SECTION SEVEN

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COLUMN NINETY-EIGHT, OCTOBER 1, 2003
(Copyright 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)

THE INVISIBLE WOMAN

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.

In ten minutes my shift will be over, only a single sad sack guy left at the bar. I keep glancing at the door because Willie is coming to pick me up. We're going to a late night movie on 42nd St., a re-release of A Raisin in the Sun. After that, it's back to his place for what I hope will be a re-release of our last date. Willie had put on an old Smokey Robinson record and we danced cheek to cheek to Baby, Baby.  Then we went to bed, I came two times before he entered me and three times after. He isn't even all that well endowed, in fact he has a small thing that sometimes looks like a pickle when erect, but oh, how he can use it. We make the bedsprings sing We Shall Overcome.    

I met him here at the Boondock a month ago. When I started my evening shift, there he was drinking alone at the end of the bar, a tall man who looked like a black Steve McQueen. He was so striking. I was thinking about going down to his end of the bar to polish some ashtrays when he called me over to refill his drink.

He introduced himself.

"I'm Willie Wonder," he said.

"And I'm Mae West," I answered.

"You can think on your feet, I like that," he said, "but my name really is Willie Wonder.

"Fine," I replied, "and, so, is that a pipe in your pocket, or are you really are glad to see me? "

He didn't answer my question, but went on suavely without missing a beat. He told me he had a weekly radio show, Wonder Willie's Jazzerama, on the hip station WFUK. He gave black and white musicians equal time and featured bands in which all races were represented.

"After all," he said, "Everyone's colored, or else you wouldn't be able to see them."

He was delighted when I told him I had been a lit major and had just started to write poetry. Next to the great struggle for equality and music, he assured me that books were his passion and poetry, he said, quoting Robert Frost, is a way of taking life by the throat. I was hooked. When he asked me for my phone number, I wrote it down for him on a Heinekens coaster.

Now he was coming in the door, holding a single red rose.

"You are more beautiful than the month of May," he said as he handed it to me. 

"I was too busy to be beautiful today," I told him, "I can't wait to get out of here."

The Boondock was on 17th street. I tucked the rose in my long braid. We put our arms around each other and walked up Eighth Avenue through the warm summer night. When we got to the theater, we went to sit in the balcony. It was the first time I had seen the movie but Willie had seen it twice. Still, during the final scene, when Sidney Poitier says how his dead Daddy earned the family's new home in a white neighborhood, brick, by brick, Willie started to cry. He reached for my hand and gripped it so hard it hurt.

Back out on 42nd street, we made out way through the late night crowd. Willie walked silently beside me, deep in thought. Outside the ShowWorld  arcade, a statuesque redhead in a short, pink sequined strapless dress ogled passers-by, a condom packet---a Trojan---taped to her forehead. Several people gathered around a hustler playing the walnut game on a cardboard box. A fresh faced boy, his hair in cornrows, materialized right in front of Willie. He looked about twelve.

"Reefer, ganja, maryjane, smoke, smoke??he asked, in the voice of a child. "One bag for five, two for nine "."

Willie snapped right into present time.

"Go home, you little fool," he spits out, "go to school, get a decent job! Does your mother know where you are now??

The kid jumps back, startled, and turning, vanished into the throng. All the way to the subway Willy keeps shaking his head.

'so much work to do, so much to be done," he mutters.  

Willie lived on the fourth floor of a tenement between B&C. Usually, he playfully pats my ass as I ascend the stairs before him. I put a little extra wiggle in my stride as I climb, hoping to entice him but now he doesn't seem to notice. Once inside his apartment, he gives me a wan smile.

"How about some tea?? he asks.

"Perfect," I say. 'tea would be so nice now. Can I help??

"No, he answers me. "Just sit down, bartender goddess, and I'll serve you."

I sit at the kitchen table and kick off my shoes. My feet are tired but otherwise I'm wide-awake. As he reaches up into the cupboard to get the teacups, I watch the globes of his fine ass move beneath the fabric of his light seersucker pants.  I want to reach inside, put a hand in his ass crease and trace my fingers down along his perineum to the magic spot where I can feel his sweet scrotum swell.

"How about I put on some music?? I ask. "Maybe the Smokey Robinson record you played last week??

He answers sharply, "No, no, I'm not in the mood."

I feel hurt, I wasn't expecting a rebuff and I don't know what to say. I stare at the Mahalia Jackson at Carnegie Hall poster taped on the wall above the kitchen table as he spoons loose tea into the pot.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he says after a minute, " I?m kind of down, when I think of the struggles of my people ". that kid on the street peddling smoke, and there are thousands like him."

I understand his concern, but what about the struggles of women long oppressed in their search for sexual equality, for equal gratification? And what about me?  Still, he looks so sad, I decide to be empathetic. 

"At least the Civil Rights act did pass," I say, "and in the Times today I read that voter registration among southern blacks is up 32% since last year. What can I do to cheer you up? Would you like a back rub, it will help you relax.  Let's drink our tea and go to bed."

He answers me in a dull voice.

 ?Oh, all right," he says. 

Once in the bedroom, Willy peels off all his clothes except for his boxers. He lay belly down on top of the bedspread.  I strip to my panties and kneel above him, my knees on either side of his hips.

I set to with vigor, but no matter how assiduously, how tenderly I rub, stroke and pull, his body remains stiff and tense. I might as well be kneading a block of wood.

"Release all your tensions, let it all go," I tell Willie. "Imagine you are floating in a gentle sea and my fingers are the warm, little waves caressing your body."

"No good," he answers, "I can't swim, if I even try to float, I sink like a stone."

"In that case," I say, "pretend you are in a lush, green meadow on a top of a mountain, lying down on the fragrant grass."

'that won't work either," he says, "I have hay fever, I'm allergic to grass."

'so then, what does relax you?? I ask, trying not to sound peeved.

"Well, there is one thing," he answers, "maybe you could read to me like my mama did when I was little, just before she tucked me in."

I don't like the idea of assuming a maternal role, but at least, he's responding.

"Why not?? I say, "What would you like me to read??

I glance at the bookshelves next to the bed, hoping he will suggest I pull out his Tropic of Cancer or his Joy of Sex but instead he asks for The Invisible Man:

'the Invisible Man"? I repeat, incredulous. "You want me to read to you from The Invisible Man, but that is such a serious, high-faluting, didactic book."

I don't interpret it like that at all," he says. "It's glorious, inspiring, all about the indomitable spirit of the black man, the pride we gained from our suffering, our ability to rise up over adversity time and time again, our??      

"O.k., o.k." I agree. I'm in no mood for a lecture about the courage of the oppressed. I find the book on the top shelf, a dog-eared paperback with what looks like ketchup stains on the cover. I sit beside him cross-legged as he turns over on his back, clasping his hands behind his head, a slight smile on his face.

"Read the part about when he buys the yam, it starts on page 264," he says eagerly.

I find the place and start to read: "I took a bite, finding it as sweet and hot as any I'd ever had, and was overcome with such a surge of homesickness that I turned away to keep my control. I walked along munching the yam, just as suddenly overcome by an intense feeling of freedom " simply because I was eating while walking along the street. . ."

Willie listens intently, nodding his head as I read on: "If only someone who had known me at school or at home could see me now. . ."

Willy starts to chuckle. He stretches out all mellow Jell-O. He puts an arm about my hips as I read on: "It was exhilarating, I no longer had to worry about who saw me or what was proper. . ."

I glance down and am surprised to see his boxer shorts has puffed up, forming a little tent,


'. . .This gets me so excited
that the juices inside me
heat up. . .'


demonstrating his ability to rise up over adversity. I keep on reading, perhaps this indicates only a momentary stirring of interest, but when I glance down again the little tent has grown at least an inch in height.

Shyly, I put my hand out and find the tent pole under the cotton fabric. I squeeze lightly and feel it swell even more under my fingers.

'shall I continue?? I ask.

"Not necessary," Willie says. "You read so well, much better than my mother. Now put that book down and come on over here."

He reaches his arm out and pulls me down to him, hugging me to his chest.

The pole has broken free of its tent. I still have it in my hand; it has grown into a thick staff. He slides his arm down my back, and then it's his fingers snaking down my ass crack just as I had imagined mine doing to him earlier, Willy tugs the delicate mat of hair that grows around my back door.

"Knock, knock," he purrs in my ear.

"Who's there?? I answer, pleased. We've played this game before and I know what's coming next.

"Roto-rooter man," he says, nuzzling my neck, and he sticks a finger up inside my anus, gently rotating it from side to side. This gets me so excited that the juices inside me heat up, my hips start to cha-cha for him while my thighs are doing the bugaloo. He still has one finger inside my crack, his hand cupping and squeezing my ass. With his other hand he pulls off my panties and his shorts. Now I'm on my back and he moves over on top of me. I swing my legs up around his waist and he rams that now fat and mighty pole deep inside me. We start to move together in our special favorite dance, the uptown, downtown, in-and-out-of- town hootchie koo.  The Invisible Man has fallen to the floor, I could see it from the corner of his eye. His nipple keeps brushing my lips. I catch it in my mouth, sucking on it as he moves in and out until we both let go.  

II.

On our next date, we went to see a show at La Mama. My five foot-four-inche, two- hundred-pound friend Charlene had a double part. She played Salome and also a giant fruit, in a see-though cantaloupe costume. We left during the curtain calls and went to my place as we had planned. In anticipation of our evening together, I had bought a bottle of Maker's Mark, Willie's preferred libation.

"How about a cocktail?? I asked him.

'sure," he said.

Willie sat down on my couch and picked up the copy of the Realist that was on the coffee table. I put our drinks down on the coffee table and then, sat down right on his lap.

"Hmmm," he said, in a mock stern voice, "Can't you see I'm reading important propaganda??

He put the magazine back on the table handed me my drink, then picked his up.

'to the Fire Next Time," he said.

'to the fire this time," I answered, as we clinked glasses. He took a sip of his, but I just put my glass right back down on the table, I leaned over and stuck my tongue in his ear.

I unbuttoned the top buttons of my blouse and pulled out a breast. I rubbed it against his arm as my tongue fucked his ear. In response, he scooped me up and carried me to my bed. He shucked off all my clothes and then his own, and lay down beside me. He parted my legs with his a hot hand and pushed a couple of fingers inside my already dripping wet twat, he quickly found my tiny clit, making me purr with pleasure. He pulled it, teased it, rubbed it till it grew hard as a diamond, but when I moved my head south to take him in my mouth, the opposite was the case. My nimble tongue worked his limp cock, stroking it from tip to base, from base to tip, again and again but it remained limp as a dishrag.

I stopped sucking.

"What's the matter, honey pie?? I asked. "Doesn't this feel good??

He reached down, touched my face.

"It feels fine," he said, "maybe the sight of Charlene in that cantaloupe costume disturbed me."

"Very funny," I said.

He went on: "Maybe I'm just tired. Suppose we try what we did the last time, maybe you could read to me??

"Read to you again? " I asked.

I didn't want this to become a habit, but then those lines from JFK's inaugural speech popped into my head, "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country "."

"Well, maybe just one more time," I said to Willie. I made a mental inventory of the books on my shelf, thinking about which would be the sexiest, Graves Greek Myths, Justine, Lady Chatterley's Lover". then I had it.

"How about I get my Old Testament down and read to you from the Song of Songs," I said to Willy. 'that always gets me so hot?O, that you were as my brother, I recited, who nursed at the breast of my mother, I would give you some spiced wine to drink, also the juice of my pomegranates. . ."

'that's not bad," Willie replied, "but, you know what, I like my favorite book even better, my favorite, what you read last time."

'the Invisible Man, again!" I exclaimed, " I don't? even have a copy."

"But I do," he answered, "it's in the side pocket of my suit jacket. I left it in the living room, on your couch."

"Can this be possible, am I dreaming? You actually brought it with you?? I cried.

"It's my favorite book," he replied quickly, his deep voice becoming shrill. 'sometimes I carry it around with me for weeks."

I was shocked, overwhelmed, by this turn of events, but I didn't want to get into a fight, and totally ruin our evening.

"Oh, all right," I yielded and I got up, went and got the book out of his pocket.

"Any particular passage that you would like?? I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

He seemed impervious to my tone, smugly settling back against the pillows.  

"Why don't you start on page 277, that's when he gives the speech about the old couple in Harlem being evicted on the street. . ."

I found the place and commenced to read. A page later Willie rose up again, ready for action.

"You can put the book down, now," he said, grabbing a handful of my hair and pulling me to him.

The next time we went to bed, The Ivisible Man was once again our companion. The more I read of what was becoming a familiar text, the less excited I got. Willie achieved orgasm but I, alas, did not. The night after that, at home alone in my bed, I fingered myself sadly as I slowly brought myself to completion, all the while thinking of the Song of Songs, - we have a little sister but she has no breasts, what will shall we do on the day she is spoken for "

My twenty-fifth birthday was a week away, I had the night off and Willy suggested we go see the new Kubrick movie, 2001, and afterwards, go back to his place for a nightcap. I decided at least on this, my very, special night, if any reading was going to be done, he was going to read to me.  On my birthday evening, I put my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover into my shoulder bag and went to meet him.

I liked the movie but wasn't sure I understood the ending.

"It's obvious," said Willie as we walked back to his place from the Charles on Ave. B. "It's about the mystery of creation."

"Really?  I said, "I don't know. I think it's a warning, if we depend on machines they will destroy us. Essentially that is what D.H. Lawrence said, he hated the industrial revolution because it estranged man from nature."

Willie snorted.

"Lawrence, that sentimental pantheist!" he exclaimed.

I kept silent, feeling the weight of  Lady Chatterly in the bag on my side. When we got to his place, there was a bouquet of red roses in a crystal vase on the kitchen table, as well as an uncorked bottle of Almaden red, two wine glasses and a small package, wrapped in shiny, silver paper.

'the roses are for you, he said. "Happy Birthday. I also got you something else," He said. "How about I pour us some wine and then I want you to unwrap your present."

We sat down and he filled our glasses. Now," he said, "Open your gift."

"What can it be?? I asked, picking up the package and shaking it. I knew it was a book, but still I asked, "Is it animal, vegetable or mineral?".

"Open it and see," said Willie.

Just last week I was telling him how much I wanted to read Diane DiPrima's Memories of a Beatnik, but when I tore the silver paper off, it was not the beatnik memoir that was revealed. Instead, in my hand I held a spanking new, copy of The Invisible Man!

'tonight you can read to me from your very own copy,? Willie said, all proud of himself. He was totally impervious to my distress, but then he looked at me.

"What's the matter, Baby, you don't look pleased," he said.

"I don't look pleased because I'm not pleased," I yelled at him, furious. "It's always about you, even though it's my birthday, my birthday! Maybe since it's my birthday I'd like you to read me a book, a book I love!"

I pulled the copy of Lady Chatterley out of my bag and shook it in front of his astonished face. He jumped back as if I was waving a burning cross at him.

"I don't believe this," he was yelling now, "Ellison, Ellison is a great writer, but Lawrence, that reactionary, with all his mushy sap about mystical love and his gardeners who talk dirty, Lawrence is just a pansy. I can't stand him."

Willie was so agitated; his body was shaking from side to side. Then he began to diminish in size; he seemed to be shrinking. I wondered if he was becoming invisible but I didn't stick around to find out.

"You can't stand him and I can't stand you," I said calmly.

Returning my copy of Lady Chatterly to my bag, I walked out of Willie Wonder's house.  ##

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