Cover art
Steve Wilson
Conspired
as always
for Marcia
Upon a cotton and foam futon, naked I lie; I’ve just awoken from a nap. Many women attend me; they have conspired so. Among the five I recognize my Darlin, who seems to be in charge. One foot on the end of the wood-slat futon frame, the other on her grandmother’s ottoman, she’s wearing a short, short white silk kimono and standing, as would a director or a photographer on a set, above and apart. The other women are dressed smart, all in Darlin’s clothes.
Egypt’s wearing that pleated red satin dress, and as she removes her Hollywood High cheerleader lips from my neck and her nimble seamstress fingers from my chest, she rises up, full breath, and dances. That Egypt will bless us with her art, Darlin is pleased to know. And what a dance, indeed! The rich begging and entreaty for permission to enjoy me, with only gyre-like rhythms and jazzy gyrations for language. The red dress, whirling and whipping so close to my face, exacerbates the Eros of the spell already cast upon us, the one that springs from Darlin’s eyes, now matched by sultry Egypt. Skies will surely crack! Whereas history and legend demand that the dancer needs the queen’s approval, Egypt kisses Darlin’s right foot and leeches upward slowly, drawing color to the calf skin, then nibble tickle high along the mother load of Darlin’s inner thigh. (Mary, July and Dawn have been watching Egypt’s dance, and they now return me their attentions, ignoring my particular arousal with their sloppy wet kisses and fondlings.) At the thought of the orgasm Egypt is after, Darlin whistles her breath with royal delight, feigns a yawn of mischievous boredom, and then denies Egypt permission to mount me. Crestfallen, her smile to a pout like a California earthquake, Egypt snakes back unsatisfied to the writhing ménage that is me, Mary, July and Dawn. But before Egypt takes my one free arm to squeeze, to bind clamped between her ballet thighs, she whispers an intimate, centerfold cheesecake aside to Darlin to remember her by.
Mary, July and Down have all now followed Egypt’s lead and have taken to rubbing their clothed crotches on each my separate limbs. July, however, soon abandons her place and focus on my knee and throws herself diagonally across me, her legs wrapped tight around my right leg, her full milk breast cushioned by my lips and exuding the taste of cookies and milk, she wiggles to find the perfect angle to hug her clit against my hip. Through the black, slight Frederick’s slip she wears seeps the moist mist of her aspirings. Darlin has planned well the ardor of the women. Dawn, who’s wearing an oversized Wyoming Cowboy’s jersey and tapered Wranglers, pulls out four short lengths of rodeo rope from underneath the futon, and as the other women squeeze me , imprisoned between their thighs, she binds and ties me to the frame while July just keeps on coming. Bound so suddenly and adeptly, I wonder: have they practiced these maneuvers? Mary and Dawn, their breath and yearning, fascinate my ears, strangely diverse siren calls, their different accents cooing, alluring: Mary’s mountain drawl, Dawn’s smokey, throaty inner-city crawl.
I’ve always had a hankering for Mary, and now that July has climaxed and climbed off, I speak for the first time, asking Mary to remove the prom skirt that she’s wearing. We both look to Darlin whose smile flashes her generous affirmation. As Mary sheds the hoped brocade, I think of molting snakes at the sight of her taut bow thinness. She stands over me, a pair of un-Catholic high school high-heeled patent leather spikes aside my cheeks, and I look up to see she’s not removed her underwear and that white lace blouse with pearl buttons from abdomen to breast, to see her blonde hair and hungry green eyes gazing down. Now Mary squats to press her crotch squarely on my face, underwear and all, through which, I take it, I’m to eat to get the golden twat. She is almost cruel with the pressure on my face, but I gather from her trembling and moaning that she’s only trying to help herself to pleasure. I can hardly get my breath and my nose grows sore from the friction of her undies when the milli-skin shears and my tongue slips home into the valley of firm birthings, tunneled dark musings. She rises, tenses, falls and squats, a balance of delight, to the pressure of my slurpings; shivers and gushes and wild groanings later, she’s sister snake beside me, says she can’t wait to write this in her diary.
The manner in which my wrists are bound leaves my hands free, with wiggle room, extended over the edge of the futon. Dawn, so to speak, is sitting in my right hand and Egypt in my left. I close my eyes and concentrate on the placement and exploration of all ten fingers. As I suspected, Egypt is naked under the red dress, and my thumb deep within pegs her whole world against the cusp of my index finger. Dawn’s denims are pliable and impenetrable; I offer her a fist as saddle, and she grinds my knuckles hard and roundly to her. July shimmies her fingers up across my abs, my chest, my neck and grooves to massage my ears, my cheeks and temple; next, it’s both her hands clawing down my sides to ply my ass and shank.
Simultaneously, Egypt’s fingers are in my mouthy, exploring, gauging the lie of my teeth and gums. Next, Egypt slowly arches her torso free of my hand and extends her right leg emphatically across me, to slide herself atop me, her body language telling all the other women to back off, the wait’s been long enough. She snuggles my hard-on between her thighs. I open my eyes to catch the beautiful haunt of her face hovering, then descending; instantly she’s got my eyes pinned to visions of capabilities unmentionable. She takes her fingers from out of my mouth and fills it with her tongue, firm and probing. So powerful she is, her body screams of fleshly communion - blood, wine and body indeed! She could such the breath from out my lungs, devour my tongue in an orgy of teeth and one step over the line. All now paw my flesh as Egypt continues, all her dance and beauty embroiled in her mouth kissing mine. What I’m thinking as time and place dissolve in her irises is a jumble of movie stars in slips in railroad cars with my own devilish grin rising moonly in a mahogany framed mirror atop a dressing table. What movie are we in? Produced and directed by whom? I’d rather think movie than myth, right? I kid myself. The actors all live through cinema, but the men of myth are all dead, eaten alive out of sight of the successor. This attempt at humor incites within a mood swing; doubt and trepidation. Terror in the image of the wine that she would offer. A shiver in the bubbly Eros. Pink paranoia. The last sunset in the West. Heart has changed the pattern of its beat forever as Egypt lets go of my mouth and, flashing that beguiling showgirl smile, begins to snap her teeth, jaws hinged and chomping. All the women snap, rattle and chatter their teeth. A chorus of fingers itches the air.
Darlin shuts out the sun-setting light, slowly dropping the bamboo shade, dropping the world from view, from care, all intent and purpose now cloistered in this room, upon this bed. I pull against the ropes; my conclusion: it’s and always has been hopeless, me in the hands of women. Darlin circles the futon thrice, marking time in the drama, and then stands at the head of the frame to stare down, upside down, at me. Her face and smile is lunar; her perfect body says I’ve earned it.
In an instant of other places and different times, the chattering and snapping cases, and it’s five set of very real teeth upon my flesh. Egypt’s back at my mouth, my tongue sucked, captured set between her teeth; a trickle but slight and the taste of my own blood alarms me. July bites, a not so playful pinch, my left nipple hard unyielding. Dawn’s wide mouth and molars mooch my neck and shoulders. Mary leaves her crooked eye teeth impression on my thigh. Darlin attends my manhood smiling-ly.
I flick out of fear, like changing tv channels with a remote, to relax, utterly. (What else?) I am not powerless, I know what they want, don’t I? I flash on the higher moments of my life and remember who exactly wrote them, like the time I wrote Darlin and April into the ceremony, bought them identical bracelets and dresses to wear dancing. Rare is the memory as catalytic as a sexual one, I think, as suddenly the biting and nibbling stops. The women are up undressing. Dusk is done, the room is dark. I can not see the women clearly; I can only smell them, the different oils and lotions they are rubbing on their flesh
Unexpectedly, it’s a blindfold for real and my hands are each unbound from the futon frame, only to be bound behind my back. My feet are set free and I roll off the futon to kneel, to rise up and be led to a spot at the end of the room where I am oiled. Dawn’s throaty voice warns me not to speak, and as I am spun around, Pin the Tail on the Donkey style, Darlin tells me I’m to guess the game.
So the question in my mind is who’s to pleasure whom? Is the proposition: in whom am I to come? Is only one fertile and I’m to find her? Am I to wander around the room, dizzy with passion and arousal, with only my nose and intuition to guide me, to bump against and rub the slickered skins until I name each one correctly? Rank my lusts? Forsake trust in just one name for love? Write more lines? See through this and all life’s other blindfolds for you (all a man can do) and demonstrate that fantasy- like life- is how you write it?
