(Copyright 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)



[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. ]

One morning I wake up and the little mole on my lower back is itching. It itches all day and that night it itches so much I have trouble sleeping. The next day it is still itching. I call up the skin doctor and make an appointment. A decent small press has just published my poetry book to great reviews. How foolish, how futile it would be to be carried away by something smaller than a birth control pill, just as I m approaching my prime, just as I may find myself nominated for the Pulitzer prize".

The day of my appointment with the dermatologist arrives and the mole on my back is   acting like a fickle lover, it comes and goes.

As I start to dress, I take care choosing my panties, for I have seen this skin doctor several times before and he is a very hot doctor. He looks like Paul Newman in the Road to Perdition except the dermatologist is built like a quarterback and wears a silver goatee on his chin. During my last visit he lifted and cupped my left breast gently with one hand while he used his other hand to deftly cut out a mole on my ribcage just below. It seemed to me that his hand lingered, his fingers pressing my breast a few moments  more than necessary. "How are we doing?? he said with a little squeeze as he let go.

As  I pull on my new pink, silk, French cut panty, provocative but refined, I imagine  myself standing before him naked again but for panties. I know I won't be able to stop myself from blushing, and creaming just a little bit on the fresh cotton crotch.

I wonder how much of my eagerness to see the sexy dermatologist has to do with the fact I haven't gotten laid for six months but I still can't stop myself from thinking about that silver goatee tickling between my legs.

The dermatologist's office is crowded.  I sit on a brown leather chair, holding my poetry book---which I carry with me everywhere---out in front of me pretending to read it. I hope someone will get curious about the beautiful cover and ask me about it, but no one   notices. I console myself by imagining that the chubby matron sitting across from me is wearing absolutely no panties under her print dress, her pale pudenda is hairless and flaps open pink and shiny like the mouth of a fish. The acned teen boy sitting next to her seems to be staring into her lap. I decide that under his baggy pants he has a long nubile green cock that looks like a gecko lizard.  As I wonder if his lithe lizard cock will creep down out of the leg of his pants and then crawl up over the arm of his chair towards her, a nurse comes into the waiting room and calls my name.

I follow her into an ultra-modern examining room. The steel instruments arranged in trays on the cabinet are polished, gleaming, the walls are so stark a white they hurt my eyes. I perch on a stool with a plastic seat and open my book, which is still in my hand. I am well aware that I want to impress the dermatologist with my book just as when I take off my surgical gown I want him to like my body in my pink panties.

I am reading the vagina blessing poem: celebrate  the words for vagina that are supposed to be dirty but are not?Cunt, clit pussy, hole, snatch, twat?when the door opens and he steps into the room.

"Hello,? he says, "it's been a while," and he extends his fine, large hand. The goatee seems fuller, bushier and he looks even more handsome. He once told me was born in Marseilles. He still has a faint French accent, which I find very sexy. I put my hand in his and---am I imagining this?---he lifts it as if  to raise my fingers to his lips, then his glance falls on my book which is open in my other hand.

"What is this "? he asks, "What are you reading?".

I try not to simper as I answer,

"Why it's my book, my new poetry book."

"Congratulations, let me see, " he says and he reaches down and grabs the book right out of my hand. His gaze focuses on the open page and then I see his brow furrow and the corners of his mouth turn down as he reads. I am nervous, waiting for his verdict.

Finally he sighs, says, "Well, I suppose this kind of thing is very popular these days, but how can you write this stuff?? and he shakes his head.

Can this man who has seen thousands of tits and thighs and ass cracks actually be a prude?  I

'. . .I was having a fantasy about fucking you, but now I'm not so sure. . .'

feel my temperature rising. I can't believe it, what does he think skin is for anyhow?

"It's all part of nature," I hear myself, saying defiantly.

He does not reply, instead he thrusts the book back into my hand.

"Now,? he asks sternly, "What brings you here??

I want to say actually is "I was having a fantasy about fucking you, but now I'm not so sure." Instead I tell him about the mole.

"Best, let's have a look, he says gruffly. 'take off all your things except your panties."

He drags the word panties out, giving it an ominous sound like hysterectomy".

"And put on a surgical gown," he says?".then he leaves the room, slamming the door.

This unpleasant exchange has made me feel sad and rejected. I want to run out of the examining room back outside to my beloved, humid New York summer streets, but then the little mole on my back starts to itch again. I put my book away in my purse. I take off my things, except for my lovely pink panties, which now look silly and cheap. I place my clothes on the stool, don the surgical gown and perch gingerly on the corner of the examining table. I wrap my arms around my chest and hug myself. It's cold in the room--- so cold, maybe I should get up and light a fire like in that Jack London story or I'll freeze to death.  I can use my book for kindling but suddenly I have no energy. I hug myself tighter, close my eyes, I'm very tired, I feel like I'm falling asleep."

A warm breeze wakes me and I hear the door open and shut". I open my eyes to see the skin doctor standing above me. He has put on a pair of thick glasses and is now wearing surgical gloves. His expression is stern, unsmiling.

'turn your back to me and take off your gown," he says.  We'll take a look at that little mole you're talking about and then we'll check the rest of your beauty marks and moles."

I follow his instructions, put my robe on the stool on top of my clothes, then I hear him stepping up behind me.

 'so this is it,?  he says and I feel the cool rubber of his fingers tapping the mole.

"Any pain now?? he asks.

"No, " I say, "not at all."

Then I feel him kneading and pulling the skin beneath his fingers

"How about this, any pain yet?," he queries.

"Nothing? I answer.

He steps closer, then I feel something warm and wet in the middle of my back, traveling down my spine. It's his tongue! He is tonguing my skin! This hot tongue finds my mole, circles it, presses against it.

"What about this, any discomfort here?," he whispers.

I am too shocked to say anything as his tongue continues to progress down my spine. Slowly it teases it way beneath the elastic of my panties, it feels just delicious, but aren't there rules about this?  Should I turn around, yell wait a minute, what are you doing, this is not professional, but it feels so good. . Maybe he can read my mind, because he gives me a chance to protest. He stops what he is doing long enough to ask:

"Now, are you at all uncomfortable?  Shall I continue??

I take a giant step across the chasm of fear and loneliness that has recently encircled my life, my skin needs skin and I want it, I want it now. 

"No,? I say faintly and then more firmly, "No, I'm not uncomfortable at all."

 "Well, then," he whispers into the small of my back ,and his tongue slips beneath my panties again, He uses it to caress the bottom of my spine, find my Kundalini spot. He kisses there, he sucks with a hot moist mouth and a delightful wave of heat spreads all the way up my spine and out through my body. My breasts swell like ripening fruit, my nipples perk up too and tingle with pleasure. I feel my cunt lips puff with desire as my love juice starts to churn inside me. The dermatologist must feel me opening to him, because his wily tongue strikes out for territory further south. It slides into my ass crack with a sleek kissing sound. The tight little bud there opens, unfolds as he fucks me with his slick tongue.  His rhythm is so steady and practiced I wonder if this is part of the curriculum in dermatology school.  His fingers on my butt cheeks, pull them wider so the tongue goes deeper within. He kindles a fire inside me and the thick syrup pouring out between my legs smells like smoke and ashes.  I am starting to come, my body running towards the comforting heat, when he abruptly stops and pulls that magic tongue out. He raises his head, steps back leaving my anus hungry and open and me dangling over the edge of the world.

"Alors, we must not hurry the examination,?  he says, "It is very important to be thorough.   Are you o.k."? he asks.

I manage to gasp out, "Fine."

"Eh, bien," he says, "because now, we must progress to an even more intricate part of the examination."  My panties have fallen to my ankles.

"Now step out of your panties, " he instructs me.  This time he says the word panties, slowly, lovingly, caressing it with. his voice.

'turn around," he says.

The first thing I notice is that his glasses are all fogged up. He takes them off and wipes them clean with a purple polka-dot necktie he pulls out of his surgical coat. He puts the glasses back

'. . .In France,
we call this
la position du chien. . .'

on and slowly looks me up and down. I am still breathing hard, still excited, my breath coming in little puffs like, the locomotive of a toy train.

'try to relax.," he says. 'so far, I see no irregularity but there are still a couple of spots that must be examined, one of them quite difficult to reach. For this I will have to use a very special instrument."

He unbuttons the lower button of his lab coat, and lifts it high. He does not undo his belt,which I notice has a big Wily Coyote buckle. He fingers flash as he quickly unzips his fly. He inserts his hand to pull out a thick, gray, gnarled cock, coiled like a rope. He pulls his huge red balls out too. The cock uncurls in front of me, so stiff, it stands right up. The uncut cocktip tip points right up my heart like an arrow. 

He takes a step closer to me, 'sometimes it is necessary to examine the breast orally," he says and he bends his face and sucks my nipple into his mouth. He nurses with vigor, sucks me roughly just the way I like it, and I can't stop myself from pushing closer to him, grinding my hungry box against his pelvis, the long lariat of his cock pressed between us, swinging down between our legs. .

He steps back, releasing my nip. 'soi-gentile, try to remain calm,?  he admonishes.

He tells me to sit down on the examining table.

"Now,? he says, "I  must prepare my instrument."

He opens a drawer in one of the cabinets along the wall. He takes out a long transparent rubber tube that he pulls on to his cock. .

Once sheathed, his long tool looks a club, a bludgeon. Stepping closer, he taps me gently below the knee with it.

"Let's test your reflexes," he says.

My leg shoots right up.

"No problem there," he says, smiling.  "You must at this time turn over and get on your hands and knees with your bottom facing me. In France, we call this la position du chien, here I believe you commonly call it doggie position. Lift your bottom and spread your knees, perhaps this may feel a little strange at first."  He slips a hand between my legs and pulls open my nether lips.

"Bien, bien," he murmurs as I feel his tool slowly probing inside me, expanding into every crevice, as he moves deep into my juicy twat flesh. I find I am embracing this miraculous instrument, pulling it into my liquid center, but the dermatologist becomes ambivalent. He starts to pull out, then pushes in again, in and out and then in again. He moves faster, his heavy balls spanking my bottom. I start to come, opening my vulva up to him, moving so vigorously that I hit him in the chin with my ass.

"Ooh la-la, ooh la-la," he cries out as he comes,  flooding into me. Then he just falls right on my body, resting, he bites my shoulder gently, then kisses my neck. I feel exhausted but so happy and I?m not itching anywhere. I close my eyes. I'm dozing, falling into a dream.

I dream I am on the stage in a big, crowded auditorium. Rows and rows of expectant faces look up at me. The dermatologist is seated in the front row gazing at me adoringly. I am reading from my book, from the Vagina Blessing Poem. I finish to tumultuous applause. The applause grows louder, and louder, the whole audience stands up. Everyone keeps clapping. The noise is deafening. I open my eyes to find myself staring at the pristine white ceiling of the examining room, the glaring, fluorescent light. I realize what I had heard was not applause at all but a loud knocking.

 "Are you ready in there yet," the skin doctor calls though the door. "Hurry, please, I have other patients waiting."

I pull myself up into a sitting position.

The gown is still tied tight around me.

"I?m ready now," I say.   ##



The Blacklisted Journalist can be contacted at P.O.Box 964, Elizabeth, NJ 07208-0964
The Blacklisted Journalist's E-Mail Address: