Dark Matter (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Michael Perkins

  But night after night that summer when I was fifteen, I went to see LaDonna’s show. An old guy in a rich car would pull up in front of her trailer and kind of sidle up to her door, looking around like hypocrites do to see if anything is watching them. She’d usually open it before he started to knock. Inside it was hard to see much — except clothes were taken off and she’d disappear — like she was kneeling. Or she’d sit on their fat old laps and dance, making shadows move with her. She must have given a lot of hand jobs because she got them in and out so fast.

  The night it happened, she’d just finished doing a guy and saying good-bye when she walked over to the screen and pressed those points of hers against it. The tease that pleased — I decided it was now or never. I had to ask.

  I stood up but didn’t zip up and walked right towards her following the only part of me that counted. I stopped not far from her. She hadn’t moved.

  “How much?” was all I could say. It was not easy even to say that. Her nipples were so big they were like rubber nails.

  She laughed.

  “What do you want, anyway? You’re gonna trip on that thing.”

  What did I want? I wanted it all...! A dozen of my favourite fantasies came to mind. Which one to choose?

  I wanted my cherry popped so I told her, “Your pussy.”

  She laughed again and stuck her tongue out at me. It was fat.

  “You’re not old enough, boy.” She looked down at my pecker. “You just might be big enough, but you’re not old enough. Now go away.” Her eyes got big, like here comes trouble....

  Maybe she was saying that because she could see what was happening behind me.

  Spotlights. It was the cops.

  “You’re a sick boy,” one of them said to me. “Did you know your genitals are exposed?”

  They’d caught me at it. Then they took me home and found all my porno magazines, and that was that. I was a pervert. A peeping Tom. Wrong. Bad. Immoral. Sinful. Going to Hell. Disrespectful of women. Dirty. Sick. Irresponsible. One-track-minded. My mind was in the gutter.

  I listened to what people said and I thought, in and out, in and out. They couldn’t stop me from thinking that.

  Daddy was reassuring when I asked him if I’d done wrong.

  “Hell, no. Nothing wrong with fucking except the people who try to fuck you because of it. It’s how we all got here. Any way you look at it, it’s a superior way of spending your time.”

  V

  A Nest of Perverts

  The Court didn’t agree with Daddy. I was shipped to a clinic for perverts in Salt Lake City. It was called the Greater Salt Lake Sexual Misbehaviour Clinic and it was filled with sadists, frotteurs, exhibitionists, peeping Toms, pornographers — the list of fancy words for what’s-your-pleasure? What I learned there could fill a book — just guys like me who thought sex was everything. A nest of perverts.

  The clinic was run by scientists. That’s what they called themselves. They wore white coats with badges and I.D. tags on the front so they wouldn’t be mistaken for patients. Their faces said they didn’t get laid, but maybe they tortured white mice for fun.

  The first day I was on the ward — a big room with lots of chairs and tables — an older guy came up to me.

  “You’re too young to be in here, kid.”

  I’d never seen a Jew before in my life, much less a Jewish pervert, but that’s what he was. Dark and sleazy looking, just like I’d hoped. Dark pockets under his eyes. Beard stubble. Curly black hair. And a weird look on his face like he wanted something I wouldn’t want to give him.

  “Who are you?”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I exposed myself to the neighbourhood whore.”

  “That’s it?”

  “They say I’m a peeping Tom. They found porn in my closet. Wham bam, here I am. Just wanted to get laid.”

  “I’ll bet you did. You look like you could use some relief.”

  He looked like he might know who could give me some.

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I like girls.” My throat was dry.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Buddy Tate.”

  “Well, Buddy, I’m Markus Bloom. You know how they treat people here? I mean do you know how they try to cure us all of being horny?”

  “How?” I was sure they wouldn’t cure me.

  “Masturbatory satiation is what they call it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You make guys masturbate to death.”

  I like a sense of humour. Markus Bloom made me smile.

  “Shit.”

  “You like to look at girls? Well, they’ll give you porno tapes and magazines to drive you crazy, and you’ll jerk off sixteen hours a day.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Sixteen hours a day in a place like this, what else is there to do?”

  “They’re betting you’ll get bored.”

  “You mean I get my choice of the porn that turns me on? Anything I want? I don’t think I’ll be bored. Not me.”

  It was like I became invisible. He was disappointed. He turned to go.

  “You’re too much, Buddy. See you around.”

  “Wait a minute. Why are you in here?”

  “I make the porn you jerk off to.” Big smile. He was proud of it.

  “Pleased to meet you.” This was someone I could look up to. He had something to teach me, in this nest of perverts.

  “You are a wicked boy, aren’t you?” We sat down in a corner in chairs like we were talking and I let him do me, what the hell. It felt strange to feel my prick in someone else’s hand, but it was exciting because he knew what he was doing.

  When the deed was done he wiped his sticky hand on a handkerchief and sniffed it. So I’d popped with a guy, not a girl the first time. I knew I wasn’t a fruit from what turned me on — and it wasn’t men. But what’s a hand job between friends?

  A lot of pervs in the Clinic were sick, I couldn’t argue with that. Child molesters and rapists that nobody liked, and they were kept in a special locked section where they were forced to look at pictures of helpless women and kids until they couldn’t stand it anymore. Most of them became impotent.

  I spent a lot of time with Markus Bloom, seeing the world through his eyes. He told me about San Francisco so that I wanted to go there. I guess I’d always thought it was full of faggots, but Markus told me about the parties he went to there and they sounded like something out of movies. Women who pierced their tongues and went naked all the time, witches, strippers, stuff like that. He talked it up so I could imagine it to the point of jerking off to the fantasy of being in bed with two witches or strippers and doing anything I wanted with them.

  Markus got out when he convinced the white coats that pornography made him panic. Just the thought of the stuff made him get the dry heaves. I thought he was overacting, but that’s what it took.

  Spanking the monkey does get a little boring when white coats are forcing you to do it. I rubbed off five times a day, then ten times a day. Calluses formed, but I kept whacking away until one day I decided it was time to play along with modern science if I wanted out. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it might be. People whose own sex lives are boring can’t imagine someone like me or Markus Bloom. They want to believe we might get bored and “cured” because they’re bored.

  They let me out on condition that I stayed at home until I was eighteeen and kept my nose clean and my dick in my pants.

  Soon as I got off the bus from Salt Lake I went straight to LaDonna’s trailer like a homing pigeon and popped my cherry properly up her heavenly snatch. I rooted like a pig in her body — it was like all that jerking off I’d done had just turned me on. She didn’t think I was too young anymore, and I think I stretched my penis in my six months at the Clinic.

  After that I knew how to get girls to lay down and like it. It was something they could smell. I knew the secret now. I spent all the time I could in bed, but I had to sneak around. I had to pretend. I
went to church, I even had a job after school. I learned how to be one of them on the outside, and inside still be myself. The price of freedom was hypocrisy.

  VI

  California Here I Come!

  It took me a few years, but I grew up to see Daddy had it right. I was a nobody. Much as I liked my sleaze, I had to get out of bed and go out to be part of the world’s business. So I left Daddy in his trailer in East Asshole, Colorado and got on board a plane for San Francisco. I had some money I’d saved doing foolish, invisible things and I carried everything I cared to own in a duffel bag. I felt pretty good, I looked pretty good, I was ready for anything and light on my feet.

  I took a taxi from the airport to North Beach, because that’s where Markus had said the strip joints were. He told me about one in particular that was so big and had so many ways of turning you on that it would put lead in a dead man’s pencil. It was called something like the ‘Erotic Exotic Exploratorium’ but Markus said everybody just called it the Pussy Palace. I had to see that. A local landmark.

  It was a Saturday afternoon in November and there were more people on one block than in whole towns where Daddy dragged us. I cranked my neck until it was stiff. San Francisco was a mess because of the earthquakes, but the neighbourhood of the Pussy Palace hadn’t been hit. We rolled up in front of it.

  The driver obviously thought I was some kind of hick. His I.D. on the dash said his name was K. Farouk, and he tried to rob me with a smirk and a nod at his meter, where the numbers were way too high. I’d been too busy eyeballing the town to notice how he cheated with the machine, but I told him he had to be a dickhead to think I’d pay that.

  He turned to look at me through the scratched plastic partition. His eyes were hot and slitty and he was chewing on a toothpick.

  “C’mon, kid. Give me.”

  “Fuck you, thief.” I heard the locks in the back seat click. “Let me out of here.”

  He opened the sliding door in the partition that separated front seat from back and pointed a pistol at me. His temper was up.

  “No tip necessary. Just the fare.” He looked like a crazed rat.

  That barrel was looking at me without seeing me. It wasn’t very big, but I knew what it could do. Still my teeth didn’t start chattering, my knees didn’t knock. I was cool.

  I faked the fucker out by pretending to reach for my wallet while I brought my knee up fast and jammed the pistol hard up against the plastic. He tried to pull it back but I took a big chance and grabbed it, so it fell on the floor in the back seat without firing. His hand was stuck through the window and I grabbed it and twisted. I could see his yellow rat face scrunching up while his other hand flailed about behind the Plexiglas. If I let go there’d be hell to pay, so I went to work bending back his trigger finger until I felt it snap.

  The cool sound of a breaking bone.

  I scooped up the pistol, a little .38 Special, lightweight, no hammer sticking up to snag on your pocket, and pointed it at his hand. Tickled his palm with the barrel.

  “Pop the lock or I pull the trigger.”

  He was screaming. I let go and he did it quickly. Guess I had him psyched. I pushed open the door and jumped out, getting in the front seat with him. His money was in a metal box under the seat, waiting to fly into my pocket to join my savings. K. Farouk had quite a wad.

  “Now take off your shoes and pants.” He was hissing and his face was worked up. But the pistol hypnotised him. While he divested himself of his dignity I looked around at the street. No one was paying attention to us. Japanese tourists were checking into the Pussy Palace.

  San Francisco. I liked it. I threw the asshole’s pants and shoes in a trash can and just stood there on the sidewalk for a minute watching the passing parade of queens and hookers, trying to take it all in: the people, the lights, the hustles. I picked up my duffel and K. Farouk blasted off with my warning that I’d kill him if he called the cops. Probably an illegal immigrant. He wouldn’t tell. The laws were hard on immigrants.

  The Pussy Palace wasn’t shy about its advertising. Your fantasies were their business. The signs outside under the marquee promised everything, hot and triple X. ‘Live girls’ one sign promised. I thought I’d have one of them.

  I paid admission and opened the door. I could smell them: no dead girls here. There were mooks and geeks of all kinds milling around the shop section, looking at porno mags and videotape boxes and getting up their courage. A woman’s voice was saying over the loudspeaker system, “Pussy, pussy pussy, guys don’t be shy....” calling you upstairs to the booths, where it was you with a girl, one on one.

  I wasted no time gliding up those sticky steps to paradise. A harem was waiting for me. Ten nearly naked women, white, black, Chinese, big, medium and little, gave me the eye. I chose one after some serious looking. She asked me if I was old enough to see what she had to show me.

  “I’m big for my age.” I said, palming my crotch. My power.

  She stuck out of a pink push-up bra and a short leather skirt in the right proportions. But it was the look in her eye and her large pink lips that got my attention. She was small, but I like tiny packages. Yeah, she was a chocolate bunny, but black happens to turn me on.

  I’d made up my mind when a shoulder bumped me on purpose and a large African-American gentleman with a mop and a pail and a bad attitude asked me how come I wanted black pussy?

  “I didn’t notice her colour,” I told him. He wouldn’t want to hear that I preferred chocolate to vanilla.

  I walked off to buy twenty bucks worth of tokens for some time with my choice.

  She was waiting for me at her booth, and she stepped into her side of it with a wink at me. I opened the door on my side and squeezed inside with my duffel bag. I was faced with a Plexiglas window with spuzz streaks on it. Dropped a heavy token in the slot, and the curtains opened.

  My eyes bugged out, she was so fucking gorgeous. She still had her skirt on, but she’d taken off her top. Bodacious ta-tas and a hurry-up, come-on look.

  There was a phone. I picked it up and talked to her.

  “Hello, sugar,” I blurted out like a kid.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Buddy Tate is my name. What’s yours?”

  “Pearl Dollar is my stage name.”

  I stared at her chest and grinned. She smiled back.

  “Looks like you’ve been travelling,” she said. I looked down at the duffel at my feet and back to her black nipples.

  “I’ve come a ways, I guess.”

  “Well, where do you come from?”

  I was staring hard at her lacquer-bright nipples, watching the points come up. I had trouble swallowing and it was getting hot in the booth. Then I looked at her eyes, soft brown shining marbles full of play, and I felt the sex magic working in my upper thighs and creeping into that little space between your stones and your butt where it feels great to be licked.

  Markus Bloom was right about the Pussy Palace. I was getting hard just looking into her eyes. I dropped another five dollar token in the slot so the automatic curtain wouldn’t close. I had to see all of her.

  “Take off your skirt, why don’t you?” I said through my teeth. But she was set on having her answer. She put her hands on her hips. Cocky.

  “Where you from, I asked you.”

  “Why do you want to know where I’m from?”

  “In my line, sugar, I’ve seen guys from just about every state in the country, and from Japan and England and all kinds of African countries — so I just play this little game with myself. I try to guess where they’re from.”

  “By what their cocks look like?”

  “You’d be surprised what you can tell about a man.”

  I told her. “Colorado, Kansas, East Texas, Idaho. You name it. Out on the range.”

  She was satisfied. Pouted, with those luscious pink lips turned out at me.

  “You say you want to see my pussy?”

  “I would like to see that part of you,
yes. If you have no objections.”

  She pulled the short leather skirt up slow and easy until it was bunched around her waist. She was shaved except for a black strip of kinky pubic hair like a stripe above her naked wet slit. The lips puckered outward and her hole was oozing syrup. I just gawked. She giggled.

  “You like that?” She smiled and sat on a stool to spread for me.

  “Show me some more. Hold the lips open.” She smiled again like she was as fascinated as I was about what she was showing me.

  Delicately, with two fingers, she opened herself, and stuck one long red fingernail inside, then slid it up to play with her clitoris, then back to move in and out of her hole, like stabbing a wet rose.

  My biology had so weakened my legs I had to lean back against the booth wall.

  “Why don’t you just take it out and show me how much you really like me?” She must have said it to a thousand guys, but I welcomed the invitation. I unzipped, tugged my suddenly tight underwear, unreeled the hose.

  Her saucer eyes got wide. “My God,” she whispered, as if half-strangled by the thought of having to put it in her mouth.

  “That thing’s a python. It could hurt a girl,” she said, but her voice was hungry. So now we were even: she was looking as hard at me as I was looking at her. The experience was new for her.

  “Show me your ass,” I asked, as I’d ask any friend to do me a favour. We were equals now. She turned and bent over, her hands on the stool, showing me the firm brown globes of her perfect African-American butt. Her pussy glistened, so did her inky asshole. I wanted to put my nose there to snarf up the odour and taste, and then follow it with my big ten incher.

  “Are you playing with it? Let me see.”

  What had started out as a simple business exchange was turning into something else between us. I took myself in hand, standing on rubbery ankles.

  “You’ve got lots of energy, I can see that. You’re a strong young man.”