SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet

by ATLANTIC LIBRARY PRESENTS Jackie Christian

  Adam had been slightly older than Bliss, and regardless of the fact that the girl’s mother was their maid; Queenie had become obsessed with the way her son looked standing next to the white girl. “Estonia—why don’t you bring that lovely daughter of yours over to play with my children?”

  “But Madame, your pups are rich kids. They’re so cultured and refined. I’m afraid Bliss will ruin their good manners.”

  “Oh nonsense—she fits right in.”

  It was no secret that Otis and Queenie Crown had fought hard for civil rights laws in America during the 1960’s. Otis had marched with Dr. King, had endured water hoses being turned on him and gotten jailed for integrating lunch counters in the South. “There is no race but the human race,” he often said on American television while receiving countless Humanitarian awards, so Estonia wasn’t surprised when the Crowns hinted that they wanted their son to be a symbol of the racial struggle’s end by growing up and marrying white. And because Estonia was a poor white single mother who’d worked all her life as a maid, she hadn’t seen it as a step down for her young lass to marry an American Negro. In fact, for “crumpet-to-pale-fetcher” Aussies like them, it was a way out.

  Bliss had dutifully followed her mother’s wishes and played the girlfriend-in-waiting for young, rich Adam Crown until the older they got, the more Queenie Crown started flying Bliss to America for visits. She lied to the black Teeth society, presenting Bliss as the daughter of “Australian money.” She put the girl through college, financed a badly needed nose job and fixed the girl’s teeth.

  “Adam’s going to love you!” the extravagant black woman had often insisted. But he never really had. More than anything, Adam and Bliss had felt like brother and sister—and what nobody knew—was that Bliss actually had more chemistry with Adam’s younger brother, Winston. But the Crowns weren’t planning for Winston to inherit the duties and responsibility that Adam would inherit as the oldest Crown, first son and heir to his father’s political voice.

  Adam and Bliss had married for the sake of their parent’s expectations, but Bliss had been on the verge of asking for a divorce almost two years now and had experienced flings with other men. None were full blown affairs, but when Adam was away from Australia, she was discreetly fucked by other men. And in her true heart—she longed for a romance with young, tennis playing Winston Crown. Unfortunately, Queenie had just recently married Winston off to a sweet hefty young Russian girl who also made a living playing tennis. “Fucking drats,” Bliss intoned on their wedding day, but financially, all was not lost. Some tawdry novels she had written as a teenager got published accidently.

  Though newspaper reviewers considered the novels to be trash, Bliss had become a top bestseller among paperback buyers in England and Australia. Due to her most recent book, “Email My Heart,” selling half a million copies, she and her mother were no longer dependent on the Crown family for money. This, in fact, was the reason that she’d pushed Adam to bring her on a sojourn through New York, Washington, D.C., Georgia and Southern California. She wanted to advance her fan base in North America.

  “…so now, all these years later,” Queenie continued by telephone, “It turns out that this rotten colored snatch has a twin sister! Can you believe it? The snatch dies, but she’s still snapping like a case of Clap.”

  Bliss didn’t really know what to say. She was very sad to hear of February being pregnant and her car falling off a cliff. She wasn’t reacting, so Queenie pressed, “Adam wants her, Bliss. This one is named January, and he’s quite taken by her.”

  Again, Bliss didn’t know what to say. She hardly cared. And that’s when Mother Dear really let loose.

  “Do you even care about my son one, you two-cent cavity cracker?”

  “Of course I do, Mother Crown. I love Adam.”

  “Then where are my grandchildren with the nice hair that you promised me? It’s as though you’re sterile!”

  “Mother Crown, I’m sure in time…”

  “And what kind of hormones do you have anyway? Why aren’t you upset that Adam’s chasing after a dead woman? Don’t you realize that you signed a Pre-nup? Oh, no, that’s right—you have your own money now—writing those trashy sex novels that bring disgrace on the Crown family name!”

  “Mother Crown, I really wish you’d have a Bloody Mary and watch Wheel of Fortune like you usually do.”

  Queenie’s face twisted up. She said, “You honestly don’t see the destruction that’s aimed at this family, do you? Maybe if you’d seen the meat-eating look in that colored snatch’s eyes, like I did, you’d realize that my son’s balls are on the line.”

  ~*~

  Adam Crown dropped his towel and stepped into the luxury shower stall of his room at Warm Leatherette’s Bungalow 10.

  A pair of eyes watched his every move.

  January had clicked on his living room area first, but when she saw that he wasn’t there, she clicked over to his kitchenette—then the bathroom, and finally—inside the shower.

  “Oh my…look at those strong hairy legs.”

  It was something January had terrible shame about—spying on the guests. But she couldn’t help herself; she was addicted.

  Golden chestnut brown with a sinewy build, Adam began lathering his body and swaying to the music he’d chosen—Warm Leatherette’s Waves and Seagull’s Shower House Mix.

  “Not as big as my husband’s dick—but still very nice,” January mumbled from her penthouse chaise. And then when he turned around and bent over to wash under his feet, all she could say was “wow.” He had a really nice butt; masculine and Helmut-like. Nice calves, a wide strong back, biceps, wooly hair that caught and held the beads of water as hers did when it wasn’t relaxed.

  “I ought to be ashamed,” January mumbled as one of her fingers leisurely began to touch between her thighs—but then she heard her husband, Buck, getting off the penthouse elevator. He called out, “Hey, where’s my black princess? I’m home.”

  ~*~

  Now that the orgy in the Munich Machine Basement was in full swing, Dao-Ming nodded permission to the German police officers and they turned down the lights so that the chorus of moans and body slapping became shrouded in darkness. “Oh god, he’s fucking me!” one woman shrieked with ecstasy as Dao-Ming grabbed her water bottle and exited the stage through the back curtains.

  By routine, she went to her dressing room, yanked off her earrings, kicked off her shoes and immediately began to meditate, but before she knew it—a man was grabbing her.

  “Stop it, Noble—stop it!”

  Noble Sinatra was the most handsome of Papa Sinatra’s grandsons and the man Dao-Ming truly loved. Unfortunately, he was married and had children with a pretty redheaded white woman that he kept stashed in a house not too far from Warm Leatherette. Playfully, the Italian stallion forced Dao-Ming into a deeply passionate kiss, but when the kiss was over, he looked her in the eyes and said, “Something’s wrong.”

  “Of course something’s wrong. The man I love is a murderer.”

  “Aw, Daisy—don’t start that shit again.”

  “When did you become Mafia, Noble? Papa Sinatra was never a part of that. How did it happen?”

  “Look—all you need to know is that I’m not letting some super slurping black bitch like January Foster Knuckle-Joy run my grandfather’s legacy in the ground. Warm Leatherette belongs to the Sinatra family!”

  “But she won the lawsuit in court, Noble! Papa Sinatra wanted January to have this place.”

  “I’ll never believe it.”

  “So you think you can just have her killed?”

  “You’re damned right. And if you open your mouth about it—I’ll have you snuffed out, too.”

  “Don’t threaten me, you bastard son of a bitch. If you knew what was on my heart at this moment, then you’d know that I’m thinking of killing myself.”

  Noble knew immediately that she was serious. It all suddenly made sense, because the vi
be he’d been feeling from her lately was intensely gothic; melancholy.

  “You’re beautiful Dao-Ming; you have everything to live for. What does your name mean in Chinese? It means shining path. Look at the voice god gave you. The first time I heard you singing in the Showroom, I thought it was a black woman.”

  “Yeah, well…Chinese girls, no matter what they sound like, are not the ones who get record deals and star in their own music videos.” Bitterness loaded Dao-Ming’s voice. All along her dressing room table were white sheets of paper with songs she’d written. Songs nobody cared about.

  She poured Ginger Ale over ice—which was normal—but then she shocked Noble by splashing vodka over it. Before he could object, she continued, “No, no…we Chinese girls that can sing end up as mysterious chanteuses in darkened nightclubs or as the High Priestess presiding over some western orgy banquet. You Bai Tou don’t even know how to fuck right, but that’s another story. Dao-Ming, the gifted vocal stylist, gifted by god, but gifted for what? Who will ever know that I lived in this world and that through my songs I had something meaningful to say, Noble? Well wait a minute…” She burst out laughing before noting angrily, “The lucky ones get to be video mascots for hack-singing white bitches like Gwen Stefani or set decoration for the Jacuzzi scene in the latest gangster movie. Hey lover—want to see me act submissive?”

  “Daisy, I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  Tears fell from her eyes; the vodka flared in her chest. She told him, “That’s because I’m an artist—I’m an artist, Noble!—and the thing about artists is that you can never truly see them. We don’t live to be seen by just one person. We live to be seen by the whole world. We belong…to the whole world.”

  “Daisy…”

  “I’m an artist, and I’m dying to get out, Noble.” With the wave of a furious hand, she flung her glass into the mirror—crashing her reflection it. I’m dying!”

  ~*~

  Lorna Marie Sinatra was the only one of Papa Sinatra’s sixteen grandchildren that loved and accepted January as family. She had heard some of the ridiculous rants of her older brother, Noble, but she paid little mind to him. Knowing how much January liked the girls to support one another, the leggy Italian-American beauty came out of her bungalow and stood among the crowd of men who were clapping as sexy young blonde Debbie Dallas took it all off in the Clinton Library.

  Debbie was fully naked on stage and loving it!

  At last, she had overcome her fears.

  The only other time that Lorna had seen Debbie this excited was the time they’d gotten naked together in January’s huge Cartier bed. The two of them knew how January was turned off by “lesbian shit” as she liked calling it—so they’d snuck into her penthouse while she and Buck were away on business in New York.

  For an innocent young country bumpkin like Debbie, it had been a heart-pulsing thrill as they rubbed pussies in January’s bed, sucked one another’s nipples and fingered the cherry pudding until hot butter blistered their hair patches like full sunlight.

  “Is this what we do with our husbands one day?” Debbie had asked, giggling and blushing.

  “It sure is,” Lorna cooed. But then she suggested they go down to the club and find a guy. She explained how they could lure him into one of the large hallway linen closets by raising their skirts and shaking their little peach-fuzzed peaches at him. “Then we can gang up on him—fuck his brains out, Debbie.”

  “I don’t feel right about it, Lorna. I mean—I’m a virgin and I’m saving it for my husband, remember? I think we’re playing too much play house.”

  “O.K. then,” Lorna had smiled while shaking her long, silky black tresses. “Since you’re not ready for men—we’ll just have to keep on being pussy bumpers. But the minute you quit being scared of guys—I’m going to teach you how to suck a man’s dick and lick his balls in one forward head motion. That’s something you can do without losing your virginity, but it takes a lots of practice. And men love it when we suck their dicks.”

  Debbie had giggled. “You’re weird Lorna—it’s like you’re addicted to sex or something.”

  “Nope, don’t let the wildness fool you. I’m a good Catholic girl. I plan on settling down and getting married one day—it’s just that I want to sew my wild oats first. Hell, I’m only twenty-two. Plus, practice makes perfect. Every good wife should have a shameless dirty ass whore somewhere deep inside her.”

  “Whoever marries you is going to be one happy fellow.”

  “He sure is. Now stop talking—eat!” Lorna had pushed Debbie’s blonde head under the sheets and beyond her bellybutton, towards her crotch. Obediently, the girl imitated what Lorna had done to her. She kissed and stroked Lorna’s cat-face with big, wide tongue licks—up and down the middle, full tongue-wide. Lorna pushed her face into the moistness and swooned, “Oooh yeah…eat it…oooh!”

  Best of all—twenty six year old “Mama January” had never found out. Or so they thought.

  ~*~

  11:45 p.m.

  The crystal bells at Fountain of Grace began to toll.

  Come midnight, the gates to “Garden of Grace” would be open to all women guests, and January didn’t want to miss it.

  Buck Knuckle-Joy was usually fed, showered and done banging his wife by ten o’clock so that she could bathe, change into a different evening gown and get back to running Warm Leatherette before eleven, but tonight—the wet spot between January’s thighs was like a bulls eye that the famous boxer didn’t want to stop poking and stirring.

  “It feels good,” January whispered with a quivering voice, “But you’re so tense and angry, Buck. What is it?”

  He couldn’t dare tell her. It was the combination of Dao Ming being so depressed and unavailable to him for the last couple days—and then the sex tape.

  Damn, he huffed, still in disbelief—a sex tape!

  The blackmailer wanted a million dollars or the tape would be sent to his wife. There was no way for him to deny that it was him on the tape, because not only was his face clearly showing—but January’s step-granddaughter Lorna Sinatra kept shouting his name all during their lurid little the sex marathon. And Lorna’s face was all over it, too.

  “Honey, please tell me—what’s wrong?”

  Abruptly, the banging stopped. Buck moaned with a final thrust and rolled off her. He said with a fucked up attitude, “The midnight bells are ringing—you’d better get your cult shit going.”

  “It’s not a cult, Buck. It’s called Sister-Spacing, and your refusal to respect my beliefs is what keeps a wedge between us.”

  Sister-Spacing was what the club knew as “intermission.”

  Women guests of the resort would meet outdoors in the rose-filled Garden of Grace as a female evangelist led them in prayer while they waded naked in the Sister Pond. Sometimes there was group meditation followed by slices of watermelon, wine and marijuana joints, but always, January liked to harness female energy and celebrate the power of sisterhood, their joy in being female and their love for men.

  January got out of bed and winked at herself in the mirror.

  The shocker—was that she was the one blackmailing Buck Knuckle-Joy for a million dollars.

  ~*~

  Adam Crown stood shirtless in the door of his bungalow watching as patches of women moved like beautifully relaxed earth mothers to the call of the bell. He said, “I’m dying to go see this.”

  “You can’t,” Bliss responded with six final brush strokes to her long blonde hair. “It’s only for us women.”

  Because this ritual was started by January; Adam had never heard of it during Papa Sinatra’s reign at Warm Leatherette.

  “And what are we men supposed do at midnight?”

  “Enjoy the rest of the resort until the women come back at one a.m.”

  “That’s no fair.”

  “Poor baby,” Bliss teased as she came face to face with him in the open doorway.

  At just that moment, Janu
ary Knuckle-Joy was coming down the pathway and noticed them immediately. In fact, something about Adam Crown seemed almost spiritually connected to January’s radar—it was as though she could sense his presence, and even worse, it was as though she knew him from another dimension. The smell of his hair, the twinkle of his eye, the sound and feel of his voice and hands; all of it lived in her knowledge base as though she’d known him for years. February was the only explanation January could come up with. She told herself that it was her dead sister who was sending her this sense of knowing about the race car driver.

  Adam and Bliss kissed in the doorway.

  “See you later,” Bliss told him as they pulled apart—and in that same moment; January was passing by them—her face just inches from Adam’s profile as his wife departed.

  Adam froze as he saw February’s moon-kissed chocolate face filling up his eyes with memories of love and beauty.

  Oh my god! She saw me kissing my wife!

  Immediately, while February’s eyes were still glued to his, Adam raised his arm and began vigorously wiping his mouth. He couldn’t shake the ghost of February, and January was making matters much worse. Completely forsaking Bliss, he wiped any trace of her kiss from his mouth.

  January looked away—not wanting to see that.

  Girlishly, she ran to catch up with Bliss and the other women.

  The Secret Garden

  Standing in the doorway of her dressing room, about to depart for the garden, Dao-Ming was stopped by the ringing of her cell phone. By intuition, she could feel that it was an unusually important phone call; otherwise, she would have ignored it. But at the same time, something told her that she didn’t want to answer it—that she’d regret answering it.

  “Hello.”

  “Dao-Ming, are you sitting down?”

  It was Ling-Mae, her baby sister, speaking to her in Chinese.