Commune 2000 AD. Mack Reynolds
staring up at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. “I’ve always wondered where the so-called normal position ever got the name. The most-often utilized position of the Romans was with the woman sitting astride the man, the same as the Japanese do today. It gives the woman more control of the situation and a better chance at orgasm, particularly if the man is considerably larger or heavier than she is.”
She yawned languidly. “I like it any way. Well, except for anal entry.”
“Then you’re lucky you didn’t use to live in Peru back in Mochica-Chimu days. Sodomy and fellatio were so universal that it’s a mystery how the culture ever propagated itself.”
“You mean they were all queeries?”
“According to what you mean by ‘queerie,’ I suppose. They used to show their sex scenes on their pottery. Hundreds, even thousands, of these came down to us, in spite of the fact that they were a culture that preceded the Incas. There are some, but few, of these pots that show a man and woman in ordinary intercourse. More often he is either sodomizing her, or she is practicing fellatio on him. The thing is, the women invariably are illustrated as enjoying what they are doing, and, in those days, the women were the tribal potters, so they were portraying themselves.”
“When you said sodomy, I thought you meant boys.”
“No, surprisingly enough, not a single pot comes down to us indicating that there was any homosexual connotation. The partners were invariably men and women.”
She looked at him in deprecation. “Some professor you turned out to be. What a subject to be an authority on.”
“I’m not a professor.”
“Oh, I thought you were. Over at the university city.”
He said, an edge of bitterness in his voice, “No. Actually, I’m a student. I’ve got my doctor’s degree in ethnology and am working toward my academician’s, if I can ever come up with a dissertation that’s acceptable. Then, possibly, at the next job muster I’ll be selected to teach—at long last.”
“What’s ethnology?” she said, obviously not really caring.
He recited, “Ethnology, the branch of anthropology which utilizes the data furnished by ethnography, the recording of living cultures, and archaeology, to analyze and compare the various cultures of mankind. In short, social anthropology which evolves broader generalizations based partly on the findings of the other social sciences.”
“Wizard. A real jazzer. Now I know. What’s anthropology?”
“The science of man and his works,” he said briefly. “I specialize in pre-Columbian Mexican cultures, sub-specialization, the Aztecs, sub-subspecialization, the Aztecs at the time of the Spanish conquest.”
She squirmed, allowing the sheet to drop to the point where one well-rounded breast peeked out. “Well, why do you bother? From what you say, they turned you down on your first job-muster time. They must have, if you’re your age. You must be over thirty. Your chances of being picked up for a job at a later muster are on the slim side, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice low. He thought about it and when he spoke again his voice was lemonish. “I suppose it’s the educational system we have now. From practically kindergarten they begin seeking out your interests and abilities, testing, testing, testing. With me, it came out early, a special tendency toward history and the other social sciences. By the time I was in high school, I began concentrating on archaeology and anthropology. It became the dominating interest in my life. And the further I went, the more of a driving force it was. So, why did I continue to study, even after taking my doctorate, and failing to be selected in the yearly job muster? I wanted to teach, or work in field expeditions. I wanted to utilize all that I had developed to such an extent. I ate, breathed and slept anthropology.”
“But they turned you down,” she said reasonably, letting the sheet slip down to the point where both of her greatest claims to transcendent beauty were exposed. “So what spins?”
He shrugged in irritation. “The academician degree is all but a guarantee of a teaching job. They’re so difficult to take now, the requirements are so stiff that you’re almost automatically selected for teaching by the data-banks computers, if you have one.”
“What’s holding it up?” she said, displeased because he was ignoring her obviously available charms.
“I haven’t been able to find an acceptable subject for a dissertation. I’m still a candidate, but my director keeps turning down every subject of research I dream up.” He looked over at her. “What do you do, Nora?”
She said, “I don’t do anything. When I got out of school and the computers came up with my Ability Quotient, I was evidently best suited to be a secretary. So were about five million other girls who were placed on the job-muster list. I must have wound up pretty near the bottom. And they only selected about fifty thousand that year. It’s a job category rapidly going out, what with these new autosecretaries. So I just collect my Universal Guaranteed Income and work at having a good time.”
“I see. Along with nine-tenths of the rest of the country.”
“So they say.”
In actuality, the subject irritated him, though he couldn’t exactly put his finger on the reason. He switched the line of conversation. “What happened to you and Jim? I thought you were tied up together rather firmly.”
Pretending to be bothered by the heat, she pushed the bedsheet completely from her, revealing belly, hips, the pubic area and her very good legs. Ted Swain had been right. She wasn’t a true blond.
She said, offhandedly, “Oh, Jim is the great-sportsman type. Hunting, fishing and all. He was always hauling me along. I’m more a guzzle, bed, fun-and-games type. So finally I told him to shirk off.” She looked at him from the side of her eyes. “Talking about fun and games, do you know any more of those fancy Indian positions?”
He laughed and swung his long, scrawny legs out of the bed and to the floor. “Ever so many, but you’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve been in bed too late as it is. You can have the bathroom first. I’ll start getting some breakfast organized.”
She pouted slightly but accepted the rejection. There would undoubtedly be other occasions to enjoy the far-out innovations of the accomplished professor, or whatever he was.
She said, “You mean you cook your own breakfast? What’s the matter with the automated kitchens, or the autochef over at the restaurant?”
“Too automated,” he said, reaching for his robe.
She got up too. On her bare feet, he realized how truly small she was. In bed, she had seemed taller, and the day before, when he had picked her up, she had been wearing rather high-heeled Cretan Revival slippers.
She said, “The thing about an autochef is, you get perfect food every time.”
“That’s the thing, all right,” he told her, defending his hobby as an amateur chef. “Exactly the same thing, every time. Perfection, in every recipe on the tapes. For me, I like a little variety. I like my scrambled eggs slightly softer or slightly harder, from day to day. I even don’t mind them burned, occasionally, just to prove that all isn’t automated and perfect in present-day society. Now shirk off to the bathroom.”
She laughed and hurried in that direction, her pink bottom jiggling so girlishly that he momentarily considered reversing his decision to start early at his studies. But no. When you are your own disciplinarian, with nobody else to see that you keep your nose to the old grindstone, you can’t afford to make exceptions. After a time, they cease being exceptions.
Ted headed for his kitchen. He was going to whomp her up a breakfast she’d never forget. How about eggs in Malaga wine and black butter? It was his own recipe.
In actuality, Nora wasn’t his usual cup of tea. She was completely amoral and, in her time, had probably been in bed with every man in the community.