by Dale Peck
“Are you the one helping Silver Daddy out with the translations?” I asked her.
Tinkerbelle seemed rather offended. “Have you been talking to the tenants? If so, you’ve been grossly misinformed. I am Silver Daddy’s secretary—his right hand, so to speak. I sometimes also do the cooking for him,” she added, primly.
“Oh,” I said, immediately intimidated by her Dame Edith Evans manner.
“Silver Daddy is a gourmet chef, among other things,” Tinkerbelle continued, with a great deal of pride. “He taught me how to cook international dishes. I hope you like sushi.”
“It’s actually one of my favorites,” I said.
“Good. We’re having a complete Japanese menu tonight: miso soup, sushi, sashimi, and daikon. Silver Daddy’s on one of his kicks.”
Suddenly, Silver Daddy’s precocious fourteen-year-old daughter grand-jetéed into the room. An aspiring ballerina with feline green eyes and long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, she wore a pink tutu, pink tights, and pink satin toeshoes. She held out her hand and spoke with a puzzling accent that constantly shifted from French to Bela Lugosi pseudo-Hungarian.
“Good evening,” she said, “you must be George. My name is Porno. I’m Silver Daddy’s teenage daughter.”
I shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” I said, somewhat startled.
“AND HERE HE IS, LADIES . . . AMERICA’S OLDEST LIVING LEGEND: MY ESTEEMED FATHER, SILVER DADDY!!!” Porno announced brightly, like an emcee in some decadent Berlin cabaret.
Tinkerbelle bowed as if on cue, and I followed suit. Silver Daddy sauntered into the room, wearing a long black kimono, with a red sash tied around his Sumo wrestler waist.
I handed him a gift-wrapped package, trimmed with origami birds. “I brought you some persimmons.”
He sized me up slowly with his icy blue eyes. “DELIGHTFUL! Remind me to tell you one of my persimmon anecdotes someday. You know what they taste like, don’t you?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
“Japanese pussy, of course!” He chuckled at his own joke. Porno and Tinkerbelle clapped their hands and laughed along with him. “Shall we sit down and have dinner?” Silver Daddy gestured towards the table. “You must tell us all about yourself, George.”
We all sat down except Tinkerbelle. She flitted about like a dragonfly, serving the food, bringing dishes in and out of the room, smoking her endless cigarettes.
“You’re named after the George Sand, aren’t you?” Silver Daddy asked me.
“Actually, my parents thought they were being funny. I don’t think they had any idea who she really was,” I replied.
Silver Daddy frowned. “How painful. Have you ever read any of her novels?”
“No. “
“Oh, you must!” Porno chimed in. “I read all her work by the time I was twelve.”
Unimpressed by his daughter’s enthusiasm, Silver Daddy pointedly ignored her. “At least read her biography,” he advised me. “There are some good ones available these days. You may find it illuminating. She was a most interesting personality—particularly when she ran around with that musician Chopin!” He paused. “I hope you brought your work.”
I hesitated before answering. “I did. I wasn’t sure if l should, but—”
“Don’t be silly,” Silver Daddy interrupted. “I expected you to. How do you like the miso soup? Tinkerbelle made it herself, from scratch.”
“It’s organic,’’ Porno said, with the same enthusiasm. “Soybean’s the best thing for you. I was raised on it. Wasn’t I, Daddy?”
“Yes,” Silver Daddy sighed. He turned to me. “Her mother was a health food fanatic. Died at an early age.”
“No, she didn’t!” Porno declared, visibly annoyed. “You’re always saying that! Mama is alive and well in Arizona. Your first wife died at an early age. In childbirth, I believe,” Porno added, with a hint of irony.
“Having a baby is like shitting a giant watermelon,” Tinkerbelle suddenly intoned, sitting down at the table. She nibbled at her sushi.
“I wouldn’t know,” I murmured, blushing.
“Well, that’s all right,” Porno said, “’cause Tinkerbelle knows. Tinkerbelle likes to think she’s an authority on all subjects—don’t you, Tinker, dear?”
“It’s your father’s influence,” Tinkerbelle replied coolly. “Have some more sashimi, Porno.”
In a mournful, basso profundo voice, Silver Daddy began chanting:
There was a young man
from St. John’s
who went out to bugger
the swans,
when up stepped the porter
who said, “Take my daughter—
them swans is reserved
for the dons.”
Once more, Tinkerbelle and Porno applauded and giggled. “Daddy, you’re getting more academic in your old age,” Porno said.
“It’s difficult having a movie star for a daughter,” Silver Daddy said, stiffly.
I looked at the smiling Porno. “I didn’t know you were in the movies.”
“We don’t talk about it much around here,” Porno said. “Daddy forbids it.”
“I only forbid it because I’m not sure of my feelings,” Silver Daddy said. “You’re only fourteen years old. What would your mother have said if she knew? She’s probably turned over in her grave by now.”
Porno began pouting, her full, luscious lower lip trembling with emotion. “There you go again,” she accused her father. “Mama’s not dead. Your first wife is dead. Mama lives in Arizona. And she doesn’t care about me, one way or the other.”
Gazing at me with her green cat-eyes, she said, “Daddy likes to think he’s ahead of his time, but he can’t cope with the fact that I make pornographic movies.”
“Is that how you got your name?” I asked, losing my appetite.
“Yes. It’s my stage name. I hate my real name. Can you imagine some one as hip as Silver Daddy calling his daughter RUTH?”
“May I have some more sushi, please?” I asked Tinkerbelle, trying to conceal my embarrassment. All I’d wanted was a good meal and a positive start in my career.
“Have as much as you want,” Silver Daddy said grandly. “I love young girls with hearty appetites.”
“You certainly do,” Porno said.
“RUTH!” Silver Daddy barked, his icy blue eyes crackling. “You’re getting out of hand. I wish you’d shut up.”
I started to get up from the table. “Maybe I should leave . . .”
Tinkerbelle was horrified. “You can’t do that. You haven’t finished your dinner.”
“Certainly not,” Silver Daddy agreed. “I won’t allow it! Don’t let family intrigues spoil the evening for us, George.” He took a deep breath. “NOW—it’s time for my persimmons.”
I sat back down. Tinkerbelle handed Silver Daddy the bowl of persimmons.
Silver Daddy attacked the persimmons, slurping noisily and lasciviously. Once in a while he would look at me meaningfully. Porno watched her father eat the fruit with a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Daddy, do you know the title of my next film?”
He never stopped eating. “WHAT?” he grunted.
“Persimmons! I thought of you right away” She paused, but when her father didn’t react she began directing her comments to me. “I’m going to star in the loveliest film,” she began, in her childlike, faraway voice. “I shall lie spread-eagled on top of a concert grand piano, and my mouth shall remain open throughout the entire movie. See my mouth? I’ve been told I have the most sensuous mouth since Ingrid Bergman in Notorious—don’t I, Daddy?”
Silver Daddy reached for another persimmon.
“Two Arabian stallions prance around the room, their luxurious manes occasionally brushing against my extremely sensitive nipples,” Porno said, a slig
ht smile at the corners of her mouth. “The opening scene will be shot in slow motion, of course, with lots of diffused light and all that sort of thing. Then, Van Cliburn enters the room, totally unaware that I’m lying naked on his grand piano, and proceeds to play an extremely tacky rendition of ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”
“Hmmm. One of my favorites,” I murmured.
“Would you like some tea, or coffee?” Tinkerbelle asked me.
“Coffee.”
Tinkerbelle scurried out of the room, puffing on her Gauloise cigarette.
“. . . As I writhe sinuously atop the concert grand,” Porno went on, by now oblivious to everyone, “a leering Aubrey Beardsley-type dwarf waddles into the room, carrying a dome-covered silver platter. He removes the dome to reveal a quivering, asthmatic anteater. The anteater, of course, has no idea what’s going on. He crinkles his snout in the direction of my gaping, nubile honeypot.”
I was so mesmerized by this scenario that I was unaware of Tinkerbelle at my elbow, pouring coffee in my cup. Porno seemed like she was going deeper into a trancelike state.
“I lift up one leg in agonizing slow-motion, as the anteater’s tongue slithers slowly out. The whole thing is going to be choreographed like an excruciating, torrid ballet—by me, of course . . .”
“I didn’t realize you were so talented,” I said.
She ignored me. “The sticky tip of the anteater’s tongue explores my swollen clitoris, and I arch my supine back as a leering dwarf giggles. Van Cliburn sweats as the music crescendos, his flair in electric shock reminiscent of Elsa Lanchester in Bride of Frankenstein. The anteater, disappointed at having found no ants, turns away from my juicy honeypot and is suddenly grabbed by a leering dwarf, who by this time has an enormous hard-on.”
She paused, and for a moment her cat-eyes focused on me. “You know, little men have the biggest dicks, sometimes.”
She said this with a combination of innocence and matter-of-factness that reminded me of my friend Boogie.
“The leering dwarf pulls down his knickers and buggers the struggling anteater, who can’t escape the dwarf’s powerful embrace,” Porno said, panting excitedly. “Van Cliburn, oblivious to everything around him, is still crescendoing as five West Indians calypso into the room.”
I gulped my coffee.
“Ahhh,” Silver Daddy said, sucking on another persimmon, “neo-colonialism! The fucker and fuckee.”
Neo-Colonialism
“The first West Indian has a dick that’s long and thin, like a buffalo’s,” Porno said, breathlessly. “He enters me in the usual missionary position. I moan. He comes fast, like a junkie. The second West Indian has a dick that’s pointy, like a Masai spear. He turns me over—quickly, quickly—and enters me from behind, humping me like a horse. No, no,” she gasped, “not like a horse! Like an angry wolf!”
“An angry wolf in heat,” Silver Daddy added, solemnly.
Porno nodded in agreement, her green eyes glittering. “He pulls out and comes all over Van Clibum’s elegant, brand-new tuxedo. Van Cliburn doesn’t care, he continues his ‘Moonlight Sonata’ crescendo. The third West Indian has a dick that’s not too long, but rather thick and awesome. I can’t wait. He wraps my legs around his broad shoulders and proceeds to fuck me DEEP, with long, masterful strokes. By this time, the leering Beardsleyesque dwarf has rolled underneath the grand piano, grunting like a sow as he buggers the terrified anteater. Meanwhile, the fourth West Indian places his hook-shaped dick into my luscious, foaming, strawberry mouth.”
“More coffee?” Tinkerbelle poured me a second cup.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s very good.”
“It’s Blue Mountain coffee,” Tinkerbelle informed me. “Silver Daddy orders it especially from Jamaica.”
Porno had shut her eyes, looking more ethereal than ever. “The fifth West Indian is a beautiful, degenerate fawn—the only other star in the film. He sucks my prominent, aching nipples as he beats off his dick, which happens to be the longest, thickest, most cobralike dick anybody would ever want to see. By this time, I am shrieking and gasping for breath—in between dicks and tongues in my mouth, my honeypot, and God-knowswhere-else!”
She opened her eyes. “The fifth West Indian finally comes—like Niagara Falls—a never ending stream on my breasts, my eyes, and my warm creamy belly. He wipes his dick in my long straight hair, murmuring endearments in Spanish, Portuguese, French, and patois. Van Cliburn finally collapses, like a ragdoll on his piano stool. The leering dwarf reaches a violent orgasm, strangling the puzzled and terrified anteater.”
Silver Daddy smiled at no one in particular. “Salvador Dali enters the room, unlocking a cage filled with yellow butterflies—”
“Yes!” Porno exclaimed, radiant. “The butterflies hover over my sleeping body in the still, now-empty room. The film ends.”
No one said anything much after that. Tinkerbelle had settled into a smoke-filled reverie of her own, and Silver Daddy retreated into his bedroom with my manuscripts. After my fourth cup of coffee, I excused myself and went downstairs to my apartment. They didn’t bother to say goodnight.
My apartment was really a one-room studio, with a dingy closet of a kitchen and a gloomy bathroom where the roaches liked to hide. The best thing about it was the bathtub, a massive boat with lion’s paws that had definitely seen better days. I loved filling it with warm water and just sitting in it for hours, thinking. Unhappy with the mattress on the floor I was using to sleep on, I had even considered turning my wonderful bathtub into a bed.
I had left the apartment pretty much in the same state I had found it—the floor littered with papers of every shape and size, including newspapers. Almost all the papers belonged to the poet Paolo, although lately I had gotten in the habit of discarding my poems and stories in the same way—using the sheets of paper as rugs, haphazard decorations on the floor that floated in the air when the wind blew through the apartment.
I had taken to tacking some of my poems, finished and unfinished, on the walls next to or on top of the poems Paolo had glued on like wallpaper. In an eerie way, it made me feel safe and comfortable.
I called Boogie and invited him to see my new home. He seemed highly amused by my surroundings as soon as he walked through the door. I was impressed by his appearance—Boogie had always been very pretty, and his multicultural looks confused a lot of people. He could pass for Latino, Asian, even Native American. His eclectic way of dressing never betrayed the toughness behind the elegance, and I loved the way his beauty drove men and women crazy. Nothing seemed to disturb him, an attribute that could sometimes make me angry. But when I was feeling good about myself, I could think of no one else in the world whose opinion mattered more.
Tender Vittles
“Rover, Rover . . . ,” I called out softly. “This cat that is sometimes an animal and sometimes a man—where are you, Rover?”
Rover appeared suddenly, lounging like an alley cat on the fence next to my apartment building. I hadn’t seen him since our first encounter, and I missed him terribly. He leaped down nimbly off the fence, landing directly in front of me and grinning.
“Oh, Rover, where’ve you been? I’ve got so much to tell you.”
“Really? Hey, George, I got somethin’ for you. Somethin’ very important to me.” He grabbed me and pulled me toward him, startling me at first. Then we started dancing around wildly on the sidewalk. I was puzzled by his behavior, but then I got caught up by the sheer exuberance of the moment.
“I know why I love you,” Rover said, kissing me passionately.
“Why?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“I love you back,” I said. “I need to see you more. So much has been happening since I last saw you. I’m working on this musical project.”
“Tell me about it,” Rover said, playfully.
We went upstairs to my apartment and
made love for hours. I fell asleep. When I awoke the room was dark, and Rover had disappeared, leaving his white guitar behind him. A sheet of music paper lay on the pillow next to me:
Loving You Was Better Than Never At All
by Rover The Cat (BMI, ASCAP, MEOW)
A new song. I was overwhelmed by a sudden, terrible loneliness. I never had the chance to tell him about my musical project, and I was afraid I would never see him again. I got up from the disheveled bed, looked for my notebook, and began to write.
Sex Story
by Robert Glück
Brian undid the buttons of my levis one by one, pulled down my pants and Egyptian red cotton briefs; white skin and then my cock springs back from the elastic—“Hello, Old Timer.” A disappointing moment when possibilities are resolved and attention localized, however good it’s going to be. So it’s going to be a blow job—that’s nice. So it’s going to be sex—nice, but less than the world. That blow job defined the situation, then a predictable untangling of arms and legs and stripping off shoes and clothes, my jeans, his corduroys, lighting sand candles, putting on records, closing straw blinds, turning back sheets, turning off lights. Brian has a way of being naked a few minutes at a distance—he politely averts his eyes so I can study him unselfconsciously.
“From his small tough ears, his thick neck came down to his shoulders in a long wide column of muscles and cords that attached like artwork to the widened ‘V’ of his clavicle, pointing the way to his broad, almost football padded shoulders and then down to those muscular arms, covered with blond hair. The tits were firm, and never jiggled, though the nipples were almost the size of a woman’s, and seemed always to be in a state of excitement. A light patch of blond hair was growing like a wedge between them, and a long racing stripe of blond hair led the eye down over the contour of his rippling stomach muscles, past the hard navel, and streamlined down to a patch of only slightly darker pubic hair. There, in all its magnificence hung the ‘Doug.’ Its wide column of flesh arched out slightly from his body, curving out and downwards in its solidness to the pointing tip of its foreskin where the flesh parted slightly exposing the tip of a rosebud cockhead. The width of the big cock only partially hid a ripe big sack behind it, where two spheric globes of his balls swelled out on either side of it. The cock hung down freely, without the slightest sign of sexual arousal, and still it spanned downward a full third of the boy’s young strong legs.