Batshit Girls Make Excellent Dinner Party Fodder

“As you know, California is an all-party consent state,” I say, putting the iPhone on the table. The banter around me dies down immediately. “I’m going to take the lack of screaming as consent. If you speak from this point on, you’re consenting to being recorded. All right, let’s hear that story.”

“What story?” Daniel* asks innocently. He takes a sip of his drink and begins: “We met on a cruise. It’s what I call a vacationship. The vacationship that went way too far. We went on a cruise to Bermuda in June, spent seven days together and stayed in touch over the summer. I spent the summer on the East Coast, so I’d drive to see her and we’d be involved. Sexually — if I need to announce that for the microphone.” … Continue Reading

A Lay for DeLay

“Tom DeLay made me a nymphomaniac.”

There it was: the truth. I am not a unique snowflake, I am the product of my environment. Politics define our country, culture, heritage, and through these things, whether we like it or not, politics define us.

So here I am. At my therapist’s. My new therapist’s I should say, having fired the last one. Probably not the best introduction, but I was deeply preoccupied with this and had no time for pleasantries with Dr. Ortíz y López.

“You refer to DeLay, the former congressman,” O replied, moving carefully over the words, as though he was still digesting my statement.

“Yes!” I said, flinging my over-sized purse down on a chair and ripping off my sunglasses. “It was him and the former lobbyist Jack Abramoff, and long before them, former U.S. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger — all of them, and more, like a domino effect going back decades, culminating in a high-voltage sex Olympics.” … Continue Reading

The Dream Girls

Dream Girls. A lone building in the middle of this desert wasteland with a sign over it in pink. Dream girls. It’s a sick fuchsia, buzzing nervously against the night like the whole thing’s about to give out.

We’re not looking for a bar or a crazy good time. We’re looking for girls. Sounds like a simple proposition, but it’s worse than needing drink. When you needed drink, you’ll get drink and it won’t matter what it is, because anything will suit the purpose. With girls it’s different. You need beauty. Beauty is not always easy to find; beauty won’t hand herself over at the flash of ID and the twenty on the bar.

Beauty’s a cunt and that’s why you go to beat-up, tragic places where the girls are hungry for fresh blood and crisp bills.

Dream Girls is it — they don’t even have a liquor license. We walk in; the girls are lined up next to the door, most of them naked save for stockings, smiling like beauty pageant contestants. They’re greenies, I can just tell. “Hi, hi!” they say. One of them, a tiny blonde, probably five-two, braves to break the line. She steps forward with a shy smile and says, “you’re so beautiful.”

Darling little thing. I want to devour her; I look at her little hands in with those tiny, shiny acrylic nails and her little feet in those tragic, white PVC stilettos. Her belly is milk in a glass; no ripples of bones, muscles or tits. Were it not for the honey-colored landing strip, she could have passed herself off as a junior high-schooler. I bet she broke the heart of every teacher she ever had.

“Dance for me.”

“Oh,” she says, “OK.”

My boyfriend and I take a seat. He looks at me and says, “you’re going to leave me for a woman one day.”

“No.”

Men are straight-forward, clear and concise. Women are high-voltage labyrinths, confused and confusing. I only do confusing on purpose. Also, I can’t get on my knees for anything but a dick. And I must be brought to my knees.

Still, when she reaches down halfway through her set and pulls at me, I let the unexpected strength lift me onstage. She kneels and begins to run her hands over me; she cups my breasts, strokes my legs, down, then up, taking my skirt with it. The shiny acrylic nails glisten in the lights. I feel her breath in my ear, fast and hard.

Another girl takes her pole and another crawls up on the stage and begins playing with my hair. She and the nymph drag their lips over every bit of exposed flesh on my body.

Strippers are like married men: fantastic, impossible things. But it never matters — pleasure is a perfect hijacker. Just this once, just this once. Yeah. Just remember to catch yourself before you think this one will be any different than the ones before.

Image by Calamity Hane. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine, Fall 2006.

Laughlin

The car reeks of sex as we enter Laughlin on Casino Drive. We eat some place at the Edgewater. I tell them I want the meat blue and they have no idea what it means. You can always tell what kind of a restaurant you’re at if they know what “blue” means.

As predicted, it’s the worst filet mignon I’ve ever had. I order an Americano but they don’t know what that is either. I ask for two shots of espresso and warm water and make my own.

“Isn’t it hilarious that a ruined, watered-down espresso is called ‘an American’?” I ask my boyfriend. He doesn’t get it. He just likes that I’m a snob. I think it kind of turns him on, feeds his ego that a snob will fuck him. I better not tell him that I am trying to be more, you know, egalitarian.

Casinos are little bite-size Judeccas on earth. Everyone looks like hell sitting in front of the slot machines. People sit for hours here, fat asses spilling over the little stools, stubby arms pulling the levers again and again. Their eyes follow the spinning reels, like little hamsters inside their heads. Tragic.

As we’re leaving the place, I see a billboard over the Riverside announcing a Lisa Loeb concert. “July 1 & 2!” it reads, right after the menu specials flash. The picture shows her in her staple cat-eye tortoiseshell glasses; the old promo shot from 1994, the good old days when “Stay” was everyone’s break-up song thanks to Reality Bites. Pathetic.

A few miles away, we’re at our desert house, a small three bedroom in the middle of nowhere. He’d turned on the air conditioning over the phone hours earlier, so it’s a manageable temperature when we walk in. Technology is a fabulous thing.

The sun is setting behind the jagged mountains; pink and gold reflect over the pool. I’m on one of the ridiculously small chairs outside, reading. I try to light a cigarette, but the lighter has a child-lock and I don’t understand how to work it. I notice my boyfriend stirring in bed through the adjacent window and I walk over. I stand in front of the glass door like I can’t see him and look at myself. I pull the strings of my bikini top and it falls to my feet. I lick a thumb and rub it over my nipple.

I have his attention.

I turn around and pull down my bottoms, spreading my legs a little and bending forward. I put the unlit cigarette in my mouth and begin stroking myself. I can see my reflection in the living room windows. That’s hot.

When I look over my shoulder, I see my boyfriend standing behind the glass, jacking off. I turn around to face him, lowering myself to a crouch, legs spread.

At climax, he opens the door, takes hold of my hair and cums on my sunglasses. A second later, I hear a click as he lights the cigarette still perched on my lips. I push my sunglasses up to the top of my head and he kisses my forehead before tossing the lighter on a side table and sliding the door shut again.

I turn around and face the desert. Such a spiritual place.

Image by AV Flox. Published in Black Heart Magazine, Winter 2007, Issue #4, pp. 40-41.

Bullhead City

Mojave Valley Highway. It’s the last leg of the journey between Needles and Bullhead City, Arizona. The place is desolate: there’re more adult bookstores than houses, not a person in sight. If it weren’t for the Harleys parked outside a saloon, passerby’d probably think the place was a ghost town. We find a Wal-Mart.

I jump in a cart and my boyfriend pushes me around the place. He wants to buy me sneakers.

“Does this mean I have to wear socks?”

I hate socks. He finds me some socks. I will have nothing to do with this plan to attain “comfortable attire.” Nevertheless, I’m amazed they have shoes and socks and just about everything in one store — it’s so American. Everything you could need or want, standardized and shoved into this box-like establishment.

It’s incredible to imagine — fifty years ago, this place didn’t exist. Hell, fifty years ago Sam Walton, the founder of Wal-Mart, was still working at JC Penney.

I’ve decided that I’m a Wal-Mart: a dilettante specializing in cheapening genius and beauty to the point of democracy.

Andy Warhol was right when he talked about the wonder of consumer egalitarianism in this country. You can still watch TV and see a Coke and know that you can have a Coke just like the one Dubya is having, and the one Paris Hilton is having, and the one Bill Gates is having. All Cokes are the same and all Cokes are good, isn’t that what he said?

Yes — if we have any sort of a legacy, this is it.

Having procured the sneakers and socks — which I flatly refuse to wear — we hit the hills and find a look-out as we near Laughlin. The population there is less than 10,000, but it’s always buzzing with people: it’s the third most visited casino-destination in Nevada, after Vegas and Reno. From the look-out, we see Casino Drive’s lights reflected on the Colorado River like a little Las Vegas right at our fingertips.

I jump out into the heat to take a picture and have a smoke. My boyfriend comes out and before I can light up, he’s opened the side door of the car and bent me over the back seat.

Low-rise jeans give easy entry: you don’t really have to unbutton or unzip them to get them down. You just tug, whale tail and all, and you’re in.

It’s like we don’t even touch, we just fuck. I need his cock and he needs my cunt. We don’t even have time to moan before it’s over. I feel him tighten inside me after a few savage thrusts and I come. When I come, I send him over the edge. He pulls out–pop shot on my back.

He leans against the side of the car, I get out and, jeans still mid-thigh, light that cigarette.

Image by Gregory Melle. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine on December 6, 2007.

Barstow

Barstow, California was named after W. B. Strong–B for Barstow. The place’s a drive-through; no one wants to stay there beyond the ten minutes required to get a few more Bulls, piss and have a cigarette on the way to somewhere else.

I get out of the car and breathe the impossibly hot air — 124 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind burns through me and dust clings to my lip gloss. I smile behind the aviators and head into the gas station. I walk through; people are too busy staring at the woman in the hat — Californian B in black, baby — they don’t notice that I’ve cut the line until the door shuts in their faces behind the Stetson.

Walk out, looking over them in their over-sized, faded t-shirts and beat up tennis shoes. I love Americans, even if they always look terrible.

My boyfriend’s waiting for me outside. I take a last puff, drop my cigarette and he puts it out before the heat gust can blow it away. Inside the car, the A/C’s blasting. Jenna Jameson’s comeback flick with Wicked, Hell On Heels is on in all five screens. The short playing features Jenna as a winged version of the White Russian Kahlua ad; she’s being caressed by two fallen angels in raven black feathers. In the background a song reminiscent of Enya plays, creating the most perverse illusion of sanctity a Catholic could lay eyes on. This, of course, makes it my favorite part of the video.

On to Needles, still California, 148 miles east.

When I blow my boyfriend, I use cities as landmarks; Barstow to Needles, estimated hour and forty-five minutes. Ready, set, go.

Some people suck dick because they like to, because it turns them on. Some people do it because they have to. Most are a combination of enjoyment and compromise. I’m in it for the science when I’m on the road. Technique and endurance. The signs dotting the roads and interstates are meters.

You think a lot with a cock in your mouth when it’s not there out of desperate want during an unorchestrated sexual encounter. Thank god for the monstrous things that are American cars. Hunter S. Thompson crossed the desert in 1971 in a Chevrolet Caprice convertible, but it’s 2006 and we’re doing it in a Suburban.

God bless American opulence: without it, vehicular oral sex would be a cramped proposition.

Image by Patrick Dirden. Originally published in Black Heart Magazine on December 6, 2007.