Anthropologist of Gor, Book 1, The Preparations (2)

 

Diary of Dr Claudia Skimmerhorn, Head of Anthropology at Queens College City University of New York

Wednesday, Jan 4, 2017.

I am waiting in my office for a call from the Remote Anthropology Foundation regarding my proposal for a year long Expedition to Gor. The Foundation is small but has money to give away. Or rather they can have access to money for special projects for dangerous expeditions to remote places that other, more standard groups won’t touch. Even more importantly, they can arrange permissions and insurance in a way that no one else can. They arranged Michael Rockefeller’s New Guinea trip in 1961 for example[i].

The call will let me know if our proposal has been accepted to go before the board. Oliver should be here, just as he should have been here to take me to dinner last night. But ‘something came up’. And what came up was Oliver. Well, fuck him. I have done all, or almost all the work on this project. I researched the possibility of getting to Gor, I learned Gorean, both spoken and written, I was the one who made the very risky and dangerous trip to Abydos-Thebes and stayed there for a week to show proof of concept. It is true that Oliver figured out the scroll and helped find the site on Earth to which I had to travel. But he did not accompany me to the leaving site on Earth or even help financially. Now he stands to benefit as much academically from this as I do, and as I wait for the most important academic phone call of my career[ii] he is not here!

I am steamed particularly because of the reason Oliver is not here. Dr Oliver McQueen is not here because his teaching assistant Denni needs his help. When he called in the late afternoon yesterday to cancel our dinner date for that evening, he told me,

“Denni has reached a tough spot in putting her MA thesis materials together and really needs my help. I know you will understand how important mentoring is to a young person at this stage of her career.”

I understand exactly how much such mentoring can help because I didn’t get any. It was on offer at a price I didn’t care to pay to the old lecherous goats who offered it. Besides, I had just met Joe Hoffman and he would have thrown a fit if I accepted such mentoring. What I would have done if I wasn’t in a new relationship with Joe: I don’t know. Some of the lecherous goats were not that old, and some were quite attractive. Denni, with an e and an I with a little circle over it, is twenty-two and blonde. She is also whip-smart, even if she lacks some common sense. She no more needs Oliver’s help with organization her research than she would need his help to apply her makeup, of which she wears too much.

Denielle McCord, not Danielle that would be too ordinary, does not need Oliver to advance her career. She wants him to prove that she can get him. I understand that some young women gravitate to offer themselves to older, powerful men; it seems to be a law of nature. Despite the current climate, I don’t think University Administrations can or should censure such relationships. As long as there is no or little coercion, there seems nothing wrong in it: legislating against it seems to be trying to stand in the way of nature. Despite nasty rumors, a pedagogical relationship was not why Joe and I got divorced. It is just that Sallee was so, so, so stupid. Even with his help, she flunked out. Joe and I are still friends and share some healthy bedroom exercise from time to time.

**

            One thing that resulted from being stood up by Oliver was that I was home at 9pm when Clara tried to sneak out.  Her school starts back tomorrow, so there is no way I was letting her go out that late on a school night. Which is incredibly hypocritical of me, because I grew up in the 80s, and we were practically feral, our parents were never sure exactly where we were, and I was sneaking into Clubs when I was 15. But these are different times. Clara was not pleased. She wanted to share a ‘good-by’ with her current boyfriend, Tyrone O’Neal. I forbid it. We had a real mother-daughter fight. Next fall, she goes off to Yale and can do as she pleases, but for now, I mostly lay down the rules. Clara is a good girl, much less trouble than I was to my own mother, but I don’t trust that Tyrone. I know he will hurt and disappoint her. He is too smooth and polite by half. He always addresses me as Dr Skimmerhorn, and Joe as Dr Hoffman. He has never been anything but decent to Clara, but that just means he hasn’t been found out yet. Tyrone is off in the morning to return to Choate-Rosemary Hall, his boarding school. Thank heavens that Choate mostly feeds to Harvard while Clara is going to Yale, they will likely be broken up by Thanksgiving, if she does not break up with him before that.

Tyrone is just slick. His grandfather is a famous preacher with a large congregation; he is a bishop in his demonization. His father is a bond-trader; the whole family drips wealth. I met a lot like him in the 80s. One girlfriend in the City, another in the town. The towns around Choate just drip with girls looking to get what they can by hanging around with a Choate boy. Mostly the boys are smart enough not to get them pregnant. And now that Choate-Rosemary Hall is co-ed, he likely has a girlfriend there as well. I am not fooled by his polite, deferential act; even if I have not caught him lying to Clara, or mistreating her, I am sure he has or will.

Joe is taken in by him and thinks he is a ‘nice young man’, and ‘just what Clara needs’. Joe also thinks that they are not having sex. I reminded Joe once, that kids today are not much different from what we were; he disagrees and thinks ‘that no one is having sex now as a teenager’. Joe doesn’t know that I found a discarded empty condom package in Clara’s room. She is normally very tidy; this must have escaped her notice.

Anyway, I wish I had some Gorean siproot. I would like to make some Gorean contraceptive wine. I do have the formula; I found it in Dr Norman’s notes. I will collect some siproot when, or rather if, I get to Gor again. Clara is now in her room. Doubtless she is texting her girlfriends long screeds about her evil witch of a mother and perhaps sending inappropriate photos to Tyrone. I am glad I grew up before cell phones. No pictures, no evidence.

I will work on my laptop in the living room; between Clara’s bedroom and the door of our apartment. Bless you granny for living it to me.

 

 

* *

It is nearly 3pm and I still haven’t received the call from the Foundation as to whether our proposal for the expedition is provisionally accepted and we can go before the board tomorrow (by Zoom) for a final decision. Oliver is still not here. This is unforgivable. The project needs for him to be on-board and to be seen to be on-board. A male co-lead is necessary for any expedition to Gor, there is no way a female-led group to survive on that planet. I truly believe we need to understand the Gorean model of society as it seems many or most people are unhappy under our current arrangements. The mess we have made of our natural world and environment is unsustainable, and the quality of air in Abydos-Thebes was unlike any I have experienced on Earth.

Damn Oliver, where is he! I can forgive him for last night, but I need him today for my work. No, that his not true, I don’t forgive him for last night either. I am angry because he broke our date to spend time with Denni Perfect-tits. Bitch. Denni with an E and an I, with a little circle over the I instead of a tittle. I know things like that, that the dot over a lower case I or J is a tittle. I bet miss Perfect tits doesn’t know that!

The odd thing is that I could have helped Denni much more with her work than Oliver could. True, he is the expert on Greek and Roman, but her research last summer into Roman Theatres in north Africa, and the extent to which they were also used by middle-Eastern fertility cults for their rituals is fascinating, if true. My own MA thesis was on Fertility Cults in the Fertile Crescent 1500 BCE to 700 BCE and was even published to a certain amount of acclaim. But she went running to Oliver. Why can’t these girls leave the middle-aged men to we middle-aged woman? God knows no one else notices us.

After Clara went to her room last night, I sat in the living room of our pre-war co-op, between her and the door. I was lurking on Gorean discussion boards, to see if anything sounded like it might contain genuine eye-witness tidbits of information from Goreans exploring Earth, as I wish to investigate Gor. I didn’t find anything of that nature; it is very rare that I do. But there was one discussion, really a debate that caught my interest.

One poster was positing that when Dr Norman was speaking of pierced-ear girls, he really meant that the enslaved sluts had had their nipples pierced. After all GoreanMaster1978, continued, the puritanical publishers of the 1960s would not have allowed talk of pierced nipples.

(So many of these younger folks have no sense of history, even recent history. They have no idea of how rapidly things changed by the late 50s following the falls of the Chatterley Bans in the US and the UK. The 60s, from what I heard from those who were there were wild, and my reading confirms this. It was in the uptight 90s following the wild 80s that Dr Norman ran into trouble).

            JimmyOfTreve13, countered that when Dr Norman grew up ‘in the old days’, ie the late 40s and early 50s, pierced ears among respectable woman, especially unmarried women, were rare, and a sign that the woman was ‘fast’. Respectable women did not have pierced ears, at least until marriage, and never exposed their navels. That had been what was so shocking about the bikini when the French invented it: the navel was exposed. Ursula Andress’s bikini in 1962’s Dr No, though modest by today’s standards was shocking for the time. So, I tended to agree with JimmyOfTreve13.

However, I could not help torturing myself with images of Oliver and Denni Perfect Tits in his office, Oliver in his tweed jacket and Denni kneeling in front of him, naked with gold rings in her tits, and likely her cunt as well. It pleased and tortured me in equal measure imagining them together like that, but my mind would not let it go. Fortunately, her skill set is not likely to suit her to our mission, should it be approved. I would veto her if she applied. If she accompanied us, the temptation to sell Denni in the market-place would be too great, and in addition to the rift it would cause with Oliver, would likely breach our security if she were ever to be made to talk. The idea of Denni, on the slave block being sold as pierced nipple girl, the lowest of the low pleased me. I pictured her being led around the auction platform by her rings, being forced to display herself brought a grim satisfaction. Little bitch. I would make it happen too, if I didn’t think she would enjoy it.

 

(Later) I put the diary away then as Oliver appeared in my office. I noticed his fly was open. Likely he got a last blowjob from the ring-titted slut just before coming to me. I hated him at that moment. We exchanged stilted greetings as he apologized for being ‘unavoidably detained’. I wanted to scream at him for standing me up last night, but I could not do that. Even Heads of Departments, when women, have to appear ‘lady-like’ to preserve the peace. Fortunately just then my phone rang.

“Ms Skimmerhorn, is Dr McQueen there? It is the Remote Anthropology Foundation.”

I put the call on speaker.

“Dr McQueen, Ms Skimmerhorn? We are pleased to inform you that your proposal has been provisionally accepted and will go before the full board tomorrow. Please have Zoom installed on your computers and be ready at 10am tomorrow morning.  Thank you.

I was so pleased that I didn’t even object to the ‘Ms’ Skimmerhorn or the 10am ‘in the morning’. When did she think it was? 10am in the afternoon? Oliver and I embraced ecstatically. I could feel his cock rising against my leg. For the time being at least, Denni Perfect Tits was forgotten for now.

---

[i] In 1961, Governor Nelson Rockefeller’s twenty-two year old son Michael Rockefeller disappeared, officially by drowning, off the coast of New Guinea from a boat, part of an expedition with anthropologist Rene Wassing. There are many conspiracy theories as to why they were there, and what “really happened”, including the inevitable CIA connections

[ii] The most important since I got the call that my PhD thesis was accepted at least.