scalpel in my hand
patient on operating table
I’m about to make him wish
I was a doctor
scalpel in my hand
patient on operating table
I’m about to make him wish
I was a doctor
I’m seated at an outdoor cafe
sipping coffee, reading a novel,
when a thing in tattered clothes stumbles by
pursued by an angry mob
wielding tire irons and baseball bats.
It’s a hot, stifling day.
The beach is closed from contamination.
The blood-bars don’t open until three.
This is bound to happen.
“Just make it easy on yourself.”
“Look, you’re not getting any more money out of me
while I’m still alive.
So use the pillow and squeeze,
then the inheritance is yours.”
Eyes open, eyes closed,
Oh please shut up, I’m thinking. Please please please shut the fuck up… for God’s sake, I’m going to get up right now and bang my head against the wall if you don’t!
I’m nearly on the verge of tears, sitting with Grace in the hotel bar. For almost an hour, the noise of the Parisian traffic has been the only background to her uninterrupted, exhausting monologue about herself.
Grace is the youngest in the crew, a freshly trained English girl of 22. British upper class family, excellent education, a blonde-haired blue-eyed beauty who’d caught my attention since we first met. Today’s flight had been sheer torture indeed: just imagine what it was like to deal with the tempting proximity of her body, in the confined spaces of a plane… the accidental touch, the traces of her scent, the exchanging of glances across the aisle… no need to say that I’ve been looking forward to finally being alone with her.
My plan? To drink the Princess under the table and fuck her mercilessly all night long. Instead, turns out I’m still sitting here, listening to the ramblings of this pampered child who — to make matters worse! — has just chugged an entire bottle of Chablis without even flinching. Definitely there were some flaws in my plan.
“So I won this ballet contest and I was admitted as a junior associate in the Royal… and I was the most talented of all, by the way. Not to mention that I’ve always been an A student and…”
Oh, shit, I can’t stand this. I’m mentally tearing her expensive clothes off… licking her high-class English clit… biting her divine ass… making her scream in that posh accent of hers. This time, the odds seem to be against me, though. This fucking chatterbox is a desperate case.
I order another bottle from a waiter passing by. Keep filling up her glass, out of sheer stubbornness. Come on, Angie. It’s now or never. I clear my throat, touch her hand across the table, a smile sweeter than honey on my face.
“What about the guys, Gracey darling?” I ask. “How many hearts have those lovely eyes already broken?”
“Well,” she giggles, “before joining the crew, I had this gorgeous boyfriend in Oxford who had my name tattooed on his bicep, you know. He drove me around in his Bentley, bought me a Cartier wristwatch and…”
Oh fuck… there’s no way out. I raise my hands to interrupt her.
“Okay, okay, I got it: your life has been terrific and your bloke was fantastic. What I mean is, I hope you had some fun between a ballet class and exams. Keeping that sexy body all for yourself… it would be a shame.” I give her hand a light squeeze. Under the table, my leg tentatively brushes against hers. “Take me, for instance. Never been afraid of experimenting. Why, I was only fourteen when I first made out with a girl.”
“Whaaat? Good Lord, I could never do THAT!” she cries, downing a gulp of Chablis. Is she finally starting to look a bit dizzy? “I’ve never even thought about that. I mean, it’s…”
“…just wonderful, honey. No man could ever lick you better than a woman. Think about it. We have no bristly beards, for starters!”
She laughs, almost choking on her drink; the wine is definitely working. I’m licking my lips in anticipation…
“Oh Angie, you’re so naughty. What makes you think that I would do anything so… so kinky and disgusting and…”
She blushes, struggles for the right word, growing more lightheaded by the instant.
“Uhh, hey!” she abruptly gasps. “What are you doing??”
I’m caressing her knee under the table.
“Maybe you would like it… who knows?” I say, running my hand up her bare thigh, too aroused now to stop. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you feel like trying something new for once, Gracey darling?”
“Angie, let go,” she slurs, leaving my hand exactly where it is. We’re keeping eye contact across the table; she looks like an animal caught in the headlights.
“This is… inappropriate. Sooo-o-o TOTALLY inappropriate…”
The way she says it is such a turn-on… And I just can’t wait anymore.
“Nobody would ever know, Gracey. It would be our secret, our diiirty little secret… You want to know what it is like, don’t you? Here’s your chance; don’t waste it!”
She reaches under the table and entagles her fingers with mine.
“I’m feeling quite strange, Angie. I’m afraid I’m not quite myself…”
“Enjoy that feeling, baby… and I’ll take you places you’ve never been before, trust me.”
Moments later, the elevator doors are closing behind us. Destination: 4th floor, my room. I glance at myself in the mirrored wall, thinking:
Easy now, Angie. One wrong move and…
It happens so quickly that I don’t even have time to react.
Grace throws me against the wall with all her might, pressing her body against mine and yanking back my hair. She fumbles for the emergency button behind her, stopping the lift between floors.
“You filthy little slut,” she hisses in my ear, “you’ve made me so wet… And now you’d better get ready, ‘cos I AM GONNA EAT YOU ALIVE!!! GOT IT???”
I’m speechless. Breathless. Utterly paralyzed. She tears my blouse asunder, and for once in my life I hear myself saying:
“Wait, wait… m-maybe we shouldn’t do this… I-I mean…”
“Shut up,” she snarls, “you filthy fucking BITCH.”
Groping my tits and biting my neck, she lets one hand slide down to my ass, leaving the other clamped firmly to my breast. She gives my nipple a vicious pinch, prompting me to cry out in pain as she attacks my neck like a savage beast. When I finally turn to kiss her, she pushes her tongue so far down my throat, my moans are muffled by her own voracious lust.
I cry out once more as she shoves her hand down the back of my skirt, yanking my thong to the side. Still relentlessly devouring my mouth, she wastes no time in jamming her finger up my ass. Pain and pleasure begin to mount simultaneously as her free fingers sink into my pussy from behind. Thrusting hard into both holes, banging my body up against the wall, she’s almost on the verge of fisting me now, fucking me up to her knuckles.
I glance over at her deranged reflection, barely recognizing the cunt-crazed monster she’s become. If we hadn’t been together this whole entire time, I’d suspect she was coked out of her head. Christ, it couldn’t just be the wine… she’s transformed into a fucking fury. Even her posh accent has somehow completely vanished.
I’m vaguely conscious that I’m being raped…
…and that I am her most willing victim.
“You wanted me to be naughty, didn’t you?” she whispers in my ear. “Is THIS what you had in mind?””
NO!!! I scream internally. In fact this is infinitely BETTER, you nutty fucking bitch!
“You like it, huh? You’re ENJOYING this, you dirty French whore, AREN’T you?”
I can’t reply, can’t even breath, really. Shuddering in waves of pre-climax convulsions, I finally explode in a devastating orgasm that floods down my thighs, breaking like a dam of warm juices into the palm of her hand. She keeps on fucking me regardless, propping me up as I collapse fully onto her, exhausted.
As I try to pull myself together, I catch another glimpse of her in the mirror. The haughty smirk on her face says it all:
“You got what you asked for, slut… And now you know what high-class girls are made of.”
Needless to say, the first thing I do when I’m back in my room is call down to the desk for an ice pack.
Shit, I guess those posh cunts can be deceiving…
Like being fucked by a goddamn infantry battalion…
Wilma’s apartment was full of rock n’ roll junk. She’d balled some low-wattage stars, as a young groupie. Now her walls covered with obsolete concert posters and photos of dead musicians. The shelves were crowded with Elvis figurines and other pop collectibles.
Lucky Pete had been the drummer at a Sam the Sham revival show. That’s how he met Wilma.
She still bore traces of flower-childhood, and some evenings Pete had nothing else to do except go visit her.
On the asshole-colored wall-to-wall carpet, at the foot of a scavenged couch, sat a plastic water-pipe and a huge black rubber dildo. Wilma smoked a lot of weed. Pete imagined her taking hits off her giant sex toy instead of the bong when she was stoned.
Marijuana fought an aerial duel with cat piss in her living room. It’s been scientifically proven that feline fumes cause craziness in mature women. Wilma wasn’t taking any chances, she was going to fry whatever was left of her brains between cat-piss and the pipe.
Pete preferred beer.
He nursed a brown glass baby-bottle, she made sexy sucking sounds with her water-pipe. Pete pointed to the dildo, which might’ve been art. “Where’d you find that?”
“A friend gave it to me.”
“You ever use it?”
“How was it?”
“Great.” She took a hit, held the smoke. A black cat knocked a Kung Fu Elvis statuette off the bookshelf with no books. Thanks to the thick carpet, it didn’t break. The cat jumped down and went to the plastic basin next to the fridge. Wilma blew a Nagasaki cloud. “Taught me something about myself I didn’t know.”
Pete shrugged. “I can’t stand up.”
Wilma hiked her suede miniskirt and went to work. A low-tide tang spread. A colorless fluid leaked.
“You just peed yourself a little,” Pete said.
She looked hurt. “You think I’d do that in front of you like an animal?” She started in again with grim determination. She yelped and unplugged. A thicker liquid splashed onto the carpet.
“Wow,” Pete said, but thought: ‘She can’t even tell the difference anymore.’ The bottle in his hand was empty. “Listen, do you think you could get me another beer?”
She made it to the fridge, but stumbled on the catbox and scattered its contents. Slug-trails gleamed on her thighs in the refrigerator light. Foam sprayed when she popped the cap. Frigid drops hit Pete’s lap when she passed him the bottle.
“Thanks,” he said.
Wilma sat back down and got busy again. She was warmed up.
Pete hoisted himself forward on the armchair.
A geyser blasted him back against the backrest.
He dried his face on his sleeve, polished off the beer. Wilma heaved, spent. The dildo fell to the floor with a muffled thump.
“Whudja think?” she said.
A white cat came and sniffed the rubber thing that smelled like the lady of the house, then went to piss on porcelain Elvis. He lifted his leg like a dog.
Pete had to take a leak too, but knew he’d never make it to the bathroom. He was holding an empty bottle. He unzipped and filled it, even overflowed a bit. “Whups, sorry.”
Wilma pulled a face. “I think you’d better leave now.”
The man evicted
from The Crosby Hotel
sits on the curb
surrounded by drug addicts
but with the patience
of a Buddhist neophyte
waiting for the gates to open
However, every morning at 5am
“I know it was you, Jennifer!”
“Mail fraud, Jennifer!
Where are the checks, Jennifer!”
No one knows
who Jennifer is
but we’re all rooting for her
with his crates of books
and crazy eyes
from our dreams.
Here we are, I say to myself, looking down to the glittering sea below us, pushing the trolley down the aisle.
Spain… After months of traveling to cold, dull destinations, I’ll finally be able to enjoy the lovely climate of the seaside. No sooner than we’ve landed in Barcelona, my mood hightens at the sight of the city and the beauty of its architecture. And, of course, I’m also looking forward to exploring its legendary nightlife as well.
The company taxi takes us to our hotel after a short drive through the suburbs. It’s a nice summer evening; my colleague Emily and I are fidgeting in the backseat, planning a night out on La Rambla. This sexy brunette from New Zealand has been on this route for years, so if anyone knows how to have fun in this city, it’s her.
After a quick dinner we’re ready to go. We both look gorgeous: short dresses revealing bare shoulders and cleavages, red lips, high heels — the works. Two smiling hostesses transformed into sexy creatures of the Spanish movida… with a whole day off tomorrow to recover from its excesses, as well.
We arrive at the beach club at around midnight. The place is so diabolically crowded we can’t even see the entrance, but it isn’t long before a bouncer spots us and beckons us forward. We push our way through throngs of barely dressed teenage girls and muscular guys in tight T-shirts (aptly pushed forward by their hands on our bottoms) until the bouncer has us both by the waist, pulling us tight against his hips.
Once he’s made sure we’ve both felt the bulge in his Levi’s, he stamps the back of our hands and lets us in. Emily and I steal glance at each other, a glance meaning: Yummy… let’s keep him in mind for later, just in case.
Emily was right: this place is really cool. Enormous mirrored balls suspended over the dance floor, red velvet curtains, lights flashing all around. Boys and girls are drinking, making out against the walls, dancing — all of them looking young and sexy and wasted.
We reach the bar and get our drinks, sipping them beside the DJ booth, where this very good-looking guy (black Stetson, white swimsuit, jackboots… and nothing else) is smiling at us. I smile back and he gets closer. He’s holding a mojito.
“Hola,” he says. Long fair hair, a ring in his left nipple. Maori tattoos adorn his bulging biceps and perfect abs.
“Hi, cowboy. Speak English?”
He laughs. “A little. Estudiantes? Are you students?”
“Oh God, do we look like students?” Emily protests, saying ‘students’ as if she were saying ‘whores’. “We’re airline hostesses, darling. Off-duty and looking for fun.”
“I see…” His drinks us in with his eyes and subtly licks his lips. “You’re in the right place, then,” he says. “My name’s Carlos. Wanna dance?”
Not waiting for an answer, he leaves his mojito on a table and grabs us both, dragging us out onto the dance floor behind him. Primal Scream’s “Come Together” is blasting at full volume. I position myself between Emily and him, and he wastes no time in pressing his sexy body firmly against mine. His hands begin caressing my hips as I slowly grind back into him. Meanwhile, Emily is holding me by the shoulders, our mouths getting closer and closer. She teases me, licking my lips with the wet tip of her tongue.
Oh Christ, these two will bring me to absolute ecstasy… Come together, indeed!
I can feel Carlos getting hard already beneath his skimpy trunks. I’m too turned on to stop now: I grab Emily’s ass and pull her body close, and we start making out hard. The tiny piercing on her tongue is driving me wild, as it always does… especially when she licks my clit.
I can feel Carlos lifting my dress, slipping his hands between my thighs, and it seems we’re about to fuck right there on the dance floor when we’re suddenly startled by a deep voice from behind.
As Carlos backs off, I turn around to look, and what I see leaves me utterly speechless.
The tallest woman I have ever seen is standing there, fabulous and cross-armed before us. Long blonde hair, luscious lips, glittering black dress and stiletto heels… all topped off by a Nazi cap upon her head. A 6-foot-6 Marlene Dietrich. She barely looks at Carlos, who mutters something in Spanish before disappearing off in the crowd. Turns out it’s me she’s interested in, and at first I don’t know whether to be enamored or afraid.
It is then that she disarms me with a smile, spreading out across her… well, HIS face.
“Waiters are not for sale, honey,” he informs me, in the same deep voice as before. “They’re supposed to carry trays and pick up empty glasses. Only Frau Eva is allowed to enjoy their attention…”
As for Emily, she is far too pissed at the interruption to be astonished by this amazing creature. She pushes me aside and snarls: “Hey! Mind your business, you fucking freak! Why don’t you just fuck off and…”
Frau Eva laughs, baring white fangs instead of teeth.
“Awwww,” he says high feminine voice, “that really hurts me, dear… it really does!” Then, in his deep masculine tenor, “Wash your mouth out, sister. Or shall I do it for you?”
I elbow Emily in her side. “Listen, Eva,” I say, “we want no trouble, okay? We were just…”
“Oh, stop it,” she says. “Have a drink with Eva. And tell that cheeky little bitch that mi casa es su casa. No hard feelings, pretty girls: welcome to my club. I’m Eva Braun, the one and only Queen of Barcelona.”
She leads us into an alcove behind red curtains, red candles and a bottle of Jim Beam on the table. Orchids are scattered everywhere, and the strong scent of pot coming from the other ‘privés’ makes us deliciously dizzy.
Eva sits between the two of us, Emily’s legs stretched over his and my head resting on her shoulder. Soon we’re chattering like old friends and, predictably, the subject of our conversation turns to sex.
“A hostess’ sex life must must be quite interesting,” Eva says, stroking my hair. A dozen bangles tinkle on his wrist. “I mean, that ‘fuck-and-go’ attitude toward sex intrigues me a lot… You take your pleasure and leave everything behind the next day, huh?”
“Precisely,” I reply. “You’ve got nothing to lose: no jealousy, no disappointment, no expectations… because nobody knows you. Basically, there no need to be respectable.”
“That’s what my wife always says: ‘Eva, I married you to give up being respectable. It was just too tiresome’. Ha ha ha!”
“You have a wife??” Emily and I exclaim in unison.
“Claro que sí!” Eva replies. “A nice, pretty housewife. She just loves sucking on my tits…”
I consider this for a while, sipping my bourbon. Well, he does got wonderful tits… and a divine ass, to boot. A wicked thought is already taking shape within my mind, probably with the help of all the booze and joints being passed around.
“Well, I’d probably like it too, you know…” I begin to say. “I mean, I’ve never had sex with a transsexual guy before, but it must be something, that’s for sure. Sort of a threesome, like being fucked by two people at the same time.”
“Oh, Angie,” Emily giggles, “you’re such a slut!”
“So neither of you girls has ever gotten laid by a pre-op transsexual? Ooh, that’s a shaaaame!” Eva mimics the hysterical tantrum of an old queen. “That’s unconceivable, you nasty cunts. Unconceivable!”
“You know what?” I say to him, “You’re right.”
Running my hand up under the glistening fabric of his skirt, soon I’m palming one of the biggest cocks I’ve ever come across in my life.
“Hey, I suspect your wife enjoys your lower half too!”
Eva smiles, laughs, and says, “Wanna try it for yourself, young girl?”
“She’s only teasing you, Eva,” Emily laughs. “She won’t really let you do it…”
“Shut up, bitch,” I say, slapping her legs away as I climb unto Eva’s lap. “I’ve never lost a challenge in my life! Come now, Eva — let’s show my friend here what Mademoiselle Arsan is made of…”
I kiss him long and deep. He responds in kind and, soon enough, I’m grinding upon his magnificent erection.
Eva pulls my thong to the side and starts fingering me from behind, making me hot and wet. I’m dying to feel his enormous tranny prick slide all the way up inside me. I glance down at Emily, who’s caressing my ass with one hand while touching herself with the other, her eyes wide with astonishment.
As Eva begins to hike up her own dress, I rustle in my purse for a condom, opening it with my teeth and expertly rolling it down onto his big, fat cock. He lifts me by the ass and lowers me down onto it, penetrating me slowly, so I can feel just how long and thick it is. He starts thrusting into me then, hard and deep, making me delirious with delight. I take his nipples in my mouth and suck them eagerly, saliva dripping from my lips, enjoying the incredible sensation of both pleasures.
With Eva’s strong, warm hands gripping my ass cheeks, it’s almost more than I can stand before Emily slides a finger in between them. This is the point of no return, where I really lose control. Eva senses that I’m close to climaxing and keeps fucking me harder and harder; I’m moaning, almost coming, when suddenly, she stops and pushes me off of him.
“Turn around,” he commands.
He shoves me down onto the table. I feel his cock, drenched in my juices, sliding up my ass. I cry out loud, as he pins my arms behind my back, fucking me mercilessly now. Soon I’m coming and coming in spasms, an endless climax that makes me scream, but he’s not finished yet. I’ve almost fainted when he comes too, in a final thrust that leaves me breathless and trembling. I look over at Emily, her eyes shut tight, shuddering with pleasure as she comes as well.
When the taxi pulls up outside the club, we are both drunk and staggering, laughing uncontrollably. Our dresses are a mess. I vaguely realise that I’ve left my thong back in the alcove.
“I knew you were a dirty bitch, Angie… but THAT was…”
“Fucking amazing, Emily! Believe me. You should try!”
“You know what?” she says. “I will. I will, you… you… awww, you sexy bitch!”
And then she kisses me, right there in front of the driver.
Fake tits filling Hollywood
out into silicon valley south
get Popeye in the mood
so he flicks a can of spinach
from his armpit, squeezes it open
in a muscled hand and down
the hatch—prompt effect produced
in trousers as a pup tent pops,
and it’s all Popeye can do
to keep his hands off it for the nonce;
it’s gotta hold
for an explosive vehicle
of blockbuster twister wombs
spinning, begging for implantation
by a real man and not some flea
flicker—so he drives along Sunset
to a red light, picks up momma
needlessly ripe—the time is now—
undoes his trousers
and just for her springs out
a muscled joint pinched and
swollen just like his famous
bicep—I can’t tell you
when she asks
how many implants it took,
but the Industry wouldn’t have
it any other way—movie
ends as he shoots silicon
load onto silicon thighs
and she evaporates into the street
with a fistfull of plastic cash
like a blow up girlfriend
deflating on a careless pin stick—
he guns Camero into setting
sun, leaving a squeal of blue
and a smell of white