Jurassic Park is one of those crazy things that seems to have existed long before the instant it existed. Part cultural landmark, part theme-park ride, and above all it’s a perfect storm of dudes saying #actually to anyone who’ll listen. With the possible exception of The Name of the Rose, you’d be hard pressed to find a greater testament to the dramatic power of mansplaining. Yet high above it all stands Dr. Ian Malcolm, cool and disinterested in the inevitable doom his mathemagical formulae predict. So, too, this story from our JP show rises above the action to coolly comment upon it all.—Casey
It was the very early nineties, and renowned chaos theorist Ian Malcolm was putting his favorite Deee-Lite CD into his Discman as he slowly bled to death in a medical evacuation helicopter. Groove was in his heart, but also a ton of morphine, which the paramedics had given him on account of his getting mauled by a dinosaur. Being cool, he’d let the two helicopter pilots crush his fentanyl lollypops and snort them off his dick just before takeoff, and now they were all tripping balls. Let me tell you it was some good shit. The sky was singing, the air was laughing, and they were all beginning to smell the texture of the walls.
“Would anyone like another opiate-fueled lecture on fractals?” Ian Malcolm offered. His words danced through the air, leaving pulsing trails of light and color.
Instead of answering, one of the pilots, a busty brunette whose pupils had dilated to the size of coffee mugs, flashed Dr. Malcolm a seductive grin and slid the zipper of her jumpsuit down to her waist. She wore nothing underneath. The other pilot, a well-muscled daddy with a jaw like a granite countertop, did the same thing. Because renowned chaos theorist Ian Malcolm was also a renowned bisexual.
“I’ll tell you about chaos,” Ian Malcolm said. “Chaos is math, but not regular math. Cool math. Math that punches you in the face and steals your little brother’s Ritalin. You see, everything in the universe is connected, but in this fucked-up, passive-aggressive way. Like a butterfly goes to a fisting party in Botswana, and the next morning Kate Bush wakes up on a Montreal city bus with a condom in her ear. Chaos did that. Or, a character fucking dies at the end of a novel and then is somehow the protagonist in the sequel.”
The pilots had stopped listening some time ago. They were half naked and exploring each other’s bodies with their mouths. The male pilot cupped one of the female pilot’s breasts, teasing her large brown nipple with his tongue. Dr. Malcolm wasn’t sure if it was the copulation or the recent talk of math, but blood was suddenly rushing to his dick. He grew light-headed as his cock sprang to life, and the atmosphere in the helicopter seemed to shiver and gleam. Strange shapes passed before his eyes, and when his vision cleared the world had changed.
“This is probably the drugs talking,” Ian Malcolm said, “but did you just turn into Counselor Troi from Star Trek: The Next Generation?”
“Oh my God,” said the male pilot. “She did!”
“I sensed that I was turning into someone,” said the female pilot, who suddenly was season two Counselor Troi, in her low-cut burlap catsuit and sexy, eggplant-shaped up-do.
“What about me?” the male pilot asked. “Am I turning into anyone?”
“You are!” exclaimed Counselor Troi. “You’re turning into teen heartthrob Joey Lawrence from the current hit TV show Blossom!”
“Whoa!” said Joey Lawrence. No one was flying the helicopter.
Ian Malcolm gazed lustfully at Joey Lawrence, his eyes dancing over the young man’s supple bronze skin and feathered pseudo-mullet. He was like a Greek statue of a lesbian tennis player. But was he also a little too young?
As if he could read Ian Malcolm’s mind, Joey Lawrence spoke the sweetest sentence known to humankind: “I’m exactly the age of consent in the Central American dictatorship we’re currently flying over.” Then he knelt and swallowed Ian Malcolm’s leaky meat pole all the way to the hilt.
“I’m sensing my gash is totally wet,” said Counselor Troi. She stepped out of her uniform, mounted the gurney, and mashed her sopping pussy against Ian Malcolm’s mouth. If you’ve never encountered a Betazoid vagina, it’s a thing of wonder and beauty. It is a deep, cleansing well of silken mystery, an unfurling lotus made of sunlight and birdsong and children’s prayers. Ian Malcolm lapped at it like a greedy kitten, savoring the tangy alien jizz that coated his lips and mouth. As he sucked away at her goo pot, he felt her moist minge sucking back, grabbing teasingly at his tongue. Counselor Troi had been doing her space Kegels.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the gurney, Joey Lawrence tongued his way from Ian Malcolm’s balls to the tiny pink furrow of his tender man passage, by which I mean his butthole. He fingered a gob of spit into it.
“Fuck me, Joey Lawrence,” said Dr. Malcolm.
Joey Lawrence’s cock was thick and manly and impressively veined, but it also curved sharply to the left an inch below the tip, because life is chaos. He thrust his turgid spoo hose into Dr. Malcolm’s quivering under-mouth. All around them, medical equipment squawked and hollered, as Dr. Malcolm’s vital signs fluctuated dangerously, but nobody heard.
“I’m sensing you’ve never been sounded before,” Counselor Troi said.
“I don’t know what that is,” said Dr. Malcolm. “But I don’t think you’re actually psychic…”
“Shhhh,” said Counselor Troi. “No words. Only feelings.” From somewhere beneath the gurney, she produced an eight-inch steel wand and a tube of surgical lubricant. She greased the wand and pressed its rounded tip against Dr. Malcolm’s pee hole.
“You’re going to like this,” she said.
Ian Malcolm felt his piss slit pull apart as she nudged the wand gently into the head of his cock. He shuddered, and his velvety fuck cavern clamped down around Joey Lawrence’s cock. Counselor Troi inched the sound deeper, deeper into Dr. Malcolm’s urethra. The feeling of his dick expanding from the inside out was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and also it burned a little. Joey Lawrence gave a sudden, wild buck of his hips, his baby cannon punching to the farthest recesses of Dr. Malcolm’s sweet, sweet love gutter. The wand slid deeper.
The pleasure was mounting, mounting, until it was almost unbearable. But the feeling of ecstasy overtaking Ian Malcolm wasn’t coming from his dick or his ass; it was coming from all around him. The world was collapsing into a field of light, and he felt the invisible filaments that tethered him to his body strain and break.
Suddenly he could see himself, sweaty and impaled on Joey Lawrence’s frantically thrusting cum hammer, as if from above. He was leaving, letting go of everything that had once meant so much to him, like math and Jheri Curl and black leather jackets. He was walking, no soaring into a brilliant light, while somewhere far behind him Joey Lawrence and Counselor Troi shrieked in ecstasy. He wondered at what point the pilots would stop fucking his body, and he hoped they would at least get off, because they would probably be court-martialed, and they deserved a moment of happiness first.
Even as they came to him, these thoughts were hard to hold on to. His consciousness was expanding like a cloud, diffusing, and the connections between ideas were getting harder and harder to make, as he slowly became light, became warmth, became peace.
But don’t worry; he totally comes back for the sequel.