A little less conversation, a little more action please
There are no lessons for the world, no disclosures to shock peoples. It is filled with trivial things, partly that no one mistakes for history the bones from which some day a man may make history.
T.E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom
French girls have tasty kitties. More on this in a moment.
Every city has its major holiday. In Boston, for instance, it’s Saint Patrick’s. In New York it’s Halloween. Starting about six or seven in the evening, the city becomes a madhouse of debaucherous activity. There’s the big parade, of course, and then there are the throngs of partygoers who pack every bar, every club, every loft, filling the isle of Manhattan with such a furious kind of revelry, such a powerful celebration of life, that even the most evil of spirits must surely shit their shorts.
Les looked fetching in her nurse outfit, complete with white wig. I threw on a suit, made a half-assed attempt to apply a few grey streaks to my hair, and went as Law & Order’s Detective Goren. I like his style. The way he does a little dance in front of the suspect. His odd gestures. His furrowed brow. His borderline social dysfunction (his mother was a schizophrenic). The way his speech comes out in stuttering bursts. I’ve been studying Goren’s tics for weeks. I couldn’t resist throwing on some dark shades, which would later on give many people the impression that I was Agent Smith.
Already tipsy on a quarter bottle of wine and an empty stomach, I sang out loud on the way to catch a cab uptown.
Ooooo I need a dirty woman
Ooooo I need a dirty girl
Jack-n-Jill were hosting the pre-party and as usual we showed up a little on the late side. Jack the druid was waiting for us at the top of the stairs, tapping his foot and giving me a good-natured ribbing for stumbling in late. They had two couples over. One a French couple Jack-n-Jill had raved about, and another couple whose female half was a saucy little Puerto Rican. Simone, the French girl, well, goodness. She was all milky curves. She wore only a tight black jacket and a tiny thong that rode high on her tremendous hips only to plunge down to form a tempting little patch of black fabric over her pussy. Broken English added to her charm. Her Beau, the ruddy-complexioned Cassius, went with a Chippendale’s outfit that appeared perfectly natural on him.
“Oh man, where did you find them? They have that certain, as the French say, I don’t know what.” I said to Jack, gesturing at the French couple.
“We met all of them on Craigslist.”
“Well they all seem fucking cool. We only meet trannies on Craigslist. Didn’t know you could find quality French tail.” I stood there for a second, wide-eyed with amazement. “You know, a Big Mac’s a Big Mac ‘cept they call it Le Big Mac.”
Jack laughed. The prior weekend we had hung out at their place all night watching 90s movies on the telly and counting flowers on the wall. I plopped down next to the French girl and struck up a conversation. Cassius was seated on the floor across from me, on the other side of the coffee table.
Cassius studied me. A wide grin spread over his face. “Who are you, eh? Ahhgent Smeeth?”
“Actually, I’m a character from Law & Order, but if Agent Smith works for you who am I to protest?” I spouted whole passages of dialogue from The Matrix. I then told him about the flash mob in Tokyo during which a hundred Agent Smiths converged on an intersection all at once, postmodern theatrics that simultaneously terrified and engaged the public, much along the lines of Artaud’s anti-theater. I was pure pastiche that night.
The conversation somehow turned to the Naked Loft Party. Jill heckled me with choice quotes from my own material, spitting me back at me. Jill was decked out in a dangerously short skirt fashioned out of bondage tape. I took her comments in stride, admiring the view up her skirt. The NLP has become conversational shorthand in certain circles. Sometimes I’ll be talking to someone, dimly aware they might be reading all this and they’ll say something like, “Yeah, I remember when you said Grego was channeling Hunter Thompson.”
“I have a serious problem with your blog, man. We’re gonna have to talk about this,” said Jack. Momentarily I was like, oh shit, but then I remembered he’s a sarcastic ass. “Whaddya mean coming up here is like going all the way up to the great Alaskan tundra?” he continued, and explained the whole passage to the Puerto Rican’s boyfriend. “I dunno, we still make the trip, don’t we?” I said.
The inevitable France versus America discussion ensued. “What is it with this dating in America?” Cassius said. “In France we hang out, you know, spend time with our friends and after awhile you end up being, you know, together with someone.” I told him Americans are transactional people. Finding a mate is reduced to the level of shopping for a printer.
“American women aren’t as attractive as I thought they would be,” Simone was telling me.
I nodded. “Women here have all that makeup, plastic surgery, starvation diets,” I said. “Nothing is real anymore. Many European women have natural beauty. They carry themselves differently. They are less self-conscious and that’s extremely sexy. But then you have American girls like Jill here, who have that natural beauty. That class.”
And so we all made our way out, eight oversexed ghouls in fin-de-siecle New York. I observed Simone’s backside as she descended the stairs. “She has an ass on her, doesn’t she?” I said to Les, marveling at the fertile splendor of Simone’s posterior. We took two cabs down to a little club in Midtown. An Elvis impersonator was gyrating on the stage as we sauntered in.
A little less conversation, a little more action please
All this aggravation ain’t satisfactioning me
A little more bite and a little less bark
A little less fight and a little more spark
Close your mouth and open up your heart and baby satisfy me
I flashed a shit-eating grin and decided this would be my theme song. Einstein spoke of spook-like actions at a distance. If this synchronicity wasn’t proof such phenomena exist, I don’t know what else could be. We haunted the back area of the club for a while, watching waitresses-cum-schoolgirls shake their asses. I used the can. Eventually we all ducked outside for a group smoke. Jill asked Simone how to say something innocuous in French. “Je veux lecher ta petite chatte,” Simone responded. “Hey! You just said I wanna lick pussy,” said I. The girls laughed.
Back in the club, we found a spot upstairs to set up base camp. Leslie absconded with Jill’s riding crop and went off to assault some hapless schoolgirl. When she returned she told me she had pushed it against the schoolgirl’s crotch, only later realizing the girl was, like, a waitress and not a partygoer. Leslie busied herself by planting kisses on the other girls in our group. The girls joined together—dancing, swaying, kissing, licking an errant nipple here and there. They became a single writhing organism. Jack was busy talking to Linus, the Puerto Rican’s man. Linus was a proctologist for the night. “Hey guys, seriously. Appreciate this. You don’t see this every day,” I said. We had to shield the girls from prowling horny males. I sat down when the show was over. Simone sat to my right, Linus to my left. Jill dropped to her knees before Simone and kissed her mouth, breasts, pussy. The riding crop found its way into my hand. I smacked Jill’s ass with it and added a few smacks with my bare palm. The Puerto Rican girl was standing between Linus’ legs, ass facing him, and he lifted her skirt to reveal her tight brown ass. My hand jerked to the left and the crop hit home. The Puerto Rican gave off little yelps of pleasure. When Jill finally stood her makeshift skirt was hiked up a good inch above the lower ridge of her buttocks. I pinched her there.
The party continued around us. I think it might have sucked but I barely noticed. Leslie was getting on famously with Cassius and Simone. They were all sitting on plush chairs to my left and out of the corner of my eye I spied Simone fiddling with Leslie’s pussy. Simone pulled her finger out and put it into her boyfriend’s mouth. “Can I get a taste of her?” I asked Leslie. She stuck her finger deep into Simone, leaving it there for a little while, and then inched it into my mouth. I pulled back slowly, looking into Simone’s eyes and smiling as the tip of Leslie’s finger exited my mouth with a pop. The girl was made of strawberries and creme fraiche.
A leather-clad sub approached Jill and pulled his pants down. He wanted to submit to the riding crop. Jill obliged, beating his ass red as people looked on, terrified and engaged. It was anti-theater. The guy turned around and kissed Jill’s feet, “thankyouthankyouthankyou.” His girlfriend stared at him with hard eyes.
We all returned to Jack-n-Jill’s pad. They put OutKast on the stereo and I tumbled onto the couch next to the French couple. Leslie sat next to Jill, alternating between making out with her and talking. Jack, Linus and I settled in over beers and talked about stupid shit, such as the varieties and vicissitudes of male heterosexuality. “I’d suck a dick for fitty grand,” I said. Linus passed a joint. “Careful, this is powerful shit,” he said. My heart rate quickened and I spoke erratically, finally channeling detective Goren. The French couple was intertwined and locking lips. Leslie climbed onto the couch and thrust her pussy in my face. I licked it and when I closed my eyes I saw neon signs, apropos of nothing. “Here’s your sushi dinner,” Leslie said and everyone laughed.
Things got quiet as Simone put her mouth to good use on her man, her gorgeous rump out there for all of us to admire. She mounted him and began rocking back and forth. It’s funny how you see the girl’s ass and then the guy’s testes sticking out underneath it like some shy woodland creature. Cassius looked at me and made a gesture towards Simone’s ass, an invitation I accepted by running my hands over her ample rear end, pausing here and there to admire the delicate flesh spilling out between my digits. Les teased my cock with her tongue and then mounted me, grinding against my shaft. In the background I saw Linus and Jill go to work on the Puerto Rican, but I couldn’t quite see everything that transpired over there.
Simone dismounted and scooted over to face us. I took one of her pert, ski-slope breasts in my mouth and placed my hand on the other as Leslie’s pussy pounded against me. Simone then leaned over and her face disappeared behind Leslie’s ass. I felt a tongue and hand on my cock with each upward stroke of Leslie’s pussy. Overwhelmed by the sensation, I closed my eyes and used my joint-induced superpowers to picture what was going on back there. After a while Simone sat back on the couch, lying there with legs spread to allow Cassius to tongue her. I fucked Leslie from behind and pushed her head into Simone’s left tit while I grasped the other firmly in my hand. Simone forced her eyes shut and winced with pleasure. The room was filled with the sound of me smacking against Leslie’s ass. Somewhere behind me Jack was already lounging and nonchalantly puffing a ciggy. Soon Leslie came loudly and I followed, seeing those neon lights against the backs of my eyelids again and continuing to ride her until the spasms subsided.
Things wound down quickly after that, not that I wasn’t considering another go. Leslie tried to get me to do some penis origami, but I decided that would have to wait for another night. She settled for putting her wig over my head.
The two of us hailed a cab and cruised down Fifth Avenue in the reddening hues of dawn. The lights of the city were as yet ignorant of the new day that was upon us. They just went on glowing, filaments and gasses all lit up in electric brilliants. I felt fresh, as if life my life were beginning anew. We stepped out of the cab in front of a bodega under a sky that was now lavender. A fucking big gay lavender sky in big gay Chelsea. I was a fabulous mess with Leslie’s wig planted on my head, my tie flung around my neck like a scarf, my shirt untucked and hanging wide open, and my shades perched crookedly on my nose. The shopkeeper, who’s seen me in similar states a few times too often, didn’t skip a beat.
On the short walk home I sang to Leslie.
A little less conversation, a little more action please…
And so on.
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