A Night in Cameroon - 2

by Kelly Jameson

I lift my fingers from the keys (generally made of spruce or basswood and not ivory. Ivory-yielding species endangered, protected by treaty) and look up to find Jones, the muscular, tattooed bouncer standing beside me, six-foot-two, two-hundred thirty-five pounds. Jones and I, we compared scars and tats one night after closing. He wears a lot more than I. Jones began piercing parts of his own body when he was fourteen. I asked him what it felt like to get his penis tattooed. He said explosion of pain, like time and his dick stretched out infinitely.

well, she puts out…just about the only one here who does…everyfuckingbody been in that nasty cumbucket…

We talked, drank vodka, decided everyone loves to be used. If I stretch my imagination—a lot—Jones reminds me of a Florentine duke. He's a man who failed to win riches and fame from the world and doesn't care; plays life with carelessness not beyond his charm. I tried explaining to him how electrons pair up in copper-oxide materials that superconduct at temperatures above 100K; he tried to explain to me the NHL 1992-93 longest losing streak of the San Jose Sharks. I told him about breast ironing, body modification practiced in Cameroon. Pubescent girls' breasts flattened by their mothers to make them less attractive to men, believing it'll prevent rape and early marriage. Apply grinding stones, belts, pestles, breast bands, heated objects and press or beat down the forming breasts. Local organizations try to stop it. I told him four million girls probably experienced it, cried from the pain, developed blisters and abscesses or worse, cancer even. End up pregnant and maybe married anyway.

man, she talks the dumbest shit…talk, talk, talk...ignore most everything comin outta her mouth…let'er ramble on…what gets shoved in that's interesting. Particularly my meat. She likes that fat tattooed dick…that stenciled thing gets me in a lot of cooze…

Jones didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. I didn't say anything. We drank more vodka. He asked, "Where's Cameroon?"

"It's a unitary republic of central and western Africa. People know it mostly for its national football team. They use a wooden pestle to flatten the breasts, the same thing they pound tubers with. Or they use heated bananas and coconut shells."

"Oh," he says. "God. God."

never says no to me…she don't wanna fuck she sucks me off…sucks it all down… no hesitation...loves that shot in the mouth like any of the boys prowling the bathhouses.

Kind of ironic he's a bouncer whose job it is to keep me from being raped by horny drunks every night. I've fucked him before and it was nothing to complain about. Never on this piano, though.

"There's always time for a little physics," I say.

Physics. What the fuck's she jabbering about physics?...she don't know shit about physics…quantum this relativity that…she so good at that shit why's she blowing high rollers in the boss's office and shaking that tired old ass and those beat floppers laying flat on her chest… workouts ain't cutting it for her like used to neither…that sagging ass. But she is one horny bitch...nasty…

I'm tired but fancying a cock perks me up, begging for it, groveling, having Jones, like Gottfried Silbermann—organ builder and clavichord maker from Dresden credited with constructing the first two pianofortes in Germany around 1730—moving over me and inside me, looking for the music inside me, demanding, as Johann Sebastian Bach once did, better sound, searching, maybe, maybe, maybe this time we'll find it.

dick's drooling just thinking of the men she's done today what's it been? five, six, fifty? good we're alone in the club cold wet spot sticking to my crotch hair

Pull his pants to his knees, quadriceps darkly downed sprouting from his knees like twin tree trunks, menacing tree trunks in my face christ the slut's grabbing my dick before I say a fucking word what a pig for dick the first soft taste of him in my mouth as he swells, bristly hair rough on my face, musk man-smell listen to that cunt moan busts my nut like no other bitch already in her mouth Jesus licking strands of dick drool like glistening spaghetti hanging from her hole craving something hard to paint with my lips tat of black panther wrestling a cobra over part of his rippled abs down his penis cobra twisting around the erection fatter with the stiffening filling my mouth now pubic hair the snake's basket rising alive in the black jungle cat claws red eyes glowing back in the throat bitch shove it in there push grab her head shove hard face in my crotch ram it in listen to that mumph snort gurgle boss right mouth full reach down yank her fat nipples twist em off those floppers "suck bitch suck harder slut" words clipped push em out "swallow whore" I'm in the rut needing the tattooed cock, all tongue and mouth and heat and square jaw twist my tits yank my hair tell me suck me off slut twist my nipples hard make me beg to swallow like a whore strong and hard too hard diamond fuck a venomous fuck against the neon-crusted world where everything's gamble and glittering freak show. This—it—it's what I want. Bitch in heat, sucking cock throbbing purple, angry, swollen. Lips ready to slip it in, rough and quick and hard. Quivering erection feel blood pulse. Ooze from the tip. I'm dripping wet…"you do plenty you oughtn't whore how many'd you do today?" the cunt moans again digging remembering on her knees sucking off the fat old shits "answer, slut."

His fat dick bobs beneath my lips. I drag my tongue up his belly, up his warm chest, his neck, kiss his Adam's apple, feel the blood beating, his pulse beating against my lips, taste the hardness of his firm jaw, finally move them over his ear and whisper and beg and lick, "I'm a bad, bad girl. My cunt wants to suck at you now." I don't look into his eyes when I beg. No faces.

not into fucking this old thing yet…use that mouth…"not yet, cunt suck me off…earn it bitch…you deserve dick in that fuckhole? how many old dudes you suck up today already slut…"

I bend down, pull at his dick with my lips, suck hard so my mouth aches, gurgle and slobber long viscous strands, mewl like a baby. He yanks me up by my hair. His steel fingers spear my cunt, sharp pain parting and pulling my pubic hair. He jerks out his fingers and forces me to suck my own juice. I grin; the girl in me, the one who masturbates in the shower thinking of pot-bellied old men all gray chest hair and hard cocks watching me play with my pussy talking dirty stroking themselves dripping, and I'm dripping from the warm water of the shower, my legs spread apart, and they're spurting. I stand legs like water; he squeezes my mound with his other mammoth mitt. I groan around the fingers in my mouth.

"I'm not messing around, bitch…you gotta get back to it…suck…"

"Fuck me now, Jones, now," I moan.

"shut up cunt..I'll fuck you when I'm good and ready…I ain't heard you beg yet. bitch… you beggin bitch?..."

I kneel, lick inside his muscular thighs, nibble the soft layer of hair. He moans. I kiss his skin to ease the pain. "I can't hear you bitch…beg slut with that nasty mouth…show me louder…" I lick his cock and suck him, slurp, gurgle his juices and my saliva in tiny bubbles smack my lips polishing the knob spit on this dick catch his juice; he yanks me to my feet, strips off my glittery top and G-string. Impatient now, he kneels at my feet. All I'm wearing are my white stilettos. He spears my curls. "Christ, you're wet" sucking his own fingers this time.

"Please, please…fuck me." I beg. "Fuck me now before I come all over the floor."

He tosses his clothes, muscle shirt jeans briefs socks sneakers; carries me to the piano.

I imagine he's a man expelled after the sack of Rome in 1527 for lewd acts with all sorts of women. A distortion of the history in the texts, but I imagine he's a man from a long line of Italian music patrons who will restore the luster of his family name, a musical chapel of bone, muscle, sinew, and lust.

He pushes me down on the piano and climbs on top. I notice his beautiful feet. I wonder if they're pedicured.

I think how being on my back is my least favorite position; I prefer on my elbows, ass in the air. In position, no choice but to bare all, forced to give all my smells, the faint smell rising from just above my cunt—between shows I shit; used moist wipes after but didn't take time to shower between sets. I want to be dominated, fucked hard so I feel him burst from my throat, forget for a while I'm getting old for this, that the beer tastes stale, that I haven't seen a shooting star for years.

The cock of the man inside me? Genealogy complicated by innumerable illegitimate offspring and by the tendency of some of the members to dispose of each other by assassination. A dangerous man of experienced lips and hands, squeezing my breasts, painfully tweaking my hardened nipples; in haste to mount me his feet clumsily strike keys emitting crushed chords. He pushes inside me. Sonorous echo of discordant cacophony, jumble of randomness. Black and white inside my head, I am sharp, I am flat, I am the metal frame of the piano, the strings struck by hammers.

My Italian count is no patient man. Already he sucks air through his teeth. He repositions himself, somehow flays his legs outward and I think I hear the strings inside the big piano vibrate even though no keys have been struck. I think I hear moans of a thousand peasant women from the fourteenth century as the count rams inside me. If I had the dick, I'd wear him out. I'd wear him out.

quiet…the bitch finally quiet…the place quiet…goddamn she's sloppy…

He thrusts harder.

"you're a dirty whore…beg me for it bitch…"

He strikes into my core and soon I actually feel as if I'm ascending. Strokes deliciously rough and panicked. His mouth over mine, jaw bunched and strained; veins in his neck bulging blood lust vitality.

"I wanna fuck your ass bitch…" breathing into my neck…he always wants to fuck my ass. "Forget my ass" clench tight around his erection until he moans "God," he holds there a sweet suspended instant "I'm going to come…need…stop…a minute…" I realize we really are ascending. The ceiling looms closer. Jones must've knocked the switch with his foot. It's out of reach back at the stool. He doesn't realize what's happening fucking me hard, grunting with effort, lost.

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A Night in Cameroon - 2

by Kelly Jameson