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xmag.com : February 2001 : Deliverance

Pornos for Primates - adult movie review by Rex Breathes


I saw you at the political rallies and poetry readings in your short, shocked black hair, wearing the androgynous uniform of the day: clunky shoes, baggy black pants, nondescript shirt, all so very recycled and Communist of you. Are you the best looking boy or girl at the dance? That's the look I like, too; then again, that made me want to dress you up in heels and a short skirt with no underwear on underneath, and take you to a decadent candlelit bar. My fingers travel up your sighs, find your moistness so I can insert myself while you sip a Manhattan... up. Yes. That's not very Communist and workers-of-the-world-united of you.

Tonight, when I look into your coal black Appalachian eyes, I want to see them glass over with endorphine release from the spanking my hand gives you for being bad.

"What do you mean, you fucked him without my permission?!"

I push her back into the third person, take her short hair and pull it. Her jaw falls open. I gently work my fingers into her mouth and ask her,

"Who's your Poet?" Slowly take my fingers out.

"You are," she whimpers.

"You know my little Communist whore can fuck anyone she wants, whenever she wants, but not without her Poet's permission. And not without telling me everything I want and need to know. Because your mouth is mine. And whatever pleasure your mouth gives and receives is my business." I admit, your pussy doesn't belong to me, yet--afraid to shave it, you are, even though I've demanded, as my Muse, your pussy be completely bare and smooth for me, your Poet. You still keep the thick, coarse Cherokee hair down there, because, my God, what if you got jailed at some protest and your feminist, lesbian, radical, tattooed butch friends were to see you smooth as a little girl... you don't want to be seen shaved down there--even though they'd probably all line up to lick you--because that would be too girly mag and bad politics.

Tonight, when I look into your coal black Appalachian eyes, I want to see them
glass over with endorphine release from the spanking my hand gives you for being bad.
Voodoo Lounge

So it's time for your 'attitude adjustment,' because you fucked him--your younger, same-age-as-you, goes-to-activist-meetings boyfriend--without my permission, so easily granted as it is. Certainly is convenient the way I live in a Bukowskiesque studio on the lip of downtown and my office is located just across the river in the rough part of town, right next door to the newest, trendiest nightclub. I've taken you upstairs there where you've seen my desk, working at a seedy little west coast adult magazine. I like to imagine how politically incorrect you could get, down on your knees, underneath my desk sucking my cock. Sure, my desk is tucked away in a little alcove, but the bathroom is right near by. Anyone could see you on the way to the bathroom, but what could they say. 'I'm working here,' is what I'd say. All they could do is look at your little Communist whore's mouth wrapped around my cock while I surf smut on the web.

But that's not the fantasy we're going to fulfill tonight for your 'adjustment.' Having all access to the building has its advantages tonight, after midnight. We're there in no time. I take you down into the basement where you've never been before. The wooden stairs down are sloppy, uneven and crooked like a junkie's smile. You half fall down the stairs to the concrete floor, unaccustomed to your new uniform: heels, bare legs and a short, black skirt. It's an old building, been there a long time. Rumors say the walls hide tunnels where sailors were Shanghaied to ships docked on the river bound for China and Japan. Air so still, you could feel the breeze from a dog wagging its tail. I take you back into the furthest room of the basement, the bowels where the basement ends, this building begins, and who knows what goes on beyond those crumbling walls. I caress you so gently, purposefully, just a tap on your shoulder lets you know that you're to drop to your knees on the cool, concrete floor. Dimly watched by a 40 watt bulb, I dip into my leather poet's bag and pull out a blindfold made of black silk. Cover your eyes, tie it tight behind your head. Now you're ready to receive me. Just the sight of you that way and I begin to swell up. I rub myself through my pants while I caress your throat and your baby skinned cheeks. I let him out, stroke him some more till he finds his fullness in the dirty shadows. I say,

"This is the way the world ends," brushing my hard cock against your chin; your hungry bubbling mouth opens. "This is the way your world ends and mine begins in the back of your throat." I take a fistful of your short, curly black hair in one hand and splay my cock over your lips with my other, teasing, torturing you. I tell you the words you will say,

"Feed me."

I plunge into your red lipsticked, obscenely wet mouth, going for a black orgasm. Holding you hair in one hand, my other hand cups the base of your throat, backhand, under your jaw; I guide your face back and forth on my big Viagravated dick.

"Who's your Poet?"

I pull her head back off my cock so she can look up at me, unable to see, and respond to my voice,

"You are. You're my Poet."

"That's right. There's no substitute for my literary loins."

I fill her mouth again, lean back against the concrete wall for support, for leverage, pulling her face forward with me. She nearly falls over, her concentration so acute on sucking my cock; she has to suddenly scoot her bare knees along the rough floor to keep her balance. I'm a capitalist pig that manufactures things and want and desire creating inadequacy, isolation. I'm the boss of all the oppressed, frightened workers, one pay check away from living on the streets. I'm the cock in her blind mouth. And so I must peel the black silk up over her eyes, now cresting on her forehead like a sweaty worker's bandana. And I tell her,

"Look at me. Look at me now."

Your glassy eyes, like anthracite coal, reflect my soul bubbling up from beneath all the decay screaming for deliverance. Floating on Appalachia generations going all the way back, I'm mining the coal in your eyes, so fucking hard it hurts. Like a diamond. Cutting glass. Your mouth accepts and sucks me without a single scraping from your perfect white teeth. I must relinquish all my centuries of white oppression in the mystery of your eyes, so deep, now I'm falling; now I'm subjugated. Gypsy eyes. I fill the shadows with the shout of your name, neither your ears nor mine ever dreaming my throat could erupt that way. And you swallow me completely.

I bid you to stand up. Your knees pop and rattle; your thighs and legs are shaky. Your long, strong fingers circle my back. I pull your head to my chest. Kiss your black crow's hair. Stroke the back of your neck. I whisper in your ear,

"We're not finished..."

More pics from Deliverance:




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