Peep Show

The Peep Show....

Introduction

I had a wet dream inside a nightmare hours after I had closed my eyes, and the coffin had ceased to allow any more light in. A slut. She was super vixen that could cultivate the highest level of erotic allure. Her sex appeal, though trashy, was the incarnate of a myth that resonates through vortexes of time and space, from the subconscious to supernal. She aroused minds and engorged many of organs, until one fateful morning I sat feeding pigeons cyanide rice and noticed a corpse curled in a corner where two office buildings joined. I waltzed across the street making sure to stop and twirl so I could smile at the driver who just slammed on his brakes to keep from ruffling my fine suit. The collection of flesh seemed familiar and a reminiscent scent of semen was in the air. Her chest no longer heaving as I once saw it do, as a matter of fact this adolescent wasn't breathing at all.

This all just inflicted yet another dream...that took place years before, myself, this lonesome character found this girl's body. It was me staring over her body. Remembering the first time I had met her. Before her involvement in various pills and powders, extreme bondage, prostitution, and the whole lifestyle that I had aided her in being introduced to. These were the days when the air was clean, and sex was still filthy. The days when saying certain words were supposed to make your gums bleed…

1

The weeks have grown long, hard, and not intoxicated at all with any form of absinth. I’ve been in this bored room this past month trying to continually explain the difference between a night club and a night stick to a pile of idiots, who for the life of them could not see the connection betwixt the moustache of Dali and the “mustache” of Nietzsche. I’ve grown weary and shoved all this dirt back in my mouth, for I realize my philosophies get me nowhere with any of these faux witch doktor professors. They do tickle my fancy among many other things and I’ve learned to stop our debates with these so-called superiors when need be, I never look a judge in the mouth unless his gift is a book about horses.

So with wants of dames and dolls and the excitement of para-noir, I figure its time to end this intermezzo and exercise my audio sense before the ringing musical celluloid in the canal turns to cellulite. Humming the tune of the underworld’s voix de ville, I begin to take pride in my vulgarity as I garb my limbs and paint my face until I look like a work of art in itself. Buttoned down and top hat tilted, I’m exiting this central nervous system and off to the ballroom, it is time to be nailed the wrecking ball of a waltz.

The stage is set, lights dimmed. The audience well lubricated by their fermented liquid, most preferably in sugared absinthe and martini glasses with each individual's preference of however many olives they want. I, myself, feel nature calling; now whether that's due to alcohol consumption or the anticipation of the show about to start, I cannot tell. But I'd tolerate the texture of a soaked pinstriped pants and the scent of my urine lingering in the air with the likes of my fluttering cigarette smoke and the gypsy incense burning throughout the joint, if it meant I would not miss a second of the upcoming display. I squirm in my seat to readjust like a child in a pew on Sunday morning with better things to do.

And finally, that velvet cake curtain is drawn back and the host of the evening sensationally proclaims.

“A little introduction to my side show tent, please take your time to understand all of these hymns of broken hymens and hurl plenty of vegetables at my stage...with a rose in my teeth and sitting hip deep in a compost heap, I am thankful for all you have to say. Though I’m sure you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cum, and maybe pass a little gas. It'll all be over before you know it, then you'll slap me and ask what the fuck was all that ruckus was for. No need for Lietz in this Cam-era, but prepare yourself for the pictureske ruins of the Aktion. Enjoy the obsequy of art ladies and gents!”

Just to disappear and to allow the spotlight to drop down to reveal the EYE-sing. A voluptuous too-young-to-know-better-buxom-bombshell-blond. The band I know is attempting a dramatic classical introduction, just to roll into today's modern sound of the new Negro jazz, but I care not for what is audible at this junction. Tonight I give praise to the gods for the gift of sight. Slowly, and sloppily seductively, the new coming wanna be vaudeville dancer breaching into this underworld of the burlesque begins her dance/act. To aid my displeasure with a rotten start, the pace quickens and her struts, trots, and strides grow more fluid and natural. With every turn, bend, and presentation of flexibility I fathom the various positions she could be slaved into with the fear of pain.

Something is innocent about her, I notice, as she removes layer after layer of her excess extravagant get-up. Down to satin gloves, pasties, stockings, and a petticoat (that is shed within another 2 minutes). Intriguing how a feminine character, so undefined and well designed, can stimulate a psyche by her every movement, revealing a personality that lies somewhere between feathers and leather. The glamorous glitter blinds like diamonds capturing an eclipse, a holy light refracting off those one-day-will-lactate-mammaries.

She swings by tables making dates be more watchful of their men as she fogs their bi-focals and loosens their ties, while some of the wives and accompanying courtesans secretly touch themselves and blush until their cheeks matches their rouge in a bi-sexual shame. Kicking her legs in patterned out numbers. Legs. Legs that only age can make that refined. Legs only youth can vouch for their flawlessness.

As this Shirley Temple dominatrix, (or Betty Page virgin- whichever way you see it), gallops her heals and lashes in my direction. I, yet again, squirm in my seat. But not out of a need for restroom facilities. With one deep inhale off a cigarette and a martini moistening my throat, I reclaim my demonically demure composure. Her buttocks propped up on my table, her lashes flutter, and wanton lips pout and part. And if I could be the second hand on a cuckoo clock, I’d grab a feather and yell STOP!

This innocent little girl has already mastered the marketing tease of a bordello resident. A professional magnet apt in stimulating an organ with a rush of blood, oxygen, and alcohol that is the most difficult to erotically erect, my mind.

She drops a card in my coat pocket with a kiss on the cheek and a brush of cleavage, and I, a piece of currency in her stockings. She turns, and in a ballet step, dances backs to the stage.

She takes her bows and at last, the curtain drops. The chic closet sluts that compose the audience, horny and excited, gives a barroom bred with opera concert applause. Amused that she received the music of applause, though boo’s are beautiful when harmonized, I watch the crowd make their exodus in couples in the mood for copulating and singles knowing baby oil is in their near future and with the rise of this mob scene, I know it is time to go.

I glance at the card, and in a schoolgirl script, a phone number is listed. With more than a shroud of doubt that this maidenhead could actually want to be deflowered by a sexual deviant such as I, that this boss pussy has lost her keys and I’m the lucky cocksmith. Standing, straightening my suit, tossing my top hat back on and with cane in hand, I begin the stroll home. Lethargic and ready for bed, I tip toe down these New Orleans’s concrete streets wondering if I could be this dove's incubus or her, my succubus. Cracking a smile, I finally let my bladder release down my leg, and finish my walk home in high spirits. Joyous with the knowledge that by next nightfall I may have plowed something sacred. That I, this Pope, this histrion of fashion and etiquette, will find a release in ravishing skin that is a neo-milky-Victorian crème and bloodying such beautiful entrails. Now that the rabbit has pulled me into the hat of obsession I feel myself succumbing to the tyranny of anticipating taste and now my mouth waters for the plunders of tomorrow night. She has knocked me off the hook. The person you are trying to reach is no longer here

2

As I lay the sated in a languid sleep, the sudden creeping light coming in through the blinds, the rush of blood that I feel so often in the morning, and the whore-moans that run amuck, brim the final impulses for my awakening. I grab the pocket watch off of the nightstand, only to see the hands make fists for I have slept too long. 10:34 it reads, one day the chickens will raise with me, hell maybe Christ too. I stare for just a moment at that same old crack in the wall with an eye crust daze. Oh, the noisy, hot afternoons I’ve sat bored starring at that crack to see its symbolism in my life. Concocting multitudes of metaphors for its politics, its omens, it’s… ah, Psssh! Who needs superstition babble? I know it’s from those Sullivan boys upstairs who jump around all day long pretending to be Al Capone’s henchmen. One day those fine young prospects will be ripe for corruption and discipline. For now they’re nothing more than fecal matter and with every stomp they strengthen the stench.

I open the drawer of the nightstand and remove a solid black silk handkerchief. As I begin to unfold it in this meat-mutilating-ritualistic preparation, I begin to dream, of, her …what was her name? Whom will I ask for when I call? Possibly her father can tell me her name if he answers. But I must not let this bring ruin to my ritual. So as I reach down to find the mini-monolith equally as ready, I find that it won’t be long until my daily artistic creation is finished.

Yes, yes, it is wild to be alive, running so fast towards a drunken death with every stroke of life, with every passing by nimble finger reaching out to shake hands and pick pocket its nap sack filled with all the rebellious sweet and sour goodies you’d find in the bags of most run-a-way boys in Chicago. And as if street fighting, it spits and drools gasping for air in one final headlock while it leaves the terminal stain of life out to suffocate on oxygen. So I fold the handkerchief four-fold, hold it for a few seconds to allow the fluid to grow accustomed to its smooth deathbed. As I unfold my cloth canvas to make sure it is dry, I hang it up on the wall, with the twenty or so others. I take a step back and notice the symmetrical patterns formed in perfect psychological blot testing turned art. This one speaks to me more so than usual, a bar, a bar in a birdcage. Yes that is what it is; I must ask those doctors what they make of this! Maybe it’s telling me to clip the wings, cage, and provide a circus for all I find as my pets. That must be it.

With that accomplished I meander over to the telephone and ask the operator to connect me to the number on this little card I was so lucky to come across last night. A youthful female voice answers and I ask her if she was at club last night and agreed she was. We had our pleasantries of formal phone introduction, she introduced herself as Kira. Then we agreed to rendezvous late this afternoon at a café that would be a midpoint between our flats. So with a drop of the telephone I was gracefully hurried around the flat cleaning, preparing, and making sure all my garments were ready and properly creased and cleaned. “I got a date, a date, can’t be late!!” as I fall further into the hat. So with my best faux-Gestapo regalia on and the flat nice and tidy as if I had my own little French maid, I was out the door making sure it hit me on the ass on my way out.

I adore the fabulous walk to this little café, the pedestrians are always entertaining, especially when mixed with shattered glass, blood, and asphalt of a automobile accident, but there’s no such luck today. The pigeons by the park bench notice me though I have nothing for them today; I feel almost an empathy that they will grow hungry. “ Until Sunday my little pecker, until Sunday”. The streets of New Orleans filled with lively Negroes, charlatans, harlequins, young blossoming girls, decaying women, and some might wonder what kind of gender-fuckery are they trying to prove with their androgynous outfits on. Stepping right along, I gave a “Hail! Hitler!” salute to the jack-(off)icer on the corner and for once he paid me no mind.

I stand here at the curb and watch traffic go by, gazing at a clean cut young gentleman. He was wearing this silly little white suit, one eye looked darkened possibly from make-up of some kind, and wearing this silly little black hat. He looked rather lonesome, bereft of animal contact for quite some time. So I watch him walk into his little milk bar and continue on with two more blocks ahead of me, as I smell the scent of honey through the winds of time. Buzzing through these streets by foot towards pollination.

Amongst the umbrella and non-crafted iron tables, there she sat awaiting over a cup of some kind of coffee and dressed rather conservatively compared to that of which I was hoping for. She bore a long black skirt, one that would look better bunched up as a belt I might add, and a blouse to match buttoning all the way to her neck. What a shame, at least I have the pleasures of imagination. I greet this platinum headed beauty with a kiss on her hand and a finger stroke on her wrist and start the typical primordial rhetoric of an eloquent conversation. I soon learn she lives on her own and ran away from an orphanage not too many years ago from the day.

I then break her worthless spatter mid-sentence to call “Pardon! garcon!! Café Latte!” just for her to continue about herself a little more. About how her mother was a whore, how she didn’t know her father, and how the church had scolded her past the point of sanity in the orphanage. As soon as her little jack-in-the-box-voice has used up all the energy it could, I decided to perform for her a series of little compliments. Actual dialogue wasn’t worth the headache of trying to explain half the things I would utter, and I’d rather see her blush than grow interested. As my coffee is finally served I pull a flask from my pocket to add a kick of Irish Crème into it and the persuasion to return to my flat begins. She inquired, while fluttering those lashes once more, if such a thing would be indecent at having such a short acquaintance or some such nonsense. But through the plethora of elementary words spat in this con-vincing-game she decided to accompany me. Must be something about a gentleman with cufflinks.

We make our way back through these city streets, though I notice no other females. That young chap is no longer walking in or out of the milk bar and the officer must have gone home to so his wife and he can slobber over their trough. Some store owners were closing down for the night and giving me looks that declared they were having a mock tribunal in their head to decide what should be done with the likes of me.

As we enter the flat, I stroll around in a careless manner, not so worried about my composure any longer, to light candles and prepare chardonnay for two. As the wine falls from bottle to glass it’s a reminder of what the trail following the brightest star must look like as it fell from a Neverland heaven and chuckled at the irony. We sipped our wine and continued our con-versation which was more like a circus commercial advertising the apocalypse of her chastity while sitting on the tiger skin couch I am so fond of. I reach over to gently massage her shoulders and screams of silence echoed in the room. They were going on and on about her petrifying fear, excitement, and drunken anticipation. Brushing the backside of my hand ever so lightly under her cheeks which now were just as red as I remembered them from last nights show. Piece by piece, button by button I shed her blouse, slid down skirt, and slipped off her shoes while hiding one under the couch.

I was caressing every inch, grazing every orifice on my way down and on my way back up. Those wanton lips began to pout once again but with a yearning that wasn’t there before. I sat her on the couch, removed my trousers, and I folded them nicely and put them away. I came back to her with a present hanging for her at eye level. As I brought it closer in order to give those wanton lips something they deserved she instinctively devoured it. A small series of an opus of moans slipped vibrating through my little limb as it was close to being lodged in her larynx. Standing proud and in ecstasy, the roof of her mouth started giving the sensation that it was a fetus’s ribcage and as her face moved back and forth, the window cast shades of marine like aquas and violent violets across her flesh.

I peered down to the garters and fishnets I had left on her and admired how they hung the bait in between the nets in order to catch an eel. I signal her to rise from her praying position as we do a little foxtrot toward the bed. The candle light now flickering and casting shadows with each unflawed curve. She lay on her back as if she were the last virgin to be placed upon the altar for some pagan sacrifice or a carcass on the table of the Last Supper. I dab my fingers with the little pyramid of cocaine on the tray on the nightstand and place it on the folds of the pedals that give her the right of maternity.

As she spreads her legs with the resemblance of Christ’s arms I stare into her opal orbs and slip past the forbidden gateway. The apple has now been plucked, now this worm will chew on through with the intoxication of Dionysus. The satin sheets, the candle light, coca powder upon her beauty; I’m ruining her pacifier and rattle celibacy and looking marvelous while desecrating these caves fresh with dew that burn with lubricity. She winces once…and then again. She asks me to stop. What kind of fool is she? “Shhh darling.. It’ll be ok,” I say as I pat her on the head like a woman would to an injured mutt. Blood trickles out amongst my sheets. She’s lucky she’s not paying for the mess she made. The innocence finally gone, disappeared in a hy-mental heaven. With this release I wonder how innocence lost could compare to the tragedies of Antigone or Hamlet. Buddha understands the suffering as his statue peers at this scene of pain and sweat from my headboard shelf. Too bad that isn’t a statue of a fertility god the dame would look good with a protruding belly.

Glancing at the pocket watch replaced on the nightstand, it read 9:33, time to end this. I grab her hips and force all the traffic I can through this bottleneck. Grasping her throat slowly pushing the windpipe in, I see her eyes begin to roll back and in one colossal black orgasm it is over, the release, the meaning in the suffering now found. The blossomed tulip now grabs hold of its violator, squeezes not wanting to let it go. It was milking the rest of me into her and if genitalia could perform feats, I escaped her grasp with the grace of Houdini. Now rubbing the tip of her lower stomach and thighs painting with the crème of life and with a final brush stroke on this new canvas leaving graffiti on lips that have not even been kissed tonight, I part ways with this piece. I leave it there to dry in her tired state praying that my masterpiece does not smear.

An hour or so passes as I’ve been reading up on the boring human events in this toiletry they call a newspaper and I gather up four gold coins. She lay on the bed disassociative and awake; I place them in her hand and tell her to have a goodnight. She jumps up in protest that she’s not a floozy from the neighboring whorehouses! I hush her protests and con-vey to her to not feel the guilt and to enjoy the profits of such a theatric display she put on.