COLUMN 111, NOVEMBER 1, 2004
(Copyright © 2004 The Blacklisted Journalist)
WARNING! FOR ADULTS ONLY! PERSONS NOT YET 18 YEARS OF AGE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THIS STORY.
[Tsaurah Litzky is a poet and writer of fiction, non fiction and erotica. We call her America's queen of erotic literature. Susie Bright, editor of the yearly Best American Erotica books, calls her "Miss Dirty Stories." Tsaurah's work has appeared in Best American Erotica 95, 97, 99, 2001, 2002 and 2003. She has also been published in Penthouse, LONGSHOT, The Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Appearances, Downtown Poets, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Pink Pages, Beet and many other books and periodicals. Her poetry books include Kamikaze Lover (Appearances 1999), Good Bye Beautiful Mother (Low Tech Press 2001) and Baby on the Water (Longshot, 2003). Formerly a columnist for the now defunct New York arts weekly Downtown, she now teaches erotic writing and literature at the New School University.
I walk all the way down the aisle to the front row, but I don’t see a single empty seat. Marlon Brando died last week and the Film Forum has pulled together a hasty retrospective. This is the Friday night show of Last Tango in Paris. I turn, trudge back up the aisle. I will just stand in the back; I will happily bear the discomfort of standing for two hours to watch Marlon.
Then I spy, second row from the last, an empty seat. I hurry over afraid someone else will come in and grab it. I climb over the assorted knees muttering, “Excuse me, excuse me please. The lights have been lowered and I want to get to the seat before the opening credits begin. On the empty seat there is a brown leather brief case and a New York Times.
“Is any one saving this seat?” I ask the man on the other side of the vacant seat.
“No,” he says, “I’ll take these things off.”
He is handsome, short dark hair, well cut, soulful dark eyes, a large sexy Roman nose and lush pillow lips. I wonder if some fool just stood him up. As he moves the stuff off the seat to the floor beneath, the man twists his head. He is wearing the black collar of a priest. How wonderful I think how cinemaphiles come from all walks of life, and maybe like me he is someone whose crotch was always wet for Marlon.
Maria Schneider strides across the Rue Goncourt in that ridiculous white coat when the coat swings open, she flashes an expanse of long, creamy thigh that would make an emperor beg. Then the camera shifts and Brando comes walking towards us. His open coat exposes the great big package he’s carrying between his legs, jewels I want more then all the gems of Asia. I want to kiss the hem of his coat. I want to give him everything I’ve got, but he doesn’t want me. He wants
Maria Schneider. He just grabs her in the empty flat, puts his arm right between her legs, and lifts her to him.
Right after he rips her panty hose, I feel a cool breeze between my legs and I realize, (how did it happen) that I’ve put my hand under my dress and slid my fingers into my panties. My fingers are wet, the odor of ripe plums and peanut butter wafts up between my legs. I hear a rustling sound to my left, glance over and notice my neighbor, the priest, has slipped a hand under his jacket. I hear the metallic ripping sound that means a zipper is being opened. Quicker than I can say God is love, I see a shiny purple snake, a fine fat cobra with a big hooded head, emerges under the priest’s jacket, He puts his hand around the thick shaft. I cannot help but look across at him, he looks right back at me.
“Please,” he whispers beseeching, “Please.”
I don’t know if he wants me to make the sign of the cross or put my hand over his to add to the benediction. Meanwhile, on the screen, Brando is on top of Schneider on the floor, his powerful hips rising and falling as he ploughs deeper and deeper into her.
“Please,” the priest whispers again.
I look at his fabulous cock; it could be Marlon’s. I am very turned on and then, somehow, I know what to do. I pull my skirt higher, higher, inch my panties way down my thigh so the priest can see my plump hairy sex, my thumb nesting inside me teasing my clit, my two front fingers moving in and out between my exposed, open pussy lips. My nipples are throbbing. And I want the priest to suck them. I want to pull out my titties and nurse God’s messenger but I do not have the courage to offer them to him.
Brando is really pounding Maria now. On the other side of me is a punk kid with a pierced eyebrow. He has his hand inside his trousers and his eyes are glued to the screen. I wonder if everyone in the theater is playing with themselves or perhaps their neighbor. There does seem to be a certain agitation in the air, a silent, moving prayer for Marlon and all our lonely souls. My fingers have grown, lengthened, moving inside me steady and sure like the best cock meat. The priest’s serpentine member has also grown, nearly doubled in size. Just looking at it makes my pussy contract hard enough to almost swallow my fingers. Suddenly Marlon groans, Ooh, oh, oh, oh-- and then, I too am delivered. The floor shakes beneath my feet as if my delicious tremors are rocking the theater. The priest moans, “God, god.” The whole audience seems to relax. I don’t know if I have participated in a synthetic group grope or a collective hallucination. Whatever it was, I bet Marlon would have been pleased.
I feel at peace. I glance over and the priest is gazing at me shyly, a rueful smile on his face. Beneath his eminence, he holds a cupped hand filled with creamy come. I open my purse, which is beside me on the seat, and pull out a few Kleenex from the pack I have inside. I gently place the Kleenex on the priest’s knee. He smile widens, he nods.
“Thank you,” he says.
He seems to be a very nice man. I hitch up my panties and dry my fingers, which are coated with my honeyed juices, on the inside of my leg. I pull down my skirt and returned my attention to the screen. The priest and I watch the rest of the movie in companionable silence. ##
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