I've Grown Accustomed to Your Cock (erotic memoir, edit 1)

The truth is Garth’s cock is in a class of its own and it moves me as none other. Mark’s balls have no separation between them and are positioned in a taut horizontal line. Even when I am away from Garth, if I sit still, I can visualize his cock in 3D, his spreading balls and cock resting on its bed of orange. But he has cast me out too many times and I need a man’s mouth and the softness of his lips, tonguing my way down his chest, past his abdomen and directly to his cock. Still and always, there is no cock in the world, I swear, like Garth’s. He is not a man to dance with or one who fills up spaces with fancy words. After all these years, he refuses to, cannot, understand me. He’s a hardcore man through and through, yet I have grown, like the song, accustomed to his cock.

I have never escaped. Not even in the giddiest most reckless fuck. Close—nabbed the cell door keys and like a shadow made it to the prison walls, the metal exit door glowing like heaven’s gate. I have yearned so hard I almost levitated. But with music, I slip inside swirling notes and I’m free. Music is my past, present, and future, my bird on the wire. Every Thursday I drop by Shopper’s Drug Mart or Blockbuster for my free copy of NOW magazine.

Morty Koppelt is a skinny little guy who weighs one hundred and thirty-five pounds, one hundred forty, tops. He’s the chief lawyer for the Ministry of Transportation and Frida Koppelt’s husband. When I started training him, I positioned Frida's kitchen chair on a step-up platform, secured a ten-pound Walmart dumbbell to his ankles with his leather work belt, and instructed him to raise and lower his legs to the count of three. We used a can of kosher peas for side laterals. Koppelt’s an opera and chamber music fanatic who scours Whole Note Magazine the way I check out NOW weekly. In between sets, he rests sixty-seconds between each set—he’s a meticulous stretcher even though his house is the messiest I have ever seen with last week’s dishes piled up, pits of laundry like a road under construction, the day’s shoes scattered, left foot in the basement, right foot at the top of the stairs.
“Morty,” I say as his body groans into a low back stretch, “I’d like to start a non-profit.”
“Oh yes?” he says his hands circling around the Smith machine post as he pulls back.
“Sink into the stretch,” I say.
“Like this?” he says and I say “Yes.”
I tell him about The Lapitsky Scholarship Fund. “I want to give back,” I say. “The arts kept me going. You know my story. I don’t have my grandfather’s cash, but I have his heart. You could say, I’m my grandfather’s daughter.”
He tells me to think about my mandate.

I exit the streetcar, check street signs, the flow of traffic, and skyline as my north-south guides and figure I'm on the north-east corner of Queen and Spadina. I've been to Healey’s before, so I know I have to cross the street two times now, west and then south. Lisa says I’m a sure target because I have this dazed look, but I think I go about my life like a tourist. It’s true I have no sense of direction, I’m constantly losing and finding my way and I like that since it gives me new eyes.

In line for James Cotton tickets—one-half hour in a moderate-compared-to-Montreal Toronto winter with my muscles and men’s leather jacket keeping me warm. When Caroline shivers from winter’s sharp edge, bundling herself in her faux-fur trimmed snood and purple winter coat and I talk obtusely about over-heating, she says “that’s because you’re like a dog, only you have muscles.” Her associations make me smile inside and out. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I say, winding my way from the room’s entrance to the line directly beside the left side of the stage. To secure a front spot in a jam-packed house, you have to act like you’ve already got one, someone’s there waiting for you, or you’re on a bee-line to the washroom. Main thing is you walk with purpose, apologizing all the way with no remorse on the inside and hey, isn’t that how I go through life? Though maybe I don’t really apologize, which is one of Garth’s complaints about me—that I don’t apologize or apologize too late or apologize with excuses. I tuck my jacket into my black leather gym bag. A drunk reaches out to grab the lead guitarist’s instrument and I grab the tattooed man’s bony wrist. “I got no feeling left in my arm,” the drunk whines. The bass player raises his eyebrows at the drummer. It’s a builder’s moment.

Intermission—“Isn’t the bass player cute?” says a frizzy-haired chick to no one in particular. “I’m going to have him.” She sways forward. Nearing the bass player, her stride blossoms into a ripe wiggle. I move to the bar. The gym has made me comfortable in my skin. Generally I order one white wine, two max. The whites taste cheap, so I always keep gum in my jean’s pocket. I flex my pecs (for the sake of pecs and not tits) and flare my delts. Subtle flexing is an art. The drummer, wearing a shiny gold chain and cross, orders lemonade.
“Thanks for the wrist thing. Man, you are strong!”
“It was cool, wasn’t it? It was like the Olympics, been training all my bodybuilding life for this moment. My arm was iron, man, one lead pipe. See I’m a certified hypnotist. So you got a witch and builder mix.”
The drummer stares. “My brother, Charles, he’s the bass player, he loved it. I know he wants to thank you. We got this thing, Charles and I, like if he sees you first—can’t have no fighting, two brothers on the road.”
“Seems like you got it all worked out. Still, I mean, where were the bouncers? My ex used to be a bouncer and he and his buddies would’ve been there in a flash. Probably broken the drunk’s wrist, not that he was brutal, he wasn’t wild, you know. He was cold, like a bouncer. But man, that was fun!”

Charles is a short guy with a navy blue cotton kerchief, shoulder length dreads, decent shoulders, also a minor paunch, but builders don’t give a fuck about fat in the off season. He says he’s getting ready for a photo shoot for a new album, blues with a jazz element, can we talk, and do I have a car, because if he could get a lift to his hotel, he’s sharing a room with his brother—we talk awhile and maybe go upstairs to meet his brother. So here I am taking a musician to his hotel and no way am I going to fuck this man.
“You should have taken the broad with the curly hair, man, she wanted you.”
“But I wanted you,” he says and I shake my head, laughing and almost sideswiping the mirror on a parked car.
“You alright?” he says.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just not the world’s best driver— look at you, you’re in a car with a lousy driver and a female who’s not going to put out. You should have taken up with that groupie is all I have to say.”
“We’ll see,” he says.
“We will not,” I say and laugh again.

On Lombard Avenie, I park across the street from Quality Inn which is diagonally across from Gilda’s Club. Cancer across the street in a renovated fire hall and I’m sashaying around, hoarding every ounce of available nightlife. I step out of the driver’s side to wish him well.
“Have one?” he says, offering me a green mint.
“Sure.”
“Kiss me,” he says, “c’mon, just a simple kiss, just one.”
There are those chicks who’d fly across hot coals for a musician—skittering across, purse, waving tits, costume jewelry and all. But I’m an impresario and my own groupie. I prefer—I don’t know what except I have no heroes and I like it that way.


Long Distance with MT

I’m knackered on weed and hooked on hardcore. Mark says it gives him a hard-on when he reads my stuff. He thinks I’m composing directly for him and I suppose I am. A dirty scribbler’s got to have a home slice. Soon as I’m home from training the suburban whores, I check my stash of emails and love up these keys. It’s my fix and that’s the fucking truth. It’s like wandering the desert, skin and organs parched, and sighting water shimmering ahead. When the lake is finally within range, I break into a run, flapping my arms like I’m about to take off. I dunk underwater and surface gulping, laughing and whooping. Hot and high writing sex, pissing out words day and night. And coming, well, coming’s a brilliant flash in the pan—it takes you out of this world, earth’s exit swings open, you’re floating and it’s grand just as you thought and never could have imagined, and just as you’re settling in, ready to take the tour, the door swings open again and a wind from out of nowhere pulls you back, back to your standard fare, thirsting and yearning.

I’m watching "Before Sunrise," heavy with words, D cup at least. The French have this saying— il y’a trop de personnes sur le balcon—there are too many people on the balcony, and I, I have too many words and too many online men. In this Sunrise movie, a woman, young, meets a guy on a train. They have a fling and promise to meet in the same place six months later. Instead years pass. The man writes about the young woman, their chance meeting, and how it might resume or end. It’s better to have a fast fade than a drawn-out routine. So I have my men. One arrives out of breath and eager. We’re online and we fuck. Maybe he’s good, maybe he’s not. It always ends. So I have a stash, weed and men, men and weed.

The Photo Shoot

“Hold your hair up, chin up and to the left, look that way, now this, now twist a little, arc, that’s it—and twist,” Alex says, clicking away.
“I love this,” I say.
“I can see how you must have looked when you were an actress. It’s like you’re right there. Yes, absolutely. Doesn’t she, hon?” he turns to Lisa.
“Yeah, she really does,” Lisa says. “And she’s still beautiful.”
“You two are the best,” I say.
The base of the white studio wall curves into the wood floor. A black velvet cloth covers the Polaroid camera propped on a silver industrial tripod. I’ve packed a crimson silk kimono and black stockings. Lisa has wrapped my red silk kimono like a turban around my head and transforms my black stockings into elbow-length nylon sleeves. My muscles are for the most part not even in the pictures and I’m alright with that.

Around one in the morning, I drive Lisa home. It’s a freezing winter night and I don’t realize until I’m on the highway alone in my car that my cunt has actual weight to it. I’m an elitist when it comes to my cunt and I think there’s a uniqueness to the way I sense details and sequence. My cunt is a destination, what’s that expression? Something about Rome and all roads. Or—at the end of a narrow hallway, a room with pressure from the inside spreading out, and radiating from the hand-hewn wood door warped from the force of the weight is a glow, not white, but yellow, cadmium yellow light like the background in a watercolor of mine, “My Heart is So Unruly Truly Part 1,” like that one or maybe “My Unruly Heart Part 2, AKA Slipping into the Sweet Wilds.”

I have a new bit for the drummer man. I’m going to tell him, “What a fucking turn-on! Wow—it makes me want you— shit, you’re fine! Oh baby, sitting here at this early morning time, typing furiously and wishing to come for you, all quiet except for this shivering because there you are with your cock leading the way. And when you lean down to kiss me, I turn my neck causing you to kiss the side of, nape, and hollow beneath my throat, and I sigh ‘baby, baby, baby, you sure do that thang to me.”

I play them all and they just fall right into place. This one, this drummer one and the others, get hard and heated with these words, words, words. “So I ask you please fuck me and you ram in and in and in. Out my window I see my come all spruced up and shining, hovering at the edges of this early morning moon. I straighten my legs, which honey is what I do, tighten and tense, you hold my hair the way I like and your finger is up my asshole, I’m fucking your finger and your cock and I can feel the come inching up the insides of my thighs, swinging into my cunt, spreading and branching out while the moon’s hanging full and bright. Sex is such a wonder, isn’t it? Oh baby, I am hot for you!” Babies, fucking piss asses. Words turn them on, delivering how-to's so when they come into town and want some action, I don’t have to say anything and they know what to do.