1. I Remember Erewhon


    Date: 9/29/2015, Categories: Mature, Author: BradleyStoke, Rating: 2, Source: LushStories

    absent of meaning—there were statues of women startlingly different from real-life women. These statues were of women who were not the pink, brown or black skinned women with handbags, open-toed sandals and a ready supply of tissues that a young boy might otherwise encounter in Erewhon. Nor were they like girls who differed only from boys in that they played with dolls, didn’t watch the same cartoons on TV and never tired of reminding you whenever you did something wrong. The women represented by these statues were clearly not real people because they were all marble-white and almost never wore clothes. This last observation was of little significance to me during my early visits to the city of Erewhon, which in those days was a magical place in which a train ride towards playing fields and swings and zoos and museums was the chief attraction. But as the years went by, these statues that were at first barely glimpsed became increasingly centre-stage. The idea of what a woman might be became steadily more important to me and the mysteriously austere and classical vision of nudity represented by these statues that made them seem so distant and unobtainable became increasingly irrelevant. Instead, a more lurid, fleshly, Technicolor vision had become more prominent. Indeed, everything about women was now something altogether different. There was no longer a divide between those girls that were much the same age as me and therefore inherently uninteresting, and those older ...
    than me whose main purpose in life was to provide sweets, medicaments and lunch-boxes. There was a new species of woman that I was becoming aware of and, like everything else that was important to me, this woman also inhabited Erewhon. Her name was Ydobon. And, of course, she’d always been there in Erewhon: I’d just not noticed her. She was the girl or the woman (probably either and possibly both) I had always glimpsed from the corner of my eye. She was like the naked women statues because she displayed what the other sex might offer, but different from them insofar as her skin was pink, brown or black; her hair was in many colours and shades and styled in many different ways; and she had a way of smiling that unlike the girls and women I’d known before had an impact not between the ears or even in the beating heart but more fundamentally and more significantly below the belt and above the knees. I don’t remember the time when I first spoke to Ydobon. And I don’t remember where. It might have been on the sixty-fourth floor of the tall buildings that I so often visited simply to stare at the vertiginous view below. It might have been in the oddly rural crinkly orange wheat fields that interspersed Erewhon’s cobbled streets and tarmac highways. It might have been on the ferry that crossed the broad rivers of Erewhon so quickly traversed by underground train but so difficult to cross by other means. And I’m sure that my first remarks were stumbling, boastful and embarrassingly ...
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