The Grand Babeuf
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I didn't want to leave her. The feelings rushed in like a deluge, crushing me under the weight of looming passion. I rode a Fiat to the coast where I silently checked into an inn a block from the Atlantic. The concierge was welcoming and quick to secure me a boarding pass for a ride on the Grand Babeuf party boat. Dekalb Avenue was lifetimes away, the Pakistani subculture even further. I could never forget needling the days away with packs of savvy writers from the far reaches of the textile industry. I could never regain the activism of those days, so I stashed the memories into a photo album.
My wife, Cecilia, was young and headlong into constructivist ideas. I couldn't agree less and I suppose it gave our separation its emminence. I longed for a bitter realism. Books that'd tear you to pieces, bring one to their knees weeping, not a stitch of romanticism.
These thoughts lingering, I buttoned my jacket and took to the boardwalk. The Babeuf was a dream I'd had for years. A 24 hour party for the post-Gulf War icons of British lit, plenty anglophone for men with sailor's hearts. I was a member of an elite society, entitled to the relaxing comforts of a nonquestioning literary circle, and free to scribble whatever uncreative blue collar jargon I could dream up. The Babeuf was an annual cherry on the sundae and there were always plenty of trash-chic Mediterranean ladies around eager to find themselves locked in a cabin screwing some famed writer.
A gust of sea air climbed the railing and creeped aboard the Babeuf. I stopped suddenly to inhale the long-awaited gem and survey the scene on deck. It was crowded. I recognized many faces from the back covers of books. Maxim Galway was there. The superstar painter/ novelist/ playwrite/ fashion designer/ architect/ director/ photographer/ musician/ sculptor/ poet/ Wall Street mogul who brought about the extended notorietry of many of the others present. I strolled over to him immediately.
"Mr. Galway, I'm Joseph Peters. You may have read my book Slick to the Tide."
"No."
He turned toward some hefty monocled lad and resumed conversation, completely ignoring me. I wouldn't be so easily written off though.
"Mr. Galway, please, I know you are the most important man in the world but if I could just ask you a few questions. I know this is all for pleasure but I'd like to ask you about Clarice."
He flicked a slice of lint from his suit coat.
"Okay Mr. Peters."
I prepared myself for a defining moment.
He began, "Most nights Clarice and I read stories from Colette, Salinger, or Patrick Marber."
"That's quaint. Do you know any gangsters?"
"How about you, do you know any gangsters?"
"No, my brother's Italian though."
"Really, your mother's side?"
"Yes, my Mama. What about your father, where does he fit into your success?"
"My father nor my mother have anything to do with my success. I'm practically an orphan. I began making love to women in the house."
He recreates for me a dream in which he throws an espresso in his father's face (who, in the dream, has his mother's body) and runs through the outskirts of Denver screaming "libertad."
Our conversation was over. The monocled man seemed suspicious of my inquiries. I left the two standing by and followed a young poetess to the snack table.
"Hello I'm Joseph Peters. You may have read my book Slick to the Tide."
"No, I haven't, sorry."
She was buxom. Her name was Clarice.
"Ah honey, are you a famous writer?"
"Yes I am. Slick to the Tide won many awards."
"I just published a book," she said while bending down to straighten her pantyhose. "Oops, if you'll excuse me I've got to get these damn things off."
Off she went to the lady's room. She walked in a sultry way, like she knew I had my eyes on her backside. I admit I did. I told her as much when she returned, her slender legs bare to just a few inches below her waist.
"Yes the book is called Polka Dot Macy."
I couldn't believe it. Right then a whole glass of Merlot tipped over onto her blouse, her bosom perky and outlined in purple.
"Oh my, I'll be right back."
Off to the restroom again. I fiddled with the olives and crackers. No good. You'd think they could get a decent caterer for all these beautiful famous people.
"So sorry." Suddenly she appeared in only an orange snug-fitting t-top which clashed with her navy blue skirt. She bent over to look for an earing she'd dropped earlier, leaving her ass in plainview of the ever-growing bulge in my blue jeans.
"Like I was saying. It's mostly language poetry, tricky stuff, but steamy."
"Steamy. I like that. Do you have a copy with you?"
"Yes it's in my cabin. We could perhaps have a little reading if you're interested."
Of course I was interested, but not in her poetry.
"Fantastic. Let's go."
We get to her cabin and it's dark. There's a single lamp on in the corner by the bed. She sprawls out and kicks off her heels. Already with her panties flung behind the night table.
"What about that poetry?" I ask.
She puts a finger on her cunt and another in her mouth. "It's right here sailor," she whispers.
I walk over to the bed, rip out of my pants and shirt. She laps up my cock up like it's her first taste of water after a 60 yard dash. I run my hands through her long dirty blonde hair and thrust farther in. She comes up for air, her tongue all over my stomach, up to my mouth. We kiss hard. Playfully, I thrust her back onto the bed. She's out of her clothes and reeling, panting with desire. Before I penetrate I run my tongue along her silhouette, put my face between her legs, she heaves. I insert and she lets out a moan of satisfaction. I start to pump and her eyes go white. Already, the wet is soaking the comforter. My cock is like a slab of granite and I push harder. She wants me to turn her over. I do and our rythm increases pace. I can't close my eyes, her skin is so smooth, the curve in her back perfect. She's gripping the sheets and craning her buttocks farther up, offering me more and more, her legs split wide apart, the asshole puckered. I place a hand upon her shoulder and keep on pumping.
She's cooing loudly and her rate of breath increases, crescendoing into a mighty scream. I can't keep up, I let go a huge round of ejaculation all over her lower back and ass. Quickly she turns around, her near-perfect body glistening with perspiration, and takes the rest in her mouth and on her face, rubbing the head of my still spurting cock around her glowing cheeks. We both crumple onto the bed, the soundtrack to *Twin Peaks* tucking us in.
Jon Leon can tell you what Slick the Tide is all about.