COLUMN SEVENTY-THREE, JULY 1, 2002
(Copyright © 2002 Al Aronowitz)
WARNING! FOR ADULTS ONLY! PERSONS UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THIS STORY.
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 and will be
included in BAE 2002. 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)
and the recently published Good Bye Beautiful Mother (Low Tech Press
2001). Formerly a columnist for the now defunct New York arts weekly Downtown,
she now teaches erotic writing and literature at the New School University.
first time she peeled off her tights to stand naked in front of me I saw her
mons was shaved. She told me she shaved it because that was how her husband
liked it. Her round thighs curved in, in such a way that with her slightly knock
knees, her vulva looked heart shaped, a smooth white as sugar heart that she was
offering to me. Then I saw her bunions. She quickly tucked her feet in to stand
pigeon toed so I wouldn't notice them but it was too late. I had already seen
them, stubborn and hard as hope in the face of
the futility of our fleeting lives. The bunions were red, sore looking
and so big that they pushed the big toe away from the arch of her foot at a
forty-five degree angle. Her pale face blushed as she saw me looking. She was
ashamed of them. I went right to her and kissed her full on her trembling mouth.
I put my hands on her thick waist and still kissing her, pushed her down on the
bed. My lips made a path down the center of her body to her other mouth and
started sucking there. Her fingers began pulling at my hair, frantic, needy, as
she opened to me, bathing my tongue, my mouth, my face with her thick, musky,
waters. I moved my two hands down her legs, past her knees and ankles to her
feet. I found her bunions. I covered each with a hand, I stroked each with my
fingers, I traced the swollen shape of what she thought was her shame and gave
it the name of love.
* * *
Last year, on Valentine's day, after the Mc Neil Lehrer
report and my solitary dinner I
surprised myself by suddenly taking off all my clothes. I just threw them in the
hamper. Then I rummaged
though the big wicker hamper that holds my underwear for the black lace bustier
with pads in the cups that pushes
my modest bosom up to make my tits look like two round, pink cakes, offered on a
tray. When I found it, I put it on. Then I dug out the black garter belt, the
black fishnet stockings with a few fashionable rips about the knees, the red
satin crotchless panties. They smelled gamey, redolent of dried come and cunt
juice from last years Valentine's Day. I hadn't washed them and I didn't
want to take the time out to wash them and dry them now. I just put them on
along with the garter belt and the fishnets. I got my four-inch high, silver,
fuck-me pumps with the straps from the back of the closet and put them on, too.
I took my bottle blond hair out of its usual ponytail and brushed it till it
shone like gold foil. Finally I put on my brightest red lipstick, extra thick so
my mouth looked like one big juicey kiss.
I went back into the kitchen and poured a couple of fingers
of the good vodka into the one unchipped wineglass.
I turned out the lights and lit the pink candles for romance that always
stand in the candle holder on my kitchen table. I sat down at the table, drank
down some of the vodka and allowed myself to think of him.
I had trained myself not to think of him in the months
since he left, but today was Valentine's Day and hadn't he been my love? I
wondered if he was in his studio just blocks away thinking about me, remembering
last Valentine's Day. He came home from work with a large red heart-shaped box
of chocolates. He hadn't taken the time to wash his hands. They were covered
with grease and sawdust and dirt from the wood shop. When he came in, I took the
chocolates from him and put them on the table
I kissed him, then I took his grimy hand, opened my legs and guided it
right into where I live. The rough, coarse texture of his fingers, the ancient
smells of the oils and grease, mixed with my own smell of fish and overcooked
cabbage made me feel primitive and unrestrained. I took his oily fingers out of
my lower mouth and sucked them. Then I leaned back against the kitchen table,
spread my legs, put my fingers inside my pussy and just opened it up for him,
pulled it wide so he could see the deep, wet pink yearning inside me, the thick,
Just as I was remembering the quickness with which he
pulled open his belt, the joy on his face, as he lowered his zipper, the phone
rang. When I picked it up he said, "Hello, I was thinking of you."
"I was thinking of you, too," I said'then there was a
long pause when I could hear him breathing very loud and very fast. I knew he
"Well," he said when I didn't fill the silence,
'so, Happy Valentine's day."
I wanted to ask him to come over, but I had learned that
his visit would only eventually bring me sorrow and rage.
"Happy Valentines day," I said back.
"Well, bye,?he said.
"Bye? I said, and hung up the phone. Then I sat at the
table in my Valentine clothes and drank the vodka down to the midnight dregs.
Her husband didn't suspect about us at least we thought
not. It was through him and my ex we had met. It was at a party that Sylvester,
the owner of the wood shop where they worked, threw for his five-year-old son.
It was a birthday brunch, a brave Sunday afternoon mix of adults and kids. She
and I were the only ones childless, or how I always start to think reflexively
at these kinds of gatherings "child free."
She is small like me but zoftig, fat really. I liked it that she wasn't
wearing black or some slenderizing solid color but rather a bright red and pink
dress with horizontal stripes that stopped just below her knees and orange
"I bet you got that dress at Domsey's? I said to her
when I found myself next to her on the sofa. I was referring to the used
clothing warehouse on Kent Avenue where everyone went to find that old cheap
something, that with a new belt or shortened sleeves could pass as a chic,
contemporary outfit. We were each of us clutching glasses filled with champagne
and orange juice. She finshed hers with a gulp.
"How did you guess," she said. "Actually, I was
looking for red and white stripes, so I could come as a barber pole and all
these other peoples kids could dance all around me."
Behind us a squeaky little voice screeched, "M-a-a-a,
Mommy, Kimberley spit on me."
"I don't have kids either," I told her, "I'd make
a lousy mother."
I told her I could remember bashing the head of my first
doll against the Ginko tree in front of our house when I was three.
"Anyhow," I went on, "I was half way through change
of life when I met him." I nodded
towards my ponytailed Gregory standing, talking to her big Roger by the window.
"Does he mind?? she asked.
"Oh," he says he doesn't but I think sometimes he's
lying. Does yours want kids?? I asked.
"Yes," she said, "but he says we don't have enough
money yet. I don't know if I even want them, I'm a painter. All I want to do
is my own work. Today I think I'd rather paint pictures of them."
Then we started to talk about Daisy, the cloned sheep who
was in the news that week. I liked the solid girth of Ida's thigh next to
mine. I wanted to make her my personal pillow. She seemed to give off a faint
scent of linseed oil. I thought about putting my head down on her leg to see if
I could smell her crotch through the tight knit of her dress.
She called me when she heard that Gregory moved out. We met
at Junior's and ate cheesecake and drank Margaritas, then I invited her over
here. That was when I first saw the bunions.
She has already given me my Valentines present because of
course she will spend Valentines night with him. It is a small heart shaped
pillow made with the fabric from the pink and red striped dress she wore when we
met. Only she doesn't call it a pillow, she calls it a soft sculpture. I have
placed it on my bed between my two feather pillows. I
wonder if she made him one like it but I don't ask her. Because she has
begun to tell me that she loves me after she comes and because I love to torture
myself, I wonder if she tells him she loves his when he pulls his cock out of
Now, often at night, I imagine them in their bedroom. After
she takes her clothes off, he asks her to turn round and round so he can see her
heavy, pointy breasts sway low and full like two ripe swollen fruits on the tree
of life. Does she remember I like to see her breasts move like that too? I
imagine him grabbing her by the hard brown pits of her nipples and pulling her
to him. I see his strong fingers as they look for her sex and they find
it---puckered and soft, open , like the mouth of an orchid. I have tried to seal
her with my love, an invisible starry web that only my thoughts can penetrate
but he finds a little rip in the web and with his sharp teeth, he tears it open.
Then I see him on top of her, inside her, the naps of her breasts spread out
beneath him like welcoming cloth. His haunches are broad, obstinate, relentless. His cock is a
stake he is pounding into her.
She grabs his tail with starving hands, the way she
sometimes grabs my hair. She is pushing him, pushing him in deeper, she wants
this. She flattens her back on the mattress, swings her legs up and around,
grabs his shoulders with her toes.
"Faster, faster? she moans.
Wet steam rises up from between their legs, billowing out
into the room, obscuring my view but I hear him pleading, "Oh, give it to me,
baby, baby, please, give it to me."
I remember the games I used to play with Gregory, how he
taught me to beg, to say please, Daddy and Master. This is when I go open the
drawer of my bedside table. I get out the ForPlay Lube de Luxe, the thickest,
the oiliest lube I have, and the pale pink colored rubber dildo I got in Babes
and Toyland. The clerk called it flamingo pink. I bought it because the color
reminded me of the skin between Gregory's thighs. I pull off my clothes, lie
down on my bed, and grease up. Though I have washed the dildo many times, it
still has that terrible rubbery smell, like adhesive, like a bandage. It is
solid between my fingers, but yet it somehow, feels gelatinous and spongey. It
is a cartoon dick, a Porky Pig, Pluto, Goofy dick. I wonder how a photo of me
engaging in this act would look on the back jacket of my next book.
I have a thicket of dense black hairs, growing like tangled
wires in the little patch between my legs and then the hair grows right up my
perineum into my crack and all around my back hole. Now it is I who swings my
legs high, high up over my head to flash an imaginary camera. When I slide the
Goofy dick in, it feels alien and cold. The angle just isn't right, it
doesn't go deep enough. Then I see her valentine pillow, I take it and slip it
directly under my ass to find the perfect leverage? ##
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