I got a little bottle of lube out of the prop chest and dabbed a generous amount onto Bridget’s crinkled little anus. The audience was silent. I could feel their anticipation.
The golden balls aren’t actually particularly magical, aside from the hovering and the vibrating. We just like them.
I plucked one ball out of the orbiting cloud and deftly inserted it up Bridget’s ass. The buzzing made the tips of my fingers tingle. The little golden globe disappeared almost as if by magic into Bridget’s sexy little brown anus. I was rewarded by an audible sigh from Bridget and with a smattering of applause from the audience.
One by one, I snatched up the humming golden balls and slipped them up Bridget’s increasingly crowded rear-end. With each ball that I inserted into her winking anus, I got an even louder moan from Bridget, and even more applause from the audience. The final three or four were tricky: it was getting harder and harder to get the buzzing balls up inside her without letting the humming swarm already up her butt escape. The last one is always the hardest, and if I’m not very quick and careful, a hornet’s nest of fifteen vibrating balls can come flying out of Bridget’s ass while I’m trying to insert number sixteen. Fortunately, this time I was dexterous enough, and the last golden ball disappeared neatly up inside Bridget’s beautiful, stuffed asshole.
For a little while, I went back to conducting my invisible orchestra on Bridget’s heaving, sweating body: drawing paths of sensation up and down her quim, stimulating her breasts and her ass and her clit, taking pleasure in her curvy, turned-on body; but no one was going to last much longer like this: not Bridget, not the audience, not me. We were all firmly in this together now, and the sexual tension in the theatre was thicker than thick, electric and crackling.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “you may wish now to remove any tight-fitting, constricting clothing, or any articles that you do not want to get stained. We are now about to perform our final act of the evening!”
There was a rustling sound out in the house as the majority of the audience discreetly unzipped their pants, hiked up their skirts, removed underwear and pulled pantyhose out of the way. Beyond the glare of the spotlights, I could see the fat lady in the front row, knees wide apart, floral-print skirt piled up in her lap, hands busy between her bulky thighs. Anybody who didn’t take my advice, I reflected with a secret smile, was going to walk out of this theatre with a sticky, wet crotch.
I opened up the prop chest and fished out the harness. I always feel awkward doing this on stage; putting the harness on with a hundred-odd pairs of eyes intently watching my every move. There is simply no way to put that thing on gracefully.
I successfully donned the harness, without tripping over myself or getting the leg loops crossed up. Carefully, I fitted my wand into the holder, snapping the retaining ring into position. The polished black rosewood jutted out from my crotch just like an erect cock.
It bounced pleasingly as I moved. I positioned myself directly in front of Bridget, holding onto her legs behind the knees, admiring her nude, curvy, sweaty, glowing body, gazing into her bright blue eyes. The end of my wand bobbled less than an inch from the entrance to her soaking wet, wide-open, horny pussy. Her clit seemed to twitch with anticipation.
She mouthed the magic words to me and to me alone: “I love you”, and I nudged forward, parting her slippery lips, sliding the length of my magic wand up and down her vulva.
I heard a collective gasp from the audience at the same time as Bridget sighed with pleasure. I knew then, for a fact, that once again the magic had worked. Every person in that audience, even those whose pussies hadn’t been wet in years, even those who required double doses of Viagra to make their cocks hard; every woman was experiencing the exact same sensations that Bridget was experiencing, and every man was feeling what my magic wand was feeling. I took aim, and with one confident thrust, I entered Bridget’s red-hot pussy, sinking my wooden cock in her all the way up to the hilt.
“Please, please, please . . .” Bridget begged. Out in the house I could hear the collective moans and groans and sighs of the audience as they fucked and got fucked, as Bridget’s wet pussy grasped at my hard, thick wand, as the buzzing balls vibrated against my wood, as the roots of Bridget’s clit trembled with desire.
I started fucking her, as slowly as I could stand to, drawing all but the head of my wand out before plunging it deep back inside. Her big tits shook, her pelvis bucked, her head lolled side to side. The base of the wand rubbed pleasantly against my own clit, making me nice and moist inside my panties. At that moment I knew I was the only person in that crowded theatre who wasn’t on the very edge of a massive orgasm.
“Faster, faster, please, please, please . . .” Bridget begged me almost silently, “please fuck my pussy, fuck me hard . . .” Out in the audience, the moans and sighs were turning into grunts and gasps and the occasional high-pitched wail.
I obliged, thrusting my hips with all I had, fucking her pussy as hard and as fast as I could, making my own tits shake, until my brow was sweaty with the effort and my ass threatened to cramp up. Her pussy devoured my wand, slurping happily. I placed my hand on her neatly trimmed mons and caressed her clit with my thumb. The vibrations from the golden balls were travelling down the wooden shaft of my wand and were tantalizingly stimulating my own clit and pussy.
“I’M CO-O-OMING!” Bridget announced in a choking, gasping scream, “OH FUCK, I’M COMING!” A cascade of flying, humming golden balls spilled violently out of her asshole as her pussy spasmed and grasped at my plunging wand.
At that exact moment, the auditorium was filled with groans, moans, gasps, growls and screams as every member of the audience was shaken by their own individual orgasm. For many of them it was the first orgasm they’d had in decades; for many (so a lot of them would tell me after the show) it was one of the strongest and most intense of their entire lives.
I fucked her all the way through her orgasm. When her body stopped shaking and her breathing no longer came in gasps, I carefully withdrew my wand, sticky and slick with her juices. She lowered her legs, and I helped her to her feet. Sixteen humming golden balls were orbiting slowly above our heads. The atmosphere in the theatre was hot and thick, saturated with the aroma of sex.
Arm in arm, we rode a wave of thunderous applause. Together, we bowed, bowed again, bowed a third time.
“Thank you ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much! You’ve been an amazing audience. Please come back again, and bring your friends. Thank you again! You’ll find handy-wipes underneath your seats . . .”
The house lights came up and the stage lights dimmed. The people in the audience stood up, towelled off their sticky parts, buttoned their pants, filed out towards the exit. Bridget and I collected our costumes, reset the props trunks, cleaned up the stage, getting everything ready for tomorrow night’s show. Then we headed home together, where Bridget would show me some magic tricks of her own.
Obit for Lynn
Tsaurah Litzky
It’s four o’clock in the morning. I’m sitting in my kitchen, drinking tequila. My friend Lynn Busa died yesterday. I don’t have on any clothes or underwear, my pussy smells like sour milk like I’ve pulled a two-mile train, but I haven’t done anything. I’m rotting with despair. Lynn was the sister I always wanted, the trail buddy who would never leave me stranded with my panties down and a broken leg. Even though I am naked, I have shoes on, the red suede pumps I got that time long ago when Lynn and I went shoe shopping at Bendel’s. She got a pair of black patent leather spikes, heels sharp enough to slice off a man’s ear.
I met Lynn right after Ed Koch was elected mayor. He won with a big campaign about how he would clean up New York, get rid of the whores, pimps and thieves, get the hustlers off Forty-Second Street. I didn’t like him or his campaign. I always loved Times Square; I started to go up there at night with my first boyfriend Eddie Valentine. It was a Mecca of crazy, pulsing, throbbing lust; men kissing in doorways, enormous women who were
n’t women, condoms taped to their foreheads, strutting up and down the street in sequin dresses, the marquees of the movie theatres advertising only triple-X features: Girls in the Night, Women’s Prison, Nana – A French Coquette.
Eddie and I were seniors in high school living at home with our families. We took the subway in from Canarsie to Times Square. We paid two dollars each to get into one of the movie houses and then we would climb to the balcony to make out. We stood up in the back among other couples embracing. Frantic for each other, we pressed our bodies together, his hot mouth sucking mine. He’d slide his hands under my clothes, pinch and twist my nipples with so much skill I would come. He taught me how to get him off, how to slip my hand inside his jeans and pull his prick. I was so in love with him. I pretended we were Adam and Eve in the garden. There was always a sticky sweet smell floating in the air. I thought it was some kind of air freshener. Later I realized it was come.
By the time I met Lynn I knew that smell very well. I was working at Dolls of All Nations, a massage parlour on Thirty-Eighth Street, a few blocks from the UN. Because I was the only Jewish woman who worked there I was Miss Israel. According to the Daily News there were over two hundred massage parlours licensed by the city, turning New York into Sodom and Gomorrah. Editorials urged our crusading mayor to shut them down.
I worked Sunday, Monday and Tuesday nights. Wednesday mornings I liked to go to the Russian-Turkish Baths on Tenth Street. Wednesday was Women Only day and the ladies could get naked and lounge around like odalisques. My Aunt Mildred, who was a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall, took me there when I was eighteen.
“It’s great for the complexion, honey,” she said “and you need to steam your privates clean. It keeps them young.”
I was in the white-tiled Turkish sauna room. Fronds of fragrant eucalyptus hung from the light fixtures. I found myself staring between the legs of the woman sitting on the bench across from me; the black hair on her crotch was shaped into a perfect diamond.
She noticed me looking and opened her thighs wider, exposing her labia, loose, crimson, frilled like lace. She started to play with the silver ring that pierced one of them, tugging it with slender fingers. I wondered if she was trying to shock me but after four months at Dolls of All Nations, not much could shock me. Maybe she was trying to pick me up, girly-girly love was not my thing but I couldn’t blame her for trying. Perhaps she was just mischievous; she looked like an elf with her delicate little tits, tiny frame, pixie haircut and huge dark eyes. She grinned. She was adorable. “What are you looking at?” she asked, as if she didn’t know.
To my surprise, my clit started to twitch.
“It’s your diamond,” I answered, “I want one.”
“Bruno, my beautician, Bruno waxed it,” she said, “He does great work. He’s a good friend of mine. I’ll give you his number. It’s in my bag upstairs in the locker room.”
We went to the showers and then up to the locker room. She wrote Bruno’s number on the inside of a matchbook from Miss Mystique, a massage parlour on Twenty-Third Street. She worked there. We were in the same business. I told her where I worked and introduced myself. “Far out,” she said, “my name is Lynn. Let’s go have coffee.”
We walked down to Valelska’s on Second Avenue. “I can’t stand Sweet and Low,” said Lynn, putting five sugars in her coffee. “Me neither,” I said, putting four sugars in mine. “And,” I went on. I don’t like diet soda or ice in my drinks either, nothing adulterated.”
“Same for me,” said Lynn; maybe I had found a friend.
“How do they treat you at Miss Mystique?” I wanted to know. “My boss, Wolfie, has started dropping me on my percentage. He pushes me to do volume, at the end of the night my hand is one giant blister, but when I get home and count my money, it falls short.”
On the job I had to ask my client to take off his shirt and give him a perfunctory baby oil massage of his upper torso. I was then to ask him if he wanted a happy ending. No one ever said no. Then I was supposed to put a condom on him and finish him off with my hand. Blow jobs were strictly against the law, but plenty of the women gave them; it could quadruple your tip. Lynn nodded, sipping her coffee as she listened.
“That’s men,” she said, “at least a lot of them. You work like a slave for them and they rip you off. My boss, Elsie, used to work in a massage parlour. She knows how it is. She’s fat now. Behind her back we call her the cow, but she treats us right, we get a five-minute break between each client, time to smoke a cigarette or whatever. I never caught her making a mistake with my pay.”
“Maybe I’ll go see her, “I told Lynn. “Maybe you should,” she said.
She leaned forward; I noticed that one of her eyes was blue and the other one brown. “Did you think I was coming on to you in the baths?”
“I didn’t know,” I told her.
“Well, I was only teasing,” she said. “I’m a merry prankster, I was pulling your chain. I don’t go that way.” I didn’t quite believe her, but “OK,” I said, and changed the subject.
“I love your boots,” I said. They were green and black cowboy boots with very high stacked heels, stomping heels.
“Thanks,” she said, “I love fancy shoes and high heels.”
“Me too,” I answered. Then we paid the bill and exchanged phone numbers and addresses. We discovered we lived a few blocks away from each other in Brooklyn Heights.
When I got home, I made an appointment for the next day at Bruno’s Beehive – A Beauty Boutique.
Bruno was a six-foot-tall bleach blond with a ponytail down to his ass crack. He had a body like a linebacker and a face like Grace Kelly. He took me into the Hot Wax room which was painted a vaginal pink. He sat me down on the waxing table.
“You have a face like a movie star,” he said, “fantastic cheekbones. What is your sign?” I liked him immediately. “I’m a Virgo,” I told him. “I knew it,” he said, “an earth sign. Did you know Greta Garbo was a Virgo? How about a snake, an earth creature, the symbol of temptation?” “I don’t think so,” I answered. “I’ve met too many men who were afraid of snakes. How about a star?” “Too common for you,” he said.
We decided on an arrow. The waxing didn’t hurt at all, maybe because he rubbed cocaine paste liberally over my vulva before he put on the wax. The arrow looked fabulous. He gave me a ten per cent discount because I was Lynn’s friend.
I called Lynn to thank her and tell her how much I liked Bruno. We decided to go to Danceteria to celebrate my waxing on Saturday night, as we were both off.
At Danceteria we picked up a couple of cute young soccer players from Italy. Lynn’s was named Bebe, mine was named Adriano; I was charmed when he told me he was the love child of Federico Fellini. We went to their room at the Martha Washington Hotel on Twenty-Eighth Street, a dark green room with Audubon bird prints on the walls. We smoked opiated hashish that Bebe had smuggled into the States in his socks. Lynn took off all her clothes, and then she showed the boys her diamond. I took off my things to display my brand-new wax and Adriano asked if all American girls were like us.
“How should I know?” I answered.
Lynn suggested they take off their clothes too so we could cavort around like dancers on Etruscan vases. Lynn grabbed Bebe’s long snaky cock and used it to twirl him around. Adriano put his arms around me and we pranced around the twin beds like angels or fools. Soon Lynn and Bebe were doing sixty-nine on one bed while I straddled Adriano on the other. My pendulous breasts slapped against his hairy chest, my hands grabbing his ass, raising it up, pulling him deeper into my cunt. I felt like I was mating with the great god Pan in some primeval glade. At the moment of truth, Adriano cried out, “Graciella, Graciella mio.” I didn’t mind, I thought it was cute I reminded him of his sweetheart. Years later I read in the New York Times that Adriano L., a former soccer player, had become President of Sicily.
Lynn and I considered ourselves modern women, emancipated. The pill had set us free. We took full responsibilit
y for our actions; even though we were on the pill we always carried our own condoms, extra sensitive, extra thin to protect us from venereal disease. We believed love, all kinds of love, was the answer. We adored John Lennon. I was always hoping I’d see him and Yoko somewhere. Then he was murdered, shot down by a deranged fan who believed himself to be channelling Holden Caulfield. Every night thousands gathered in front of the Dakota chanting “Give Peace A Chance” and “Let It Be” until Yoko asked them to stop. She couldn’t sleep. For weeks after his death people were weeping, staggering through the streets. This great tragedy was just the beginning.
We started to hear about cases of Aids. There was much confusing information about this new disease. There were rumours you got it from an infected mattress or from wearing someone else’s underwear. The Daily News said you could get it by kissing; it was spread by saliva. This was all the mayor needed to go after the massage parlours.
At Dolls of All Nations, Miss Nigeria, Rasheeda, who had grown up in the Hunts Point Projects in the Bronx, was busted giving a blow job to an undercover cop. They shut us down. Two days later Miss Mystique was closed because of a similar incident.
Lynn and I were out of work. I got a waitress gig at Remington’s on Waverly Street in Greenwich Village. Lynn went to work in the jewellery store her mother owned on Seventh Avenue. Together, we went to get tested, the line outside the public health station on Ninth Avenue snaked around the block. We were both lucky. We got the white papers that said we were disease-free.
I’ve only downed my second shot but already my head is aching; maybe if I had some blow my pain would float away to Machu Picchu. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted blow, so long since I’ve done a lot of things. I have become respectable, sort of, I write dirty stories I sell to magazines. Lynn settled down too, she got married. Her husband Matt knew all about her past. He didn’t mind, he said it got him excited.
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