The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies (30 page)

Warm, very warm, air whisks by me. It smells unclean, like it is coming from the bathroom – and that makes my pussy contract as I think about giving Jack Kerouac a
blowjob while he sits on the toilet, one hand on my head and the other holding a beer can.
Faces reflect in the train’s window like pictures in a frame.
After Jack comes in my mouth,
he urinates.

I go into the bathroom. I pee and then I stick my hand between my legs and think of Jack’s deep green eyes.

Well, I’m in New York; I’m in Greenwich Village and I’m hitting that moment that I knew I would . . . when I’m beginning to wonder about the sanity of
this whole idea of mine. Does it really make any difference to be where Kerouac was? Perhaps my conclusion will simply be that the thing about literature
is:
it takes you to worlds you might
not otherwise get to see and explore, and the thing about
On The Road
is that it compelled more people to go to those places and see the world for themselves. Or so I’ve been led to
believe. And that’s
exactly
what I’m doing. One of the things I think I’m finding is an understanding of Kerouac’s fascination with the open road because he lived in
a place where he didn’t drive, where he didn’t
need
to drive. Being the one behind the wheel, and with the endless stretches of highway – it’s a new kind of freedom
for him. It’s more of an extreme kind of freedom to him, whereas on the west coast we’re always behind the wheel and the open road is crowded with traffic –

I want to die in a car crash while being fucked in the backseat –

Yeah, I know that’s too much like Ballard’s
Crash –

As for Jack – and Dean Moriarty/Neal Cassady, his pal, his Huckleberry friend . . . just a diversion, an entertaining diversion for my Jack K. Because he ultimately had his suburban home
to return to, his mama, and his middle class respectability. Places where Dean could never go. Dean was just a lark for JK.

Cassady had two wives. I bet he was a great fuck.

He looks like a hunk in his pictures.

I would have fucked Neal Cassady – then again, I’m pretty open to fucking any man or woman who is attracted to me and wants to make that quick, lovely physical connection.

Test question:
Is the quest an excuse for living however you want to, without regard for anybody else or their feelings?

Times Square, one of the many places that is mentioned again and again throughout the time spent in New York within the pages of
On The Road,
and really it’s a
terminus. It’s a terminus, and so I guess it becomes the landmark of arriving home for Kerouac.

I’m on Bowery Street, venturing into the part of town someone warned me against. “You’ll get raped if you’re alone.” Paranoia seeps in. This state
of mind of mine – I came in open, trusting,
willing.
Now I find I’m closing myself off because I’ve been told that’s the “smart” thing to do. “Trust
your sixth sense,” my waiter at the first cafe told me, but all I could do was look at his crotch and think about sucking his dick. My sixth sense is going all out of control and I feel as if
I’ve dropped acid and walked into some strange parallel universe. Everyone’s noticing me, how out of place I appear. Everyone’s plotting scams. They all want to gang rape me.
I’m testing my limits and finding out what they are. I want them to fuck me, I want to know what that’s like, because the whole point of this journey is to experience the extremes
–

I will not be smart –

But I will follow my true heart.

I had initially harboured hopes of tapping into some wild, crazy mode, a network of irregular characters as adventurous as Moriarty, or as hip to the literary scene as Kerouac
– the looseness with which they invaded the homes and lives of the people by whom they passed.

“Of course, all of this is much different from how it was in Kerouac’s time,” says Todd (he’s one of the hallowed two percent of the acting community
able to actually earn a living in the theatre scene). “None of the places he hung out at are even around any more,” says Todd. He takes me through Times Square late at night and points
out how the drug dealing that used to go on there back in the ‘50s has radiated much further out.

“What about prostitution?” I ask.

“There are always whores,” he says.

“Peep show booths?”

“Gone.”

“Live sex shows?”

“I doubt they existed.”

“Kiddie porn?”

“That’s a myth.”

“Donkey shows?”

“Only in Mexico.”

Todd takes me back to his tiny apartment in the Lower East Side and I let him fuck me on his musty futon. First, I take off my jeans and panties and he eats me out. He comments
on how wet and sticky my cunt is. My cunt smells strong, maybe bad. Todd likes the stink, he keeps rubbing his nose into it. “What a nice little pussy,” he says. I say it’s always
dripping and
always
wants to be fucked. “Are you always this quick and easy?” he says. “I’ve barely known you for two hours,” he says.

I shrug.

He says, “Do you want me to wear a condom?”

“It’s up to you.”

“I’m clean and safe. Are you?”

“Yes,” I say.

His dick is curved like a banana. I ask if he wants me to suck it. “I have to fuck you right this minute,” he says. He lifts my legs onto his shoulders and he fucks me.

I scream when I come; that curved cock does the trick.

Later, I suck his dick and he shoots off in my mouth.

Phoned one of my professors earlier, complained how the wild literary crowd Kerouac ran with is unavailable to me. That even if it exists today, I’m not tapped into it.
He said that the network of Kerouac’s time is no longer around. That the literary community of the 21st century is disjointed. He’d given me a long list of writer friends of his before
I left. He gave them all advance notice that I was an eager girl and willing to spread my legs and explore the literary possibilities of being a total slut. “Fuck them all,” my
professor said. “They are lonely men of American letters.” Looking at it now, I see what he means: they’re scattered all over the country. Many of them don’t even know one
another.

For instance, last night in Philadelphia, I sat on a living room couch with a writer named Ed, going through the collection of photographs he’d taken over the years.
He’s got so much passion for photography – a skill and talent. He didn’t pursue it as a career because he thought it would prevent him from being the kind of husband and father he
wanted to be. He traded away that passion in favour of stability. I asked where his family was now. He said his wife had divorced him and his son and daughter were grown up and had their own
families. Ed’s fifty-two. He gently placed his hand on the back of my neck and told me to blow him. He didn’t ask, he ordered me to. I said: “Okay, take it out.” He did and
I buried my face into his crotch and satisfied his need.

“How old are you, my dear?” he asked after we had some wine.

“Twenty-seven,” I said.

“You’re younger than . . .”

“What? Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Do you want to screw me?” I asked.

“Very much so,” he said.

In bed, I allowed him to do me anally because he said his wife would never let him do that and he was curious what it was like. “I’ve never done it with anyone,” he said.
“I feel I’ve missed out on a lot of things in life.”

Kerouac wrote feverishly of something he called IT: “the point of ecstasy” he’d always wanted to reach, a “complete step across chronological time into
timeless shadows” where he finds himself “hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncertain emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiance
shining in bright Mind Essence, innumerable lotuslands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven.”

Ed said into my ear: “Being up your arse is like Heaven.”

Capturing life’s brightest flame within your hands, yes? George Eliot wrote that:

Maybe Ed found IT, after all.

4
A.M.

Saw a western tonight in New York City. Between fucks: the TV on. The myth that propelled Kerouac down the road. “It’s ironic . . . to be in New York, watching a
western,” I say to Todd – I being a westerner, having driven through those spaces only a week ago.

“Do you want to stay and fuck more?” Todd asks.

I tell him sure, sounds fun.

“If you’re
really
into sex, I know some guys who’d love to do you.”

“Pimp me out on Times Square,” I say, and laugh.

He laughs.

He kisses me.

I turn away.

“You don’t like kisses?” he asks.

“Too intimate,” I say.

“So what’s this?” he says, touching my wet pussy.

“Fucking,” I say, “nothing more, nothing less.”

Day 2

11
A.M.

St Mark’s Bookstore. It overwhelms me. The shelves go up twenty feet into the air, and they’re all filled. I see a photograph of Drew Barrymore on the cover of a
magazine. She looks like a little girl. It makes me think – that’s exactly what women are in our society. What they’re supposed to look like, anyway. They’re supposed to be
little girls. Men like little girls – or women who
look
like little girls. The fantasy thing.

I wonder what Jack fantasized about.

I can see now why New Yorkers are so hooked on their city.

People, before I got here, talked about how Soho and Greenwich Village have grown trendy, gentrified, tourist sights. Yet if I’m seeking the literary community, I am told the Village (the
East Village to be precise) is still the place to go.

I gravitate toward a restaurant called Dojo, and wind up sitting between a Czechoslovakian student and Peter – he’s a fund-raiser for PBS who recently returned here after a nine-year
stint in L.A. (When he was in L.A., we went to bed a couple of times.)

“Allen Ginsberg
¹
used to live in this neighbourhood,” the Czech student says to me. “Sometimes you can see his ghost passing
by.”

Peter says he prefers New Yorkers because they have substance. “L.A. is so pretentious,” he says. “People
there
have to find out what hill you live on, what kind of car
you drive, before they decide if they want to know you.”

“The people in New York are
real
,” says Peter.

I write a small poem on a napkin:

I go with Peter and the Czech student back to Peter’s place in the Village. There, the three of us get nasty. They take turns “mouth-fucking” me with their
cocks – that’s what they call it, that’s what Peter says: “Can your mouth take a fucking like you were getting it in your twat?” I said I suppose so. First I’m
on my knees and they take turns, holding my head, moving their cocks in and out of my mouth like pistons. Then I lie on Peter’s bed and each guy hovers over me and pounds his cock down my
throat. It chokes me, there’s saliva and pre-come flying everywhere, my mascara is smudged and runny – I find this all very sexy and as they mouth-fuck I play with my clit and I reach
orgasm over and over again. I could be satisfied just with this but then Peter and the Czech student fuck my pussy, then I find myself on top the student and Peter is sliding into my arsehole. I
close my eyes and imagine that I am being fucked by Jack and Neal, Sal and Dean: we’re in a motel someplace, somewhere on the road, and I let them do anything they want to me, like I allow
Peter and the Czech do what they desire to my body.

Kerouac “yearned to see the country,” a feverish desire spawned by westerns, the mythic cowboy heading into the sunset. In
On The Road,
he departs from New
York numerous times. But he always returns.

How far we can go and still be inside our own borders – to the end of the road, the end of the rainbow? A pot of gold, of sorts, waiting in sunny California – a
fool’s gold, you know –

My lover, Jack Kerouac, gave me an excuse to run away from home at a time I was long past the age for getting away with it. I longed to travel across the country, to hunt and
gather the sights and sounds and places and faces of America, to somehow piece everything into some all-encompassing piebald quilt. Let’s say I also wanted to fuck my way across America
because it sounded so juicy and fun.

Not Only a Trip Through Space

“To see how Kerouac actually lived in the places they lived is not a bad idea,” says a sixty-five-year-old writer that I visit. Another one on the list. He
kinda looks like Burroughs, or I pretend he does. He’s a self-proclaimed expert on JK’s life and words. “You should read every one of these books on Kerouac,” he tells me.
“It wouldn’t take you long and it’ll save you a lot of trouble. And you should go in his footsteps. You might even have a publishable book out of it. Did you see the places in
Denver? I think you probably could search out most of the places he lived, although in Denver there’s been a lot of urban renewal, so-called. They’ve destroyed lots of that.”

“I did talk to the owner of one of the old jazz bars in Denver,” I reply. “He said he served Jack Kerouac when he used to come in. He just thought JK was a drunk, and . . .
it’s kind of interesting to see his perspective of ‘why do these people keep coming in here year after year and asking me these questions?’ How does it feel to have all these
people coming to you, year after year?”