SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet

by ATLANTIC LIBRARY PRESENTS Jackie Christian

  “Poro-Sandogo…Poro-Sandogo…” many of the older tribe’s people began to chant, emphatically.

  And when the pallbearers of the village hoisted Adam and January atop brass carpets and carried them, up in the air, down the road and into the door of the doll-like shell house—it really was like some drug-induced fantasy. African mysticism of the boldest campy quality; so flagrant that January laughed at the absurd wonderfulness of it all—but it was real.

  Her nipples were hard, her body hot as fire and she was as deep in love as deep can go.

  Softly, the rain began.

  ~*~

  Pelting the top of the shell house with a musical lilt—rain water so sweet that the Senufo set out cups to catch it for the lover’s tea. And outside the house as the rain fell, January heard someone telling the sky god, “Crying releases stress.”

  Then she giggled—and Adam’s tongue entered her mouth like a warm, solid visitor; snaking its way in to a kiss of dueling tongues. The breathing between them completely stopped—then gasped for frantically—then stopped again. It felt so intoxicating that they could neither one would be able to open their eyes for hours.

  They had waited so long for this release; yet the ebb and flow of its erotic power seemed to have no starting point and no limitations. It was freedom—Adam’s hand; the curious one he’d repressed as a young boy, freely touching the delicate cove of her small, moist pussy—and January’s fingers, spread out like a fan; adroitly encountering the hair of his legs, the muscles of his stomach and the throbbing thickness of what he sought to stick inside her.

  “Catch me!” she wailed as the literal fire of her nipples connected the burning tips of her toes to the tip of her nose; Adam’s hungry mouth passionately devouring her left ear and then moving downward to her neck, where he stayed and stayed—sucking, nibbling and kissing until January feared she’d have a heart attack from the sensational delirium it was inducing.

  “I love you,” he called as his fingers entwined with hers. “I love you…I love you…I love you.”

  And January had wanted to respond, but the sheer force of ecstasy didn’t allow her control of her neck or find words. The hurricane was encompassing now—a torrent of wetness drenching the tender burn between the legs—and under his masculine brevity; his skillful determination—she was coming undone.

  Writhing on the dreamy cotton bed to the rhythm of soft rain, they found that the silvery clay paint was too comfortable, effectively turning their naked flesh to silk skins, caressing and stimulating the silken surfaces until—it felt like swimming.

  Adam sank between her breasts, sucking and squeezing them together before he slid to kiss the contour of her hips and then dip his tongue inside her belly button.

  Her pussy, of course, was next. And knowing that, she moaned, flailing her legs and arms in the swim.

  But then he contained her, stilled her and made her burst into soft screams as his warm tongue inserted itself stiff between the quivering folds—his face buried as he kissed and delved; sucking and slurping as though he’d died and gone to heaven just to be tasting to juicy and delicious a fruit as sweet as hers.

  “Yes,” she cooed, helplessly. And it only got hotter and wetter as he hooked his finger inside the slippery wetness and buried his nose; pummeling and dredging like no man had ever tasted her before.

  “Eat it…eat it,” she moaned, driven out of her senses and clutching the sides of the bed.

  But then, just before she could catch her breath—he plowed even deeper; unsatisfied with himself until he’d brought her kicking and screaming to orgasm; the hot glaze of her feminine beauty covering his face as his final spate of vaginal kisses calmed her bout of shakes and rumbles.

  Then—he dived in.

  The exact slowness of his rock hard penetration accompanied by the sound of African rain falling harder and harder—its pungent scent sweeter and sweeter until like the sound of the rain’s steady pelt, the beat of their hearts meshed one to the other.

  “Fuck me!”

  “Take it!”

  Humping and being held; clinging and humping—entwined like a rocking mass of fetal position—the side to side soulful rapture of a steady penis to pussy fuck soothed January into streaming whimpers of uncontrollable pleasure. It felt so good that neither of them could contain the murmuring of their emotions.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  “You’re everything to me.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “I love you!”

  “It feels like heaven.”

  “I can’t see anything but you.”

  “Touch my body—take my soul!”

  “Ooh baby.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you so much.”

  “I’ve never loved like this before.”

  “Making love…is making up with god.”

  And when the rain stopped and they were resting for a minute before their next go round—January looked to the ceiling realizing that the comforting sound of water had subsided, and she said to the Senufo people’s sky god as though acknowledging the sweet scent in the air after rain, “Crying releases stress, thank you.”

  Adam Crown took an African gardenia from a nearby vase and tore away its stem—gently wrapping the green stem around January’s finger as though it were a belt-ring and saying, “I want you to be my wife, January.”

  “Now that’s a ring.”

  “I need you in my life.”

  Bang Me

  Banging dreams in time with midnight—their fucking shook the hut walls just as lightning storms ushered in heavy rains.

  Africa seemed to be turning in on itself.

  “Midnight, midnight…” people chanted as they danced holding candles in the rainy black darkness of the village—their bare feet slapping mud; the men’s faces covered in wood masks while the women donned brass ones.

  Women ululated; men closed their eyes—everyone was connected and the darkness was their friend.

  January heard the screams, she heard the drums—yet the relentless pounding of her burning flesh prevented her from leaving the state of euphoric moaning that now replaced her licking Adam’s knee-caps; him sucking her toes; the both of them spanking and shouting as their slaps went “getty-up” against a sex feast that neither one ever wanted to depart from.

  Adam’s pretty brown dick tasting like earth minerals when she’d been sucking on it; the whole long, wide meaty thing slipping in and out of her hot mouth as she’d held onto his ankles; cupped his hard buttocks; darted her tongue across his heavy balls and licked, slurped and “slobbed” on the knob until the sides of her hair were dampened by the dance her face had done in unison with the sway of his crotch.

  Fuck-fuck/sugar-suck was like a delirium world that actually made sense; a place of blind nakedness and endless freedom. Like animals in the wild, they refused to be caught and brought back to the constriction.

  Pussy slapping cock; they wanted no more of mankind’s religion. The prayer “Fuck me!” shouted loud enough for all of the Ivory Coast to hear decreed the insatiable rage that drove their hunger in search of the storm at the center of both their hearts. That they were so in love was more than salvation—it was energy; it was fire; it was science. Riding and writhing like spirits in a paradise of pure sexual freedom—they held to the highs and lows of the hurricane between them and could never be apart again after this.

  “Now that we’ve been everywhere…and god created woman; are you my woman?”

  What place have I never been, her gaze wondered for the last time.

  I am here said the intensity of love in Adam’s eyes; right here.

  “Yes,” January surrendered. At last she understood that Adam was her place. “We belong together,” she said. And come morning when sunshine broke through…they slept all through it.

  BOOK FIVE

  RETURN

  TO

  WARM LEATHERETTE

  FLY

 
; Pismo Beach, California

  Reclining against the plush comfort of her private jet’s window seat, January Knuckle-Joy breathed deeply. All through the time zones of her various flights back across the Atlantic and back across America; her eyes studied the ring made of green flower stem that Adam Crown had tied around the earth colored skin of her finger and sweetly called as he’d kissed it, “My everything.”

  “No matter where we are,” he’d promised January when they’d parted with sad eyes at the boarding gate in London. “No matter where we are…in our minds…we’re everywhere together. It’s a constant thought we’ll have, Mrs. Crown—that we aren’t really apart; that in hearts, we’re together.”

  January replayed the way he said it over and over, “Mrs. Crown…Mrs. Crown.”

  ~*~

  “I want the bitch dead and I don’t want any mistakes,” Tony Scarfist sneered in the gunman’s hairy ear.

  And this time, the marksman was a pro. Thus the moment January’s plane touched down in San Luis Obispo, the man who was like a fly on the wall had begun tracking her every move.

  Click-click.

  He snapped photos of Tiger Holden greeting her with hugs in the terminal; photos of the bodyguards hired by Yves Malle carrying her luggage and flanking her as they escorted her to a waiting limo; photos of superstar singer Fox Holden lugging behind her as though bored; his favorite photo—Mrs. Knuckle-Joy just before she ducked into the limo, her eyes hidden by huge sunglasses and her slender hand gently pushing her hair out of her face.

  Right there he could have snuffed her out.

  “But in due time,” he told himself, “In due time.”

  ~*~

  Meanwhile, more than a hundred people gathered in the hallway, doorway and vestibules of the Warm Leatherette executive offices as Tiger Holden held an informal champagne toast for his boss.

  “We thought you’d never return,” Tiger complained.

  “Well, it’s a good thing I did,” January laughed. “It’s like everything has changed so quickly.”

  And there really was a lot that was different.

  The transformation that had overcome blonde sex kitten Debbie Dallas, for instance, really rocked January’s world. It was heartbreaking to see her spirit broken as soap star and “serious actress” Deborah Crawford. At any moment the road of life could spring an unexpected turn and a fragile, innocent person might be shattered, scarred and reinvented in the blink of an eye; proof positive that you either fall to the wayside or roll with the punches and that life really doesn’t give a damn which way it goes. January kept wanting to grab the girl and hug her and ask her—who hurt you this way, what in the hell happened while I was gone?—but she didn’t dare.

  “I see Europe did wonders for you,” Deborah announced in a clipped tone that January wasn’t familiar with. All of her softness was gone—replaced by a creeping angular beauty. “I’m so glad you’re back, darling…I won’t be able to stay, though…I have a husband now; Kent Gower, the producer of ‘Young and Frisky’…and…the head writer of the show hates my guts and keeps changing the scripts on me. Really, I have to rehearse my lines. But I’m sure you’ll get settled back in…nice and comfy.”

  “Thank you Debbie.”

  “It’s Deborah now…Deborah Crawford Gower.”

  And then there was Dao Ming who grabbed January in a warm laughing welcome hug, her eyes blazing as she revealed that she and Noble Sinatra were engaged to be married during the Mardi Gras celebration and that she wanted January to meet her younger sister—a wholesome girl named Ling Mae who had replaced Debbie Dallas as the Clinton Library stripper and was getting major drama from Dao Ming for it. But just like Debbie, Dao Ming had changed. She wanted to be called “Daisy.”

  To be sunny California, everyone seemed so shattered.

  “Call you Daisy—fine.”

  And then January’s mouth hung open in shock as she suddenly made the connection between the soulfully familiar voice that sang the song she’d been humming all over Europe and the songs she remembered Dao Ming singing at the resort orgies.

  “Is something wrong?” Daisy asked.

  “Daisy,” January whispered once more, thinking of Fox Holden and the terrible competition she’d been getting from this new internet sensation whose catchy funk jams appealed to the same fan base that had made Fox a pop star. January questioned nothing. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

  Next was a hug from Noble Sinatra himself. His mother, Caprice standing behind him like a vulture munching welcome back cake after more than a month of wishing January’s plane would have crashed into a mountain side.

  “Glad to have you back, boss,” Noble insisted, but January felt a mixture of fear, loathing and distrust towards him. She had her doubts about Yves Malle’s claim that it wasn’t any of the Sinatra family that had threatened her life. Still, she smiled politely; hugging Noble and nodding cheerfully in Caprice’s direction—and then came the biggest jolt of all.

  “Lorna?”

  January knew wild child Lorna like the back of her hand and had never known the brassy Italian beauty to act conspicuous or stand in the thick of any crowd—but there she was, demurely hidden with a look of shame on her face.

  When January insisted that Lorna give her a hug, she immediately found her nose retracting from an “unwashed pussy” odor that hung on Lorna’s bones as tightly as her clothes were.

  It shocked January because she had never known Lorna to smell bad, be unkempt or have any hygiene issues whatsoever. She was too gorgeous and vain for all that.

  Speechless, January looked at Tiger, who had also started noticing the aroma recently and then to others who didn’t know what to say or how to confront the girl about it.

  Knowing that she stank but not knowing how to get rid of the odor, Lorna did what was becoming habit by then—she pretended that people were imaging things. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  January couldn’t answer right away, because the way Lorna said it, she thought she might be mistaken and that the odor was coming from someone or someplace else—that it wasn’t Lorna. The immaculately clean black woman even told herself; of course it’s not Lorna, don’t be silly.

  “I’m just happy to see you,” January smiled warmly, hugging the girl again. But that time, the stench was unmistakable.

  Imprisoned by her dilemma, Lorna Sinatra lurked off through the crowd as though she wanted to kill herself. Pride and denial had been keeping her from consulting a doctor, but after the look on January’s face, it was getting harder for her to deny that she needed help.

  “To January’s return,” Tiger said as he raised his glass to lead the champagne toast. But nothing was sitting right with January—the whole atmosphere was one of bitterness and regret. And then she looked up on the wall behind her and noticed that Papa Sinatra’s iconic painting of Grace Jones was gone.

  “Oh my god!” she shrieked. “Who took down Papa’s Grace Jones portrait?”

  Caprice Sinatra hated that it was noticed right away, but with a smirk she raised her hand, owning up to it.

  January was livid. “Who in the fuck told you to come in my office and fuck with my shit?

  Noble Sinatra reacted, “Don’t you yell at my mother like that!”

  “I can’t work in this place without that portrait, Noble. I want it put back and I want it put back now!”

  “It can’t be put back,” Caprice said with her dark stare clashing into January’s forcefully. “It’s been destroyed.”

  Destroyed!

  Something like a knife turned in January’s heart. That portrait, whether people realized it or not, was January’s last tangible way of being in the presence of Papa Sinatra. With tears beading in her eyes, she looked at Caprice as though she wanted to rip her head off. She couldn’t believe this was happening and yet she wasn’t surprised. “You…fucking…meddlesome ass…bitch!”

  Noble leaped at January, shouting in her face, but Capric
e restrained her son, laughing and snickering. She told January, “It was time for that bitch Sicily to come down—and you’ll be soon coming down right behind her!”

  Sicily?

  January got a hold of herself. She said, “Tiger…I want you to get me the best artist you can and have them recreate that portrait. It won’t be hard since it’s from a CD cover. And I want it done to perfection.”

  “I’m on it, Jan.”

  But, of course, having it reproduced wouldn’t be the same, and Caprice Sinatra knew that. After all, in the vintage black and white photo that Yves Malle had shown January back in Paris—a child aged Caprice had stood right beside Papa Sinatra and the mysterious woman.

  “Why don’t you tell us, Caprice—just who was this woman named Sicily?”

  Caprice could give a shit about answering January’s questions. She walked over to a computer desk and from beside it pulled out the framed painting of Grace Jones that she’d claimed to have destroyed. “Here’s your rotten portrait, gold digger!”

  “Oh my god!” January screamed as she dashed like a mother running to its child fallen off a swing. She inspected the painting; crying with joy as she lifted it, clutching it to her bosom. With deep emotion, she looked to the ceiling vowing, “I’ll never leave her unattended again, Papa Sinatra.”

  Tiger said, “That was really cruel of you, Caprice.”

  “Oh fuck off, faggot!”

  Just as Caprice was leaving, January looked up and made eye contact with someone who was deep in the crowd of employees; a tall hooded man with dead blue eyes.

  She felt what he was about to do—and then he did it.

  POW! POW!

  “Everybody get down!”

  Caprice Sinatra fell as though she’d been hit, but she hadn’t.