A Quirky Erotica Series
"NOTES
FROM A DIRTY YOUNG WOMAN: An Homage to Charles Bukowski"
by Aimee Herman
Read the entire series here
Charles Bukowski
I met him on the sidewalk at the corner of 16th and Prospect Park West. He was pressed against a table, and I barely hesitated before picking him up. There were others perusing the distractions around me, and I wanted to scream out, I’m not usually like this, picking up dirty, old men and pressing them against my hip, forcing them to smell the sweat beneath my pockets! Or, maybe I've always been this way. Maybe I was meant to find this used copy of a hearty sampling of Bukowski. Poems and prose. Sex and whiskey.
I would like to write that the book smelled of booze and loose women. But if I want this to be more non than fiction, I must confess that it smelled more like a dislocated basement, metallic and moldy. I paid the lady $2, down from $4, and whisked Charles away beneath the cement and grass, toward the subway.
I placed bum against orange, plastic seat and read him fast. Hard. No blinking. It felt like a forbidden fuck in an alley or in a dark booth where hands do their work beneath a table top.
If I had a cock, I’d call myself Charles Bukowksi. With skin made from leftover verbs that have run out of energy. Unsteady joints from too many gulps and not enough sips of liquor and lipstick. I wouldn’t have to apologize for not combing my hair or gaining weight from beer and reheated nourishment because I would be Charles Bukowski. I would fuck every person that could recite a line of poetry (and it wouldn’t have to be mine!). I would lift dresses and peek my tongue around their corner. I would suck as many lips and legs as I could. Because I would be Charles Bukwoski.
Unfortunately, my dick is too small. It has an extreme likeness to a vagina and I cannot get past the scent of whiskey to allow it to be slurped through my teeth. Although I often feel like I am walking around with an erection, it needs to be seen up-close with an expensive, high-powered lens. I do not smoke anymore. My vices have dried up like tobacco leaves that have been burned by the sun. How can I possibly call myself someone that is so completely unlike me?
He was born in Germany. I was born in Jersey. His parents wanted him to sound more American, so they called him Henry. My parents wanted me to appear more French, so they pushed more vowels into my name. He worked at a post office. I have a bizarre fetish for all things having to do with mail (boxes and carriers). Getting closer?
When I lived in New York, I traveled with his book always hidden in my bag. It felt like forbidden lingerie that still smelled of cum-stains and spit. If he traveled with me, I could essentially gain his who-the-fuck-cares demeanor and become as close in likeness as a redhead with small breasts and no facial hair can get.
Recently, a friend of mine permanently placed a photograph of Bukowksi on his skin: a black and gray tattoo of his profile lifting a glass of liquor to his lips. “Do you want to watch?” he asked.
I rushed over and watched man with vibrating needle pierce his skin with the permanence of this image on his forearm. Being the dirty, young woman that I am, I immediately thought of Bukowski’s face coming alive.
He would slurp up that liquor like he might do a woman’s cunt: no manners or rhythm, lots of tongue and some teeth pulling on pubic hair. In his gravely voice, he’d slur some lines of poetry, then ask where the women are. This would be the moment in which he’d see me.
My friend, laying on his stomach as tattoo man does his magic, would not notice Bukowksi lifting off his skin. Tattoo man would be too deep in thought to care. I would smile, nervously, because how can one truly prepare for a moment like this? He would walk up to me, shifting his weight from side to side—not in a sexy, masculine way, but in a drunk and tortured manner.
“You smoke?” he’d ask.
I would shake my head, suddenly angry at my need to give up all things bad for me.
“Drink?”
“Yes!” I’d exclaim, without thought of the whiskey he might want me to share with him.
We would walk a block from the shop and he’d follow me into a bar with neon lights proclaiming their beer specials. His hand would have already assessed where my back ends and ass begins. I’d watch his eyes, squinted and shifty, search for the location of my breasts, possibly disappointed by lack of cleavage.
Charles would walk up to the bar as though he’d been there a thousand times. As though it was his childhood home, familiar and comforting.
“Three whiskeys,” he’d request. “I’m thirsty. And one for her.”
I would hold my breath as whiskey slid down my small lips into my throat. Before I could swallow the smallest sip, Charles would be asking for three more.
I’d feel nervous, but also recognize that I may not have much time with tattooed-image-Bukowski. So, I’d lift my hand, slightly nervous and sweaty, and place it against his thigh. His pants, dirty and stained. I’d squeeze his knee and cleverly check out the escalation in his slacks. I’d pretend that dick size matters, as I placed finger inside my mouth and sucked the skin until it was lathered with whiskey-scented spit. Then, I’d place inside pants, beneath underwear, and plunge inside my pussy as though it is a giant bathtub and I’ve had a long day. At first, Charles wouldn’t even notice and I’d be okay with that. Just to be able to say that I’ve fucked myself while sitting next to Bukowski would be fulfilling. My clit would be hard enough to feel like something that is adequate to suck on, so I’d offer it to him. Again, how could I pass up a moment like this?
Charles would grunt, as I’d unbutton jeans, pull down zipper, briefly wonder and pretend to care that someone might see, then pull my underwear toward my ankles. He’d bob his head down as though I were a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the form of flesh and goosebumps. I’d feel his stubble compete with my ability to maintain a semi-erection, so my imagination would begin cataloging my masturbation thoughts: Diane Keaton, librarians, my mail carrier from Brooklyn with thick thighs and lips like crayons.
Charles would drink up my pussy, taking shots of everything ground up in there. I’d raise my hips, just before coming in his mouth. He’d then gargle me up and take another shot of whiskey. What might that drink be called?
Without another word, he’d get up, stumble from his stool and walk out the door. I’d remain there, pants still at my ankles, cunt throbbing. I’d push my finger back inside and then place it by my mouth, tasting my new flavor: a little bit of poetry and booze and dirty old man smell.
Charles would walk back inside the shop and magically appear back on my friend’s arm. Frozen in time. On a forearm. Inside my pussy. Traveling in my bag. Along these lines and when I masturbate, trying to appear far dirtier than I possibly am.
Thanks for the whiskey, Charles. I just may grow to like the flavor.
Originally published May 2010