Date: Wed, 1 Feb 2006 15:47:47 -0600
From: Timothy Stillman <comewinter@earthlink.net>
Subject: SCORCHY

			 "Scorchy"

			    by

		       Tim Stillman

The boys' eyes tried to linger Scorchy. They tried to make
her stay longer in their vision.  She made them. Not the
other way around. She wore a long low cut sequined gown.
Her breasts were ample. She knew she gave them a hard on
just walking past them in this saloon in the wrong part of
town. She knew they wanted to grope her. She knew they
wanted to pull that gown all the way down.

And the town wasn't lonely. And she was the sexuality that
kept them going. That kept them putting their hands to their
blue jeans, to their crotches, and saying rude things like you
want some of me, babe; dontcha? And she would smile
coquettishly and she would arch her eyebrow, her left one,
always her left one, and she would blow them a kiss. For
she knew she was bonded in gold. And when one of them
bought her a tall one, she would put her hand on his
shoulder, or if she liked him just a little, would give him an
honor of putting her hand on his knee, or, on rare occasion,
his thigh.

And she would look deeply into her amber world in which
she was violet and soft and curvy and in her 20's, which
territory she would stay the rest of her life. She did not wear
anything under her gown, save herself. And she longed for
boys to touch her. She longed for boys to explore her, and
then she would feel alive again, smoking her cigarette here
in the bar gloom. Knowing too much. Knowing them inside
and out. The bravado. The huzzahs. The little laughs of
nervousness.

In which she was the all time star. And on very rare nights,
on nights of wondrous stars and pinwheeling moons, she
would make her pick; her long black gloves; her finger
pointing decorously, making him feel the universe growing
inside him, at one boy, and one only and the silent deaths of
all the ones she had not picked. And he would come to her
room which would be filled with gold tapestries and
mahogany furnishings and ancient oil paintings. And she
would kiss his beery lips and he would kiss back hard as she
put that pointing finger that gave him life for an hour or so
and then again never again, on his chest, over his
hummingbird heart, and push him away. Her lipstick matted
on his own lips. She would tell him to get down on his
knees.

Which before her, he would do with such alacrity. And she
would have him feel her cream thighs from the sides and she
would ease down her gown of sequined nights slowly and
slowly exposing her breasts and his mouth open, and the tip
of his tongue licking his lips, and his eyes mesmerized, and
then as though the eclipse of satin would never end, she
pulled down her dress all the way to the center of her rosy
big nipples and then below, exploring the fullness of her
breasts with her hands and rubbing and pinching her tits and
making them stand full bore. The sighing of hurt soft buttery
explosive sex.

And he would want to stand up, and she, wispy shoulders of
delicacy, taste of Arpege, as she looked at him with mercy
on her full bee stained red lips and her honey lacquered
eyes, and painted face that seemed her natural coloration,
would put a hand on his shoulder and would tell him no,
without words, she had not spoken a word to him yet, and
he was generic He did not count. He was not chosen for
looks or out of his own desperation or anything physical or
spiritual or certainly mental about him. She just chose one,
at random. And her penis raised in her gown. And it raised
fuller than it ever had. As the supplicant before her looked
at it bulge there.

And he wanted it and he saw nothing askance about it, and
sometimes, even without her permission, he would reach up
and grab it in the gown and hold to it like a baby holding to
his mother and crying because he was suddenly aware he
existed and he had no idea how to go about stopping it. And
in time in time, the slowness, the gauze of the thing, the
perfection, the act of being heavenly sent, she would stand
before him naked, with her breasts heavy and beautiful and
her body of river shimmer poignancy and her penis full and
hard and her balls soft and small and no pubic hair at all.

And she would let him suck. And she would lean her back
against the wall, and let him for as long as it took, and she
was sometimes merciless about this, forget that he was
lonely, forget that in sex alone with her he would find true
trust and purpose and reason for living. Course she could
pull away from him at any moment and leave him feeling
foolish and childish, she had with others before, but she
loved the gnawing of his teeth on her penis, she loved the
hands of him up on her female breasts and she was blond
haired and she was young and she was the center of the
universe, as she knew down stairs, men were trying not to
think of what they were doing up here in the Paradise
Room....and she was in her mind holding feathers blue and
pink and red and purple, a huge feather fan, and she was on
stage, naked behind them, and an audience of thousands
were applauding and cheering, as her penis came and came
without her even touching it.

As he suckled her and his lips warm round her, and his
hands stroking with a delicacy of which he was not aware
and which he did not know he possessed her legs and her
sides and her rib cage, and she would flood him soon. She
was perfection. She was Circe. She was Atlas before he
shrugged. In her world, they shrugged never. She was the
one who put an end to them instead.

She was the whole of the Fountainhead of life. Books she
was being forced to read in school, though she really
understood neither of them. He had laid down his head on
the desk in his room with The Fountainhead fallen from his
hands to the floor and only woke when his mother called
"Jonathan, you still studying, boy?" Her voice shrill.
Ripping apart the top of his eternal dream since about the
fifth grade, though it got more detailed the older he got. He
woke finally. Erection stirring. He called back "Yeah,
mom."  "Well," she shouted, god he hated that voice, "go to
bed soon; it's getting late."

He loved his penis. He hated his penis. He wanted it gone.
He wanted to keep it forever. He wanted to be a girl. That was
one thing he was sure of. He was tired. He turned off his
light. Undressed. Touched and caressed his female breasts
and then went to bed,masturbated into Kleenex, got rid of it,
held himself, and cried himself to sleep. For some
in ninth grade, even in a school for gifted students, it's not
what it seems at all.