“enchanté mon amie…” 

By some supernatural cue, the atmosphere in the limousine changes from a thick sexual tension where this psycho witch threatens to disembowel us at any second, into a far different feeling where her ethereal sexual charms overcome our misgivings and the air becomes charged with excitement.

Lady Minx smiles. I study her intently as the black hash smoke swirls around us creating weird personifications of mythical animals best left unseen.

Minx is perhaps the most overtly sexual, and at the same time, creepy woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of crossing paths with—and believe me, I’ve seen some doozies. Her sexuality is more than eccentric; it’s not of any garden variety. No way—she isn’t pretty exactly, or mildly erotic, or even attractive in any sense of the word. No, her beauty is so repellent, it says, “I’ve seen horrors too terrible to imagine, debaucheries too perverse, nightmares so maddening they’d make Francis Bacon scream REDRUM, piss his pants, and cry for his mommie like a snot-nosed punk.” No, she has the “I get off on pigeon bones and blood” variety. Her beauty recalls the rot all things must surrender to in death. That’s her. That’s the Lady Minx. Her smack-addict physique hints at malnutrition despite her tiny reptilian potbelly indicating she’s ate an entire chicken this morning. Her reeking “slut butter” BO tells us her hands have recently been to the wilds of her vagina and she probably fingers herself all day. Her thrift store fashion is a religion in itself, which tells of something diabolical churning deep inside her, like an innocent looking into an abyss. Like Nietzsche, her abyss stares back. She’s perverse in the most horrific alien extreme. I’ve seen some crazy shit in my time, but her sexuality threatens to make me pull my hair out, stab a pencil into my eye, and enjoy doing it.

Yes, I take this woman very seriously.

As I assess her, she takes an immediate shine to True. It seems like the hashish smoke has begun to do her bidding; the personifications animate around True as if they’re making love to her. It’s like some weird bestiality scenario.

For a moment I think I’m hallucinating, but then I get frightened because maybe—just maybe—the smoke is actually doing her will and I’m not seeing things.

She touches True’s kinky hair as if it were a golden prize.

I think of Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin. This sends chills down my spine.

“u gotta da pretty hair maya thompson…” She whispers as she strokes it.

True looks uncomfortable but she says nothing.

“aye betch u gotta pretty down be-low too…” She snickers and then adds, “we gonna make da sexy hoodoo luv… yu… me… and da vicky one…”

At this, she casually removes her dress. I’m not shocked. I’ve seen tits before. And for her, she seems relieved, as if she’s more comfortable without clothing. I will admit; this crazy woman is something to behold. Her skin is the color of licorice. Her breasts are small but the tiny dark nipples stand high like Hershey’s Kisses. Her legs are impossibly long; it takes me several moments to span their length.

At this, she turns to me with a wicked smile. It disarms me and I feel charmed by her magic. She does the same to True. Our situation recalls the snake and charmer story, although I’m not certain which of us is the snake.

Now, we’re her playthings.

“now, da laydee minx gonna do da magic spell… now da laydee minx gonna do da west afrikah dahomeyan vodun… haaaaaaaaaaaa…” She hisses ‘ha’ as if the word has special meaning, like a word of gods.

I’m scared shitless but I can’t resist. As True and I start to mechanically stroke her lovely body, Lady Minx taps on the window of the limo. As if in a dream, I hear someone open the trunk, some shuffling ensues, and then the trunk closes. Next, I hear some footsteps, and then the door of the limo opens. The sun violently shreds the darkness of our sanctuary and I instantly feel an affinity for vampires. A gargantuan silhouette, the chauffeur Blind Tiger, hands Minx a cage. In it, shuffles around a tiny varmint. It’s a young nutria; a type of aquatic rat.

“we gotta make da gris-gris… like da voodoo queen marie laveau… da people visit er grave more den dat white singin man elvis presley… an he hadda demone en dat boy…”

Inside I snicker at her comment about the King, but all the while I stroke the witch’s body dreading to see what will happen to the tiny creature in the cage.

Next, she reaches under her seat and produces a few items: a Swiss army knife, white chalk, and a tiny paper cup. With supernatural agility she opens the cage, sweeps up the rat, and in one clean motion—like she’s done this a million times before—she slits the poor beast’s throat.

She bleeds the nutria’s running ichor into the cup and then quickly discards the beast like a used tissue. As I continue to fondle her, I notice the cup is actually a Buzz Lightyear Dixie cup. This realization adds to the macabre horror of the scene.

She reaches her clean hand under the seat again and brings out a small vial of milky white liquid. Is it sperm? Breast milk? Some other foul bodily fluid? Who knows? She pours some of the greasy solution onto her hand which acts like a painter’s palette. She uses the runny greasepaint to place arcane markings and letters upon her breasts and chest. She orders us to remove our clothing and we heed her command like zombies without objection. She traces symbols on our bodies too. My imagination runs wild while her cold fingers trace our contours and it feels as if the devil has touched us.

After she finishes her chore, she uses the nutria blood to draw a crooked six-pointed star on the floor of the limo. I think to myself, “Boy, that’s going to cost a pretty penny to get that shit out the upholstery.” It’s at this time that I notice a similar faded marking on the ceiling of the vehicle and another on the bench seat across from us. I guess she’s been busy.

Lady Minx says a bunch of Creole gibberish neither of us understands and then everything changes.

In a dreamy haze, as if I’m witnessing the event from outside my body, we begin to make love. It’s a strange time, like a demented Girls Gone Wild New Orleans. Lady Minx obviously prefers True because she focuses her sexual curiosity on my young lover. I don’t feel jealous. I feel scared. I’m worried what will happen when this whole weird incident comes to its conclusion.

In a wicked voice, as if she was channeling some demon Minx says, “now missy maya u gonna give me dat filet-o-fish between da pretty leg… and ah I gonna suck out da fishy bones…”

Her comment is so wrong I almost can’t believe she said it.

She positions herself between True’s spread legs.

“gimme da wet pussy, pleez…” And with that, she dives in.

As I mechanically finger the voodoo lady’s bottom, obscene slurping sounds fill the limo, and True’s moans increase in desperation. The one-way windows thankfully conceal this satanic sexual ritual from bystanders. But I have to admit it’s hot thinking people are passing the limo with no idea of what shenanigans are going on inside. This is a strange experience and I feel conflicting emotions. On one hand, this whole event is sexier than Ozzy biting the head off a vampire bat. On the other, I feel like it’s going to take a long time to wipe this shit from memory.

The slurping increases. True orgasms. I fist the witch. And the spell comes to conclusion.

Lady Minx leans back from True’s soaked cunt exhausted from her spell casting, and says, “now, aye gonna take u do da german… but first we grab da chicken fo eatin…”

Sekushihaiku

Hello, you may call me Sekushi. From time to time I’ll be sharing scandalous and tantalizing sexy haikus for your reading pleasure. Yoi ichinichi o!

Third Haiku:

———————————————————————————————————————————-

lingerie death match

time sick wound ever-growing

power is a kiss

Identity in Transit is a serial that will eventually be compiled and published in book form.

As an artist/writer/thinker I fight against the restrictions that society imposes upon me. These blog entries will define that battle by illustrating the extreme demands of the creative lifestyle, the trials and tribulations of an international resident, and the disappointments that lead to self-realization. Part mystical journey. Part social commentary. This philosophical ‘journal’ will attempt to come to a conclusion about what drives the artistic individual to create.

Episode 8: Practice

An artistic individual creates out of an instinctual need to understand the outside world and their relation to it. If you draw, perhaps you want to master the visual dynamics of a flower? If you write, perhaps you try to master conveying emotions? If you make films, maybe it’s framing the perfect composition?

Every artist knows the artistic drive is as difficult to extinguish as a desire for a lover or the yearning for an addictive drug. Many obstacles stand in the way of the artistic drive, but like the drug addict, the true artist finds ways to subvert these impediments.

Inherently, artists are problem solvers. To write a novel one must solve the problem of the character’s desire and the obstacles that impede these desires. To sculpt a bust one must solve the problem of bringing the form out of formlessness. To do a performance piece one must solve the problem of finding a dialogue with the audience.

When I was a young man I made art for vanity’s sake. I wanted to be famous. I wanted adoration. I was young, and like many people I desired these accolades. Now that I’m middle-aged and more globally aware, accolades are the furthest thing from my mind.

These days, I’ve come to the conclusion that practice—a daily exploration of a skill—is much more important than accolades. But, here is the problem I face: to have a practice one must have time available to do it. The capitalist system, however, tirelessly impedes this practice because one must survive in this monetary system, and finding a way to produce funds from this practice becomes the ultimate goal. An artist’s thirst will not be quenched despite society’s attempt to snuff out the flame. A creator must find a way to reconcile this thirst with the realities of the society they find themselves. One must find a way to create while providing the basic amenities: food, housing, medical, transportation, and leisure activities are obviously needed to be a functioning human being.

Some artists have a romantic notion that everything will be fixed when they finally “make it”—that is, become famous. Unfortunately, this isn’t a reality. Even those who are famous have economic and social problems. It’s human nature. Time is the enemy for all of us and fame isn’t going to fix this.

Now, I realize I must transform my life by solving a very large problem, perhaps the largest work of art I have ever attempted to create. I need to manage my life, create time, and treat the money problem like an equation. Instead of focusing on making art and letting the chips fall where they may, I must examine and hone to find the “sweet” spot.

But, what is the sweet spot? It’s the place of equilibrium where finances, housing, artistic endeavors, and emotional stability, are all balanced in a prefect state of function. No hunger, no overtime, no poverty, a decent living space, and most importantly, time to create: these are necessary if I want to pursue an art career.

To accomplish this I must use intellect, planning, ingenuity, and perseverance to establish a working system, a system that allows me to be able to practice my skills, which happen to be writing and bookmaking.

I’m solving this problem by finding creative solutions, and by making a holistic plan.

But how can I do this? How can I make money in a dismal economy, and find time to create?

For the past three years I’ve been an ESL teacher overseas. I’ve been doing this for several reasons.

Firstly, the United States is in a dire economic situation and getting ahead seems like a laughable proposition. Overseas, however, I can have a decent job, free rent, roundtrip airfare, and a decent exchange rate. I also get an enriching cultural experience; this doesn’t seem like a necessity, but it is, especially if I want to reach and understand international markets.

Secondly, I’m working towards a CELTA (an ESL teaching certification). At the end of this year, I plan on spending a month in Thailand where I can get this certificate for a fraction of the price it would be in the United States. After I obtain this certification I will be able to teach in the Middle East where I will make double the salary I’m making in South Korea (where I teach currently).

Next, with the extra money I save from my higher salary in the Middle East I will eventually return to Thailand to study for my master’s degree. Again, the cost in Southeast Asia is a fraction of what it would be in the US to obtain this expensive degree. In America this would be impossible unless I want to increase my student debt.

In tandem with my academic goals, I’ve also started an internet platform: two websites which I hope will eventually produce enough income to supplement my teaching. Ultimately, I plan to live in Thailand, teach part-time, and devote more time to the websites. If the two websites and my bookmaking endeavors become successful I will be making US wages but living in the Thai economy. Additionally, printing costs in Thailand are cheaper than in America. I will be able to produce more book titles for the same money I would have in the US, and make more profit.

This unconventional approach may seem a little unrealistic—the many factors must all fall into place—but my options in America are even more restrictive, and these ambitious goals are realistically further away from realization.

By creating these websites I accomplish many objectives simultaneously.

As a book artist and international resident, I’ve come to the conclusion that bringing my studio with me is impractical. Using digital technology, I can write, draw, scan, and design books using digital tools and distribute freely. Because my platform is in the “virtual” world there is no central location. If I want to move to Zimbabwe I can do so with ease. Also this allows me to work on these sites/writings in any local places/situations such as coffee shops, work, or meeting with friends, any available free moment. It allows me to use my “little” breaks to create work virtually full-time. In an art studio this is impossible.

By using SEO (search engine optimization) I can lead people—who may only be exposed to my art in a local gallery where perhaps 100 − 1000 people may see it—to my site where I offer free excerpts of my writing and art—and the website can get astronomical amounts of exposure if the SEO is set-up correctly. Through the site I can also sell copies of the physical books as well as e-book versions.

Another interesting SEO technique is directing my audience to my work by links. I can use similar work/authors to draw people to my site. For example, I’m currently working on an illustrated version of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” This is a public domain work where no person or company owns the rights. As a small publisher, I can freely create my own version of this story. I can illustrate and design it. Currently, I’m an unknown artist. People don’t search Amazon.com for my work. They do, however, search for Samuel Coleridge and if they like my project it will draw them to my writing endeavors which are in the same artistic vein as Coleridge’s work. This creates a strong synergy of style and marketability.

By directing users to my platform I can build my tribe of followers. This is the future—no longer are large corporations the only retailers with the ability to reach large quantities of people. This allows me the freedom to gather my audience.

By inviting friends, colleagues, and fans to contribute to my platform I broaden my readership. Social networks, like Facebook and Twitter, are the most important tool for finding your audience in the digital age, and sites like Amazon, Goodreads, Blurb, and Lulu are changing the landscape of publishing. By creating a good rapport with friends, colleagues, and fans I create a safety net for branding. One new reader can expand my exposure by 140 average users. Exponentially, this is a staggering number.

Hopefully, by sorting out my teaching career, expanding my internet platform, and working hard with perseverance, I will use my problem solving skills to create a better environment for me to encourage a durable artistic practice which also funds itself.

Bucephalus: Second Staircase: Polished Horn and Sawn Ivory

I hear voices chanting.

—The nightmare is flesh…

—The nightmare is flesh…

—The nightmare is flesh…

The voices are ancient, disembodied, both foul and seductive, eerie in the most beautiful way, like something so sublime and unimaginable it creates terror.

—For two are the gates of shadowy dreams, and one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory…

The voices relate desires unfulfilled—a mass extinction of flesh where sex becomes death, and death becomes illumination in a vast chasm of the unknown.

—Those dreams that pass through the gate of sawn ivory deceive men, bringing words that find no fulfilment…

The voices relate a hope for love withstanding, a desire to obtain, but also an eternity of torment where the confines of the body imprison the soul.

—But those that come forth through the gate of polished horn bring true issues to pass, when any mortal sees them…

As the time-worn voices fade, she appears to me again like a distant memory impossible to forget.

—But in my case it was not from thence, methinks, that my strange dream came…

With that, the voices cease their maddening chant.

Now, there is silence.

She becomes the center of attention.

Her fragile form slumbers atop another staircase; this one is different from the architecture of the dilapidated hotel. This one glows with silvery light: deathly violets, smoggy peaches, and immaculate silvers gleaming with heavenly fury and adulterated grime. The door frames, structural beams, and floor boards are fashioned from the rib cage of a flayed horse. The bones are latched together like slats of wood. It’s a mosaic of equine flesh, blood and bone, holy and dangerous, unnerving.

She lies on a platform between two ornate doors made of more latched bone: one with a handle fashioned from a dark grey deer’s antler; the other one fashioned from a bright white elephant’s tusk. Invisible beings ascend and descend the staircase. Somehow I know they’re benevolent. It’s a mystery that they appear to me. This is a bridge between heaven and earth for the created universe. Somehow, I know that the two doors and the virgin girl represent a trinity. She is the lynchpin for the whole mechanism. Without her, it would all disintegrate.

Despite the holiness, this whole scene seems grotesque, like some divine slaughter-house. Although, I know this is just a facade. The gross disguises the pure. The profane hides the sacred. I’m also fully aware that the flayed horse is actually me and the girl is a source, a mainstream. I know this. Everything pure, constant, and unadulterated stems from this source. She is all.

With a small cough she wakes, stretches, and yawns, oblivious to the macabre setting and the bone-like cradle she’s been sleeping upon.

She notices me. After a moment of adjustment she springs to her haunches taking a posture like an animal ready to attack. For a moment, I actually fear her.

Then she smiles. I can’t explain how this simple gesture disarms me, but it tells me that she’s not dangerous. With the limited experience this world has revealed, I understand a single notion: all these women are mere signposts on the journey, but she is the road.

She interrupts my thoughts.

—Hey silly… Mister…

—Silly? Why do you say that? I reply, all the while wondering if I’ll ever be able to hold her, to kiss her deeply, like I’ve done to the other woman in this dream world. She is my heart’s desire. I need her.

—I know what men desire… I know what you want… Don’t you want me? I know you do. She coos.

I say nothing. What can I say? She’s absolutely right.

She adds—Now, I need to keep going. But which door shall I open? The gate of horn or ivory? They both represent danger. Truth can be as dangerous as illusion. Time is this way and that way, but which way is right? Which way Bucephalus?

I stammer. I try to give her an answer but it’s an unanswerable question. My mind aches for her.

—Never mind… She says. It doesn’t really matter anyway. We all go through doors. All of them have lies and have truths. The important thing is to go through…

With that she advances on me so quickly I can’t react. Suddenly she enters my mind like an epiphany. She transcends the physical. She climbs inside deftly like a thief entering a window.

Suddenly, a rush of feeling… Dangerous exploration of emotions, a synergy of body and mind, a unity. Rhythm, undulating animalism, sometimes sweet, sometimes violent, but always trusting. Immediacy of action, adaptability, and a letting go of caution. A pyre of light, passion in its most pure form, souls merging despite the danger of losing individuality…

Her entry into my mind is like a sentient tidal wave that destroys the meager ramshackle structures of my interior. I’m left with useless desire. I’m left flooded and empty.

In my mind, she grapples with my defenses like a physicist wrestling with an equation. She knows my mind is an abstract maze with contradictory rules. She knows it’s a mess best left unorganized. But she dives in anyway.

And like a dream within another dream, we kiss. She kisses me from the inside out.

It starts with her folding herself into my arms, but these are the limbs of my imagination. I feel her warmth. Her scent is like sour apple candy, sweet and delicious, but also bad for my health. I feel her heart thumping in her tiny chest. It bounces against my stronger heartbeat creating a new meter. Her hand caresses my face so gently it seems like it never existed. With determination she reaches forward. She uses my shoulders to support her wobbling tiptoes. And then with a tenderness I will never forget, she places her soft lips upon my mouth. For a second we do nothing. We can’t. The moment is overwhelming. My imagination fumbles with her presence. The feeling is unbearable.

The first kiss of true love is an event worth savoring, and I’m certain this is it, despite the fact it’s all in my mind. The other women in this dream have been invaluable. I have learned a great deal about human lovemaking. But, this girl has shown me something else, something unique, something special. It’s not sexual. It’s beyond sexuality. It’s beyond human understanding. It’s as if no one ever mattered. It’s as if the entire universe never existed until she kissed me.

With her kiss, she brings me life—and despite the mysteries that wrap human existence in a puzzle—she is able to elicit a certainty where I know these mysteries are nothing but the subterfuge for a very simple truth: a kiss is like coming home, like returning to the center of everything that has ever been and lost in our painful entry into existence. It’s the key to the cosmic mechanism. In other words—it makes the world go around.

With that, she departs my mind, quickly chooses a door, and leaps through.

Now, I must choose between truth and illusion.

Photo credit: Malene Thyssen, http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Malene

Waves on Paradise Sea

The room is dark, lit only by candles that give off a moonlit glow. Satin sheets glisten beneath the rose petals strewn upon the bed. Music, soft and low, flows with a sense of relaxation. The slight aroma of roses and exotic perfume fills the room. My passion stirs with anticipation; my body shivers, but not from cold. The room is warm, but not quite hot. My heart starts to pound. I look around the room and watch shadows dance with every flicker of the candles. I feel my knees weaken and my nerves tingle. I walk across the room and sit on the edge of the love nest. I immediately have vivid images of bodies touching and caressing. I am seduced without touch while he’s in the corner sitting on a stool watching my every move like a predator watches its prey, waiting to pounce.

The only movement he makes is the rise and fall of his broad chest, as he breathes deeply, and his occasional blink, for he doesn’t want to miss a move or expression. His dark eyes are pinned on my body, while his whole face smiled at me. His five-o’clock shadow is rugged, manly, and extremely sexy.  Buttoned half way up his chest, his white shirt exposes dark muscles and a love trail. This image makes my pulse race. Manly shoulders are high, sitting on his arms like boulders. Sandblasted jeans hug his muscular thighs. There is something eccentric about him, something I can’t pinpoint. I want to explore, to feel his texture, and to inhale his scent. Moments pass, as his total attention is on me. It appears that he is not even aware that the stereo shut off or that a candle went out. I start to become aware of myself.

My hair is pinned up, with a few curly tresses gently falling and tickling my shoulders with every slight movement. My blouse is snug against my chest with a slight slit that exposes my belly. I lean back on my arms and feel flower petals caress my fingertips. I have become aware of every part on my body. I feel my blood flowing through my veins; my heart is pumping at an incredible rate.  My silky smooth skin glistens in the dim light. My senses start to swirl. The anticipation is unbearable and overwhelms my mind. I want him; I need him.

My need and burning desire is so immense that I know he senses it. I can see he is getting aroused and can no longer wait.  He stands up, not breaking his eye contact. He slowly moves across the room. My eyes follow his every movement. Slowly he nears. My heartbeat increases with every step. The fire within me starts to blaze. Images of flames and passionate heat fill my mind again. His manly scent reaches my nose as he stops just inches away from my ignited body.  He looks down at me, but doesn’t move. I release my weak arms and fall back onto the bed. Our eyes connect, gazing upon each other without blinking, looking deep within, penetrating each other’s souls. He undresses slowly and gently, never taking his eyes off of me. He repeats this task on me, starting with the buttons of my blouse. I start to tremble as his soft gentle touch tickles and sends chills up and down my body.

I can feel the strength in his arms as he holds me close, pressing his pecs against my skin. I feel secure, safe, and warm. His kisses are wet, deep, passionate, and exotic. Our bodies are entangled. Every touch brings flames within. Our hearts pound and echoes of desire fill the room. Our hands explore; our bodies dance. I feel his hot breath against my ear as he says he loves me. Hands grasp, teeth bite, sweat rolls down our bodies as our minds are blown with ecstasy. Penetration, undulation, fascinations draw us to climax. Flesh in our fists; teasing tender kisses draw us pleasure.  The sweet taste of skin and juices fill our hunger as we cradle each other. We ride wave after wave on our Paradise Sea, alone and secluded in our nest of love. The passion and excitement is so immense it leaves us needing, craving, and wanting more. Wrapped in embrace with fervor, mania, and love we satisfy our fantasies and dreams.

We lay motionless with our fingers touching; our heavy breathing slows. Sweat glistens on our bodies. The silence and satisfaction fills the room. I hand him a cigarette and light it for him. The smoke twirls around and climbs to the ceiling. As he exhales he puts his arm around me and I draw my face close to his chest. We don’t have to speak to know what we are thinking and feeling.  Looking up at the ceiling, I watch the clouds dance. Slowly we doze off in each other’s arms, re-living our dreams and fantasies, both wild and free.

The sun shines through the lace curtains warming my body. Birds sing outside my windowsill causing me to drift out of my dream.  Opening my eyes, I smile while remembering every detail. I sigh and sit up, my blanket falls to my lap. Glancing at the clock, I rise from the bed. I take a glimpse in the mirror, grab my robe and head to the bathroom. Stopping at the doorway, I look back upon my bed. There are no rose petals, satin sheets, candles, or handsome man. Sighing once again, I close my eyes.

“It sure was a nice dream,” I say to myself.

My heart and soul ache. Loneliness sinks into my essence as I reflect upon my dream. Once again, I have fallen into my private secluded haven, extremely remote and secret, protected like a chamber. A place where fears, fantasies, frustrations, and inspirations are explored. My burning desires are once again buried deep within my body waiting to be set free.

Posted by prec1ousnikki

We eye the limo. It’s parked ominously, curled up like a slumbering beast in front of the Frenchman Hotel.

I scan the New Orleans mayhem. Hustlers, barkers, undercover 5-0’s, brainwashed tourists, and every other kind of shady-mother-fucker-in-between pack the sidewalks and balconies of Frenchman Street. New Orleans jazz reminiscent of Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet gurgles out of the many speakeasy bars. The nearby amusement park looney bin cacophony of the French Quarter threatens to overcome the jubilance of this more authentic area of the city.

I hate this town. I always have. It’s rotten.

Rotten like a tooth in need of pulling or a gangrened limb in need of hacking—it’s a cesspool of decay. This is where people come to forget their pasts drowning themselves in a haze of alcohol, barbiturates, and crawdads; or—god forbid—they penetrate deeper into the smack underbelly, ending up hustling tourists of their cash, clinging to the decayed cypress corpse like parasitic Spanish moss. It’s hot, sticky, and smelly. An undead city on the verge of biting the big one, but never quite sliding into the ocean.

We arrived early this afternoon after a quick stop in Baton Rouge to nab a lunch of jambalaya with chicken, Andouille sausage, rice, shrimp, celery, and spices. Mmmmm… Tasty. I usually go vegetarian, but…

The rest of our road-trip was uneventful. I tried to call Wilder early this morning from a nearly defunct pay phone, but his number was out of service—either he didn’t pay his bill or they caught him and he’s in a little room being Chinese water tortured. After a little freak-out I decided it’s best if we still risk meeting him in our appointed place on the corner of Frenchman and Decatur.

Now, after getting the snide computerized phone message telling me he’s out of service, I feel a little hesitant. What if they caught him and are trying to track us too? To tie up loose ends. God! I wish we were shooting up whack-jobs in the Philippines instead of all this incognito spy work, like the good ole days. Then, at least I knew my enemies. Now, the shadows are threatening.

I glance at True. She stares off into space. I know that look—she’s having one of her “intuitive” moments where her body language gives away her feelings. She’s afraid. Danger is near.

She eyes the limousine. I scan the rooftops. Nothing. No snipers. I scan the crowd. It’s impossible to tell suspicious activity in a city where everybody is suspicious.

“Vic… I have a bad feeling about this. Maybe, we should just go back to Portland?” She says as she slides off the back of my Virago.

I ignore her.

I think of our situation: some runaway nut-job from the Reich hid some item at the bottom of a lake in Switzerland. The German offered ten grand to go to Switzerland with a quick stop in New Orleans to meet some historian dude and get the details concerning the item. Our $5,000 advance is going fast and he said there might be more than $10,000 to be had from this job. Plus, I was getting bored in Portland. Yes, this is dangerous but—to be honest—I like it that way.

Suddenly, a large Negro driver steps out of the limo (btw: I’m not into all the PC crap. If the United Negro College Fund can use the word Negro, so can I!). He’s monstrous hovering over six and a half feet wearing a traditional chauffeur uniform, cap and all. He presents a piece of cardboard with the words “Victoria Valentine” written in handwriting reminiscent of Walt Disney’s loopy script. The red Sharpie writing looks foreboding despite the innocent Disney connotations.

True and I exchange looks of concern. The ebony “Andre the Giant” removes his Ray Ban sunglasses and in a deep booming voice says, “VICKY VALENTINE… I PRESUME?” He looks like that dude from The Green Mile.

He stares right through us waiting for a reply; his eyes filled with cataracts.

I shrug at True. I guess we don’t have much choice. I pop the kick-stand on the bike and we head over to the limo.

The large man frisks us. He removes my gun from the waistband of my jeans. “PLEASE… ENTER THE VEHICLE.”

He opens the door and the smoke of black hash, a mix of opium and hashish billows out of the vehicle. We enter the limo. He leans in and says, “LADY MINX… HER TIME IS VERY VALUABLE. PLEASE MAKE THIS BRIEF…”

He shuts the door and it takes us a moment to adjust to the smoked filled interior. I begin to get a contact high.

Finally, the smoke clears enough for us to make out a tall, statuesque Negro (yes, I said it again) woman with shaved head and elegant homemade satin dress. Her model-like body is sexy. It’s obvious she’s powerful, corrupt, a femme fatale of the greatest magnitude, an impresario of underground activities. She sets down her opium pipe on the console to her right and smiles mischievously.

In Haitian Creole she says, “bonjou on bonswa vickah valenten… allo maya thompson…”

True looks startled. I’m shocked too. How does this mysterious femme fatale know True’s real name is Maya Thompson?

“u wanna call-me da laydee minx?… hahaha… a hopa u undersand da kreyol…” She presents her hand.

True shakes it lightly.

Lady Minx presents it to me and I place my lips gently upon it. I feel a tingle. She looks startled by my gesture, but a tiny smile creeps into her stony visage.

Suddenly, I feel sexual tension.

“Well, it’s obvious Lady Minx that you know who we are and why we’re here,” I say with confidence. Her smile widens a bit more. Her eyes penetrate deeper into mine. It’s obvious she isn’t used to people talking to her with such directness.

“u ar here do meet da german… and aye gonna take u do em…” she says business-like but her smile is hungry for something naughty and wild. Although, it could be menace too.

My hand reaches toward the knife in my boot. True tenses.

Lady Minx laughs loudly. “relax miss vickah…aye take u… first u gonna du sumfing fer da laydee minx…” 

“And what might that be?” I say taking my hand away from my knife and resting it upon her knee.

She looks down at my hand. For a tense moment of silence, our trio stares at her knee wondering where this is leading.

Lady Minx breaks the silence. In Creole she says, “bam’m ti coco tanpri…”

“Excuse me… I don’t understand Creole.” I say.

She snickers, shifts her leg slyly exposing her garter belt, and says, “en da kreyol et meen…”

She pauses, letting the sexual tension build, until she says, “gimme da pussy, pleez…”

Then she cackles wildly like a madwoman. I’m shocked. At first I can’t tell if she’s serious. Did she actually just say what I thought she said? Give me the pussy? Ha!

We laugh. True and I exchange glances. This is getting weird but interesting.

“aye wanna lickee yer pussy…” She motions to True.

I scoff, suddenly a little jealous.

Lady Minx adds, “donna yu worrie… da Blind Tyger no watch… we havda privacee…”

Blind Tiger? What the fuck is she talking about? Who the fuck is the Blind Tiger?

“mee driver yo… he no watch… he da blind…” 

Oh, her driver’s name is Blind Tiger and he’s actually blind. Is this some kind of James Bond flick?

“How does he drive if he’s blind?’ True asks.

“aye use da magik mon amie…”

True’s eyes widen. Mine squint suspiciously.

“but nevahmind da magik… aye wanna tastee… ah sweet lickee… mon amie…”

She springs like a cat, hopping across the limo boldly, squeezing herself between us. She smells strongly of opium and femaleness. It’s obvious she was playing with herself before we arrived. Her musk is strong.

I look to True. She just shrugs and says, “Well, she’s rather attractive Vic. And who doesn’t want their pussy licked by a strange voodoo crime lord?”

I nod in agreement. This could get rather interesting.

I say, ‘So if you get a taste of my friend’s pussy here… you’ll lead us to the German?”

She places her slender brown hand upon True’s bare thigh and says, “Enchanté mon amie…”

Dream: 2/21/2013

Dream starts with me visiting an old friend. He’s opening a retail music store. I tell him, “Not a good idea in this dismal economy.” He says, “People still love music.” I say, “True.” He smiles like he knows something I don’t. He says, “You’re hired.” Suddenly, it’s my first day on the job and he gives me a strange task. In a storefront window, I’m supposed to arrange products for maximum salability. The products are weird home-made paper-mache masks of cartoon characters including Big Bird, Ernie, Elmo, Mickey Mouse, Batman, etc. My old friend says, “You have to have a successful brand to get ahead in this world. It’s all branding.” I try to arrange the masks but many of them are beaten and torn. No matter what I do they don’t look very good. Finally I give up and lean against the glass. A woman approaches me. Smiles. Sits down in front of me. She has a low-cut shirt and her breasts are falling out. She is attractive. She smiles. I look away. “I don’t have time for these shenanigans,” I think to myself. She stands up, does this weird dance which is a cross between a ballet and yoga. She does a roll towards me and ends up with her face a mere inch from mine. I can smell her breath. She looks into my eyes and says, “Why so glum? It’s only branding.”

Bucephalus: Room 460: Asian Neo-City

I open a door marked Room 460.

Inside I see a labyrinthine neo-city, tall, polluted, and perpetually rainy. I take a step forward. Another step. Throngs of people push me aside like a twig in a tidal wave. I steady myself. Pause. Then I force myself through the herd. I finally sidestep the traffic and enter one of the several neon-lit skyscrapers. In relief—like stepping out of a torrential rain—I shake the memory of the crowd from me. I scan my surroundings. I’m further into the future. But the future is filled with tons of cement, haphazard lighting meant to dazzle consumers, extemporaneous dreams unfulfilled, and emptiness despite being overcrowded. I cringe. It’s a far cry from the ancient world I left behind with its “salt of the earth” mindset and simplicity of being.

I peer out the doorway into the throng—thousands of people pushing to get ahead. They’re Asian but I can’t tell the nationality, perhaps Korean or Japanese. As they dart and weave through each other I see signs on the walls declaring that I am indeed in Korea. I suppose it must be South Korea because the people are smartly dressed, not poor. On the outside they’re prospering. On the inside they run around like mice in mazes, not knowing their goal or destination besides what has been ingrained in them by tradition.

For a brief second the dream speeds up and I see years go by as millions of “mice” traverse the maze over and over.  I think of the ancient world with its human sacrifice, bacchanalian rituals, and bloody wars and I think—At least in that world people had powerful lives filled with danger, lust, and conquest. It was meaningful. In this life I see misery, redundancy, and self-loathing. Progress is sorrow civilized.

I banish this thought from my mind. I’m not here to judge. I’m here to explore this dream as one explores a lover or a scientific equation. I must be methodical and thorough without attachment. It’s impossible to learn if you invest too much in your subject.

I scale the many stairs and levels of the building. In this world the restaurants and convenience stores appear on the ground floor. The schools and churches are on the second and third levels. The fourth and fifth introduce bars and billiard halls. And the upper levels are saved for the more illicit establishments like massage parlors, girly bars, and brothels. Something inside drives me to the highest level of the building and to the darkness that resides there.

I finally arrive at my destination. On the outside the place looks innocent enough. In fact, it looks no different from other businesses. I enter.

The hostess, a middle-aged woman, chats with me in Korean about what I want from the experience. But her words runaround the subject; everything is implied. She invites me past the curtain. I’m nude but she doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care.

She hands me off to another woman.

First, I’m ushered into a “table shower” or “body shampoo.” I lay on a table in a giant shower room, and the second woman scrubs me from head to toe. Then she ushers me into a sauna for a few minutes before taking me to the massage room. The room looks seedy with a bed and pink light.

“Come back… first… you go special room,” she says in broken English with her r’s sounding like l’s and her b’s sounding like p’s.

She takes me into a room that looks like the interior of a subway car. It’s empty save a single lone figure in the corner. She appears to be a professional woman dressed in a skirt-suit, like a banker or secretary. She is tall and lithe; her arm is raised holding the overhead rail. She is small breasted but alluring in an unattainable way. Her make-up is impeccably drawn upon her face like a kabuki mask—china-white skin, dark eyes ending in pointed lashes, and rosy-red disks on her cheeks. I can smell her perfume upon entering the car.

For a brief moment we stand there alone. Neither of us says a word. Then, from up above, a loud-speaker system blares the usual sounds associated with subway travel and suddenly a crowd of people pile into the car pushing me up against the professional woman. I’m still naked and my prick pushes against her skirt. Out of politeness I try to keep my distance from her, but the crowd is unruly and determined to pile as many people into the car as possible. I end up with my body spooning her. My face rests inches from her perfumed black hair which is tightly bound into a bun with a stick. I take in her scent and it causes me to become even more erect. She pretends not to notice but it’s an impossibility that she doesn’t—my cock strains the fabric between her legs like a fist against latex. She doesn’t say a word.

Suddenly the car empties out. We are alone but I decide to remain where I am. This doesn’t seem to bother her. I boldly touch her wrist with my index and middle finger. She says nothing. I nuzzle her neck. Again, not a word from her. Slowly I lower my other hand to the hem of her skirt and caress her tiny knee. Then I slowly raise the hem past the top of her sheer stockings. My fingers come to rest on the mechanism of her garter—SNAP! My other hand leaves her wrist and does the same thing to the other side of her garter—SNAP! In unison, I raise her grey skirt, higher and higher until her undergarments are exposed. Finally she makes an almost inaudible sigh and leans her head back so my lips can meet her neck. I smother her with kisses. My hands push aside her panties and find their way into her stringy pubic hair. They inch past the foliage and bury themselves deep into her tiny orifice. A high-pitched moan escapes her lips. She turns and we become locked into a strong kiss. I smear her lipstick over her face. I pull the stick from her hair and the bun collapses. I tear at her suit coat. It falls to the floor. In one motion I rip her blouse open and the buttons pop like fireworks. I molest her.

Suddenly, I’m pulled away. The dream forces me to another lesson. As I struggle to remain, I see her look at me. Her make-up and hair, once bound by duty, is in beautiful disarray. And as I leave her I realize:

Society is order. Pleasure is disorder.

These “Women of the Night” have taught me that eroticism is a wide and varied commodity, a plunging into chaos, and a succumbing to the nature of the universe. Civilization is the opposite—a destroyer of everything magical and free.

Dream: 2/19/2013

I’m in a type of sitcom complete with canned-laughter. It’s a combination of comedy and game show. There are three contestants and I’m the host. I ask the first contestant a question. When he tries to reply a cabbage-like thing sprouts from his mouth. In order to retrieve his reply I have to peel back the leaves of the thing. The cabbage-like object is the future, and one by one I have to unfold the leaves of all the contestants’ cabbages. By the end I’m exhausted. The canned laughter increases and seems to go on forever. I can’t take it. I turn my back on the contestants. One of the leaves is still in my hand and I attempt to read the strange language printed on it. It’s an answer. Suddenly the writing disappears. I have no future.

Vicky Valentine Adventures: Dalisay’s Wish (Part 4)

Tonight, the monster known as Camcam will die.

Wilder makes last-minute preparations. Dalisay knows what we’re up to. She protests mutely but eventually Wilder convinces her that she’ll never be safe with him around. And it’s The Philippines—people get murdered all the time.

Wilder arranges invitations to the party through his informant. He also purchases me my first gun and a new fake passport. He gets a gun for Dalisay too; it’s obvious she knows how to handle it, since she checks the chamber like a pro.

He asks me, “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

“Nope.”

“Great.”

He tells us the weapons are hot, that we should ditch them immediately after the deed is done.

We arrive late to chaos. The party is on the roof of the The Manila Hotel, a 570-room, five-star job open since 1909. The event is huge, larger than I expected and very out of control. Nearly a hundred people, most of the criminal underground of the Philippines are in attendance. There’s a lechón (a whole roasted pig), which has been reduced to bones and cartilage, a huge spread of food has become scraps, and the open bar is empty. People are blasted drunk. They’re launching bottle rockets from their bare hands and their mouths. The fireworks have been going off for nearly two hours; the air is filled with so much smoke it’s nearly impossible to see. The entire skyline is filled with dazzling explosions. The smog and the constant blast of M-80’s means we may be able to do the deed and slip out undetected. So many people are shooting off guns they’ll never pick ours out from the rest.

We shuffle around a bit mingling and then we see him. He emerges from the fog like an apparition. He’s loathsome and nefarious. I see this immediately. He’s tall, tattooed, with a bikini-clad girl on each arm and the devil in his eyes.

“Welcome to Wonderland… Kasamas… Manigong Bagong Taon!” He screams to the crowd. People holler, blast guns, and shoot off fireworks in appreciation of their master.

He says loudly, trying to overcome the noise, “I have show for you. It involve meat. Lots of meat.” His English is impeccable like his suit.

He motions to his assistant and the man leads a nude woman to the center of the roof by a leash. She’s nude, beautiful; the look of fear in her eyes is tangible. Another man wheels out a table with straps. I look to Wilder. His anger is obvious. He knows what’s coming. They strap her in motioning for the master to begin his art.

Someone brings out a microphone and hands it to him.

He says into the mic, “Desire are meant to be holy. I embrace mine. That what make me great man. Who can say that? Can you? [He points to the crowd] I do meat inspection each and every days. I judge to see if meat fresh, but like all meat, and everything that beautiful, it must be spoiled. I adore cutting booby, legs, rear-ends, titties, anything. Tender ‘meat’ to be tasted. I fuck em rare. I fuck em just right. I fuck em well-done. I make em proud to wear my wound. I love pulling wing off butterflies!”

At this Dalisay begins to weep. I flick the safety on my gun. It’s coming.

“Turn on all lights so coming year is bright. And let me cut this bitch to heaven!”

His assistant hands him an expensive butcher knife. He raises it high and then—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

In shock, he stands there hesitating as three red spots appear on his white suit in a triangle around his heart. The knife teeter-totters on his index finger a moment then falls to the ground. Panic ensues. Bullets fly from all directions.

I glance to my left as I raise my pistol and fire. I’m surprised at the recoil.

Dalisay takes several rounds to the chest dropping her pistol to the ground. She staggers and falls.

I fire many times at Camcam’s falling body, all the while screaming, “ YOU PERVO! YOU SMARMY-ASSED PIMP!!! FUCKIN’ DIEEEEEEE!!!”

Wilder’s gun blasts into the fog. He screams, “TIME TO GOOOOOO!”

As we bolt for the elevator he snags Dalisay. We barely make it in before the doors shut.

As the elevator descends it’s obvious she isn’t gonna make it. Blood rolls out of her mouth.

He says calmly, “Are you hit?”

“No. But Dalisay…” I mutter.

He says, “We’re leaving the country… tonight.”

I say to the bleeding girl, “Hold on. We’re almost outta here… I’ll take you to America.”

She grabs my arm forcefully and says in broken English, “My name Dali… Call me Dali… My wish… My wish to love… like you love… That… my… wish… to love man… and he love me…”

And then she dies in my arms.

I laugh. I laugh like I’ve never laughed before.