21 sep. 2009

Terraemotus: Jason Flores-Williams

Jason Flores-Williams

USA, 1967

From “The Last Stand of Mr. America

Brutally raw and unnerving, but always infused with a perverted charm, Jason Flores-Williams’ works are commentaries on greed, superficiality, the pitfalls of pop culture, and in the case of his latest published novel, The Last Stand of Mr. America, the American drive to use sex as a release from the bonds of consumer society. Flavorwire

Flores-Williams, who has been featured on CNN, NPR and Air America, is also known for his political activism. He wrote the High Times “Call To Resistance” and shut down Rockefeller Center in protest against the war. He is a frequent contributor to the Brooklyn Rail, Artillery magazine and does socio-cultural commentary for WBAI radio in NYC. Recently, feature film righs to Last Stand have been acquired by Melting Pictures, an independent film production company in Los Angeles. “Disturb the powerful, empower the disturbed,” says Flores-Williams. Stories.

To the door, the room with no view. There stands my baby. ‘Honey,’ I say with a smile, ‘I’m home.’

She reaches out for the whiskey bottle and I happily oblige. If to be with me she needs to dull a few of her own issues, then God bless her. I like to think of her as suffering in having to be with Yours Truly. It makes me feel irresistible.

‘Saw your face through the window a few nights ago,’ I say and reach for the bottle. ‘You couldn’t have been too happy with what you saw.’ I say this not to make amends, but to challenge. I want to make Miss Beautiful face the pig.

She doesn’t say anything. She stares at me, expressionlessly.

‘You must think I’m a real piece of shit?’ and swig from the fifth. ‘You must think I’m pretty fucked up.’

Again, no reply. She sits down on the floor in the corner. I have a raging boner.

‘Why don’t you say anything? I’m talking to you, aren’t I?’

She reaches out for the bottle, I move over and hand it to her. After a good swig, she looks up at me and says softly, ‘I’m here. What else is there to say?’

Her silence is pure condemnation, and I refuse to let her take the moral high road. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’

Grab the bottle out of her hand and take another swig. ‘You were there, you saw it. You came down the hall to see what I was doing, and you got an eyeful. You saw me brutalize another human being, okay? You know what I did, and you must have something to say about it.’

Softly, ‘I’m not going to judge you.’

‘Judge me!’ Fuck her, these people are masters of the reproach. ‘I saw the look on your face. You were disgusted. You hated me. You wanted me to be dead.’ Hard pull of the whiskey. ‘And now you have the gall to tell me that you’re not going to judge me. You already judged me. You are judging me! I make you sick, don’t I? DON’T I?’

She gets up off the floor, puts her arms around me and gently guides me back down. She is so caring. I am in love with this person. I have been from the minute I laid eyes on her. I dig my head into her long neck. I feel weak, tired of life, tired of myself. I feel the tears well up in my eyes. My chest is heavy, there is a lump in my throat. Without any thought I begin talking. My lungs, liver, kidneys, and organs force the issue. I feel like layers of silt are being carried away from the base of my spine. Toxins are fleeing my body.

‘… you can find some happiness, but then there’s nothing. So if there can’t be that, there has to be some sort of backbone or conviction, some sort of reason for not being happy and for suffering. But there’s nothing. There’s not emptiness, there’s nothing. I can’t find a reason to be here. When I was a kid I had the best ideas, but I’ve lost them all. I don’t mean it’s some bullshit like a loss of innocence, but then in a way it is … I don’t feel innocent anymore. There’s nothing I believe in, but I’m not even a non-believer. It’s like I’m floating without a purpose or direction. I see the people around me, and they’re the same way. Everyone is floating, but it’s more me than anyone. I remember when they used to ask me what I was going to be when I grew up and I’d run off a list of all these good, honorable things. Everybody would. We were all going to be archaeologists or find a way to feed poor people or be statesmen. We never became anything. I never became anything. I never grew up. All I did was get older and make more money. I thought this was supposed to be about something. If anyone would have told me that I was going to grow up to be a fucking PR guy, I would have laughed in his face. Now, being a public relations specialist is more about who I am than anything else about me. I feel like I’ve been waiting all these years for a vocation, that something would shake me from this nightmare and I’d wake up with a purpose, that I would be clean, fresh, and innocent again. But nothing has come to me. I’ve tried to convince myself that there aren’t any more battles, but I know there are. Right next door to me is an asshole lawyer who beats up his wife in front of his innocent little daughter. I can hear him smashing her face in. He’s planting the seeds that will grow into a living hell for that little girl. All I do is sit in my apartment and hide behind my fucking CD player! I play it as loud as I can and I can still hear them! I’ve become everything that I once despised. I am the little company man who scurries away at the first sign of danger. I’ve sold my soul for a little piece of security. All my life I told myself that if the shit ever really came down, then I would be there on the right side of things, that I would come through with shining colors, that no matter what I might be up to, I was a stand up guy. Now I know it’s all bullshit. I’ve been deluding myself all these years in thinking I was a good man. I’m as lost and as sold out as everyone else. I’m dead. There isn’t any passion left in me…’ I stop, look into her dark, mystical eyes, ‘…except when it comes to you. You are the only thing that has made me feel anything other than contempt. You are everything that I am not: brave, strong, and beautiful.’ Our faces are three inches apart. I can feel her breath on my face – the only air I want to breath. From the bottom of my heart, from the last remnants of my soul, I speak the words, ‘I love you.’

I kiss her. A passionate, loving beautiful kiss that awakens my core. Her lips are tender, her tongue is sweet. Somewhere in the back of my brain I know that I am sharing myself intimately with a man, but my heart, to whom at this moment I place my faith, celebrates the poetry of the feminine. This man is more woman than woman. For the first time in my life, I feel what it is to make love without sex. I stick my tongue deep inside of her mouth and lick at every crevasse. I trace the lines of her teeth. I taste her and in so doing am brought into the light that is her brave fire.

Gently, our lips part. She delicately places her lips on my cheek, then separates from me to close the door. I feel safe. She retakes her place next to me on the floor, and we kiss again – more heatedly, more sexual. We are making out like high schoolers in the back of the car. I grab her by her hair, pull her head back and lick her neck. She purrs and groans like a feline. She is my black cat. My sensual demon. My equal. My vamp.

‘You’re so fucking hot, baby,’ I pant.

She responds by licking my eyelids with her tongue. She nips at the tip of my nose. She bites my neck, hard. She wants it. My little blackcat whore is ready. My cock is swollen with desire. I want her to feel me deep inside of her. I want to feel what it’s like deep inside of her.

I rub my hand over her dress, find a nipple and pinch. She purrs with delight and puts her long, thin, black-stockinged leg over my crotch. I put my hand on her lean thigh. She grinds her thigh into my cock and slips her hand under my shirt. I flex for her, she digs in with her long, black nails. I want her to cut me. I want her to share in my blood.

‘Harder, baby,’ I say. ‘Make me bleed.’

She claws and scratches at my chest. I feel my skin tear under her nails. She is stronger than a woman, and I am thankful. I want to be ravaged. I want to feel another human being dominate me. I want to be made small and I want to feel the danger. She paws at me hungrily, never giving an inch. Ripping at my soul, she’s an angel come down to liberate me. I can feel the blood trickle down my chest, like holy water down a child’s forehead. A baptism.

Out of my mind with sexual delight, I pull down her dress to reveal two, perfect, little breasts.

She pulls back and strums her nipples with her fingers. ‘Do you like them?’

Without saying a word I plunge my face into her chest and feverishly lap at her titties like a thirsty dog. She holds my head against her chest and swells with rapture. Her tits are firm, her nipples bitesize morsels that I nibble and chew. I am finally getting my 12-year-old, Catholic school girl.

I squeeze her thigh. She grabs my ass. The sexual frenzy is in full swinging order. She pinches my nipple then slides her hand down inside my pants. She plays with the tip of my dick – squeezing, rolling, tracing – so I feel like I have an erection at the end of my erection. Smoothly, she undoes my pants and my cock busts out like a jailbreak. Her hand reaches down to my balls, then to my ass. Gently, so I barely notice the penetration, she sticks a finger in my asshole. In and out she goes and before I know it it’s two finger’s For the first time in my life, I’m getting fucked.

I spread my legs wide so she can really dig in. I feel my asshole being stretched in all directions. To sit back and get pounded is a wonderful thing. A woman knows what she’s doing when she lies on her back and spreads her legs. The hole is being filled.

In soft contrast to the hard fingering, she licks lovingly at my neck. Lady California is a sexual master. She knows both ends of the spectrum – that sex is bittersweet music made of both pleasure and pain. There is nothing melodramatic about her. This is her natural state. Fingering me and licking my neck is all the purpose she needs in this world. I feel her push up into my anus toward my balls. A jolt flashes down my spine, my cock stands on end.

‘You like that?’ She asks.

I wipe the sweat and hair from her forehead. ‘I love it, baby. I love whatever you do to me.’

With this she fingers harder and licks more furiously. I am hot and cold. Empty but full. I bite her nipple. I pull her dress down all the way to the belly button and lick her all the way down. I insert my tongue into her beautiful, little innie and swirl it all around, giving her a good cleaning. She coos with delight, and I am happy to please. I want to impress her, to make her feel good.

She catches my rim with a fingernail and I flinch. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says and begins kissing me all over my face and gently padding around my anus.

‘It’s okay, baby. Even that felt good,’ and I kiss her on the lips.

We lean back onto the floor, me on top of her. I slide my hand up along her thigh, squeezing and rubbing at the taut flesh. She strokes my dick masterfully. I kiss her lips and descend to her nipples. With one hand she pulls my shirt up to my head, and I pull it off. She claws at my back like an animal. I love that she is leaving her mark on me. I’ll go shirtless for days so all can see what it is to make love to a real woman.

Our nipples rub up against each other. We grind, lick, pinch, and bite. I slide one hand under the small of her back and she arches up, letting her head tilt back in gorgeous relief. She’s so light, so ethereal, that I’m afraid I might damage her. Yet the minute I slow my pace or soften my touch, she rakes my back with her fingernails and squeezes my cock so hard that I’m afraid it’s going to burst out the head. She wants me to fuck the hell out of her. I am honoured and lucky.

Kissing her lips, I slide my hand up into her crotch. Her groin is muscular with none of the usual flab. I slide my hand up further and into her stockings. I come to what feel like silk panties. I have no reservations, everything is action. What is, is… To hope for anything other than reality is to betray her. I must accept her in her maleness.

I reach down to her ass and pull the panties aside. With my index finger, I penetrate her asshole. She moans and shakes. Her asshole is her vagina, and to my surprise it is even wet. I’ve fucked women before in the ass. After a few minutes of good buttfucking, the colon secretes a clear liquid that’s as good as any pussy juice. Her ass is one with her mind. I can’t wait to have my dick inside of it.

I can’t fuck her without acknowledging her, though, and Lord knows she’d let me. She would suck my dick without any thought of reciprocation, but I don’t want that. I want to make love to her. I want her to know that I care about her. Nothing else will quench my thirst. Nothing else will be right.

I slowly slide my hand up to her genitals. There, where a sweet, tasty, pink vagina should be, are two little balls and a small cock. I hold the balls in my hand and can’t help but think of when we were kids and would joke about kicking each other in the nuts – because that’s what they are, little nuts. I move my hand up onto the shaft. It’s a limp and lifeless cock, probably good only for pissing. With her tits as perfect and ripe as they are, it’s obvious she’s been on estrogen for a good long while. I play around with it, but really have no idea what to do – if I’m supposed to do anything. There are some issues here that I hadn’t fully considered. I think deep down I was hoping she’d be like some kind of Barbie Doll with nothing but a smooth surface. I move back down to the balls and jiggle them around. I sense that to her the whole assemblage is not even part of her body and that there’s nothing for me to do with it that would please her sexually. I move back to her asshole. I can tell immediately she’s grateful. I insert three fingers and start pumping. She has both hands on my cock – one working the shaft and the other the balls. I’m hard as a rock, but somewhat detached.

To have part, that is not part. To be in a chronic state of self-denial. To be lost inside yourself…

If in addition to the daily specials of the American meat grinder, I had also to deal with issues of gender identity and transsexualism… Well, I doubt I`d make it. I need, for the both of us, to do this right.

I pull off her, grab the fifth of Jameson’s and take a big pull.

Nervously, ‘What’s wrong?’ I’m sure her past is full of last minute rejection. Not this time, though.

I hand her the bottle. ‘Nothing, baby. I just want to slow down a little bit.’ And as she swigs, I run my hand through her beautiful black hair to quell her fears.

‘You’re a fairytale princess,’ I say.

She smiles and hands me back the bottle. I swig hard. ‘You going to be here for a while?’ I ask.

She looks hurt, worried. I immediately kiss her and give the nipple a little pinch. ‘I just want to go to the bathroom and get a drink of water.’

She grabs for the bottle and I hand it to her. She takes a huge swig, and with whiskey on her sexy black lips says, ‘I’ll wait for you forever.’

Text courtesy Nobody Rocks Press.