“Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator”—Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors
Heaven, which after first a single, then a second, much more substantial upgrade—was where everyone in the infosea went to see, be seen, and dance and dance and dance and dance (etc).
And the focus of all those thousands of those twitchingly-aroused, boiling-hot, lustfully-fuming partiers—whose bubbling ecstasies lifted them higher and higher, twirled them faster and faster, caressed them more and more—was the magnificently dynamic, boisterously joyful, chromatically-coiffed, sensually-riveting, sexually-mesmerizing, erotically-enthralling diva-diety named Roho.
But whether wittily traipsing at the metaphysical edge of some obscurely esoteric philosophy, weaving disturbingly intricate constructs out of the infosea’s algorithmically stitched substance, or frolicking as if the cosmos itself was desperately trying not to trod on their exquisite feet, Rohop had a deep, dark secret.
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Then while flickering with mad sensual energy along the infosea’s golden-arched paths, leaping across wispy tufts and over the knotted bodies of Heaven 2.0’s lustful souls, caring only for how many kisses they could give, receive, or exchange while they bounced and flounced in blindingly high arcs—came a beat, a pause, a shockingly quick break, and Rohop wasn’t moving to some cosmologically sensual drummer, the universe’s sexually pulsing rhythm, but for the first time, only to their own virtual heart.
Just like that, Rohop was ensnared, entrapped, and entangled by four pairs of sparkling eyes set in four captivating faces suspended above four hypnotically alluring bodies.
Thus, Rohop met Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle.
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Shara Lee, with eyes of flecked, spinning gold, is he of intricately interwoven muscles, baskets of strength, bushels of passion, and buckets of sparklingly silver sweat with whom Rohop spun in looping orbits.
Zeno (only Zeno), with a smoky burst of ashen grey hair; she of elegance and grace, overflowing with sensuality, an overabundance of sexuality, and (practically) overwhelming sultriness who Rohop pranced with.
Parthian Mot, with a radioactive smile and a glowing grin, was a zee of infinite energy, inexhaustible enthusiasm, and an immeasurable spirit, whom Rohop beamed in conjunction with.
Babis McTalle, with a frothy laugh and a universally giddy demeanor, hir of magnetic charisma, magnificent allure, and magnanimous desirability, who Rohop bellowed in concert with.
First one by one, then as pairs, triads, and quads: Shara Lee plus Rohop times Zeno to the power of Parthian Mot squared with Babis McTalle, totaling erotic mathematics computed by infinite excitements.
But as Rohop’s pleasure magnified, so did its opposite: excitations marred by equal amounts of anxiety, thrills accompanied by a similar measure of worry, every lustful burst supplemented by the same amount of paralyzing dread.
Because Rohop secretly wasn’t one person but four: the illegal result of Ze Gopala, the playfully wrinkled, perpetually-grinning, flamingo-haired professor of advanced pataphysics at NeoTechnic University; Shridevi (just Shridevi) the elegantly gaunt, always-slyly smiling, mathematical artist; Des Annisa, the hypnotically alluring, eternally beaming, polished bronze-eyed freefall ballerina; and Peel Ion, the ruggedly warm complexioned, continually-laughing, vigorously-built potatokelp farmer merging their consciousnesses to created the singularly multiplexed entity everyone knew and loved as Rohop.
Whose combined minds puzzled, fretted, distressed: To tell or not to tell? To reveal or not reveal? To confess or flee? To hide the truth, even from Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle, who Rohop instinctually knew were more than playmates, greater than lovers?
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Then, as suddenly as Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle appeared, they disappeared into Heaven 2.0’s digital ether, leaving behind the hint of the barest, tiniest trace of their existence.
Save, that is, for a stream of elegant code, a packet of ornate data, winding in front of Rohop’s quivering eyes:
“Farewell, our center, our sun—what could have been our beginning but (weeping, weeping, weeping) is sadly our end, for we cannot be together while my shame holds us apart.”
No! Rohop’s despair was a wave crashing against their conjoined minds, threatening to fracture them into four bits and four pieces of awful sorrow; no, no, no, no, should have told them everything!
Through their digitally replicated tears, words swimming in and out of their synthetic focus, the message continued:
“We’ve been lying to you … no, not we, but I haven’t been honest, that Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle aren’t individuals but parts of my mind—separated, split apart, and given virtual form.”
“No!” Rohop roared, their consciousness splintering. “No, no, no, no!”
“Forgive me, Rohop, my love,” as the note crumbled, its last remaining ones and zeros vanishing. “You deserve someone who’ll never be ashamed of who—and what—they truly are.
Image Sources: M.Christian
