Escapades of a Porno King

by George Alexander

  Their arrival on the island reminded Jade of pictures he had seen on television of the invasion of calm and lazy islands by bands of pirates. The complete stillness of the place, broken only by the low, constant roar of the surf on the reefs that surrounded it, was instantly shattered by shrieks and loud laughs as they rumbled off the boat and onto the dock. Several hundred yards away they could see the estate's main house—about twenty five rooms in all, Jack thought—and downhill and to the west, perhaps another three hundred yards, the large white framed guest house which, Jack could immediately see, was capable of accommodating them all with ease. It had a wide veranda, it was three stories tall, and it reminded Jack of something that had been flown in from New England and dropped on the spot. He figured that it had cost quite a lot to build a house like that on an island like this.

  The island was only about a mile long, and perhaps half a mile wide, and besides the estate they were on, there were only two or three houses down at the eastern end.' Jack wondered who lived there, but he guessed they would never even know.

  The day was warm, the sun was beating down hard, and the water looked very inviting. As soon as the chartered boat had made its way out of the harbor and back toward Nassau, everyone stripped off their clothes and threw them in a great heap on the floor, and ran laughing and yelling down to the beach. It was strange, the effect that the clear air, the bright colors, and the burning sun had on the appearance of these bodies which Jack had seen so often before. Gretchen, her tan from Mexico mostly gone by this time, looked like a pale ghost, her buttocks bouncing up and down as she ran ahead of Jack on the sand. Teresa, who Jack had only seen in the pale light of the indoors, now seemed somewhat taller than her diminutive five-two, and the nipples on her plump little breasts looked like brown autumn flowers in the sunshine. As the sun's rays began to beat down on Jack himself, he found a pleasant tingling sensation, a combination of relaxation and excitement spreading over him. The sand between his toes was exceedingly sensual, and he could see that others felt that way too, and they rolled over and over in it, threw it at each other, and buried themselves in it, between dips in the water. Art started the festivities off by grabbing Gretchen around the waist, throwing her down in the sand, splitting her wide open, and ramming his rod up her cunt. She let out a scream of ecstasy, and the others gathered around to watch. Gretchen's firm tits jiggled up and down on her chest as she pumped away, squeezing at Art's organ ferociously. It was a very bizarre scene—the fucking pair could be seen for at least half a mile, but there was no one anywhere to see them, except their friends. The bodies which had always looked so large in bedrooms and living rooms, now looked tiny in comparison with the spreading landscape and the over-powering volume of the sky.

  Suddenly everyone seemed to join in the activities at once, forming a huge, single animal on the beach, connected together at all kinds of bizarre places by mouths and cocks and cunts and assholes. Teresa began it by fastening her mouth over one of Gretchen's breasts, and sticking her ass up in the air, baring the shiny, round opening of her asshole to the sun, the breeze, and anyone who cared to fuck it. She reached back and spread her cheeks wide, and Jack jumped on her first with his mouth, lubricating the hole with his tongue and prying it open, his nostrils pervaded with the earthy smell of her crotch, and his organ dangling in the sand. Teresa's asshole, Jack noticed, was very distinctive, being not like Joan's or Cindy's for instance, which were simply little pink wells of flesh that disappeared inside them, but rather a sort of firm, doughnut-like ridge, broken with wrinkles that dove into her hole. When it had been opened wide enough so that a small truck could be driven into it, Jack stood up and began to fit his cock in. It was smooth and tight, and Teresa greeted him by alternately clamping down on his dick, which sent thrills of excitement running all over his body, and loosening up and waving her ass in the air to allow him to penetrate more deeply. He was pumping away with great satisfaction, when Cindy came up and, straddling Teresa, shoved her cunt in his face. Happily, Jack shoved his tongue into Cindy's pink little slit, and as the juices started flowing in her cunt, he felt the little nub of her clit rising to immense proportions and rubbing against his lips. By this time, everyone else had joined in the activities, with Al Frederickson playing with those amazing nipples of Cindy's and staring for the thousandth time in disbelief as they puffed up to incredible proportions, and everyone else fastening on wherever they could.

  After the orgy on the beach, they all went back up to the house. They chose their rooms, and then went down to the dock to retrieve the many crates of food they had brought with them. The food would last for at least two months, so they would never have to leave the island, although there was a launch tied up at the main house's dock that could take them off the island if they wanted to go. They dragged the crates up onto the bed of a pickup truck that had been parked on the lawn, keys in the ignition—there was no danger of anyone stealing the pickup truck here!—and drove back up to the house, uncrating first the frozen meat, mostly steaks, as Jack could see, and packing them away into freezers that stood in the corner of the house's huge kitchen. After that, they decided that they would set aside one room in the back of the house for writing, and Jack, Teresa, and the three girls—Joan, Cindy, and Janice—moved their writing paraphernalia in there. The place looked like a real den of creativity, although Jack was pretty uncertain as to how much would ever get done. When all this had been accomplished, the girls started preparing dinner. The kitchen was chaos, with Candy, Marge, Joan, Cindy, Janice, Teresa, and Gretchen, all attempting to cooperate and getting in each other's way, so Jack left there to go see what the men were doing. It turned out that Art had brought some fairly significant treasures along with him, among them three large bricks of marijuana that Jack estimated to weigh two pounds each, about a half a pound of golden-colored hashish, and a bottle with about a hundred tabs of mescaline. “What the hell are you going to do, take the top off your head,” Jack asked Art, laughing.

  “Well,” Art answered, “I never tried anything like mescaline before, but this guy offered me this fucking bottle—it looks like vitamin pills doesn't it?—and I said what the hell, throw it in, it might be interesting. Anyhow, this dope is suppose to be outrageous shit, as they say in the trade, so we might not even need the other stuff. Do you want to roll a couple of joints?”

  “Sure,” said Jack, “I'll roll a fucking cigar. Give me those papers.”

  Jack proceeded to glue together about ten papers in a sort of a patch-work quilt manner, so that he had one edge with glue all the way along it, and one huge paper about six inches long and three inches wide. Then he filled it with dope—you could see that it was really good dope, almost all tops—and rolled it up loosely. It was one of the more absurd looking things he'd ever seen, like a cheap cigar that had fallen into a tub of bleach and then been run over by a truck, but he was willing to bet it would be good smoking. He took it out into the kitchen and gave it to the girls, who almost fell over laughing when they saw it, but proceeded to smoke it between them with great gusto. He then returned to the living room and made another one, and started it circulating there. Ten minutes later, when he went back to the kitchen, Joan was stirring a bowl of cake batter with one of her tits, and Cindy was sticking a carrot up Gretchen's cunt. He figured things were pretty well under control, so he decided to take a walk. Once more, and even more, now that he was stoned, the immensity of the space around him was staggering. He walked along a small path that lead from the house back over rocky ground through a forest of strange, stunted trees. He was still keyed up from so much time in New York, and at first found it difficult to see the trees as anything more than patches of green, but after a while, he began to study their bark and their leaves carefully. He held one of the leaves up to the light, and looked through it at the sun. The intricate veins in it, the strange geometrical patterns, the translucent green, made up, as he could see, of tiny flecks of red and yellow as well, held his attention for several minutes. I
n the city, trees were mice, but you didn't stop and stare at them.

  They were just things that, as you walked along the streets, you looked at, and said “tree”. There was nothing personal about them. Their leaves were always dusty, and there were always piles of dog shit around their roots. There was something strange about a tree sticking up from where there seemed to be no dirt. Jack had often wondered how they lived. He could see their roots, in his mind's eye, winding around pipes and cables and conduits, through gravel and tar, trying to find some kind of nourishment. Well, here it was different.

  He wandered on a bit further. Finally, he came to a small clearing. From there, he could see the sun, now starting to go down, through a thin tissue-like layer of clouds. He wondered what the sunset would be like. He had to remind himself that in the city, sometimes there were spectacular sunsets—caused by the strange combinations of chemicals that polluted the air. The colors of New York sunsets were more like a painting than like nature: they seemed to reflect the lurid colors of the city, but somehow managed to compose those colors so that they were beautiful. Here, the sunsets would be paler; and perhaps it would take a more subtle eye to appreciate them.

  Jack realized by this time he was really ripped, and that while on one level he was enjoying the island immensely, on the other hand, he felt a disconcerting flatness about it. He was used to having things going on around him, and knowing or sensing that they were going on. Now, he knew that back in the city, and in other parts of the world, things were going on—but he could not know what they were, or even sense for sure that they were happening. It seemed to him as if he were missing something, as if the world was passing him by. He was not sure that he wanted to adjust to the forgetful rhythm of life on the Bahamas. If he did, he might never leave. And then he wouldn't be able to do all the things that he had wanted to do.

  He was thinking along these lines for several minutes, when suddenly it occurred to him to enumerate the things that he wanted to do. He knew that there were lots of them—that he still felt as if the most interesting discoveries of life lay ahead of him—but he couldn't say what they were. For a second, he thought that meant that they really weren't there, but then he realized that all that meant was that he hadn't discovered them yet. Maybe that was what he wanted to do—discover the things that he wanted to do, because he knew he wanted to do something.

  Now Jack began to seriously wonder whether what he was thinking made any sense at all. He knew that when you were stoned you often began wondering off on strange avenues of speculation, which seemed very profound at the time, but which—in case you happened to write them down to look at the next day—often turned out to be pretty obvious, or pretty meaningless.

  As he walked back in the direction of the house, he began to wonder about writing. He had done a few things other than erotic literature, but they had been things like ghost-writing jobs and magazine articles, and he wasn't convinced yet that he could really do something terribly creative. Certainly, so far, he had let himself be carried along on the easy flow of erotic words and scenes, which tied in nicely with erotic flows of his life, writing erotic books. But he felt that he wanted to do something more. In fact, he felt that there was probably another kind of erotic book, a truly literary land, and that perhaps that kind could be just as erotic as the other land. It was true that he thought that all of his erotic books were good books in their own way, and some of them even had what he considered quite beautiful scenes in them. But there was something about his characters—something about himself—that was too—flat. He thought of all the people that he knew, of all their immense intricacies, of the little games they played with each other, and thought how very much more erotic they were because of their intricacies. Well he thought, you can't just pick up a person in the flesh, close him between two covers, and sell him as a book.

  By this time he was virtually sure that he was making no sense, even to himself, but it was all fun. He had arrived back at the house, and could hear the sounds of raucous activity inside. But he stood outside for a moment, making more nonsense. He tried to imagine how he would describe the feeling of the island, the house, the people, and of his whole experience here. He looked at the house. It had no cellar, but was built on a foundation of pillars of stone that rose up from the ground beneath. And yet, it had a very solid, warm feeling, despite the fact that it's being on pillars made it look sometimes as if it were floating on air. The purity of the white paint against the richness of the tropical background made it seem almost like a picture, the lines were so sharp. He envisioned its inside, from which a warm light was now glowing, as a sort of a nest, or a hollow in a cave, or a hive, and the outside of the house seemed like a dramatically thin shell, rather like an eggshell, that maintained the in-side's security. He began to think of all the people inside, and of his images of them. He thought first, naturally, of Gretchen. Strangely, he realized how much his image of her, his feelings about her, had changed since they had been married. Then, he had had a sort of image of her floating in air, somewhat high strung, and somewhat ethereal at the same time. She had looked very young then, and her manner had been light and care-free, adding to the sort of playful impression of childishness that she often conveyed. Now, she seemed somehow more solid to him, more like an animal than like a ghost. She seemed sure-footed, quick witted, and subtle. There was still that sort of childishness about her when she discovered something new, and still a great deal of playfulness when she was in the right mood, but her moods had become more diversified, and she was more complex. Her temper, which had once flared up often at the slightest occasion, only to abate again as quickly, was now more stable, but when it did explode, exploded more violently. Fortunately, it still receded as quickly as it had flared. There were other things about Gretchen as well. But they were so complex—she was like a huge mosaic, and he could never keep all of her parts in view at the same time—that he knew he could stand forever trying to comprehend her.

  His mind wandered to the other people in the house, to Joan and Cindy and Janice, to Sal Fortunato, and he found that he could put his finger on the kinds of images that he associated with them fairly well. Joan had a sort of businesslike air about her, but it was not hard and brusque—it was more a combination of confidence in her intellect and confidence in herself as a person that caused her to carry herself in a certain manner. If he were going to do an abstract painting of Joan, he felt it would look sort of round, with browns and blues, and maybe a few dark lines, primarily horizontal. He didn't know whether all that meant anything, but in contrast, he knew Cindy's colors would be silver and red and yellow, but mostly silver, and a few navy blue fines, running up and down the picture, some straight, some zigzagged. Janice...

  His mind stopped making paintings of people, began wandering to other things. Absently, he climbed the steps to the veranda and then went into the house. It was sort of a strange scene, seeing all those people sitting around in the middle of nowhere, just as though they were at a party in New York. For a moment, his eyes played tricks on him, and he could swear that he was back in their Riverside Drive apartment. But he kept telling himself that he was on an island in the Bahamas, and pretty soon he convinced himself of that.

  Dinner was almost ready, and it had taken quite a while to prepare, what with all the diversions the girls had been engaging in. Jack wandered into the kitchen, to see Cindy, Gretchen, and Candy in a virtual giggling fit in the corner. He realized that the dope he had made cigars out of was some of the best he had ever had, and wondered absently how much it had cost Art. He began to pick up snatches of what the girls were mumbling under their breath—comments which they found, without exception, excuse for new heights of hilarity. “Celery, ala cunt,” Gretchen said, and they clutched their stomachs and giggled all the harder.

  “Fish balls,” Cindy said, and fell on the floor giggling.

  “Duck ala derriere,” Candy breathed, and fell on top of her.

  Jack shook his head and, picking
up a few serving bowls of food, walked out to the dining room with them. Joan had already managed to transfer most of the food out there, and people were sitting down around an old oak table with leather chairs which would have dwarfed most people's dining rooms, but which fitted quite comfortably into this one. Jack had learned that what was now the guest house had once been the main house, which explained why it was luxuriously and solidly built. The place had eighteen rooms, and while some of the attic bedrooms were rather small, downstairs rooms were huge. There were dark tapestries on the walls, depicting medieval hunt scenes and scenes of royal courts. There were sconces on the walls, and a chandelier hanging heavily over the table, brass and crystal. It gave a feeling of total comfort and security.

  After supper, everyone was pretty tired, and several people went off to bed. Jack and Gretchen took a walk on the beach, had a luxurious fuck on the sand under the moonlight, and they returned to bed themselves.

  The next day, Art decided that he wanted to try some of the mescaline that he had purchased. He offered it around, and found everybody willing. After all, nobody had anything else to do. Jack had tried mescaline before and needless to say, so had Teresa, and one or two others, but for most it was going to be their first trip. Jack was sure that was going to be just fascinating. Everybody took one capsule at about ten o'clock, and sat around waiting for things to happen. About an hour later, everybody was deciding that nothing at all was happening when suddenly Sal Fortunato, usually one of the quieter members of the group, began staring at one of the tapestries in the dining room with unusual intensity. “Jesus Christ,” Sal said, “come here and look at this fucking tapestry. It's really amazing. It looks like it's about three feet deep. I mean, the colors sort of separate themselves out into layers, and you can see some of them behinds others.”