Fiery Lesbian Erotica
"Jazz City," an Oysters short story by J Brooke
I HEAR that train comin' a rolling down the bend, that train a keeps on rollin'...down...to...San Antone. My mother said always be a good boy, when I hear that whistle blowin', I hang my head and cry. I killed a man in Reno...just...to watch him...die."
That's what Johnny Cash says, steaming from my ‘65 Lincoln Continental’s radio, here in New Orleans.
STEAM, sweat, pouring down my tiny breasts, dripping along my vendetta loins, crashing in my baby indigos. I'm so jacked up, fueled up with sex heat, saliva drools, I'm going to fucking detonate. I need to heat up, burn it up, fuck some sweet girl, or I am going to simply flame out. It's New Orleans, baby doll, pronounced like "New Or Lens," wherever you are. Jazz City, trombones, Al Hirt, trumpets, saxophones, a hot box of lust, a must, if you’re hit up, wanting to share some sheets, off the street, fits of pique, foot stomps, moaning, groaning with some hot bod just washed up from the gator swamps.
If your dreamin' of crawdads, etouffee, Bouillabaisse, some goddess’s sweet tastin' drip, along some bayou slum, some high street chic, just outta town, down near highway fifty-six, just past the shanty towns, listen up here, I got the list. You know the type—a blond harlot, little sheer slip, barefoot slut, no education, nothing really, but southern agate eyes, pout of melon lips, dumb luck, sweat everywhere, dirty hair, moonstone water gems woven into it. A Louisiana tramp on a romp, angel wings, never washed, no hips, smelling like water lillies over there, near camp LeJeune, home of the army boys, made of ignorance, pure passion, and platinum baby doll tits.
I'm Jen, a good girl, brunette, bangs cut, practical pants stretched across tiny hips, 32 outta Baton Rouge, a doctor, a gynecologist, I like to be near the source. Tonight, I like to light it up, like to think I'm all sex-crazed, all bullet proof, a party girl, fearless girl, head in the clouds outer space girl, cunt, napalmed up, me, whatever, I'm on a whirl.
Bumping in my ‘65 black Lincoln Continental, classic, big white walls, plastic steering wheel, a big ole’ back seat – she's my gal, a good place to have a rummage sale of sex, like a tight bourbon treat, very neat.
When you come from Baton Rouge, New Orleans is the phat. It’s summer, cicada's singing, sweat everywhere like an exchange of semen. No hillbilly boys for me. I want that girl with eyeliner smudged, coon eyes, illiterate, primal, carnal, a fucked up New Orleans beauty itinerant queen, eyes striking out southern screaming moon beams.
In the club, it’s humid like a morbid crinoline orgasm, pool table, sorry—two, jukebox ejaculating summer and country songs. Heavy with soldiers, moon shiners, truckers, nice looking boys. I sidle up to the bar. I know what I am, no Teflon on this girl’s soul. I turn up the transmitters, blister my skull, never a pessimist, always SETI, searching, probing deep space cunts for that special extraterrestrial, my radar is scoping, coping, I'm simply crazed.
Place is packed, squirrel guns stacked at the door, country boys, wild girls, lotsa bleach, mini skirts, spandex. It ain't 1984, sure could fool me. Looks like Anita Bryant rules the roost, Donna Summer too, Willy, Reba too. Where is my babycakes? Fuck, doesn't nobody see I'm on the make? Christ, I'm melting, shake and baking, rattle, rolling, cunt ready to deep fry some cookies, something, anything. Like I said, I'm a southern doll.
Gulp, sigh, pout, there she is, dervish, ecstatic, arms blistered into the air, pure fire, firing squad smiles, ignorant, bad teeth, unbelievably gorgeous, on the dance floor. I can smell her stink, wet, pungent like Orchids, some kinda weird color in her tramped up eyes. Dirty bare feet, dancing toes, tangled, soiled hair. Christ I can smell her cunt from here. She ain't seen a shower, not a bath in a week. My fucking knees are weak, she's nothing less than a full sexual mind-fucking-tweak.
Hoochie, goochie, place is stacked, cheap perfume, body odor, stiletto girls, tank top girls, army men, swamp men, music on tilt, dancing, prowling, Hank Williams raging from the jukebox. I move in, a hundred dollar bill, stuck in my hand, money talks, bullshit walks. I stick my cunt against hers, lean in, whisper lies, you know the walk, come with me baby doll, a C-note, maybe buy your sweet ass some shoes. Kisses, sweat minglin', smiles, child body slapped against my tits, breath like bayou lillies. She gets it, grabs my hair, smashes lips like plumbs against my own, tongues clicking, digging. I take her hand. Stares everywhere, we turn, girlfriends, sex fiends, real friends, we move though the crowd, out of the bar.
Outside under the lit-up sign. Slam, bang, hearts shuddering, wet cunts, bodies slapped against the stucco walls, kisses, grinding, digging, hands flailing, thighs banging, fingers squeezing tiny asses, bent backs, spines haywire, electric jolts of sparking energy. Her wild, filthy hair, splayed down her sweating face, tangled. Spooled, wild eyes. Dirty skin picking up every shard of fucking neon. She is an animal, so am I, so fucking what.
Not here. We make it to the Lincoln, spring the back door, get her in, I slap her, heft her in the back seat, close the door. We kick start it, ready to just begin. Her shirt hiked, white thin legs wide, knees spread to sin. I dive in, bury my chin, my nose, my tongue becomes a wanderer. I eat her up, her essence is a mix: roses, pond dreams, wet, like an owl’s souls dying, tongue lapping that clit, sucking, biting. Moans, she likes it, needs it, small hips bucking, I fucking need it too.
She shudders, vibrates, demands, screams. She's crazed, speaking French, English, her mouth is all pouts, swollen lips, kisses, pounding tongues. Her hair is driving me fucking crazy, soiled, twined, mixing with perspiration, her saliva. Her eyes again, bolts, soldered open. She still has that hundred-dollar bill stolen in her fist. I rip her slip off. Naked, a white pearl, a stick of opium, more money later, I'm frantic, dramatic, my hip huggers come off, boots, blouse. I slap her down on the big back seat. Lincoln Continentals are like that.
Naked, I look, her tummy is swelling, racking, eyes like a gypsy bitch of insanity. My fingers, all over her, twitching lips, red blood hued breasts, tiny cunt, I can't take it, I'm savage, mad of mind, I want to devour her filthy skin, heart, soul, brain, if she has one. I kick her legs to the ceiling light, stare at the wet pink, go down on her, driving my mouth around her clit, damp madness, my only option now, I dive in, face glistening from the fluids pouring out of her. It’s like swimming in a sewer of roses. I'm a pig, in the sty, my mind is a gutter, I'm completely and fucking mad. I'm a dedicated Kamikaze pilot, looking for a suicidal orgasm, if not, then death will do.
She's ramped up, got my ears stuck to those Louisiana fingers, pushing my face in, deep, cum, liquids everywhere. She screams, comes apart, a white ice icicle, brittle, body splintering, moans, groans, shimmers, I'm nuts, I need more, a fucking lot more. I drive my fist into her cunt.
Swoops of breath, rigid baby, shuttering, lips quivering, begging, pleading. I pump her cunt, she orgasms, throws her tits to the ceiling liner, speaks something, no language—could be Swahili—what the fuck do I care.
ORGASM burst, crawl on top of her skin like a bitched up dog, up, down, a pneumatic drill-bit tummy, swelling, pumping. I grind my cunt on to her lips, those trashy lips. Her tongue, lips, teeth crams my cunt, chews it, sucks it, around and around the merry go around.
There it is, she's on auto pilot, white fingers holding my butt, moving, my arms banging the Lincoln’s roof, sky light open, moon blistering on the sky. I am a mercenary, down, down I go, bending at the waist, I orgasm, cum all over her face. Then I fall, nothing breasts pressed to nothing breasts, spooning, encapsulated in sweat, her hair, my drooling lips, slow now, evening out, tales told, no conversation, nothing but heavenly rolling feelings that something perfect has rocked, and rolled.
We’re done, it’s been nice. I dress her in some spare clothes, layer her hand with three hundred greenbacks. Love is like that, she smiles, it’s her thing, giving pleasure, getting paid from some elitist’s banal dollar roll. Door opens, she’s barefoot, walks, doesn't even look back.
Feeling hurt, I am mesmerized with thoughts of love, fallacies, lies I can buy into, dream. A moment along a southern dive is something real. I glance back, key in the ignition, motor purring. I fluff my hair, dry my face, in gear, Lincoln rolling, blinker clipping red light, accelerate, on the interstate. Baton Rouge, soon.
Busy day tomorrow, Sunday, church, my husband is a Pentecostal Minister, Pastor of our parish, and we have so many things to be thankful for. Our flock, and of course, I will throw our prayers to the heavens. I will thank God again for allowing my to see his face in the arms and tangled hair of a bayou tramp, in a steamy night, in the back of ’65 Lincoln Continental, there, just outside of Jazz City. Good night, y’all.
Originally published September 2010