The shock of his entrance makes me contract again harder and I struggle to throw off the blankets tented over us. “I have to see you,” I cry, frantic with need and sensation.
“Shh.” The sibilance rises as if from inside me. “You want everyone to see you?” Shit, that’s right. We aren’t alone in the room, this isn’t my husband, and I don’t even know his name! The blankets billow and a surge of heat escapes and suffuses my face. I see a glint that could be his eyes reflecting the low light from the stereo. He nuzzles between my breasts and rises up onto his hands, pumps once, twice and then slows. I love that feeling, of a turgid cock filling me, motionless but still throbbing from within. When our hips separate again, the tip sucks apart from my own lips with the sound of sloppy kiss. He inches back in halfway, then out, then halfway in again as I buck to receive him. “You’ll make me come again,” I warn, and feel him slide into me until his balls rest silky and cool on my arse.
“Not yet though,” I whisper. “Fuck me hard and I will,” and I grip his arse cheeks to pull him deeper. Wouldn’t those balls feel even bigger from behind, I think idly and then hear a throaty animal moan. Is that me? Did I say that out loud?
“From behind,” echoes in my ears and he must hear it too, because he withdraws just as I roll over onto my knees. I turn my head, aching to see the pussy-slick dick before it plunges back inside. First, he presses it into the cleft between my arse cheeks. His solid warmth pulses against my arsehole and I feel it grow pliant and yielding. Tad never touches me there. I didn’t know it could open so much, so easily. He could fuck me in the arse and I think I would like it!
Instead, he slides down until his slick head finds the more familiar entrance. He grips my hip-bones with his hands and plunges in. The instant his head reaches the top of my womb, I come again from deep inside. I hear a satisfied, animal grunt and then his solid middle finger finds my tighter hole and plunges in, impaling me in both places. Nothing could feel better than this – except two cocks? I imagine that his finger is just that, another cock filling me to the hilt.
Make me come hard, I order my phantom lover, and finally peak and ride on a wave of pleasure. He wraps one arm around me and pulls me against him as he drives into me. I feel his balls sway loose, then gather up and tighten. Come now, I urge him, as I watch a fine funk of sweat rise in a golden halo around us. If I hold still against him, let him pound me deep, I know he’ll come. He does, pulsing inside me over and over, shooting sperm deep into my belly as he sinks his finger just as deep into my arse one last time.
I lie gasping and listening to the sound of my breath against the rhythm of a blues melody. Time to turn that off. I can’t sleep with music playing.
I roll off the couch and crawl over to switch off the stereo. Just before the light fades, I look over at Maria and Greg, but it’s obvious that we haven’t disturbed them. We must have been quieter than it seemed inside my head. Beer makes everything sound louder.
I creep back under my blankets, and snuggle over against the spine of the couch. No warm body greets me. Maybe he went to the bathroom. Just as well, there isn’t that much room, I think as I drift off to sleep. Even though he is gone, in that last involuntary twitch of limbs and synapses that fire before sleep invades, I can still feel a cocoon of heat all about me.
Jack Kerouac, My Lover
Valerie (Los Angeles, USA)
A Preface, of Sorts
Possessing little money and no job but a few credit cards, I was ready to track Jack Kerouac down the big sexy American highway. I also wanted to fuck his ghost but I’ll get to that later. I’d just finished graduate school, all but my thesis, and had managed to convince my professors that – aside from giving me a great chance to see the country – retracing Kerouac’s steps across America would yield this last bit of required scholarship. My thesis committee consisted of two men and one woman and I was casually sleeping with all three, so my “convincing” obligated me to do a lot of sucking dick and eating pussy. I didn’t mind, of course, which will later become quite obvious; from the beginning, after all, my journey with Jack Kerouac would entail a lot of sex . . .
O! Jack Kerouac! my heart sang to hidden desire and fancy: my lover!
Route 66 exists only as a fragment of its former self, so I headed east on Interstate 10. Leaving Los Angeles in a rented Buick, I drove through the backside of the sunset into the empty deserts of Arizona, the endless stretches of land called Texas, the bogs and bayous of the South. The only thing we had less of than money was time: we were re-enacting Jack’s cross-country scrambles far more closely than I had ever intended, or wanted. Like Jack (my secret lover) when he complained in On The Road, we too were “rushing through the world without a chance to see it.”
Moving at this pace, my experience of place transmuted into a kaleidoscopic slide show flashing by at warp speed. I had less than six weeks to hit as many cities, straddling both coasts – legs spread, of course, and pussy wet and willing. The effort left me dazed and uninformed about the deeper histories of my ever-changing surroundings, mottling me in an intense mosaic of sensory impressions.
And, as I said, my pussy was always wet.
New York City in Two Days
Day 1
1 A.M.
Let’s say I’m on my way to New York. Let’s say I’m on the train. Its rhythm keeps rocking me to sleep, and then I wake up, worried about missing my stop – the route is, after all, unfamiliar. Let’s say the movement of the train makes me horny and I’m thinking about shoving my hand down my pants and fingering my little cunt. Let’s say I’m thinking about Kerouac’s declaration that the East is “brown and holy and California is white like washlines.” Let’s say I’m thinking brown is like a puckering arse and white is like thick gooey semen – I can taste both in my mouth as the train lurches forward. Ah yes: the difference between old and new. Old being decrepit and historic. New meaning clean and vacuous. Brings to mind the TV ads I saw when I was a kid, ads for cleansers. The whole homogenizing kind of television commercials that were so popular back then. I think about fresh-smelling bed sheets (the kind you sniff in a hotel room just before you’re about to get fucked by a stranger you met in the bar) and the scroungy apartment that’s got old dirty laundry on the floor (underwear stained with come, piss and shit) . . . yet has all kinds of stuff there. Like a vibrator in the drawer; a two-headed dildo under the bed; secret butt-plugs under the pillow.
Warm, very warm, air whisks by me. It smells unclean, like it is coming from the bathroom – and that makes my pussy contract as I think about giving Jack Kerouac a blowjob while he sits on the toilet, one hand on my head and the other holding a beer can. Faces reflect in the train’s window like pictures in a frame. After Jack comes in my mouth, he urinates.
I go into the bathroom. I pee and then I stick my hand between my legs and think of Jack’s deep green eyes.
Well, I’m in New York; I’m in Greenwich Village and I’m hitting that moment that I knew I would . . . when I’m beginning to wonder about the sanity of this whole idea of mine. Does it really make any difference to be where Kerouac was? Perhaps my conclusion will simply be that the thing about literature is: it takes you to worlds you might not otherwise get to see and explore, and the thing about On The Road is that it compelled more people to go to those places and see the world for themselves. Or so I’ve been led to believe. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. One of the things I think I’m finding is an understanding of Kerouac’s fascination with the open road because he lived in a place where he didn’t drive, where he didn’t need to drive. Being the one behind the wheel, and with the endless stretches of highway – it’s a new kind of freedom for him. It’s more of an extreme kind of freedom to him, whereas on the west coast we’re always behind the wheel and the open road is crowded with traffic –
I want to die in a car crash while being fucked in the backseat –
Yeah, I know that’s too much like Ballard’s Crash –
As for Jac
k – and Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady, his pal, his Huckleberry friend . . . just a diversion, an entertaining diversion for my Jack K. Because he ultimately had his suburban home to return to, his mama, and his middle class respectability. Places where Dean could never go. Dean was just a lark for JK.
Cassady had two wives. I bet he was a great fuck.
He looks like a hunk in his pictures.
I would have fucked Neal Cassady – then again, I’m pretty open to fucking any man or woman who is attracted to me and wants to make that quick, lovely physical connection.
Test question: Is the quest an excuse for living however you want to, without regard for anybody else or their feelings?
Times Square, one of the many places that is mentioned again and again throughout the time spent in New York within the pages of On The Road, and really it’s a terminus. It’s a terminus, and so I guess it becomes the landmark of arriving home for Kerouac.
I’m on Bowery Street, venturing into the part of town someone warned me against. “You’ll get raped if you’re alone.” Paranoia seeps in. This state of mind of mine – I came in open, trusting, willing. Now I find I’m closing myself off because I’ve been told that’s the “smart” thing to do. “Trust your sixth sense,” my waiter at the first cafe told me, but all I could do was look at his crotch and think about sucking his dick. My sixth sense is going all out of control and I feel as if I’ve dropped acid and walked into some strange parallel universe. Everyone’s noticing me, how out of place I appear. Everyone’s plotting scams. They all want to gang rape me. I’m testing my limits and finding out what they are. I want them to fuck me, I want to know what that’s like, because the whole point of this journey is to experience the extremes –
I will not be smart –
But I will follow my true heart.
I had initially harboured hopes of tapping into some wild, crazy mode, a network of irregular characters as adventurous as Moriarty, or as hip to the literary scene as Kerouac – the looseness with which they invaded the homes and lives of the people by whom they passed.
“Of course, all of this is much different from how it was in Kerouac’s time,” says Todd (he’s one of the hallowed two percent of the acting community able to actually earn a living in the theatre scene). “None of the places he hung out at are even around any more,” says Todd. He takes me through Times Square late at night and points out how the drug dealing that used to go on there back in the ‘50s has radiated much further out.
“What about prostitution?” I ask.
“There are always whores,” he says.
“Peep show booths?”
“Gone.”
“Live sex shows?”
“I doubt they existed.”
“Kiddie porn?”
“That’s a myth.”
“Donkey shows?”
“Only in Mexico.”
Todd takes me back to his tiny apartment in the Lower East Side and I let him fuck me on his musty futon. First, I take off my jeans and panties and he eats me out. He comments on how wet and sticky my cunt is. My cunt smells strong, maybe bad. Todd likes the stink, he keeps rubbing his nose into it. “What a nice little pussy,” he says. I say it’s always dripping and always wants to be fucked. “Are you always this quick and easy?” he says. “I’ve barely known you for two hours,” he says.
I shrug.
He says, “Do you want me to wear a condom?”
“It’s up to you.”
“I’m clean and safe. Are you?”
“Yes,” I say.
His dick is curved like a banana. I ask if he wants me to suck it. “I have to fuck you right this minute,” he says. He lifts my legs onto his shoulders and he fucks me.
I scream when I come; that curved cock does the trick.
Later, I suck his dick and he shoots off in my mouth.
Phoned one of my professors earlier, complained how the wild literary crowd Kerouac ran with is unavailable to me. That even if it exists today, I’m not tapped into it. He said that the network of Kerouac’s time is no longer around. That the literary community of the 21st century is disjointed. He’d given me a long list of writer friends of his before I left. He gave them all advance notice that I was an eager girl and willing to spread my legs and explore the literary possibilities of being a total slut. “Fuck them all,” my professor said. “They are lonely men of American letters.” Looking at it now, I see what he means: they’re scattered all over the country. Many of them don’t even know one another.
For instance, last night in Philadelphia, I sat on a living room couch with a writer named Ed, going through the collection of photographs he’d taken over the years. He’s got so much passion for photography – a skill and talent. He didn’t pursue it as a career because he thought it would prevent him from being the kind of husband and father he wanted to be. He traded away that passion in favour of stability. I asked where his family was now. He said his wife had divorced him and his son and daughter were grown up and had their own families. Ed’s fifty-two. He gently placed his hand on the back of my neck and told me to blow him. He didn’t ask, he ordered me to. I said: “Okay, take it out.” He did and I buried my face into his crotch and satisfied his need.
“How old are you, my dear?” he asked after we had some wine.
“Twenty-seven,” I said.
“You’re younger than . . .”
“What? Who?”
“Never mind.”
“Do you want to screw me?” I asked.
“Very much so,” he said.
In bed, I allowed him to do me anally because he said his wife would never let him do that and he was curious what it was like. “I’ve never done it with anyone,” he said. “I feel I’ve missed out on a lot of things in life.”
Kerouac wrote feverishly of something he called IT: “the point of ecstasy” he’d always wanted to reach, a “complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows” where he finds himself “hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncertain emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiance shining in bright Mind Essence, innumerable lotuslands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven.”
Ed said into my ear: “Being up your arse is like Heaven.”
Capturing life’s brightest flame within your hands, yes? George Eliot wrote that:
The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. (Middlemarch)
Maybe Ed found IT, after all.
4 A.M.
Saw a western tonight in New York City. Between fucks: the TV on. The myth that propelled Kerouac down the road. “It’s ironic . . . to be in New York, watching a western,” I say to Todd – I being a westerner, having driven through those spaces only a week ago.
“Do you want to stay and fuck more?” Todd asks.
I tell him sure, sounds fun.
“If you’re really into sex, I know some guys who’d love to do you.”
“Pimp me out on Times Square,” I say, and laugh.
He laughs.
He kisses me.
I turn away.
“You don’t like kisses?” he asks.
“Too intimate,” I say.
“So what’s this?” he says, touching my wet pussy.
“Fucking,” I say, “nothing more, nothing less.”
Day 2
11 A.M.
St Mark’s Bookstore. It overwhelms me. The shelves go up twenty feet into the air, and they’re all filled. I see a photograph of Drew Barrymore on the cover of a magazine. She looks like a little girl. It makes me think – that’s exactly what women are in our society. What they’re supposed to look like, anyway. They’re supposed to be little girls. Men like little girls – or women who look like little girls. The fantasy thing.
I wonder what Jack fantasized about.
<
br /> I can see now why New Yorkers are so hooked on their city.
People, before I got here, talked about how Soho and Greenwich Village have grown trendy, gentrified, tourist sights. Yet if I’m seeking the literary community, I am told the Village (the East Village to be precise) is still the place to go.
I gravitate toward a restaurant called Dojo, and wind up sitting between a Czechoslovakian student and Peter – he’s a fund-raiser for PBS who recently returned here after a nine-year stint in L.A. (When he was in L.A., we went to bed a couple of times.)
“Allen Ginsberg1 used to live in this neighbourhood,” the Czech student says to me. “Sometimes you can see his ghost passing by.”
Peter says he prefers New Yorkers because they have substance. “L.A. is so pretentious,” he says. “People there have to find out what hill you live on, what kind of car you drive, before they decide if they want to know you.”
“The people in New York are real,” says Peter.
I write a small poem on a napkin:
I am in “brown & holy” East
I watch
westerns
starring Clint Eastwood, leather
shops of cowboy fringe
I am silent inside
& my cunt always
wants to be filled
I go with Peter and the Czech student back to Peter’s place in the Village. There, the three of us get nasty. They take turns “mouth-fucking” me with their cocks – that’s what they call it, that’s what Peter says: “Can your mouth take a fucking like you were getting it in your twat?” I said I suppose so. First I’m on my knees and they take turns, holding my head, moving their cocks in and out of my mouth like pistons. Then I lie on Peter’s bed and each guy hovers over me and pounds his cock down my throat. It chokes me, there’s saliva and pre-come flying everywhere, my mascara is smudged and runny – I find this all very sexy and as they mouth-fuck I play with my clit and I reach orgasm over and over again. I could be satisfied just with this but then Peter and the Czech student fuck my pussy, then I find myself on top the student and Peter is sliding into my arsehole. I close my eyes and imagine that I am being fucked by Jack and Neal, Sal and Dean: we’re in a motel someplace, somewhere on the road, and I let them do anything they want to me, like I allow Peter and the Czech do what they desire to my body.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 23