SECTION TWO

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COLUMN SEVENTY-THREE, JULY 1, 2002
(Copyright © 2002 Al Aronowitz)

BUNIONS!
VALENTINE

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. 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 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 recently 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. ]

The first time she peeled off her tights to stand naked in front of me I saw her mons was shaved. She told me she shaved it because that was how her husband liked it. Her round thighs curved in, in such a way that with her slightly knock knees, her vulva looked heart shaped, a smooth white as sugar heart that she was offering to me. Then I saw her bunions. She quickly tucked her feet in to stand pigeon toed so I wouldn't notice them but it was too late. I had already seen them, stubborn and hard as hope in the face of  the futility of our fleeting lives. The bunions were red, sore looking and so big that they pushed the big toe away from the arch of her foot at a forty-five degree angle. Her pale face blushed as she saw me looking. She was ashamed of them. I went right to her and kissed her full on her trembling mouth. I put my hands on her thick waist and still kissing her, pushed her down on the bed. My lips made a path down the center of her body to her other mouth and started sucking there. Her fingers began pulling at my hair, frantic, needy, as she opened to me, bathing my tongue, my mouth, my face with her thick, musky, waters. I moved my two hands down her legs, past her knees and ankles to her feet. I found her bunions. I covered each with a hand, I stroked each with my fingers, I traced the swollen shape of what she thought was her shame and gave it the name of love.

                                              * * *

Last year, on Valentine's day, after the Mc Neil Lehrer report and my solitary dinner  I surprised myself by suddenly taking off all my clothes. I just threw them in the hamper.   Then I rummaged though the big wicker hamper that holds my underwear for the black lace bustier with pads in the cups that  pushes my modest bosom up to make my tits look like two round, pink cakes, offered on a tray. When I found it, I put it on. Then I dug out the black garter belt, the black fishnet stockings with a few fashionable rips about the knees, the red satin crotchless panties. They smelled gamey, redolent of dried come and cunt juice from last years Valentine's Day. I hadn't washed them and I didn't want to take the time out to wash them and dry them now. I just put them on along with the garter belt and the fishnets. I got my four-inch high, silver, fuck-me pumps with the straps from the back of the closet and put them on, too. I took my bottle blond hair out of its usual ponytail and brushed it till it shone like gold foil. Finally I put on my brightest red lipstick, extra thick so my mouth looked like one big juicey kiss.

I went back into the kitchen and poured a couple of fingers of the good vodka into the one unchipped wineglass.  I turned out the lights and lit the pink candles for romance that always stand in the candle holder on my kitchen table. I sat down at the table, drank down some of the vodka and allowed myself to think of him.

I had trained myself not to think of him in the months since he left, but today was Valentine's Day and hadn't he been my love? I wondered if he was in his studio just blocks away thinking about me, remembering last Valentine's Day. He came home from work with a large red heart-shaped box of chocolates. He hadn't taken the time to wash his hands. They were covered with grease and sawdust and dirt from the wood shop. When he came in, I took the chocolates from him and put them on the table  I kissed him, then I took his grimy hand, opened my legs and guided it right into where I live. The rough, coarse texture of his fingers, the ancient smells of the oils and grease, mixed with my own smell of fish and overcooked cabbage made me feel primitive and unrestrained. I took his oily fingers out of my lower mouth and sucked them. Then I leaned back against the kitchen table, spread my legs, put my fingers inside my pussy and just opened it up for him, pulled it wide so he could see the deep, wet pink yearning inside me, the thick, hungry lips".

Just as I was remembering the quickness with which he pulled open his belt, the joy on his face, as he lowered his zipper, the phone rang. When I picked it up he said, "Hello, I was thinking of you."

"I was thinking of you, too," I said'then there was a long pause when I could hear him breathing very loud and very fast. I knew he was high.

"Well," he said when I didn't fill the silence, 'so, Happy Valentine's day."

I wanted to ask him to come over, but I had learned that his visit would only eventually bring me sorrow and rage.

"Happy Valentines day," I said back.

"Well, bye,?he said.

"Bye? I said, and hung up the phone. Then I sat at the table in my Valentine clothes and drank the vodka down to the midnight dregs.

                                              * * *     

Her husband didn't suspect about us at least we thought not. It was through him and my ex we had met. It was at a party that Sylvester, the owner of the wood shop where they worked, threw for his five-year-old son. It was a birthday brunch, a brave Sunday afternoon mix of adults and kids. She and I were the only ones childless, or how I always start to think reflexively at these kinds of gatherings "child free."  She is small like me but zoftig, fat really. I liked it that she wasn't wearing black or some slenderizing solid color but rather a bright red and pink dress with horizontal stripes that stopped just below her knees and orange tights.

"I bet you got that dress at Domsey's? I said to her when I found myself next to her on the sofa. I was referring to the used clothing warehouse on Kent Avenue where everyone went to find that old cheap something, that with a new belt or shortened sleeves could pass as a chic, contemporary outfit. We were each of us clutching glasses filled with champagne and orange juice. She finshed hers with a gulp.

"How did you guess," she said. "Actually, I was looking for red and white stripes, so I could come as a barber pole and all these other peoples kids could dance all around me."

Behind us a squeaky little voice screeched, "M-a-a-a, Mommy, Kimberley spit on me."

"I don't have kids either," I told her, "I'd make a lousy mother."

I told her I could remember bashing the head of my first doll against the Ginko tree in front of our house when I was three.

"Anyhow," I went on, "I was half way through change of life when I met him."  I nodded towards my ponytailed Gregory standing, talking to her big Roger by the window.

"Does he mind?? she asked.

"Oh," he says he doesn't but I think sometimes he's lying. Does yours want kids?? I asked.

"Yes," she said, "but he says we don't have enough money yet. I don't know if I even want them, I'm a painter. All I want to do is my own work. Today I think I'd rather paint pictures of them."

Then we started to talk about Daisy, the cloned sheep who was in the news that week. I liked the solid girth of Ida's thigh next to mine. I wanted to make her my personal pillow. She seemed to give off a faint scent of linseed oil. I thought about putting my head down on her leg to see if I could smell her crotch through the tight knit of her dress.

She called me when she heard that Gregory moved out. We met at Junior's and ate cheesecake and drank Margaritas, then I invited her over here. That was when I first saw the bunions.

                                              * * *                         

She has already given me my Valentines present because of course she will spend Valentines night with him. It is a small heart shaped pillow made with the fabric from the pink and red striped dress she wore when we met. Only she doesn't call it a pillow, she calls it a soft sculpture. I have placed it on my bed between my two feather pillows. I   wonder if she made him one like it but I don't ask her. Because she has begun to tell me that she loves me after she comes and because I love to torture myself, I wonder if she tells him she loves his when he pulls his cock out of her.

Now, often at night, I imagine them in their bedroom. After she takes her clothes off, he asks her to turn round and round so he can see her heavy, pointy breasts sway low and full like two ripe swollen fruits on the tree of life. Does she remember I like to see her breasts move like that too? I imagine him grabbing her by the hard brown pits of her nipples and pulling her to him. I see his strong fingers as they look for her sex and they find it---puckered and soft, open , like the mouth of an orchid. I have tried to seal her with my love, an invisible starry web that only my thoughts can penetrate but he finds a little rip in the web and with his sharp teeth, he tears it open. Then I see him on top of her, inside her, the naps of her breasts spread out beneath him like welcoming cloth.  His haunches are broad, obstinate, relentless. His cock is a stake he is pounding into her.

She grabs his tail with starving hands, the way she sometimes grabs my hair. She is pushing him, pushing him in deeper, she wants this. She flattens her back on the mattress, swings her legs up and around, grabs his shoulders with her toes.

"Faster, faster? she moans.

Wet steam rises up from between their legs, billowing out into the room, obscuring my view but I hear him pleading, "Oh, give it to me, baby, baby, please, give it to me."

I remember the games I used to play with Gregory, how he taught me to beg, to say please, Daddy and Master. This is when I go open the drawer of my bedside table. I get out the ForPlay Lube de Luxe, the thickest, the oiliest lube I have, and the pale pink colored rubber dildo I got in Babes and Toyland. The clerk called it flamingo pink. I bought it because the color reminded me of the skin between Gregory's thighs. I pull off my clothes, lie down on my bed, and grease up. Though I have washed the dildo many times, it still has that terrible rubbery smell, like adhesive, like a bandage. It is solid between my fingers, but yet it somehow, feels gelatinous and spongey. It is a cartoon dick, a Porky Pig, Pluto, Goofy dick. I wonder how a photo of me engaging in this act would look on the back jacket of my next book.

I have a thicket of dense black hairs, growing like tangled wires in the little patch between my legs and then the hair grows right up my perineum into my crack and all around my back hole. Now it is I who swings my legs high, high up over my head to flash an imaginary camera. When I slide the Goofy dick in, it feels alien and cold. The angle just isn't right, it doesn't go deep enough. Then I see her valentine pillow, I take it and slip it directly under my ass to find the perfect leverage?  ##

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