go over to my place for the same thing?”
“If you insist. I think he’s trying to tell me something, don’t you, Jessica?”
“What I’m tryna tell him, Jessica, is that his place is a dump, a mess, a shambled.
“I’ve seen better living quarters than that done in cardboard in an alley! “I mean, have you been there?”
“Several times,” Jessica remarks, coolly, as they leave the auditorium, her in between the two men.
“Then you know what I’m talking about! “One of the people in my condo is trying to sell and I’m tryna interest Armand here, because I know he’s got the bread, but so far no response.”
And he reaches behind Jessica to rap Armand on the head with his knuckles and say, “Ey! Anybody home?”
And Armand reaches around in front of Jessica, slapping Steve lightly in the balls with the back of his hand.
Jessica hasn’t felt like this since she was thirteen, walking home from school with a couple of boys.
And she is unable to focus on her plans, even though Armand has given her the perfect opening.
She was all set to gear up her campaign, using his own discussion of means and media to suggest that he might wish to equip himself, in case the inspiration-which, as he so aptly pointed out, cannot be preserved-in case the inspiration does in fact strike at, say, three in the morning.
She can use that later-maybe.
But the evening has gotten out of hand, out of control.
She is on her way with Armand to this strange side of beef’s condo somewhere, and Armand is acting like an adolescent.
This doesn’t bode well, she tells herself, feeling frustrated, angry.
“This is absolutely… magnificent!” Jessica enthuses, “The view of the city’s skyline is breathtaking! “And the whole place is just… exquisite!”
And Jessica fairly pirhouettes through the condo’s vast, low-ceilinged, ultra-modern living room, with its recessed overhead lighting, its understated blues and greys offset by chrome and glass.
“Wish I could take the credit,” Steve says, “but I inherited the place from my father when I was eighteen.”
“Sorry,” Jessica says.
“Don’t be. Barely knew the guy. International finance type. Worked abroad, played abroad, died abroad.”
“Still, he remembered you well.”
“Or his lawyer did. Anyway, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll fix a tray of something or other and be right back.”
And he disappears into what Jessica assumes must be the kitchen.
“None of them are yours,” Jessica says, referring to the paintings that line two of the walls of the living room, the outer wall being a picture window, floor to ceiling, one side being occupied by a wet bar running practically its entire length.
“No, they aren’t.
“I didn’t become friends with Steve until-after.” And Jessica understands at once that he refers to the period after Darlene, that is, after he had painted his last painting and thus had none to sell or, for that matter, give away.
She also understands how very little she knows about Armand.
She flatters herself that she has a handle on his character, an insight into his soul, as it were; but tonight surely demonstrates the inadequacy of this, if she is to be able to influence, much less manipulate him.
Some casual acquaintance has been able to walk up to him after his lecture and break a pattern a month in the making.
“Very nice of you to be so effusive in your compliments to Steve about this, this, uh, non-location.”
She looks at Armand sideways, masking her surprise.
Because she meant everything she said; she is truly impressed and yes, dammit, the place is truly magnificent.
And look who’s talking, considering how and where he lives! “It is exquisitely well suited for what it is, of course,” Armand continues.
“Neutral background, pedestal and setting for the man himself, it is.
“There is nothing, nothing, nothing of Steve here-except himself.
“Place makes no statement, has no focus, dcor, furniture, arrangement, even the paintings on the walls geometric, impersonal.
“Here, there is but one work of art, and that is- “I uh, I picked up the cheese in Little Italy, the crackers are from Norway, and the wine is red from Napa, unchilled, if that’s okay.”
“Adequate, Steve, adequate,” Armand says, leaning forward and filling the clarets from the bottle.
“Oh? Mr. Thunderbird and Velveeta is pleased? I’m thrilled!”
They laugh.
And Steve flops himself down on the couch between Armand Jessica an arm over the back, behind each.
“So. Steve. Have y’thought it over, what we discussed?” Armand asks.
Oh, this is really great! Jessica tells herself. Not only are they talking across her, they are talking about something she knows nothing about.
“I have, matter of fact. As I say, I was really impressed tonight. You really know how to get the old creative juices flowing, old buddy.”
Except his own, Jessica thinks. And she was going to take care of that, before-never mind. She’s along for the ride, and all she can do is to ride it out-whatever “it” is.
“If you could tell me a little more-”
“Nanana,” Armand chides, “y’trust me or y’don’t. I want you for lecture eight, for the opener of the grand finale.
“You’re in or you’re out.”
“Maybe after I attend one more session.”
“Suit yourself,” Armand shrugs. “I don’t need ya, but it’d be kind of a little extra zing, y’know?”
This just gets better and better, Jessica thinks; not only is Steve to be a star attendee at the rest of the lecture series, but he and Armand have something-make that some things-going together of which she knows nothing and of which she is not a part-past, present, and, very probably, future.
Irene didn’t catch this flak, Darlene didn’t have to put up with this static, she is better than the two-~of them put together-and now, this.
Such bullshit, the whole thing, really.
She is half tempted-no!
In for a penny, in for a pound, as the English say.
Time to be clever, watchful, patient, not to give up and walk away in disgust.
Because it isn’t as though she has something better going for herself.
And it’s certainly not because she’s desperate, at least not for money.
Her folks are loaded, she is an only child in good standing on the home front, so she has nothing to worry about, financially.
But she wants her own fame and fortune and this is as close as she has come thus far to realizing that ambition.
To realize, meaning to make real, she tells herself, given that all the elements of her imagining-her, Armand, Armand’s fame and ability, her ambition-are ready to hand, hers for the composition, the creation.
And then came Steve.
“You uh, you hear from Rhino lately, Steve?”
“Yeah, he wants me in Chicago or Saint Louis or someplace around there for a series of guest posing shots in conjunction with his lectures which, I gotta tell ya, leave a whole lot t’be desired, compared t’yours, Armand.”
“That may well be, but what he has to say is a lot more valuable to those who take heed.”
Then, to Jessica, “Rhino’s director of training for the whole Buck’s franchise.
You know-the health clubs?”
“Oh.”
“Really, the man is an absolute genius when it comes to physical development, Jessica! And nobody knows how old he Is! “He looks what, Steve? Mid-forties?”
“About that, yeah. But the build on him! He’s got muscles like armor plates.”
“Which, of course, is why they call him Rhino, right?” Jessica interpolates; “That’s right!” Steve says, delighted with her perception, like it’s a big deal.
Men, Jessica thinks. Such ass holes, all of them. Only men would think of holding a conversation about someone their companion has never heard of. Have they any idea of how rude this Is? “I’m signed up for an appointment with him, y’know,”
“Oeez, why the hell didn’t cha say something, Armаnd? Armand Fortuna doesn’t need an appointment. Hell, If Rhino knew you wanted to talk to him, he’d call you!”
“Yes, well, I dislike intruding, preferential treatment and all that-”
“Bullshit! You’re the big artistic genius in the crowd, Armand. Why, I’ll bet Randy Buck would be thrilled If he knew you were a member.”
“Y’mean he doesn’t?”
“Stan Is saving it for a surprise.”
This just gets better and better, Jessica thinks. Now there’s a Stan involved as well.
And Randy Buck, of whom she has heard, naturally, the big sports tycoon-if it’s the same guy-but whom she doesn’t know personally.
“Why do you have to see this Rhino char- person?” Jessica asks.
“Attitude,” Armand replies, adding, “I know what my routine should be and why~ but I can’t seem to get up the energy necessary to make it happen.
“So I thought maybe, getting together with Rhino, I could, like, get together with myself, know what I’m saying?”
Jessica shrugs, helping herself to the cheese and crackers.
“Could be your age, y’know,” Steve says, matter of factly.
“No, I doubt that that’s it. More likely a problem in the diet or the supplements.”
“You on arginine and ornithine?”
“Sure am! Without those, I know I’m screwed!”
“Then maybe you’d better talk to Rhino.”
“What I figured.”
And jeeeica Is ready to tear her hair out-or theirs. From people she doesn’t know to substances with which she has no familiarity, the conversation here has progressed. Thus far, the evening is a thrill and a half, no question.
“Hormone level?” Steve inquires, as though going up and down some invisible check list, deciding to pause at last at this particular item.
“Keep up with you any day of the week, pal!” Terrific! Jessica thinks. So now we’re back to adolescent macho.
“How about it, Jessica?” Armand asks, “Have I ever disappointed you?” Not until now, she feels like replying. Which would gain her what? “Not a fair question, Armand,” Steve interjects.
“Its a question of relativity. “Not how good you are, but how good you are compared to others is what’s relevant.”
“Is that some kind of a challenge, Steve?”
“Only if you’re up to it-old man.”
“Funny, Steve, that you should be the second person in less than a month to challenge me on that score.”
And Jessica winces, recalling her goof at the outset of her seeing Armand-which, obviously, Armand recalls as well.
“Getting a bit tired of it, actually,” Armand says, a reproof clearly directed at Jessica. “So let’s put the question to bed, once and for all. And now’s as good a time as any.
“Team sport, right? We keep going until one of us decides he’s had enough, okay?”
And Jessica cannot say what runs through her mind as she finds herself walking-or is it drifting?- into the master bedroom of the fabulous condo.
Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps her inner disturbance at her loss of control of the evening itself; but, whatever the case, here she is, undressing alongside the two men.
And now, the three of them are naked-and Steve is unbelievable!
Jessica has seen statues, of course-bronzes, greek marbles. And paintings of Hercules, of other heroes of legend.
But nothing has prepared her for so magnificent an assemblage of living flesh, rippling, vibrant, massive, tanned, seeming to glow with health and vigor.
So yes, hell yes, she is drawn to him, as he lies there in the bed.
And yes, hell yes she wants to suck his cock, crouching there between his legs, all but ignoring Armand as he fingers her exposed, presented goodies, fore and aft.
And she sucks Steve up, rock-hard.
And she straddles his magnificent body, settling down on his cock, feeding his rampant invader up, up, up inside her hot, juicy cunt, then settling down on him, leaning forward so that he can grasp both her breasts, so that he can feed himself the doorbells of her nipples, one at a time, sucking them to rubbery erection.
And Armand is behind her, crouched between Steve’s legs, sucking Jessica’s ass hole,. protruding now more than ever from the pressure of the monster within her vagina.
Her ears are ringing.
She feels herself dizzy, disoriented, hearing Armand say, faintly, “You’ll have to lift up a little so I can get it in.”
Automatically, without even really thinking about it, she knows what he means, raising herself up on her knees until only the knob of Steve’s big boinker remains between her pussy lips.
“Unnnh!” her voice says, and yet not her voice, but a voice she hears and which must have been hers because it couldn’t have been anybody else’s.
As Armand shafts his prodigious prong into her ass hole, all the way.
And she knows, somehow, to settle back down on Steve’s mighty marauder.
And she can feel-as surely they can as well-the pressure of the two erections, underside to underside, separated by a thin membrane of living tissue within her, as they both fill her now, turning cunt and ass hole into almost identical, smoothly rounded, toothless mouths which suck and cling to the meat pistons which stretch and fill them.
And which even now begin to alternate their movement, one pulling halfway out as the other plunges all the way in.
As Armand, in his capacity of top man, sets the pace, bouncing up and down, letting the bedsprings do most of the work.
In and out, in and out, go the living pistons of meat, their double stimulation added to Steve’s steady servicing of her breasts.
She cannot think you this has come to pass, any of it, all of it, but she can and does accept that it has, and, thus aroused, wants only to go with the flow.
So that the team acts as one, climbing the rainbow of their shared arousal together, mounting higher and higher, transcending level after level of sexual pleasure, until the ultimate pleasure is upon them all.
And they are coming and coming, the pumping pistons causing each other to push out the jism from alternating orifices, quickly forming rings of pearlescent jism around the twin junctures as twinge after exquisite, irresistible twinge of Jessica’s series of multiple orgasms convulses her, the meat in a sandwich of grunting, sweating, heaving meat.
Which humps and pumps and squirts and slips and slides ever so slowly to an overheated, panting halt.
And Armand, businesslike, pulls back, his cock sliding out of Jessica’s ass hole, and goes into the bathroom, washing his cock at the sink, then drying it briskly on a towel, encountering Jessica and Steve on their way in.
Armand positions himself promptly in the bed, ready to be bottom man for round two, playing with his cock, feeling it begin to respond before releasing it, lest he do too much of Jessica’s work for her.
And now, he closes his eyes as the two of them emerge from the bathroom and Jessica dives on top of him, seeming eager to suck his cock-or to have Mister Galaxy servicing her ass.