Lit Riffs Read Free

like Boer War vets on the anniversary of the Big Battle, forgetting all about sex for the nonce. Landing on Blake’s native soil, she made a beeline for the seediest part of London Central, renting a crummy room she decorated with a reproduction of Man Ray’s famed Box with Two Peaches in the Sky taped up on one wall, which cheered her up no end.
    Man Ray might have been a gay porno star as far as his knowledge extended. He didn’t know said lithograph was worth twenty-five pounds if it was worth a shot on the house. On the other hand, she had never heard Otis Rush’s original 78 rpm rendition of “Double Trouble” on the Cobra label, which he just happened to be the proud owner of. Clearly it was a match made in heaven, especially when he looked down and discovered himself delighted at the sight of one peremptory ripple of flab around her middle. That hula hoop of fat, he knew there was definitely no turning back now, so downward yet anon did slither his ogling orbs to grow themselves all wet at the sight of two more than amply supple legs in black fishnet stockings crossed under the hem o’ that minidress, the whole thrilling vista tapering in most sublime tribute to Jehovah’s very handiwork in two black patent leather shoes with stiletto heels could slice a porkbutt clean asunder. And amazingly enough, she wanted none other than that scrawny excuse for a failed fop HIM!
    By now they’d practically consummated a week of orgiastic gymnopeds via eyes alone, so she paid up quick and out they scooted. Fairly ran down the block and up the stairs, through her door, where then she did after all think to stop and ask, “Like my Man Ray?”
    “What’s that? Some billboard for a new poofter play?”
    She charitably ignored this idiocy, choosing instead to trip and shove him backward onto her scummy rumpled bed, the sheets and blankets not washed in weeks because she was too busy at the wine to remember them so they stank like sick goats but little he cared being drunk and lust-racked, too, so they commenced to make what Shakespeare, who could get at least as down ‘n’ dirty as say Texas Alexander when so he chose, once called “the beast with two backs.” An apt description in this case, because the pair set to rutting like hogs been penned apart all winter, or dogs sprung from sexually segregated pounds (a pup-population control measure once actually tried in America, resulting in one lockup fulla Rovers crawling around the room all day leaving bowwow jizz all over the floors, and another wherein the bitches thus imprisoned and deprived set up such a tempest-trough of yipyap yelpings and piteous yowls not unreminiscent of chalk squeaking on blackboards that the whole idea was abandoned overnight and a platoon truckload of panting Fidos imported special to the Lady Bowzers for a full-scale K-9 orgy just to shut ’em the fuck up) (happened in Keokuk, Iowa, case you wondered where the locals’d be fool enough to concoct such a scheme in the first place), they were hungry, and nosh awhile they did, groinwise that is, grinding away in to-the-hilt gimme-glee sloshed swill-sploshes of Eau de Poozwax Straight Up & Mulching Mit More Spizz-Overflow than whole popovs with some o’ them Twiglets occasioned—it splashed across the grimy walls and soaked through the putrid coverlets, one rampant rivulet running down the bed cross the floor under the door down three flights of stairs and all the way out into the street where it conjugated unnoticed with TB sputum, not that the two lovers in question noticed any such minor details inasmuch as by that time they were too busy eating each other just toothpick-shy of outright cannibalism, after which they did it doggie-style and rocked so mighty they damn near broke the bedposts, the springs meanwhile playing at least five different Bartók string quartets and “From the Diary of a Fly” at once, causing an eighty-nine-year-old widowed pensioner in the next room past the wall