Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology (20 page)

Just
Another Dirty Bathroom Sex Love Story

Lilycat

I almost break out in hysterical laughter when she tells me she’s giving up dope. How many times have people told me they were quitting, only to come back to me a few weeks later begging for just one more hit, just a little taste? But the sweet sadness in her brown eyes made me try to fake a belief that she was the one who would make it away.

“Well, since I won’t be seeing you again, I guess we should settle up on the money you owe me,” I say, as I try to stop a snicker from escaping.

I watch her pretty little mouth quickly trying to explain a payment plan idea or maybe I could just forget about the $100 … just this time … her last time … please? She continues on about how she is completely broke, and actually came to The Sinner’s Den—a nightclub in West Hollywood—to borrow money from a friend for a bus ticket. She is trying to get to a small town outside of Palm Springs, where a waitress job and a room in her cousin’s house waited for her. She goes on about a new location … a new life … a real chance to stay clean.

I run my hand through her hair to the back of her head, and explain how there was other ways to pay than in cash.

Seconds later she is kneeling on the scattered, used paper towels and wet toilet paper that decorate the Men’s Room floor, her eyes a bit sad but resigned as she looks up at me. I unzip my pants.

I take my cock out of my pants and bring it toward her opening mouth; her hands, soft and warm, wrap around it. Her mouth is even warmer than her hands. She sucks my cock in whole, quite a feat for such a small mouth. There is something great about a woman with a little mouth that can take a lot of dick.

The urinal gives off a pungent smell that fills the Men’s Room. The music and the loud talk in the club sounds like it is try to break through the locked door, but I am more focused on the subtle sounds that are coming out of her mouth. It sounds like a cross between a sigh and moan, which she makes as my cock glides in and out of her.

I nestle my hand in her hair, a dysfunctional design of various fading colors, a sign of the search for style and individuality imprinted on her head. I start to guide her head to and from the base of my cock to the tip.

I look down at the hot tableau of this woman in a skin-tight, low- cut dress sucking my dick. The dress, a regular of hers, used to be not be as tight; she’s gained some weight, which has left nice curves on her once drug-wasted body. She obviously has been clean for a little while.

I notice her arms, which have track marks now fading and scaring up. She also has a tattoo of a heart with a poorly-done vine around it to cover up some guy’s name … starting with an “M.” I wonder if this mister “M” was the one who first tied her arm off and showed her where to put the needle in. I wonder if he truly got forgotten as the ink vines grew over his name.

Further down her arm, among the chain metal and bondage bracelets, I see a friendship bracelet, like the ones children make and share. I try to figure out if she kept this from her own childhood, or if there is a little girl in her life—child … sister … niece—who stupidly looked up to this drug fiend.

Though as far as the drug fiends, who I make my money off, go—she was always the sweetest. The only one who used “Please” and “Thank you” as more than just a beg. I would often see her comforting her overly-messed-up and jonsing fellow addicts.

I guess she notices me staring at her, ‘cause she looks up at me with her big, beautiful eyes—so soulful, with a little spark of something that makes me believe she may actually be able to get away from the pull of the drugs.

She runs her tongue down the side of my dick and nibbles on my balls like the desire is real, though I know she is just trying quickly to get the job done. Just like I know my other blow buddies’ only really hunger is for the needle. But this girl looks so beautiful sucking my cock.

I cum in an orgasmic burst, and for the first time in a long time, it isn’t just driven by the physical sensation.

As she wipes the cum from her mouth and slowly begins to rise off the floor, I say, “That was so good, I think I should give you something extra.”

“Really, I’m not using anymore,” she replies quickly and with a bit of fear.

“No, I was thinking about $250 for your new life,” I explain, as I fish the money out of my pocket.

“Thank you,” she says, bewildered. She takes the money; her soft, warm fingers brush across my hand.

Part of me wants to grab her hand and hold it forever, and another part of me wants to never see her again.

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Horehound Stillpoint

Bio

Horehound Stillpoint is working for the Golden Gate National Park Conservancy these days, while still writing for pervert-loving poetry fans, still living for shows from Queens of the Stone Age to
Rigoletto
, and still needing and wanting to thank all his kind mothers, basically, everyone he ever came across.

Mini-Interview

How did you start writing about sex?
How
does
it
differ
from
non
-
erotic
writing?
I started noticing—mostly at Poetry above Paradise, on Sunday nights—that people in the audience perked up if cocks, nipples, buttfucking, watersports, etc., made an appearance in the poem and the sooner the better. But maybe that’s because it galvanizes my energy so intensely. I mean, it’s my thing, isn’t it.

Do
you
write
in
multiple
genres
and
,
if
so
,
why?
Sure, I write in multiple genres; it’s fun, it’s educational, and it widens my horizons. After about 5 years of writing poetry—or rather, doing my spoken word pieces—my voice became pretty tightly honed and even started to feel like a cage. Writing short stories or micro-memoirs helped open up new possibilities.

How
is
the
Erotic
Reading
Circle
part
of
your
writing
process?
I write with a reading event in mind. I believe “I’ve Seen the Future” was written for K’Vetch, and “Life Is Good” was written for the ERC. I don’t think the Erotic Reading Circle is very different from a ‘regular’ writing group for me, but then I live in San Francisco.

Do
you
write
under
your
own
name?
Why
or
why
not?
Umm, yeah, Horehound Stillpoint is a pen name. Greg Taylor was just too boring and already taken by numberless other people.

Life
Is Good When You’re Getting Fucked

Horehound Stillpoint

It occurs to me that I am in the running

for the guy who got to have the most fun

in a single lifetime

Remembering bike rides along the Embarcadero

on San Francisco nights, following blowjobs on the beach

It’s hard to believe all the men I’ve touched

and been touched by

Even the most recent Folsom Street Fair was just the best ever

you wouldn’t believe the men I got busy with in public

As cops pretended not to watch, I grabbed ass and sucked dick

on a sidewalk in broad daylight and

one guy was a long tall drink of water

Not to mention the bands I rocknfuckinrolled with on the 12th St. stage

Speaking of which, Slash unleashed some great licks last month at the Warfield

that shit is still sticking to my ribs

Sleep was a revelation at the Regency

classic, crushing, stonier-than-thou rock

A new Neil Young CD—I’ve been loving him for 40 years

Fireworks, light shows, starry nights smuggled in through fog

Reading great books written by friends: astonishing!

The hardest laughs and the sweetest tears

with the best of best friends

Movies on acid, swimming in Aquatic Park

Discovering yoga at age 50

Getting this old body back in shape for the umpteenth time

So that men still ask if they can fuck me

Better yet, I’ve been saying
Yes
more and more

Life is good when I’m getting fucked

And nobody, nobody, nobody ever fucked me better

than Armand did last Monday

At least I think his name was Armand

he pounded my ass so hard, a lot of shit fell outa my head

He laid down the law

I mean the first laws … the spiritual stuff

like: Thou shalt not deny my dick

He knew he was hurting me, but neither of us wanted to stop

When I finally called time out, to catch my breath

his rushed apology—
Sorry
,
sorry
—

only seemed to cover the fact that I couldn’t take it

When I reminded him I just started getting fucked at the end of last year

and I’m still not like some guys who go at it every other night

He said,
Even the guys who do this every night have trouble with me

Fifteen minutes later, we were well into Round Two

He plowed into me at a different angle, so he could go deep

There was no space for mercy and he didn’t worry about nothing

When he got on top of me, burying my face in the pillow

he issued a warning:
This is my favorite position

I can’t hold back when you’re giving it up like this

He put his mouth right up against my ear and said

Can
you
feel
that
?

Can
you
feel
my
dick
getting
harder
and
harder
inside
you
?

It’s growing, it’s talking to your ass
…

Well, you get the picture, except, oh yeah, Armand himself

He’s a 33 year old black guy, not too flash

in a rough approximation of handsome

built like a college wrestler who hasn’t wrestled in 8 or 9 years

If he were a woman, I’d describe him as voluptuous

All those smooth curves and bulging payloads

We could not have had more fun

Of course, I thought it was more than fun, too

When I told him my asshole was falling in love with his dick

he said,
Already? That was fast …

He hasn’t called and I’m neither surprised nor disappointed

We did what we did

there is no other story

We’ll do it again if I have any say in the matter

But I’m not jumping to conclusions

I’ve been dropping opinions/beliefs, left and right

and not picking them back up either

I don’t know who I am and none of this seems the least bit probable

I doubt any of this would be happening if I didn’t meditate so much

Meditation is a whole other world of fun

if you stick to it long enough

it can make blessings and tortures drop out of nowhere

to dazzle your senses

till you don’t know which is which and who is who

Walking a spiritual path is a bumpy ride and a total blast

Having Jon Bernie as my guru on Monday nights is a regular riot

he tames egos and turns on the untroubled light within

Hearing wisdom talks on Tuesday nights at the Saraha Buddhist Center

those teachers make a good case for the way to happiness

being the exact opposite of what people usually think

Years ago and for years thereafter, I wanted to kill my father

Then I wanted to strangle my bosses

Slap my co-workers into oblivion

Throw my lover down the stairs

Get those goddamn guys over there to give me what I crave

All the while, wanting to hang my head

in shame on top of shame

Well, sha la la, man

Balls out no matter where we are in the story

Being who I am, brother

It’s a lot easier to see the reasons to be grateful

when someone is taking care of my ass

So I gotta count my blessings now and then

‘Cause when the shit of Hellfire rains down

I sure do count every scratch and scrape

My litany of woes can make the butchest of men roll their eyes

and throw their hands in the air

Oh, I can clearly be a monster

yet I come from Heaven

and to Heaven I belong

I am a slutty, joyful, greedy, piggy, butt-boy bottom

And I will not stop

till I have drunk every drop