She seemed to be still wearing the white gauzy dress she had begun her dance in, under a floor-length transparent plastic mac. And she was still barefoot. A large canvas bag hung from her shoulders. It appeared to be full of books and silk scarves in every colour of the rainbow.
‘Loved your set. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘I just had some water in the dressing room,’ she said. ‘No thanks.’ Looked at me blankly.
‘Going home?’
‘Maybe ...’
‘Hungry?’
‘A bit. Dancing does eat up all your energy,’ she said.
‘My treat. Anywhere you want to go.’
She agreed to share an oyster po’ boy at the Napoleon House.
Even now, I remember very little of our conversation although we must have spent more than an hour together eating and conversing. She never would tell me what her name was or anything about her life. I recall discussing books, she loved F Scott Fitzgerald and let slip she had once lived in Manhattan. Every attempt on my part to find out how come she was now a stripper failed. She wasn’t rude or offended by my questions, just indifferent. The time passed quickly and I assume that yet again I must have done too much of the talking, and bored her stiff with my usual stories and feeble anecdotes and jokes.
We walked from the Napoleon House to the small Faulkner House bookstore in the alley by Jackson Square where I failed to find a copy of a book I had been singing the praises of and had hoped to buy for her.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘So?’
‘So?’
‘Do you wish to come back to mine?’
My heart skipped a beat.
‘That would be lovely,’ I replied.
It was a walk-up in a decaying building that might once have been a mansion’s slave quarters just off Dumaine.
She closed the door and took my hand in hers.
‘Kiss me,’ she asked.
How could I say no?
It wasn’t fucking. It was making love in the most absolute sense of the term. It could only have happened in New Orleans.
Her bed became our battlefield.
I knew how pale her skin was but never guessed how soft and pliant her body would prove, a feathered cushion firm and languorous, a perfect treasure offered up for plunder and worse. Oh, the satin of her skin, the marrow-like texture of her lips, the way her fingers caressed my cock with shameless impunity and coaxed it to full length and thickness before she took me into the oven of her mouth, nibbling, teasing, biting with kindness, her tongue delving into my pee-hole with exquisite, measured probing, riding my lust, controlling it.
Her cunt, a map of untold treasure. Yes, it was a tattoo of a gun there, no larger than a nail, a Chinese miniature in the heavenly pornographic landscape of her intimacy, inner and outer folds delineated with mathematical precision, a medical sketch where every feature was drawn with close attention to detail and colour. Beckoning me. Opening for me like a flower of the tropics, swallowing me whole, feeding on me, feeding me.
New Orleans night.
The sound of her moans, the tightness in our throats as we pushed boundaries and held each other in the darkness like orphans in a storm. Every single woman I had touched, loved, brought to New Orleans led to this moment, this epiphany.
Fuck! Why wasn’t it always like this?
Morning. Lazing spread-eagled in a crazy geography amongst the tangled sheets of the bed. Our smells mingling, our sweat a potent cocktail of spent lust.
‘Hello. Shouldn’t I at least know your name?’ I asked, a fingertip lingering indecently across the ridge of her cunt lips.
‘Good morning, lover.’
She rose from the bed, brushing away my greedy hands. Regal. Pale. Naked. My cock hardened again in an instant, despite its rawness.
She smiled and tut-tutted.
‘Later,’ she said. ‘Offer me breakfast.’
We dressed and walked out into the hesitant early morning sun to Jackson Square for traditional beignets and coffee at the Café Du Monde.
She still wore the white, billowing dress, a tall, pale ivory figure making her way across Decatur.
Wiping away the powdered sugar that had spilt across my dark shirt, I looked up to see the sun fading.
She followed my eyes.
‘Seems like another storm is on the way,’ I said.
She nodded.
We began to make our way back to her apartment, hastening our pace as the dark clouds gathered menacingly above.
But only made it halfway there before the heavens opened.
I laughed as the first drops fell on my tousled hair, turned towards her expecting a similar smile. But the look on her face was one of terror.
‘It’s only rain, water,’ I said.
And, one final time, I witnessed the despair that lingered deep down in the dark pit of her eyes.
The rain fell, implacable, surrounding us, submerging us.
Quickly soaking the thin material of her thin dress, instantly revealing the sweet contours of her body, the now transparent gauze sticking to her skin, betraying the dark hardness of her nipples and when she attempted to move, the cleft of her cunt. At any other time, I would have found this highly erotic and arousing. But not at present.
As soon as her total nudity beneath the dress was betrayed, she began to fade.
It only took a few seconds.
Fading.
Like melting in the rain.
Her contours losing their firmness, their definition. Her pale skin disappearing with every new drop of rain.
I stood there with my mouth open.
Her lips parted as if she wanted to tell me something but not a sound emerged and then she was gone.
The rain beat against the pavement with monotonous regularity, cutting through the air where once she had stood. And soon, as ever, the storm passed, and the water just evaporated and disappeared in little swishes of thin steam. Just like she had. And I was left alone, on the corner of Conti and Royal, standing like a fool in front of the Federal Building.
I didn’t know what to think at first.
Was this a joke? Was this illusion, magic?
My mind in a tizzy, I ran back towards her apartment but was unable to find it again. But then, in New Orleans, so many houses look alike and my mind had been on other things when we had first made our way there.
I tried to compose myself.
Went to my hotel to change clothes. Take a shower, reluctantly washing away her scent from my body, from my cock.
Then rushed out to look for the strip joint where I had first come across her. Half believing it also would have disappeared from the map.
But it was there. In the same place as the previous day.
Closed. It was still only mid-morning.
I found a secondhand copy of “The Beautiful and the Damned” at the bookshop on Dauphine. Hadn’t read it in decades. It helped me pass the time until the bar opened.
Standing on the opposite pavement, late afternoon, I saw the blinds rising and the click click of the door’s lock.
A short, greying man was wiping the tables clean with a wet cloth, and no sign of the customary barman.
My questions hit a blank wall.
No, it had been ages since they’d featured dancers.
No, they no longer had a licence.
Elderly regulars slowly streamed in.
None of them had any memory of when, if ever, the place had been a strip joint. Just a good place for a quiet place for a drink these days.
Somehow, it was what I expected.
Made a strange sort of sense.
I finally sat myself at the bar and asked the middle-aged woman now serving for a drink.
As she bent down to get the bottle from the lowest shelf of her glass-fronted fridge, I caught sight of a fading framed photograph crookedly stuck to the large mirror which formed the back wall of the bar.
Squinted.
‘Who is that?’
‘Oh, that ... Just an old photo taken some sixty years ago when the bar was a thriving private club for gentlemen,’ I was told, ‘must have been one of the dancers.’
I gulped down my drink and walked out.
Tomorrow, I will check out of my hotel, stroll down Royal Street and head towards Canal, leaving the mighty flow of the Mississippi behind me, and I will wait for the rain to come and maybe I will melt away and meet her again on the other side of the humid New Orleans curtain of rain.
For sure.
Gulliver On Lillipussia by John McKeown
The doc wants me to write this, thinks it’ll help. She’s very nice but she thinks I’m crazy, permanently delerious after those weeks adrift at sea. But I’m not. I’m NOT! It all really happened. I can understand why she might believe my story’s just sexual hallucinations, given my history, which I told her about, which she lapped up; and I’ll admit, before the ship wrecked I was hornier than a rhino’s tusk. But I never had much of an imagination, so I don’t see how I could’ve produced anything as crazy as what happened to me. OK, to follow doctor’s orders then:
After the liner went down (I don’t want to go into that because it’s been in all the papers and on TV) I drifted for days; no sea charts, no flares, no radio, nothing but enough food and water for about a month. I’m not one to panic though – not enough imagination! Heh heh – I just hunkered down and waited to hit the shipping traffic, thinking what Mabel the poledancer at The Marie Celeste was going to do to me when I was rescued.
One minute it’s pitch black, with the stars shimmying up in the sky, the next I’m eating sand and warm salt water, face down on a hot beach, the sun beating on my bare back.
‘Must’ve overslept,’ I muttered, hoisting myself up and looking around: palm trees, beach, incoming surf. Then it all spun round and I blacked out again.
When things came back into focus I thought I must’ve died and gone to heaven. There’s a group of bare-legged, long-haired lovelies, in short, low-cut sarong-type outfits, whispering and cooing and stuff, right in front of me. One approaches and bends down to me and I see right down into the warm compressed curvatures of the most beautiful pair of knockers I’ve seen for months. I’m instantly alert. And I suddenly notice something odd. All of these lovelies, though fully-formed, mature young women, are no bigger than three feet high. The one bending over me’s about 3’ 4” or 5”.
Then she speaks.
‘Welcome to Lillipussia, Mr ...?’
As though it was the most normal situation in the world I answer, ‘Gulliver, Lawrence S Gulliver. Warrant Officer First Class.’
(I think I can be excused under the circumstances, for giving myself a little promotion. I’m actually just a humble ship’s grease-monkey).
My hostess was very polite, genteel even, as they all were, at first. But that all evaporated pretty quickly, I have to say, what with the fact that I was the only man they’d had on the island for ten years. To put it bluntly, those lovely little women were starving for some cock. And when I say little, I stress, they weren’t midgets, or deformed in any way, they were all perfectly, mouth-wateringly, formed; Playboy centrefolds in miniature.
You can imagine my state then. There I was, barely able to contain the massive boner that had been dogging me for weeks, surrounded by these gangs and crowds of very attentive females whose heads barely reached my balls.
I know what you’re thinking, I know ... I’m getting to that.
It began on the second night. Three of the little ladies had been assigned to attend to my wounds – just a few bruises and cuts from the wreck. They slept on mats around the edge of the palm shack they’d brought me into with much ceremony. It was getting harder and harder to sleep, listening to them whispering and shifting, and seeing their tight little arses cavorting across my sleepless mind. Suddenly I heard tittering and felt little hands patting my feet and legs. The fine reed mat that covered me was drawn off and the hands began smoothing and stroking my legs. I raised myself on an elbow but could see nothing.
‘We check you all OK all over? OK?’
‘OK with me, nurse. Check away.’
‘Lie down please.’
I lay back and felt the hands slipping light as pattering streams of water up my thighs. Automatically, I opened my legs. And the little cool hands, getting warmer by the minute, stopped and then folded around my balls.
‘We need light. Nurse!’
A light was struck. And what a scene!
My three nurses were stark naked. The blonde one had her hands on my exposed balls, smiling, while the other two knelt on either side of me, their eyes, shining in the light, hungrily taking me all in. I have very big balls. In the blonde’s hands they looked as big as overripe coconuts in a five-year-old’s.
She started squeezing them while the other two bent lower and lower, their big (for their size) breasts hanging, as they stooped in fascination.
Then my boner started stiffening with a vengeance. The three of them looked at each other then up at me with pleasurable alarm.
‘You OK, Larry?’
‘Me OK.’
‘Can you show us? We medical doctors. No worry.’
‘I’d be glad to oblige.’
I pulled it out of my shorts and they fell back with a real gasp of terror. The thing was even bigger than usual, in fact, it seemed to have grown a couple of inches.
‘It looks very sore, Larry. Me lick it, make it better. Yes?’
‘Oh ... Yes, OK.’
The blonde one took it in both hands and began pecking it at the tip. It was a bit like being pecked by a soft-beaked bird, quite pleasurable, but quite frustrating too. There was no way her mouth was big enough to take it in. They could sense my disappointment.
The other two began stroking it, and purring.
‘Poor Larry!’
That was a lot better. I lay back. While the blonde kept pecking and licking the tip, the dark haired one squeezed my balls and the redhead ran her hands up and down the shaft with increasing speed and intensity. She started moaning, and chanting some primitive song, and then, playing her wet little mouth along its bulging cords, she wrapped her long, long little shapely legs around it. I was seriously excited now. I don’t like to moan like a teenager, but what the hell, this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, Larry, let rip. So I set to moaning, and that really got my nurses senseless. Dark-hair pulled red-hair off and got her legs around it. Then blondie pulled her off and started rubbing it into her breasts. It went back and forth between the three of them until my head was spinning. Six titties rubbing against it, tanned thighs jacking it, three tongues licking and tickling. I was about ready to explode. But I wanted to explode in something.
They could read my mind.
The three of them lay down and spread their legs wide. Wide. Three beautiful soft red jewels glinted at me like tearful eyes. Beautiful but too small! I pressed my cock against each of them for form’s sake though. When I got to the blonde I almost felt it was going to go in. But she was wincing, and not with pleasure, and hey, I may be a grease-monkey from Port of New Orleans, but I’m a gentleman.
I looked down at them. They were stroking their own little pussies, little fingers slipping in, and trickles of juice slipping out. I had to start whacking myself off. We did it in time, a Lillipussian chamber quartet.
Then, we all had a eureka moment.
They stood up, three opened mouths, six fingers probing deep into three tightly weeping pussies; the three mouths formed the action of one on my cock. I closed my eyes. It was BEAUtiful! Three warm wet greedy suction cups slipping and sliding and suckering all over it. Their finger action got quicker. Their mouths wove my head in a net, touching and sweetly stinging like it was dipped in a hive of honey-mad bees. I felt my feet coming off the ground, tremors shooting up and down my legs. I swept them up in one ar
mful and threw them on my rush-bed, bent and kissed them all over, toes, legs, sucked at those pussies till they screamed, licked those breasts like a kid with fresh-pulled dollops of ice-cream. Then I leaned back and as they watched, panting, jacked all over them. Gouts of spunk flew out like gouts of Jackson Pollock paint between jerks. They grabbed at it, smearing it over their faces and hair and into those greedy little cock-starved pussies.
A real tsunami of sexual frenzy took over the island of the little women then. It would take more time than I have to describe the things we all got up to together, en masse, as the Frenchies say. I’ll just tell about the biggest gang-bang before I managed to escape.
They took me up to the extinct volcano in the centre of the island – a big hollow shallow crater – and filled the damn thing with all kinds of flowers that gave off a savage aphrodisiac aroma. They were all naked, and all drinking this home-brew that was enough to blow your head off just getting a whiff of it.
They had this lotion that had a numbing effect, a sort of anaesthetic, that they smeared all over my cock, this would delay my ejaculation, allowing as many of them to get a piece of me as possible.
I have to say here though, that cock of mine really had grown another six or seven inches, and about four inches wider. It was massive. I put it down to the radiation. From what the Chief told me there were atomic tests in that part of the Pacific years before. It certainly accounted for their small size and my inflation. The weird thing was, though, as I got bigger, they seemed to get smaller and smaller. It made them even crazier with frustration, as there was no remote possibility of my cock getting inside any of them. I think the smallest of them was the size of a Barbie doll.
Anyways, they laid me down in the centre of that crater, stark naked, with my cock smeared with the anaesthetic and my head full of the home-brew. Then they all retreated to the slopes, arranging themselves in a huge circle. Three of the most luscious ladies stayed to work me up into a towering hard-on. The smallest of them used it as a pole to do a wild pole dance, while the one with the biggest arse, bumped her big little soft arse against it, until her juices broke and dripped over the big red head like a pierced orange. Despite that anaesthetic I was about ready to shoot it up to the moon and the stars that were already appearing. The teaser-tasters disappeared then, and all was silent. Then I heard a long WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP! And the earth started to tremble with several hundred little feet running and jumping toward me.
Foreign Affairs Page 5