SECTION FIVE

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COLUMN 109, SEPTEMBER 1, 2004
(Copyright 2004 The Blacklisted Journalist) 

PISS NIGHT

WARNING!  FOR ADULTS ONLY!  PERSONS NOT YET 18 YEARS OF AGE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THIS STORY.

[Tsaurah Litzky is a poet and writer of fiction, non fiction and erotica. We call her America's queen of erotic literature. Susie Bright, editor of the yearly Best American Erotica books, calls her "Miss Dirty Stories." Tsaurah's work has appeared in Best American Erotica 95, 97, 99, 2001, 2002 and 2003. She has also been published in Penthouse, LONGSHOT, The Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Appearances, Downtown Poets, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Pink Pages, Beet and many other books and periodicals. Her poetry books include Kamikaze Lover (Appearances 1999), Good Bye Beautiful Mother (Low Tech Press 2001) and Baby on the Water (Longshot, 2003). Formerly a columnist for the now defunct New York arts weekly Downtown, she now teaches erotic writing and literature at the New School University. ]

Margo and I had just paid to enter the Funnel. As we descended the darkened stairway, lit only by a solitary bulb, our feet slid from side to side on the slippery treads. I wondered briefly it that was because the steps were covered with come, but then that speculation was quickly driven from my head by an overpowering odor of urine. The smell was so pungent it could be only described as the essence of piss, a rank, bitter smell that also held a cloying sweetness, redolent of sodden diapers, acetone, peanuts and burnt marshmallows. Toasted

This heady smell became even stronger as we continued down the stairs. It slapped me in the


Golden Showers
at the
Funnel!


face, stung my mouth, moved my eyes to tears. The mountain of a bearded man in black leather jodhpurs and vest, who took our money, had given us a big gap-toothed smile. "Only five dollars to enter, only one quarter of our usual admission price for you lovely ladies tonight," he said. "You ladies are always very, very welcome, especially on our specialty nights," I had nodded politely and taken my ticket from him but I didn't really know what he meant. Now it became suddenly, overwhelmingly clear, it was Golden Showers night---piss night at the Funnel.

At the foot of the stairs we came to a huge door covered with padded red velvet.  Above the door there was a black wooden sign, on it, stenciled in gold letters, the words appeared, Abandon fear all Ye Who enter Here.

I looked over at Margo. She had fair skin, but now she looked unusually pale. I wondered if she was going to faint. I felt a bit weak in the knees myself.

"Are you scared?? she asked me.

I had to tell her, "You bet," then I continued: "Do you still want to go in?".

She looked down, was silent for a minute, but then she said, "Yeah, I guess so, we've come this far."

Her voice was not all that resolute and  I suppose mine was not either as I said, "O..k., victory to the brave."

I pushed in the door. 

In a thousand wet dreams, I could never have imagined the scene before us. A giant horseshoe bar extended out from the back wall of the huge room. In front of it stretching nearly to where we were standing was a thick black rubber sheet. The sheet was all wet and glistening, reclining on it were a variety of men. The men were positioned , perhaps three feet apart. Some wore rubber suits, some wore only a rubber mask and some were as naked as the moment they were born.  

Standing here and there above the recumbent men, or walking back and forth between them were women, perhaps one woman for every five men. All of the women were holding Liter size bottles of Poland Spring Water.

Most of the women wore corsets that started below their breasts. Others wore tailored blouses or halter-tops. They were all completely nude below the waist and each of them was wearing white sneakers. Some were drinking from their water bottles, obviously getting ready to go again. Others were in the act of letting go, a steam of urine glistening gold as it poured out between their legs.  One couple was particularly striking, a very buxom blonde, whose tits hung so far down over her corset, they touched her waist, and a man with a bald head wearing a bright red rubber suit. Her legs spread on either side of his head so she was positioned pissing right into his gaping mouth. He was straining his head up towards her knees. His mouth was gaping wide, as if he was a human pitcher aiming to catch every drop, as if her piss was ambrosia from the fountain of youth.   

 "I can't believe this, this is the weirdest scene," I told Margo, "if any of this piss ends up on me, I'm going to blame you. I just came along because you said you wanted to find someone to give you a light spanking and you were feeling shy about it. Now, - look at me. I'm in a giant pissoir?

 "How was I to know this was the night for water sports,? said Margo. "Let's go back upstairs and tell the guy at the door, that we came on the wrong night. Maybe he will give us our money back."

"I don't think so," I answered, "He was so eager to get us in here, there are so few women."

 "I don't care about the money," Margo said. "Lets, just go."

I thought that was a good idea, but could not find the words to tell her so. We just both stood there, momentarily frozen inside this bizarre circumstance. 

We found ourselves looking around, our gaze now drawn to the bar. Every seat was filled by a man. A few of the guys realized we were looking at them and waved at us, grinning lasciviously. I returned a look that said very clearly:

"Piss off!"

'the thought of getting a drink in here seems absurd," I told Margo.

"Yeah," she replied. "What would we be drinking??  ##


FOR AS LONG AS PEOPLE KEEP LISTENING TO BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES, PEOPLE WILL WANT THIS BOOK

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IN THIS 615-PAGE PAPERBACK, AL ARONOWITZ, ACCLAIMED AS THE "GODFATHER OF ROCK JOURNALISM," TELLS YOU MORE ABOUT BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES THAN ANY OTHER WRITER CAN TELL YOU BECAUSE NO OTHER WRITER WAS THERE AT THE TIME. AS THE MAN WHO INTRODUCED ALLEN GINSBERG TO BOB DYLAN, BOB DYLAN TO THE BEATLES AND THE BEATLES TO MARIJUANA, ARONOWITZ BOASTS, "THE '60S WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THE SAME WITHOUT ME."


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