`You slut,' Osterflood said just a bit louder. `You juicy-jointed sewer. Shit-slitted slut. Slime-oozing whore.'

Gina was fumbling with the belt and then one side of her feather skirt and after a moment or two; the skirt dropped like a guillotine to the floor at her feet. She was now totally nude. A long lovely scar ran down the back of one thigh.

`You bitch!' Osterflood screamed, 'and he staggered woozily to his feet and wobbled uncertainly for several seconds. There was a scream from the TV screen and I glanced idly over to see one of the Americans pick up one of the peasants and throw him onto a manure pile where another peasant could be seen struggling ineffectually.

I turned back just in time to see Osterflood grab Gina's curly dark hair and throw her back onto the couch. She bounced once, in segments, and then sat quietly, her large brown eyes looking vacantly at the ceiling.

`Feces!' shouted Osterflood. `Female feces!' I smiled friendlily over at her.

`It's going to be a nice evening,' I said pleasantly.

Chapter Eighty-one

I have been a woman on hundreds of occasions: in my dice life, group dice therapy and in our Dice Centers. I've usually enjoyed myself thoroughly. The only time I haven't enjoyed being a woman is when people have thought I was a man. For example, my experience with the Cleveland Brown defensive tackle (he used to be a truck driver - of Good Humor Ice Cream trucks) was at first unrewarding because he wanted me to be a man and I thought he was a man. Confusion of roles is always difficult.

I found that being a woman physically was more difficult than being one socially and psychologically. Sexually it was a big disappointment. I simply don't have the right equipment to enjoy being laid. It is much more pleasant in bed to play a passive `feminine' role with an aggressive `masculine' woman than with a real man. The pump of a penis in the anus is, to be precise, a pain in the ass. The feel of a nice hot prick moiling in one's mouth is certainly an experience that everyone should try, but is for me one of the minor sexual pleasures. The flood of hot semen into the mouth is pleasing enough if one takes any pride at all in one's work, but it is at best a psychological pleasure rather than a physical one. Choking on over-salted soup is not my idea of sensuous bliss, but I admit my limitations.

The appeal of being a woman - at least for me - lies in the freshness of the experience and in the passivity, the masochistic passivity I might even say. There is something basic in wanting to be dominated by a superior creature #161;whether man or Die. Responding to men respectfully and passively has never been my majority nature, but the times the Die has ordered me to play a woman have uncovered the latent slave in me.

And certainly being a woman is absolutely basic for every man in our society. And vice versa for women. The human is built to imitate, and every male has stored within him a thousand female gestures, phrases, attitudes and acts which long to be expressed, but are buried in the name of masculinity. It is a tragic loss. Perhaps the single greatest contribution of our Dice Centers is that they create an environment which encourages the expression of all roles; it encourages bisexuality. One might even more honestly say full sexuality, were honesty one of our virtues.

I have been a woman on hundreds of occasions and I recommend that every other healthy, red-blooded American man be one too.

Chapter Eighty-two

Dicemasters train young people as well as old. Two Dicemasters each had a child prodigy. One child, going to buy bubble-gum at the store each morning, would often meet the other going to the same place.

`Where are you going?' the first asked one day.

`I'm going wherever my dice fall,' the other responded.

This reply stopped the first child, who immediately went back to his Dicemaster for help. `Tomorrow morning,' Jake Ecstein told him, `when you meet that smart aleck, ask him the same question. He'll give you the same answer, and then you ask him: "Suppose you have no dice, then where are you going?"

That'll fix him.'

The children met again the next morning.

`Where are you going?' asked the first child.

'I'm going wherever the wind blows,' answered the other.

This reply also stopped the youngster, who hurried back to his Dicemaster.

`Ask him tomorrow where he's going if there's no wind. That'll fix him.'

The next day the children met a third time.

`Where are you going?' asked the first child.

`I'm going to the store to buy bubblegum,' the other replied.

from The Book of the Die

Chapter Eighty-three

`Daddy? Why do I have to brush my teeth every day?'

the little girl asked.

`Try this new tube I've got for you, Suzie, and you'll never ask that question again.'

[Close-up of a big long tube of Glare Toothpaste]

But I had to look away because Gina was kneeling on the floor, her hands tied behind her back with her bra, and

Osterflood, with his pants and undershorts bunched at his feet but still dressed in white shirt, tie and suit jacket, was thrusting with his erect, pink weapon at her mouth, cursing her at every poke. I felt I was watching a slow-motion movie showing some huge piston at work, but some flaw in the machinery resulted in the rod's seeming frequently to miss the wide-open mouth which Gina, large-eyed and expressionless, was presenting. Osterflood's sword of vengeance against the female race kept sliding past her cheek or her neck or poking her in the eye. Whenever she would seem to have a good mouthful (she would close her eyes then), Osterflood would withdraw, raging, and thrust away sporadically, redoubling his curses. It wasn't clear whether he hated her more when she sucked him in or when he missed contact and bounced painfully off her forehead. In both cases he seemed like a movie director enraged because she, the actress, didn't mouth her lines correctly.

`Ahhggg! How I hate you,' he yelled and lurched forward and collapsed onto the couch beside me. I smiled over at

him.

He struggled sideways into a sitting position.

`Undress me, you disgusting, filthy hole,' he said loudly.

A cute, frightened peasant girl had joined the number-one earnest American and was pleading with him passionately

about her corn crop. Without any apparent effort, Gina freed her hands and dropped the bra back onto the rug next to

her skirt and sweater and the buttons and the pipe and came to the couch to undress him.

`Get me a drink,' he shouted to no one in particular as Gina tried to slide his pants over his shoes and off. She stood

and said `Sure, honey. You want some acid?'

`I just want your ass, you sink!' he shouted after her.

`It's for the good of your country,' the firm TV voice said.

Osterflood's sword was melting into an arch at the moment but mine wasn't. My body was tingling all over pleasantly and I had to adjust my .38 and my other rod (semi-automatic), to make all continue tingling pleasantly. I wondered how Osterflood could keep his hands off those breasts and buttocks and I deeply resented all his talking and his abominable aim.

He gulped down the drink she brought him while she slowly untied and removed each of his shoes and the CIA man drove a tractor and then on her knees in front of him she removed his necktie, unbuttoned one by one the buttons of his shirt and - all in a slow-motion movie which I watched as if it were a faithful newsreel of the Second Coming #161;she had just managed to slide the second sleeve of his shirt down off his left arm (the peasants I could hear were cheering now and I glanced briefly to catch a glimpse of a forest of white, toothy grins), when Osterflood's huge, muscular arms loomed out, closed around her, his face plowed into her face and his mouth sunk into her mouth.