Metaphysical Bullshit

"What?"

He sounded startled, as if forcefully shaken from some waking dream.

He stood facing the bed staring at the wall.

She was lying on the bed naked. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her legs were spread slightly apart. One hand cupped her breast, playfully pinching her nipple while her other hand, positioned near her vagina, rested lazily on her lower abdomen. She playfully stroked and rubbed her clitoris. Muffled moans emanated from her mouth, their origins lying somewhere deep in her belly.

"Come here," she whispered slyly. Her upper lip quivered in a playful sneer.

He stood staring at the wall.

She tried again, "come on baby."

He did not move.

"What are you gay or something?" she asked sarcastically.

"What does that have to do with anything?" he responded.

"I'm laying here naked on the bed, waiting for you, and you aren't even responding." She seemed disgusted.

"How would that make me gay?" he asked. "Your assumption is that sexual denomination has something to do with eroticism. You're wrong. Any honest heterosexual male would admit that the sight of two gay men in the throes of passion is a turn on. Just as the thought of two women is equally arousing."

"You are gay!" she shrieked in accusation.

"I believe you're missing the point, dear," he chided. "Even if I am gay, the sight of a nubile young woman pleasuring herself on my bed would probably be equally as stimulating as a young male."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked in exasperation.

"What is wrong with me, love, is that I do not exist. None of this exists. I am a representation of something from another world entirely. I-"

"What the fuck are you talking about!?" she asked as she slowly crept backwards against the headboard. She hugged her knees to her chest.

"We…are not here. I am a replica of the author."

"What author?"

"The author of this story."

"What story? What author? What are you talking about? You're starting to scare me." She hugged her knees more tightly.

"You, my dear, are a fantasy. You are the perfect woman. You are the culmination of all the traits that the author of this story would attribute to the woman of his dreams. Although I would venture to say that your personality has strayed dramatically from the script. One could hardly blame you. Look in the mirror. What color are your eyes? What does your nose look like? For that matter, what do I look like?"

"You look…you look like, uh…" her voice trailed off.

"Do you see? We don't exist. We are phantasms; ghosts in the mind of our creator. We have form only in so much as, to fantasize about human sexual intercourse, we need to have a basic human form. We have no face. We have no thoughts. At least not thoughts that are our own. Think (no pun intended (what a stupid joke…did I really just say that?)) about it. What did you do today? Before you came here."

"I-I don't know."

"Neither do I."

"This is weird. Where did my legs go?" she asked with a puzzled look on her face.

"I suppose they were not needed during our prior conversation, hence they were not…painted so to speak. What a fascinating discovery." His eyes seemed full of fire at this new discovery.

"I don't know if I like this, this…author. Whatever he's doing, he's giving me the creeps."

"I like him. How could I not? I'm supposed to be him."

"Yeah, but what kind of sick asshole writes a story like this and calls it a fantasy."

"I'm not sure," he said shrugging his shoulder, "I believe it started well, but it took a wrong turn somewhere. I suppose he just has a lot on his mind. This is truly fascinating. The implication here is that…"

"What?" she asked, her voice full of anticipation.

"He is our God."

"How can he be God. He's already screwed up this simple story."

"Yes, but you don't know that? First of all, who's to say that this isn't what the story was supposed to be like. And secondly, even if this is a botched experiment, nobody's ever really proven what God is. We seem to assume that God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omni-benevolent probably because we hope that God is something better than us. Something that can help us and get us out of trouble. I wonder if anyone has ever suspected that God is fallible. This is starting to blow my mind. I am the author that writes my story. I wonder who writes his…"