SECTION TWO

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COLUMN 113, JANUARY 1, 2005
(Copyright 2005 The Blacklisted Journalist) 

THE RIVER OF NO REGRETS

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. ]

I have a date with a priest tonight, a real priest. I've slipped between the sheets with artists and musicians, with fishermen, carpenters, actors good and bad and terrible, with steel workers and soccer players. I took a chance on a plumber, on a gynecologist who preferred my back hole, on an accountant who had all my numbers, and more then a few others, but this is the first time I have attracted a man of the cloth.

I met him at the Film Forum, at a showing of Last Tango in Paris. I don't believe in accidents, it was destiny that sat us side by side. Together we shared an epiphany while watching the movie unfold that that only a great, great actor like Brando could provide. After the movie we went for coffee, and tonight, tonight, he is coming over!

I am trying to mop the floor but realize I have mopped the same spot three times. I'm so excited by the possibilities of this date I can't concentrate, I keep thinking about the Father's husky voice, the sexy hook of his nose, the promising bulge between his legs and I am getting so wet I decide to stop mopping and take to my bed.

I peel off my cut-off and panties, and the old Ch? t-shirt I wear around the house, I don't have on a bra. I lay down on the new crimson silk sheets.  I look down at my body, it's not too bad, my legs are still sleek, my pubic bush full and sprightly, my belly flat, my navel, a perfect, tiny star, My tits have lost a lot of their bounce. They're heading south, but they are still my little angels, they give me so much pleasure. I brush my thumbs back and forth over my breasts and think about the Father. He told me his name is Salvatore Castorini but he has asked me to call him Sal.

In my imagination we are walking down a narrow cobblestone street in Paris, retracing a path taken by Brando and Maria Schneider. It is way past midnight. No one else is around. Ahead of us we can see the lights of the Champs Elys?e. Suddenly, Sal   pulls me into a dark alleyway. He kisses me passionately, his tongue searing a path deep into me, sending waves of shimmering heat pulsing through my body until I am burning for him.

Gently but firmly, he pushes me down to my knees. He unzips his trousers, takes out his lollapalooza, he is uncut, my preference. I imagine pushing back his foreskin with my tongue, his smegma like honey, sticky and sweet in my mouth. I think I can smell the musk beneath his balls, a fecund combination of earth and dung, but it is really my own pungent odors rushing up between my legs. My nipples harden under my thumbs and the compost of desire spreads through me.  It seeps down between my legs and seeps out, leaving a dark stain shaped like a four-leaf clover on the sheets.

The ammonia smell of the Mr. Clean in the mop bucket rises up and mixes with my sex smells but before I can go back to cleaning the floor I have to finish the job right here in my bed. I open the drawer of my bed table and take out my old faithful blue rabbit vibrator. I'm so wet I don't need any lube. Now I see myself once again kneeling before the Father with my lips on his cock head. It is now completely exposed like an orchid in full bloom; I circle it with my tongue, adoring the rotund tip. It swells so much I can barely get my lips around it. I lift my mouth from Sal's cock. I stand, gather it up in my hand, it is fat as a beer can, a big boy, I pull up my skirt, of course I am not wearing any panties. Sal puts his large mitts up under my ass, lifts me up on to him.

"Oh, Sal," I cry out, "Father Sal," as I slide the blue rabbit into my oh-so-ready love hole.  "Oh Sal, Sal, oooh-la-laa."

It was he who made the first approach. At the end of Last Tango in Paris, I didn't  stay to see the credits roll. I left the theater quickly, overwhelmed by the film; I wanted to breathe some fresh air.

I staggered out into the hot summer night, to find the streetlights sparkling with unusual brilliance. The buildings were shining as if they were built out of precious gems.  I was experiencing that unique state of altered consciousness that I call cinemadelica. Just a few minutes ago, I was in Paris in springtime, now I am on Houston Street in Greenwich Village on a steamy July evening. I am sweating through my clothes, my light cotton skirt plastered into my ass crease. As I half-turn, reach around and pull my skirt down, I see the priest, right on my tail.

"Excuse me," he says, "I hope you do not think this is rude," he said, "but I ask you very respectfully, would you care to have a cup of coffee."

His large amber eyes, Brando's eyes are imploring me. I cannot refuse.

"Yes," I say.

"Bellisimo, bellisimo, but I don't know the neighborhood, maybe there a coffee shop near by you can suggest?? 

I take him to Caf? Reggio on McDougal Street; I always go there, it was a hangout of my hero, the vagabond poet, Jack Micheline. On the way to the caf?, the priest tells me his name and that he was visiting a congregant at St.Vincent's and then, couldn't resist seeing for the third time this great film by the great Bertolucci.  

At Reggio's, we sit at a tiny table beneath a famous photo of Micheline, cigarette dangling from his lips, grinning, counting piles of money he won at the race track on a long shot. The table is so small that the father and I keep bumping knees. I resist the temptation to slip off my shoes and put


'You like
cherries?'
he asks


my foot up between his legs. When I tell him my name, he says it's lovely. The waitress comes over, we order coffees and he insists we order a sweet. We both choose cherry cheesecake.   She brings the coffee and cheese cake right away.                                                                               

"You like cherries?? he asks.

I can see his plump pink tongue as he talks, there is no mistaking the inviting light in his eyes.

"I love cherries," I tell him,

"As do I " he counters, picking up his fork, scooping up a bite, "Especially," he continues, 'their symbolism interests me, they symbolize new experiences of all kinds." 

He is moving so fast, I wonder if he really is a priest, maybe he is a con man, a hustler who preys on women who go to the movies alone. I want to know the truth.

"Are you really a priest??  I ask. "What is the name of your parish?  Where is it??

He sighs, looks hurt.

"Yes, I am really a priest," he answers. "My church is the Church of Miraculous Blood, in Bath Beach, Brooklyn."

"I asked you," I tell him, "because there is something about your energy that doesn't reflect the attitudes of the Holy See, at least the little I know about it."

He takes a sip of coffee, puts down the cup, sighs, again.

"I took my orders when I was very young," he says. "My greatest ambition was to minister to the spiritual needs of others and I love my congregation. I was raised Catholic so I joined the Catholic church but if I knew myself then as well as I do now, I would have joined the Episcopalian, the Methodists, the Baptists, even the Scientologists. I am not strong enough to deny my carnal nature. I pray that on Judgment Day I will be forgiven. "But make no mistake," he continues his voice rising with emotion, "I am no Casanova, sometimes, rarely, I see someone, someone like yourself who moves me."

Sal grabs my hand. He is so emotional I am embarrassed. I look away from him at the wall to see Jack Michline leering down at me, counting his money.  I remember his famous poem, Sainthood Is For The Birds.  I make myself look back at the priest, right into his beautiful eyes.

 "I don't know? I tell him, " I have a big problem with the politics of your church??

"Ah, I know what you mean," he answers quickly, "Abortion, gay rights. I also find the position of the Vatican too rigid on these issues, some of us on the inside are working for change, but it will take time."

"I still don't know, " I say

He stokes the top of my hand lightly with his fingers, "We will respect each others? beliefs, we will find areas of agreement," he says as if our liaison was already a fait accompli.

I don't say yes, I don't say no, I don't say anything and he changes the subject. .        

"But how about you," he continues, "You have the face of an artist, what is your job??

I tell him I am a writer.

"Wonderful," he says, "I read all the time, literature, and the cinema too, teach me so much about life. What kind of writing do you do??

I wonder if he will be able to respect my belief in the importance of dirty stories, but then he seemed to really enjoy Last Tango in Paris. 

"Pornography," I tell him, sweetly, "I write pornography," and I bat my eyelashes at him. "I?m so proud my work gives my readers pleasure."

He looks disconcerted and his eyes widen in surprise, I think maybe he will get up and run out of the caf?, but he does not. 

"Oh, pornography," he says, grinning right back at me, 'there is nothing in the scriptures that prohibits instructive literature. I would love to read your work."

The priest and the pornographer, what a long shot, I decide to go for it. 'that can be arranged," I say. He tells me he will be free on Thursday evening. I invite him over.  

* * *

Now I am waiting for Sal, sitting in my chair by the window, looking at the East River flow beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. The house is clean and I have prepared myself for him. I have showered, rubbed my skin all over with cocoa butter and anointed my labia generously with the edible raspberry oil I got at Toys in Babeland. I am wearing a short sleeveless lavender sheath dress that I hope is both provocative and demure.  

I think about of all the times I have sat here waiting for a lover to arrive. Sometimes the evenings brought joy, just as often they brought disaster. I hope for good luck tonight. Maybe Father Sal will be so bold, he'll just sweep me up in his arms and carry me to my bed, maybe he will be so shy that I will have to coax him. Maybe it will be easy as one-two-three and his touch will absolve me of my sins, we will float together down the river of no regrets but then maybe he won't even show up. At the last minute he will get cold feet. It will not be the first time I have waited for someone who isn't coming. I watch the sun sink behind the Statue of Liberty, a big orange globe falling into the sea. It must be after eight o?clock, he is already late. I think about the blue rabbit waiting in my drawer.

When the doorbell rings, I'm so happy I jump up and run down the hall and down the stairs but on the second floor landing I force myself to slow down, take a few long, deep, slow breaths. When I greet Father Sal, I want to appear relaxed.

When I open the door he is holding a bunch of pink roses. He is dressed casually in blue jeans and a black cotton shirt with the high priests collar. He holds the flowers out to me, shyly without speaking a word. I tell him how much I love flowers, especially roses.

I lead the way as we ascend the four flights of stairs to my apartment. I am very conscious of the fact that my big, bulging ass is right in front of his face, swaying side to side like a welcoming flag.

"Do sit down," I tell him once we get inside my apartment. "I'll put the flowers in a vase. Coffee, tea, something stronger? I have wine, whiskey, some vodka??

"Whiskey," he says quickly, his deep voice trembles a little. My hand shakes as I pour the drinks. We are both nervous. 

I bring our glasses to the table, and then I bring the bottle over and sit across from him.

"I don't know how good this scotch is," I say, "A guest brought it to a party."

"Do you give many parties??  he asks. "Not many," I answer, "I like to share my view with my friends but then, I hate cleaning up."

"Ah, ha, not the domestic type." he says.

I snap back at him, "I don't know what type I am. I don't like to be classified."

He replies calmly, "I don't blame you. I just want to know more about you. Where did you grow up? Are you from New York??

I drink some scotch, I relax some and then I tell him about growing up in Brooklyn, and how I ran away to Manhattan at eighteen after a big fight with my parents. My first apartment cost thirty-eight dollars a month and the toilet was in the hall. I didn't even know how to boil an egg. I ruined three saucepans before I figured out I had to put water in. 

We finish our drinks and I pour us another. I tell him how much I like his accent. I want to know when he came to this country, why he came here. As we talk, we can hear through the open window, the sound of the cars on the bridge, the laughter of the taxi drivers talking at the taxi stand across the street. Our glasses are empty again. Before I can offer to refill them, Father Sal, puts his hand on my leg just above the knee, right below my dress.

"Come," he says. 

There is just enough daylight left in my bedroom for us to see each other.

"May I undress you?? he asks.

I kick off my sandals to stand barefoot in front of him. He is tall, substantial, a big bear. He puts his arm around the back of my dress, and pulls down the zipper, with one quick motion he peels my scanty dress down to my ankles and I step out of it. He strips off my bra and panties, and just grabs me to him, lifting me in a kiss His lips are like brandy on my mouth, but the buttons on his shirt cut into my chest, he is holding me so tight.

"My turn, let me undress you," I say.

As I undo his shirt I wonder if I will find a surprise beneath, perhaps a pink satin corset but no, his hairy chest is bare. Around his neck is a large silver cross on a long chain. When I unzip his jeans I find faded blue boxers shorts. He is heavier then he appears when clothed, he even has little breasts and a sizable potbelly, but I don't care. He is here and he wants me as the little tent in front of his boxers testifies. I pull those boxers down and his jeans too. He steps out of them and kicks off the loafers he is wearing. We stand there facing each other, appraising each other, bare as Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The only snake I see is the big cobra between his legs and it is friendly, already waving to me.  

I put my hand out and touch the center of Father Sal's chest, right above the cross. I pull one of his nipples, he smiles, he likes that, I pull it harder, and he sinks to his knees in front of me in an attitude of prayer, but only for a moment, for he is quick to reach out, he opens me with his hands. Then he just puts his head right up between my legs, he knows where he is going as sticks his fat tongues inside me, swallowing my juices into his mouth. He licks me with great gusto, now he is not shy.  When his tongue moves up to find my clit, my clit is already swelling up to meet it. He sucks and sucks and sucks until I am about to come. How I want to christen his face with my holy water! I have my hands in his hair, pulling him into me, but then he stops, moves his head away, leaving me hanging on the edge of the world.

"Wait, wait," I have a condom. I thought to bring one," he says proudly.

 I do not tell him I have a box full in assorted sizes, textures and colors. He takes a foil packet from his jeans pocket.   He struggles with it, but finally gets it on. Then he pushes me down supine onto the bed. From my prone position, I can see his balls swinging below his cock. They are the largest I have ever seen except maybe on a horse. I want to hold them, feel their weight. I reach out and grab those enormous eggs; they fall into my hands, hot and heavy pulsing with miraculous blood. When he kneels between my thighs, I lift my hips, swing my legs wide, offering him my eager cunt, my most sacred treasure.     

He fits into me so easily, like I am the bell and he is the tongue that rings me.  .  . When we come, exactly together, I am so happy he does not call out the name of God.

"Holy mother, oh blessed mother," is what he yells. Then our bodies touching, we lay content side by side. The last thing I remember before I fall into my dreams is Sal peeling the condom off and putting it on the bedside table.  ##


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

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".  . .It is a fascinating, insightful read. You are such a wonderful writer."---STEPHANIE LEDGIN, Music Journalist.

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The sometimes scattered chronicles of the rock journalist's friendship with a few of the most recognizable music icons in rock and pop history.

It certainly takes a bit of hubris to say that "the '60s wouldn't have been the same without me." But coming from Al Aronowitz, the former music columnist for the New York Post who was often called "the godfather of rock journalism," such sentiment is perhaps justified.  Here, in a compilation of many of his unpublished manuscripts, Aronowitz describes in candid yet affectionate detail his friendships with Bob Dylan and the Beatles.  As a music writer and fan who recognized the musicians' limitless potential early in their careers, Aronowitz decided to bring them together for the first time, in a New York City hotel in 1964, a meeting that also involved the Beatles' introduction to marijuana. His prescience was soon bolstered by the 1965 releases of Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited and the Beatles' Rubber Soul, both seminal albums that altered the landscape of pop music.  This landmark moment is just one of Aronowitz's colorful memories and musings of being a hanger-on with these legends and their associates, including The Band, Beatles manager Brian Epstein, poet Allen Ginsberg, deejay Murray the K and others.  Specifically provocative are the accounts of Dylan's erratic behavior and short temper, which often led to fitful confrontations and even the ending of friendships, including that between Dylan and the author.  It's also evident that Aronowitz was particularly fond of George Harrison, and the two remained friends until Harrison's death in 2001.  Most remarkable is the close proximity he maintained to these gods, whether he was at their homes, hoteI rooms, recording studios, or concerts.  Though his personal life certainly had its share of woes (particularly bankruptcy and his wife's death), Aronowitz exhibits a marked sense of pride---and rightly so---for playing a key role in music history,

An enticing backstage pass to the meeting of arguably the two most influential acts in rock history.


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THE MOVIE WAS FICTION. THE TRUE STORY IS STRANGER THAN FICTION: FOR MOST OF HIS SHORT BUT SPECTACULAR LIFE, BOBBY DARIN UNKNOWINGLY LIVED A LIE

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