Tristan & Isolde © by All Muenzler 1997
All Rights Reserved

TRISTAN   AND   ISOLDE

by:   Allan Muenzler aka Vonbek

Foreword by jilli:
When I read this story I asked the author, VonBek, to give us an explanation of why he wrote it as he did. It is one very long sentence, yet a well-written story.   This is his reply.


"Well,   I was at my   (now-ex)   girlfriend's house and feeling somewhat trapped,   and she wanted me to write her some poetry,   so I wrote this.

It's basically about me,  me being Tristan,   and my inability to settle.   I just wrote it,   it just happened.

And so Tristan boarded the huge grey mass of freighter that was floating at the end of the shit-splattered dock, determined to be at sea by the next sunrise, sailing to Byzantium, which was not here, where memories too fresh to confront without unspeakable pain assail him, reminding him of the emerald orbs of her eyes, the painted lashes that adorned them, the smile that always seemed to greet him, not in a seductive manner, but more coy and conquettish, ever appearing to invite him in some secluded garden where there are no serpents, only jonquils and gardenias and aspidastras and forget-me-nots, which remind Tristan of Isolde's words, framed by her honey-sweet lips, when she would tap him on the nose with her forefinger and smile that special smile, the one that made him feel as if he was the most sought-after object in the world, and say, "Forget me not," to which Tristan would always lean forward and brush his sailor's sea-worn salty lips against the alabaster of her forehead, which was always cool to the touch, unlike her eyes, which always seemed to burn through him, setting his heart ablaze with an inferno that could not be quenched by any amount of water, which was what the world was made of, or so the old retired pirates who drank themselves to slurred speech at the local pubs would say, as they recounted the tale of the gods crying the world into existence, crying for all of the forgotten love and missed opportunities and lost friends, because the gods could see into the future and were able to foretell all the misery and pain they would create, yet nevertheless, without fail, they still sobbed the world into existence and then moved on, searching for new life to create and condemn to misery, but this is just what bitter old retired pirates said while they drank themselves to oblivion and then stumbled home to their lonely beds and dreamed of dark- skinned island girls with lovely smiles and warm embraces who, because of unfulfilled promises, grew into the rot-toothed hags that sat upon the rocking chairs set out on beachfront patios and waited for their sailors to return from foreign seas, always waiting, even when it was painfully obvious that that special schooner with the one-eyed Phillipino sailor and his blue parrot would never appear on the horizon, not even in the sunset, like in the romantic picture shows that played matinee on weekends, where the lost love would magically appear in the sunset, which, Tristan reflects, is quite beautiful this night, which surprises him because it seems unfair that the world should continue to produce such radiant beauty in the midst of such personal misery, but "such is the way of the world," the drunken old pirates would say as they gulped down yet another beer while lamenting over lost fortunes and lost loves, but mostly over lost fortunes, because, after all, they had been pirates and gold is always more alluring to a pirate than the white of a woman's breasts and the musky smell of a woman's inner thighs, and Tristan had laughed at the pirates' addled moaning because he knew the world wasn't just about pain and misery and loss, because there was so much more, so much beauty and happiness and love and there was always Isolde, who encompassed all of these things and more when she batted her long eyelashes and stared at Tristan, smiling when she said, "Never mind those old drunks, dear, because they are just bitter because they couldn't grasp the love that was handed to them with open arms," and Tristan laughed nervously, nodding his agreement with Isolde, who slowly unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the muscular barrel shape of his sun-scorched hairless chest and started to run her tongue against the softness of his nipples while Tristan's mind raced, unsure of what to do next, because, although he had been with whores plenty of times, he had never actually made love to a woman, not like he wanted to do with Isolde, who was working her tongue down his chest to his belly button, while her fingers struggled with the snaps of his pants, and still Tristan sat silently, unable to think clearly because of the ecstatic feel of Isolde's tongue on his skin, which was totally unlike the feel of a whore's rough tongue, and he fervently hoped that making love to Isolde would be a hundred times better than fucking whores, who always had a feeling of looseness about them and cried out another man's name during their climax, or faked climax if the drunken old pirates were to be believed, which, at this particular moment, Tristan did not, because now Isolde had pulled away from Tristan, removing her mouth and fingers from his thighs, and was unbuttoning her tan blouse, exposing the whiteness of her breasts, whose nipples stiffened under the tremulous touch of Tristan's outstretched finger, and soon they shed all of their clothes and embraced each other, wearing each other, soaking in sweat, his muscular arms encircling her soft back, her pelvis thrusting against his, and when they climaxed, both at the same time, Isolde bit Tristan's ear and whispered,   "Those old sailors are just bitter because they could not keep what was handed to them with open arms," and Tristan sighed his agreement, all the while secretly wondering what made him different from the other sailors who lost what was not easily lost and ended up bitter about love although its images filled their dreams and hopes, hopes similar to Tristan's, which gave him even more cause to worry about his capability to hold on to that special something he shared with Isolde, because, after all, what was Tristan but another sailor, a younger version of the bitter old pirates, and he wondered if they had all been confronted by this spectre of doubt and fear, and maybe, after all, that was what had driven those sailors back to sea, which was exactly what Tristan was doing now as he leaned over the rail of the freighter and observed the sun sinking into the ocean, sizzling the waters as it descended and sending a warm breeze to embrace Tristan, who quietly shed a tear, because he could not give up the sea, and whispered,
"Forget me not."