During my first two semesters at college I kept seeing this beautiful young lady on campus; at the service counter in the Spartan bookstore and even at some concerts I went to. I was enthralled. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Her face occupied my dreams and fantasies for days to come. I was instantly hot over her the first time I saw her and I'd linger in that part of the store whenever I saw her there. She had long, full dark brown hair down to the top of her ass.
On June 20, 1976, my buddy and I went to see a concert in L.A. I spotted this beauty there walking down the aisle in front of us.
“Bink, see that girl with the long, brown hair? Do you know her?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s gorgeous. She works in the book store.”
The next day, I started working at the Creation Dock Seafood Exchange restaurant in the touristy part of town. While cleaning up on my first day (I was hired as groundskeeper/janitor/prep cook), this same radiant woman walked by me and said, “Hi.” Needless to say, I was astonished that she worked there, as fate would have it.
I watched her working at the waitress station, from my peephole in the kitchen. I lingered at my tasks a bit until I had a chance to catch her eye again and I took my shot. Getting ballsy with a beautiful woman for the first time in my life. “How’d you like that concert in L.A. last night?”
“How do you know I went?” she asked, blown away that I’d noticed her.
“I never forget a pretty face.” I was shocked as the words flowed gracefully, if horridly clichéd, from my lips. I found out her name was Jill and I helped her bus some tables when she was busy.
While I was on break, eating lunch in the empty bar, she came up and bought me a beer. When I told her how old I was, she was again, surprised. She thought I was her age (I was 19). She was a beautiful, experienced, seductive 23-year-old. Half-Thai, half-Irish, her family from Oregon.
The next day, she asked if I wanted to get a six-pack and hangout after work. Well, yeah but she'd have to buy because I was only 19. We sat in my car at the marina and got to know each other a bit. I was entranced.
We’d visit over lunch for about a week, getting to know each other pretty quickly. Then one day after work, she came over to my apartment and went swimming for a while. She threw her arms around me at one point and I sprouted a tremendous hard-on. She later told me that from that point on she decided to “scheme on” me. If I would’ve been more cognizant of that fact, I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I was really in awe and intimidated by the insanely beautiful girl.
One evening shortly thereafter, I was half-in-the-bag and playing guitar in my bedroom with my roomie and Jill showed up. She said that she had gotten into a fight with her boyfriend, Rex, who she lived with in the next beach town up the coast about three miles. She asked if she could stay with me. Of course, I was thrilled, she didn’t have to ask twice. She tossed a brown paper sack at me that held a fresh pair of panties and a toothbrush. Traveling light. I loved a girl with a plan but I wasn't quite ready for her directness. I was not used to this at all but I would sure try!
This first night she fell asleep (she was buzzed when she got there) and I slept totally naked with a woman for the first time in my life. Let me rephrase that: I spent the night in bed naked with a naked woman for the first time. I did not sleep. I laid wide awake, staring at her beautiful sleeping face, smelling her hair, looking at her miraculous dark brown nipples and marveled at her soft inner thighs wrapped over my legs. I will never forget those racing hours.
After that we started seeing each other after work everyday. It was a beautiful, sunny, blue day there outside my old Pinto where we'd sit outside in the liquor store parking lot watching the sailboats come into the harbor. By the time we had gone back for four more beers--each time the price changing, by the way, even the clerk was distracted by her smile-—she had told me her life story. She was having problems with Rex. She’d lived with him for over a year and they had been fighting for at least ten months. She was having thoughts of moving away from him. She asked if she could sleep with me when she was lonely and upset. Hell, yeah!
We got along grandly for a month or so, sneaking kisses in the bar or the kitchen at work, going farther in the walk-in fridge, almost making love. We'd swim and go to concerts. She finally moved away from Rex, to a place only two blocks away from me. He’d been treating her like shit, hitting her and she had had enough.
She was a tremendously sexual creature. She thrived on sex and all of its eccentricities. She liked to be extremely open in public. In other words, she would tease all day and make out all night. She used to enjoy being the initiator and the aggressor. Both of which, I was in dire need of and very acceptant of this new development in my life.
Jill would come over and jerk me off in the walk in closet while my friends were out in the front room. We’d roll around for hours, sucking face, rubbing all over each other. In our previous nights together, I’d gone down on her a couple of times and she'd always pull me up (I obviously had no idea what I was doing) but instead of telling me what she wanted, she'd pull me up to her mouth and say she wanted to lick her wetness off of my face. Her delicious pussy was the most incredibly gorgeous I have ever seen (and the first I had tasted). Her sparse black hair was as silky as anything I'd ever experienced. I was mesmerized.
She’d also gone down on me a couple of times before (did I mention the walk-in fridge at work?) but I was always SO nervous. So afraid, that I'd not know what to do that I had trouble staying erect when we'd get close to fucking. I thought that there was some secret that I didn’t know and was very afraid to be thought of as inexperienced (although I certainly was).
I was a nervous wreck. A virgin at 19. By this time, we had been around each other for a couple of months, fairly often, a couple of nights a week at least. But she had this louse of boyfriend and there was lots of confusion on both our parts. I just needed the big push to take the step. At times, we'd make the mistake of drinking way too much alcohol. I remember her saying, “Someday, we’re gonna have to not drink so much. Someday we’re gonna have to just fuck.” Gotcha. But, I was scared to death.
Finally, about the time school started back up in the fall, I got fed up with work and quit the restaurant. No more getting drunk with the boss after hours in the bar; no more free meals and no more Jill everyday. My college rock band was just forming and 4-5 nights a week we rehearsed inland about 20 miles away from the beach. With all the running around, we saw each other less and less.
In August, we attended a Crosby, Stills & Nash concert at the Arena. At one point, after she played with my cock, her hand in my pants up in our seats near the roof of the joint, she threw her arms around my neck and she asked me if I loved her. I didn’t know what to say. I'd never been asked this before. Of course, I thought I knew how I felt, but I was scared. She was still, sort of, with somebody else. I was still heartbroken from my first high school sweetheart. I was young and stupid, afraid of committing myself. I hedged a bit, dumb me.
She said, she found herself falling in love with me. I said that I really didn’t know, I was scared of being hurt again.
The music diffused the conversation and on the way home we were joking around and then I said something that set her off. It had started when she asked me what I was looking at as we drove home and a drunk girl with her tits hanging out walked out into the street and I had to slam on my brakes for her to stumble by.
“I had to stop for the road block,” I joked and she said, "So you wish I had bigger tits?" What? She had issues about her breast size and got pissed if I mentioned tits at all. She was picking a fight, I guess. She gave me the silent treatment all the way home.
She'd taken my comment personally and said she'd heard this shit all the time from Rex and that she was tired of feeling bad about herself. I think she was really pissed that I didn't answer her affirmatively earlier about being in love with her. I tried to explain that I wasn’t being malicious or even directing any tit comment at her, to no avail. She ran into my apartment and cranked the stereo up, started dancing and tuned me out for an hour.
A big wall went up and I got tired of trying to talk and being ignored so I got pissed and went into my room and moped. She eventually came in crying saying, “You don’t understand.”
Yes, I do. “No, you don’t.” and that pissed me off more. I went into the living room, running away from my anger. She followed me in, sat beside me. She finally wiped the tears from her eyes, the pain from her heart and she leaned to me and slid her hand over my crotch. Then she took my hand and lightly led me into the bedroom, an innocent, peaceful look on her face. We headed toward the first, and last, consummation of our love.
We had slept together, fooled around often but we had never yet made love. Though it was not due to the fact that we hadn’t had the opportunity or hadn’t tried.
Too many drinks and too many jokes. But that night, though I couldn't say it, we both discovered somehow that we loved one another and in hindsight it scared us both into defensive strategy.
She trying to justify her love for me with her dissolving relationship with this violent Rex guy. Me, trying to figure out if I was really in love since I was still pining for Joni and still blindly hopeful that Joni and I would work out somehow. Strange night…but then it happened.
Sliding down onto the bed, she enveloped me in her soft, warm legs. Undressing herself above me, her eyes never left mine. As she pulled her top up over her head, I saw her amazing child-like body. Her beautiful tiny breasts tipped by dark nipples, lengthening before my eyes as her long, thick dark brown hair brushed over them like clouds hiding a beautiful moon.
She told me to take off my shirt, as I did her eyes followed down my chest and she unbuckled my pants and pulled them down over my feet. She rubbed her dark, warm cunt over my stomach. Her pubic hair as soft, a rabbit pelt of black silk, thinly covering her wet pink sacred place. My belly soaked, rose and fell as she slid down on top of my engorged rod. Rolling together, I pressed my face up through her thick hair, trying to get eye to eye with her dark almondine crescents there in the cave of mane that fell on my shoulders and surrounded my head. Our lips met, her tongue darting into me in time with my cock between her legs. Our bodies melding into one.
She moaned like a wild cat, we rolled together onto the floor and I slipped underneath again for the pleasure of feeling her waist-length hair caress my shoulders and chest again, while she kissed my forehead and ears. The huge pillow on the floor was soft and spongy beneath us and as I rolled again, I felt her legs tighten and clinch behind my back. She was moving furiously, gasping for air and I thought she’d buck me off... On the edge, I moved faster, her fingers clawing at my ass. I collapsed in her arms and we lay satiated. In a little while she got up, stumbled to the bathroom in the hall and puked up the last three shots of cheap tequila and I half-hoped that wouldn’t be the normal reaction every time I made love in the future!
We woke sometime later, dawn was creeping through the plants in the windowsill. A big jet shook the glass pane as the first morning flight slipped out of town over our heads. I kissed her awake and as she moved against me, I slowly sunk my hips into her and we made slow, passionate morning love our lips never parting until we had both shivered the day awake.
I felt like a million pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders. She was my 1st real sex. Of course, even before that night I was lost and in love with her but still, held a fading torch for Joni back in my hometown.
After that, I never heard from her again. In a week or two, I heard Rex had convinced her to move back in with him. I couldn't call her house. My ex-boss wouldn't allow me in the restaurant since I'd quit on him. So when the fall semester started up I walked into the book store and asked for her. "She's not working this semester but I just saw her heading down the the beer garden."
I looked around but didn't see her so I sat at a table and began writing in my journal. A few minutes later, I heard her voice nearby.
"Pierce," she was sitting directly across the table from me. Looking radiant but sad. "I'm moving up to San Luis after this semester to live with my grandma for awhile. Rex is nuts and I couldn't stay in town with you. He'd find us and make our lives miserable. I'm so sorry."
I didn't know what to say. My mouth felt glued shut. There was a knot in my chest and I felt sick to my stomach. She stood up and kissed me on the lips, put her hand on my cheek and turned away. "Jill...thank you." She turned, smiling sadly and then I watched her walk away for what seemed like hours.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
THE WAITER, PT I
Her curvy wick burns end to end
like life's big questions unanswered
over
and over
again.
Cycles spin
hearts align and misalign
seek some level of comfort
in the blood flood
towards extinction.
And our cells replicate, die out, replicate like our loves
like our doubts
like our victories and defeats
all in the service
of some resilient
resistance to acceptance
distraction
the devil's stepchild.
He wrote this poem with those little word festooned refrigerator magnets the second he got home from his shift. Just another night waiting tables at Cantor's. Turk had seen it all in his 45 years working in this bastion of Hollywood late-night tradition, where the hip meet the square over matzo ball soup, pastrami and cheese Danish. He wasn’t Turkish but in the psychedelic mid 60s wore a fez at the oddest times. Even he sometimes didn’t answer when someone called him by the name his father also carried, Henry.
What has recently been sticking in Turk’s craw is the notion that he has finally passed some seemingly tangible milestone--that these young kids in here now just think of him as an old fuckin’ loser. He knows he looks 20 years older than he is to these kids but the difference between 70 and 90 makes little difference to women under 40. They see him as some crotchety geriatric guy still shuffling through the same no-future job when in reality, the pension plan and retirement fund he set up years ago with his tip money are doing quite well, thank you.
But to some, he's something of an institution in this part of town. A couple generations of Angelenos have never known a time when Turk wasn’t poetically taking his sweet time between tables with hot coffee and a tartly sarcastic joke about someone’s choice of apparel for the evening. He’d started there after he flunked out of UCLA in 1958 due to too much partying (they called it “running ‘round” back then), too much sunning and too many late nights hot-rodding around Santa Monica. Too little reality, they call it now.
He used to hit the smoky jazz clubs in town and at the beach to hear the cats blow cool and the chicks, cooler. Chet Baker, Russ Freeman, Stan Getz. In the 60s, he’d drive his roommate’s Vette up and down Sunset from Ciro’s to the Whiskey and the then swinging Hollywood Playboy Club before it moved to Century City. We won’t go into his roomie’s lucrative own night job business selling hash oil and Thai sticks to the kids on the Strip. Play money.
Sure, they may think that his wobbly gait and less than steady hand carrying the plate of latkes just proves his frailty. But they don't know what a stud he was back in the day; he liked to think he “took advantage of the sexual revolution of the times. I found out why they called it ‘free love’, baby.” They had no clue that he actually has had even more women (and the occasional, irresistible pretty boy) in the most recent 20 years of his life. “The young kids don’t don‘t know what they’re missing,” he often tells himself whole-heartedly, “Older cats know their shit, man.” If they only knew that the reason he moves so poorly is that the hip that has given him all this trouble, was broken when he was in his 40s in a freak accident, at a particularly out of control sex club in the early-80s. The scar on his hip a badge of honor of sorts to him, at least.
The evening had begun innocently enough. He’d been out on his night off, catching L.A. punk scene heavies --Exene and DJ Bonebreak of X, Carlos Guitarlos & Gil T (of Top Jimmy & the Rhythm Pigs who hosted these Blues Mondays here for 3 years), Blasters’ pianist Gene Taylor and on completely out-of-tune harmonica, a historically inebriated Lee Ving from primal L.A. punk legends, Fear--slashing through blues edge in the basement at Cathay de Grande, the former Chinese restaurant and punk mecca at Argyle and Selma in the center of Hollywood. As usual he was the oldest cat in the room but on this night it was early, and dead. There were only a half dozen of the flashy L.A. punks, a smattering of die-hard city blues fans standing always off to the side with the leftover hippies on the fringes. But no frothing crowd on the dance floor as there were many nights here and upstairs when the seminal hardcore, rockabilly, Paisley Underground and garage bands wreaked havoc. This was shortly before Van Halen recorded their homage called, “Top Jimmy”.
So Turk stood, arms crossed, swaying stoically as he has a tendency to do, in the sweet spot—dead center mid-dance floor. It was where all the sound comes together, where he could put himself aurally and visually between the players, a factotum extra member of the band…all ears. Suddenly, he was nudged softly by a couple dancing, up close and personal, winding around him on the empty floor.
“Sorry, buddy.” Turk knew that voice. It was Tom Waits and his then recent new bride, Kathleen Brennan, finding their groove. He looked back to the one little booth directly behind him to see if his roomie, Stereo Steve, a major Waits fan, took notice. What Turk saw was Stereo, engrossed in conversation with a portly but cute and drunk blonde while Stereo’s brother Jason, who years later made a killing in processed meats, was staring intently into the eyes of a rambling redhead who was visibly giving him a hand-job under the table.
Ving, by now, playing in the wrong key, got fed up with himself and lunged onto the dance floor. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and held it unsteadily up towards the emergency sprinklers jutting from the ceiling. He wavering facilitated in the scorching of his thumbs until he gave up and instead, made vertical leaps with his fists punching holes into the acoustic ceiling tiles. Covering himself with white, shredded ceiling dust.
In the midst of all of this subtly lugubrious mayhem, rising like a lurching, drooling bleary-eyed storm from behind the guitar amp backline was Top Jimmy himself. Stumbling over the amps with not a glance from Guitarlos, he fell into the mic stand up front and began bellowing Jim Morrison’s “Roadhouse Blues”.
After an hour or so of this typical Hollywood behavior, Turk got bored when the set break went on too long, the redhead had fallen drunk cutting her head on the cheap beer glass she’d shattered, Jason had come and Stereo Steve had run out of drugs.
He called it a night but not before heading to a clandestine after-hours joint that was just getting started that time of night. He liked getting there just prior to 2am after which it took forever to get any attention. Once the riff-raff got there the sessions with the Mistresses took longer as the patrons got drunker and less manageable. He’d waited patiently in the small room reserved for slackers without appointments but being Monday, the wait wasn’t long. He was only a couple of paragraphs into an article in Rolling Stone on The Eagles latest exploits when he was called into his regular room at the end of the darkly lit hall that smelled of Lysol in spite of the black candles on the walls. Every step down the hall seemed less well-lit, the dark colors of the walls, velvet draped doorways all gave the impression of a slowing down of time even while his pulse rate heightened the closer he got to that door.
The last thing he remembers, he was strapped to a St. Andrew’s Cross and had been receiving some major flogging when the goddess applying the whipping, all 300 lbs. of her—he quietly called her Large Marge in his private moments alone when he was feeling naughty--whom all on the premises referred to quite adoringly as ‘Mistress Ann’, keeled over stone dead from a massive coronary. On her way down, she took out the cross and crumbling Turk’s hip like dry kindling. She had just uttered, what at her services a few days later would have truly been the most appropriate epitaph, "Had enough yet, bitch?"
It had taken him about ten years to really recover. By the time, he’d healed enough to get around he was a madman. He’d really enjoyed the Percocets the Doctor had prescribed and wound up taking a few months off work first to heal, and then to deal with kicking the jones he’d developed for the mindless numbing the pills allowed him.
Once back at the restaurant he was truly surprised about how a) little had changed and b) how much all of the little girls seemed to have missed him. Even some of them who he had never seemed to get anywhere with, some he’d never even seen before. They started fawning over him, asking all kinds of sympathetic questions. Some seemed to have been talking amongst themselves about his reputation and some of the slightly older ones even seemed to be worried that they didn’t want to miss their chance to be a notch on his infamous bedpost. Why not try this intelligent, experienced, interesting guy their friends had told them about. So in spite of the pain and the new re-acquaintance with skunky herb to replace the tranquilized blanket he’d been living under, he found himself busier than ever with the girls.
But that was old news; tonight he couldn't get these two women out of his head. They came in late in his shift. Business as usual, but for a brief moment there, he had felt a strange sensation that the petite straw-haired girl with the major rack had been giving him the once over. He’d had a hard time hiding his blossoming hard-on as he circled the table waiting for them to decide what they wanted. He knew what he wanted.
She looked great. Vintage, thrift punk chic. Broad patterned black fishnets, short black leather skirt and calf-high black leather boots with a 6“ heel, 80’s Siouxsie black sleeveless T and silky mid-length sleeve top. He figured this hot little package, might have some deep seeded thing for older guys and in fact wondered if he hadn't run into her in Hollywood years before. Something about her seemed familiar...the shy, sideways glances, the line of her clavicle peeking out of the ripped out neck of the tee...He felt for a flash that she rally wanted to be seen with him in her sights, but then when her friend returned from the head, they just fell all over each other and he got distracted with some drunk Mexican musicians trying to figure out the menu. Maybe she looked familiar or he was just flashing back to the days when he was fucking every other hot chick that ordered a blintz or a chicken salad or a chocolate malt there late at night.
Back in the day, they'd come in high after buying a joint or two or a hit of acid or E in the parking lot. He was always surprised how the stream of good-looking women just never slowed down over the course of his years there. Seems there was some fountain of youth just around the corner somewhere. He never could convince anyone to tell him where it was, though for a long time, just the proximity to these flowers of youth kept him feeling younger than his years.
He thought back to the time when he'd spend his days in Santa Monica or Venice. At the beach, he’d often finding a bit of sexy fun as the sun went down, having just enough time to get back to the deli for his night shift. He wondered if this shy blonde might have been one of those little teenaged girls he’d shuffled through in those hazy days.
Maybe she was one of those three blondes he had convinced to go home with him on the night before Easter one year. He got them to crawl around him naked at 4am looking for imaginary Easter eggs he’d claimed were hidden around his apartment before all crawling into his shower. They wound up on the balcony bending him over the rail and taking turns on him with the strap-on one of them had conveniently pulled from her bag of tricks...hard to piece that one together clearly...
Perhaps, wait, this COULDN’T be the little girl from the alley at the beach that he had met...the young girl of 14 or 15 who he had pulled into an alley and fucked against the wall on that sunny day when he was pushing 40. He had often wondered about her...never could really figure out if he’d been completely fucking with the head (and hot body) of an almost Lilliputian temptress or if she’d been the one tying his head and cock in knots...he had never been able to forget the otherworldly softness of her skin, the tightness of her sex, the willingness of her spirit. Turk so wished he’d have that one moment back just so he’d know, concretize his memory. Should his guilt really be so strong after so long a time...and should his continued excitement at the memory be something that had pushed him on year after year, looking for just one more experience as sudden, as surprising, as unexpected.
like life's big questions unanswered
over
and over
again.
Cycles spin
hearts align and misalign
seek some level of comfort
in the blood flood
towards extinction.
And our cells replicate, die out, replicate like our loves
like our doubts
like our victories and defeats
all in the service
of some resilient
resistance to acceptance
distraction
the devil's stepchild.
He wrote this poem with those little word festooned refrigerator magnets the second he got home from his shift. Just another night waiting tables at Cantor's. Turk had seen it all in his 45 years working in this bastion of Hollywood late-night tradition, where the hip meet the square over matzo ball soup, pastrami and cheese Danish. He wasn’t Turkish but in the psychedelic mid 60s wore a fez at the oddest times. Even he sometimes didn’t answer when someone called him by the name his father also carried, Henry.
What has recently been sticking in Turk’s craw is the notion that he has finally passed some seemingly tangible milestone--that these young kids in here now just think of him as an old fuckin’ loser. He knows he looks 20 years older than he is to these kids but the difference between 70 and 90 makes little difference to women under 40. They see him as some crotchety geriatric guy still shuffling through the same no-future job when in reality, the pension plan and retirement fund he set up years ago with his tip money are doing quite well, thank you.
But to some, he's something of an institution in this part of town. A couple generations of Angelenos have never known a time when Turk wasn’t poetically taking his sweet time between tables with hot coffee and a tartly sarcastic joke about someone’s choice of apparel for the evening. He’d started there after he flunked out of UCLA in 1958 due to too much partying (they called it “running ‘round” back then), too much sunning and too many late nights hot-rodding around Santa Monica. Too little reality, they call it now.
He used to hit the smoky jazz clubs in town and at the beach to hear the cats blow cool and the chicks, cooler. Chet Baker, Russ Freeman, Stan Getz. In the 60s, he’d drive his roommate’s Vette up and down Sunset from Ciro’s to the Whiskey and the then swinging Hollywood Playboy Club before it moved to Century City. We won’t go into his roomie’s lucrative own night job business selling hash oil and Thai sticks to the kids on the Strip. Play money.
Sure, they may think that his wobbly gait and less than steady hand carrying the plate of latkes just proves his frailty. But they don't know what a stud he was back in the day; he liked to think he “took advantage of the sexual revolution of the times. I found out why they called it ‘free love’, baby.” They had no clue that he actually has had even more women (and the occasional, irresistible pretty boy) in the most recent 20 years of his life. “The young kids don’t don‘t know what they’re missing,” he often tells himself whole-heartedly, “Older cats know their shit, man.” If they only knew that the reason he moves so poorly is that the hip that has given him all this trouble, was broken when he was in his 40s in a freak accident, at a particularly out of control sex club in the early-80s. The scar on his hip a badge of honor of sorts to him, at least.
The evening had begun innocently enough. He’d been out on his night off, catching L.A. punk scene heavies --Exene and DJ Bonebreak of X, Carlos Guitarlos & Gil T (of Top Jimmy & the Rhythm Pigs who hosted these Blues Mondays here for 3 years), Blasters’ pianist Gene Taylor and on completely out-of-tune harmonica, a historically inebriated Lee Ving from primal L.A. punk legends, Fear--slashing through blues edge in the basement at Cathay de Grande, the former Chinese restaurant and punk mecca at Argyle and Selma in the center of Hollywood. As usual he was the oldest cat in the room but on this night it was early, and dead. There were only a half dozen of the flashy L.A. punks, a smattering of die-hard city blues fans standing always off to the side with the leftover hippies on the fringes. But no frothing crowd on the dance floor as there were many nights here and upstairs when the seminal hardcore, rockabilly, Paisley Underground and garage bands wreaked havoc. This was shortly before Van Halen recorded their homage called, “Top Jimmy”.
So Turk stood, arms crossed, swaying stoically as he has a tendency to do, in the sweet spot—dead center mid-dance floor. It was where all the sound comes together, where he could put himself aurally and visually between the players, a factotum extra member of the band…all ears. Suddenly, he was nudged softly by a couple dancing, up close and personal, winding around him on the empty floor.
“Sorry, buddy.” Turk knew that voice. It was Tom Waits and his then recent new bride, Kathleen Brennan, finding their groove. He looked back to the one little booth directly behind him to see if his roomie, Stereo Steve, a major Waits fan, took notice. What Turk saw was Stereo, engrossed in conversation with a portly but cute and drunk blonde while Stereo’s brother Jason, who years later made a killing in processed meats, was staring intently into the eyes of a rambling redhead who was visibly giving him a hand-job under the table.
Ving, by now, playing in the wrong key, got fed up with himself and lunged onto the dance floor. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and held it unsteadily up towards the emergency sprinklers jutting from the ceiling. He wavering facilitated in the scorching of his thumbs until he gave up and instead, made vertical leaps with his fists punching holes into the acoustic ceiling tiles. Covering himself with white, shredded ceiling dust.
In the midst of all of this subtly lugubrious mayhem, rising like a lurching, drooling bleary-eyed storm from behind the guitar amp backline was Top Jimmy himself. Stumbling over the amps with not a glance from Guitarlos, he fell into the mic stand up front and began bellowing Jim Morrison’s “Roadhouse Blues”.
After an hour or so of this typical Hollywood behavior, Turk got bored when the set break went on too long, the redhead had fallen drunk cutting her head on the cheap beer glass she’d shattered, Jason had come and Stereo Steve had run out of drugs.
He called it a night but not before heading to a clandestine after-hours joint that was just getting started that time of night. He liked getting there just prior to 2am after which it took forever to get any attention. Once the riff-raff got there the sessions with the Mistresses took longer as the patrons got drunker and less manageable. He’d waited patiently in the small room reserved for slackers without appointments but being Monday, the wait wasn’t long. He was only a couple of paragraphs into an article in Rolling Stone on The Eagles latest exploits when he was called into his regular room at the end of the darkly lit hall that smelled of Lysol in spite of the black candles on the walls. Every step down the hall seemed less well-lit, the dark colors of the walls, velvet draped doorways all gave the impression of a slowing down of time even while his pulse rate heightened the closer he got to that door.
The last thing he remembers, he was strapped to a St. Andrew’s Cross and had been receiving some major flogging when the goddess applying the whipping, all 300 lbs. of her—he quietly called her Large Marge in his private moments alone when he was feeling naughty--whom all on the premises referred to quite adoringly as ‘Mistress Ann’, keeled over stone dead from a massive coronary. On her way down, she took out the cross and crumbling Turk’s hip like dry kindling. She had just uttered, what at her services a few days later would have truly been the most appropriate epitaph, "Had enough yet, bitch?"
It had taken him about ten years to really recover. By the time, he’d healed enough to get around he was a madman. He’d really enjoyed the Percocets the Doctor had prescribed and wound up taking a few months off work first to heal, and then to deal with kicking the jones he’d developed for the mindless numbing the pills allowed him.
Once back at the restaurant he was truly surprised about how a) little had changed and b) how much all of the little girls seemed to have missed him. Even some of them who he had never seemed to get anywhere with, some he’d never even seen before. They started fawning over him, asking all kinds of sympathetic questions. Some seemed to have been talking amongst themselves about his reputation and some of the slightly older ones even seemed to be worried that they didn’t want to miss their chance to be a notch on his infamous bedpost. Why not try this intelligent, experienced, interesting guy their friends had told them about. So in spite of the pain and the new re-acquaintance with skunky herb to replace the tranquilized blanket he’d been living under, he found himself busier than ever with the girls.
But that was old news; tonight he couldn't get these two women out of his head. They came in late in his shift. Business as usual, but for a brief moment there, he had felt a strange sensation that the petite straw-haired girl with the major rack had been giving him the once over. He’d had a hard time hiding his blossoming hard-on as he circled the table waiting for them to decide what they wanted. He knew what he wanted.
She looked great. Vintage, thrift punk chic. Broad patterned black fishnets, short black leather skirt and calf-high black leather boots with a 6“ heel, 80’s Siouxsie black sleeveless T and silky mid-length sleeve top. He figured this hot little package, might have some deep seeded thing for older guys and in fact wondered if he hadn't run into her in Hollywood years before. Something about her seemed familiar...the shy, sideways glances, the line of her clavicle peeking out of the ripped out neck of the tee...He felt for a flash that she rally wanted to be seen with him in her sights, but then when her friend returned from the head, they just fell all over each other and he got distracted with some drunk Mexican musicians trying to figure out the menu. Maybe she looked familiar or he was just flashing back to the days when he was fucking every other hot chick that ordered a blintz or a chicken salad or a chocolate malt there late at night.
Back in the day, they'd come in high after buying a joint or two or a hit of acid or E in the parking lot. He was always surprised how the stream of good-looking women just never slowed down over the course of his years there. Seems there was some fountain of youth just around the corner somewhere. He never could convince anyone to tell him where it was, though for a long time, just the proximity to these flowers of youth kept him feeling younger than his years.
He thought back to the time when he'd spend his days in Santa Monica or Venice. At the beach, he’d often finding a bit of sexy fun as the sun went down, having just enough time to get back to the deli for his night shift. He wondered if this shy blonde might have been one of those little teenaged girls he’d shuffled through in those hazy days.
Maybe she was one of those three blondes he had convinced to go home with him on the night before Easter one year. He got them to crawl around him naked at 4am looking for imaginary Easter eggs he’d claimed were hidden around his apartment before all crawling into his shower. They wound up on the balcony bending him over the rail and taking turns on him with the strap-on one of them had conveniently pulled from her bag of tricks...hard to piece that one together clearly...
Perhaps, wait, this COULDN’T be the little girl from the alley at the beach that he had met...the young girl of 14 or 15 who he had pulled into an alley and fucked against the wall on that sunny day when he was pushing 40. He had often wondered about her...never could really figure out if he’d been completely fucking with the head (and hot body) of an almost Lilliputian temptress or if she’d been the one tying his head and cock in knots...he had never been able to forget the otherworldly softness of her skin, the tightness of her sex, the willingness of her spirit. Turk so wished he’d have that one moment back just so he’d know, concretize his memory. Should his guilt really be so strong after so long a time...and should his continued excitement at the memory be something that had pushed him on year after year, looking for just one more experience as sudden, as surprising, as unexpected.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
BISEXUAL DREAMING
My dream is that the first time I see you, you give me a hug, hold me tight against you and whisper in my ear, “Tonight, you’re my bitch,” and then slap me across the face followed by a big old kiss on the lips...just wishful thinking Miss Mary.
I want you to use me anyway you want. Piss on me, slap me around a bit, fuck my yearning ass and take me to the edge and not let me come.
Then the next night, I want to take you forcefully, literally tearing off your clothes and fucking you hard until I cum all over your beautiful face. I’ll lick your face clean and then guide you by the hair into the tub, and force you to your knees and piss all over your stunning breasts.
Then if you’re quiet and behaved, I will stand you up and we will soap each other up and gently clean each other off and perhaps get dressed and go into town and sit at the bowling alley and talk of which hillbillies we’d like to seduce together or even better see if KC is working and when he least expects it we describe in detail what we just did and tell him he is next and when he looks all scared boyish and starts stammering, “Uh-okay...I get off of 6am” we tell him there will be a red power truck outside waiting for him to bring him to us and he is to not speak to the driver and to do as she says.
When he comes out of work, Felicia is standing outside her truck, “You’re late. They’re waiting...” and throws him to the ground. She hogties him with Velcro ankle and wrist straps behind his back and gags him with a pair of your damp panties she found under her bed, tossing him into the bed of the pick-up.
They drive down to your house, and she throws open the door with him over her shoulder. You are completely naked but for a black bra with your tits pulled out, a dog collar and knee high boots and you are on my lap facing the door impaled by my hardness sliding slowly up and all the way down on me. She tosses him to the floor, loosens his legs straps and jerks his pants and boxers down exposing his firm white ass.
You jump off of me and fall to your knees in front of her but she grabs your hair and pushes your face to his asshole, “Get him ready, baby...And you, bitch” pointing at me with my mouth hanging open, eyes bulging, and hard, wet dick in the air, “come here, now.”
I stand up and walk quickly to her. “I want to taste her sweet cunt on your cock,” as she bends over sucking me down her throat until she has sucked all of you off of me and then instantly has had enough, pushing me away. As she drops her camouflage jeans, Felicia takes you by the back of the head and pulls your face into her soaked quim and with the other hand shoves me in the direction of KC’s wet ass.
I push his legs together and fall down to straddle either side of his slim hips, finding my rigid wet cock slides easily up his tight ass. I lean over all of my weight on him. One hand slides up under his t-shirt, across his smooth stomach and chest pulling hard on his left nipple, my right hand slips my fingers, first into his mouth and then I grab the back of his head and push his face down into your white fur carpet. I slow and speed up my pace every third stroke and as I’m ready to come, Felicia says, “Pierce, you little slut, cum on my tits so Mary can watch.”
I leap up and just in time shoot my load all over her tits while you watch from below. She pulls you up by the hair and makes you lick all of my mess off of her and then the three of us kiss each other deeply tasting my sweet cum on your tongue.
After awhile she says, “Someone free the boy and let’s see if we can’t get him off.”
I untie his hands, pick him up by the dog collar she’d put on him and flip him over. You pull his jeans off and we see his mammoth cock. You and I both purr a bit and Felicia cracks up.
It's incredibly thick, deliciously long and extremely hard and the three of us crawl down and take turns licking up and down his beautiful shaft, pulling his balls into our mouths and flicking at his perineum and asshole teasingly, our mouths and tongues finding each other playfully as well.
In short order he shoots a monstrous load across his chest. You and Felicia fall back into each other’s arms, enfolded and rapturous. I roll a leg over his and run my fingers through his cum, lightly running a wet fingertip over his still throbbing hugeness.
He and I kiss for the longest time, slow, passionate until he starts moving against me. I roll over and turn my back to him and we spoon facing you as the two of you watch him slowly ease his thick meat deep inside me from behind his arm underneath me, the other hand wrapped around me, alternating between slow tugs on my cock and light flickering flutters on my taut nipples.
Not three feet away from you, I watch Felicia’s long fingers reach around and get you off as KC slowly pumps my ass. I feel him shudder and fill me with torrents of hit cum as you shiver at Felicia’s touch, staring into my eyes.
We all fall asleep there on the floor, entwined and when we wake, they are gone and you and I are face to face, naked, tied together and we can smell coffee brewing and know that one of them will be back shortly.
I want you to use me anyway you want. Piss on me, slap me around a bit, fuck my yearning ass and take me to the edge and not let me come.
Then the next night, I want to take you forcefully, literally tearing off your clothes and fucking you hard until I cum all over your beautiful face. I’ll lick your face clean and then guide you by the hair into the tub, and force you to your knees and piss all over your stunning breasts.
Then if you’re quiet and behaved, I will stand you up and we will soap each other up and gently clean each other off and perhaps get dressed and go into town and sit at the bowling alley and talk of which hillbillies we’d like to seduce together or even better see if KC is working and when he least expects it we describe in detail what we just did and tell him he is next and when he looks all scared boyish and starts stammering, “Uh-okay...I get off of 6am” we tell him there will be a red power truck outside waiting for him to bring him to us and he is to not speak to the driver and to do as she says.
When he comes out of work, Felicia is standing outside her truck, “You’re late. They’re waiting...” and throws him to the ground. She hogties him with Velcro ankle and wrist straps behind his back and gags him with a pair of your damp panties she found under her bed, tossing him into the bed of the pick-up.
They drive down to your house, and she throws open the door with him over her shoulder. You are completely naked but for a black bra with your tits pulled out, a dog collar and knee high boots and you are on my lap facing the door impaled by my hardness sliding slowly up and all the way down on me. She tosses him to the floor, loosens his legs straps and jerks his pants and boxers down exposing his firm white ass.
You jump off of me and fall to your knees in front of her but she grabs your hair and pushes your face to his asshole, “Get him ready, baby...And you, bitch” pointing at me with my mouth hanging open, eyes bulging, and hard, wet dick in the air, “come here, now.”
I stand up and walk quickly to her. “I want to taste her sweet cunt on your cock,” as she bends over sucking me down her throat until she has sucked all of you off of me and then instantly has had enough, pushing me away. As she drops her camouflage jeans, Felicia takes you by the back of the head and pulls your face into her soaked quim and with the other hand shoves me in the direction of KC’s wet ass.
I push his legs together and fall down to straddle either side of his slim hips, finding my rigid wet cock slides easily up his tight ass. I lean over all of my weight on him. One hand slides up under his t-shirt, across his smooth stomach and chest pulling hard on his left nipple, my right hand slips my fingers, first into his mouth and then I grab the back of his head and push his face down into your white fur carpet. I slow and speed up my pace every third stroke and as I’m ready to come, Felicia says, “Pierce, you little slut, cum on my tits so Mary can watch.”
I leap up and just in time shoot my load all over her tits while you watch from below. She pulls you up by the hair and makes you lick all of my mess off of her and then the three of us kiss each other deeply tasting my sweet cum on your tongue.
After awhile she says, “Someone free the boy and let’s see if we can’t get him off.”
I untie his hands, pick him up by the dog collar she’d put on him and flip him over. You pull his jeans off and we see his mammoth cock. You and I both purr a bit and Felicia cracks up.
It's incredibly thick, deliciously long and extremely hard and the three of us crawl down and take turns licking up and down his beautiful shaft, pulling his balls into our mouths and flicking at his perineum and asshole teasingly, our mouths and tongues finding each other playfully as well.
In short order he shoots a monstrous load across his chest. You and Felicia fall back into each other’s arms, enfolded and rapturous. I roll a leg over his and run my fingers through his cum, lightly running a wet fingertip over his still throbbing hugeness.
He and I kiss for the longest time, slow, passionate until he starts moving against me. I roll over and turn my back to him and we spoon facing you as the two of you watch him slowly ease his thick meat deep inside me from behind his arm underneath me, the other hand wrapped around me, alternating between slow tugs on my cock and light flickering flutters on my taut nipples.
Not three feet away from you, I watch Felicia’s long fingers reach around and get you off as KC slowly pumps my ass. I feel him shudder and fill me with torrents of hit cum as you shiver at Felicia’s touch, staring into my eyes.
We all fall asleep there on the floor, entwined and when we wake, they are gone and you and I are face to face, naked, tied together and we can smell coffee brewing and know that one of them will be back shortly.
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