Intimates: A Journey Towards Sacred Sexuality
Page 18
CHAPTER B
"Ex-er!" flags him down.
It was another flower athlete: needing the blossom!
Xer smiles at him, his best business smile; knows the face, so it’s a slick exchange.
He watches him stride away - in what he’s heard the girls call a "manly stride" - as if he’s going somewhere and you better chase him and catch him or he’ll be there without you! Xer snickers to no one but himself. Not a blossom man - Never! - he prefers the ancient way: blood!
Clinking a glass: "Blood!" and the five guzzle it down; two vines yet to consume - If it weren’t for the flower athletes....! a silent toast: solitary, but if he had asked, all would have chorused: "Flowers!" and slung down another and another and another ... "It pays the bills," he has said to more than one virtuous girl - "Have to keep away from those Mormon chicks!" gulping another silent toast: as it warms him, he knows he won’t: Can’t!
He knows that the easy-ones become too easy. That there’s always some who were on their way down long before he came by; that he was but pretext. They’d protest - Afterwards! - that it was the smoke, "I inhaled your smoke!" as if he had gotten them pregnant, but he laughs, since he doesn’t smoke dope, just cheap stogies. Anyways, he lets them indict him; cry and cast all the damnations of their fathers upon him, threats of burly brothers, "Break your nose!" - he could see his nose more cubed than the ancient Cubists!
"Kissing you made me drunk! Now look at me!" - so, why did he care? Don’t. It’s all sob-story and sin and guilt which would make sense to lots of guys, but not him, not religious by any stretch. "Did some time in Bible Camp!" he’d joke, but he didn’t care a might. Just as long as he’d get his, What the fuck?!
Blood-sucking over: Xer heads-out on his own hunt, for his own pleasure. He likes seducing the "good girls" - and, he had to admit, there was something woefully pleasurable in all their recriminations and confessions and harrowing sobs of "losing my soul!" ... it was like a loop, an ellipse or something: Fuck at one end, then Forgiveness at the other, then looping back to Fuck: but, sometimes, it got tiring, too predictable. That’s where he’s tonight.
"Pandora’s Box" lights up the street-night. Not that it was garish, just bright. Brighter than it was clear: the lettering was smudged - no other word for Xer: they run together is what his eyes say as they roll over the letters, but, as with its other intended clientele, once he had found it, finding it again was simply a matter of locating this bright gleam at the north end of campus.
Inside was as dark as the perimeter had been bright.
"Garishly dark?" amused him.
It took moments of visual decompression to adjust: but he was finally in.
"The usual?"
A nod and the already poured mug of wine: not blood as he liked blood, always too watered-down, but it was sweet, and that carried the moment, for he was here to burn energy: "Fill ‘er up!" as he swigged it down and took a second: the waitress had not moved: Xer is a regular.
Boom, boom! Just two thunderous strikes: electrified and frying the air - Everyone turns: Xer turns - "And now!," overdone in voice, dress, sloppy make-up: "And now! Lacy Lily!"
Xer tries to keep his hard down - even pops ("Only here!") a low-meg "dead-eye-dick": not wanting his cock to see! ... The first time he had seen her, he had been mugged: by his own prick! Popped out and blasted him away before she had really even begun. He doesn’t want that anymore; not now.
"The Box," as most college-boys like to call it, has seen a lot of talent. Had become a debutante stage for waves of college-girls trying to make a quick buck the easy way. Many famed reputations - and a few lame ones - have been made at The Box. But none had ever come on as quickly as Lacy Lily’s.
Festooned is the only word - not that any of the boys were comparing adjectives - but she is Lace. Wrapped, almost cocooned, but subtlely - and this was her way, the way of the slightest tease and the most mis-directing come-hither shimmy - subtlely: a slight breeze sucking to soundless whirlwind: Lily is unwinding herself: Xer sees it - she is lashed and tied, this which savages their first-sight, for she is not just dressed, not just wrapped: she is captive, your captive, Xer’s captive, captured but Oh!, ever so free! she with a dainty shoulder-shudder here and a coy chesty-shiver and sigh there slowly unfurls as she winds you up: Xer is being bound, happy to be bound! ... all the boys are in collective capture and rapture, for Lily is gossamer lace upon her shoulders, sinuous shawl gliding, revealing the faintest of pearl-dew upon her breasts, holding her, cupping her, every man feeling his hands cupping her, and they float away as she turns and the amazement of her breasts is not that they are exceptionally beautiful or distinctly physical but that they are gifts - delicate: intricate, elegant: fragile lace: hand-crochet: falling like sun-shower snow, a slight fluttering fall; breasts are her name-sake flower, ivory petals: belles with roseate berries: blossoms all of a sudden, no longer captive, yet only free because each boy is shouting her name, Lily! - each boy receiving her: and she is in full-bloom, shedding her skirt as if walking out from high grass: emerging, Xer and each boy, by this time, forgetful of their drugs and drink, drinking only herself as blood; their common cock all sprung to life, defying any restraint, any jailer ... there are boys ejaculating in private, some tipping hand-jacking waitresses, others mastering the fire, chasing it back, but ever throwing more fuel of desire upon it: Lily is but high-heels: pearled with diamond-spars, and masked betrayal of veiled face: a misty, pearlescent drape of mystifying allure, baring only elusive lips: rumor is that her eyes are pure pearl-blue: moonbeams! that her face is flawless maiden flesh! that her nymphish lips are opalescent: not human lips, but lips of blazing pure light ... for the rumors are that Lily is a fallen-away former Catholic nun, one yet fully Virgin; another, that she is a Goddess, a Tantric Goddess of Yore come back to announce a new Age of Free Love ... rumors! rumors! what did Xer care? what did any boy care? It is known that no one knows who Lily is: that her pearl-eye veil has never been lifted ... Still it is truly her voice which vexes: a voice beguiling in innocence, a voice so ageless, at once the timbre of maturity: maternal yet trilled by a plaint, a quavering cry, almost a whimper of childish ardour: her baffling voice which suckles the stuff of rumors, the passion of legends: "Boys!" as if breathed from her heart!: "Boys! I desire you," with a suppliant bend and her breasts are petted by every boy there: Xer pets her, his tongue is sand: "Boys! I desire you," with a hand on hip and backwards glance at them: that shrouded gaze, interpreted by each as each so desires, but by all as, "You are the one!"; her ass, a marvel to behold! precious! calls them home, "Boys!" and the tension in their collective thighs is at iron-wrought and grenade-pin-yanked: "Boys! I desire you," with the full recline upon the stage’s only prop: a divan, one so small that it simply form-fits her body, such that as she reclines it appears that she is floating: vaporishly flutters her arms back, artlessly spreads her legs, slowly, gracefully, like a soft, sweet-kissing, so her legs welcome, beckon: cherry lips offered to all there awaiting her only kiss ... in one swoop of enthralled imagining all kissing her and adoring her: she - By what alchemy?! - enrages them, infuriates them, enflames them: they hurl at her every power contained within themselves: groans, desires, hatreds, love, fear, amazement ... a panoply of imagination most manifest in their collective exhalation: their collective ejaculation of body and soul, "Lily!"