CAILLE, LUMINAIRE, ESSENCE REGION

When it came down to it, all men liked tits and ass, but there was always a stigma attached to preferring one over the other. Being an “ass” man could automatically find you kindred spirits, sad pathetic souls with nothing better to do than compare women’s asses.

Reducing women to the mere objectification of body parts was uncivilized, sexist, insulting and just wrong.

In my experience, it was always the fat, ugly, and/or older women that couldn’t fit into an Achura’s form-fitting latex body suit that held this opinion of objectification. Not once had I ever met a young, hot, firm piece of meat that didn’t enjoy strutting her stuff, tantalizing, teasing men, intoxicating them with sensuality, making them pay for every moment of fantasy and hopeful pleasure they would never receive.

Me? I was a breast man.There was just something primal about a nice rack. Some scientists had theorized it was instinctual from our long distant evolution, and that breasts looked like ass, and cleavage was arousing to men simply because as animals “doggy style” was the most natural of sexual positions and after millions of years still held that same hypnotic affect on our loins.

Others postulated it was survival of the fittest, and our unconscious brain selecting the healthiest traits in potential partners, and since breasts meant life for our young, we were naturally attracted to women with nicer tatas.

Whatever the reason, I enjoyed everything about them: the way they bounced and swayed, the feel of them like large, ripe melons at the grocer, the smoothness of them, the scent, the taste while sucking on them like a hungry infant.

I became greedy when it came to breasts, grabbing at them, fondling them, holding them with the hope of never letting go. I could easily fall asleep in their warmth after several hours of marathon sex.

I was definitely a breast man.

When I first was accepted into the Capsuleer program, a few of the other candidates and I decided to party it up, to celebrate our good fortune. At the time, I had no idea becoming a capsuleer would lead to the neverending misery of being immortal.

Typical of a pack of males with far too much alcohol in their systems, we were loud, obnoxious, ready for a brawl, but mostly just out and about the city of Caille having a good time.

Why Caille, the shining jewel of the Gallente Federation? Aside from the crystal walkways and other unparalleled attractions the city had to offer, there was a darker side to Caille where only the finest of whores would be found.

You seem surprised in reading this, I can tell.

The group of guys I was with were incessant in their praise of Achuran hookers. I had never been with one, having only ever experienced intercourse with the love of my younger years as a slave. This, of course, was seen as a challenge, and my cohorts were hellbent on getting me laid by an Achuran. I was too drunk to argue.

I told them what I liked in a woman as we trolled the late night streets. Breasts.

It wasn’t long afterward that I found myself in a cheap hotel with a cheap Achuran, passionately making out on a filthy bed. My hands molested her chest, my tongue licking every inch of her skin from neck to nipple. I was drunk. I was horny. I was an aggressive animal. To her credit, she gave as good as she took, and I found myself consumed with the need to fuck this woman. The painful throbbing I felt needed to be satiated, and I began undressing her.

Her shirt quickly found the floor, and I was reaching under her skirt to violently yank off her underwear when I felt something poke at me. You heard correctly.

To my credit, I hesitated for a moment, and you really need to understand what was going through my head at the time.

As I said, I was drunk. Have you ever been so drunk and so horny that you’d stick it in a wall just for the sweet release it would bring? Sure, you’d regret it the next morning when your manhood was nothing but ground beef, but that’s the thing about men, we weren’t great thinkers of consequence.

Penis want. Penis gets.

She looked nervous on the bed. Or he. Or whatever. I could understand why. I wasn’t even sure what expression I wore on my face at that moment, but I knew if it was one of grimace, far greater men had withered beneath that scowl, let alone a confused trans-gender hooker.

Whatever.

I shrugged, leaned forward, and kissed her, continuing to make out, filling one hand with luscious perfection.

Hey, she had fantastic breasts.

PyjamaSam just didn’t enjoy cigars.

I had been trying for years to get him to indulge in the overpriced luxury with me, but he gently refused once again, standing his ground. Even though a capsuleer himself, with considerable wealth, he was too pragmatic to ever overpay for anything that wasn’t a necessity. Of course, his definition of what was deemed necessary differed from most. If it was technical gadgetry, or something he could use for many crazy ideas and pursuits, it was a must to have and would therefore be acquired regardless of cost.

I could respect that.

It was seldom that Sam and I got to enjoy any downtime together, but such was life. The fact we were able to enjoy each other’s company for a few fleeting moments was something I treasured, and as I sat with Sam in the comfort of my ship’s quarters, reading ‘fanmail’ and enjoying a few beers, our conversation turned to friendship and its inherent value.

I shared with Sam that I recently had this conversation with another longtime acquaintence, which led to asking one another why we were actually friends. In response, the other friend had this to say:

“Roc, you’re my friend because you make me laugh, shake my head. You’re a touchstone of reality that I need to base what’s right and wrong in the universe.”

I took that as high praise.

I put the same question to Sam. It seemed appropriate given the candor of our conversation, our longtime friendship, and the fact we didn’t get to catch up with each other as often as we used to.

Sam’s response?

“Well, you like huge cocks, and I have one.”

I shook my head, and we both laughed. Neither of us was well suited for touchy feely conversations, and that was his way of telling me to shut it up and have another beer, which I gladly did.

—

They wouldn’t let me sleep. I overheard them talking about sleep deprivation as a way of reducing my mental barriers, making me more susceptible to therapy and treatment.

They were so out of their league with me. I’d been through hell and back several times. I had frequent flyer miles.

They wanted to wear me down? They wanted to break me?

I just laughed some more, thinking of Sam, thinking of the good times, thinking of thick, veinous, totally inappropriate penii. I cackled until I wept.

You are delusional, Roc Wieler.
What gives you the right to affect the lives of others?
You are not a god, Roc Wieler.
Why do you feel it’s your responsibility to interfere?
You’re just like the rest of us.
You’re just one man.

I was restrained on a gurney, stripped to my underwear. I can see how that would immediately induce a sense of relaxation in someone. Numerous electrodes were attached to my body from head to toe, with wires running into various machines; completely soothing. Please, let me share with you everything there is to know about the inner recesses of my psyche. Right.

The rain continued to pour outside the only window to this room.

Rain. Pouring rain, freeing me from my sins, cleansing me of all unrighteousness. It didn’t matter now what they did to me during this interrogation, my mind was free from my body. They could call it a therapeutic session. They could say the drugs were to help monitor my heart rate as well as to help me relax. They could go to hell. I knew who they were. I knew who they were working for.

Our vehicle pulled up to the train station, angling for the passenger drop-off area. This area of the train station was currently under construction. The dropoff stretch was about 200m long, three lanes wide, but its entry was reduced to only a single lane. The idea, of course, was to drive the length of the dropoff, allowing other vehicles to file in behind you, maximizing the efficiency of the dropoff area.

Of course, in the rain, nobody wanted to get wet, and as such, the vehicle I was in was now stuck in the middle of an intersection two cars behind the entry of the dropoff because some idiot decided to park their car at the narrow opening while dropping off their passenger. The car directly behind them honked their horn, understandably frustrated. We were two cars back of that, watching the entire scene.

“People are idiots.” the driver of the car said.
“No argument from me.” I replied to her, already feeling my annoyance levels starting to rise.

Finally the idiot waved goodbye to his ride, then decided to flip his middle finger to the driver of the honking car, because, you know, THAT car is at fault here. Moron.

Something that staggers me is the bravado people have when relying on the laziness and/or fear of others. For example, what if the driver of the honking car pulled out a pistol, got out, then shot the finger flipping idiot? I wager he wouldn’t be feeling so brave then, laying in a pool of his own blood on the pavement.

Conversely, what if the finger flipper walked over to the honking car, pulled the driver out, and pommeled him to a bloody mess? The equation worked both ways.

People rely too much on their misreading of other people. It results in arrogance and ignorance.

My teeth were grinding apparently as my female companion commented, “Let it go, tiger. He’s not worth your time.”

I kissed her gently goodbye, deciding to exit the car where we were, already annoyed at the minor delay and inconvenience.

As soon as she had driven out of sight, I tracked down finger flipper, whom was now standing with a very tall Brutor, broad of shoulder, but not in good physical shape, though he might once have been.

I quickly approached the two, who were laughing and chatting, obviously friends and regulars on the train together.

“Excuse me.” I said, getting finger flipper’s attention. “Next time you go around giving people the finger, you really should make sure you’re not the one being an idiot.” I thought it was an open and honest, non-threatening opening statement. Apparently I was wrong.

“Oh, were you the asshole honking his horn?” finger flipper said.

“No, I was the one stuck a few cars behind in the intersection because you think you’re special.”

“Hey, everyone stops there.” he said. I was stunned for a moment. Everyone stops there. That’s really what he said. That self-same logic used by children when they want what some other kid has: ‘Well, everyone else is going.’

The immediate answer to enter my mind was universal: ‘And if everyone else was jumping off a cliff, would you do that too?’

It revealed to me that I was dealing with an idiot child trapped in the body of a full-grown man.

Of course, while all of this happened in my mind, the two had turned to walk away. Instinctively, I grabbed man-child at the elbow, firmly. I wasn’t done talking yet. And yes, I realize now that was a mistake considering how many witnesses there were, one of them already going to get security, though I was unaware of that fact.

“Excuse me. Why are you touching my friend?” the tall Brutor asked/threatened politely, while man-child yelled ‘get your hands off me’ or some such.

“I’m not done talking with him yet.” I explained to tall Brutor as man-child struggled to free himself from my grip, resorting to foul name calling while trying to shirk me off.

“You can’t just go around grabbing people.” tall Brutor said, trying to remove my arm from man-child without success.

“Just like he can’t go around being ignorant to people?” I asked, feeling quite smug in my little victory of logic.

I turned my attention back to man-child, who was cursing up a storm of frustration at me.

“Listen, I’m just saying think about what you’re doing when you do it.” I said to him.

“Fuck you, man. Quit yelling at me.”

Again, I was stunned momentarily at the juvenile mentality of the words being thrown my way. Quit yelling? Again, the immediate mental response that formed in my mind was ‘You think I’m yelling? I’ll show you yelling.’ Hmmm…

“You think I’m yelling?” I said with a smile. “I’ll give you something to cry about.” Shit. That didn’t come out right.

“Is there a problem here?” a new voice asked.

I turned my head to see two special constables standing beside us. The more overweight of the two was the one whom had asked the question.

I released man-child, smiling slightly as he lost his balance, but recovered with self-satisfied victory on his face. I really wanted to wipe that expression away.

“No problem at all. I’d like to report this gentleman please.” I stated bluntly.

Lesser overweight constable raised his eyebrows. “For what?” Man-child had a similar expression of incredulity.

I had two minutes before the arriving train departed. It was an express train to obviously what was both of our destinations. The next one wouldn’t come for at least an hour.

It was exactly 8:10 AM.

I took a deep breath and explained the events of the passenger drop-off, fully expecting nothing more than for man-child, tall Brutor and myself to miss our train.

To my surprise, more overweight constable expressed his need to talk with man-child more about the incident. Tall Brutor asked if he could go, as he had nothing to do with it (how quickly bravado wilts in the face of authority), which I confirmed, and he was off to catch his train.

I assumed that I would need to remain, file a statement with the fat constables, and be delayed as well.

“Did you need my statement, sir?” I inquired.

“You’re good to go. We have enough to check the cam feeds. Here’s my card. Call me at your convenience if you think we require any additional information. Be safe and thank you for travelling with Pator transit.”

Pator.

You’re not a hero.
Do you really think you can make a difference?
Tell us, Roc Wieler, what drives you?
Why do you do the things you do?

My eyes snapped back to the reality of where I was. I could feel the drugs rushing through my system, leaving me with a feeling of disconnectedness. As a capsuleer, I was used to that sensation. I guess these “doctors” weren’t used to dealing with capsuleers.

I was aware of every ping of the machinery around me. I could hear the subtle strain of the leather against my wrists, as I flexed and relaxed my fists.

My throat was dry, but my voice held steady.

There was only one answer to all their questions that rang of truth. Only one answer that explained everything I did, and still do, in my life.

“Because I can.”