COLUMN SIXTY-SIX, DECEMBER 1, 2001
(Copyright © 2001 Al Aronowitz)
WARNING! FOR ADULTS ONLY! PERSONS UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO READ THIS STORY.
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.
friend Carri tells me that since the disaster her Dom won't let her out of bed.
The minute he gets home from work he grabs her.
It was like a second honeymoon at first, she says, but now she is
exhausted, worn out, her Jezebel always sore and aching. I tell her she is free to experiment with my collection of
lubes. Lately I hadn't had much use
for them. She says thanks but she
had better get her own.
I am yearning for some
end-of-the-world sex but so far I have had no luck.
The art dealer I picked up at the New Museum a week after the disaster
had slim, agile toreador hips. He
looked like he could maneuver well in tight places but when we went back to his apartment
he only wanted to do sixty-nine.
I was bloated, swollen
with sorrow and rage, all my juices bottled up inside me and what I wanted was
to be pierced, penetrated and drained. I
told him I have some wonderful lube with me, I got it in Amsterdam on the Street
of Earthly Sorrows last spring.
He looked at me as if I
had just told him I had an acrylic womb.
way!"' he says, ""I know all about those lubes, they are full of
estrogens, I've heard they can give a man breasts."
I'm astounded at his
"You must be
kidding," I say. "Very
funny, ha, ha, ha.'
I didn't tell him that I
think hermaphrodites are hot. If he
had breasts it would make him really exciting to me, a lover for the new
millennium. Instead I put my jacket
back on and went out the door.
When I got home, I stripped, fell into bed and slept. I dreamed of men with breasts and hermaphrodite sex. I mated with a hermaphrodite with many sets of arms like a Hindu God and two cocks, one between his legs and one growing from the center of his
sees a homeless man
stroking his prick.
Everyone pretends not to notice
Eight, ten, twelve sets of hands caressed me while I hold his two purple
cocks in my hands and pulled at them rhythmically as if they were teats
There is a homeless man
who lives in a three-sided packing crate house underneath the BQE overpass.
I always see him when I am coming and going to the "A" train. He is heavy set and beneath his tattered sweaters it looks
like he has breasts. He seems
to have breasts. Maybe he is a
hermaphrodite. He often has his
prick out and is stroking it with filthy hands.
Everyone passes by, pretending not to notice.
Since the bombing I
can't stop myself from glancing over. His tool is uncut, huge, the size of my forearm, he could
spawn dynasties, propagate thousands. When
I look over at his terrible, fleshy baton, I become excited.
A warm, liquid lava bubbles between my legs.
I wonder if this is my end of the world sex.
The headlines become more
bizarre, more sensational. Mayor Giuliani
announces they have not found any bodies for five days but they are finding more
and more body parts. Scam artists try to sell families of the victims dirt from
the site, Taliban are infiltrating our colleges, gas mask sales soar.
The Mayor says we should
get back to normal, eat in our restaurants, take in movies, Broadway shows.
When I go to teach my evening classes at a university in Greenwich
Village, despite his urging, the restaurants are empty.
The once bustling streets nearly deserted.
At night I keep having
hermaphrodite dreams. One night
there are two hermaphrodites in the dream.
They both have long blond hair, obese, fleshy tits and gray, squiggly
cocks like silver corkscrews. One
lies beneath me, one on top. I
writhe frenzied, sandwiched between breasts and cocks.
I come again and again and when I wake up in the morning the sheets are
First I wonder if this
means I will meet hermaphrodite twins, then I wonder if this new obsession is a
kind of hysterical reaction to the bombing, some kind of post-traumatic stress
disorder. I have a dreadful
compulsion to read all about the bombings. In the mornings I pull on some clothes right after waking and
go out and get the newspapers.
When I open the
downstairs door and step out into the streets, there is that now familiar burnt
charcoal smell in the air. Across
the river the fire is still burning.
My nocturnal yearnings
for a hermaphrodite continue to baffle me.
I find myself undressing for bed earlier and earlier.
Last night I was under the covers at a quarter past nine.
This time I imagine a hermaphrodite who is little more than a boy, a
delicate cocoa boy with moccachino skin, golden nappy hair and eyes the color of
honey, his tiny cock, not much bigger than a praline in my mouth, tastes of
I had three fingers in
the slit between his caramel bon-bons. He
was suckling gently at one nipple while with his nimble, wee fingers he pulled
playfully at my snatch. The phone
rang.. I didn't want to leave him so I let the machine take it.
The voice of Steve Nicholson, a painter and my one of my dearest friends,
floats out in to the room. He has
decided to move back to his family farm in Northern California.
"My hands are
always trembling," he said, I'm too nervous to paint anymore, I sold my
loft to Tony Bambini."
I'm shocked, how will I
cope without him? Now I jump up and
grab the phone.
"Don't go" I
say, "Who will I complain to?"
"I have to get out
of here," he says, "I'm terrified of more suicide bombers, toxic
chemicals in the water supply, poison gas in the subway, anthrax.
We can talk on the phone, e-mail."
He wants to come over
and bring me a small lamp I have always admired.
He has painted a purple moose and an orange pine tree on the lampshade.
"I just don't want
you to leave," I say. "And
I'm already in bed, but why don't we meet at the Right Bank Bar tomorrow night,
I'll buy you a farewell drink, if you change your mind I'll buy you two drinks."
"I won't change my
mind but I'll meet you at nine o'clock," he says.
I say OK and when I go
back to bed I find my little friend is still there waiting for me.
Steve is already sitting
at the bar when I arrive. He looks
like a lumberjack, a big guy who always wears plaid shirts and jeans.
The exquisite miniature landscapes he paints are a surprise.
There is a brown box wrapped and tied with handles under his barstool
that must be the lamp. His face
just lights up when he sees me, there is a halo around his head, the air in the
bar seems to be charged with electricity. I
can hear it whiz around my head to the beat of Jumping Jack Flash on the
The bottles behind the bar
are covered with precious gems, rubies, emeralds, sapphires.
The mirror is one solid sheet of diamonds.
The sudden sense of heightened awareness, this pseudo LSD glow is what
Virginia the bartender calls Twin Towers delirium tremens.
Everyone is getting them, they come and go.
"Well if it's not
Miss Dirty Stories of 2001." Steve calls out, his halo doubling in size.
I sit down on the bar stool next to his.
"Miss Dirty Stories doesn't have anything to write about, she's a fraud," I tell him. I met Steve, ten years ago here at the bar. We got drunk on Wild Turkey and went off to his place to write a dirty story of our own. The geometry of his six foot five, 300-pound frame and my five feet tall frame did not compute. Skewered on his huge tool I felt like a tiny
lot of people
I could not encompass him and kept sliding off.
In the middle of what might have eventually been the act, we both started
to laugh and couldn't stop. Then we
decided to dress and go to Chinatown for a very, very, early breakfast.
Now we are great friends. We
commiserate about the vicissitudes of our careers and our love affairs.
He pokes the box below
his bar stool with his size fourteen foot.
"Every time you
turn on this lamp, I hope you'll remember me," he says.
I'll remember that when the going got tough, you ran away."
light goes out of his face and he looks sad.
"Come on, he says,
""Give me a break. A lot
of people are leaving. They don't
want to raise their kids in the city."
"But you don't have
kids,"' I interject.
"I am a kid,"
he answers, "Anyway weren't you going to buy me a farewell drink?"
"Yes, I say and
motion over to Virgina, the bartender. She is wearing a low-cut, red leotard top to show off the
tattoo of a butterfly on her chest.
"Our usual, two
Cuervo Gold Margaritas, straight up, no salt.
And make them extra strong, I have the tower tremens.'
she answers, and then I say:
"Can you believe
this big oaf is leaving us?"
I know, he told me," she answers. When
she brings our drinks and makes change from the twenty I put on the bar. She
says, "The next one's on me."
Steve raises his glass and
clinks it against mine.
"To a better life,"
"I hope so," I
"Besides it's gonzo
crazy here," he adds. Then he
tells me about a big loft party he went to on Saturday night.
It was mobbed, everyone was making out.
People couldn't keep their hands off one another.
"It was like one
big, extended daisy chain,"" he says.
"People were screwing on the couches, in the bathtub.
There was a woman on her knees in one corner giving men blowjobs.
Can you imagine? There was a
long line in front of her."
I ask him, "Did you
go stand on the line?"
He doesn't answer.
He hangs his head, maybe hoping I don't see that he is blushing.
He changes the subject.
"There was probably
Viagra in the punch," he says.
"Fear is a more
powerful aphrodisiac," I state pompously, as if I'm an aphrodisiac expert.
"You must be right,"
he says. "It's the end of the
world, what else is there to do but have sex."
Then I tell him about my
hermaphrodite dreams and we finish our drinks.
Steve motions Virginia to bring us another.
"Maybe you should
go to the Eulenspiegel Club," he says. "Make your dreams become a
reality. I'll be in town till the
end of next week. I'll go with you"
"You look like a
CIA agent or an ubermensch cop," I tell him, "No one will come near
he says, "I'd be a big attraction, they'll be on me like flies on sugar,
but right now, I have to see a princess about a frog, excuse me."
He gets up and makes his
way to the back of the room and the stairs that lead down to the bathrooms.
I think about how I will miss him and suddenly feel like I'm going to
cry. I pick up my drink and finish
it in a great gulp. I make myself
smile. I despise looking forlorn in
There are more people in
the bar now. The tape is playing Tumbling
Tumbleweed. The couple on the
other side of me gets up and leaves as a little crowd of five or six people come
in. They occupy the newly vacated
seats next to me and the others stand behind them.
It is a group of Virginia's friends.
They are all tattooed and pierced. They
have shaved heads or long dreadlocks, blue hair or Mohawks, many visible
One of the guys has
silver studs shaped into a question mark on his cheek.
They look like they are in some future world punk band.
Actually they go to school with Virginia at the Columbia University
School of Economics. The guy sitting right next to me is slim and rangy.
His sleeveless, leather vest shows off his lean, muscular arms, covered
with blue tribal tattoos. He has a
clean-cut handsome face, a young Henry Fonda in Grapes of Wrath.
His dark hair is shaved close to his skull, and there is a Coptic
cross tattooed in the center of his forehead.
Virginia once introduced
us. His name is Hook and we talked
about how he is putting himself through school working for a silkscreen company.
I wonder where Steve is and I look around.
I see him at the back of the bar. A
tall, elongated Giacometti woman with red hair to her waist is holding him by
the arm and talking up at him. He
looks over her head and catches my eye and smiles.
I turn my head and find Hook
looking right at me.
"Hi, aren't you the
writer," he says.
"Yeah," I answer,
showed me your poetry book," he said, "It's great, not gender based,
not that usual snobby feminist glob that goes on and on about the glory of pussy
and ranks men. You're way beyond that."
He is obviously a very
smart guy. He wants to know when my
next poetry book is coming out. I tell him I've been working on a book of erotic stories for
a year, that the only poem I have written in the last year was about the
"How does it
go?" he asks. I tell him the
first line, it's all I can remember.
"Bitter ashes of
sunset float down through the sky like dots in a comic. . ."
When do I get to hear the rest?" he says, and I realize that he's
coming on to me. At least he hasn't given me that terrible line, the one that
will make me reject him. He hasn't
asked me if I like younger men. He
offers to buy me another drink. I
look back and see that Steve and the elongated redhead are kissing passionately
in one of the booths. I accept the
drink and start to flirt with him. We
flirt through two more drinks and when he asks me to come home with him. I say
Hook helps me on with my
coat, I try to appear cool, nonchalant. I
am breaking one of my own rules, one I have broken many times before; never go
home with someone the first time they invite you.
We walk down Bedford Avenue through a starless, cloudy night to Hook's
apartment a few blocks away. I have
forgotten the lamp but I don't care. Hook
lives right above The Buzzard's Nest Bar, a notorious hangout for the local
"At least the
building is safe," he says grinning at me as he unlocks the door.
The music from
downstairs is so loud it's deafening. Strains of Frank Sinatra singing, New York, New York float
up though the floor.
"That's all they
play ever since it happened," he says. "It's driving me nuts."
He ushers me in before him, shuts the door and switches on the light. In the stark light of the single bulb, I see how thin he is, supple like a boy. His kitchen consists of an old stove and a table made out of a door and packing crates. On the wall above the table is a large blowup news photo of the second plane hitting the south tower. Underneath the image, the words END OF THE WORLD OR BEGINNING OF A NEW WORLD are printed on
puts his hands
inside the waistbands
of my skirt. . .'
the photo in red magic
marker in large block letters.
Hook sees me looking at
"I'm working on a silkscreen of that," he says.
Everywhere, there are stacks of packing crates filled with books.
"My castle," he
says deprecatingly but I tell him I like it.
We just fall onto each
other, start to kiss. Hungry,
ravenous, we suck each other in. Still kissing me, he walks me backwards through the open door
of his other room towards the bed. He
puts his hands inside the waistbands of my skirt and tights and pulls them down
to my ankles. I step out of them
and out of my clogs. He unbuttons
my cardigan sweater and slips it off down my arms.
His lips keep me occupied, his mouth is a loving cup that I am drinking
from. The bedroom window is open.
I shiver in my bra and panties even though there is a fire building
inside me. With one arm he shuts
the window, with the other he pushes me down almost roughly on the bed.
I watch him take off his boots, his jeans, and his vest.
love his exotic markings, the blue wings on his back and on the top of his
chest, the many tribal bracelets he wears burned into his arms. . . He is not
wearing any underwear. His cock is
very long and thin, not pink at all, a startling white.
I notice that he has beautiful, large pink nipples.
They look soft, fleshy, like the nipples on a woman's breast.
I want to nurse there.
He steps back, mumbles
something I can barely hear, then I make it out.
'This is going to be
good, I know this is going to be good," is what he seems to be repeating
like a mantra.
In an attempt to calm
him and reach out to him, I ask him if he likes my underwear.
I am wearing my favorite matched set, black satin covered with red roses.
"Yeah, he says
barely glancing down. ""What
kind of flowers are those, Carnations?" he asks.
Carnations," I say and I just grab his hand and pull him down on top of me.
His body is so light on mine.
The last time I found myself in bed with a man, he had a big belly like a
sumo wrestler. Hook and I begin to
kiss again but now he is more hesitant. We
kiss for a long time. I'm getting
wet, wetter, juice running down my legs, but I don't feel his steel pressing
into my belly. I wonder if it's the
extra ten pounds I'm wearing on my thighs but he pulls his head up and says:
"You're so beautiful.
I didn't think you would be so beautiful."
I realize he is terrified.
I want him to ram his tongue so deep and hard into my mouth that my
cervix opens up before it and he is tonguing my labia from the topside but
instead he pulls away. He seems to
"I'm very sorry,"
he says. 'I can't do this.
Usually I'm hard right away."
"OK, don't feel bad,
it's ok," I say.
I put my arm around his
shoulders. I pull him closer to me.
He nuzzles my neck then rolls off of me onto his back.
We lie there besides each other like two beached fish at Coney Island.
I wonder if this has happened because we are strangers or because we
don't love each other. I wonder if
the disaster has rendered him impotent or if it was the three beers he drank as
he sat with me at the bar. I wonder if it's my old nemesis, tried and true, the luck of
I glance over at him.
His eyes are closed, the wing tattoos on his chest start just above his
sternum. It looks as if he is wearing a dainty scarf, a mantilla of
blue lace. His large nipples are
bubble gum pink. I want to touch
them, chew them, suck all the sugar out. First
I lean over and kiss him briefly, sweetly on the lips. I stroke his limp cock, cradle it in my hands for a while.
I learn the shape of it, stretching it in my hands, then I tuck it
between his legs, He starts to mumble something, perhaps a protest, but I shut
him up by putting my mouth right over his.
I push my tongue deep inside
then I pull it out. I push in
again, fucking him with it. Then I
take his wonderful nipples between my fingers and I tug at them until the tip of
each nipple pops out and hardens like a little clit. Finally I put my mouth on his clit-nipple.
The surrounding skin is soft and smooth like the skin inside my pussy.
Hook must like what I'm doing because he is moving his body beneath me,
rocking from side to side.
I move my hands down
below his hips squeezing his legs shut tight.
He is pinned under me now, pinned with my mouth at his breast, pinned by
my two hands below his hips. I take
my hands off the sides of his legs and put them together in a V. I press down on
his new vulva. I rub it, press it,
caress it just the way I like to have my crotch rubbed before I spread my legs
wide. Hook is moving under me with
such frenetic force that he throws me off but I'm not angry, I have moved into
my dreams. He is my hermaphrodite
and he puts hand out and touches my face. I
kiss his wrist, his palm, the tops of his fingers and then he opens his thighs.
There it is, in all its splendor, pointing straight up to heaven, white,
solid as marble.
As I rise and straddle
him, I feel very happy. He is still
touching my face. He prick fills me
up to the top, hooks me into the center of life.
I'm so hot I think I must be burning him but he does not flinch.
He moves, thrusting higher and higher into me as I open wider and wider
until we are at ground zero. From
my position astride him I can see through the bedroom door the picture of the
jet hitting the second tower. I
hear a distant sound, a great explosion, like worlds colliding.
The walls of the room are shaking, the edges of the ceiling beginning to
Just as I am coming, he
comes too, exploding into me in a ball of fire and we are both propelled up
though the crumbling roof, up, up into the black skies, our bodies
disintegrating, mixing with the clouds like ashes. ##
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