In one single move, he picked her up and flung her on her front, her backside, inviting to be slapped. Slap. Slap. Slap. Liling squeaked and pleaded. Tear-stricken, she begged it to end. Her buttocks parted, she trembled insanely as his tongue massaged her crack. Then, he paused, oiled his erection and spiked his way into her filthy exit. In In In. As expected, he finished halfway only and vented his frustration by cupping her rear and scraping its tender, lemony skin with his teeth. Once appeased, he slid back into kneeling position and overturned her dainty, quivering frame. Her supple arms flailed wildly in the perfumed emptiness and hit him against his broad, hairy chest. They wrestled. He laughed and slithered between her butchered limbs.
Her engorged lips throbbed as he expertly tickled her feminine hood. Up Down Up Down Up Down. Her bones rattled and she jerked, pounding her drenched self into his open, panting mouth. He drank her as she burst freely into him. Her agony, her bitterness, gushed out of her and he received and received, lapping every ounce of her pain and deep anger. His wide mouth was her temporary respite. No doctor, no drugs, relieved her as he did. She came and she came. Sparks of bluish white dots flashed in the semi-darkness as his licking quickened in its pace, circling her entire dripping inner and outer lips while simultaneously drilling two of his fingers into her rear hole. In Out In Out In Out.
It was at this point when Liling floated and drifted across the room, perfect and beautiful as she was before the tragedy. Her slim, tanned legs danced and flew above the humping, writhing bodies on the bed. She wiggled and jiggled and threw her head back, laughing at herself and her messiah, without whom she would not last the month.
Suddenly, she jolted and spirited back into the energetic motions of her flesh. Impaled by his massive, reddish-white erection, she gripped his waist as if holding on for her dear life. He rode into her, his hot spurts channelling tidal waves inside her dark, warm womb. Her phantom legs locked him around his powerful buttocks. She could feel them. They were real. They were there. No one could take her legs away from her. They were with her now. With him.
Liling twisted and wept, her face contorted into a mesh of emotions. His white largeness swallowed and wrapped itself around her golden-brown smallness and she desired to be crushed. Again and again and again.
He sponged her clean and towelled her dry. Feeling slightly limp, she allowed him to secure her diaper around her hips, dress her up and comb her hair. The waterproof sheet, the sexy lingerie and the satin cover were bagged and hidden in his car. The window was opened to let in the winter air and soon the fragrance of ylang-ylang faded into nothingness.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Evening, Rob.”
“Where’s Liling? What did the doctor say?” Robert helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator.
“The usual. She’s in good spirits. He prescribed more medication. I’ve left them on the dining-table.”
“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate you for taking her to her monthly appointments.”
“That’s what fathers are for. Liling’s sleeping now. See you soon. I’ll get your mum to drive over with dinner. Cheerio.”
Arthur slipped on his coat and closed the door behind him.
SWEATING PROFUSELY IN MÉRIDA: A MEMOIR
Carol Queen
THE BOYFRIEND AND I met at a sex party. I was in a back room trying to help facilitate an erection for a gentleman brought to the party by a woman who would have nothing to do with him once they got there. She had charged him a pretty penny to get in, and I actually felt that I should have gotten every cent, but I suppose it was my own fault that I was playing Mother Teresa and didn’t know when to let go of the man’s dick. Boyfriend was hiding behind a potted palm eyeing me and this guy’s uncooperative, uncut dick, and it seemed Boyfriend had a thing for pretty girls and uncut men, especially the latter. So he decided to help me out and replaced my hand with his mouth. That was when it got interesting. The uncut straight guy finally left and I stayed.
In the few months our relationship lasted, we shared many more straight men, most of them – Boyfriend’s radar was incredible – uncircumcised and willing to do almost anything with a man as long as there was a woman in the room. I often acted as sort of a hook to hang a guy’s heterosexuality on while Boyfriend sucked his dick or even fucked him. My favorite was the hitchhiker wearing pink lace panties under his grungy jeans – but that’s another story. Long before we met him, Boyfriend had invited me to go to Mexico.
This was the plan. Almost all the guys in Mexico are uncut, right? And lots will play with me, too, Boyfriend assured me, especially if there’s a woman there. (I guessed they resembled American men in this respect.) Besides, it would be a romantic vacation.
That was how we wound up in Room 201 of the Hotel Reforma in sleepy Mérida, capital of the Yucatán. Mérida’s popularity as a tourist town had been eclipsed by the growth of Cancún, the nearest Americanized resort. That meant the boys would be hornier, Boyfriend reasoned. The Hotel Reforma had been recommended by a fellow foreskin fancier. Its chief advantages were the price – about $14 a night – and the fact that the management didn’t charge extra for extra guests. I liked it because it was old, airy, and cool, with wrought-iron railings and floor tiles worn thin from all the people who’d come before. Boyfriend liked it because it had a pool, always a good place to cruise, and a disco across the street. That’s where we headed as soon as we got in from the airport, showered, and changed into skimpy clothes suitable for turning tropical boys’ heads.
There were hardly any tropical boys there, as it turned out, because this was where the Ft Lauderdale college students who couldn’t afford spring break in Cancún went to spend their more meager allowances, and not only did it look like a Mexican restaurant-with-disco in Ft. Lauderdale, the management took care to keep all but the most dapper Méridans out lest the coeds be frightened by scruffy street boys. Scruffy street boys, of course, is just what Boyfriend had his eye out for, and at first the pickings looked slim; but we found one who had slipped past security, out to hustle nothing more spicy than a gig showing tourists around the warren of narrow streets near the town’s central plaza, stumbling instead onto us. Ten minutes later Boyfriend had his mouth wrapped around a meaty little bundle, with foreskin. Luis stuck close to us for several days, probably eating more regularly than usual, and wondering out loud whether all the women in America were like me, and would we take him back with us? Or at least send him a Motley Crüe T-shirt when we went home?
Boyfriend had brought Bob Damron’s gay travel guide, which listed for Mérida: a cruisy restaurant (it wasn’t) and a cruisy park bench in the Zocalo (it was, and one night Boyfriend stayed out most of the night looking for gay men, who, he said, would run the other way if they saw me coming, and found one, a slender boy who had to pull down the panty hose he wore under his jeans so Boyfriend could get to his cock, and who expressed wonder because he had never seen anyone with so many condoms; in fact most people never had condoms at all. Boyfriend gave him his night’s supply and some little brochures, about el SIDA he’d brought from the AIDS Foundation, en español so even if our limited Spanish didn’t get through to our tricks, a pamphlet might).
Damron’s also indicated that Mérida had a bathhouse.
I had always wanted to go to a bathhouse, and of course there was not much chance it would ever happen back home. For one thing, they were all closed before I ever moved to San Francisco. For another, even if I dressed enough like a boy to pass, I wouldn’t look old enough to be let in. But in Mérida perhaps things were different.
It was away from the town’s center, but within walking distance of the Hotel Reforma. Through the tiny front window, grimy from the town’s blowing dust, I saw a huge papier-mache figure of Pan, painted brightly and hung with jewelry, phallus high. It looked like something the Radical Faeries would carry in the Gay Day parade. Everything else about the lobby looked dingy, like the waiting room of a used-car dealership.
Los Baños de Vapor wo
uld open at eight that evening. They had a central tub and rooms to rent; massage boys could be rented, too. I would be welcome.
The papier-mâché Pan was at least seven feet tall and was indeed the only bright thing in the lobby. Passing through the courtyard, an overgrown jumble of vines pushing through cracked tile, a slight smell of sulfur, a stagnant fountain, we were shown up a flight of concrete stairs to our room by Carlos, a solid, round-faced man in his midtwenties, wrapped in a frayed white towel. The room was small and completely tiled, grout black from a losing fight with the wet tropical air. At one end was a shower and at the other a bench, a low, vinyl-covered bed, and a massage table. There was a switch that, when flipped, filled the room with steam. Boyfriend flipped it and we shucked our clothes; as the pipes hissed and clanked, Carlos gestured to the massage table and then to me.
Boyfriend answered for me, in Spanish, that I’d love to. I got on the table and Carlos set to work. Boyfriend danced around the table gleefully, sometimes stroking me, sometimes Carlos’s butt. “Hey, man, I’m working!” Carlos protested, not very insistently, and Boyfriend went for his cock, stroking it hard, then urged him up onto the table, and Carlos’s hands, still slick from the massage oil and warm from the friction of my skin, covered my breasts as Boyfriend rolled a condom onto Carlos’s cock and rubbed it up and down my labia a few times and finally let go, letting it sink in. He rode me slow and then hard while the table rocked dangerously and Boyfriend stood at my head, letting me tongue his cock while he played with Carlos’s tits. When Boyfriend was sure that we were having a good time, he put on a towel and slipped out the door. Carlos looked surprised. I had to figure out how to say, in Spanish “He’s going hunting,” and get him to go back to fucking me, solid body slick from oil and steam; if he kept it up, he would make me come, clutching his slippery back, legs in the air.
That was just happening when Boyfriend came back with David. He was pulling him in the door by his already stiff penis, and I suspected Boyfriend had wasted as little time getting him by the dick as he usually did. He had found David in the tub room, he announced, and he had a beautiful, long uncut cock. (Boyfriend always enunciated clearly when he said “uncut”.) David did have a beautiful cock, and he spoke English and was long and slim with startling blue eyes. It turned out he was Chicano, second generation, a senior Riverside High who spent school breaks with his grandmother in Mérida and worked at Los Baños de Vapor as a secret summer job. We found out all this about him as I was showering the sweat and oil off from my fuck with Carlos, and by the time I heard that he’d been working at the Baños since he turned sixteen, I was ready to start fucking again. David was the most quintessentiallly eighteen-year-old fuck I ever had, except Boyfriend’s presence made it unusual; he held David’s cock and balls and controlled the speed of the thrusting, until his mouth got preoccupied with Carlos’s dick. David told me, ardently, that I was beautiful, though at that point I didn’t care if I was beautiful or not, since I was finally in a bathhouse doing what I’d always wanted to do and I felt more like a faggot than a beautiful gringa. But David was saying he wished he had a girlfriend like me, even though I was thirty, shockingly old – this actually was what almost all of Boyfriend’s conquests said to me, though I suspected not every man could keep up with a girlfriend who was really a faggot, or a boyfriend who was really a woman, or whatever kind of fabulous anomaly I was.
Then someone knocked on the door and we untangled for a minute to answer it, and there were José and Gaspar, laughing and saying we were the most popular room in the Baños at the moment and would we like some more company? At least that’s how David translated the torrent of Spanish, for they were both speaking at once. Naturally we invited them in, and lo and behold, Gaspar was actually gay, and so while I lay sideways on the massage table with my head off the edge and my legs in the air so I could suck David while José fucked me, I could watch Boyfriend finally getting his cock sucked by Gaspar, whose black, glittering Mayan eyes closed in concentration, and I howled with not simply orgasm but the excitement, the splendid excitement of being in Mexico in a bathhouse with four uncut men and a maniac, a place no woman I knew had gone before. Steam swirled in the saturated air like superheated fog, beading like pearls in the web of a huge Yucatan spider in the corner; David’s cock, or was it José’s or Carlos’s again, I didn’t care, pounded my fully opened cunt rhythmically and I wished I had her view.
You know if you have ever been to a bathhouse that time stands still in the steamy, throbbing air, and so I had no idea how long it went on, only that sometimes I was on my back and sometimes on my knees, and once for a minute I was standing facing the wall, and when Boyfriend wasn’t sucking them or fucking me, he was taking snapshots of us, just like a tourist. The floor of the room was completely littered with condoms, which made us all laugh hysterically. Rubber-kneed, Gasper and David held me up with Carlos and José flanking them so Boyfriend could snap one last picture. Then he divided all the rest of the condoms among them – we had more at the hotel, I think that week we went through ten dozen – and got out his brochures. He was trying to explain in Spanish the little condoms he used for giving head – how great they were to use with uncut guys ’cause they disappeared under the foreskin – and I was asking David what it was like to live a double life, Riverside High to Los Baños, and who else came there – “Oh, everybody does,” he said – and did they ever want to fuck him – of course they wanted to – and did he ever fuck them well, sure – and how was that? He shrugged and said, as if there were only one possible response to my question, “It’s fucking.”
When we left, the moon was high, the Baños deserted, the warm night air almost cool after the steamy room. The place looked like a courtyard motel, the kind I used to stay in with my parents when we traveled in the early sixties, but overgrown and haunted. The Pan figure glittered in the low lobby light, and the man at the desk charged us $35 – seven for each massage boy, four each to get in, and six for the room. Hundreds of thousands of pesos – he looked anxious, as though he feared we’d think it was too much. We paid him, laughing. I wondered if this was how a Japanese businessman in Thailand felt. Was I contributing to the imperialist decline of the third world? Boyfriend didn’t give a shit about things like that, so I didn’t mention it. In my hand was a crumpled note from David: “Can I come visit you in your hotel room? No money.”
ALMOST TRANSPARENT BLUE
Ryu Murakami
Translated by Nancy Andrew
IN THE MIDDLE of Oscar’s room, nearly a fistful of hashish smoldered in an incense burner, and like it or not, the spreading smoke entered one’s chest with every breath. In less than thirty seconds I was completely stoned. I felt as if my insides were oozing out through every pore, and other people’s sweat and breath were flowing in.
Especially the lower half of my body felt heavy and sore, as if sunk into thick mud, and my mouth itched to hold somebody’s prick and drain it. While we ate the fruit piled on plates and drank wine, the whole room was raped by heat. I wanted my skin peeled off. I wanted to take in the greased, shiny bodies of the black men and rock them inside of me. Cherry cheesecake, grapes in black hands, steaming boiled crab legs breaking with a snap, clear sweet pale purple American wine, pickles like dead men’s wart-covered fingers, bacon sandwiches like the mouths of women, salad dripping pink mayonnaise.
Bob’s huge cock was stuffed all the way into Kei’s mouth.
Ah’m jes’ gonna see who’s got the biggest. She crawled around on the rug like a dog and did the same for everyone.
Discovering that the largest belonged to a half-Japanese named Saburō, she took a cosmos flower from an empty vermouth bottle and stuck it in as a trophy.
Hey, Ryū, his is twice the size of the one ya got.
Saburō raised his head and let out an Indian yell, then Kei seized the cosmos flower between her teeth and pulled it out, jumped on the table, and shook her hips, like a Spanish dancer. Flashing blue strobe lights circled the cei
ling. The music was a luxuriant samba by Luiz Bon Fa. Kei shook her body violently, hot after seeing the wetness on the flower.
Somebody do it to me, do it to me quick, Kei yelled in English, and I don’t know how many black arms reached out to throw her on the sofa and tear off her slip, the little pieces of black translucent cloth fluttering to the floor. Hey, just like butterflies, said Reiko, taking a piece of the cloth and spreading butter on Durham’s prick. After Bob yelled and thrust his hand into Kei’s crotch, the room filled with shrieks and shrill laughter.
Looking around the room, watching the twisting bodies of the three Japanese girls, I drank peppermint wine and munched crackers spread with honey.
The penises of the black men were so long they looked slender. Even fully erect, Durham’s bent fairly far as Reiko twisted it. His legs trembled and he shot off suddenly, and everyone laughed at the sight of his come wetting the middle of Reiko’s face. Reiko laughed too and blinked, but as she looked around for some tissue paper to wipe her face, Saburō easily picked her up. He pulled her legs open, just as if he were helping a little girl to piss, and lifted her onto his belly. His huge left hand gripping her head and his right pinning her ankles together, he held her so that all her weight hung on his cock. Reiko yelled, That hurts, and struck out with her hands, trying to pull away, but she couldn’t grab on to anything.
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 27
