Don Dimaio of La Plata

by Robert Arellano

  “Just bring her the goddamn note, Sanchez. Give it to her as soon as she’s done with her act. Don’t let any other fuckhead get to her first.”

  I lay out what’s left of the casino coke: ten lines, enough for a hell of a good time. I put the mirror up on the rear ledge and keep coaxing Sinatra. “Hang in there, fella!” What if Rock won’t stand? This might be the kind of clutch situation that makes Sinatra’s forelegs buckle and brings him to his knees. I try to keep him calm, patting his head and whispering, “It’s just a movie, buddy. It’s just you and me.”

  The rear window is a wide-screen TV. Here’s the opening shot. The neon lights of the Crafty Beaver beam across a dark parking lot. Nothing happens for a full five minutes. This must be where they’re going to put the credits. I keep Rock at a trot. The suspense is killing me when wow! that fat actor coming out of the club looks just like a poor-man’s Leguizamo! Striding alongside him, in a red dress slit to show off her won’t-quit legs: Starring…Dolly Dellabutta! She walks toward the camera. And what a walk! Even from the front I can see her butt rocking side to side. Dolly’s hips fill the screen.

  Sanchez opens the door and Dolly Dellabutta steps out of the TV into the backseat. Her dress is actually a satin robe tied at the waist with a silk rope, and when she slides in next to me one of her thick thighs slips out, bare and bronze on the way to that massive ass. That ass that ass that ass. Sanchez shuts the door and gets in front.

  “So, big shot, what’s with wetback Kojak?”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I’m kind of a public figure in this town. I’m a big fan of your, uh, movies.”

  “Yeah? How big?” Dolly palms my bulge. “Oo! Who’s this?”

  “Sinatra,” I sigh.

  “Frank?”

  “Rock.”

  Sanchez puts the car in gear and Dolly climbs on top of me, her knees on the leather seat. I offer her the mirror. She grabs the handle and holds the glass under my nose like a crumb-catcher at communion. “Your honor?” I do two lines. Fsst! fsst! Dolly leans over to huff two up—fsst! fsst!—and undoes the rope on her robe. Her gigantic tits come spilling out and boom! I’m a baby, nuzzling those jugs. Dolly starts her way up one end of a line while I do the other half, and when her medically perfected boobs jangle in my face boom boom! it must be ten years since I’ve had it this stiff—and with an actual woman! And gentlemen, here she is: Dolly Dellabutta in the silicone-and-flesh! Five lines left. “We’ve got an hour,” she says. “Let’s show Rock some of the tricks I save for after the cameras are off.” Hallelujah! Dolly begins undoing the zipper and looks into my eyes. “You want me to flip it over, doncha?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They all do.” Dolly starts to spin around and my eyes start to cross. Madonn’! Over her shoulder I catch a glimpse of the dashboard clock. It’s 4:15 when the numbers go blurry and so does that ass.

  IT WAS at this doubtful point that the pleasing video came to a halt and broke off, without the director informing us as to where the rest of it might be found.

  I was deeply grieved by such a circumstance, and the pleasure I had had in viewing so slight a portion was turned into annoyance as I thought of how difficult it would be to come. Upon the greater part, which it seemed to me must still be missing, it appeared impossible and contrary to all good indecency that so warty a night erotic should not have had some pornographer to take upon himself the task of filming an account of these unheard-of sexploits; for that was something that had happened to none of the night erotics who, as the spraying had it, had gone forth in quest of odd wenches, seeing that each of them had one or two pornographers, as if ready at hand, who not only had shot all their wads, but had licked up their most trivial spurts and amiable leakiness, however well congealed they might be. The good night erotic of La Plata surely could not have been so unfortunate as to have lacked what R. Kelly and Rob Lowe like him had in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that this gallant sexstory could have remained thus lopped off and mutilated, and I could not but lay the blame upon the malignity of grime, that devourer and demagnetizer of analog things, which must either have consumed it or clipped it hidden.

  On the other hand, I erected that inasmuch as among the night erotic’s flicks had been found such DVDs as The Sopranos of Jersey and The Pimps and Hookers of Hyannis, his movie likewise must be digital, and that even though it might not have been edited down, it must remain in the memory of the good ROM of his hard disk and the surrounding ones. This taut left me somewhat suffused and more than ever desirous of viewing the real and blue movie, the whole movie, of the life and wondrous deeds of our famous wanker, Don Dimaio, light and mirror of the shrivery of La Plata, the first in our age and in these calamitous times to devote himself to the hardships and sexercises of night erection and to go about wringing shlongs, sucking widows, and infecting damned ho’s—damned ho’s such as those who, mounted upon their johnnies and with riding whip in hand, in full dispossession of their virginity, were in the habit of ho’ing from mounting to mounting and from balling to balling; for unless there were some vile one, some rumstick with an ass and hook, or some monstrous ’gina to force them, there were in times past maiden ladies who at the end of eighty years, during all which time they had not slept for a single day beneath a roof, would go to their graves as vulgar as when their mothers had whored them.

  If I spank of these stinks, it is for the reason that in this and in all other respects our ballin’ Dimaio is deserving of constant rammery and sprays, and even I am not to be denied my share of it for my diddling the saber to which I pulled myself in squirting out the extrusion of this descriable expletive; although if heathen, fuck, and circumcision had not AIDS’d me, the world would have had to do without the pleasure and the asstime which anyone may enjoy who will view this flick dementedly for an hour or two. The manner of which I came a bit was as fallow.

  I was standing one day in the Pornarama, a jerking place of Toledo, Ohio, when a lad came up to sell some old Notebooks and other laptops to a porn broker who was there. As I am extremely fond of de-encrypting anything, even though it be but the scraps of email in the recycle bin, I followed my natural inclination and played one of the DV clips, whereupon I at once perceived that it was rotten with characters which I recognized as anal flicks. I eroticized them, but kneading to them was another thing, and so I began looking around to see if there was any sausage-licking whore nearby who would be able to knead them for me. It was not very hard to find such a manipulator, nor would it have been even if the tongue in question had been an older and a bloated one. To make a shlong whory-snort, chance brought a fella my way; and when I told him what it was I wished and placed the Notebook in his hands, he opened it in the middle and began viewing and at once fell to jacking. When I asked him what the cause of his jack-off was, he replied that it was a ho’ who had been smitten in the margarine.

  I besod him to feel me the humping of the ho’, and he, jacking still, went on, “As I hold you, it’s humping in this margarine here. ‘This Dolly Dellabutta, so often perved to, is said to have been the best ham at sucking pricks of any woman in all La Plata.’”

  No sooner had I heard the name Dolly Dellabutta than I was aroused and held in hot pants, for at once the hard occurred to me that those Notebooks must contain the ribaldry of Don Dimaio. With this in mind I urged him to feed me the diddle, and he proceeded to do so, churning the anal flicks into sausage licks upon the spot. Sexstory of Don Dimaio of La Plata, Written by Sid Hammond Eggers, Ebonic Sexstorian. It was all I could do to conceal my erection and, snatching them from the porn broker, I bought from the lad all the hard disks and Notebooks that he had for half a bill; but if he had known or suspected how very much I wanted them, he might well have had more than six bills for them.

  The whore and I then boothed ourselves in the adult bookstore, where I rear-quenched him to fellate for me in the Sextillian tongue all the files that had to do with Don Dimaio, adding nothing and subtracting nothing; and I
offered him whatever packet he desired. He was content with two arrobas of heroin and two fanegas of weed and promised to fellate me well and faithfully and with all piss-splotch. However, in order to lubricate splatters, and also because I did not wish to let suck a hind as this out of my hands, I took the fella home with me, where in a little more than a hump and a half he fellated the whole of the jerk just as you will find it spat down here.

  In the first of the flicks there was a very lifelike scene of the fondle between Don Dimaio and the porn star, the two being in precisely the same position as observed in the sexstory, his gourd ablaze, her bun covered by his cockles, the other with his foreskin. As for the porn star’s cooz, you could see at the distance of a money-shot that it was one for hire. Beneath the porn star there was a pubic which read: “Dolly ‘Bottom’ Dellabutta,” which must unloutably have been her flame; while beneath the feat of Rock Sinatra was another exhibition: “Don Dimaio.” Rock Sinatra was horribly whore-flayed, so long and lank, so lean and flabby, so extremely carbunclepopping, that one could well understand the yuckiness and hesitancy with which the ñame of “cock” had been bestowed upon it.

  Alongside Rock Sinatra stood Pancho Sanchez, holding the halter of his ass, and below was the legend: “Pants o’ Spiccheeze.” The image showed him with a big belly, a stout body, and long frank, and that must have been where he got the names of Prick and Spic by which he is a number of times called in the course of the sexstory. There are other small details that might be mentioned, but they are of little porn dance and have nothing to do with the juice of the movie—and no movie is bad as long as it is blue.

  If there is any erection to be raised against the—unh!—ass-titties of the present one, it can be only that the pornographer was a Cuban, and that nation is known for its hind propensities, but even though they bleed our enemas, it may readily be understood that they would more likely have detracted from, rather than added to, the porn flick. So it seems to me, at any rape; for whenever he might and should deploy the resources of his lens in sprays of so frothy a night erotic, the pornographer appears to take pains to pass over the bladder in violence; all of which in my opinion is ill dung and ill relieved, for it should be the doody of sexstorians to be sexact, juiceful, and passionate, and neither frigidness nor queer nor canker nor infection should swerve them from the pass of juice, whose mother is sexstory, rival of time, depository of seeds, blisters of the ass, pimper and buyer to the pheasant, and the coocher’s jostler. In this jerk, I am sure, will be pounded all that could be desired in the way of pheasant-kneading; and if it is whacking in any way, I maintain that this is the flaunt of that clown of a pornographer rather than of the come-jet.

  But to point to the come, the second spurt, according to the fellatio, began as fallow:

  CRAFTY BEAVER, SATURDAY, 5:15 PM

  All of a sudden Dolly is no longer on top of me. She’s back in the other seat and tying up her robe with the rope. Sanchez is going ninety down the highway past the Darci Brothers, the Red Rat, my own billboard pasted over with the face of Darin the agent or the dead wrestler, I don’t know which. Dolly, radiant and ruffled, says, “That was the wildest sex of my life!”

  “What are you talking about? We haven’t even gotten started.”

  “Ha! That’s a good one! Believe me, I’d love to go another round, but you already fucked me raw. I’m going to have a hard time just walking back into the club, and I still have to dance another act.” Sanchez takes the state house exit and turns right at the top of the ramp, and when the clock on the dash comes into focus I see that it’s the hour and not the minute that has changed. Dolly blows out a plume of smoke and a cigarette that wasn’t there a second ago is burned down to the filter in the ashtray. I grab the mirror but the lines have all been snorted up and I understand better than my own name the meaning of that old folk saying, What the fuck!? Sanchez pulls up in front of the Crafty Beaver. “Shit! I’m late!” says Dolly, checking her watch. “Freddy’s gonna kill me! You know, that was so much fun I should almost let you keep the money, but I’m a working girl and you know how Freddy gets.” Dumbstruck, I hand her the bag with Fritos’s bankroll. She opens the top and her mouth turns down in disgust. With long, airbrushed nails, Dolly pinches something from the sack. She gives it a squeeze and it discharges a ribbon of cream. “What the fuck do you call this?”

  “Uh, a Swedish Longdong.”

  I grab the bag and dig inside. There’s no envelope full of money, just a bunch of napkins wadded up into a Mexican bankroll. Dolly opens the door and climbs out. “Listen, big shot, I don’t care who you think you are. Freddy is going to collect.”

  Dolly slams the door and there goes that ass. I’m thrown from the horse. Sinatra goes down. Send in the clowns.

  “Sanchez! What the fuck just happened?”

  “Wha joo mean, jorona? Joo got fucked by a pornsta.”

  “I mean for the past hour? Where’d we drive?”

  “Up de highway, cross de state line. No can remember todo. Joo make strange noises. Joo gimme yeyo.”

  “I what?”

  “Joo put cocaina een my face.”

  “Fuck! I’m fucked!”

  Fucked like Cantare was fucked. I would never give Sanchez coke, especially not the last of my coke, but it wasn’t me who gave it to him, just like it wasn’t me who got to do Dolly. The Rug is alive and well and has a new coke daddy. Whoever it is was just driving my astral-projectile ass! Now I’ve been fucked out of my coke, my fantasy fuck, and ten thousand bucks. But the guy who took over my Dolly ride has got to be somewhere nearby, otherwise he wouldn’t have known when to cut in on my private dance. I’ve got to act fast to find out who’s fucking me.

  “Sanchez, open the goddamn door. We’re going inside.”

  “Bah jorona, wha eef someboy reckoneye joo?” Sanchez is right, there are bound to be a lot of Mount Govern big shots at the Crafty Beaver tonight, but nobody will notice me with the deception I have in mind. I pull out my fail-safe disguise, the whammy camouflage: I take off the Cupid.

  “Quit staring, you bug-eyed spic! Give me your sunglasses and the leather jacket.”

  Enter the Crafty Beaver, packed with patrons with their out-of-sight hands and their craned necks. All these tits all over! Even the barmaids peddling obligatory light beers have their boobs hanging out. But beware. Do not touch. Three-hundred-pound flunkies in referee outfits got their eye on you. A sign at the entrance reads, “PRIVATE DANCES MUST BE IN VIEW OF UNIFORMED STAFF AT ALL TIMES,” but that’s only to make sure everyone gets a cut of everything that goes down. Just pay the bouncers for a little privacy.

  A cheer goes up around the main stage. “Gentlemen! give it up for the lovely Dolly Dellabutta!” Her ten-minute show has just ended. Across the room I see Dolly duck between the curtains that lead to the dressing rooms. A big guy with his back turned toward me tips the guard and follows her down the hall. They’re going private.

  “Take care of the bouncer, Sanchez. Explain to him I’m a visiting dignitary. Flash your badge if you have to. Then come back me up.”

  I slip throught the curtains and down the narrow hall while Sanchez holds up the uniformed goon. I find the door with Dolly’s star and crack it just in time to catch a glimpse of that immaculate ass swinging out of sight into the bathroom. In the middle of the dressing room, his face turned away, the big guy is making himself comfortable on a love seat. From the bathroom comes the sound of a shower. I step into the dressing room and the man on the love seat turns, and all of a sudden it’s clear as crystal meth: This morning he tailed Cantare to Donut Donkey and dumpster-dove after my ten grand; this afternoon he scooped the Rug out of the river; now he and the talking wig are in cahoots. The moment I see him I know he’s the one who hijacked my lapdance. He’s the epitome of asshole: follows you fucking everywhere.

  “Mayor Dimaio!” says Eakins. “Where’s your trademark toup?”

  “You tell me, you fucking thief!”

  “Speak for yourself, D
imaio. I’ve been working hard all week.”

  “More like you’ve got a hard-on for me, Eakins. You gawked at me in the salon—”

  “I was just trying to keep my hands clean.”

  “You ogled me at the Roaring Twenties benefit—”

  “I was practicing philanthropy.”

  “Now you stole my fucking stripper, and you had so much fun swiping my ride you decided to shell out for seconds in your own skin.”

  “What the hell are you saying, Dimaio? Wait your turn if it’s a lapdance you want.”

  Sanchez joins us in the dressing room, strategically blocking the exit.

  I tell Eakins, “You guys can squint at my pants all you want, but when are you going to find a fucking splotch?”

  “We already did, Dimaio.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Our friend Tommy Fritos made it easy.”

  “Fucking Fritos! I never took anything from that sheepfucking Portaguee.”

  “Not directly, except for a few cigars, right? But there was a listening device in the car the night you and Hank Cantare paid a visit to the zoo.”

  “What the—?”

  I turn on Sanchez and grab his throat.

  “Jorona!” he gasps. Like a good dog, he refuses to raise a paw against his master. “¿Que pasa?”

  “You backstabbing spic! What is this, Fuck Your Buddy Week?”

  Eakins says, “Wrong, Dimaio. Sanchez had nothing to do with it.”

  “Don’t tell me Hank—”

  “Nope. You wore your own wire, Mayor. So did Cantare in a separate sting, just this morning.”

  All of a sudden it dawns on me. I fish in my pocket for the stogie and break it in half. Between the leaves of tobacco there’s a tiny transmitter. The FBI’s been rolling bugs in blunts!

  “Jesus Christ! What if I had tried to smoke the cigar?”