Dark Matter (Modern Erotic Classics)

by Michael Perkins

  “Buddy. That’s my name. I wonder...” I heard the curtain start to close and fumbled for my last token.

  “What?”

  “Can I see you outside here?”

  “That’s not allowed,” she said, her eyes saying something else. In and out, in and out, was pounding in my head.

  “I’ve got to fuck you.”

  “You’ll kill me with that thing, you put that serpent up inside my little chocha.”

  I had her attention now. She wanted to feel it for herself.

  Her hands were squeezing her tits hard, so the taut flesh bunched up, brown and satiny. She smiled sweetly.

  I wanted to see how much of a slut she was. I wanted to give her a reason hotter than curiosity to want me like I wanted her. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cabby’s wad.

  Her eyes nearly crossed. “Plenty of dollars for Pearl Dollar,” she crooned approvingly.

  “Is there anything you won’t do?”

  “Looks like you have got what it takes for a girl to have some real fun.”

  “Where can I find you?”

  “Hotel Napa. It’s in the Tenderloin on Eddy Street.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t get off for an hour.”

  “I’ll walk around, see what San Francisco’s like, I guess.”

  “Not with that, honey. Not unless it rolls back up.”

  She was right. It was a stone boner. I couldn’t stuff it back in my pants.

  “I hate to see that go to waste,” she said slowly, licking those cock-cushion lips.

  “Do me right here. Just a lick and a promise is all I need....”

  “If Albert or George catch me, my ass is grass. This is not a house of prostitution they tell us all the time. Just sleaze and tease, that’s what we do here.”

  She sank to her knees with the glass between us and opened her mouth, bringing it close to the glass, wiggling her tongue and pointing it like she wanted to stick it in the tip of my dick. I moved closer, and bumped into the glass.

  “It won’t take more than a second,” I promised her. “Come on in here with me.”

  She just wanted to see if I’d beg.

  “You want a free sample, you mean?”

  “How’s this?” I guess the sum I held up was enough to impress her. The curtains closed. She was gone, and I was left, but then the door was being pressed against, and she squeezed in, kneeling on my duffel bag. She knew what heat was: no sooner had I closed my hands over her ears, pulling her to me, then she had half my aching gristle down her slippery throat. She was hungry but she couldn’t swallow it all.

  There was a rapping on the door, but I didn’t know if it was really knocking or the sexy slurping sounds Dollar was making as she sucked. I couldn’t have stopped if you’d put a gun to my head. Then the train roared out of the tunnel and my entire being focused on the flash of coming: I shot spurt after spurt and her tongue just lapped like a kitten’s until she’d swallowed it all. God bless her.

  We were both panting. Maybe two minutes had gone by. The knocking continued, rattling the thin door.

  “It’s Albert. Just tell him I’ll take care of him, too.”

  I zipped up, still gasping, heart like a damn hammer, and turned sideways to open the door, leaving her on her knees looking up at me with my come on her lips.

  “After you, he’ll be like nothing at all.”

  “I need my bag.” She moved and I picked it up, left her kneeling in prayer.

  Albert stood glaring at me, fist half raised. He was the same African-American gentleman who’d inquired about my taste for black pussy.

  I slipped him a twenty off the wad and pushed by.

  “You’re next, Albert. Treat her right.”

  I looked back when I’d crossed the dark room, and saw the door moving, like he was banging it with his ass as she sucked him off for dessert.

  Or maybe he liked something a little kinkier.

  VII

  Anyguy at Home

  Outside the Pussy Palace the neon lights were popping on. The strip clubs, topless bars and restaurants were drawing customers. I walked through North Beach asking directions to the Tenderloin. I thought I’d head straight to the Hotel Napa for the main course with Dollar.

  Yahoo! I liked San Francisco, big time. I liked the way the people strutted down the street like they weren’t afraid of being sexy. I liked the Chinese guys with their fruit stands. The barkers — all ugly little fucks — standing outside their own pussy palaces. It seemed to me that it was a wide-open town with its own rules. Civilised, like I’d never seen.

  Then I ran across the homeless. You hear about them back where I grew up, in the trailer parks, but you can’t believe such pathetic examples of human life can exist, like cockroaches. Old ladies with shopping carts. Young guys with one leg. Everybody begging. It was disgusting. Shit, with a .22 they could have done some damage. No guts.

  I saw an old Indian sitting in the doorway of a closed theatre. I guess by then I’d walked down those slanting streets to the Tenderloin. I read his sign first, like you always do:

  PLEASE HELP

  Native American Elder needs a bus ticket

  to go home where he can RIP.

  I couldn’t help wondering whether RIP meant he wanted to go back to the reservation and Rest In Peace or go back to his favourite bar and Rip It Up. So I looked at the old guy, while he looked me over. Then he closed his eyes like a turtle.

  He wore a black hat with a beaded band on it over his white braids, a red shirt with a big collar. Silver rings on his hands. He was missing a tooth. A real grandfather Indian, just like in the movies. There was a cigar box in front of him with some coins and a five dollar bill in it.

  I would have gone on past him, but with that big-nosed face he could have been fucking Geronimo. Geronimo was cool. I dropped a token from the Pussy Palace into his box and he opened his eyes and looked up at me. He blinked, like he couldn’t believe he was looking at me, Buddy Tate. Then he reached in and picked up the token.

  “What the hell’s this?” he croaked.

  “A token for a booth in the Pussy Palace, if it’s any use to you.”

  “I can get it up.” His blanket came open and he showed me the big knife in his fist. I stepped back.

  “Don’t disrespect this old Indian. I’ll cut your heart out and eat it for a snack, right here on Market Street.”

  “No offence intended, Geronimo.”

  “He was an Apache. I’m Ahlone, from right around here.”

  “So why does your sign say you want to so back to the reservation?”

  “People think Indians belong on the rez. They’re not going to put money in the box to keep me in my home town.”

  “I’ve never seen an Indian begging before.”

  “Other Indians got some land to call their own. They have a language. Ahlone got nothing.”

  “You don’t speak your own language?”

  “I speak only one: green dollars. Money. Give back what you took from us. Drop it right in my box.”

  He smiled, not a pretty sight. One tooth missing, the rest black. He must have said that line a thousand times, then smiled.

  “You must know this neighbourhood pretty well. Maybe you can tell me how to get to the Napa Hotel.”

  “It’s on Eddy Street. Lots of fine women hang out there.”

  “I’m on my way to meet one of them.”

  “Well, that’s good. You look like a strong young man. You got energy, I can see that.”

  “That’s what she said, too.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A girl I met at the Pussy Palace named Dollar.”

  That big-assed smiled flashed again.

  “You know her?”

  “I know Dollar well. A credit to her sex.” He even chuckled. Dirty old man, goddamn. In and out, in and out.

  But I’m not the jealous type. As long as I can rent it, I don’t have to own it.

  “Well, I’ve
got an appointment with her, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “You’re a lucky boy. Drop some money in the box, and I’ll watch out for your luck for you.”

  It wasn’t my money, why not spread it around? I dropped a twenty in his box.

  “Now we’re blood brothers,” he told me, making the bill disappear in his blanket. “Any time you want my services, just ask for Inigahi.”

  “That just went right by me,” I told him.

  “In-ee-gah-hee.”

  “Well, if you say so. I’m Buddy Tate.”

  “Everybody calls me Anyguy. You want a drink?” He pulled out a hip flask and took a swig before handing it to me. It wasn’t some old bum’s brown bottle, but a silver flask inlaid with turquoise. I tasted brandy and passed it back.

  “See you around, Anyguy. Keep an eye on my luck, like you said.”

  “You watch out for that girl. She’s real bad.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  VIII

  Tattoo Me!

  The Hotel Napa had seen better days a long time ago. There was a metal grill over its big lobby window. Everything inside was shabby and tired. I thought for a minute about what I might be letting myself in for — what if Dollar had a badass boyfriend waiting for me? But there was nothing I wouldn’t do to have her by myself on a bed. I would ride her like a pony, and she would know where to go.

  I took an old elevator to the floor Dollar told me to go to and knocked on a door. Dollar opened it slowly, and there she was, stark naked. She had a big grin on her face and her eyes were on my zipper. I didn’t flinch, just stepped forward and shut the door behind me. We stood about six inches from each other breathing in, breathing out. Then I grabbed her around the waist and put my tongue between those cock cushion lips. Just licked the inside of her mouth. It was sweet and musky with cigarettes, a taste that always turns me on.

  Her hand was in my zipper in a flash. Out popped Old Willie and she grabbed him at the throat and choked him. We hurried into the bedroom.

  “Now it’s my turn, honey. You know I like it long and slow.”

  I fell on the bed. “Well, let’s get started.”

  “You got something for me, honey?”

  Money was no object. She slipped a condom on me and licked it wet. She had a way of turning up my thermometer that made me forget everything. For a minute I held onto her head, digging my fingers into her kinky, oily hair, and fucked her face. But I wasn’t going to let her off that easily. I wanted her pussy this time. I wanted all of her so bad it hurt.

  I cooled off by spreading her legs and putting my tongue in her tiny slit. I settled in for a good long taste, and pretty soon she was thrashing around on the bed trying to get loose from my tongue fucking her. But I knew she was only pretending, the way whores do, so I just kept on. Sucked her little bud until it was hard as a marble.

  When she came, when she really came, I had to get out of the way. I just sat on the edge of the bed, mouth dripping with her juices, watching her roll around on the sheets, pulling them in rucks around her, pillow stuffed in her mouth so she could scream. I noticed she had a tattoo on her back of a dragon, which was about to take a bite out of a big dick.

  When she stopped, I turned her over on her belly and slid it in the back way, holding onto her titties as I moved in and out. I made it last the way I taught myself to do when I was just starting out. Then, when I was ready, I really let loose and by then she was begging for it. Size didn’t seem to bother her now, she was just gasping and screaming into the pillow. Junior had stretched her out and the fit wasn’t tight enough so I pulled out and plugged into her butt. Now that was tight. My head came off.

  In and out, in and out.

  We collapsed and shivered together, the electricity zipping through us.

  She had a cigarette and teased me by dropping hot ashes on my belly. I looked at her firm caramel body and felt lucky. I guess the Indian was looking out for me.

  San Francisco, here I came!

  “You’re naked,” she said.

  “You’re telling me. So are you.”

  “I mean, you don’t have any tattoos.”

  “You mean like the one on your back?”

  “You like my dragon?”

  “I like your dragon. I like your ass, I like your tits, I like your mouth, I like your eyes, I love your pussy....”

  “I’ve never had a redhead before. Are they all as big as you?”

  “No. This cock is custom made. Hand-stretched, you might say.

  “I think you should have a tattoo. I’ll send you to a friend of mine. Star’s a real artist. He’ll give you a good one.”

  I figured she probably got a commission from the guy for telling all her clients they should get tattooed. Little did I know.

  “Why should I get a tattoo?”

  “So other people like you can recognise you. Like a signal.”

  “Nobody’s like me. I’m Buddy Tate. I’ll be famous one day.”

  “I’ll bet you will. But in the meantime, you’re special, and you should have a tattoo to say what kind of special you are.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” That got her mad.

  “No, and he doesn’t need your business either! Dollar’s just giving you some good advice. Just call me the Welcome Wagon.”

  First the Indian, and now Dollar. Everyone was looking out for me. It was a good sign, because I thought I’d probably need every bit of help I could get.

  I rode the Welcome Wagon until we both fell asleep.

  IX

  Lightning, Meet Thunder

  I write in here so people will know who I am in the future. What I am right now I don’t know, but maybe people in the next century will be able to put it all together. They’ll read this little notebook and think about the late, great Buddy Tate... and maybe about how much fun he had in bed.

  I woke up with a sore penis. This happens sometimes in a man’s life if he’s lucky. There was a note from sweet bad Dollar taped to the bathroom mirror. I didn’t look in the mirror but I read the note.

  “You are my kind of guy but a tattoo makes a boy a man. Go see Star at the Asterion Studio. 16th Street.”

  There was a white tissue on the sink that she’d blotted her lips on, like she’d left me one last red kiss. She’d forgotten her lipstick. When we were playing in bed she’d put some on her pussy and then let me lick it, so my face was smeared with her lipstick and her juices. I put the lipstick in my pocket.

  I thought about it. If tattoos turned the lady on, I’d get a tattoo. I’m easy that way. I figured what the fuck, destiny knocked, you know?

  I got dressed and left the Hotel Napa after sliding my duffel bag under the unmade bed. I carried K. Farouk’s .38 and his roll in my jacket pocket.

  I bought a map so I could find my way from the Tenderloin to the Mission and started towards 16th Street. It was a cool, sunny afternoon and as I walked along I looked into store windows, not noticed by the people in restaurants and bookstores, grocery stores and thrift stores. After a while I started to feel invisible again and depressed.

  I saw a cab at a crosswalk and got in. It cost me $10.00 to get to 16th Street but the driver didn’t try to cheat this time. He said he was from the Kingdom of Serbia, so I guess he didn’t hang out with people named K. Farouk.

  Asterion Studio was a storefront painted black. There was a metal door with a small sign:

  ASTERION STUDIO

  FINE TATTOOING

  By Appointment Only

  Next to the door was a mirror where a window should have been. I stood there looking at it like I was hypnotised. I used to be afraid of mirrors. If I went into rest rooms or stores I avoided looking at them. I knew if I looked into them I’d see somebody who wasn’t me. I was convinced that the person in the mirror was someone imitating me. That’s what I thought for a long time. Then I decided that it didn’t matter if it wasn’t me. I’d pretend it was. If the Buddy Tate in the mirror was playing me, I was playing
him.

  Now I couldn’t pass a mirror without looking, and saying to myself, hey, that’s me. I really do exist, after all. Sort of.

  So I stood looking at myself in the mirror outside the Asterion Studio, wondering if I had the nerve to get a tattoo. Needles make me nervous. The idea or some guy working on my body wasn’t so pleasant, either.

  I put on my sunglasses, took them off. Combed my hair.

  Winked. The features worked just like those on a ventriloquist’s dummy. I wasn’t bad looking, just strange looking. My Adam’s apple was too big, my nose had a bump in it, and when you have red hair and fair skin it looks like you don’t have eyebrows. I don’t think people like my eyes. Don’t trust them. Well, they shouldn’t.

  I went to push the bell on the door, but the mirror held me so I couldn’t move. Suddenly I was afraid it would show me my future. I was stuck.

  There I was, Buddy Tate, and I was a big man. Ten feet tall in the camera eye. Everyone saw me. They couldn’t miss me. Then I blinked, and I was getting smaller — tiny, tiny, tiny — with a little teensy tiny voice like a fly must have, and no one paying any attention at all around me.

  I got a chill, believing for a minute that I was disappearing, that I would vanish, and nobody would be in the mirror. No Buddy Tate. I don’t know why, but I took Dollar’s lipstick out of my pocket in self defence, like it was a magic charm that I could use to show people my power. I struck at the mirror that was vanishing me and cut it twice, like this — ‘X’.

  When I was a kid, I would’ve run away after doing something like that. But I wasn’t a kid, and I wasn’t going to make myself invisible, into nothing. So I rang the doorbell and heard it buzz inside. I stepped back quickly when it opened.

  A man filled the doorway, a muscular guy with a five pointed star on his forehead between his eyes.

  “Halloween was last week. You missed a beat there.”

  He didn’t sound pissed off, like I expected. I decided to tell him what I’d come for.

  “I’m here for a tattoo people will notice.”