Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (21 page)

I Have Seen The Future And It Is Full Of Big Dicks

Horehound Stillpoint

Tennessee Williams never choked to death on a stray bottle cap

No matter how insistently the media reported this at the time

According to my new buddy, Bill

Who was friend and neighbor to the author of
Streetcar
Named
Desire

Glass
Menagerie
and
Suddenly
,
Last
Summer

Tennessee choked on a big dick and died

When I gently protest, having had my share of monster cock

and not being able to imagine one of them so stuck in my throat

I could die

Bill proclaims it happens and he knows it happens

because another friend of his also died choking on a big dick

I only met Bill a few hours ago but already I am learning so much

He met me on the stairs to his apartment and asked:

“Are you the new volunteer from New Life?”

It’s New Leaf but I don’t have the heart to correct such a clever mistake

“I’m 97 years old,” he throws out there. “No, 91.”

When he settles on 94, I don’t know if it’s the truth

or just a nice compromise

“Are you gay?” is his third or forth question, and thank God I am

His conversational skills center—squarely—on the topic of big dicks

Though he also announces that Marlon Brando had a micro-dick

It’s only in passing, a throwaway line, before getting back to business

Humphrey Bogart couldn’t get a star-making role on Broadway

even though he did have a big dick

Bogart was short and not classically handsome

So he went out to Hollywood where “they know what to do with big dicks”

says Bill, adding, by the by, “He was gay, too”

Come on, Bill, I objected, what about him and Lauren Bacall

“Lauren Bacall,” he harumphed, “married gay men with great regularity

“She was straight, though, unlike Katherine Hepburn

“Of course, Kate made a big show of being with that other guy with a big dick

who was also gay”

You mean Spencer Tracy?

You should see Bill smile when I come up with the name of the star

he’s trying to talk about

We’re getting on like gangbusters

I mean, this is the best conversation I’ve had in ten years

At some point I do interrupt to ask him

can we get back to Marlon Brando for a second

I mean, how do you know

he had a small dick

“I told you, I was great friends with Tennessee and he knew everything

about everyone

“Besides that, my best friend was Maynard Morrison who was a casting

director on Broadway and he sucked everyone off

“AND besides that, Marlon Brando was totally gay, not bisexual, GAY

and he used to cruise the bushes in Central Park like we all did

and no one would play with him, because [raises little finger & wags]

“Oh, you know who else had a little dick?

That German guy who starred in Marlene Dietrich’s last movie

the one in which she wore that big hat all the time”

We don’t come up with his name, and Bill is almost in tears

He can’t talk anymore, he says

He can’t write

He used to write, under a pseudonym, oh lord, he can’t remember

the title of either of the two books he wrote

All his friends are dead

All his family members, not just parents, brothers and sisters

but cousins, and nieces and nephews, all dead

After an hour, he says that besides Richard, the other volunteer from New Leaf

I’m the only friend he’s got

I’ve already seen evidence to the contrary, because his neighbors
love
him

Richard, he complains, “only comes to look through my book of big dicks”

while he lets Bill watch some old opera on his DVD player

Okay, so Bill plays fast and loose with the truth, I think

We laugh all afternoon

He doesn’t want to have sex anymore

He can’t read, his mind is fading, and his body is falling apart

He does like to watch opera but his real joy is talking about big dicks

We’ll get along just fine, I tell him

We have so much in common

Two old broken down writers who never made a dime

living in tiny cluttered dusty apartments

We both sucked off Scott O’Hara

and I can attest to
his
having a big dick

It’s another laugh, another misty twinkle in his eye

We’re bonding like mad, but really, he’s showing me my future

He’s teaching me to love many things because you never know

The one thing with which you will be left

[go to top]

Jen Cross

Bio

Jen Cross, co-editor of
Sex
Still
Spoken
Here
, is a writer, workshop facilitator, and performer whose work has appeared in a plethora of anthologies, including
The
Healing
Art
of
Writing
2010
,
Best
Sex
Writing
2008
, and
Nobody
Passes
. The founder of Writing Ourselves Whole, Jen’s facilitated sexuality and survivors writing workshops in the SF Bay area and at across the country. She’s more honored to get to co-facilitate the Erotic Reading Circle with Dr. Carol Queen than she can say.
www.writingourselveswhole.org
.

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex
?
How
does
it
differ
from
non
-
erotic
writing?
I can’t remember exactly how it started: whether I wrote about sex and my stepfather found out and attempted to occupy that part of my sexuality the way he attempted to occupy every other part of my life, or whether he was the one who originally demanded that I write about sex for him. In any case, trauma was intricately interwoven through this part of my erotic life, as it has been through every other part of my life. As I’m writing this, I think about Scheherazade, who spun stories for her Master so as to keep herself alive. My situation wasn’t as dire as that—though I did use the stories as a way to displace his abusive attentions (at least momentarily) from my body onto the words. Then he went to jail, and I kept the words. Later, after I got away from him, I continued writing sex as a way to discover and uncover my queer surviving self, and as a way to try on a free and radical sexuality that I lacked access to in an embodied way for many years. Sex writing has become intertwined with all writing for me: in my experience and practice, erotic writing may or may not be sexual in content, but is writing that is deeply embodied, rising out of the empowered erotic self and therefore often slippery, messy, genre-defying, disturbing, and free.

pink
and devastating

Jen Cross

I know what you’ve heard: gossip thronged around the edges of the community, snatches here and there. You heard that Zora took me down, that I let her shove her hand up in my aching, pearly pink. But, baby, before we go any further tonight, I gotta set the record straight. If we’re gonna do this, you’re gonna need to know the whole story.

We met at the corner of pink and devastating, each of us trying to high highest femme the whole room, me in flouncey, spangled, peppermint-stripe tutu, stacked platform lace-up ballet shoes, a ruffled top split wide down the front (tied at the midriff), and hair sprayed within an inch of its life with Aqua Net and Pink Neon Manic Panic. Oh, and no panties. And
her
, with that fat fluffy rose boa,
first
of all, which was
so
long
that it trailed on the ground behind her even as she made her way through the tight throng of the dressed (both over- and under-) at this year’s Drag King contest, plus 5-inch spike heel Lucite pink puma peep toes, a matching long skirt that
flung
itself from her waist down to just above her ankles and
cleaved
along one thigh to reveal her too goddamn perfect plump (and glitter-sheened!) calves, the rose-paisley bustier, the thick dark hair in a cloisonné upsweep held together by cherry blossom chopsticks, a couple of combs, and, yes, spit and prayers—oh, and no panties—
well
. There was no keeping from setting it off. I dropped my butch escort’s arm as soon as Miz Pristine made her entrance, needing all of my energy to lance through the fauxhawks and thrift store finery, plumage and socks stuffed in varying nether regions, in order to—um—make her
acquaintance
. I meant to demand some sort of tithe from her, this new-come-to-town trying to defame my own throne of highest femme in the land.

Now, she stood so you’d think she’d just come to attention (but I saw, didn’t you, that she came to be
attended
to
), pursed her MAC bright lips and lowered her impossibly long, impossibly fake, impossibly
PERFECT
Too Wong Foo Priscilla drag queen lashes just to half mast, shifted so that slit in her skirt shut the door on my wandering eye, focusing my attention, you could say, reminding me that, yes, I had been an adoring young butch once, too. And she put that long tongue out just a little—a
shade
, you might say—purplish rose lacquered lips split by school-perfect pink eraser muscle, and she lit a new shine to her lips and
all
of mine then and there, thank you, and she said, “Ooh, girl,
look
at those shoes.”

She grinned wide then, shadowing in and pinpointing her meaning. She said: “So
stable
.”

Then she cocked one hip, ‘cause it was meant to be cocked that way, popping out into and claiming more of the space that the crowed had cleared for this collision of femme dominion.

Now, some say that plain platforms, a solid chunky fat heel, is cheating when it comes to the way girls do with each other. Some say if it’s not spiked it’s practically flats. Maybe she was in this category. I can’t say as I could tell you. Maybe she was dishing some evil shade. But let me tell you, honey, that place where my panties
ought
to have covered had my parents raised even a halfway proper lady was running thick with all the—possibilities—and I stood firm, legs spread just enough, and pelvis cocked forward, sure, and could not be jostled by the crowd. I said, “I bet you want to find out, don’t you?”

Her cheeks went a red that clashed with her outfit and I checked myself a point in the femme register in the sky, ‘cause even though I know about the inherent wrong of girl-on-girl competition, sometimes you just gotta win one for the home team, don’t you? But really, I just wanted to keep the redness coming into those taupe cheeks.

Lord, what was coming over me? I
wanted
her in that split skirt and split thighs, all right, yes, over my big brawny girl shoulders,
all
of our tits at attention while I rocked in and out of her purple pink lower lips, the very hot red rose tootsie roll cock that I carried in my bag all ready ready, I came to realize, to be strapped not around some one of these king-y wanna-bes but instead around my meaty thighs.

Now, boys, take a picture of this, ‘cause it’s never happened before and it’s not likely to come again. It is well know that I am not just a pillow
queen
—I am an
empress
. After a few years of topping bioboys after I started having sex as a teenager, I met an old school older butch during my first excursion to my small home town’s dyke bar. The first time I laid my eyes on her, I laid down. I mean, when she laid her hands on me, I fell so hard on my back that the sky started crying. The only time I’m not on my back is when I’m on my knees. It’s not just do-me, it’s do away with any ideas you might have had about getting done. My pussy’s so pillowy hard and fine, there are still butches lost down there, exploring and seeking and navigating all that good terrain.

Now Miss Pristine – or Zora is how she was called by other people but I liked to call her Pristine ‘cause she was always put together like a shiny piece of plastic and she hated any kind of mess. I was shocked as hell to see her out at the Drag King contest, which was held at a warehouse space in the not-yet-
completely
-gentrified part of way downtown and had a concrete floor already coated with beer drippings, sweat, and mud. It was clustery hot and barely ventilated, so most of the girls start melting immediately after setting one manicured foot into the door (boys, too, if they hadn’t put their spirit gum on just right; there were drooping moustaches and sliding soul patches all through the room). The only time Miss P uttered the words “Do me” was after she’d fucked some tender butch bottom til ze was wrung all the way out, and
she
was finally ready to come herself. The way the story went, she’d set herself up into this tall throne, part her legs (high-heeled shoes pushing her calves into a more pornographic roundness than anyone might imagine possible), pointed one short-nailed, perfectly-polished index finger at her pussy, and the butch was to get her off with no more than thirty strokes on her clit (and
this
count was well confirmed.) The ones who tried to insert anything whatsoever into Zora’s soaking slit were summarily dismissed—they’d hear the buzzing and the “oh! Oh! Oh!”s before they hit the front door. Miss P might get a little mussed while she was fucking someone (though
no one knew her not to use gloves)—a soft sheen of sweat might break across her brow, a cleft of hair might fall lose from her
coif
—but no one could ever say they’d seen her
disheveled
.

So it was not an idle thing I said there, insinuating that she might have been complimenting the stability of my footwear because she imagined me in a position compromising in more ways than one.

Zora just wrinkled her long nose at me, barely a sniff, let her eyes fall on the door to the back stage side entrance and then didn’t she just turn and part the crowd without a word.

The things I did, now, I did because of her. Everyone knows that, right? I mean, I saw her look at that side stage door before turning away and forcing me to watch her ass
switch
switch
switch
into the congealed crowd, all the faces of our own personal audience turning back to snatch their eyes to me, to see what I was going to do
now
, now that she had just left me and my question hanging here. I mean, still I throbbed like a woofer at a bad ‘90s dyke club,
still
I was beginning to smell my own goddamn cunt over and above the accumulated aromas of second-hand smoke and cheap-ass cologne. I worked my jaw like I was popping gum, even though my mouth was suddenly too empty and dry, and said, “Figures,” then pursed my lips and turned my own self around, pushing between two thrift-store-suit-jacketed tranny boys behind me, wiggling out of any ideas they were forming about putting me in the middle of their T-dance sandwich. I made a beeline for the bathrooms, shoved my way through the clouds of glitter and hairspray into an empty stall, locked the door and sat my shaking self down.

I didn’t stop to
think
—not on your life. I popped open the clasp of my bag and took out the nylon harness that I carry out with me to these sorts of events, so as to foreswear that sad butch song, “Oh/I didn’t plan on getting it on tonight/I’m not packing/la la la.” You know how it goes—I don’t even have to hum any bars. I settled the harness around my thighs and ass, then fitted in my Ms. Big Red, tucked her in place under the tutu ruffles and waistband, and felt something else in me thicken and harden—maybe it was my resolve. I didn’t dare touch myself, just pissed, patted dry, straightened up and shoved back out into the crowd.

I made a meandering round-about way to the stage door she’d indicated as our rendezvous with her eyes like a parting shot, like the way girls used to say,
Back
playground
after
school
—
you’re
gonna
get
it
. But the goddamn thing was
locked
when I tried to barge my way in, and it was only the long round toe of my platforms that kept me from knocking my too-urgent forehead on the cheap presswood door.

“Eager much?” came a low curdled-and-spiced voice in my ear, and I did not turn around because my knees were weak and anyway her breath was singeing my bare neck, ice and burn all at the same time. “You got the equipment to back up what you said out there?” Did I mention my case of cotton mouth? All I could do was lift up my handbag and nod. She snatched the bag away from me, and her breath came hotter on my neck.

Zora reached around me, grabbed at the doorknob, pulled it hard toward her, jamming it in to the frame, pulling herself tight into me for a moment and I felt the feathers of that boa tickling the back of my legs. Then she twisted hard and shoved, pushing the door open and shoving me through. I stumbled into the dimly lit room, trying not to fall over what would have been a strategically placed gymnast’s horse had my latest daddy been behind me, ready to bend me over and lift my skirts. What was it doing
here
? Well, this
was
a boy’s club when the dykes weren’t taking it over once a year. I turned to reach for Zora, see if she meant what she’d insinuated, see if she was ready for this, but she stood stone-faced against the door, arms folded, eyes wide and furious and smoky, still that hip cocked out, creating just the line of lust that every trucker silhouettes with their hands around the air and I got to draw my eyes around the flesh.

“And just who the fuck do you think you are?” She flung at me, and my embarrassment was a hot contrast to my lust, that ache she just kept kindling in my hips and thighs and cunt. I opened my lips, though I didn’t know what I was going to say, but she wasn’t finished. “Don’t you know who I am? How are they going to honor us if we don’t honor each other, Althea?”

Oh shit. She was pulling out all the goddamn stops. But I knew this train of thought, its hazards and views, and, oh yes, its tunnels—having long argued against my own longings, over and over again, ‘til the path was a well worn rut and I’d had to just go ahead and put on a pair of tall heels just to climb out to ground level, which was where I’d stayed. ‘Til now.

“Come on, Zora. Don’t give me that shit. We are wise enough to lay it all out for each other: Even the toppiest top has gotta get a break sometimes, and if a girl can’t take care of her sister when she’s in need, well, then what the fuck is a femme sisterhood for?”

“I’m not talking about taking anything away from you,” I continued as I stepped closer to her. “and I’m not suggesting anyone else could recognize the heat flare up in your pretty golden eyes when you took in my shoes, then my calves, then my thighs, and then my hips—then what you were hoping came next under here. Like recognizes like sometimes, you know that.”

I had no idea where this patter was coming from; I hadn’t seen any goddamn such thing as what I was describing, but I needed an excuse to move closer, and she let me. Who knew it was so goddamn much work getting a girl to let you fuck her? All anyone ever had to say to me was “Hey there—got the time?” and I was flung open like a midnight refrigerator door.

But then she let me kiss her, let me lean in, put a hand on the back of her head (careful not to pull at her ‘do just yet) and fit my lips onto hers. Her breath was musk-spicy and oh, shit, that hot pink tongue traced some holy new dirty alphabet in my mouth. I gripped her neck tighter, wanting to bruise her but not sure if she’d let me, and though she didn’t exactly soften, she did open and let me push all the way into and between those lips, those teeth, the teeth that had left brittle bronzing bruises on three-quarters of the bottoms in the county.

I said, into her throat, “Now you be gentle with me, and I’ll give you just what you need, Z.” She growled at me, tensed her jaw. Her hand dug into my hair, through the product all the way down to the scalp. She pulled hard down and in, tried to split my lip in three places. Now, I’ll tell you: I am not a pain slut, and I nearly came right there.