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I
saw you at the political rallies and poetry readings in
your short, shocked black hair, wearing the androgynous
uniform of the day: clunky shoes, baggy black pants, nondescript
shirt, all so very recycled and Communist of you. Are
you the best looking boy or girl at the dance? That's
the look I like, too; then again, that made me want to
dress you up in heels and a short skirt with no underwear
on underneath, and take you to a decadent candlelit bar.
My fingers travel up your sighs, find your moistness so
I can insert myself while you sip a Manhattan... up. Yes.
That's not very Communist and workers-of-the-world-united
of you.
Tonight, when I look into your coal black
Appalachian eyes, I want to see them glass over with endorphine
release from the spanking my hand gives you for being
bad.
"What do you mean, you fucked him without
my permission?!"
I push her back into the third person,
take her short hair and pull it. Her jaw falls open. I
gently work my fingers into her mouth and ask her,
"Who's your Poet?" Slowly take my fingers
out.
"You know my little Communist whore can
fuck anyone she wants, whenever she wants, but not without
her Poet's permission. And not without telling me everything
I want and need to know. Because your mouth is mine. And
whatever pleasure your mouth gives and receives is my
business." I admit, your pussy doesn't belong to me, yet--afraid
to shave it, you are, even though I've demanded, as my
Muse, your pussy be completely bare and smooth for me,
your Poet. You still keep the thick, coarse Cherokee hair
down there, because, my God, what if you got jailed at
some protest and your feminist, lesbian, radical, tattooed
butch friends were to see you smooth as a little girl...
you don't want to be seen shaved down there--even though
they'd probably all line up to lick you--because that
would be too girly mag and bad politics.
Tonight, when I look into
your coal black Appalachian eyes, I want to see them
glass over with endorphine release
from the spanking my hand gives you for being bad.
So it's time for your 'attitude adjustment,'
because you fucked him--your younger, same-age-as-you,
goes-to-activist-meetings boyfriend--without my permission,
so easily granted as it is. Certainly is convenient
the way I live in a Bukowskiesque studio on the lip
of downtown and my office is located just across the
river in the rough part of town, right next door to
the newest, trendiest nightclub. I've taken you upstairs
there where you've seen my desk, working at a seedy
little west coast adult magazine. I like to imagine
how politically incorrect you could get, down on your
knees, underneath my desk sucking my cock. Sure, my
desk is tucked away in a little alcove, but the bathroom
is right near by. Anyone could see you on the way to
the bathroom, but what could they say. 'I'm working
here,' is what I'd say. All they could do is look at
your little Communist whore's mouth wrapped around my
cock while I surf smut on the web.
But that's not the fantasy we're going
to fulfill tonight for your 'adjustment.' Having all
access to the building has its advantages tonight, after
midnight. We're there in no time. I take you down into
the basement where you've never been before. The wooden
stairs down are sloppy, uneven and crooked like a junkie's
smile. You half fall down the stairs to the concrete
floor, unaccustomed to your new uniform: heels, bare
legs and a short, black skirt. It's an old building,
been there a long time. Rumors say the walls hide tunnels
where sailors were Shanghaied to ships docked on the
river bound for China and Japan. Air so still, you could
feel the breeze from a dog wagging its tail. I take
you back into the furthest room of the basement, the
bowels where the basement ends, this building begins,
and who knows what goes on beyond those crumbling walls.
I caress you so gently, purposefully, just a tap on
your shoulder lets you know that you're to drop to your
knees on the cool, concrete floor. Dimly watched by
a 40 watt bulb, I dip into my leather poet's bag and
pull out a blindfold made of black silk. Cover your
eyes, tie it tight behind your head. Now you're ready
to receive me. Just the sight of you that way and I
begin to swell up. I rub myself through my pants while
I caress your throat and your baby skinned cheeks. I
let him out, stroke him some more till he finds his
fullness in the dirty shadows. I say,
"This is the way the world ends,"
brushing my hard cock against your chin; your hungry
bubbling mouth opens. "This is the way your world
ends and mine begins in the back of your throat."
I take a fistful of your short, curly black hair in
one hand and splay my cock over your lips with my
other, teasing, torturing you. I tell you the words
you will say,
I plunge into your red lipsticked,
obscenely wet mouth, going for a black orgasm. Holding
you hair in one hand, my other hand cups the base
of your throat, backhand, under your jaw; I guide
your face back and forth on my big Viagravated dick.
I pull her head back off my cock so
she can look up at me, unable to see, and respond
to my voice,
"You are. You're my Poet."
"That's right. There's no substitute
for my literary loins."
I fill her mouth again, lean back
against the concrete wall for support, for leverage,
pulling her face forward with me. She nearly falls
over, her concentration so acute on sucking my cock;
she has to suddenly scoot her bare knees along the
rough floor to keep her balance. I'm a capitalist
pig that manufactures things and want and desire creating
inadequacy, isolation. I'm the boss of all the oppressed,
frightened workers, one pay check away from living
on the streets. I'm the cock in her blind mouth. And
so I must peel the black silk up over her eyes, now
cresting on her forehead like a sweaty worker's bandana.
And I tell her,
"Look at me. Look at me now."
Your glassy eyes, like anthracite
coal, reflect my soul bubbling up from beneath all
the decay screaming for deliverance. Floating on Appalachia
generations going all the way back, I'm mining the
coal in your eyes, so fucking hard it hurts. Like
a diamond. Cutting glass. Your mouth accepts and sucks
me without a single scraping from your perfect white
teeth. I must relinquish all my centuries of white
oppression in the mystery of your eyes, so deep, now
I'm falling; now I'm subjugated. Gypsy eyes. I fill
the shadows with the shout of your name, neither your
ears nor mine ever dreaming my throat could erupt
that way. And you swallow me completely.
I bid you to stand up. Your knees
pop and rattle; your thighs and legs are shaky. Your
long, strong fingers circle my back. I pull your head
to my chest. Kiss your black crow's hair. Stroke the
back of your neck. I whisper in your ear,
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