by Lunch Lydia
Late-night after-hours club. Not yet sunrise. Earlymorning feeding frenzy. Looking to nourish the life’s blood. Feels like a bust, when the corner illuminates a Latin Lothario playing solitaire. We’re sitting diagonally across from each other, I’m crossing and uncrossing my legs, flashing black panties as he licks his lips. The gauntlet of drunken punters obscures our view. It ups the ante of our little game. He cocks his head back, bites his lower lip, rests his left hand on his inner thigh. I dead-eye him as I open my legs, slowly inching closer to the edge of the crushed velvet couch. Throw my head back a little. Drop my eyes from his mouth to crotch and back again. Show him the candy-colored tongue dancing in my mouth. Trail him with my eyes, as I get up and leave the room. Of course he follows.
I step into sky-blue-pink puking up another day. Light a cigarette, drag deep. He’s standing beside me. “Come home with me …”
I close my eyes, whisper, “Why?”
“So I can blow coke up your ass and fuck you breathless …”
“Get a cab …”
We slip into the dingy backseat of the aging yellow beast. It stinks of boozy sweat, cigarettes, and chewing gum. A real aphrodisiac. I balk when my temporary distraction directs the driver to Queens. The last time, the only time, I went to Queens, I left with hallucinations of butchery and mutilation. This time, however, I was sober, not tripping on blotter, stoned on pot, or drunk. Not high. Not yet …
The ride seems quick, the skyline of Manhattan disappearing into sunrise. And he’s got my shoes off, sucking on one dainty foot, while grinding the other into his full crotch. I stare out the window, blasé, not yet high, not yet turned on. He slips my shoes back on, after deeply inhaling their leathery perfume, and pays the fare, escorting me into a lush duplex. The entire apartment is done in soft creams, off-whites, ochres. Huge bay windows showcase the necropolis we just departed. We still haven’t really spoken to each other. There’s no reason to. Easy Latin listening swells gently around the room. He disappears into the kitchen to fix drinks, a light champagne punch. Returns with an opal tray set with delicate crystal glasses, a cocktail shaker, and a small mirrored box full of finely ground cocaine. He offers a silent toast and the twinkle returns to my eyes. Perhaps just a small illumination from the mirrored box of sexual miracles he just set down and opened. He produces a petite silver coke spoon, dips it in the box, holds my chin, devouring me with his dark eyes, and places it under my left nostril. I close my eyes and sup. He repeats the ritual two or three times, never taking his eyes off my face. Infatuated with the expansion in my pupils as the blue of my eyes are erased by black. Then he helps himself. Three quick snorts up each nostril. Rubs a little on my lips. Starts to lick them. To bite them. Corners my lower lip between his canines. Draws a small ruby of blood. I can feel his heart race. Mine too. He cups my face, whispers in my ear, “Turn over, give me your ass …” I prop myself on the back of the soft leather couch, allowing him to slowly lift my skirt, slowly pull aside my panties. He leaves me there for a moment. Steps across the room, admiring his game. Returns with a small silver straw. Packs it with the white devil. Does as promised back at the club. Blows it up my ass.
Six long lines of coke later and the skin sings. Memory collapses. Time disappears. Thought is replaced with sensation. Every molecule expanding outward, teleported into a parallel dimension. Breath hits pockets of pure oxygen, every pore responds, enhanced by a rush of electricity.
Entranced, slow gyrations replace apathy. I can no longer sit still. Every muscle begins to deep grind. He backs up a few feet, watching me squirm. “What do you want me to do, you horny little bitch … fuck you??? Not yet …” He’s backlit in the center of the spacious cream womb we inhabit. I can’t remember his face as he stands three feet away from me, features blurred as the sun splays behind him. I’m so high I astral project. I’m watching us from somewhere beyond the ceiling. Watching him ball up his fist and strike his prick a few times. Like a drunken boxer punishing himself with slow, steady, deadly blows. I see myself, still sprawled out over the creamy couch, pulling my panties further to the side, exposing pink. We’re both hypnotized. A manic edge starts to swell, swallowing us. I leave the couch and crawl on all fours, lapping at his thick fists. He continues to pound himself, slow, steady, deadly. He removes his belt, methodically cracking my ass once or twice. Asks me if I like it. I nod my head, lowering it as I raise my ass. Every time he knuckles his cock, he beats my crack, causing my pussy to quiver. I moan like a happy animal.
I return to my body. Rabid. Unleash his prick. Lick. Suck. Swallow it. Deep-throat him and hold it there. Suffocating myself with musky cock. Refuse to relinquish even an inch of prick until I almost pass out. Come up for air hungry, greedy. He encircles himself in a tight fist. Beats the head against my lips, not allowing me to suck or swallow. Slapping roughly his thick, engorged meat against cheeks, allows it to rest at my nursing mouth. I suckle the tip.
He forms a noose with his belt. Slips it around my neck, sweetly pulling my hair free. Drags me crawling behind him like his favorite pet. Walks me into the kitchen. Snowy white tiles, immaculate gleam. Lifts me up onto the spotless counter which occupies center stage. Sits me facing him. Belt loosely dangling. Reaches under the counter for an industrial-sized box of thick plastic wrap. Begins to encase my breasts, upper torso tightly. Wrapping and rewrapping until I’m mummified in clinging film. Cuts it off with a small, sharp boning knife. Licks the edge of the wrap. Seals me tight. Mechanically cuts off a large sheet. Wraps it around my face, sealing in my breath. I feel like a blow-up doll ready to burst. He plants his lips over my nose and mouth, sucking out the last of my breath. Holds his mouth over mine seconds too long. He senses my asphyxia. Lowers himself to my crotch. Sucks, bites, swallows until I come quickly, flooding his face and neck with juice. He raises up, slowly cutting a small hole between my lips. Holding the sharp blade inside my mouth until I lick and suck. He drags it out, carefully slicing a tiny paper cut on my lower lip, whose blood he’s already tasted. He drinks again. A single drop. Tears the plastic from my face. I slump, sucking for air.
He pulls me to him, embracing me like a small child. Strokes my face, my hair. Pushes it from my lowered eyes. Draws them up to him. Locks in. Circles my throat with one hand. Firmly. “Come …” He slides me off the counter, leading me by the scruff of the neck back into the living room. Walks me to the couch, applies pressure, forcing me to kneel in front of him. Sticks his first two fingers in the mirrored box. Plants the thick white tips deeply up my nose, into my mouth, down my throat, back up my nose. Holds. Removes and savors.
I forget where I am, who I am. But know why I’m there. I turn away from him, exposing myself. Peeling damp panties over my obscene roundness. Sticking my sex straight up in the air, an overheated cougar stalking rough prey. He slinks over to me, lifting me with fat fingers coaxed into juicy cavities. Tight little holes whose greedy mouths make slurpy sounds around his digits. “You can’t stand it anymore, can you … you need my fuck, don’t you? Don’t you???” he taunts.
I whisper, “Yes, you fuck …”
He slams himself inside me. Holds me pierced on his prick. One hand scooping my throat, bending my head back, off to one side, forcing me to watch his cool evaporate. Replaced with rage, frenzied fuckface. Thrashing his head from side to side, banging slim hips into round ass. Relentless delivery. Banging us both into oblivion. Throttling me with the force of his manic hammering. Every few minutes rearranging positions. From behind, on top, sideways, against the wall, straddling, bent over, on his lap, upside-down, searching frantically for the smoothest, deepest route in. He puts me back on top of him, cupping my ass in magic fingers which never cease to kneed, pull, pinch, twist. Pulling me open, spreading me apart, deep bounces up and down for what seems like hours until we collapse. Both too exhausted and numb to even come. We pull apart, drenched, drained, brain dead. “Let’s go to sleep …” he purrs. I lie and say I’ll be right in, I’d like to shower. He tells me to help mys
elf. Disappears into the plush bedroom. I slip into the shower, its cool pulsating jets of liquid balm soothing the mauled little animal. Coming down and well spent I get dressed. Decide to leave after helping myself to a makeshift bindle. Sorry I’ll never see him again. I just couldn’t. Bad for my health. That cocaine.
Momentary satisfaction. Quick fix. Forever on the prowl. Obsessed with their dicks just long enough to wash the taste out of my mouth. Then I wanted more. Needed more. Needed to possess them. Tiny nuggets of their souls. Glut on it. Gag on it. Puke it out. Feed again.
Basement bathrooms in shitty Bowery bars. Favorite stomping ground. Alcohol lubricates the libido. Wears down their resistance. Right, like they had any resistance. Order a double vodka. Scan the room. Pick a target. Zero in. Lead them by their dicks downstairs. Shove them into a cubicle. Lock the door. Bark out orders. Make them pull on themselves while sucking me off. Force them to kneel. Grovel. Prove how filthy they really are. Suck my ass. Drink my piss. Fuck them while squatting over the scummy toilet. Banging myself off. Using their T-shirts to sop up the runny juice. A perfume stained with sweaty sex. The lingering afterglow of a hot five-minute fuck. Their only reminder of me as I disappear up the stairs, out of the bar, back on the street. Temporary fix for an unscratchable itch.
Stumbled into the club stoned on Xanax. He was propped against the bar, one arm draped around his girlfriend’s shoulder. I cut right in. No bullshitting. Whispered in his ear to meet me on the third floor in two minutes. Smiled at her as I climbed the stairs. Legs made liquid by the pills. Hot flush which moistened panties. Dry mouth. Twitching. Snatched a drink from some chippy who was making her way to the exit. Swallowed it down, handed her back the empty glass. Asked for a refill. She almost started crying. I spat in the glass. Floated upstairs. He was right behind me.
Damaged lyricist, lead singer and ringleader of the Blank Generation. I had screwed him once before. Needed another taste. Pulled him against me. Deep-throating him with my tongue. Rubbing plump titties across his. Thick grind. Damp crotch.
Tiny little cubby. Groping each other behind a broken door in the corner. Grabbing handfuls of juicy prick, rubbing the wet tip, smearing him all over himself. A heady musk inflames lust. Thrust myself against him. Stuff him inside. Ride his fleshy prick until I come spraying all over his cock, his balls, the front of his jeans. Pull him out. Jerk him off. Make him come. Autographing the wall, the door, his T-shirt. Which I wipe my pussy on. Smiling.
Imagining the look of disgust on his girlfriend’s mug when he rejoins her at the bar. The smell of my pussy traced into his collar, his hands, his hair. Scarlet stain on his neck, where I bit and chewed. The argument that was sure to follow. Unnecessary, really. She should be grateful. I took what I wanted, but I gave him right back. Now he’d be able to fuck her twice as long when they went home to make up after their little squabble. If she let him. Didn’t matter. He’d still be thinking about me. With or without her.
Needed a bigger hustle. Sick of scratching after scraps. Took up too much time servicing just one john at a time. Had to crank it up another notch. Manipulation elevated to Art Form. Put it up on the stage. In front of an audience, who like johns, pay by the hour, the half hour, or, in this case, every ten minutes. Instead of pleasure, sell them pain. My pain. Their own pain. Regurgitated and spat back at them. A public platform for psychotherapy. Make them pay to be tortured. Assaulted. Abused. The audience as whipping boy, whose sex could and would be used against them.
Obliterate the safety net that separates the spectator from the exhibitionist. The doctor from the patient. Play wet nurse to nightsickness. Detail every form of madness, hysteria, torture, obsession. An unholy vortex of verbal abuse. A hideous din. Around which forms a cult of negation. The figurehead, a fallen goddess, whose cruelty and hatred would be embraced. Revered. Reviled. Feared. A classic nihilist’s philosophy the only dogma: That which does not kill me makes me stronger …
I throw the phone book to the floor. Kick it in the corner. Shake my head, crack my neck, check my lipstick. Open the door. Frozen, then slowly drawn down the stairs, up the street, past the subway. A thick lull surrounds. Audio hallucinations, swells of deafness, a pleasant cocoon blots out everything except the daydream I’m drifting on.
He almost runs into me. Sandy-blond Greek. Nineteen. On a ten-speed. Jeans, boots, belt. Grabs my hand, begs apology, cup of coffee, five minutes to make up for his blunder. Shitty diner. Offers to take me to Montauk for the weekend. We meet at Grand Central or Port Authority or Penn Station for the 6:20. I lie about my age, my address, my name. I forget his. He rambles on about fate, destiny, he knew this was going to happen, premonition … I smile out the window, nodding slowly. So did I, I whisper. My eyes heavy with predation. So did I.
Cool wet mist slips in as we exit the train. His innocent joy contagious. I allow it to consume me, envelop me, easy to pretend I’m someone else. Easy to believe that the rain married to his wet mouth against mine will cleanse the horrid stench of the rest of the world from my breath. Easy to believe I’ll be able to forget who and what I am, lost in the slip of his tongue as it sweeps my mouth on the small front steps of this rundown motel.
We quickly check in, run to the beach. Heavy fog, light drizzle, deserted landscape. End of the season. Everyone’s gone. Sorrowful late-night song of a filthy battered gull echoes like land’s end. Run to the water praying it swallows and sucks us both under. He drops to his knees, rubbing his wet face against wet thighs. Pulls down my zipper, wiggling tight pants down over my ass, down under my pussy. Whispers into my hair a gentle kiss. A deep breath. I pull him in. Tuck my hand between shirt and neck, beg him to lick, to lick, keep licking. I open myself up to his tongue, stuck rigid against my lips.
Make him shove it in my sticky sweet meat, cleaved apart by my anxious fingers pinching my clit. Forcing the tiny head to explode with blood which I’d love to squirt into his mouth as I come all over his beautiful face.
As my spasms subside, he crawls around behind me, lapping at me on all fours, stuffing his face deep in the crack of my ass. Deep breaths. Drinking in my perfumed sex. He buries himself deeper, teasing, tickling. Running circles with his tongue against the bull’s-eye. Taunting small contractions. Coaxing me to fuck his tongue, to suck his tongue with my ass, pulling me against his probing fleshy spear. His greedy mouth banging and biting me into coming. Again.
He pulls me onto the sand, face-to-face. Tells me to taste my sweet ass, sticks his tongue out till it reaches mine. I circle it in my mouth, panting on all fours, hungry bitch. He asks me, begs me, tells me, demands to take my ass. Now. He slips behind me, his juicy prick moist in his hands. Rubs it against me talking filthy in Greek. Translates it for me, “I’m going to fuck you until you pass out … and when you wake up I’ll still be fucking you …” He presses himself into me. Slow. Opening my tiny chestnut hole with one hand, guiding himself into me with the other. Whispering for me to breathe deeply, open up, relax, enjoy. His thick cock pulsing inside me. Sneaking its length into me. Smooth. Telling me to suck him in, breathe his cock in. I slow my breath down, work him from the inside. My asshole twitching, jerking. He knows I’m ready and begins a steady pump, smooth hot cock causing delirium. I buck back into him, thrashing my head from side to side, urging him to pound into me, to fuck the shit out of me. Begging him to. He pulls out, gripping himself, and begins tonguing me again. Just enough for me to miss his cock, just enough to hear the words, Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me …
I caught the 5:45 a.m. train back to the city. I waited until he passed out, slipped thirty dollars out of his wallet, and took off. I didn’t “sleep” with anybody … couldn’t stand the thought of waking up groggy to get groped by some strange dick that might have been hot the night before. But daylight casts a different pallor. A pallor I didn’t want to witness, didn’t want to smell the sleep leeching off. Didn’t want to deal with who or what I had done. Wanted to languor in the memory long enough to shower it off. Forget as soon as poss
ible all but the temporary satiation that anonymous sex with a complete stranger could uniquely provide.
Played social worker to the bums on Bowery and Grand. I’d bring them sandwiches, bandages, booze. They were banned from the liquor store on the corner. Ms. Diana was a female impersonator in his late forties. Dressed in tattered costumes salvaged from off-Broadway playhouses. Tacky lamé turbans piled two to three feet high, resting on top of rotted blond wigs. Wandered up to NYC in the early ’60s to escape the persecution of a Southern upbringing. Would sing a song for the price of a scrambled egg on buttered roll breakfast. Something by the Supremes, Martha & the Vandellas, the Shangri-Las.
“The Foot” kept to himself. A filthy rag-and-bone man loaded down with half a dozen hefty bags filled with moldy clothes. I’d slip him a dollar, a donut, a slice of pizza. He’d nod, fold his hands in prayer, and lower his eyes, whispering a silent thankyou. The stench of gangrene a noxious cloud of putrefaction.
“The Nose” kept vigil across the street. His swollen proboscis too sensitive, a rotting tomato dissolved by open sores. Proselytizing to passersby to liberate themselves of material goods. Give up their apartments, blood money paid to miserly landlords. Quit their jobs. Slave labor. Share their money, clothes, his fellow brethren, the heir apparent. Screaming at all who passed to rise up out of the pit of vipers. Relinquish their greed. Petty ambitions. False gods. Unreasonable hopes. Promising that “THE END IS NEAR … NEARER THAN YOU THINK …” as he held out an old coffee cup, stirring the pennies, nickels, dimes together. An irritating nursery rhyme which jangled the nerves. Causing shudders.
