SECTION FOUR

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COLUMN SIXTY-THREE, SEPTEMBER 1, 2001
(Copyright 2001 Al Aronowitz)

SWEET AS SUGAR CANDY CUNT

WARNING!  FOR ADULTS ONLY!  PERSONS UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THIS STORY.

[Tsaurah Litzky is a poet and writer of fiction, non fiction and erotica. Her work has appeared in Best American Erotica 95, 97, 99, 2001 and will be included in BAE 2002. 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) and the just published Good Bye Beautiful Mother (Low Tech Press 2001). Formerly a columnist for the now defunct New York arts weekly Downtown, she now teaches erotic writing and literature at the New School University. ]

He pulled his head out from between my legs and sat up among the tangled sheets, his mouth and chin wet and slick with the oils of my love. He looked annoyed, his face all twisted. He had a little belly that I liked to rub, but now it quivered as he breathed hard, my angry Buddha. I put my hand out to rest on his knee; I always wanted to touch him. His face relaxed, and he patted my hand, grinned ruefully, then reached into his mouth and pulled something out. He showed it to me on the tip of his forefinger. It was a stiff, black whisker.

"Oh," I said, "You have a souvenir, one of my cunt hairs."

"Right you are, you win the prize," he said, no longer, grinning. "You didn't do a good job shaving. And," he continued his voice rising, his tone sharp, cutting like a whip, "Don't use that word, I hate that word, it's ugly."

I was shocked, I loved the cunt word, the ripeness of it, the guttural, dark sweetness of it. It was like a ripe purple plum. It made me think of fat swollen pussies, of Constance Chatterley and Mellor's, of pulling my panties down in a dark, dirty alley off a waterfront street and opening myself to a skinny punk with a dagger tattooed on his arm. Besides I loved all the so-called dirty words, fuck and prick and cock and pussy too.

"I love that word, I told him, " It turns me on, I love all those words."

"Well you better not say it, in front of me, just don't use that word in front of me!"

He was yelling now, his lower lip trembling like he was a little boy about to cry.

"What do you want me to call, it then," I asked. 'twat, coochie, honeypot, joybox, snapper??

He was wiping his face dry with the palm of his hand.

"Or how about slit or monkey, or the old English quim or quiver, you're always saying you


He said,
'You're really beginning
to bug me!'


love Shakespeare, are those words somehow cleaner than cunt, better than cunt??

 "You're really beginning to bug me," he shouted and he got out of bed and went into the kitchen. Through the open bedroom door I saw him take a cigarette from his pack on the table and angrily light it.

The man who did not like the word cunt, was someone who had approached me at an art opening, told me I was beautiful, that I looked like Gypsy Rose Lee. He had a Russell Crowe in Gladiator face, a wide, meaty back and big, solid haunches. I thought I could ride him a long, long way; maybe to Russia---I would ride him through the streets of Moscow in the snow, the heat rising from his long spine would keep me warm.

Over our dinner, I found out he was a stuntman who read Hunter Thompson, Bukowski and Mavis Gallant. The Unforgiven was his favorite movie and it was mine too. Later, in my bed, I found out he could be rough, just the way I like it. He tied my wrists behind me with my pretty red brasserie, pulled my thighs apart with his big, rough hands and shoved himself inside me with the strength of ten demons. I screamed, but then he just pushed harder. Then he started to move very slow, the wetter I got, the slicker I got, the slower he moved. Demon that he was, he knew just what to do.

He gathered both my nipples in his mouth and bit down hard, the intense pain yielded to ecstasy. He started ramming me with great force, hammering, pounding into me until the ceiling of heaven opened around me and I saw God. I came so violently the room shook, and then I saw shooting stars, meteor showers, a night sky scorched by flame. He pulled out and shot across my chest. I know that when I get religion while I'm having sex I'm in big trouble, but at least I managed not to say I love you, by biting down on my tongue. It was the best fuck I had since that the day Ronald Reagan got shot, when Lionheart and I got excited watching the TV coverage and started screwing on my old red velvet loveseat.  

On that first night, the man who didn't like the word cunt rubbed his cum into my breasts with his still hard cock and then pointed to the thick, wiry growth between my legs. My ex-husband used to call it my passion pelt, my nirvana bush, sometimes the ultimate pussy deluxe. But this man, whose name was Ted said:

'shave that off."

"Don't you like it?? I wanted to know.

'shave it," he answered, "It's nicer."

I was still so in awe of his fuck power that I didn't ask him why. I shaved it the very next day. It took me an hour and I managed to cut the inside of my leg, a tiny crescent shaped cut that looked like the waning moon.

Ted sat in the white wicker rocker in the kitchen smoking his cigarette. I pulled the sheets over my head like a child playing hide-and-seek. Under the tent of the sheets I thought it smelled like the Garden of Eden, like sperm and snake oil, crusty pussy and sweat. I didn't want to be mad at him. I poked my head out.

"Let's go for coffee and bagels at Taj Mahal Bagel "?I called, "My treat."

"You got a deal, " he said.

Later that day, after he had left, but not before kissing me and branding me with three diamond shaped hickeys on the top of my breast, I couldn't stop thinking about him. He doesn't like hairy pussies, he doesn't like the word cunt, he seems to love my Tinkerbell tits, my Peter Pan frame. Maybe he wants a little Lolita, but then I want a big bruiser, sometimes even a nasty marine.

If he's objectifying me, I'm objectifying him too, but how could he not love the word cunt, with that soft groaning u, that wonderful U sound that is in udder and mother. Even Clint Eastwood, our favorite director, uses the C word, in The Unforgiven, but then Clint doesn't say cunt exactly, "cunny? is the word he says. But cunt or cunny---I still think it's a beautiful name for a beautiful part of me.

The next time the man who didn't like the word cunt came over, he took me for a nice dinner at Angelino's. But over the Scungilli and red sauce, it was difficult for me to resist the urge to raise my glass of Chianti and toast: "Love me, love my cunt." After the espresso and cannoli, even after the anisette, I was still upset with him.

Later that night, back in my apartment, when I was naked on all fours and kneeling at the edge of my bed, he put his hands on either side of my ass and held me so I couldn't move.


'I love your cunt,
your juicy cunt,
your sweet as sugar candy cunt
.'


He stabbed his cock in and out, impaling me fiercely. I wanted to pull my cunt away from him and ask him to say, to make him say:

"I love your cunt, your juicy cunt, your sweet as sugar candy cunt."

But I did nothing and said nothing. 

Then, afterwards, I couldn't fall asleep. I watched him sleep on his back, his mouth open. He snored slightly, a happy hum like an air conditioner. His head was large like the rest of him but he had small, shell shaped, delicate ears. Suddenly I leaned over and whispered into a pretty, pink ear:

"Cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt, sweet as sugar candy cunt, cunt is a beautiful word, cunts make the universe, cunt, cunt, cunt, cunt."

He stirred in his sleep, shook his head from side to side vigorously, no, no, no as if he had heard me.

"Cunt, cunt, cunt," I whispered in his ear again and then, "Cunny, cunny, beautiful cunny."

He shook his head some more, began to thrash about, but I showed no mercy. I chanted into his ear until I started to feel silly and got tired off it. Then I curled up beside him and drifted off.

When I woke the next morning, he was already awake, sitting cross-legged besides me. He had big, dark, circles under his eyes and was puffing away furiously at a cigarette.

"Hi," I said, how did you sleep??

"Lousy," he answered, " I had the weirdest dreams."

"What did you dream?? I asked him.

He colored slightly.

"Oh I don't know," he said, "weird stuff."

"Did you dream you were wandering in a dark, twisted cave with hairy walls, or that you were lost in a forest at night and you couldn't see anything at all but you could smell the wet moss, the compost smell of growing things??

"Yeah?, he said, " Something like that, how'd you know??

He had a puzzled look on his face.

"Maybe you ought to talk to Dr. Freud about your dreams," I said.

"I'm not in the mood to be analyzed," he shot back. "I'm going to take a shower."

As he moved across the floor towards the bathroom, I couldn't help notice that his chunky bottom had grown larger, it sagged like an old sofa cushion.

I heard the sound of the squeaky faucet turning, and then the sound the water made as it struck the plastic shower curtain.

"Why is the shower so filthy?? he yelled. "Don't you ever clean it??

'shove it up your lard ass," I called back.

"What, what did you say," he bellowed.

"Clean it yourself," I yelled. . .there was silence.

In the silence I saw in front of me the dingy gray underbelly of love, In spite of the powerful currents running between us, we were not on the same frequency. But maybe I was making too much of it. After all, cunt is one of those words like Al Sharpton or enema that people have strong reactions to. So what if Ted didn't like the word cunt as long as he likes me, but he doesn't seem to like me much right now.

A few minutes later Ted emerged from the shower with my strawberry pink bath towel wrapped about his waist. He really looked hot and seeing him, I couldn't feel as angry as I did just a few minutes before, but what did I feel? I didn't know exactly, I had to figure it out.

"You look so sexy in that skirt," I said, making a joke the way I often do when I?m   blocked or confused or feeling pain, but he didn't think it was funny.

"I don't need your comments," he barked, " I gotta get out of here."

He dressed in a flash and headed out without giving me so much as a peck on the cheek. As he was opening the door, he turned and mumbled

"I'll call you."

I smiled back at him,

"Cunt, cunt, cunt," I said.

He slammed the door behind him as he fled.  ##

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