Whit moaned and pressed into the warm mouth, faster as the music picked up steam, and Billie’s fingers with it. The bass was pumping heavily against the door and Whit’s ass. Whit was about to come and she wanted to prolong the moment.
“Come here,” she gasped, tugging on Billie’s blue spikes.
Billie obliged and stood up, slipping her slick tongue sweet with Whit into Whit’s mouth without missing a beat with her fingers. Whit reached blindly and tugged the bra and crop-top free, earning more little Billie-squeals as one breast spilled into her hand. With her other hand, she snaked into the loose waistband of Billie’s pants and found her cunt damp and trembling.
“Yeah! Yeah!” breathed Billie between kissing and squealing, thumping out her own beat against the insides of Whit until the two were in harmony, hips grinding against fingers against hips.
Whit opened her eyes and saw the moon-curves of Billie’s unbelievable ass in the mirror, her muscles pumping as she snaked against Whit, and it was all Whit could take. She shuddered and twisted against Billie’s fingers, groaning as she tightened against them and fucking Billie at the same time with swift strokes that matched her own body’s rhythm. The feel of Billie’s fingers slippery with her made Whit pump her own fingers even harder.
Billie’s knees went slack, letting the hot weight of her cunt bounce to the beat with Whit’s hand supporting her as Whit fell back against the door, breathing in a crescendo of softer and softer sighs until it was all she could do to keep hold of Billie and not slip to the floor. As Whit’s body relaxed, Billie let go and braced a hand on either side of her against the door, thrusting into Whit’s fingers in a slick slap-slap-slap, making high, tiny sounds with each stroke, her eyes wide and her face flushed, her tits spanking against Whit’s.
Whit dipped down and caught one of the hot, hard nipples in her mouth, cupping the other breast with her free hand, thinking incongruously of how it felt like holding a perfectly risen yeast bread in her hand. Her thumb was stroking automatically against the soft hood of Billie’s clit, her hand warm and wet with Billie, and then Billie was gasping “fuckfuck-fuckfuckfuck !” and bouncing against her on each syllable, beating out her climax against the door with one hand.
She collapsed against Whit at last, breathing hard, and sweating harder, and Whit, watching her in the mirror again, couldn’t resist running her hands down the back of the loose jeans to cup the perfect ass.
That was when they noticed the complete lack of muffled bass coming from the other side of the door. Whit looked down; the crack of light from the club was no longer strobing ultraviolet, but a dull yellow-pink.
They scrambled to pull things back into place, buttoning, shoving, tucking, smoothing back hair, and Billie gave Whit one last kiss of watermelon and honey-musk before they opened the door and tried to act cool.
It was last call and a small line of club goers were waiting to use the john.
“Get a room,” said somebody.
“Nice song,” smirked a soft butch by the door. “It’s got a good beat, and you can dance to it.”
Whit ducked her head down, but couldn’t hide the canary-eating grin. Billie slipped her arm around Whit’s waist and sauntered cool-as-you-please past the line and out to the open air of the exit at the end of the hall. She leaned into Whit’s shoulder, her spiked hair damp against it, as she waved down a cab.
“I thought you said you didn’t dance,” said Billie with a wink as they flopped into the backseat. There was a distinct lack of accent to her otherwise still-soft voice and Whit squinted at her suspiciously.
Billie’s grin was smug, leaning back against the seat with her hands hooked behind her head. “What?” she said. “You didn’t think I could keep that up all night, did you? Never fails. Girls always fall for it. It’s a Judy Holliday thing. She’s my favorite ’50s movie star.”
Whit glared, folding her arms, but her cunt gave a warm little jump at the fact that Billie knew the movie, and well enough to perfect that accent. “So I suppose your name isn’t Billie, either.”
“Huh,” Billie laughed, back in the voice. “Whaddaya think, I was born yesterday?”
The Lost Blackjack King in My Eyes / El Perdido Rey del Tahúr en Mis Ojos
Tina Cristina Maria D’Elia
Where did it all start? And to where did it go…? This was really the beginning. After two and a half years of not making it back to the Southwest deserts, I, Cristina Rivera, realized my body craved—ached for—the sand, las arenas, the brown earth and vast skies meeting and intertwined as eternal lovers. I packed full one large duffel bag and reserved two nights at the Luxor. I rented, for an edge, a 2003 silver Jetta with cruise control. I threw on a black spring dress with red strapless pumps and took off at dawn. I drove from my apartment in San Francisco, to my destination of fallen angels, empty dreams, overfilled cups of diamonds and clubs, sparkling silver-midnight-rhinestone-moonbeam white. Timeless, this city of sin, Las Vegas. La ciudad del pecado. Perhaps to reveal my own? Espresso in hand, I needed a change….
In silver exterior and black leather interior my skin stuck like leather-seated skirt to a bare ass, getting a good slap to raw skin. My sweat lubricating the back of my knees, moving inside my thighs. I pass another exit, sliding in my desire crowding into two streams coming into a cannon. Collecting at the darkness in dampness of my thin silk ruby thong’s edge. My body, my spirit exhales long and sweet as I cross the Nevada border into the Southwestern precious golden-brown landscape.
I then pull off the road and trade in the Jetta, yuppster mobile, for a shiny pink convertible classic Mustang. Mi Chica Femme mobile, ummm, sí Cristina, one gas guzzler replaced by another…well, hell.
Now with the top down, without covers, my human spirit touches endless landscape—the mahogany-reddened bronze brilliant, smooth, and peeking into jagged rocks all around. Each dark nook I pass instigating another erotic reason for me to turn off the road and meet myself beneath the sun upon the rocky surface. Aquí, is where my mixed Mexicana heritage ancestral oculars saw through their own eyes. Aquí, donde los Indios Nativos Norteamericanos have loved and lived and fought hard—silent inside these landscape stories, spiritually alive.
Algún día mi corazón will be closer to the flat brown beauty of it all. Be closer to mis días, mi Diosa, a La Vírgen, a la Mija, magenta crimson fuchsia sky and Madre rojo—orange-brown earth similar to the skin tones of all that came to this earth before Rivera.
Valle to the Luxor and then to an unfinished, unsolved mystery that curled me inside it. I could deny no longer. I had heard like myth, like folktale, like film noir—all in one—of the infamous Mexicano y Native American Indian Macha, The Transgender King of Blackjack, Jesús Antonio Gitano.
Jesús es the one whom genderqueer, folks of color, every flashy fag and glitter queen, Zoot Suit Macha, and Nightclub Rumba y Femme Fatale would move in and hover around to see his steaming table after midnight to taste what his next move would be. Who could take down the Champ, the King of Tahúr, el Rey, if only for a night? Who would be la bonita, elejida, if only for una noche? This quest was both illogical y methodical—odds of one in a hundred that a stranger could catch a shark’s eye.
My bets were on the quintessential La Bryja Salvadoreña, the visionary, Esperanza Margarita Aguilera. A tango starlet in her youth, ella could fill a room of deseo/desire, all would worship her. Esperanza could know of a journey before it reached your own consciousness.
I get into Vegas after five P.M. Enough time for a quick shower at the hotel and then el rojo y negro outfit. A deep low-cut V-necked sleeveless dress. A long scooped open bare back revealing my light brown skin. With my black open cha-cha heels and the dress just above my knees, a black Spanish shawl from mi Abuela, I finish by grabbing a small black sparkling-beaded purse and deep crimson lipstick. I proceed to the Bellagio to pursue the inclinations of Esperanza. The purse will catch the light of my silver Navajo necklace and sus ojos.
I end up walking seven blocks
and enter, a little in disarray, and immediately see a group of mixed-race gender-queer players hitting the floor.
“Hola Señor, dónde esta Señorita Epseranza Aguilera?”
I feel my corazón pounding. El señor dice, “allá” and points to a second floor dinning room. I approach her with honor and sweat on my brow.
A mortal to a spiritual guide…she is speaking to un amante, a lover, I believe.
“Un momento, por favor, mi querida,” she whispers.
Her Butch kisses la Bruja’s hand and touches her face before exiting.
She is stunning in an ivory gown, with a turquoise stone resting near her fine breasts. The most exquisite, dark skin and long black hair, like la Reina, a Goddess hombres y mujeres kill to be near. Suddenly she looks deep into my eyes.
“Sí, what is it you search for, mija?”
I exhale. My breathing is still coming off a little rapid.
“Jesús…Jesús Antonio Gitano.”
She raises her right eyebrow.
“I see. Tonight he’s at Caesar’s Palace. He may need your help.”
I push my hair back.
“Dónde? Ah, Caesar’s Palace…muy bien. Ah, muchas gracias, muchas gracias Esperanza.” I start to turn away…
“Table 84, y…le gusta el rojo. He likes red.”
I’m running…now…sprinting actually, to a taxi. Entering through the crowds of Caesar’s Palace, a basic tourist nightmare, and I’m sweating profusely at this point. I chant, “Table eighty-four, eighty-four, no, sixty-seven, no, thirty-four…”
I notice there’s a back section I must check. Nada…hmm.
Upstairs…sí. As I enter the lounge I can hear the reverberation of Luscious Jackson playing.
Take your hand in mine…
Mi corazón starts to beat faster
We will travel to another time
Subo the stairs and turn the corner
If you look inside my Gypsy eyes
I stare across the room and there flashes the top dog pool table.
I’m gonna take you away
Then just beyond it, the Blackjack table, crowded with tension.
Oh yeah, I’m gonna take you away…
Then I approach a table filled with andro/femme/butch/ transgender mixed-race boys and girls in gowns/trousers/ boas and false diamond watches, glitter necklaces and smoking jackets. I see a drop-dead gorgeous transsexual señorita who looks at me, then glances toward the table. I move in and see Jesús, and as this happens, señorita’s ojos meet Jesús’. Either light hits me, or instinctively and instantly, Jesús looks at me.
I overhear a butch pinoy Frank Sinatra say that after a losing streak, Jesús’ luck has turned.
Jesús gives me his arm, and escorts me out. I look at him—he is ancient—and he looks at me like a myth.
“Cómo te llamas, hermosa?”
“Cristina Rivera.”
As we step out into the night, Jesús takes a deep breath. “Cristina, you have done more than cause me to end a losing streak and win the worst hand I could have landed in Blackjack. I came out a hero. And you in that vestido rojo, red dress, hmm, you don’t even know.”
I unlock the door to my hotel room and Jesús whispers in my ear.
“Every part of you—I will take tonight.”
Smirking, we go inside.
I see him try to light each tender candle. I see how he moves, butch-trans-top-proud Latino. I move around the room lighting my two Virgin candles. Bringing one near the window. Us smiling. I, feeling his eyes upon me. I see—I feel my awakening heart—like the pulsating volume of my body consuming the room, wet y muy caliente. Holding both sides of the bureau, I take him in, and he gazes back into me, massaging his hand against his hard stomach.
“Do I cause this stirring?” He steps out of the shadow and meets me face to face.
I am a foolish maze, a panting creature of femme-fatale flesh. “The effect doesn’t wear off for days, mija, I hate to break it to you.”
His right hand leans next to mine.
“Now, who told you red is my favorite color,” he says and touches the straps, his fingers tightening into my arms.
“I know.”
“Do you…mijo?”
“Sí.”
“Midnight is shining inside you. Goddess, tú, you are shining inside of me esta noche.”
I breathe out.
Immediately his grasp dominates all thoughts. Jesús pulls my entire body against the wall. I am off my heels and he holds me hard, our strength is ripping eroticism off the walls like the immensity of the deep magenta-blue sky edged with rough crimson penetrating fuchsia clouds, godlike, hard on my inner thighs.
Our kisses move everywhere. He and I tearing off his white button-down shirt…
“Like the sky possessing the sun I am making love to you.”
“Oh, is that a sincere promise?”
I, orange golden-garnet blood burning beauteous, am taken over. He lifts me by my waist and hips. My legs and heels come together around his waist and he thrusts us up against the next wall.
“Hold on to me, tighter!”
“Is that an order?”
We begin bucking into each corner from desk to bureau again to the bed to the chair.
His hands up my dress and ripping down the straps grabbing each breast. I moan faster as he groans, hunger through hands and tongue biting and working sliding inside me. “Ay Dios…”
“Mi Angel!”
“Sí, mijo?”
“I want to fuck every inch of you…”
He unzips, rips off my underwear, and tosses them to the floor.
“I have wanted to worship you this way since I first felt your stare.” Jesús, speaking and spreading my legs, holds them open with his thighs, and takes my face and hair.
“Every part of you—I will take tonight—you, Cristina my sweetest Angel.”
“I want…”
“Yeah, I know,” and he holds his cock against me.
“I want your cock so deep inside me I forget all but this moment.” And our eyes meet, as he pushes, sliding fast, then pausing, then moving faster inside of me.
I am moaning and listening and suddenly our words cannot make sentences:
“Here/ move/ fuck/ harder/ me/ oh/ sí/ ah/ listen/ hmm sí sí sí/ I’m/ tell me/ going to/ oh/ yeah”
We can only say one or two words at a time.
“Oh si, take this off/ oh this way/ me/ move/ tighter/ yeah/ no hmm/ yeah yeah/ more/ hmm / uh/ I’m taking you/ bend over/ you’re mine/ ffffffffuckkkk/ I’m yours/ oh/ fuckkkkk/ NOW!/ oh/ yes/ I want it/ aaaaaaaahhaaaa/ What do you want?/ Yeah, you like it, don’t you?”
He whispers to me, “Orale pues mami…”
“Don’t you/ you know I do/ tell me/ dígame/ what do you feel/ dígame/ what you feel.”
With my legs above his shoulders, he pounds into me.
“I’m inside of you, fucking you soo deeply like this…la Macha you’ve only met six hours ago!” We laugh, getting more heated.
“That’s right, I always get mi hombre.” I shudder, my body shifting into building breaths.
“Oh yeah, you think so?”
“That’s why we’re—” I start to tighten my body, “—here.”
And this continues for another three hours.
Jesús making me cum and cum all night.
“Aaah…”
“Uuhhh…”
“Querida!”
“Sí, querido, again.”
“Aah!”
“Uh!”
“I love watching you mi bonita.”At five A.M. I find myself washing my face, almost asleep, brushing my teeth, leaning into the sink.We sleep touching, and every second our bodies move closer. When I awake, Jesús says in his fine voice, “Buenas días, you like a coffee?” I turned and my eyes close for a few more minutes, then I hear a door close and silence. I turn to stare at the door, knowing he’s left. I crawl out of bed and find my coffee steaming with a short-stemmed budding red r
ose. He also wrote:
Gracias, gracious Phantom goddess of my darkest hours
Alas, must I wait for another lifetime to see you again?
You and I are on separate journeys, verdad.
Perhaps our paths will cross another time?
Besos, Jesús
I must admit I entered the shower redone. His words crooning mixed twisting together in my mind. I am fucking each part of you like the sky takes the sun. Exhausted, intoxicated, overwhelmed, dazed, and from the heat of water beating down and soothing my head, my hair, my skin. I become undone, and I start to sob, not knowing of my tears, not knowing if my tears were more for me or for him.
The next day I feel solemn, knowing I will not find him. Try my own luck at gambling, win a round and lose two, miserably. I looked for Esperanza but when I’d come near her casino, I feel overtaken with shame. As though I have told my secrets to the spell, and now it is broken.
The third day I knew I’d be leaving by daybreak.
I stare at the sun. He stands behind me as masculine moon/ feminine sun and pushes my legs apart. My ass feels his pressure, he’s ready, hard, packed, and the moment shudders. He pulls up my shirt in back and with one hand, unsnaps my bra. His brown strong hands pull me by the waist, grazing my stomach, my brown skin against his. I feel his breath, his body tensing, increasing in muscle and emotion, and I am the desert’s lost rain, coming down my thighs. I feel…I am begging.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2004 Page 13
