Grayson was fascinated, rapt in her scrutiny of the roach. Jimmy had bought one of those tonal devices to rid his buffet/kitchenette of household pests. Grayson smiled as she remembered the name of it, Vermin-Be-Gone. The roach’s antennae swiveled a bit. Grayson giggled; maybe it was dancing, doing the Vermin-Be-Gone-boogy. The cool breeze of John Coltraine’s alto sax wafted through the thick cloying heat of the kitchenette. While she was busy cock-roaching, Jimmy had gotten up and dialed in one of his beloved jazz albums. My Favorite Things was one of Grayson’s favorite things. Jimmy knew that; his passion for jazz had kept her enthralled for some time. Now she wondered if there was anything else between her and the dark white boy. There was, of course, his incredible cock, which he presented to her now, up front and in her face. She looked pointblank into its hungry little mouth, gave it a dutiful peck on its shiny silken head. “C’mon, Grays,” Jimmy moaned petulantly, “Ya know what ‘e wants.” Jimmy’s trite reference to his member, an offering, an invitation, put Grayson off. She took it quite the opposite in fact, a tacit maneuver without preamble inciting her to fight off, with an effort, the compelling urge to just push him away.
His third person reference to his penis had charmed her at first, a ploy used successfully by Jimmy to get her into his bed the night they met, something she usually didn’t do. Or was it the Southern Comfort, the quaint little jazz joint, this unexpected Mainard G. Krebbs beatnik style white boy, hungry beyond his black-framed rectangular glasses. Ah hell, Grayson sighed to herself; it was all o’ that; she knew it was and some wicked stew of things she didn’t. Now she was tired of hearing what ‘e wants, as if it had nothing to do with Jimmy and his selfish greedy little lusts. The worst of timing; Grayson raised her face to see if the roach was watching them just as Jimmy made his opening thrust and poked her in the chin. Jimmy, in a fluid calculated twist of violence, turned and smashed the roach with a single whack of his flyswatter. “There, now maybe you’ll pay some attention t’ me ‘n, c’mon, Grays, say ‘is name.”
How she abhorred that flyswatter, another thing she had adored about Jimmy at first, those fresh spankings and the waffle-mark reminders they left on her flesh. She couldn’t hear Coltraine anymore. Beads of sweat tickled her forehead, threatened to roll down her face in single rivulets. She toyed with the idea of denying Jimmy his request, his insatiable lust and desire to always be in control, the epicenter of her emotions. She enjoyed a good earthquake but was perfectly capable of achieving them without Jimmy or anyone else for that matter. Jimmy insisted that he be her only-only. How dare he deny her that innocent cockroach its life? Whack! The remains of the roach stuck to Grayson’s face. She was shocked and annoyed, instantly angry and afraid. Spankings were one thing; being smacked in the face quite another. “Say ‘is name, darlin’,” Jimmy crooned. He dragged the flyswatter through the air between them. “There’s plenty more where that came from an’ I know you like it.”
Now the beads of sweat came running, down Grayson’s forehead and into her eyes. They burned but she refused herself the luxury of rubbing them, a sobering reminder of the rising heat in the room. There was a bit of clear liquid in the mouth of Jimmy’s throbbing penis. Grayson flicked her tongue out and swallowed it away. “Damn you, girl!” Jimmy’s hands came down smack on the crown of her head, held it in a firm vise-like grip. Now he was hurting her; it had never been like this between them. The pressure increased as he spit into her face, “E wants t’ hear ‘is name!”
“Ex,” Grayson intoned in a husky pained whisper of breath. She ran a long fingernail down the back of Jimmy’s scrotum. He shuddered. “Excalibur,” she hissed. Jimmy’s hands fell from her head, groped her breasts through the thin fabric of her clinging summer dress. True to its title, Excalibur thrust itself into the target heart of her mouth. In no mood for games, Grayson went in for the kill. She held the base of Jimmy’s shaft in one hand, gripped his scrotum tightly with the other, damned herself because at some level she was enjoying the hell out of this rough sex.
“Nua… nua.. nua,” Jimmy flopped around like a beached carp. Scrotum blood dripped from her fingertips and Grayson finished him off in a flurry of squeeze-suck-gulps. Jimmy fell back and she followed him all the way to the floor. His eyes were closed and his mouth said, “Nua… nua.. nua.” Grayson picked the cockroach carcass from her face, pressed it into the moist folds of her vagina. She slithered up Jimmy’s prone body, buried his nua… nua.. mouth with what he had christened her Honey Pot and rode his face to ecstasy. When she returned from that place, Jimmy had gone to sleep. No more nua… nuas; the flyswatter lay limp on the floor next to him.
Grayson dismounted and sat for a moment, held Jimmy in the most pensive of stares. She rose from the floor, went to the cupboard where she scratched away bits of its robin’s egg blue coat. Standing over Jimmy, she ground it and scrotum blood into the palm of one hand, then sprinkled it over his sated face, the last little bit saved for the tiny slack gaping mouth of Excalibur. She took her panties from the toaster, made a masque of them on Jimmy’s sleeping face, blue speckled eyes peeping out through the leg holes. She took a small digital camera from her bag and snapped a couple of pictures. She preferred to remember her men in this way but only in the act of leaving. Legs apart, she stood victorious over the carnival mask she had created. Sun shot through the room in lower waves, dust motes dancing out and in, riding the heat and coating the surface of every and anything. There was a thin dark line on Jimmy’s lower lip. “Dear Jimmy,” Grayson whispered, “You didn’t swallow one of Mister Roach’s legs.” She glanced at the cupboard where a new cockroach stood sentinel over the kitchenette. “They can’t defeat us,” Grayson said as she bent over to pick up the flyswatter.
She sauntered to the door, practicing the languid swish-sway of her gender, inbred generations of allusion and allure. Hand on the knob, she turned around for one last look. “I like it,” she said, “Life is art… now who said that?”
Later in the day, the breathtaking dusk of a Biloxi sunset; Grayson strolled barefoot and peacefully alone on the white-sand beach that owned Biloxi and all else in its environ, delighting in the startling death-hues resplendent in the sky, surely available to her touch and that of none other. She wriggled her toes in the near silt of Mississippi Sound, her private blues and determination to pursue them. She dropped Jimmy’s flyswatter unceremoniously into a Keep Mississippi Beautiful metal trash receptacle. Coltraine had returned, ever-present in the cries of the gulls, deep dark water, the ready pulse and gulp of its wandering weigh. “My favorite things,” Grayson mused aloud. She turned her back on its primordial flow, walked mud-toes slowly toward the first twinkling lights of the city and into its night. “I’m sexy,” she sang over and over, a mantra, in her low, whiskey room, contralto voice.
© 2017 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©