Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica (19 page)

Slavery also offers us some opportunities, now that it is again being practiced in the southern states. There are whispers on the sexual theory circuit and in the sexual think tanks springing up

at the better private universities in the city that ritual enslavement of southern people may help citizens of our region deal with the secession-era economic crises that continue to beset us. It is well known, of course, that monetizing a human life is
always
entic- ing. Women are especially enticing when monetized, now that they are trying even harder to balance professional life and new post-marriage single-parenting family models. As a woman who was formerly a man, my personal feeling is that enslavement helps women feel
more
powerful and
more
productive in the office, es- pecially women in high-powered post-national corporate settings. These post-national corporations are uniquely situated to under- write sexual slavery businesses, public auctions, etc., since these corporations operate above and beyond United Nations efforts to control human trafficking.

I suggest twenty-four-hour live slavery auctions on Giuliani Way, which could be conducted simultaneously on the Internet, where the bidding pools would be larger. Given our breakdown of relations with the southern and western parts of the former United States of America, it’s obvious that women and fifteen- year-olds (here again taking advantage of the more practicable age of consent), and persons who are or resemble Baptists, Mormons, and other cult-oriented Magical Thinking Systems, would be espe- cially prized at these auctions, when subjected to ritualized sexual humiliation of a family-friendly sort. While I’m not suggesting we kidnap such persons, as this would clearly cause diplomatic crises, we could easily make use of them in a slavery auction business, should they happen to attempt to slip across the border.

I also have an idea for a World’s Fair of Perversion at some of the theaters of Giuliani Way. The model here is the old Dis-

ney “Small World” exhibit so well attended at those discredited theme parks. Now that the former United States of America is a third-rate economic power, a lapdog of the new China (I suppose we can in part blame the New Shepherding Movement that took hold in the South and West, which obviously didn’t bring Jesus back any faster), we are already beginning to fetishize the sexual charge of the countries that are the powerhouses of the new age. In the World’s Fair of Perversion, international visitors, with their all-important international currencies, would be able to sample the wares of local actors dressed as foreign dignitaries from these nations. I’ll give you one example, just off the top of my head. Indonesia, that Asian economic miracle, was known in the past to punish boys who engaged in homosexual activity with dismem- berment, after which the boys in question were devoured by the villagers. I suggest an Indonesian display in which we simulate group copulation with Indonesian nationals, after which we serve modest helpings of steak tartar.

Your honor, I’m well aware that POSER-related businesses could be construed by some as a little too novel even for our for- ward-thinking community. Maybe some among your estimable retinue of thirteen wives, for example, will consider them taste- less. If my suggestions are too excessive, we can just return to our earlier idea for all-pornography-all-the-time video billboards on Giuliani Way. Now that the entire outside of that ancient archi- tectural masterpiece, the Time-Warner building, is being used as a video billboard for web-based broadcasts, it would of course be possible to have gigantic outdoor pornographic broadcasts wherein the relevant parts of the bodies of the actors and actresses would be so gargantuan and so realistic in their high-definition rendering

that it would be difficult not to
swoon
over them. Who would not
want
such a thing, such a gigantic depiction of sexual
longeur?
Would it not stir up all their inert and melancholy molecules of the dispirited human body? And I don’t need to tell you, your Honor, how gigantic broadcasts would give us opportunities for gigantic product placement.

Upon enacting any portion this legislation, we could then tax the resulting businesses liberally, as I have said. The revenues could then serve elsewhere. Health care, education, housing, pen- sion insurance for employees public and private (in lieu of the abol- ishment of Social Security that took place in 2018), sex education, arts programming, etc. If you need anyone on staff to begin the process of sampling the buffet of Salacious Entertainments that might serve as anchor businesses, so that we might proceed with the campaign I’m outlining, let me be the first to volunteer.

PURPLE TULIP
‌

TSAURAH LITZKY

I walk down a narrow, dirty alley smelling of piss, turn right,
and I am in the heart of desire—the red-light district in Amster- dam. I stand on Voorburgstraat on a busy Friday night and the crowd swallows me up. Men of all sizes, shapes, colors surround me. I float along carried by a testosterone wave.

To my right is the canal, on my left, in buildings centuries old, in a string of windows glittering with light, a garden of earthly pleasures unfolds.

A few men stand in front of a window lit with Christmas lights watching a foxy older woman dressed like a gypsy, a flow- ered scarf wound round her head. She gathers the front of her full skirt up with one hand to reveal tattered black fishnet stock-

ings held up by red garters that cut into her swarthy legs. With her other hand, she plunges a wine bottle in and out between her thighs. She leers, grimaces, sticks out her tongue. The men whistle and clap as I move on.

In the next window, a woman in a gray rubber cat suit stands with her back to the street. A big circle had been cut out of the seat of her pants, exposing her voluminous, pale ass. Her hands behind her, her fingers spread her butt cheeks, the swollen, ruby bud of her anus pulled open. She flexes her hips in rhythm to a song only she can hear, making her gaping asshole open and close.

“Do you think we can both fit in there, mate?” the man be- side me asks his friend.

“Nah,” says the friend. “My Churchill is so big. I’d crowd you out.”

The first time I was in Amsterdam, in May 2001, America was a respected world power. I believed the prosperity we enjoyed would continue to grow. Now everything is different. My country is hated all over the world, our economy, bankrupt by war. At least, here in Amsterdam, Voorburgstraat appears unchanged, an enduring testament to fair-market exchange and the everlasting need of skin for skin.

On my last visit, I’d head for this street in the evenings. I’d walk up and down, turned on by the costumes, the artifice, the blatant aura of sex.

Then I met Jan and we were together until I left.

He was an overweight accountant I met in a bar. His hands were grimy, his fingernails stained with black ink, but his chubby, uncut cock was so practiced. He made me come again and again; then he’d pull out and shoot between my breasts. He liked to rub

his creamy sperm all over my torso. It worked like a potion, erasing the memories of my ex-husband I still carried deep in my flesh.

One time, Jan took me to a dim courtyard guarded by a tar- nished statue of Spinoza. The women in the windows here were all freaks. One was a glistening albino, totally hairless, not a blemish anywhere on her skin. She wore a cowboy hat on her bald head. Another woman looked like Larry King. She even wore thick eye- glasses with dark frames. She had on men’s trousers but was nude from the waist up, three pretty breasts spreading across her broad chest. Jan paused before a window in which a serene, exotic beauty sat on a footstool. She looked Indonesian, her long black hair fall- ing to her waist. One of her arms stopped at the elbow and the left sleeve of her gauzy shirt was pinned up at the shoulder. “This is Purple Tulip,” he said, “She is an old friend of mine, very nice person, so gentle. Shall we visit her?”

I could see her pendulous breasts through her top; her tiny nipples looked like licorice bits.

“No,” I whispered.

Jan shrugged, “Let’s go back to your hotel,” he said.

A few months ago, I was invited to Amsterdam to read at a poetry festival. I phoned Jan right up. He was delighted. “Good” he said, “My wife and mistress are away. You want to stay here?” I didn’t know how I would feel when I saw him. “Nah,” I said,

“your harem could come back and surprise us.” “Then we’ll have an orgy,” he said.

“We would give you a heart attack. Forget it. I’m staying in a hotel. I’ll meet you when the festival is over.”

During our affair, I felt I could trust him. He was fair-minded, sensitive, never tried to get over on me. If I shivered, he would

take off his jacket and put it around my shoulders before I could even say a word.

As I walk along, I wonder if he is still friends with Purple Tu- lip. I wonder if I could find the courtyard of freaks without him.

Deep in my thoughts, I don’t realize that I’m surrounded. Several young punks, not much more than boys, are gathered in a circle around me. Their heads are shaved and they wear wife- beater T-shirts. One of them also wears a pair of pantyhose looped around his neck like a tie. On his arm he has a tattoo of a pig, with
MAMA
inscribed beneath it.

“Looking for your husband?” he asks me. “Do you think he is shopping here?” His crew starts to laugh.

“Come with us,” he continues. “We can help you find him.” He looms over me, smelling of pizza and cigarettes. He reaches to- ward me. A phalanx of beefy British men in green-and-white rugby shirts cut into our little circle. I dart back out into the crowd.

“Good luck,” pig boy calls after me. I hear them cackling but they don’t follow me. I keep going until I find the dark alley that leads to Warmoesstraat.

Back in my hotel room, I get the hash pipe and my stash of Lebanese Red out of the night table drawer. I pull the covers over my head, hoping for sweet dreams.

Jan stands above me, naked. His huge belly hangs in folds like the Buddha’s. His long cock is twice the size I remember, jutting out between his legs like another limb. He spanks me with it, little taps on my belly, my breasts. Each smack sends a current of elec- tricity down into my hole. I want Jan to stop spanking me. I want him to plunge that thing right up into the center of my being, but he doesn’t.

He teases and taps until I am writhing about like the Mad- woman of Chaillot. Then, abruptly, he stops and steps back as Purple Tulip enters the room. Her face is lovely. All she wears is a garland of purple flowers wound round the stump of her arm. She kneels by the bed, extends her one delicate hand. Her fingers track though the forest of my pubic hair, dip into the syrupy well she finds there. I want to have her fuck me with her delicate fingers. I spread my legs as wide as I can but she draws her hand back. She slides the stump of her other arm up to the top of my thigh. I can feel it’s warm, blunt tip inching into my cunt. All of a sudden, the room fills with men shouting, clapping their hands, and stamping their feet.

“Good luck, good luck,“ they shout, their taunting grows louder and louder into a tumultuous roar. I wake up and reach for the hash pipe I left on the bed table. I smoke until I black out.

The bells at the Alte Kirche down the street are ringing the hour. I jump out of bed. I’m supposed to meet my Jan today at ten. He is probably already waiting. My head feels stuffed with old socks, but I force myself to dress and run outside. I dash two blocks up Warmoesstraat and enter Dam Square.

Directly in front of me, at least three stories high, stands the white stone obelisk called the Dam. It’s still so early, few tourists are about, but the demonstrators are already there.

A bearded man with a megaphone is leading them as they sing “Give Peace a Chance.” They are holding placards in En- glish, Dutch, French, German. Several of them show that photo of Lynndie England with the poor Iraqi man on a leash, no caption necessary. I wish I was wearing a T-shirt that said, “I am Cana- dian.” I dart through the demonstrators quickly, my head down. I

take the narrow street that cuts into the south end of the square. I pass a shop window filled with pipes, bongs, brass hookahs, and hookahs set with shining gems. Next to this store is Jan’s favorite café.

A couple is eating croissants at the first table. Seated behind them at the second table is Jan, but a bigger Jan. He has gained so much weight; his chair is pushed back from the table to ac- commodate his bulging stomach. He rises, his belly knocking over the glass of water in front of him, but he is impervious. He steps forward, grabs me, kisses me smack on the lips. I feel like there is a giant marshmallow between us, but his mouth is dry and his lips as hot as I remember.