Chapter 1: Moses and Marilyn

Visualize a set of externally Glorian main buildings, set in beautiful grounds, that are the core of a private hospital. Their interiors, at least for clinical and research purposes, are ultramodern, as are assorted newer buildings connected with them. Some very creative architects managed to avoid conflict among the styles.

The Main Dining Room was in one of the two large Glorian buildings that made up most of the active treatment part of the hospital. After dinner one Sunday evening, as Marilyn Everson, RN, BSN, MSN (Psych), walked back to her room, she was intercepted by a smiling Sharon Skipper, RN, BSN, MPH, MPA. Sharon was Acting Director of Nursing for one of the finest mental hospitals in the nation, permanently the Associate Director of Nursing (Research). The facility, mercifully known as Moses, had been formally named, when created in the nineteenth century, the Moses Farmer Asylum for the Amelioration of Insanity. Marilyn, while as credentialed as Sharon, was a patient, although under flexible conditions that one might associate with a halfway house.

“Marilyn, are you busy, or could you meet with a few people for coffee, dessert, and conversation?” Given that the kitchen was mostly closed on Sunday night, serving such traditional delights as fried bologna, Marilyn was eager for any culinary alternative. Coupled with a friendly invitation but was even more encouraged to do so when she took a closer look at Sharon. During the tenure of her predecessor, the former director and possible dragon insisted on traditional starchy nurse uniforms. She retired suddenly when the last of a bloc of legislation, liberating from the intrusion of political evangelicals, was passed.

Sharon’s appearance was not at all inappropriate, but it was quite a change from the rules of the former director. She wore a white lab coat, of a soft conforming material, the lower buttons of which were open. Marilyn always was amused that few lab scientists actually wore lab coats if there was any danger of stains or corrosives. For such occasions, they wore plastic aprons, and sometimes scrubs.

As the coat flapped, it revealed a gray short skirt and white-stockinged legs. Marilyn looked further and noted that rather than white work shoes, Sharon wore heeled pumps, still appropriate for an office.

“Sharon, a pair of redheads like us should be able to go anywhere.” Marilyn was the true redhead, with a long cascade of hair of molten copper. Sharon had less dramatic, auburn hair that dropped below her shoulders. “Give me a couple of minutes, though.” Just on a hunch, Marilyn went to her room to freshen her makeup. She reflected that bisexuality doubled the chance of having a weekend date. Sharon had bee professionally off-limits, but something told her that might be changing. Sitting on the bed, she pulled up her skirt and replaced pantyhose with cinnamon-tinged thigh-highs and a red spandex bustier, finishing off with red patent heels, four-inch pumps just acceptable in an office. She decided against ankle-strapped come-fuck-me (CFM) shoes.

They went into an enclosed corridor that took them to the Education & Research Building, where several senior staff had their offices. Marilyn was to learn that a wing of the building also contained apartments.

Evan, Doug, Lisa, Gloria, and the Owners

When Marilyn and Sharon arrived at the meeting room, they were greeted by several people, starting with George Campbell Goodbread, MD, PhD, MPH. “Thanks for joining us, Marilyn. I’m George to you now, or, as some of my colleagues insist on calling me, Toaster. We asked you here to be part of a group that’s reinventing us as an institution, especially since the damn Evangelicals’ politicized puritanism has been ended.

“We build on the acceptance of sexual therapy. Our focus is on a subset of patients that variously are actually hypersexual or have an extreme obsession with sex. Our goal is to reduce unproductive focus while keeping up a full sex life. We use a range of methods from more or less conventional psychotherapy to help people build their identity and feel accepted, to drug therapy, to addressing trauma with methods related to eye motion desensitization reprocessing (EMDR), to the bleeding edge things. The Bonobo saturates the people with gently, positive, and frequent sexual contact. The Workman Project, being developed by a collaborative team that may merge with us, on acting on sexuality.”

Much to Marilyn’s surprise, he was in Scots-inspired business dress, with a tweed jacket, kilt, and knee hose revealing what appeared to be nice masculine legs. It hadn’t impressed on her before that this academic psychiatrist had the body of a Scots warrior, well over six feet tall with piercing blue eyes, and red hair matching hers. She liked it.

“You know Sharon. You know, of course, Charlie Faulkner, another example of how we aren’t making sharp distinctions between patients and staff. Formally, he’s SJ, PhD, LLM, and is our ethicist and general adviser. Marilyn knew that Charlie was trying very hard to be an ex-Jesuit, although ideally keeping his academic appointments. He had found that women were irresistible to him, and vice versa. Charlie had no interest in young people unless they had the intellectual maturity not to seem young. While he was at least in his fifties or even older. Often, Charlie was called a silver fox, or looking out of an ad for fifty-year-old liquor. In presence, if not hair, he reminded Marilyn of Captain Jean-Luc Picard from Star Trek: The New Generation.

“You haven’t met other members of our team. Evan Casswell, PhD, is a social anthropologist that studies proxemics – interactions involving, at least, distance and time, as well as culture-specific decision-making, in the group created by Edward T. Hall. Tall and sandy-haired, he was pleasantly preppy-looking in a blue oxford shirt, khaki trousers, and penny loafers. “Please don’t hate me for being excessively Ivy League. I’ll try to be flexible.”

“Doug Zapata is our social psychologist, who looks at how our actions affect our own group. The team assumed that bonobos required very close contact distance, usually involving contact. Their time perception was an open issue. Of course, none of these needed to map exactly to human adaptations.

Two women stood for introductions. “Hi. I’m Lisa Demming, chief of Medical Oncology at Franciscan Veterinary Center in Boston. I also head the human-animal bond program.” Its activities range from mucking out the stall of a patient, to interacting with the most elegant of Siamese cats. One must be careful to be sure if one’s leg is being pulled, as in responding to “look at that naked red-headed bitch running across the lawn” to find an Irish Setter.

When she sat down and took off her coat, in addition to her obvious intellect, Dr. Demming was a quite attractive blonde. Her day-to-day outfit might be a white coat over business clothes or scrubs or assorted clinical garments. “My colleague here is Gloria Ngalulu, a postdoctoral fellow with a DVM and a PhD. She studied at the Hominid Psychology research group, on the social models of Bonobo apes.” Dr. Ngalulu was a tall woman, with a formal expression until she broke into a huge smile. Both women do enough large animal and field work to be in excellent physical condition. “I should add that I am of the Ndembu-Lunda people and have undergone the women’s Nganga ritual.”

“Let us make Bonobo style greetings to one another.” She and Gloria hugged, patting one another’s posteriors. Evan and Greg did the same, and then Evan switched with Lisa and Greg with Gloria.

Lisa and Gloria stood. They wore form-fitting dresses, not extreme, but perhaps comparable to Fox News personalities, with the variant of having brains. “I know, I know,” Lisa observed. “I’m a blonde. I’m a natural one, though. My clothes can stay on for the moment, but I do have a landing strip where I’m not bare. No, for us, that is not too much information. Yes, the two of us will change to overtly sexy in a bit.”

With that, a very determined blue point Siamese, rippling muscles along with his intelligence, appeared, from the feline dimension. He head-butted her, rubbed against Gloria in obvious approval, and emitted a firm ROW. “Thank you, Winston. Does anyone wish to argue with him?” Both women faced George and thrust their chests in one approximation of bonobo bust bumping, with what appeared to be larger bosoms than any ape.

Winston, clearly identifying himself as the Master of the House, assumed a lion pose. Entering, Benjamin, an orange tabby, carefully sniffed everyone in the room, assessing emotions. There was a widespread assumption that the little operations they had had as kittens didn’t interfere with their empathic connection to human sexuality. The two carefully CAT-scanned Marilyn, indicating approval.

“The project here, for social and political reasons, won’t be high-visibility, but is a real human experiment to see if we can adopt any bonobo practices to avoid conflict and, where necessary, deescalate among humans. If you know anything of bonobos, that will mean that the approach involves lots of sex. We have to modify that if we are going to get anything done in our industrialized society.

“Let’s start by demonstrating some bonobo-based interactions.” Lisa and Gloria turned to one another and began to tap and stroke one another with their fingertips. The first pass covered neck to waist in front. Next, they embraced. “Bonobos are the only known nonhumans that do face-to-face sex.” They nuzzled and kissed. “Only humans, though, are sufficiently obligate bipeds that they enjoy standing leg sex.” They thrust legs forward, paused, and raised their skirts so nothing would block moving thighs between one another, rubbing in a standing form of tribadism. We could sense not just sexuality, but psychic communications among them.

George and the plan

George told Marilyn, “I have the most Principal Investigator and project management experience, so I’m to be the external face. We learn from bonobo society, which is matriarchical. Thus, we want a woman running our operations. This is Sharon’s role. Marilyn, we’d like to have you join us.”

“Am I correct, George, that the people in the project are along the lines of what anthropologists call participant observers?”

“Outstanding insight. Yes.

Lisa began to elaborate. “Their society makes love, not war. I contrast to baboons, a disciplined military organization, and chimpanzees, the only primate besides man that commits premeditated murder.

“They use sex and physical contact as a social lubricant. It’s not exactly translatable to human society, but we can learn. With the rejection, societal and legal, of the wretched political evangelical, we have much more scope. Still, it’s unwise to be too visible.

Sharon picked up the discussion. “Everything in their society is consensual. We do that as well. I advise against the younger people exploring D/s. If you join us, it will look like a graduate student of the hospital, with personal treatment. You’ll get an apartment and a stipend.

“I’ll leave you to get into detail, but I know that your early trauma began with unwelcome touching. In our approach, there is a great deal of touching. It’s rather constant and open. Bonobos build trust that way. We try to do so as well. Yes, the touching often goes to sex with them, and it probably will with humans. Anytime anyone is uncomfortable, it needs to be discussed, probably in a group, at once. Consensuality is everything.

“Are you in?”

“Hell, yes!”

“In that case, some introductions.” Sharon stood, removed her lab coat, and struck a model pose. Her suit proved to be sexily tailored. Yes, they were white nurse stockings, now revealing very nice legs below a short skirt. She shrugged out of the jacket to reveal a soft cardigan over almost certainly braless breasts. “They’re smaller than yours, but I think they still turn eyes. For the record, I’m bi. To varying extents, that’s true of everyone here.”

Marilyn found herself growing excited. “I’m bi enough that my eyes are turning, and my hands reaching.”

“Bonobos do lots of body rubbing as well as fondling. May I introduce myself bonobo-style?” Her voice was hoarse. As they embraced, they began to kiss. Marilyn insinuated her thigh between Sharon’s.

Breathing hard, they broke apart. “I hope we feel as close as people and as horny. OK, I must ask, you, George, what is worn under your kilt?”

“Nothing is worn under the kilt, lassie. It’s all in perfectly fine working order. I can simply tell you, but would an experiential answer not be more informative?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Marilyn marched over and lifted the kilt to his hips, which proved to be bare.

George reached to her skirt, raising it. “Geese and ganders.” Her hand danced on his groin, as he quickly grew hard.

He laughed. “As far as geese, I should emphasize that the organization will not tolerate exploitation. All are equal. Pressure gets instant response.”

“Speaking of response...” Marilyn knelt briefly and took George into her mouth. “Tasty. But would bonobos do this longer than a few moments just as socializing?”

“No, not really. I delight in quick oral contact during the day, but also going to completion often enough. It’s what feels right. Later, I shall explore the fastenings of your undergarment.”

“To continue, Greg Kinski is our lab expert, who also does wildlife photography. That complements Millie and Max, who you’ll meet in a moment, with studio photography. We’re all flexible, but he leans to the gay, which gives some special bonobo insights.”

“I’ve been finding some of myself in art photography, so that might be another way to connect, Greg.”

After lightly kissing George and Sharon, Greg continued, “Realize that I’m a nonbinary human, technically a primate but without experience in their bodies. Quite a few athletes, especially in baseball, adjust and scratch their crotches, maybe to help their performance, but mostly because it feels good and they can get away with it.

“My guess is that the penis-rubbing common among male bonobos is like this. Some gay men do things close to it, but it’s really not a common sex act, as opposed to penetration or manual manipulation. You never know, though, what makes the bonobos tick.

“I did see some younger gay men watch a video of bonobos doing that and were inspired to a phallic version of the Monty Python fish-slapping dance. Bonobos do seem to have at least some sense of humor. We’ll talk more of photography with Millie and Max.

“Anyway, Marilyn, watch some video of them and other acts.

Marilyn herself

“Greg, that’s complicated for me. I have to admit that I like watching gay porn. Some gay friends trust me to watch their pleasure.”

“Absolutely, Marilyn. This is the sort of sex positivity we encourage. I like athletes and dancers. We have them of all plumbing. With this group, I’m fine sharing MM.

“I tried it, though, and bonobo-style cock rubbing just feels weird. Their butt-rubbing seems more interesting. For various genders. But I can wag my weenie for you.”

“I’ll take you up on it. Seriously, you’re helping me understand a very experimental society here. Speaking of butt-rubbing...” She walked to Greg, turned around, and wiggled her buttocks against his groin. She whispered, “If you want to get bi but keep up some gay traditions, I do enjoy things from the rear.” That got an extra wiggle.

“All of you have been so open with me. I should talk about myself. Sharon, at least, knows something of how I came to Moses and what has happened since. I’d imagine that George knows things from his role. None of you have pressured me.

“After I started working professionally, I found myself sometimes going through the motions and being effective but wasn’t really sure who I was. My own education led me to some suspicions. Part of that had to do with conflicts