COLUMN 113, JANUARY 1, 2005
(Copyright © 2005 The Blacklisted Journalist)
THE RIVER OF NO REGRETS
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 have a date with a priest
tonight, a real priest. I've slipped between the sheets with artists and
musicians, with fishermen, carpenters, actors good and bad and terrible, with
steel workers and soccer players. I took a chance on a plumber, on a
gynecologist who preferred my back hole, on an accountant who had all my
numbers, and more then a few others, but this is the first time I have attracted
a man of the cloth.
I met him at the Film
Forum, at a showing of Last Tango in Paris. I don't believe in
accidents, it was destiny that sat us side by side. Together we shared an
epiphany while watching the movie unfold that that only a great, great actor
like Brando could provide. After the movie we went for coffee, and tonight,
tonight, he is coming over!
I am trying to mop the
floor but realize I have mopped the same spot three times. I'm so excited by
the possibilities of this date I can't concentrate, I keep thinking about the
Father's husky voice, the sexy hook of his nose, the promising bulge between
his legs and I am getting so wet I decide to stop mopping and take to my bed.
I peel off my cut-off and
panties, and the old Ch? t-shirt I wear around the house, I don't have on a
bra. I lay down on the new crimson silk sheets. I look down at my body, it's not too bad, my legs are still
sleek, my pubic bush full and sprightly, my belly flat, my navel, a perfect,
tiny star, My tits have lost a lot of their bounce. They're heading south, but
they are still my little angels, they give me so much pleasure. I brush my
thumbs back and forth over my breasts and think about the Father. He told me his
name is Salvatore Castorini but he has asked me to call him Sal.
In my imagination we are
walking down a narrow cobblestone street in Paris, retracing a path taken by
Brando and Maria Schneider. It is way past midnight. No one else is around.
Ahead of us we can see the lights of the Champs Elys?e. Suddenly, Sal
pulls me into a dark alleyway. He kisses me passionately, his tongue
searing a path deep into me, sending waves of shimmering heat pulsing through my
body until I am burning for him.
Gently but firmly, he
pushes me down to my knees. He unzips his trousers, takes out his lollapalooza,
he is uncut, my preference. I imagine pushing back his foreskin with my tongue,
his smegma like honey, sticky and sweet in my mouth. I think I can smell the
musk beneath his balls, a fecund combination of earth and dung, but it is really
my own pungent odors rushing up between my legs. My nipples harden under my
thumbs and the compost of desire spreads through me.
It seeps down between my legs and seeps out, leaving a dark stain shaped
like a four-leaf clover on the sheets.
The ammonia smell of the
Mr. Clean in the mop bucket rises up and mixes with my sex smells but before I
can go back to cleaning the floor I have to finish the job right here in my bed.
I open the drawer of my bed table and take out my old faithful blue rabbit
vibrator. I'm so wet I don't need any lube. Now I see myself once again
kneeling before the Father with my lips on his cock head. It is now completely
exposed like an orchid in full bloom; I circle it with my tongue, adoring the
rotund tip. It swells so much I can barely get my lips around it. I lift my
mouth from Sal's cock. I stand, gather it up in my hand, it is fat as a beer
can, a big boy, I pull up my skirt, of course I am not wearing any panties. Sal
puts his large mitts up under my ass, lifts me up on to him.
"Oh, Sal," I cry out,
"Father Sal," as I slide the blue rabbit into my oh-so-ready love hole.
"Oh Sal, Sal, oooh-la-laa."
It was he who made the
first approach. At the end of Last Tango in Paris, I didn't
I staggered out into the
hot summer night, to find the streetlights sparkling with unusual brilliance.
The buildings were shining as if they were built out of precious gems.
I was experiencing that unique state of altered consciousness that I call
cinemadelica. Just a few minutes ago, I was in Paris in
springtime, now I am on Houston Street in Greenwich Village on a steamy July
evening. I am sweating through my clothes, my light cotton skirt plastered into
my ass crease. As I half-turn, reach around and pull my skirt down, I see the
priest, right on my tail.
"Excuse me," he says,
"I hope you do not think this is rude," he said, "but I ask you very
respectfully, would you care to have a cup of coffee."
His large amber eyes,
Brando's eyes are imploring me. I cannot refuse.
"Yes," I say.
but I don't know the neighborhood, maybe there a coffee shop near by you can
I take him to Caf? Reggio
on McDougal Street; I always go there, it was a hangout of my hero, the vagabond
poet, Jack Micheline. On the way to the caf?, the priest tells me his name and
that he was visiting a congregant at St.Vincent's and then, couldn't resist
seeing for the third time this great film by the great Bertolucci.
At Reggio's, we sit at a tiny table beneath a famous photo of Micheline, cigarette dangling from his lips, grinning, counting piles of money he won at the race track on a long shot. The table is so small that the father and I keep bumping knees. I resist the temptation to slip off my shoes and put
my foot up between his legs. When I tell
him my name, he says it's lovely. The waitress comes over, we order coffees
and he insists we order a sweet. We both choose cherry cheesecake.
She brings the coffee and cheese cake right away.
"You like cherries?? he
I can see his plump pink
tongue as he talks, there is no mistaking the inviting light in his eyes.
"I love cherries," I
"As do I " he counters,
picking up his fork, scooping up a bite, "Especially," he continues,
'their symbolism interests me, they symbolize new experiences of all kinds."
He is moving so fast, I
wonder if he really is a priest, maybe he is a con man, a hustler who preys on
women who go to the movies alone. I want to know the truth.
"Are you really a
priest?? I ask. "What is the
name of your parish? Where is
He sighs, looks hurt.
"Yes, I am really a
priest," he answers. "My church is the Church of Miraculous Blood, in Bath
"I asked you," I tell
him, "because there is something about your energy that doesn't reflect the
attitudes of the Holy See, at least the little I know about it."
He takes a sip of coffee,
puts down the cup, sighs, again.
"I took my orders when I
was very young," he says. "My greatest ambition was to minister to the
spiritual needs of others and I love my congregation. I was raised Catholic so I
joined the Catholic church but if I knew myself then as well as I do now, I
would have joined the Episcopalian, the Methodists, the Baptists, even the
Scientologists. I am not strong enough to deny my carnal nature. I pray that on
Judgment Day I will be forgiven. "But make no mistake," he continues his
voice rising with emotion, "I am no Casanova, sometimes, rarely, I see
someone, someone like yourself who moves me."
Sal grabs my hand. He is so
emotional I am embarrassed. I look away from him at the wall to see Jack
Michline leering down at me, counting his money. I remember his famous poem, Sainthood Is For The Birds. I
make myself look back at the priest, right into his beautiful eyes.
"I don't know? I tell him, " I have a big problem with
the politics of your church??
"Ah, I know what you
mean," he answers quickly, "Abortion, gay rights. I also find the position
of the Vatican too rigid on these issues, some of us on the inside are working
for change, but it will take time."
"I still don't know,
" I say
He stokes the top of my
hand lightly with his fingers, "We will respect each others? beliefs, we
will find areas of agreement," he says as if our liaison was already a fait
I don't say yes, I
don't say no, I don't say anything and he changes the subject. .
"But how about you," he
continues, "You have the face of an artist, what is your job??
I tell him I am a writer.
"Wonderful," he says,
"I read all the time, literature, and the cinema too, teach me so much about
life. What kind of writing do you do??
I wonder if he will be able
to respect my belief in the importance of dirty stories, but then he seemed to
really enjoy Last Tango in Paris.
"Pornography," I tell
him, sweetly, "I write pornography," and I bat my eyelashes at him. "I?m
so proud my work gives my readers pleasure."
He looks disconcerted and
his eyes widen in surprise, I think maybe he will get up and run out of the caf?,
but he does not.
"Oh, pornography," he
says, grinning right back at me, 'there is nothing in the scriptures that
prohibits instructive literature. I would love to read your work."
The priest and the
pornographer, what a long shot, I decide to go for it. 'that can be
arranged," I say. He tells me he will be free on Thursday evening. I invite
Now I am waiting for Sal,
sitting in my chair by the window, looking at the East River flow beneath the
Brooklyn Bridge. The house is clean and I have prepared myself for him. I have
showered, rubbed my skin all over with cocoa butter and anointed my labia
generously with the edible raspberry oil I got at Toys in Babeland. I am wearing
a short sleeveless lavender sheath dress that I hope is both provocative and
I think about of all the
times I have sat here waiting for a lover to arrive. Sometimes the evenings
brought joy, just as often they brought disaster. I hope for good luck tonight.
Maybe Father Sal will be so bold, he'll just sweep me up in his arms and carry
me to my bed, maybe he will be so shy that I will have to coax him. Maybe it
will be easy as one-two-three and his touch will absolve me of my sins, we will
float together down the river of no regrets but then maybe he won't even show
up. At the last minute he will get cold feet. It will not be the first time I
have waited for someone who isn't coming. I watch the sun sink behind the
Statue of Liberty, a big orange globe falling into the sea. It must be after
eight o?clock, he is already late. I think about the blue rabbit waiting in my
When the doorbell rings,
I'm so happy I jump up and run down the hall and down the stairs but on the
second floor landing I force myself to slow down, take a few long, deep, slow
breaths. When I greet Father Sal, I want to appear relaxed.
When I open the door he is
holding a bunch of pink roses. He is dressed casually in blue jeans and a black
cotton shirt with the high priests collar. He holds the flowers out to me, shyly
without speaking a word. I tell him how much I love flowers, especially roses.
I lead the way as we ascend
the four flights of stairs to my apartment. I am very conscious of the fact that
my big, bulging ass is right in front of his face, swaying side to side like a
"Do sit down," I tell
him once we get inside my apartment. "I'll put the flowers in a vase.
Coffee, tea, something stronger? I have wine, whiskey, some vodka??
"Whiskey," he says
quickly, his deep voice trembles a little. My hand shakes as I pour the drinks.
We are both nervous.
I bring our glasses to the
table, and then I bring the bottle over and sit across from him.
"I don't know how good
this scotch is," I say, "A guest brought it to a party."
"Do you give many
parties?? he asks. "Not
many," I answer, "I like to share my view with my friends but then, I hate
"Ah, ha, not the domestic
type." he says.
I snap back at him, "I
don't know what type I am. I don't like to be classified."
He replies calmly, "I
don't blame you. I just want to know more about you. Where did you grow up?
Are you from New York??
I drink some scotch, I
relax some and then I tell him about growing up in Brooklyn, and how I ran away
to Manhattan at eighteen after a big fight with my parents. My first apartment
cost thirty-eight dollars a month and the toilet was in the hall. I didn't
even know how to boil an egg. I ruined three saucepans before I figured out I
had to put water in.
We finish our drinks and I
pour us another. I tell him how much I like his accent. I want to know when he
came to this country, why he came here. As we talk, we can hear through the open
window, the sound of the cars on the bridge, the laughter of the taxi drivers
talking at the taxi stand across the street. Our glasses are empty again. Before
I can offer to refill them, Father Sal, puts his hand on my leg just above the
knee, right below my dress.
"Come," he says.
There is just enough
daylight left in my bedroom for us to see each other.
"May I undress you?? he
I kick off my sandals to
stand barefoot in front of him. He is tall, substantial, a big bear. He puts his
arm around the back of my dress, and pulls down the zipper, with one quick
motion he peels my scanty dress down to my ankles and I step out of it. He
strips off my bra and panties, and just grabs me to him, lifting me in a kiss
His lips are like brandy on my mouth, but the buttons on his shirt cut into my
chest, he is holding me so tight.
"My turn, let me undress
you," I say.
As I undo his shirt I
wonder if I will find a surprise beneath, perhaps a pink satin corset but no,
his hairy chest is bare. Around his neck is a large silver cross on a long
chain. When I unzip his jeans I find faded blue boxers shorts. He is heavier
then he appears when clothed, he even has little breasts and a sizable potbelly,
but I don't care. He is here and he wants me as the little tent in front of
his boxers testifies. I pull those boxers down and his jeans too. He steps out
of them and kicks off the loafers he is wearing. We stand there facing each
other, appraising each other, bare as Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. The
only snake I see is the big cobra between his legs and it is friendly, already
waving to me.
I put my hand out and touch
the center of Father Sal's chest, right above the cross. I pull one of his
nipples, he smiles, he likes that, I pull it harder, and he sinks to his knees
in front of me in an attitude of prayer, but only for a moment, for he is quick
to reach out, he opens me with his hands. Then he just puts his head right up
between my legs, he knows where he is going as sticks his fat tongues inside me,
swallowing my juices into his mouth. He licks me with great gusto, now he is not
shy. When his tongue moves up to
find my clit, my clit is already swelling up to meet it. He sucks and sucks and
sucks until I am about to come. How I want to christen his face with my holy
water! I have my hands in his hair, pulling him into me, but then he stops,
moves his head away, leaving me hanging on the edge of the world.
"Wait, wait," I have a
condom. I thought to bring one," he says proudly.
I do not tell him I have a box full in assorted sizes,
textures and colors. He takes a foil packet from his jeans pocket.
He struggles with it, but finally gets it on. Then he pushes me down
supine onto the bed. From my prone position, I can see his balls swinging below
his cock. They are the largest I have ever seen except maybe on a horse. I want
to hold them, feel their weight. I reach out and grab those enormous eggs; they
fall into my hands, hot and heavy pulsing with miraculous blood. When he kneels
between my thighs, I lift my hips, swing my legs wide, offering him my eager
cunt, my most sacred treasure.
He fits into me so easily,
like I am the bell and he is the tongue that rings me.
"Holy mother, oh blessed
mother," is what he yells. Then our bodies touching, we lay content side by
side. The last thing I remember before I fall into my dreams is Sal peeling the
condom off and putting it on the bedside table. ##
FOR AS LONG AS PEOPLE KEEP LISTENING TO BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES, PEOPLE WILL WANT THIS BOOK
"A masterpiece!" --- SALLY GROSSMAN, widow of Bob Dylan's brilliant original manager, Albert Grossman.
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Duritz (he's the lead singer and writer for the famed
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. .It is a fascinating, insightful read. You are such a wonderful
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BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES, VOLUME ONE OF THE BEST OF THE BLACKLISTED JOURNALIST
The sometimes scattered chronicles of
the rock journalist's friendship with a few of the most recognizable music icons
in rock and pop history.
certainly takes a bit of hubris to say that "the '60s wouldn't have been
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But coming from Al Aronowitz, the former music columnist for the New York
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Here, in a compilation of many of his unpublished manuscripts, Aronowitz
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in a New York City hotel in 1964, a meeting that also involved the Beatles'
introduction to marijuana. His prescience was soon bolstered by the 1965
releases of Dylan's Highway 61
the Beatles' Rubber Soul, both seminal albums that altered the landscape
of pop music. This
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being a hanger-on with these legends and their associates, including The Band,
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provocative are the accounts of Dylan's erratic behavior and short temper, which
often led to fitful confrontations and even the ending of friendships, including
that between Dylan and the author.
It's also evident that Aronowitz was particularly fond of George
Harrison, and the two remained friends until Harrison's death in 2001.
Most remarkable is the close proximity he maintained to these gods,
whether he was at their homes, hoteI rooms, recording studios, or concerts.
Though his personal life certainly had its share of woes (particularly
bankruptcy and his wife's death), Aronowitz exhibits a marked sense of
pride---and rightly so---for playing a key role in music history,
An enticing backstage pass to the meeting of arguably the two most influential acts in rock history.
"BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES: Volume One Of The Best Of The Blacklisted Journalist is a golden stash box of Al's You-Are-There history of two thirds of rock's Holy Troika"---MICHAEL SIMMONS, LA WEEKLY.
". . .Amazing stories in this book" ---JAY LUSTIG, NEWARK STAR LEDGER
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"Aronowitz. . .witnessed things that most rock fanswould give an arm and a leg to see"---REGIS BEHE, PITTSBURGH TRIBUNE REVIEW
best of Aronowitz's writing. . . offer riotous and rambling time capsules
comprising detailed vignettes and told in a voice that's direct, disarming and
self-deprecating"---MIKE MILIARD, BOSTON PHOENIX
IN THIS 615-PAGE PAPERBACK, AL ARONOWITZ, ACCLAIMED AS THE "GODFATHER OF ROCK JOURNALISM," TELLS YOU MORE ABOUT BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES THAN ANY OTHER WRITER CAN TELL YOU BECAUSE NO OTHER WRITER WAS THERE AT THE TIME. AS THE MAN WHO INTRODUCED ALLEN GINSBERG TO BOB DYLAN, BOB DYLAN TO THE BEATLES AND THE BEATLES TO MARIJUANA, ARONOWITZ BOASTS, "THE '60S WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN THE SAME WITHOUT ME."
OR YOU CAN BUY THE BOOK ONLINE AT ANY ONE OF THE FOLLOWING WEBSITES:
AND HERE'S ANOTHER BOOK BY AL ARONOWITZ!
THE MOVIE WAS FICTION. THE TRUE STORY IS STRANGER THAN FICTION: FOR MOST OF HIS SHORT BUT SPECTACULAR LIFE, BOBBY DARIN UNKNOWINGLY LIVED A LIE
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