by Heidi Hunter
she puts her hands on my cheeks
and pulls me in for a kiss and
her taste is in her mouth and
this excites her even more.
She's a slut not a whore.
And she's gone to wait
for the next time I
ring her up for
some other
type of
fun.
I run
further
away and
stay in Italy
for two months
to sample a few.
Monique close
to Monica in
name but the
way they're
different is
evident in
the bedroom
as Monique
isn't paid
to tell the
truth and
yet she
gives it
to me as
she gives
me head on
the edge of the
bed my hands in
her dark and curly
hair not pressing or
guiding, but riding so
as to feel even more the
sensation of total release
of control.
Her mouth is
in control of my body and
her hands twist my nipples
quick and hard then she
rubs them all the while
I am in her mouth and
aware i'm in there and
she looks up at me
suddenly and stares
into my eyes and I
know she's in control.
Her hands on my thighs
as we break eye contact
and she goes back to
concentrating on my
cock as if it was the
only source of
sustenance in
world so cold
and cruel and
the way her
tongue
played
with the
tip while
it was in
there was
enough to
send me
over the
edge
and I
shot a
load and
then another
one came and
three and four
were less, but
I felt each and
everyone as my
body rocked and
shook and then
she looked up
and smiled
with these
eyes – her
eyes open
so wide
she was
in her
30s and
know how
to make a man
happy in more ways
than one and she climbed
into bed with me and we
stared at the ceiling and
I asked about her life
when she wasn't
with me – her
real life as
it was
called
between us
and Monique
told me stories
of love and life
that made me
laugh & cry
and love her
even more and
then a knock on
the door and it's
her female friend
who wants to play
and I say I don't
know, not today
and send them
both away so
I can write a
missive
anonymously
to you, the world,
the 99 percent
buying my
thoughts
for pennies
a word in order
to somehow know
or understand me who
is a collage of literary
styles and sexual
persuasions.
Perversions?
After pussy and poetry the come down. The other cum that's not as much fun. I need to run away from society and head to the chain of islands I own. I climb the trees and feed the plants and smoke the weed and sit on the beach. Poetry is my perversion. None of the current line-up of women seem to understand the need to release with words just as often. Maybe this is a problem. I can't fathom another reason as I sit for one then two seasons on the beach near the equator and my only fear is pirates, but money can buy a private army. Just ask John McAfee. No, he's not me. I'm not him.
After the beach for so long I move on. I check the stats. The money grows despite myself. I hired good people to manage and people to manage the managers and so on. The machine grew daily. In the meantime, I needed pussy to replenish the poetry. Or maybe it was the other way around. Most of the women didn't know I was a poet. Most did know I was rich. But not how much. Never that. A little misdirection and diamond earrings go a long way.
After finding Holly, I took her to the island to
bask in the sun and have some fun and I loved
to watch her run and giggle and she was 42 but
she had the ass of a 27 year old and the mind of
a 92 year old. She got me. She knew that I wrote
poetry, but not what kind, or that she was the muse
with whom I wanted to hitch my ship and drop my
anchor into her depths. Moby Dick again. As the sun
goes down and lowers beneath the water on the horizon
I go down on her on a blanket on top of the sand and her
hands reach down and grab my hair and guide me here or
there until I find the rhythm of her waves and after she's
over the edge the first time, I crawl up and slowly enter
her like a pirate entering a trapped treasure cave with
so much booty a rapscallion could retire with the
wealth. While she knew I wrote poetry I told
her I didn't own the island but was island
sitting for my rich friend I was just the
poet and as I was inside her I wanted
to look into her eyes so missionary
it was in the beginning and her
eyes stared into mine and
in between moments
now etched into
memory I was
starting to
get tired
so she
switched
and was on
top of me as
I was inside of
her and she began
to skillfully ride my
cock as if a master
of the ring and
she even began
to sing a song
made up mainly
of moans and
groans and a
few “Oh yes,
like that. Fill
me up.” And
I suppose the
sand cushioned
our landing as I
shot into her just
as she tightened up
in midst of an orgasm
and the white capped
waves crashed up
against both of us.
Half a bottle of rum
later we chased each
other naked through
the island first me
her and then her
me when she
realized as
my muse
she was
powerful
in her own
way. And the
waves came in
and out with the
tide as we came
together on a path
and didn't need a
map to get to where
we both needed to be.
I was sad to leave the island,
but the story couldn't last
forever. The poem had
<
br /> to have an end and
a plane flew in
and took us
to Miami
and this
hotel
I like
when i'm
there and we
shared a few more
days, but I had to write
so I told her to go and maybe
I would see her again someday.
And the poems became a stage
play and then a novel and nearly
toward the end it became a poem
again. Neatly fitting onto an elec-
tronic reading device this missive
typed on an electric monstrosity
from years gone by and transcribed
by modern monks I pay to copy my
words and thoughts, my words are
yours. Wisdom from the one percent
drips down. Or maybe I'm just a clown.
As I've said before, it's the 99-percenters
who have the power to find true happiness.
I can be comfortable but never truly happy.
Or maybe I'm wrong. These Tropics of the
Moon may trigger a few comments or sighs
of admiration from afar. Your words turn me
on at night when I need to sleep. I keep your
words on my nightstand they say to me and
they never see me weep. The rich should
never weep as if emotions would hamper
the ability to get so far and amass so much
wealth. I don't talk about the way to the top
because I'm looking for something besides
the next step up. I went too many levels
and now I need to settle for pussy or
poetry but never the two combined.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
“Tobacco or green?”
“Both preferably.”
“I don't mind...I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name.”
“You don't know my real name.”
“That's right. I don't. Not from lack of trying.”
“Or crying.”
“I've wept for you?”
“In front of me in your sleep.”
“Bad dream probably.”
“May you have more wet dreams.”
“I get too much action in waking hours.”
“You do, do you?”
“Wouldn't you?”
“I guess I would. Doesn't it get old?”
“Everything ages. Entropy is all around us.”
“Wisdom from an old timer.”
“I'm not that old.”
“You're wise beyond your years.”
“Thanks, dear. Can I put my penis in your mouth?”
“Why yes, yes you can.”
From there the descent and the ascent.
The words and the looks and the gestures
and facial expressions as the orgasm builds
up and screams for release. I reach the
moment of no return and remember
suddenly the beach, the beaches.
Plural. Rural women from
Russia give good head.
I saw that somewhere
once. A train station
maybe. Although I
haven't taken the
train in years.
“What are you thinking about,” she asked.
“Your pussy.”
“You were not. I can tell.”
“You can, can you?”
“Sometimes but not always.”
“I was thinking about sex and words, pussy and poetry.”
“You should write a poem called pussy and poetry.”
“I think I just did.”
“Am I in it?”
“If you want to be.”
When she left I had to leave the room
to write because I could smell her still
and see her on the bed out of the corner
of my eye and I couldn't get any work
done or any words down at all. Then a
call and she's suddenly present again,
wanting a present perhaps, but I have
only me to give her on this night as I
stand and she wraps her legs around
my waist and we waste many moons
in the room as we try to learn enough
about each other to know whether or
not we'll be able to stand each other
until the end of time. I no longer
know if I can break the cycle I
find myself in anymore. The
door opens and closes again
and again as an infinite loop.
American Women
For many, the first million dollars are the most dangerous in many different ways. And then the risks increase with each one hundred million you grow. I remember being new to the game. I remember the way her lips tasted after eating a light lunch in the park. The way her hair flowed down naturally yet
somehow still part of a whole. Beams of light hitting her here and there and me too and the giant oak tree provided shade, but the sun manged to make it through.
“My love is like solar neutrinos.”
“But I'd never be able to feel you.”
“You like feeling me, do you,” I teased.
“I do.”
“And it's not just the money?” So new, I still told everyone I met just in case. I'm not sure why now, but I was still adjusting.
“Of course the money plays a small role, but no bigger than the size of your dick.”
I wasn't sure if she was putting me down, trying to be clever, or both. I let it slide as I slid my hand across her chest and cupped a breast. I leaned forward and captured her nipple between my lips. We were on some stretch of land I owned with trees and a creek running through. I had my shirt off and shorts on. She reached down and into them, taking me into her hand.
I sat up. “It's getting late.” I didn't want to start another round with her just yet. I still wasn't sure. Was she just stimulation or was there something deeper? We'd been spending a lot of time together, which worried me. I didn't like to give any single person too large of a block of my time anymore. It seemed to be working, at least for business but not so much with the women.
“So? It's not the dick comment, is it? I was just kidding.”
“I know. It's not that.”
“Then what?”
“I can't explain it.” I looked into her eyes for the answer and saw vapid emptiness.
American women were so spoiled compared to the majority of the rest of the population of the planet, but beyond that it was the ignorance of the fact that most had that made them so intolerable. Of course, American men are no better, but there you go.
I reached down and offered my hand. She accepted the help and stood up. Grabbing the blanket, we started walking toward the house, the mansion, the whatever you want to call it. I hadn't gotten too wild or extreme with real estate yet, but I bought land as if it was not being made anymore.
“You sure you're not mad?” she asked again as we walked across the manicured lawn.
“Not mad at you, dear,” I said, looking at her to try to assure her. I must not have done a very good job because I could see a sadness wash over her face. I wasn't well traveled in the world at that point, those early years, so I had no reference point against which to judge American women.
“Am I going away soon?”
I laughed. “What do you mean?”
“I've heard about you, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” I was intrigued. “What have you heard?”
“Well, the obsession over the size of your penis for one.”
“I have no such thing!” I tried to laugh, but it came out too forced.
“Okay. We can not talk about it.”
“Seriously, I don't care about the size of my penis anymore.”
For American men, the size of the bank account, the size of the pile of gold,
the power was more important. Modern magicians could conjure up mixtures of elements in little pill shaped forms to make the snake rise. What mattered to many American men was the money. American women too, but there was still a divide in many ways. The gap was lessening with each passing year, but it was still present.
We reached the back patio and entered the small kitchen. “Want something to drink?” I asked, heading to a cabinet of liquor.
“I'd love one.”
I mixed us both a rum and coke.
“Only pussies and pirates drink rum,” she told me.
“Oh? And which one am I?”
“I'm not sure yet. We just met really.”
“And there you have it.”
“Have what?”
“The answer to your question.”
“Which question?” At twenty-one years old, her attention span was not expansive.
“Are you going away soon.”
“Are you asking me?”
I sighed. “Nevermind. I'm a pirate. Definitely not a pussy. Pussies don't get power and wealth in this world. It's all messed up.”
“And you think you have power and wealth?” She took a sip of the heavy on the rum drink.
“I have a little and getting more all the time. The first million is the hardest.”
“That's what they all say.” She reached under the table and grabbed me underneath the cotton shorts. I sat back and let her play as I took a drink and tried to not think about how the day had gone. I'd finally surpassed a million and was well on my way to my first hundred milestone, but I'd had to destroy a childhood friend in the process. Well, an acquaintance. Maybe he was never my friend. I kept telling myself that.
I let out a moan as she unzipped me and my half-hard member popped out. Sitting at the kitchen table of a practically empty mansion getting a hand-job. Had I achieved the American dream? What did Darlene think I want? “What do you think I want?” I asked her suddenly.
She looked up from my penis, seemingly mesmerized by it. “What?”
“What do you think I want?”
“To cum?”
“Well, yeah, that, but beyond that. What do you think I want from life?”
“A blowjob instead?”
I sighed and nodded my head. She smiled as if she got the right answer and bent down and got to work. The job wasn't a pleasant one for her. I could tell by the lack luster performance she put in while going down on me. She made me cum. Afterward, I led her to the front door. She cried a little, but I told her I would call her sometime. American women are used to being lied to on a regular basis by everyone around them.
I spent the rest of the night alone, smoking high-grade marijuana and writing on my laptop while sitting on the balcony of my first large home. I was almost to $100 million. I felt as if going from one to one hundred was as difficult as getting that first million. Already my sense of time and place were sent into hysterics due to the gravity produced by all the money I was accumulating. A poet who made money? Who would've thought. With the poetics of coding and making the machines do my will, I had come up.
