"Scorchy"
by
Tim Stillman
The boys' eyes tried to linger Scorchy. They tried to make her stay longer in their vision. She made them. Not the other way around. She wore a long low cut sequined gown. Her breasts were ample. She knew she gave them a hard on just walking past them in this saloon in the wrong part of town. She knew they wanted to grope her. She knew they wanted to pull that gown all the way down.
And the town wasn't lonely. And she was the sexuality that kept them going. That kept them putting their hands to their blue jeans, to their crotches, and saying rude things like you want some of me, babe; dontcha? And she would smile coquettishly and she would arch her eyebrow, her left one, always her left one, and she would blow them a kiss. For she knew she was bonded in gold. And when one of them bought her a tall one, she would put her hand on his shoulder, or if she liked him just a little, would give him an honor of putting her hand on his knee, or, on rare occasion, his thigh.
And she would look deeply into her amber world in which she was violet and soft and curvy and in her 20's, which territory she would stay the rest of her life. She did not wear anything under her gown, save herself. And she longed for boys to touch her. She longed for boys to explore her, and then she would feel alive again, smoking her cigarette here in the bar gloom. Knowing too much. Knowing them inside and out. The bravado. The huzzahs. The little laughs of nervousness.
In which she was the all time star. And on very rare nights, on nights of wondrous stars and pinwheeling moons, she would make her pick; her long black gloves; her finger pointing decorously, making him feel the universe growing inside him, at one boy, and one only and the silent deaths of all the ones she had not picked. And he would come to her room which would be filled with gold tapestries and mahogany furnishings and ancient oil paintings. And she would kiss his beery lips and he would kiss back hard as she put that pointing finger that gave him life for an hour or so and then again never again, on his chest, over his hummingbird heart, and push him away. Her lipstick matted on his own lips. She would tell him to get down on his knees.
Which before her, he would do with such alacrity. And she would have him feel her cream thighs from the sides and she would ease down her gown of sequined nights slowly and slowly exposing her breasts and his mouth open, and the tip of his tongue licking his lips, and his eyes mesmerized, and then as though the eclipse of satin would never end, she pulled down her dress all the way to the center of her rosy big nipples and then below, exploring the fullness of her breasts with her hands and rubbing and pinching her tits and making them stand full bore. The sighing of hurt soft buttery explosive sex.
And he would want to stand up, and she, wispy shoulders of delicacy, taste of Arpege, as she looked at him with mercy on her full bee stained red lips and her honey lacquered eyes, and painted face that seemed her natural coloration, would put a hand on his shoulder and would tell him no, without words, she had not spoken a word to him yet, and he was generic He did not count. He was not chosen for looks or out of his own desperation or anything physical or spiritual or certainly mental about him. She just chose one, at random. And her penis raised in her gown. And it raised fuller than it ever had. As the supplicant before her looked at it bulge there.
And he wanted it and he saw nothing askance about it, and sometimes, even without her permission, he would reach up and grab it in the gown and hold to it like a baby holding to his mother and crying because he was suddenly aware he existed and he had no idea how to go about stopping it. And in time in time, the slowness, the gauze of the thing, the perfection, the act of being heavenly sent, she would stand before him naked, with her breasts heavy and beautiful and her body of river shimmer poignancy and her penis full and hard and her balls soft and small and no pubic hair at all.
And she would let him suck. And she would lean her back against the wall, and let him for as long as it took, and she was sometimes merciless about this, forget that he was lonely, forget that in sex alone with her he would find true trust and purpose and reason for living. Course she could pull away from him at any moment and leave him feeling foolish and childish, she had with others before, but she loved the gnawing of his teeth on her penis, she loved the hands of him up on her female breasts and she was blond haired and she was young and she was the center of the universe, as she knew down stairs, men were trying not to think of what they were doing up here in the Paradise Room....and she was in her mind holding feathers blue and pink and red and purple, a huge feather fan, and she was on stage, naked behind them, and an audience of thousands were applauding and cheering, as her penis came and came without her even touching it.
As he suckled her and his lips warm round her, and his hands stroking with a delicacy of which he was not aware and which he did not know he possessed her legs and her sides and her rib cage, and she would flood him soon. She was perfection. She was Circe. She was Atlas before he shrugged. In her world, they shrugged never. She was the one who put an end to them instead.
She was the whole of the Fountainhead of life. Books she was being forced to read in school, though she really understood neither of them. He had laid down his head on the desk in his room with The Fountainhead fallen from his hands to the floor and only woke when his mother called "Jonathan, you still studying, boy?" Her voice shrill. Ripping apart the top of his eternal dream since about the fifth grade, though it got more detailed the older he got. He woke finally. Erection stirring. He called back "Yeah, mom." "Well," she shouted, god he hated that voice, "go to bed soon; it's getting late."
He loved his penis. He hated his penis. He wanted it gone. He wanted to keep it forever. He wanted to be a girl. That was one thing he was sure of. He was tired. He turned off his light. Undressed. Touched and caressed his female breasts and then went to bed,masturbated into Kleenex, got rid of it, held himself, and cried himself to sleep. For some in ninth grade, even in a school for gifted students, it's not what it seems at all.