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                                                  ::

                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls

                                                  ::

Richie Meeuwissen groans, his hand tangled in the silky fall of
silvery blond hair puddled in his lap. You see, he says, the
thing of it is, he says, unh, is that I never would have pegged
Pooh, you know, as a hockey player. Oh. Shit, Sam. Oh. No fucking
teeth, dammit.

Winnie the goddamn Pooh? says Sam, licking the beet-red head of
Richie's cock.

Winnie the goddamn Pooh, he says, unh, as she swallows the length
of him again. He hits the steering wheel once, hard, with the
heel of his hand. But there he is, on the T-shirt, right next to
Tigger, on ice skates, with hockey sticks. This, this is some
kind of betrayal, of, of the basic concept - whoops! Whoops!

Sam sits up abuptly, her platinum wig slithering off her head.
Richie grunts. A jet of sperm the size of a thumb flies up
between them, as high as his flared nose before succumbing to
gravity, puddling in the folds of his black pants as another
dollop pumps up to fall the length of his cock and lose itself in
his dark pubic hair. I'll shoot the moon right out of the sky,
croons the radio, for you baby, I'll shoot the moon for you.

Showtime? says Sam, settling the wig back over her own hair,
short and black and glossy in the darkness like some exotic fur.

In a, puffs Richie, minute. Let me - I need to be able to put
this back in my pants -

Is that enough? she says. We need some more?

Richie cocks an eyebrow at her, and she snickers.

I want to build a nest in your hair, croons the radio, I want to
kiss you and never be there.

Sam opens the door and steps out, knee-high silvery boots with
soles as thick as a hand on edge. Silvery hotpants with a
V-shaped notch cut in them right up front and deep enough to let
you know for sure she's shaved her pussy. A silvery lamŽ
handkerchief top sways with her tits. One hand holding up a
little mirror as she touches up glittery silver lipstick to match
the smears of silvery glitter above each eye, and then the mirror
and lipstick are tucked into the little aluminum case dangling
from one bare shoulder.

Richie long and lean runs one hand through his shaggy black hair,
settles his geek chic glasses back on his nose. Tightens his
narrow black tie. Sam steps up close to him. What, he says. She
cups his groin. Leave it - he says. She lifts a finger and smears
it around his lips, leaving a faintly glistening trail in his
three-day stubble. Kisses him. The crowning touch, she says.

Yeah, he says. But it's mine.

Spunk's spunk, she says. He's going to kiss you, right?

This, says Richie, is the last goddamn favor we ever do for your
brother-in-law.

This is the first time we've ever done him a favor, says Sam,
frowning. And I'm doing all the fucking work.

You got what you need?

She taps the aluminum case.

The joint is jumping, music loud enough to bleed your ears. Too
many people to take in all at once, smoke and flesh and dim red
lights, a suggestion of a bar over there, bottles glinting and a
certain studied stillness in the crowd. Sam like a fish slipping
through them lifts one hand in the air, silvery nails glittering.
Points. Richie follows and sees the tall thin man by the wall and
nods.

As Sam's hand comes down someone else's freighted with rings,
glass jewels winking, snakes around her belly. A rustle of some
stiff plasticky material, a minidress barely as long as Sam's
hotpants, unzipped to a navel pressed into the small of her back.
Hips swaying and tocking to the engulfing beat dragging hers with
them. A mouth, in her ear. You're special.

I'm listening.

Across the room the tall thin man smiles to see Richie, who ducks
his head. The tall thin man beckons him closer. Another hand,
bare, slips under Sam's top. Fingers ripple the lamŽ. Sam licks
her lips. You're fuckable. The ring-heavy hand cups Sam's crotch.
You're forward, says Sam.

The tall thin man pulls Richie to him, presses his forehead to
Richie's forehead. Holds Richie's hands. Saying something. He
leans in to kiss Richie, a kiss that starts to linger and then
stops, dead. A bored Russian voice chants something about signals
from space over the beat. The ring-heavy hand grinds against
Sam's pussy. You inspire me. Oh, says Sam. The tall thin man
snapping something at Richie wipes his lips on the back of his
hand. Richie starts back, surprised.

Sam catches the ring-heavy hand in her own, lifts it to her
mouth, kissing it. You're sweet, she says, turning enough to kiss
the mouth, licking those smiling lips. But I'm working. Slipping
through the bouncing crowd, kissing off a catcall from a boy in
baggy jeans and a baseball cap.

Richie, alone, jerks a thumb at the bathrooms. Grinning. Shakes
his head, rolls his eyes. Sam with aluminum case ducks down the
hallway, glittering even in the darkness. The music dulled now,
not so insistent. A beer bottle clinks at the kick of her boot.
There might be someone in the far corner who doesn't seem to care
that Sam is pushing open the door to the men's room.

White tile grimy with neglect, beats muffled, roar of the bar
seashelled into dim white noise. A lusty gush of piss. Three men
stand before the bank of floor-set urinals beneath a massive
mirror etched and pocked with gold-tinged rust. A big guy, jeans
jacket and a green beer bottle in one hand, zipping up with the
other, turning away, staring at her, at what she holds in her
hand. The tall thin man wears a dove-grey Nehru jacket and
doesn't look at his corroded reflection. Balding on top, he has a
thin mustache.

I know what he did to you, Sam says, loudly enough.

His eyes flick up to peer at her, silvery pale in the golden murk
of the mirror.

I know, Sam says, what he did. Coming to you with stained pants.
Someone else's jism in his mouth. Her free hand unsnaps the
single snap of her hotpants, there in the crook of the V-shaped
notch.

The guy with the spiky hair teased out in tiny braided tails
flushes his pisser with a mighty crash and carefully does not
look at them on his way out.

I have what you need, says Sam.

Do you, says the tall thin man. His piss falters, redoubles,
slows.

Sam has tucked the base of an icy clear dildo into the fly of her
hotpants, tugging them closed and snapping them to hold it in
place, jutting out a good eight inches from her groin. She lays a
hand on either of his hips and pulls herself closer, her
platformed shoes lifting her so she can smile into his ear. Do
you want it? What I've got? She tugs a little on his pants, and
they slip a little, and she tugs a little more. Don't turn
around, she says. The transparent dick is sliding between his
thighs, and she rocks her hips a little, back and forth. The
beat, thump thump. Just tell me, yes or no. Do you want it? Do
you want to do to him what he did to you? Yes, or no?

The tall thin man licks dry lips. He nods. His eyes are brown and
sad.

Sam nudges his feet apart, tugs his pants down till they hang
about his knees. One hand under his jacket, on his ass. His
piss-wet cock still sprouting pale from a fist. How much is it
worth to you? she says, into his ear.

He blinks.

Sam smiles. We'll find out. Put your hands on the wall. On the
wall. This leaves him awkwardly bridging the urinal, bent a
little at the waist, his toes kicking the raised porcelain lip.
Leaning back, the transparent dick appearing again, she rubs his
buttocks, hiking the jacket over his hips. Using her thumbs to
spread him, his ass a dark dry hole in a scattered hatching of
black hair. Biting her lip she carefully nudges the dildo tip
against the pinkish hint of pucker around it. Pushes.

The tall thin man groans and each word crisp says Oh. My. Dear.
Sweet. Lord. The dildo hitches and she pushes, harder, silvery
hotpants snugged up against his flesh. His belt jangles on the
tile as his pants drop to his ankles.

Is this? says Sam, Is this what you? Is it? What you want?

His hands make fists, knuckles pressed to gold-tinged mirrored
knuckles.

Rocking back, the dildo catching the light again. Sam, hands on
his hips, looking down at it. Forward, hitching, past the hitch.
Another groan. And back again, Sam not taking her eyes off it.

It, says the tall thin man, it hurts -

Uh, says Sam, looking up suddenly and then all in a rush, oh,
right, does it hurt? And then she shakes her head, a little, eyes
rolling. Does it hurt? she says, into his ear. Does it? Does it
hurt like what he did to you? Does it feel a little like that?

Yes, says the tall thin man. Yes. Oh. Ow.

One of Sam's feet wobbles a little, on those highstepping
platform soles. It squeaks on the damp tile. The door swings
open, and a man in a tweed jacket steps in, stops, blinks. Um.
Um. I'm, ah - excuse me. And he's gone.

The tall thin man's cock appears, slowly, peering up from the
bottom of his jacket, nosing it aside as it slowly inflates.
Bobbing as he rocks with each thrust.

Hanh, says the tall thin man.

Sam grunts.

Oh, says the tall thin man. Ow. Oh, ow! Fuck - dammit!

Sam slaps her groin against his ass, jerking his hips. And again.

Dammit! I, ow! Really! Oh, oh fuck, rhu - rhubarb! Goddamn
rhubarb, already!

And Sam freezes.

The tall thin man pants, harshly. Ow.

Sam steps back, and there's the didlo, its glossy clarity smeared
a little now, marred. Frowning. I'm, uh - Hey. Mister Marlowe?
Are you - ?

The tall thin man, leaning heavily over the urinal, gasping.
Rhubarb.

I am sorry, Mister Marlowe, says Sam. Reaching out to touch him
but not quite. Do you? Want to maybe take a minute? Or -

Shaking his head, the tall thin man turns around. Not looking at
her. Catching his breath, still. His half-erect cock still
bobbing there, pushing aside the skirts of his jacket. Takes a
step but tangles his foot in the pants still around his ankles
and staggers down to one knee, holding up a hand as he goes down
to forestall her attempt to help him. I'm okay, he says,
knuckling the white tile. Looks up, at her for the first time.
His eyes are big, his eyebrows arched a little. His mouth
unreadable beneath the mustache.

Come here, he says, beckoning her with one crooked finger.

Frowning, Sam takes a step, and then another. Closer, he says.
Mister Marlowe, says Sam, and he says, Closer, dammit!

Sam takes another step, and he grabs her hips and stuffs the
dildo into his mouth.

Um, she starts to say. The vigor of his sucking mouth wobbling
her a little. The dildo somewhat resilient bending with the
strain of it. His cheeks hollowing, his throat hucking and
grunting. His eyes closed. His fist squeezing his cock.

Sam bites her lip and puts her hand on the back of his head and
bucks her hips a little, with him. Mmm, she says. Oh, yes. He
jerks her hips once, harshly, sucking, his other hand still
squeezing, rolling, his thumb rubbing, almost strumming the bare
red head of his cock. Sam doesn't say anything else.

The door opens again. The man in the tweed jacket sticks his head
through, says, No, wait, and someone else pushes past him, Fuck
that. Ignores Sam, ignores the tall thin man, steps up to the
urinal. Ah, fuck.

Sam bites her lip and is obviously trying not to grin. The tall
thin man's come shoots between Sam's legs. It is cleaner somehow
than the tile it lands on. Glimmering, seeping oily into the
yellowed cracks between.

Ahh, says the guy at the urinal, zipping up his pants. You done?
The blond in his hair came proudly from a bottle, and his
eyebrows are dark and prominent. How much? To take you in the
ass. He turns around, adjusting his belt under an impassive gut.
Or since you've got it, in the box, he says, cocking an eyebrow
at Sam's unsnapped shorts. Nice dong. Sam's dropping the dildo
into the aluminum case.

Fifteen, says Sam. Hang on, says the tall thin man. But that's
just a straight shot, says Sam. Anything more is negotiable.

Fifteen, says the bottle blonde. Hold on a minute, says the tall
thin man, climbing to his feet. Shit, says the bottle blonde. I'm
not saying I ain't tempted, but shit.

Sam shrugs.

You're forgetting something, says the tall thin man, pulling up
his pants. Dammit. You're forgetting something.

Oh, says Sam. Don't. It's covered. A friend.

The tall thin man freezes, his hands on his belt. Shivers.

Some fucking friend, says the bottle blonde, washing his hands at
the sink. The man in the tweed jacket opens the door one more
time and says, Thank God, stepping through.

No, says the tall thin man. No. It's important. It's important.

It's covered, says Sam.

I don't care! snaps the tall thin man.

Sam opens her mouth and shrugs again and holds out her hand and
says, Hand it over. All of it.

Like you mean it, says the tall thin man.

Sam shrugs.

Whoa! says the bottle blonde as Sam grabs the tall thin man's
shoulders and runs him back into the urinals, his butt slapping
the porcelain, his head smacking the mirror, one heel
stumble-slipping on the urinal lip. The man in the tweed jacket
prairie-dogs over the top of his stall. Give it, says Sam.
Shaking the tall thin man's shoulders. Now.

Shaking, the tall thin man reaches into his pants pocket and
pulls out a black leather wallet. Sam snatches it out of his
hand. Done? she says.

The tall thin man scrambles past her, out of the bathroom.

The wallet has nothing in it but five new fifty dollar bills.

Well? says Richie. He's sitting at a table in the corner. There
are two tall glasses with shallow puddles of something clear and
alcohol-oily at the bottom. Sam snatches one up and drains it in
a single swallow. Bends over his lap. Undoes his belt.

Sam? he says.

Do you know, she says, tugging down his fly, how fucking horny I
am?

He unsnaps her hotpants as she fishes out his cock, there at the
corner table. He tugs the shorts open and down a little, so he
can work a finger inside, his other hand sliding up her belly
under the lamŽ. She chuckles. My, says Richie. I'm getting the
idea. Sam sits in his lap as he gets his hand out of the way and
she kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

So do something about it, says Sam.

                                                  ::
                                                  
                                            as falls cuyahoga,
                                      so falls cuyahoga falls
                                             an object lesson.004
                                                 
                                                          --n.
                                                  ::
                                                  
http://www.asstr.org/~nickurfe/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
"I'll Shoot the Moon" by Tom Waits.

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