Date: Fri, 24 Sep 2004 15:04:20 -0700
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: y/f  bi  "Twatney Sue and the Joel Bleep Get Their Groove On"

	   "Twatney Sue and the Joel Bleep Get Their Groove On"

				    by

			     Timothy Stillman


Twatney Sue was a real humdinger. Real hummable too. Not to mention
humble. Not that she was pretty by any means, and she had tried any means
at her disposal to remedy that situation. For she was, alas, very plain,
though she was a lass, and she could and did hum. Hummed like a
sonofagun. Man, if her hums were horses they would crowd everybody else
off the planet. Good thing hums aren't horses. For it would kill the
whole meaning of "The Misfits." Among other things.

She hummed when she tap danced, and she tap danced the hell out of her
tap shoes. She had two dozen pair of them, all shiny and sparkly they
were. Everywhere she went, she carried her little wooden board, which she
would throw down to the ground or concrete or wherever at the drop of a
god no not again, and just tap dance her little heart out on it. She
always wore tap shoes, even to school, the tap shoes she wore, and the
dancing board she carried. Who knew when math class would get so
impossibly rancid with dullness that she might have to wake up the kids
and the teacher to a good old hoof show routine?

She was in love with two people. Sandra the sulky. And Joel the bleep.
Sandra the sulky would not give Twatney Sue the time of day, which
didn't really matter that much, because Twatney wore a Sylvester and
Tweety watch with such a cute drawing on the yellow circle of frozen
pursuit and pursued that the time mechanisms went round on.

Joel the bleep did give her the time of day. Joel the bleep gave her
other things as well. Like his little dickiepoo. Which is what Twatney
Sue and Joel the bleep called it. Because these were the days of the
Saturday morning humongous TV hit "H.R. Pufnstuf" and every boy under the
age of 13 wanted to be with Jimmy, and show him things that damned dragon
and witchiepoo never the hell heard of.

At least that was how Joel the bleep looked at it. He could not find any
other boys who followed his heart on that score. For Joel the bleep could
not score. Not drugs. Not boys. Not a beer. Not the time of day. Only
Twatney Sue would give him the time of day, though that didn't matter to
Joel the bleep, because he had an Aquaman and Aqualad watch on which the
dynamic waterlogged team swam perpetually on the blue circle with the
time elements on it, swimming always and getting no where. Which was
pretty much the territory that Joel the bleep was in--nowhere.

Of course, Joel the bleep, in being so attracted to boys, especially Jack
the Back Room Mama, and following, in order, Johnny and Spitmobile--so
named because he could spit from one end of the school corridor to
another, and it was a damned long corridor--though the teachers frowned
on his spitting, especially when he zinged one at them occasionally, so
he had to corral himself from early school morning to late school
afternoon before he could relatively safely perform this prodigious feat;
when the school day was before beginning, or the school day was ending.

Which was more entertaining to the students at Rugville Middle School
that Twatney Sue's tap dancing. They found her extremely annoying
actually.

Sandra the Sulky (who laughed and called Twatney Sue names and made sure
Sandra's friends did likewise) didn't give a whip in hell about Twatney
Sue because Twatney Sue was plain and conceited and the contests were
rigged anyway, that was so painfully obvious--to Sandra, Twats looked
like someone had once thrown a meringue pie at her face and it had
congealed there, till you realized it was just her flesh--and Sandra the
Sulky wouldn't be seen within twelve miles of her if school did not
prevent that. Though Sandra the Sulky was a lesbian, she was very very
pretty, with golden hair, as opposed to Twatney's streaming mane of not
quite brown and not quite black hair--looked like a big glob of melted
chocolate. Sandra the Sulky would crook her finger at a girl and the
lucky lucky girl would come, in all senses of the word.

Sandra the Sulky never crooked her finger at Twatney Sue, but Twatney
came anyway.

Soooo, Twatney Sue had to settle for Joel the bleep who was thin and
mousy and looked like Troy Donahue had tumbled off a wedding cake in the
fifties and had fallen off a great deal looking for that cake to climb
back onto, and it seemed his face had melted wrong and he had stultified
at age 13. In other words, he didn't look like Troy Donahue one bit.

And he didn't mind Twatney Sue hummed. At least he pretended he didn't.
For Twatney Sue, you may recall, was a humdinger. Both a hum. As well as
a dinger. She hummed when she tap danced. She hummed when she sat in
class. She hummed going to sleep. And she hummed when she played with
Joel the bleep's dickiepoo.

Sometimes, Twatney Sue, thinking all the while of Sandra the Sulky and
her glorious bedroom eyes, let Joel the bleep get inside her, while Joel
the bleep was thinking of Jack the Back Room Mama, and while in this odd
human coupling, odder still that their brains were in an even odder
coupling, Twatney Sue hummed. She hummed "Rule Britannia" and "Roll Out
the Barrel" and she hummed songs from "H.R. Pufnstuf" to keep Joel the
bleep amused. God, Jack Wild was hotttttttttt!

Was Twatney Sue aware that she hummed all the time? During even the lurid
act of intercourse? Who is to say? However, when she hummed, and Joel
called out the name of Jack the Back Room Mama, and Twatney pretended
that she was humming for Sandra the Sulky who had somehow grown a
dickiepoo, such as it was, and was dickeying her round the room of pink
in connubial bliss, they would each pretend each called out the other's
names though of course it would have killed the whole thing dead with a
stick if they had admitted they were not calling out Joel and Twatney,
but the names of their dream lovers.

Which was certainly not the case, at all.

And yet-- Joel the bleep loved Twatney Sue. And Twatney Sue loved Joel
the bleep. And it was all real messed up.

In their fashion, they were a team.

Sometimes Twatney Sue tap danced on her wood board for Joel the bleep.
She danced naked of course, so her budding little titty muffins would
bounce a bit up and down, and Joel the bleep pretended that she was Jack
the Back Room Mama, and could almost imagine Twatney Sue had a penis
there between her legs instead of a slit the shape of a little moon like
you used to find on outhouse doors. And she was boyish looking if you
wanted to know the truth. So she had that on her side, as far as Joel the
bleep was concerned. And Joel the bleep was kind of girly looking with
his delicate face and curvy body and long blond hair, (in your dreams,
Bleepboy) if you just didn't look at the less than the run of the mill
bland face that told you nothing and sent you not to the moon or the
North pole or anywhere like it. His lips were too big too.

So she pretended, not looking at his penis or his face, that he was
Sandra the Sulky because Sandra the Sulky looked like the creamiest
dishiest girl in the whole wide world or at least in this little fraction
of a part of it.

Sometimes Joel the bleep danced in Twatney Sue's tap shoes, red and
shiny and glittery, his tiny feet fit, which made him oddly proud for
some reason. He was naked, of course, and she would sit on her bed and
watch him and he would get the cutest little hard on you ever saw and she
would be delighted with it in spite of herself, clap her hands, as she
would and giggle and hum louder than ever. He danced to all the "H.R.
Pufnstuf" songs from the 45 record he had bought that had all of the
songs on it. He pretended to sing in a British accent like Jack Wild and
she couldn't hurt Joel the bleep's feelings and tell him he hadn't
quite achieved the knack of it. He especially liked to sing "I'm a
Mechanical Boy" and move stiff like a robot while she held on to his
hoppy stiffy dickiepoo.

But his little hips kinda bobbled instead of hopped when he danced like a
clumsy calf trying to figure out the new day it had been born into, and
was just so damned lost in it all that Twatney Sue was won over
nevertheless; she being a top professional at it, after all. What a mercy
hump she was.

She was also an expert baton twirler and beauty queen--she made up for
her lack of beauty, by winning them over with chutzpah and that BY DAMN
I'M GREAT `tude and IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT I'LL FUCKIN' WELL RIP
YOUR LUNGS OUT (the fear always of the judges and her critics that she
just damn well might; tiny little girlie hands had done far far worse in
history) and her sheer drive at the whole thing and playing on the
underdog ( not the cartoon character of the same name, voiced by the
great Wally Cox who has nothing to do with any of this) in that mock
humble "take this you bastards" Oral Roberts style, HA-EAL--like
nobody's business-- and just annoying the hell out of the judges who
would crown her anything, in all meanings of the phrase, just to get the
hell rid of her and that nasally screeching voice--she sang songs from
"Lionel Bart's Oliver!" (dressed as Oliver Twist of course, the
regulation workhouse clothes)--don't knock it--she was no Mark Lester,
but truth to tell she did look kinda kicky--though don't ask how she
raped killed and buried "Where Is Love?"--she had won fifteen beauty
pageants with this routine, and true, her signature closure (hail glory)
version of "Consider Yourself" (or else BUSTER CHERRY!!!) when twirling a
baton on fire at both ends just bitch slapped the judges silly.

Though it did not have that effect on the pretty girls who lost. Mostly
they wanted to kill her.

Including Sandra the Sulky. To which, all the while, loving her, Twatney
Sue thought stick it in your shorts and puff on it, as she time and again
won the huge trophy of plated silver and gold that almost made her keel
over backwards carrying the damn thing off the stage in all that gilded
tattery of child beauty pageants that were always so cheap and tawdry
looking, local, regional, national, kind of made her want to barf. But as
the killing eyes of the losers masticated her in their pupils, especially
Sandra the Sulky's eyes, she flipped her long chocolate mousse hair back
over her shoulder, smiled her pearly whites hugely, waved at the audience
and those precious judges, and trundled off with the trophy a few feet
taller than she, and she at the time, walking on air.

How she wanted to celebrate with Sandra the Sulky the win the win the
win. But of course that was impossible because Sandra the Sulky just
hated her more and more each time and was now actively plotting to kill
her.

There was a definite self-destructive quality to Twatney Sue. And
sometimes she took it out on Joel the bleep. Twatney Sue's parents were
rich and stupid, and let Joel the bleep stay for hours, unmolested
(hehe), in Twatney Sue's bedroom of pink and blue and huge blow up
photos of flash in the pan movie hunks, glued on the walls, and the satin
Pooh dolls on the bed, and the Raggedy Anns and Andys, and the Barbie
Dolls and the whole mish mash and pink pillows that had images of Leif
Garrett's snuggled in sleepy time pink and fuzzy wuzzy face before he
grew too old to be dreamed about and his mouth grew so big it looked like
it was trying to eat said face, the usual girl room schmeer, because they
could not not indulge their daughter in whatever she wanted. Mom was a
stage mother. Mom was a failed glam girl who had never been a glam and
was no longer a girl. Mom had been entering her daughter in beauty
pageants since Twatney was a baby. For all the tired old reasons.

Right now, though, Joel the bleep was entering Twatney Sue, and was
thinking of Jack the Back Room Mama who looked like Jack Wild who
reminded Joel the bleep of Mark Lester who was even prettier than Jack
Wild ( to reiterate--both these boys from "Lionel Bart's
Oliver!"--Dodger and Oliver Twist, respectively), so sometimes in mid hum
of "Who Will Buy?" she reserved for only when Joel the bleep fucked her,
(how nice, Mom and Dad thought, hearing her singing to her oh so cute
little boy friend, which made them smile, while Dad read the paper in the
living room, and Mom baked brownies in the kitchen) which of course gave
him much impetus to fuck her, which just made Joel the bleep go like a
piston steam engine and super tickle her vagina like a cherry had been
put on Sandra the Sulky's tongue tip and it was be bop time in girl
tongue in twatville all the way, with Joel the Bleep himself a million
miles away. Shhh...secret And Twatney Sue a billion miles away.
Shh....secret.

Twatney Sue was something of a drudge inside. She was not particularly
imaginative. She was in ways a war-horse like her failed stage struck
mother before her. She knew Joel was a boy and was not Sandra the Sulky.
She tried her best to forget that he was a boy, to become as lost in her
dream world, as was Joel the bleep in his. But she failed more and more.

And she knew without doubt that she would be stuck with Joel the bleep,
and she would not be able to get one girl thought out of her about him,
would not be able to paste the pasties and remove the dick from him in
her mind.

He would hold her as she sang "As Long as He Needs Me" and he would cry
on her little boy tits that were becoming girl tits.

She tried to Joel her way to greatness. Some of her somehow was being
deposited in Joel the Bleep for some reason, she was beginning to sense,
though it made no sense. She tried to see in her world something that was
better than Twatney Sue, because there was the rub. Twatney Sue loved
Twatney Sue and Twatney Sue could not figure out why Sandra the Sulky did
not love Twatney Sue too. She knew why Joel the bleep loved her,
because--in addition to how could he not?-- Joel the bleep desperately
wanted not to be gay, and really wasn't, for she had changed him--how
could she not?-- hocus pocus, and he was just ashamed and shy around her,
so he was hiding in a fantasy that had nothing to do with himself at all.
And of course everything to do with her. If the show biz thing fell
through--silly idea--she planned on being a psychologist and getting paid
to say such fucked up things like this. And listen to idiots in the
audience, helped along by the sweetener machine, applaud and laugh wildly
at the supreme every day simple and profound why didn't I think of that?
insight.

Had Joel the bleep heard this, or figured it out, he would have told her
she was full of beans. And what the hell you talkin' about, Willis?

Twatney Sue knew she just sent Joel the Bleep to walking on air, (oh how
unselfish she was, oh how giving she was) dreaming his dream, and his
dream was the outfit she wore, the torn denim shirt, the torn dungarees,
the bare feet, the waif of it all, the sweet high sad voice, the tender
eyes directed heavenward--oh god don't let me be lonely a minute
more--oh how he had wanted to rub his dickiepoo on her shirt (and later
on, miracle of miracles, did) when she was wearing it and pretend that
she was Jack the Back Room Mama who was Jack Wild who was Mark Lester who
was Leif Garrett who was Bjorn Andresson who was Tommy Rettig who was Jon
Provost who was the little boy in "Walkabout" who had such a dick on him
that Joel the Bleep almost fell down to his knees in the theatre and
worshipped him......and in this he was lost. He was the Carnation Cow on
the sides of the milk container holding a container of Carnation Milk,
looking into the picture on it of the Carnation Cow holding a Carnation
Milk container, looking into it, and so forth.

Twatney Sue held to the bumpy bone back of Joel the Bleep which was not
bonny at all, and scrunched her fingers into his already too scrunchy
butt, as she sang and sang and hummed and hummed--the humming in truth
was getting to Joel the bleep a little more than ever and he wished she
would kind of can it--her singing voice just got him wiggling all over
the place however--pretend enough and it is so--and he pressed into her
and pretended that he was pressing into all the boys he would never have;
most of whom would envy him that he was getting any at all, he just knew
that he knew, even if it was with old Lemon Meringue face.

So anyway he came in her and she oohed and aahed and pretended like mad
she was looking not into the dull blue eyes of Joel the bleep but into
the smoky bar room mirror gray eyes of Sandra the Sulky, but the eyes of
Joel the bleep kept staring right at her--just didn't seem to have a
brain back there in his shoe box head, and his eyes were crossed at the
moment of sex happy boy. they lay there and sweated. There is not much to
be said for sweating. It was kind of like, Twatney Sue thought, sex glue.

And she forgot faking an orgasm, so immediately remedied that with
whispery groans of delight and holding her legs tightly round the still
trembling boy.

She had never had an orgasm in her little sexual years. She did not want
one. It would have been a sign of weakness. Her mother warned her against
it. It meant having fun. That's something I forgot to mention before.
Twatney Sue was taught never to ever have fun. Cause if you have even a
little bit of fun, God's gonna getcha.

Her mother, a sanguine, bitter woman who was married to a Jew ("get a Jew
husband, you'll be set monetarily for life, and when he goes out and
gets someone on the side, you'll be double blessed, free of that eternal
stink of matzo balls in the bedroom, during and after the three seconds
of pure flight to the moon on gossamer wings, before he turns over,
farts, and starts snoring--anyway, here, I've got new taps on your
shoes, let's try them out now. Oh yeah, fake the orgasm, so you can lord
it over him and he'll never know though of course he will know and it
will work on him and it will corkscrew his guts out a little at a time
because his ego is as big as all outdoors and it will put him in an early
grave.") Did I say bitter? Master of understatement.

Mom and her daughter were still counting on the early grave theory, so
they could spend all the jewelry store chain (Daddy was OF COURSE RICH)
money the way they wanted--new clothes, new house, new lives, new
personalities, face lifts all, tummy tucks, etc. As if they couldn't
already. Dad however, being a momser, still was hanging on. But by a very
slender thread. If there was ever a candidate for a heart attack, he
would be at the top of the list.

Anyway there was Joel the bleep lying atop Twatney Sue and she was
rippling with O's that sounded a little like laughter, and this
disturbed Joel the bleep one great mighty deal because he thought he was
being at his most romantic, because that was what Joel the bleep thought
of himself--

--really romantic, really sexy though only Twatney Sue saw that side of
him yet, but someday someday Jack the Back Room Mama would have his
tongue hanging out, be down on his knees, saying Joel the bleep, let me
suck you please. But why kid a kidder?

Joel the bleep would have to stay with Twatney Sue the rest of the blue
moon life of the boy, because he did love her. In his fashion. She loved
him in her fashion. A very weird series of Butternut pattern cuts made
these bizarre fashions. That probably would never go out of fashion.
`Cause none of this really when you get down to it is that unusual.
Blame the celestial sewing machine's odd sense of humor for it, I guess.

Though why she wanted him to be straight, she had no idea. Her little
popinjay head ached when she thought about that.

But now he rolled off of Twatney Sue and she immediately grabbed onto his
dickiepoo and tried to ameliorate her laughter inside--he wasn't that
stupid--he could pick up on more than she maybe thought..then thought, oh
come on, get real now.

She bopped to her bedside table, got the new Teen Beat mags, settled back
on her soggy bed with the still hard boy, curled up next to him in a
pretty sexy pose actually, and helped him jack off to those pics, and, in
her secret self (one of many she had not known of before and thought if
those secret selves don't stop, they'll dig a hole to China for me to
fall into) in the process of that, was as of late, discovering she
honestly did like to lie naked with him, while he played with her tits
and cunt, he had very active and artistic fingers she was discovering,
and stroke his dickiepoo which, since boys have one, unless they are in
there somewhere among the ranks known as "God's special children," and
if you at least got to go to bed with what was technically a boy, goy he
may be, who was just starting to be ruled by his hormones and was just
goofy as hell anyway, then this was a nice looking little penis to hold
and kiss and sometimes-oh please please please Twatney Sue--suck on; in
short-ahem- you could find worse little lolly sticks than that proud
little member of the Joel the bleep club. It was foreskin challenged. She
liked that the best. It was a kind of rebellion for her. From what little
she knew about it.

And in the process of doing that, she found her thoughts would not turn
even one whit to Sandra the Sulky, not even the common fancy of hers, as
best she could devise it, of Sandra the Sulky being with them and making
love to Joel the bleep, while Twatney Sue supervised as she made love to
Sandra the Sulky and Joel the bleep taught them both how to suck cock--

--but there had come into the tap dancing fool's reverie something known
as jealousy, and though that was a long way down to the glittering
jewelry pike known as love (in a beginning roundabout odd way), still she
had gotten to love more than oh well bring the old dish rag in, because
he's the only one who will give me the time of day; Joel, love, as in
miss him when he wasn't around; love, as more than a play love; more
than an invented little game to while away time and use him to thumb her
hairless little twat at her parents who were so dumb she didn't even
have to lock her bedroom door, especially when she had her little cupcake
friend, Joel the bleep, over; they would not ever venture in her space to
see what the two little brainless sexless moppets were up to, without
there little superstar lambkins' permission, dumdedumdum.

Oh the sperm and cut juice that was spent on their daughter's bed, and
when Mommykins' maid washed the sheets and there were these tell tale
signs on the Percale, well, she knew to keep her mouth shut, knowing what
side of the check her bread was buttered on.

And now Joel the bleep was sulking even as Twatney Sue rubbed his
dickiepoo, even as she told him she had a dream last night that he was
sucking Mark Lester, and Leif Garrett ran off crying because he was so in
love with Joel the bleep who would not give him the time of day, not that
it mattered because in those years Leif had lots of money, and could buy
all the time of day he wanted with all that money, or at least his mom
and his agent did; later Leif would wear a bandanna on his head so no one
would guess he was losing his hair, would have that massively over grown
mouth, and would admit he had a drug problem, but it all would work out
okay, because his mother would be quoted in a newspaper article that her
son was on the straight and narrow and was keeping clean, hanging round
with friends like Marilyn Manson who helped him stay out of trouble
(honest--Twatney Sue's mother could take lessons) and none of that for
sure made up for the money and the drugs and the girls of the glory
years.

Joel the Bleep came a little in her mouth. She swirled the cum in her
mouth, liked the taste, and happily swallowed it. And they held each
other for a time. But Joel the bleep was sulking a little. Twatney Sue
wanted to ask if he would like to dress up as Oliver Twist and she could
play the Dodger, and she could pickpocket his penis while he tried not to
notice, for that was a game he had always liked. Or would he dress up
like her as a girl and he could have a little surprise waiting for her
unsuspecting eyes, inside his pastel ruffled panties? No go to both those
suggestions. And Twatney Sue had a momentary pang in her brain that
showed her a certain species of disappointment if she could pull down
Sandra the Sulky's panties and find no cock therein. Not just any cock.
Joel the bleep's cock. Well, they never tell you how complicated life
is, even for children.

What the hell is wrong with me? What was wrong with her was Joel the
bleep. What was wrong with both of them was life is one big fuckin'
practical joke and you gotta know when to laugh and when to fake like it
all makes sense. Especially to fake it to the point where you think
faking it means it's real, and real means it's not, or something. Such
is the nature of what we laughingly call reality. And you wonder why
psychiatrists take nose dives out of their office windows on top floors?
Though for my money, not nearly enough do this.

Joel the bleep, however, still and all, very much wanted to snuggle up
against all the boys in question, far more than he wanted to snuggle up
to Twatney Sue, and he would have been very perturbed if any boy in
question did not have a dick for him to play with.

And yet, Joel the bleep had grown accustomed to Twatney Sue, somewhat
like his parents had grown accustomed to each other, and like Twatney
Sue's parents had grown accustomed to each other--in other words, a
grudge match just waiting to happen, but still it gives you something to
come home to. Unlike their parents, Joel the bleep and Twatney Sue still
liked each other--and who knows about tomorrow?-- it's a card game, cut
and deal and cheat if you have to, but live with it mostly--

--well, that word love is twirled around like a baton on fire at both
ends; most get burned by it, and it's stupid, and doesn't mean a lot,
except in TV bubble babble, and unless you're an idiot you know damn
well what you are walking into, but we just pretend we can this time
escape the burn part, and "it's love land for me and my gal." Notice how
often the word "pretend" crops up in this sad little chronicle? You got
the goods next to you. And you're still pretending like you are alone.
Go figure. `Cause when you come right down to us, all of us are really
really stupid about things like this. Burning bright candles have more
mercy for moths than love for us. For moths, one phffftt and it's over
at least.

So Joel the bleep sulked. Even as Twatney Sue started sucking him again
(god was this kid hard ALL THE TIME?) and he pretended it was Jack Wild
playing his dickiepoo like Freddie the Flute, and finally Joel the bleep
got into the swing of it, or his rioting hormonal body did, and boy and
girl still pretending they were other than what was there and now
happening, coaxed some fun out of it.

After a while, Twatney Sue tap danced a little more for him. Naked. And
he clumsily bare foot tap danced a little for her. Naked. They each saw
whoever they saw in each other. And the whole thing, even silly as it
was, was frighteningly normal. If you go by what you see around you.

Thank god for the movies, Teen Beat, and the other teen mags before they
started chickening out, wall posters, and imagination and utter
desperation, coupled with a supreme ability not to laugh at the silliness
of it all. And little boys and little girls who lie on beds of pink and
cum and cunt juice and Pooh bears and Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, who
hold each other tightly, try to figure out what skin is for, and attempt
to keep each other company, safe and secure, in this sad big bad lonely
world known as Earth that just keeps floating around like it is there for
a reason and means something. It just has to, after all. Doesn't it?


the livin' end


Timothy Stillman
comewinter@earthlink.net