SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet
Page 22
BOOK SEVEN
FAT TUESDAY
(“Mardi Gras”)
Explicit-X
The helicopter pilot had never seen anything so wild as what he was now watching on the ground below. Even flying in from over the Pacific Ocean, one could get a contact high from the marijuana and be lulled into hypnosis by the erotic sway of sparklers swirling against purple sky and a winking half-moon.
“Cut to camera seven, Chuck.”
Push, push
In the bush
Push, push
In the bush
Network television cameras covering the unveiling of pop sensation “Daisy” had to be very careful indeed. Dancing pink-eyed slur mouthed people—white, yellow, red and black—disrobed in every corner of the crowd; titties jiggling and penis’s jangling as sparklers, whistles and tambourines cranked up the adrenaline of what looked from the sky to be a human gumbo.
“Live from the Warm Leatherette resort in Pismo Beach, California—it’s the first annual Warm Leatherette Mardi Gras Television Spectacular!”
Fireworks emblazoned the sky as Fox Holden took to a stage shaped like an open clam shell accompanied by professional dancers for an energetic lip-synch performance of one of her early pop hits. On giant screens on either side of the stage, a goddess-like collage of photos documenting every stage of the career of Grace Jones, but the real show was what the cameras couldn’t show—Warm Leatherette’s annual “Slave to the Rhythm” Mardi Gras parade. A caravan of giant Grace Jones heads and other costumes on stilts marched through the Garden of Grace followed by golf carts of screaming partiers and stragglers literally kicking and leaping in the air as though they didn’t have the sense they’d been born with.
Against several trees, frisky women of all ages threw there heads back in laughter and hiked up their skirts (or plain got naked) as horny men wearing Zorro masks stabbed in and out of their pussies and devoured their necks with slurping champagne-driven monkey bites.
As was tradition—the evening wouldn’t be officially “on” until the Black Lady Took off Her Wig. And with that moment at hand, the second unit helicopter that was transporting January to the stage hovered over a heavily breathing Fox Holden as she bowed to applause and exited just in time for the television announcer to say: “And now ladies and gentlemen…the owner and Grande Dame of Warm Leatherette…the elegantly beautiful, Miss January Crown!”
Knowing it was time for The Black Lady to Take off Her Wig, the crowd went wild! They began shouting, “January, Jan-Jan…January, Jan-Jan…January, Jan-Jan!”
A spotlight caught January’s bare naked leg dangling from the cabin of the helicopter sexily. Then by popular demand the cocoa-skinned beauty was waving and smiling like a beauty pageant winner as she struck a butterfly pose and dropped from the sky in a barely there Vegas showgirl costume, her mid-drift harnessed by wires as the dancers below caught and steadied her.
“You know what time it is…” January screamed into a microphone as she pranced around the open-clam stage shaking the tail-feather that was attached to her ass-thong and jiggling her breasts as though she’d never left her stripper days.
“Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five!”
Tickled beyond belief, Adam Crown cheered his beautiful wife from out in the crowd. “Do it Jan!”
“Four! Three! Two!”
Backstage, Daisy got a huge lump in her throat as she realized that she would be up next. The whole world it seemed was waiting to see who it was that had flooded radio and dance clubs with what music critics had dubbed “the Daze craze”.
ONE! January grabbed the flowing blonde synthetic wig from her head and tossed it into the crowd! The people went wild as she sexily fluffed out her own, wooly bush—loudly cheering on the group of gay guys in the crowd who’d caught the wig as they carried out the last phase of Warm Leatherette’s tradition—the lighting and burning of the blonde wig.
“Hallelujah!” January shouted as the wig went up in flames! And thus Mardi Gras at Warm Leatherette was officially on.
Backstage, Daisy took a long, deep breath. Her mom Chen and her sister Ling Mae were out in the crowd grinning with confidence and excitement as the refrain of Daisy’s newest single, an Asian flavored reworking of the disco classic by Musique—“Push, Push In the Bush”—began to blare from every speaker.
On stage, Fox Holden was saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so honored to be your host tonight…and yes, the tabloid stories are true…I was paid a million dollars to entertain you this evening.”
~*~
The skimpy showgirl costume made January feel as though she was outdoors naked. The way Adam Crown looked her up and down, she might as well have been. Last night Adam had played the cop busting the prostitute. But for tonight’s honeymoon treat, he got to be the college student tailing the stripper.
Explicit-X-style, January winked at him, her tongue wetting her mouth with a baby doll pout. Come bang this beaver, daddy. Then with her ass cheeks exposed and switching to the click-clack of her heels, she let the thong that was parting her cheeks seduce him into a trot. Look at all this ass—you know you want some.
Adam’s dick got hard the moment he started following her. Through the Garden of Grace and down the path beyond American Sycamore trees that led past the pond and up the grand entrance to the sliding glass doors of the central towers, he followed her.
Bold and overheated, January stopped in the lobby just after slipping through the glass doors. Without turning around, she could feel the intensity of his eyes as they scanned her body.
Languidly, she bent over right there in the lobby—her legs posed in the heels like a sweet dirty bitch pin-up would do—and pulled down the thong so that the cheeks of her luscious round ass were fully naked and inviting. Not only bouncing in cocoa-smooth unison but teasingly serving him glimpses of the wet pink sugar walls that were hidden like lips between those legs and crack.
Damn, he thought, as he broke into a cold sweat. Hurrying himself forward so as to drape his coat over her nakedness so that people in the lobby wouldn’t be too shocked—but by the time he got to January—he realized that everybody in the lobby was doing something they wouldn’t ordinarily do in front of others.
The cute Mexican maid who’d vacuumed his room earlier was on her knees, in fact, blowing the hotel door man. Her innocent girl’s face flushing pink as the guard’s belt buckled straddled her bare shoulders and his cock surged in and out of her wet little mouth.
January flashed a pair of burning bitch eyes at Adam—compelling him to stop watching the maid and follow her into the elevator, but it was too late, the doors closed in his face.
Damn it!
He had to wait for the next go round. But waiting only made his dick harder and his balls hotter.
Finally, he was alone in the elevator as it reached the executive suite.
“I’m going to fuck you like an animal!” the college boy shouted at the unseen stripper once the doors opened.
But January was more than ready for it.
Like a stallion, she kicked her legs up against the doorway, seductively straddling the door knob and arching her round, fat booty so that Adam nearly cried with amazement.
“Fuck me like an animal? How about you fuck me in my mouth first—then fuck me in my ass.”
“You daddy to give it to you in the ass, is that what you want?”
“Yes,” she said going down on her knees with the dance move of a snake girl.
~*~
Fuck me, bang me…rearrange me!
January couldn’t suppress the fire as their bodies twisted in the floor. Her throat speaking in tongues as Adam did just as she asked—ran his dick through her hair; smacked her across the mouth with it; slid it like a “jack-off” in between her breasts—then oiled her up and fucked her right between her ass cheeks as though she was a boy like Tiger; up inside her asshole.
“I want that pink pussy,” he kept whispering in
her ear. But January wouldn’t relinquish the anal. It hurt, but it felt so good.
“Oh god yes!” she screamed as the largeness of his hands squished and squeezed her titties into a numbing, throbbing tumble. And then she least expected it the college boy turned her back around and rammed all the love in the world deep inside her tender juicy juice.
“You like stripping for college boys—that would you like?”
“Yes!”
Banging like a bull, he bounced her on his hips. The full strength of his muscles tensing into a body builder’s flex as January cried and winced with spasms of uncontrollable sex moans.
“Fuck me—yes!” And it was too crazed. The throbbing intensity shooting sparks through her head as stars filled her eyes and the wetness of her mouth gargled with his powerful bang-jump getty-up.
“Oooh shit…oooh shit!” she screamed as though she were being beaten and murdered.
But nobody at Warm Leatherette could anybody else’s screams that night. And the harder Adam Crown fucked her up against the aquarium like a bar slut—the harder his father’s stare became.
Cowering in the dark of January’s library, one room over, Otis Crown and two of his henchmen were watching the video monitor intently. Amazingly, they’d broken her penthouse security code. Once Adam was gone, they planned to break much more.
“You sure this is his wife, boss? That doesn’t look like the pretty sister from the wedding gown photos.”
“That’s her alright—she’s got a lot a different faces.”
Determined that tonight would be the night of January’s down fall, Otis Crown grumbled, “I fucked his first wife and I’ll fuck this one. Only this one—he’s going to know about.”
~*~
It had been two decades since Caprice Sinatra went anywhere without any panties on. But as she turned the key to Bungalow 33 and slipped inside, her knee-length fur coat was it.
“It’s been years,” chuckled Yves Malle from a silken bed. Already, thanks to Viagra, his horse-like erection was standing straight up.
“Yes it’s been years, but when it’s good—you never forget it.” And with that, the old feminist tossed off her fur coat to reveal a lumpy, wrinkled, hanging here-hanging there matron’s figure.
Yves planned on fucking many women between festival and Ash Wednesday. It’s what he and Fendi did every year for Mardi Gras. But he’d enjoy banging none more than he’d enjoy the sexually repressed Caprice Sinatra.
“Woman, I swear—you’re old and gray—but you still got it!”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Caprice blushed.
Like thunder and lightning, they certainly did fill the bed with sparks. But when it was over and Yves invited Caprice to have wine on his patio Jacuzzi—there was already a naked woman sipping wine and relaxing there.
“Yves, that’s not your wife!”
“No—its January’s grandmother, Granny September. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
Caprice cut her eyes. But Yves and Granny September had already had their roll in the hay earlier that afternoon with gumbo and a heap of steaming crayfish.
“Come on in!” Granny September said to Caprice with a welcoming smile. “The water’s great. And thanks to Viagra, Yves has a little something-something for both of us later on!”
They all laughed—but eighty-something year old Yves would die that night. And he would die just the way Papa Sinatra had died—of a heart attack from sex. Only difference was, Yves would go out in a threesome—Fendi, Caprice and Granny September.
“Yves, are you alright? Darling, Wake up!”
Cheers and farewell, he seemed to have smiled.
~*~
Deborah Crawford had no idea that Lorna Sinatra was coming for her. Lost in ecstasy, the soap actress clasped the cheeks of her mouth around Buck’s big chocolate dick and skid her lips on it like a puckering fish trying to breathe and eat at the same time—suck-suck; suck-suck. Giving head was her latest sexual discovery.
But now that her husband Kent Gower had found out about her affair with the famous boxer and wasn’t upset about it—she had another outlet as well.
“Yeah, suck his dick,” Kent said while sipping a martini and watching Deborah blow Buck.
Who knew that her husband would like watching her getting fucked by other men? Certainly not Deborah, but at least Kent had been unselfish enough to realize that his lack of sexual interest just wasn’t cutting it.
“Oh this is beautiful,” Kent said as Buck bent Deborah over the bed and began fucking her doggy style. What Kent liked best was that he didn’t have to get it up. All he had to do was watch. And though nobody ever discussed race anymore—that was what made it exciting for Kent—the fact that Buck was black and Kent loved watching black men fuck white women.
The only problem was that Buck was still pressuring Deborah to marry him. And there was the very real chance that after her career took off away from soaps, she might ditch Kent and marry Buck. But for now she told him she had to get the role playing Hillary Clinton.
In fact, the script for “A Woman of Firsts: The Hillary Clinton Story” laid on Deborah’s bed like a weight.
She’d done everything in her power to secure the part including getting Buck Knuckle-Joy to pal it up with his network executive friends. Worst of all, she’d coerced E-Joe Bradford into cheating on Tiger by sleeping with the show’s bitchy head writer, Peter Dasher.
E-Joe’s decision to sleep with nasal-voiced, whining, liver-breath Peter, however, had not been because he felt so much affinity for Deborah’s friendship. It had been because Deborah promised that once she was attached to the project as “star”, he would get a juicy role in the mini-series as well.
“We have to think about our careers, E-Joe. We don’t want to be stuck on soap operas for the rest of our lives. And look at the crap Peter’s been writing me lately. I’ve been stuck on that damned island with amnesia for months!”
True enough. But E-Joe sleeping with Peter Dasher hadn’t gotten them anywhere near the prime time mini-series. So Deborah had been forced to make the impossible come true—get Peter fired from the soap and get him in trouble with the network in general.
To do that, she’d had to manipulate Peter’s writing assistant, Coffy Monroe.
“Face it Coffy—you’re the one who actually comes up with all the brilliant ideas for this show. My hubby even said it—the only reason you’re not head writing your own soap is because you’re African American. Nobody in daytime is going to let a black writer play god with an all white cast. Until now, that is. See I’m the producer’s wife, and if you help me to burn Peter…”
Not only had Coffy been tired of Peter getting credit for all her hard work. But he was that rare gay guy who hates women. He never tired of telling repeating, “Nothing against women, but your vaginas look like open flesh wounds. Not cute. All men secretly want another man. Butt-pussy is tighter.”
Coffy couldn’t wait to help Deborah! After Deborah’s technicians had a dressing room computer IP address diverted to piggy-back Peter Dasher’s computer IP address; Coffy logged in to the popular web site called Soap Opera Network and began posting flagrant information about important plot twists months before they aired.
She signed them “Dashing through the Snow.” Then, following Deborah’s instructions, she used Dashing through the Snow’s email account to send top secret information about the show’s inner workings to internet soap columnists like Toups the Tampon, SoapsBuff, Errol the Pigeon Eater, Chris B. and Kenny-lick-Me.
Within weeks, the shows competing with “Young and Frisky” began inching up in the ratings as they knew everything that was going to happen in advance. And when Kent Gower and the network suits checked to find where the leak was coming from—it all led back to Peter Dasher’s IP address.
“You’ve been taking outside cash to squeal on our show!” Kent accused. And, of course, Peter denied it. But then Coffy Monroe went to both Kent and the
network brass. She told them that she had seen Peter lunching with his friends from the other soap staffs.
It worked like a charm!
Kent Gower fired Peter Dasher. He appointed Coffy Monroe as Interim Head Writer without screen credit—‘ghost writer’—so that the industry wouldn’t complain that a black had gotten the position. This was followed by the network firing Peter Dasher from producing the Hillary Clinton mini-series and bringing in someone named Maria Zimmer.
But, amazingly, this Maria Zimmer person ignored Kent Gower’s casting suggestions; ignored footage of Deborah winning the daytime Best Actress trophy; ignored the ferocious screen test Deborah submitted in full Hillary Clinton.
“Why is Maria Zimmer not feeling me? I have done too much scheming not to have this part!”
Clack-Clack went the rings on Lorna Sinatra’s hand as she knocked on the door of Deborah’s bungalow, interrupting the Mardi Gras threesome that was taking place inside.
Sweating naked between Buck and her husband Kent, Deborah took a break to click on her intercom. “Who’s there?”
“Maria Zimmer!”
Oh shit! Deborah couldn’t believe it!
She grabbed her robe, telling the men to stay put as she tied it around her and dashed out to the living room to open the door.
Shocked to see Lorna, she gasped.
“Surprise, surprise,” Lorna Sinatra grinned ear to ear. She looked more beautiful than Deborah had ever seen her look, smelling like fresh flowers and sunshine as she announced, “I’m not Maria Zimmer. But guess what? Maria Zimmer is a Sinatra. She’s my older sister who married Jewish. And guess what else, bitch? You are not getting this role of a lifetime!”
Deborah was speechless.
“Oh wait—are you surprised that I don’t stink anymore? I mean, after all, that was your big plan wasn’t it—to drive me out of town and out of my own life with those vitamins?”