Pussy-Licer: See Emily Play

It's only Rock 'n' Roll, but she likes it.

So One More Time, For Old Time's Sake

...

This story is based around real locations I experienced as a music journalist, the Festival, the Studio and the party venue are real, and although the characters are composites they are based around real people I encountered within that scene...

Names have -- naturally, been changed to protect the guilty...

A twisted love story

She's feeling him up with all the care and attention of the blind reading Braille, weighing his balls (they feel loaded), slim fingers tightening on his stubbornly flaccid cock in a vice-grip that must be reducing the sensitive organ to little more than raw nerve ends. Somewhere in his dishevelled mass of lank greasy hair he's got to be wincing in pain, laid flat-out on his back in the rear cave of a Daihatsu van, denim pants near open to his knees, while she's crouched, looking up at him appealingly -- Em, Emily, my darling slut, but he's not responding. Zero erection.

'He's spaced, the bastard, wired. So far out to lunch he's coming in for breakfast.' She tucks his cock away and stands up in disgust.

We leave Sneak the Freak to sleep it off. Out through the Press-Cage patrolled by Security Gorillas, by the crush-barriers and the Rent-a-Thug Bouncers. Some SF writer guesstimated if everyone alive on this planet were to stand heel-to-toe they'd cover an area that equals the island of Zanzibar. That might look like what we're seeing now, this human avalanche at yet another last of the classic Rock Fest's, a heaving sea of metronomic handclaps at the terminal end of a long l-o-n-g devolutionary process.

For miles around there's the living dead of two Rock revolutions in their Desolation Raw elephants graveyard psychedelic shacks and hippie tat, with a high fashion-dummy-weirdo count -- a sprinkling of Mohican 'n' leathers, a large percentage joints, long ratty hair, brown rice 'n' herb.

Em's large liquid eyes run the panoramic length of stage beneath the mega-video screen and spiderworks of scaffolding. A singer shakes hair all over his sapphire-silk blouse, an ambling splash of colour. 'That coulda been the Seeds Of Doubt up there.' I duck the question. Nubiles in very little clothes and not-so-nubiles in authentic counter-culture regalia prompting decidedly sexist reactions. 'Naw. The only good thing to come outta the Seeds -- for me, was you. You and Twig the Wonder Kid.' She grins mischievously and knees me in the groin.

Twenty-five years. Two and a half decades since we entered the charts at no.47, peaked at no.46 -- then vanished. A neat little 45-rpm package, dark blue label with silver lettering in an orange-printed bag-sleeve. Eighteen years since I hung up my hi-heel boogie-sneakers, and still she can't forget. Art-School R&B, the anger of frustrated energy screwed down tight, raw and violent with a loutish sexuality and an amphetamine burn of painful amplification. The back of a Transit van with Vox amps stacked high and I'm trying hard to concentrate on a book -- 'The Naked Lunch', in the half-dark, and Sneak's there behind me.

'I want it betwixt your lips, my battle-snake, my sex-shooter. Mind your teeth, take it deep... AAAAAHHHHH, that's IT, suck like that.' He's laid on his back, legs splayed and bent at the knees, while she's crouched down there somewhere. At first I can't see her face for his thighs. That's the first time I saw Emily -- all those years back. She says 'I'm Emily, I'm in the erection business.'

He moves his leg. I see those beautiful whoreish lips closing in around that animal cock with the vulgar grace of a delicate cannibal, she takes it in three gulps as though it's too big, or her mouth's too small to manage it with one. The first gulp takes her upper lip out over the fat crown-top of the glans, the second gulp takes the entire glans, her teeth visible as she balances the mouthful for the final swallow that feeds half its full length deep into her sexy throat, her complexion flushed with pride at her achievement.

That long night-black hair, the curve of her perfect breasts shimmering with the movement of her head -- up and down, slow and greedy, up and down, nipples dark and distended, sometimes brushing the rough surface of the stained mattress at her lowest pass. Thrusting the shaft deep and deeper into her mouth, I can see it now, can almost feel the hot flesh on her tongue as I see it disappearing between hungry lips. As she shifts her head around it I notice her tongue darting little lapping touches.

See Emily play. How to be a suck-cess in every mouth-watering prick-teasing detail. 'Don't scrape the soft tip with your teeth, don't gag or shy back when I spurt in your mouth.' The sound low in her throat as she swallows. Em, the image of cock before her eyes -- always. Em on the dietary value of fresh semen, perpetually aroused. An orgasm a day keeps boredom at bay. Emily -- my wife. Em, daintily removing a pubic hair that's become lodged between her teeth, dabbing her spermy mouth with my handkerchief, then repairing the damage to her make-up...

A prurient documentary-maker'd find picaresque backdrops aplenty in the tent city sprung up around the Festival enclosure. Fanning down the dirt-track central thruway there's low-grade acid, coke, doctored speed, magic mushrooms, Moroccan and Lebanese hypermarts to scramble the most discerning braincell, there's stalls unfurling phantasmagorical wares of rare precious and beautiful bootlegs, CND and Green texts, exotic narcotics and fast whole-foods with side-deals of faded bohemian kitsch and hand-crafted artefacts made by ageing Beatnik gypsies.

But the only queues are at the Beer Tent, and the guy with the pirated cassettes got ripped off and left early in grand pique. High-cc Triumphs cruise in their own private Mad Max phantasies. The sun's going down, campfire wood-smoke mixes dope-smoke, and entropy runs aground...

'It's smaller than I remember' she muses distantly. For a moment I don't connect. 'Sneak's cock -- it used to precede him by some nine inches. Sometimes seemed he was cock up to the eyebrows in those days. It'd near trip him up. Often I couldn't LEVER it into my pussy with a shoe-horn, now he can't even GET a horn!' There's a sadness I can't touch. A beauty and innocence none of them could ever touch. She wants 1967, and all I can give her is the feed-in groove to the bleak nineties.

'I want to go. Let's go NOW! Sneak says he saw Derek working a studio in Sheffield. He's got the address. We could go. It could be like it was in the sixties -- just once more for old time's sake. Just this once. It's twenty-five years almost to the day. We can't let it go by uncelebrated. We just can't.'

The sun comes up like a huge belisha beacon on a miles-long auto-tailback. We're breathing lead-impregnated air. A community disintegrates across acres of garbage, and in the aftermath, kids with black bin-liners scavenge returnable bottles in a spirit of Free Enterprise Thatcher might smile on. Then the M-way to Sheffield. Sun pours down like buttermilk over knife-cut bridges. Sneak, in the back of the Daihatsu van, sleeping it off. Em slouched beside me, like it used to be en-route for those College Hops, those Mecca Ballrooms that charged 7s6d entry -- that's just thirty-seven pence! Don't that date-stamp you? It all comes back to me in bursts, flashbacks, after burns.

The Seeds Of Doubt -- me (Farfisa organ), Sneak (drums), Derek (vocals/ bass guitar), and John (lead guitar). Getting blagged out of door-money, done-over by local yobs, precious equipment ripped-off and trashed. Haunting M1 Services poring over juke-boxes searching for your own name, sleeping in the back of a Ford Transit, falling behind on h.p.'s for Fender Strats and Gibsons, infused by thefted Chuck Berry runs and uppers, wearing pointed-toe shoes with buckles, and growing your hair a little longer. The hazards of crabs, food poisoning or worse. Sharing good gigs, bad gigs, staggering through barriers of paint-peeling amps sniffing out functioning mikes, sharing the Transit, the soundchecks, the Transport Caffs... sharing Emily. 'Put on a gown that touches the ground, Emily.'

'We'll play a game, eh, Em? I'll be the famous photographer, and you'll be the model.' And she's mock-posing nude for Derek's imaginary camera, holding those breasts out, nipples rising from their launch-pads all sexed up. We're pouring beer over her bare stomach and lapping it up from the pretty indentation of her navel, blowing ciggy smoke into her fluffed-up pubes so they steam and fume like tropical rainforest.

Other girls come and go, but Emily's always there. She talks of moving on, of chasing the Stones or perhaps Eric Burdon, as we talk of chasing the charts, cutting our first, flop single. The second record -- "Girl With The Unquiet Mind", is John's song, some say he wrote it for Em, an eerily sparse song, but then John always had a strangeness that sets him apart. Last saw him on Oxford Street, shaven head and saffron robes, into some Ashram, and celibacy. No chance of a one-last-time for old-time's-sake with John. But Derek and Sneak?

Sneak comes awake halfway down the M-way, and wants feeding. Humping amps for Howl at the Festival is hungry work. He smells of sweat, and his dog-breath's rancid, his Howl T-shirt does little to contain his expanding waistline, and what his straggling hair's lost on top he's put on round his wispy beard. 'Wha' 'appened last night? Wow, was I ever outta it.'

'NOTHING 'appened,' from Em pointedly. Then 'you got paid off, you were too stoned to move. Don't you remember? You promised you'd take us to Derek's studio. You will, won't you?'

He wolfs burgers and coffee like a dying man, ketchup on his chin like a bloody lip. Em smiles across at me -- 'Blue Boar Services', remember?

Sheffield in early autumn's first phase. A location of picturesque shabbiness. Sneak points, 'there, in that complex.' An ancient building subdivided into a map of rehearsal rooms, jagged lines of deep bass lurking behind every other door. And Derek, black leather jacket stylishly scuffed, and reflector shades, hair cropped to a mere shadow-stubble across the dome of his head. 'GRRRREATTT to see you all again. Wow. Course, things've changed, I'm into management now and record production.' He beckons us through into his lair, an adventure playground of sound that's been through several lives.

Past incarnations peel off the wall in flakes of dead paint. Pre new-depression the building might have started out as a factory block. A Mill. In this room-space, footprints walk up the walls towards the ceiling in odd formations. They date from its phase as a Karate School -- 'HID-AR-EE-GAM-I' is left-punching, 'KNEE-KO-ASHI-DATCHI' is cat stance. The rest of the foot-placing diagrams are semi-eclipsed by attempted sound-baffles for rehearsing bands.

A record playback's in progress. An anthracite-black angular youth behind the studio glass, hair disarrayed around a deep-furrowed centre-parting, his hands limpet-clamping headphones in close, his guitar hung quivering loose. He's drinking the playback in intense concentration. Derek watches pale blue digitals tick off the seconds, pin-sharp graphic equalisers rising green, peaking into red.

'I wanna know what Derek thinks' comes over the speaker link. The p.a. explodes shockwaves of sonic violence, a protracted guerrilla-war of plaster-cracking rhythms overlaid with surgically sampled sound-bite samples.

'It's fine' concedes Derek cautiously. 'But we'll wrap it up there for today. Right?' The tetchy beats fade and shimmer back.

He turns to us, 'so whaddya think? Amazing in'it. Needle -- they're gonna be well-HUGE.' Shelby's the vocalist. She's dressed in severe blacks and blood reds, lips bruised crimson, hair razored high over her ears and raised, plumed elaborately, like porcupine quills in deep shock.

'Terry Wogan won't play it' says Em.

'Sassy bitch, ain't she -- but then, you always was' with a conspiratorial wink. 'I hear you two got married? You made an honest woman of her?' Well, someone had to. The group split after the next few disastrous singles, and she was pregnant... collectively, by the band.

Someone had to look after her. It MIGHT'VE been my kid. Twig -- she COULD be mine, not that it matters, she's made it all worthwhile. She's real to me in ways that chasing the charts never was, and if I've got to work nine-to-five to pay the bills then that's alright too. I've not looked back once, no regrets, je ne regretted rien. But for Em it's different. She won't admit it, but she thinks I've failed, given in, sold out. SHE still believes in the Seeds Of Doubt, she's their last fan, and if she wants the old days, just one more time -- then I can't deny her it.

'Do Needle need a Roadie?' from Sneak. 'I just got paid off from that Howl tour. Poxy band anyway. Now't like WE used to be, eh -- the Seeds on full rev? Then WAS a time, and some. You'll vouch for that won't you, Em?'

'What do you mean Sneak? You were always too blocked to notice.'

And from Shelby, with utmost vehemence, 'we don't need no burnt-out hippie to Roadie for US.'

'You're prob'ly right' with forelock-tugging mock-humbleness. 'I'm too old for it anyway, amps are heavier than they used to be. Guess I'll just sign on instead, what do you think? Hey Derek, what sorta groupies do Needle score anyway?'

'Germ-free ones, I hope.' They dissolve into hacking laughter.

'Groupies don't figure.' Shelby, cool, intelligent. 'The groupie system denigrates women, implies women can only gain prestige by forming a parasitic attachment to a high-profile man. Even a degrading attachment -- that's the only role they're fit for. That's shit. Women compete on equal terms in nineties music.'

'That's because groupies gotta be male and gay to stand a chance of getting laid in the nineties' from Em tartly. She has a small penis-shaped birthmark on her inner thigh. We first discovered it when we shaved her pubes. Bored out of our skulls after a bad gig in Doncaster, taking it in turns to hold her legs apart, then to wield the cut-throat blade over her pouting not-so private parts. Giggling, she said it was more guitar-shaped. Sneak said it was more the shape of cocks to come. She agreed the combination of the two -- penis and guitar, was appropriate.

By common consent we split back to Derek's flat. Like Rome, Sheffield is a city built on seven hills and we're looking down on its centre from the steep crawl of sharp incline, city-lights coming up like some huge Spielberg space-craft beyond his window. The walls and ceiling are painted black. There's a small Sanyo portable CD-player slotted into Dexion shelving, and a twelve-inch TV-screen showing a docu-retrospect on the Iranian human-wave assaults on Iraqi positions during the Gulf War. It glows like a miniature ikon. A 26-inch screen wired to a video machine storms silver static, green inset digital numbers flickering, both TV's are silent.

Derek slots a cassette-tape that's spliced with white leaders into a tape-machine and as we settle in around the floor or on the low waterbed, a cut-up commentary of the Kennedy assassination comes in, jerky and trip-treated, repeating phrases and sentences in loops that become alien and hypnotic. There's a framed album sleeve of Adam Faith's 'Beat Girl' soundtrack on the wall, and a naked storefront dummy with rouged nipples and stuck-on pubic hair in the corner, a fragment of broken 78-rpm record impaled on its finger like a ring.

Sneak and Shelby collapse on the bed -- their apparent tribal animosity disappearing by the minute, and they're falling together, laughing. Derek leans over and whispers something inaudible in her ear which provokes a further storm of hysteria. In the half-dark with a can of Guinness I watch as he sets up the video. Em's sat on the edge of the waterbed cross-legged. I imagine the position must cause her vagina to gape lasciviously. The video snaps into place and the silver hail drains from the screen, replaced by images in blurry colour. A strange erotic numbness overtakes me as though somehow time and morality have become suspended in this room, in this gloom.

Two women are sunbathing on the deck of a cabin cruiser, a blonde and a brunette -- Derek depresses the fast-forward and they're moving in jerky comic animation, down the companionway into the galley beneath for sun-oil, and they begin rubbing it into each other's bodies in rapid circular caresses that become increasingly intimate, their backs glistening, their soft stomachs moist and greasy, their full firm breasts quivering free beneath sticky-moist fingers. Derek's attention flits from the screen.

Sneak's rolling somewhere in a mass of matted hair on top of Shelby, they're drinking and kissing and he's shimmied one enormous breast free and he's squeezing and kneading it so the nipple stands out swollen-hard. Derek's leering behind his shades, a lecherous sideways leer practised from early Elvis Presley movies. Em's moving closer to him, and I'm holding the beer-can so tight I can feel it indenting. I want to get out but I can't move. I know what's going to happen, I've seen the script, I'm knotted up inside but I'm helpless to stop it. I'm lust for words.

Iranian boy-soldiers go down in a scythe of gunfire, a helicopter battleship cruises above them. Kennedy's motorcade approaches the Dallas Book Repository. On the 26-inch the blonde lies on her back, legs splayed as the brunette goes down on her, a probing female tongue delving into the large fleshy folds of the slit filling the screen. Em unconsciously runs a finger down the curve of her own vaginal lips to relieve the sexual ache building there, detecting a ready moistness.

There's an obscene gurgling noise coming from the corner, the waterbed rippling like tide. Never would've guessed Shelby to be so pneumatic beneath all that black, her pallid skin -- by contrast, now so white and shivering in the TV light, moving and squirming her dress off, no underwear, Sneak's hands all over and into her pubic bush, she's groaning, her hands in his hair, long black-varnished nails clawing him down onto her. His pants slithering back off his ugly buttocks.

Em's hissing in Derek's ear, her long hair falling all around them so I can't see her expression, but I can imagine. I've seen it before. But he's intent on -- first, the screen, then on the action behind him on the waterbed, shifting his gaze from one to the other, sweat stood out on his forehead, his hand hidden on his crotch. On the screen they're sixty-nining beautifully, explicitly, spit-pearls of saliva mingling cunt-juice, tongues lashing and working raw clitoral buds to a frenzy, and behind them -- two boyfriends/husbands have appeared, with expressions of exaggerated surprise cracking their faces.

Newscaster on the portable TV, map of the Persian Gulf with flexing arrow-graphics. Lee Harvey Oswald fires once, fires once, fires once. Shelby's urging Sneak on, his fat buttocks glistening over her, his hand fumbling between their naked bellies, his stiff cock nudging at her, parting her pussy, and he's sinking luxuriously slowly down into her, her breath exhaling sharply, 'yes, yes.' Tits straining and shimmering, eyes closing, thick black make-up smudging around her eyes. Derek's attention's fixed back on the screen, then on the bed, Em's impatience becoming more urgent, her hand in his shirt-front, her tongue in his ear. There's a savage throb between my legs that I can't control, wherever I look it's happening....

On the screen, a great swollen dome of thick cock is pressuring a tongue aside and sliding with inexorable grace into undefended quivering cunt, the tongue content to lubricate its length in quick stabs and long lingering curls as it feeds out of sight into the glistening syrupy suction-cave. While the distracting heave of Sneak's quickening rhythm gives flick-flickering glimpses of Shelby's parted legs as he pumps -- like the proverbial Heavy Metal fiddler's elbow, into her. It's drawing my attention, against my will. Even as I close my eyes to fight the erotic images and the rage in my thighs, I can hear her pant, panting and whimpering, their squelching sex-noises audible even above the sharp retort as Oswald's rifle explodes and explodes and explodes in hard cyclic punctuation...