by Violet Blue
Jen paused to catch her breath, withdrew, and unfastened her strap-on before facing Tim. He looked like the cat who’d got the cream. Jen smiled at him, taking in the sight of his white come as it ran down his legs and the stool. She undid his hands and legs and helped him to rise slowly, unsteady at first, his firm chest framed by her air hostess uniform.
Jen took a last look, before removing his jacket and placing it carefully onto his pile of clothes. Tim passed Jen her outfit and kissed her cheek. Putting her belongings into her bag, Jen turned to leave. “See you in the morning, Captain,” she said.
“Goodnight, Stewardess Harper. Sleep well. It’s a long-haul flight to Singapore tomorrow, after all.”
DISCIPLINE
Tsaurah Litzky
I woke up with a herd of politicians stampeding through my head. Watching the coverage of Reagan’s funeral on TV had driven me to despair and drink. I prefer to do my drinking to celebrate—if only I had turned the TV off before I had knocked down half a bottle of Scotch.
I had to take a hot-and-cold shower and drink three cups of extra strong coffee before I could banish those ponderous politicians from my head. I wanted to replace their dark, somber suits with rainbow colors. I drank a large vodka flavored with orange juice and took three aspirins and finally summoned the discipline to totter over to my computer, where my current writing project is a memoir of my life in the late ’80s.
I was working on the chapter about my one-night-stand with the rock star who was so famous that for two years in a row his unique first name was the one most often chosen for newborn baby boys. In my memoir, I call him Mr. Rocker but everyone will recognize him as Cockney Craven, possessor of eleven gold records, often called in the tabloids “The Craven One.” I was just describing how this famous rock icon with the triple Prince Albert couldn’t come.
We had sucked up enough blow to fly the Utah Boys Choir to Amsterdam. I had orgasmed four times while Cockney was plugging me, but he couldn’t seem to let go. His member was now bobbing forlornly, despite its three gold rings, and softening at half-mast.
I crouched above him, cradling it in the palms of my hands, playing him with my fingers like a flute, but to no avail.
Cockney sighed, “That’s not going to work, that’s not going to do it,” he said. “But do you have any high, high heels?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I have a pair of six-inch heels—red suede pumps that buckle around the ankle.”
“That’s just the ticket. Get them,” he implored. “Get them and put them on straight away.” I fetched them from my closet and sat on the edge of the bed to put them on. He was so eager; he helped me, quickly doing the buckles up.
“This is what I want you to do,” he said. “Walk around in front of me, walk back and forth across the room.”
I did as he asked but felt self-conscious. I wondered if he would notice, seeing me standing up, how my ass was too big for my body or how much smaller my left tit was than my right. I need not have worried because he said, “You’re foxy, so foxy, such a foxy lady. Turn around. Yes, yes, that’s right, jolly good. Now,” he instructed, “put your hands under your titties, shake’em, shake ’em, rock and roll, turn around, dance for me.”
I started to get into it, gyrating before him, thrusting my box in front of his face. I was starting to work up a sweat when he said, “OK, Gypsy Rose Lee, come on over here. Take a look at this.” I paraded closer. His cock had revived, and now it was an upstanding soldier, saluting me proudly. “Fantastic,” I said.
“Knew you’d like it,” he replied. “Now, lift your leg and put the heel of your shoe in my mouth.”
“In your mouth?” I asked, surprised. I had never been with anyone who wanted to suck on my shoe before. “That’s right,” he said, “in my mouth, fucking A.” He grinned at me with the charm that had captivated millions.
He reached out and hooked a couple of wily fingers into my snatch, pulling me toward him. With his other hand he took mine and wrapped it around his now stiff, bulging cock. As he moved his fingers slowly in and out of me, I tried to pull them even deeper inside. He had made me eager and I wanted him to move faster, but he teased me, going even more slowly. Soon Cockney had me writhing with pleasure, then he asked me again, “Put that shoe in my mouth. What are you waiting for?” Now I was happy to oblige. My yoga studies made it easy for me to swing my leg up high, and an instant later my shoe heel was between his lips.
I jerked his mighty member vigorously as he sucked lustily at the heel of my shoe. Just as he was bringing me off for time number five, he came too. He sent a thick arc of creamy white jism shooting across the room to land on top of my pink wicker laundry hamper. Then he hugged me to him, kissing my face and the top of my head. I put my arms around him. We lay quietly. His skin smelled sweet, like milk.
He got up and dressed, then before he left, he showed me that fame had not spoiled him. He was still a thoughtful guy. He got a sponge from the kitchen and carefully wiped the dried come off my laundry hamper. I ended the chapter with the Craven One walking out the door as I admired the sight of his tight ass in his black chino pants.
His ass is still tight after all these years. I recently saw him shimmy around in a music video on TV. He has kept working, doing concerts all over the globe. In the tabloids they still write about him, describing him as a living legend, the Peter Pan of Rock ’n’ Roll.
I did see Cockney one more time. I haven’t yet decided whether I will include our second meeting in my memoir. It was right after Bush number one won in the 1988 election.
My first poem had gotten published in a little magazine named Frazzle. One evening, I was sitting at my kitchen table reading my poem over and over. I loved seeing it in print. The phone rang and when I picked it up, Cockney was on the other end.
“How’s the most beautiful bird in New York?” he asked.
“If you think I’m going to fall for that line, you’re right,” I told him.
He laughed and then he said, “I’m so glad I found you at home, lovey. Listen, I’m holed up at the St. Regis, recording session tomorrow. Why don’t you drop over this evening? We will have some bubbly and giggle over old times. How about six p.m.?”
I was delighted that he invited me, and I had always wanted to see what the inside of a room at the St. Regis was like.
“You’re on,” I told him.
“See you then,” he said. “Room 530, and remember, wear those beautiful shoes.”
At ten of six, I turned off Fifth Avenue onto Fifty-fifth Street. The purple and gold canopy of the St. Regis loomed just ahead. I tottered along on my six-inch heels. I was wearing my favorite red-sequined, strapless minidress under my fall trench coat. At the last minute, I had typed out a copy of the poem that was in Frazzle and tucked it in my purse. I couldn’t help nursing the fantasy that if I showed it to Cockney, he would want to make it into a song.
The lobby of the St. Regis had marble floors and so many mirrors it looked like my idea of the palace of Versailles. I saw myself reflected in the mirrors and made myself stand up straight. I pretended I was the beautiful crown princess of Spain coming to visit the prince of England. Perhaps my royalty was not obvious, for the man at the front desk looked at me strangely, and I wondered if he thought I was a hooker.
Cockney answered my knock immediately. “Right on time! You’re a feast for the eyes,” he said, grabbing me, pulling me close in a big hug, my face pressed into his chest.
He was wearing orange leather pants, no shirt, and his feet were bare. I could hear his heart beating like a happy drum. “Come on inside, Luv,” he said, and he led me into a sumptuous living room all done up in white and gold.
“A friend just dropped by,” he said. “I’d like you to meet him.”
I could not believe my eyes. Reclining on the white satin sofa was the gender-bending stud lovely of the rock world, Ned Delicious. His bright red lipstick matched his jockstrap. He also had on a Harley Davidson T-shirt that said MORE THAN A L
EGEND , and combat boots. He stood up courteously and extended a hand. “Hope you don’t mind the casual attire,” he said. The square mirror on the low marble-topped table in front of the couch was dusted with white powder. A long white straw lay on top of it.
I was taken aback at this surprising situation, but tried to stay calm. Was I being set up for a ménage à trois? The idea of a threesome with two men had always been scary to me. It was not anything I ever wanted to get into. Who would put what where? I didn’t want two cocks inside me at once. I was too small. What a terrifying idea, it would rip me in two.
Cockney must have read my mind. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “We’re just two blokes too stoned to kipper, who are happy to have your company.”
I probably didn’t look convinced because Ned chimed right in. “Really, even if I had the energy, I never shag a person I’ve only just met. I usually wait at least two hours. My friend here says you are as sensible as you are fine. Come, sit down, do a line.” He pulled an elegant silver compact from somewhere inside his jockstrap, opened it, and shook a small mound of white powder onto the mirror. As he was parting it into rows with the straw he said, “Cockney tells me you’ve just started to write poetry. Any luck with publication?”
When I told them about my poem’s getting published, they wanted to see it. I was glad I had a copy with me. They pronounced it marvelous, ahead of the curve. Ned asked me for it. He said he wanted to send it to a friend of his who had a literary magazine.
Then Cockney said, “Let me give you a bit of advice, since you are just starting out.”
I was honored he wanted to advise me. “Please do,” I said.
“The most important thing,” he continued, “is to keep on working. Discipline, always discipline, don’t get distracted. Discipline—that’s the ticket, learn when to say no to yourself, and never forget it.”
He picked up the straw, bent his head over the mirror, and snorted up the two long lines.
Soon we were all three of us sitting on the sofa, drifting together through simultaneous time. It seemed I had always been sitting there rubbing shoulders with my illustrious friends. Ned took his compact out again, and then again. We were talking about the rumor that the queen mother was into S/M when I felt a hand on my leg, right above my knee, just below where my dress ended midthigh. The hand belonged to Cockney and I looked over at him warily. “I thought you were too stoned,” I said.
“Your beauty revived me, Luv. I just had to touch you when I observed the grace of your legs. The fine line of your ankles in those alluring shoes drew me like a magnet. Leonardo couldn’t have drawn a more irresistible sight.”
“I don’t think Leonardo drew pictures of high-heeled shoes,” I said sharply.
“Please don’t get angry,” he said. “I mean no harm. Your skin feels so nice, like satin, and what’s the harm in friends having a bit of fun together? Now tell me the truth, doesn’t my touch feel sweet to you?”
The movement of his fingers did feel good, generating waves of gentle heat down to my ankle and up my thigh. I felt increased warmth between my legs. My little jam pot was heating up, no sense denying it.
“It does feel nice,” I had to admit.
“That’s a true poet,” interjected Ned. “Tell it like it is.”
Cockney’s fingers were now softly stroking my shin, moving downward. He circled my ankle with his other hand. “I can’t stop myself from touching you,” he said. “Could you, oh, would you, please permit me to kiss all the way down your leg, to remove those alluring shoes and worship your glorious feet? Oh, please, please, please.” The most famous rock ’n’ roller of my generation was actually begging me. How could I refuse?
“Sure,” I said. I was wearing a pair of red fishnet panty hose to go with my red dress and heels. Craven removed my shoes and peeled off the panty hose quicker than you could say, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”
He knelt at my feet and lifted my leg, handling it gently as if it were fashioned from delicate porcelain. He bent his head, kissed the arches of my feet, my ankle. He traced the line of my shinbone with his tongue, started kissing at my knee, big warm kisses that fanned the heat already steaming between my thighs. My clit started to tingle merrily and puff up with increased pleasure. Cockney continued slowly kissing his way up above my knee, his thick curly hair tickled the inside of my legs deliciously, and I found my thighs spreading wider, my hips lifting as I opened my magic gate, offering him my oh-so-eager clit and the center of bliss below.
“I smell a sweet, a tasty little sweet,” Cockney said. He sniffed appreciatively.
“How I would like to taste it,” he said. “If you would be so gracious….” How cute of him to show me he could be a poet too. I gave him my answer by spreading my thighs even wider and sliding down a bit on the sofa, so that I was sitting right on his gorgeous face.
He reached around and grabbed my hips with his strong fingers, steadying me, then he lost no time tracing his wily tongue up to tease my clit. I was soon so wet that I was afraid my juices would pour out of me, drowning him, but Cockney persevered, moving his skillful tongue down into my love hole, fucking me with it fast and furious. Soon I could hear myself yell out, “Oh, oh, oh,” and my cunt puckered up, my cunt lips pulling his tongue deep into my heart of hearts as I came. I was breathing so hard I couldn’t speak, but then my breath slowed and I looked down to see Cockney looking up at me, smiling, my cunt juice all over his face. Tenderly, I reached down and wiped his cheek with my hand.
I was so overwhelmed with Cockney’s attentions that I had forgotten Ned was with us. He cleared his throat, coughing discreetly, and then he spoke. “Watching you two romping away was such a sexy sight, you got me all excited.”
We looked up. His excitement was apparent. The top of his cock head was peering at us like a small crescent moon, poking out above his jockstrap.
“I have a secret,” he said. “I just adore watching, sometimes. I adore watching more than shagging. I’d be in ecstasy if I could watch you two some more and wank myself. Would you be up for a bit more loop-de-loop so I could watch and wank myself? Would that be all right? I’m a very polite wanker. I don’t spurt all over the place. I wank right into me hand.”
“Fine with me, mate,” said Cockney, “but how do you feel?” he asked me. He placed his hand on the inside of my leg, gently stoking. Now it was he who was wiping up my love potions. What lovely guys, so considerate.
I heard a bold, confident voice that I didn’t recognize as mine at all say, “Go ahead, knock yourself out.”
Ned Delicious pushed down the jockstrap and pulled out his fabled cock. It was medium sized and curved, thickly veined and uncut. I didn’t gaze at it for long. Cockney was distracting me; his nimble fingers had climbed up inside my snatch. I was so sated I didn’t think I could come again, but he kept at it, teasing me, pleasing me, stroking inside my pussy, pulling my clit. My excitement started to mount once more and then he bent his head down to my legs again, below my knees, below my ankles, and started sucking my toes. No one had ever done this to me before. I discovered that the nerves in my toes were connected right up to my clit, and my body started shaking, in a lovely frenzy, approaching a colossal climax. Cockney’s other hand was inside his pants, gripping and pulling his fabulous tool. Ned stood above us with a great grin on his face, wanking away. Our movements were amazingly syncopated. When we all came exactly together, Cockney and I were yelling, gasping, and moaning, while Ned threw his head back and started to yodel.
Then Ned went into the bathroom to wash his hands. When he came back, we sat together relaxing on the sofa. “I love it, I like it,” hummed Cockney. “It’s all rock ’n’ roll, but wow, am I hungry. Want to go grab some chow?”
I was famished. “I’d love to,” I said.
“Ditto,” said Ned. “I’m so hungry, I could eat the queen mother.”
We dressed and took a cab to the Oyster Bar where we feasted on oysters and champagne. The diners at th
e other tables kept glancing over at us, perhaps wondering if they were really seeing the two most famous rock ’n’ rollers in the world dining with a mysterious woman in a red sequined dress.
Cockney phoned me before he left the country to wish me the best. He urged me to continue writing and stay disciplined. I never heard from him again. However, a few months after our St. Regis romp, I got a letter from the editor of an avant-garde London magazine, enclosing a nice check. She wrote that Ned had showed her my poem and she wanted to publish it.
Thinking about Cockney and Ned and those rock ’n’ roll times made me remember how freely we acted back then. If I smiled at a man on the subway, he might get off at my stop, and courteously invite me for coffee. Nowadays no one is smiling on the subway; instead we sit reading newspaper accounts about the continuing casualties of war.
I felt angry and sad. I didn’t want to work on my memoir any more, so I got up to make some tea. On my way to the kitchen, I flipped the radio on just in time to get the news. The newscaster was talking about Ronald Reagan’s career, how many Americans were lifted up by his economic policies. Maybe yes, maybe no, I thought—who knows?
Suddenly the newscaster interrupted his broadcast to read a special bulletin: Cockney Craven was found dead, in his hotel room in Melbourne, Australia, while on tour. The cause of death is unknown at this time. What terrible news. I felt so empty and sad. How weird and awful, just when I was thinking about Cockney. I was so lucky to have known him, to have spent some time with him.
He was such a great guy; I started to think about how his music lifted up so many people, worldwide. I decided to pour a liberal shot of Scotch into my tea. Right now I didn’t need discipline. I needed to celebrate Cockney and the lasting grace of rock ’n’ roll.
