****** Bukowski, you Bastard! by mojo ****** =============================================================================== Bukowski, you Bastard! Lydia screams as I get on the ramp to the airplane, "BUKOWSKI, YOU BASTARD, DON'T YOU FUCK AROUND WITH ANYONE, YOU HEAR ME? YOUR COCK IS MINE! ALL MINE!! NO ONE KNOWS YOUR COCK LIKE I DO!!!" * * * I turn to one of the stewardesses with long legs, "I'm Charles Bukowski, America's greatest undiscovered poet/writer of the second half of the twentieth century." I extend my hand, "And what's your name?" "Mandy, " she accepts my hand. I bend down and kiss it. "Mr. Bukowski, what do you think you're doing?" "I'm kissing your hand, what else?" "Please, Mr. Bukowski, go take your seat." "Thank you, Mandy." I had a couple of drinks once we are in the air. Mandy avoids any eye contact between us. I look around at the other passengers. They are mostly businessmen in suits and necktie. They probably work hard all their life. Now, they have a job, a wife, and a couple of children. A house in the suburb. If they are lucky, they have a mistress. Nevertheless, it is the same shit for them every day. I feel sick looking at them. I call out, "Mandy, please, I need some drinks." Another stewardess comes over. I notice she too has long legs. I guess it takes long legs to be a stewardess. "Where's Mandy?" "Mr. Bukowski, she is busy with other passengers. How can I help you?" "Drinks, please." She smells good. Her hair is neatly pin up. "What's your name?" "Laura." I watch Laura shake her ass as she goes to get my drinks. There is something about a woman's legs and her ass. The way they respond to each other as she walks. It is a miracle I keep my wood in my pants. I gulp down a few drinks. I fell dizzy. I get up and go to the restroom. I put my head in the toilet bowl and puke. I blackout. There is a knock on the door. It is Mandy. I open the door for her. She looks horrified. I don't need aspirin, I tell her. I close the door behind us. I pull her close to me, press my mouth of vomit over her mouth of peppermint gum. She lets my hands cup her breasts. Her nipples get harder. I suck on them. I place her on the toilet. She helps me with her panties. She has a hairy snatch. I don't like shaved or trimmed pussy. I like to search, explore, map out the natural terrain of a nice hairy pussy. I pull Mandy's hood and expose her clitoris. It is pink and glistens with her woman's juice. I suck on her clit like a baby on its pacifier. Mandy moans. My fingers part her outer lips. One of my fingers goes to work in her tunnel. It moves easily back and forth with all the natural lubrication excreted from her vagina's walls. Two of my fingers are now working their way in and out of Mandy's fuck hole while my lips suck on her clitoris. My tongue laps the juice flowing out of my stewardess' genitals. Mandy moans louder than before. There is a knock on the door. I let Laura into the bathroom. "Mandy?" "The old man is great, Laura. Though he is an obnoxious drunk, he sure knows how to please a woman." "You are too kind." I smile. Mandy turns to me, "How did you learn how to do that, Mister Bukowski?" "Lydia, my woman, taught it to me a couple of months a go. She drew a picture of a pussy and she points out to me, 'You see here, this is the clit. This is the sense organ. It is where a woman is able to have orgasm. Next time, when you go down on me, play with my clit, suck on it. DO NOT NEGLECT MY CLIT, YOU OLD FART!'" Laura notices the juice glistens on Mandy's long legs. She turns to me, "Can you do the same thing to what you did to Mandy?" I place Laura on the toilet seat. She eagerly pulls down her panties. She is completely shaven. Meanwhile, Mandy unzips my pants, takes out my cock, and puts it in her mouth. She is working hard on it, but my cock is still semi- erected. I blame it on the drinks, not my age. Alcohol has its side effects. It is good when you are alone and can't write for shit, when you are surrounded by the white walls and the cockroach that seems to know so much more about life than all the writers and philosophers in the history of Western man. It replaces women, literary recognition, the Nobel and Pulitzer Prize, and the like. Alcohol is also good when taken before a reading; it calms down the body's nervous system. But it is not good when consumed before sex. I never learn this. I never know when I am going to get laid. My three fingers let loose inside Laura's shaven pussy. I add my pinky inside her to have a firm grip, but still, Laura has a big pussy, my fingers keep missing her walls. Finally, I work my whole fist inside her cunt. I feel her pussy walls contracting around my fist like a heart beat. "Ooh, Bukowski, that feels so good!" My fist slowly works its way in and out of that hairless snatch. Then I get mad and start ramming my glistening fist ferociously. Laura screams louder than Mandy did. I fear the others might hear Laura's scream, break down the restroom door, and interrupt our fist-fucking session. I slow down my pace and watch Laura's juice dripping from my wrinkled hand onto the bathroom floor. I turn to look for Mandy. She is sitting on the sink fingering her self. She looks up and explains, "I get so hot when I see what you did to my friend, Laura. Fuck me, please!" I slowly pull my fist out of Laura's pussy. Laura walks over with me to where Mandy is. Laura kneels down beside Mandy and me, and she begins working on my cock. She is a playful cocksucker. She spits on my cock, then sucks it dry, then spits on it again. She loves playing with the saliva while masturbating my manhood. When I am fully erect and purple, Laura guides my dick to the entrance of her friend's hairy pussy. Laura gives one last suck before she pushes my cock inside Mandy's pussy. Laura hands are on my ass pushing me deeper inside Mandy. Then she interrupts our rhythm and takes my dick out of her friend's pussy and begins sucking my glistering dick dry. When all of Mandy's juice is gone, Laura puts my dick head inside Mandy's pussy, then she gives my ass a push, and our fuck session resumes. From pussy to mouth, from mouth to pussy: this goes on for only a few more minutes before I shoot my load into Laura's waiting mouth. She greedily swallows my sperm. Then she gives a last suck before we get dressed. I get out first so as not to make a scene. Then it was Mandy, who is later followed by Laura. I look at the men in the business suits and I feel better than before. I am able to look at their daily routine of modern life without getting sick after a suck-and-fuck session with two long-legged beautiful stewardesses. * * * Jerry picks me up at Dallas-Fort Worth airport and we have a few drinks at Jimmy Jungle's before heading over to Jerry's suburban home. Sarah, Jerry's wife, doesn't wear makeup and she doesn't eat meat. She is a reader of Welty and Faulkner. She and Jerry are working on an anthology of contemporary poetry. Her voice, beneath the surface of schoolgirl shyness, reveals a firm and reliable individual. "What do you have against women, Mr. Bukowski? Do they frighten you?" She asks after we are properly introduced in the living room. "No. I love women, all kinds." "So why do you portray women as crazy, witless nymphs in your writing?" "Those are the ones I met. When it comes to meeting women, I guess you can say I'm unlucky." "You're afraid of love, Mr. Bukowski." "I'm afraid of myself." "Lets go." Jerry gets up to leave. We say goodbye to one another, Sarah and I. Shit, Jerry has a hot wife, smart, pretty, and clean. If she weren't my friend's wife, I would have fucked her. I want to pollute her innocence; I want to turn her vagina into a good cunt. All the professors have got it made. They play the game. They finish their degrees, give lectures at different campuses, publish books they don't care about, fuck around with a few students. They've got it made. To be a writer is to be the loneliest person in the world. You are alone at night confronting the whiteness of the paper, battling it out against the void of modern life, while the cockroach on the wall is laughing its head off at you. Sometimes the writing flows like diarrhea, sometimes, you are constipated with half-felt dialogues and scenes. Your characters seem forced to speak and act. In this case, only the beer can soothe you. Stop writing, open your fridge, and get out the beer. Smoke and drink until its five in the morning. Watch the suckers go to work, watch them kiss their wife and children, watch them carry a box of lunch. When it's 11 in the morning, when they are settled down in their daily routine, you go to your typewriter and then things just flow like magic. I always feel like I'm going to vomit before a reading. The crowd is made up of mostly youngsters. The old traditional reader feels cheated when coming to my reading. They expect an eccentric man with vision, a messiah, a prophet, a shaman, voicing out the Truth, with rhymes, meters, metaphors, and other cunts and cocks. I am an old drunk, that is the best I can do. I show them their shit and they wince. Whose fault is that? Before I read my first poem of the night, I ask, "Where is the goddamn beer? I can't read without my kicks, Jerry?" "Fuck you, you old fart." A young man in the middle of the crowd gets up. "Read your poems and shut ta fuck up." His girlfriend sitting next to him pulls him down. "No honey, don't restraint him. So you think this is easy being up here reading poems that you wrote in the most solitude of hours in the night?" There is no longer a crowd. There is just me and him. "Come up here, I want to show you something." As soon as he steps on the platform, I kick away the table and run toward him. I give him one in the stomach, then the face, before I hit him again, Jerry and the rest of the coordinators are on top of my back, pinning me against the floor. I have my beer after that. The rest of the reading goes without notice. The crowd is respectful, listening to every word I speak. There are food and refreshments. The beer is good. I have a few more. Then I do the signing thing. The same kid that I beat up earlier comes up to me with his girlfriend and asks for my autograph. I smile, he smiles, and I sign. His girlfriend has red hair and freckled face. Her name is Irma. His name is Jim. He is an art student. The incident earlier was his art project. He creates situations in public and observes how people react to them. One time he runs naked on campus, and on his body written in red was, "Look at what they did to me when I was a baby." I am feeling good. I look at Irma and she looks good. I say to Jim, "Jim, do you mind if I fuck, Irma?" "No, man. Go right ahead!" I get into their car and we go to their place. They have a one-bedroom apartment just outskirt of the campus' area. Jim goes to the fridge and throws me a Coors. We drink some more. Irma moves from the couch to between my legs. She unbuttons my pants and takes out my cock. Jim smiles, "That's my girl. Come on, Irma." Irma takes pride in her cock-sucking. She is not ashamed of the act. Some women feel degraded, shamed, disgusted at having to suck a man's penis. Not Jim's Irma! She examines every inch of my cock, from the shaft to the head of the penis, from every particle of gray hair on me. She touches my cock, feels its girth, its glowing desire, its hardness in her hand. She enjoys looking at me straight in the eye while my cock is clamped in her mouth by her soft lips. She enjoys my reaction to the movement of her lips and tongue. I moan. I arch my body. I fuck her mouth. I run my hands through her red hair. She takes my cock out of her mouth, silvery with her saliva and my precum, and rubbing my cock with one hand, she says, "Fuck me, you old man." We get up. I help Irma with her clothes. Jim sits on the couch with his cock in his hand looking at us. Irma bends down and begins sucking him. I watch Irma's ass move to the rhythm of her sucking. She is beautiful, white, even her ass cheeks are freckled. Her mound is pink, covered with red pubic hair. I part her nether lips and stick a finger inside her. She is wet and ready. I place my cock at the entrance and slowly slip my member inside her love tunnel. She responds with a long soothing moan. Her ass cheeks move in circles. I watch her head bop against her boyfriend's pubic area, deepthroating him, as I fuck her hard, trying to keep that white, freckled ass of hers still. Jim closes his eyes and his hip jerks a few times. I hear Irma slurping his cum from his cock head, savoring the white, foamy liquid. I pull out of Irma's burning cunt and let out a gush of my own river of cum all over her back. I collapse on the floor gasping for breath. I am an old fart. Still, I am able to get laid quite often. Writing does have its reward, that is, if you are recognized! The following morning Jerry drops me at the airport. We drink, talk about literature and the state of the post-modern consciousness, shake hands, smile, and part. I take my path, he take his. * * * Lydia running to me with open arms screams, "BUKOWSKI, YOU OLD MAN. I MISS YOU SO MUCH!" "Lydia, please, there are people around. This is an airport." "FUCK YOU, YOU OLD FART! I LOVE YOU." She takes my hand, we run down the elevator, get into her blue Buick, and we rush out of the parking lot. She drives like the way she talks: loud. I don't know how she never got pulled over by the police. I don't know who the fuck licensed her to drive. I don't know why the fuck I am still with her. Afraid, I guess. "DID YOU FUCK ANYONE WHILE YOU WERE IN DALLAS?" "Lilly. I just got back. Can you give it a break?" "YOU DON'T HAVE TO ANSWER. I CAN TELL. HEHEHE. WHEN I GO DOWN ON YOU, IF I SMELL ANOTHER WOMAN'S BREATH, ANOTHER CUNT'S JUICE, NOTICE A PUBIC HAIR OTHER THAN YOUR OWN IN YOUR URETHRA, I WILL BITE OFF YOUR COCK. HEHEHE!!!" We are in the bedroom. I cannot write anything anymore. I am nervous. She takes my hands and guides me to the bed. She slowly pulls down my pants and gently takes out my cock. I close my eyes. She SCREAMS, "AH HAA!" I blackout. Author's Note: The story is a fictional account of the life of Charles Bukowski, German-born American poet/writer of the damned. Thus, any person & situation depicted in the story is purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual person & situation is purely coincidental and unintentional. This work is the author's own way of remembering Bukowski. The story may be distributed freely, provided that the author's credit is retained and that the story's content is unchanged. Please send comments/suggestions to mojo at risen_mojo@hotmail.com. This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories. You may also want to visit: * Sexy_Top_100_Stories * Erotic_Top_100_Story_Sites