Blissy's Song -- 18 (M/f, m/f, inc., rom.) by Feather Touch
Nothing is implied by use of media characters.
Chapt. 18
The gang worked until midnight, slept until seven, and showed up on Clinton Way just as the household was arising. Cliff was a smash and by the time Pete's friend Kelly had produced his friend, Kelly, who turned out to be the boy in the Pfeffercorn commercial, who didn't have to speak to steal the show, they were Bradying to the max.
Steve plugged his camera into the computer, and everyone oh'd and ah'd over all the progress! A rough ditch in, and a deep, rough mote well around the house. "Lots of room for busy Bradys," Steve intoned, adding that they would shortly be engaged in local trade to the extent of purchasing a dozen shovels and a file to sharpen them. Digging with the Bobcat, Steve assured the gang they have half the three thousand square feet of the new house undermined and braced that very day.
For the kids, each and every one, it was a moment. Their minds flew back to how they would have acted four days ago at such news. Marsha, nails, Jan, period, Cindy, hair, Gregg, hair, Pete, singing practice, Bobby, security issues, as well as those relating to truancy. Now it was How far out from the house can we go? If the Brady Bunch kept growing, it was going to be a job for Superman.
Pete approached with Cliff and Cindy. They sat with Steve on a mound of gravel and watched Bobby ease the Bobcat behind the digging crew, getting all the dirt, and wheel it back to the excavation for the dump truck., then ease the machine through another cycle.
"Can we hang out with you, Dad?" Pete asked. Now they were talking playing hooky. Kelly, it turned out, with his friend, Kelly, wanted to hang out with Bobby. Marsha was off on the last date of her life, and had to be pseudo home as she wasn't going out with that kind of boy. Jan and Gregg seemed to be hitting it off better by the hour. Carol needed a whole night off from the steam roller events Alice had set in motion. Everybody happy and even accounted for, which probably wouldn't last very long. Pete and Cliff contrasted brilliantly with the nine-year-old blondie. Where away?
Cliff had heard of a place that was meant to be tops for excitement. If turned out to be the bus depot in Carson. If you had a nice car you could just drive in, and have a choice of hundred of busses any time after nine. The noise of the vacuum station was a blanket cover, and there was plenty of garish sodium light to accent the overall inappropriateness of the setting. With a consensus it was way New Brady, the foursome headed off for a knock-down-drag-out dinner, so as to become better acquainted with Cliff and thus ease into any frenzy tangentially with a little English on the oblique. This makes it handy for me, because I write in the same language. Nothing ever gets lost in the translation.
Steve let Cindy play her cute wine-under-the-table game with Cliff, while Pete was just to be thrilled to be in small company with his New Brady, absolutely cool and totally awesome, dad. Cliff's loyalty to black causes was less than nil, and this helped him fit in in a general sense. His idea was DNA testing should be used to hone in on family groups of prominent American blacks and send them back to a life they presumably would be living, had not their ancestors been amongst the chosen people. God being the Englishman, again, but if the shoe fit... (Don King as Idi Amin might make an exception that proved the rule.) This said, the boy was tickled pink to be black and he and Steve both burned a strong torch for primitive African art. Black magic.
Pete was interested in swimming, which fit Bobby's interest, so the foursome had plenty to talk about as they chewed the tails off their lobsters and fantasized about what Cindy would look like in about half a bikini they'd bought her on the way to dinner. The girl, for her part, brimmed with mischief and with a focused, one-girl flirt-o-rama that left the three males all but panting aloud.
Steve found the tolerance for their behavior not only admirable but sadly indicative of how badly America was missing the freaking boat. It had to be patently obvious that the childish girl was alone with three mature males, and that they were not off to the zoo after sunset. Of course, it was a younger crowd. What if there had been a few of the dreaded Lawrence Welk generation, always crowing about how much they did, when it was a fraction of what their ancestors endured and produced, and quick with the hard looks that vented intolerance. Steve guessed he could have auctioned off the middle rear seat of the car and every male and half the females in the place would have bid. Well, he wasn't quite that New Brady so they just accepted the friendly glances at a happy group. So, if up close and personal, there was so much tolerance, why taboo this and taboo that, and universal castigation of child molesters by each and every media outlet including the porn industry? One in ten thousand would hurt a child and not even that number would try to coax an unwilling partner by means devious or obvious.
They didn't quite get applause as they left, but Steve couldn't help feeling if one person had clapped, he or she would have been joined by every hand on hand. It was interesting to thinks about what the scene might be like on a future night out, with the two Kelly boys in tow. Sure! It would be as close to the sound of one hand clapping as the imagination allowed.
As they approached 190th Street, Cliff and Cindy dove under the wool blanket in the rear seat and the Jaguar cruised through the gate, where Steve showed a bag that might have contained something being delivered to someone, and lost the car in the confusion of shuttling vehicles, finally dropping his passengers at a suitable looking vehicle. He parked the car and, having had the presence of mind to memorize the number of the appropriate bus, quickly returned to their weird hot date location.
Cliff had been right. With the doors closed it was totally private and novel in the extreme. Cindy stood at the rear of the isle, facing the back row of seats. She'd stripped and put on her bikini, probably in the second seat on the right, judging my the evidence of a pile of girl clothing. Two piles of boy clothing, including shoes, socks and underpants showed that the males had been the more daring gender, at last so far. Steve shucked as he walked back and was himself naked half way down the isle. As he approached close enough to see over Cindy's head, there were the teen males sitting side by side, legs touching firmly, with hugely swollen boners.
"Two on every bus," Cindy whispered over her shoulder as her father took her young body gently in his hands, "and there won't be a car on a freeway left."
It was a dazzling concept, because it would work so stunningly well. Two athletic boys, one lily white, circumcised, and twelve, the other an African beauty, vastly macho. They didn't have to do anything, they were a work of art, without peer. No beautiful English dale, not grand Arizona cliff, no seascape, no landscape, no mountain, no field of grain, no painting, no sculpt, no photo. Just a couple of kids. Hell, even a poster would half do the trick. And what do you get? Thousands of words. Black and white. Maybe a picture of a DJ on the way to work. Steve realized there was a ferocious reality to the concept. Give wasted teens something to do. Entice suburban riders, ditch the car Mac, do we have something for you. Since contemporary Graham/Schuller/Swaggert/Robinson morality has gotten us into precisely the up-tight hell hole we find ourselves in, why not try something different? If it saved millions of gallons of gas and endless tons of pollution, who would be the loser? For sure it would give new status and stature to the position of bus boy.
There they were, that beautiful. Two on this bus, at least. Plus this angel doll in his hands. Steve moved from behind Cindy and for the first time Cliff noticed what Bobby had done to him in the shower. He joined Pete, who was seeing his father totally naked for the first time, in an Awesome! Cindy looked down. All boys were awesome, men, moreso, but she did note that there was now a boyish cuteness entirely becoming.
Having completed his male display, Steve sidled again behind his daughter, unfastening her tiny top and draping it over a seat back. Cindy braced on his shoulder as her dad skinned down her panties, and as soon as he stood, she stretched her arms high and arched her back so the boys could see what she liked from a male. Over fifteen minutes, Steve, Pete and Cliff all took the chick from behind, and, while it was all beautiful, Cliff tendering to the lily-white darling was an imagery not temporal. Steve and Pete carefully masturbated each other as Cliff went on and on with the immature body. Cindy encouraged him with every flex and move of her silky girlishness, and not a gram was lost on Cliff who was now shafting his hard erection up between her clenched thighs so the girl could see the tip of him naked.
That was too much for the girl. She danced the African to the rear seat and to make sure there were no complaints, fell to her pretty little knees between the teen's long, athletic legs. Steve departed for just a second, and returned with samples of clothing. Kneeling behind Cindy, he reached around the lass to place a pair of jeans under her knees, being glad he'd had the presence of mind to retrieve a pair for himself.
Cliff linked his left arm with Pete, and lolled back, spreading one leg over Pete's right leg, and the other until it was stretched on the wide rear seat.
"Don't be offended," the girl whispered as she leaned onto the strapping youth's knees, and took him gently at the top in her right hand, "but I want to watch you cum because you're black. If you were white, I'd want you inside me, like my dad is, but I want to see sperm all over you. Yours and Pete's. I have a feeling Daddy's will have to be some other time."
So saying, the girl eased Cliff's foreskin slowly down, gasping when he was fully exposed. Steve became complete stag to the fawn in a series of gentle thrusts that made the girl pant and sweat. Moaning from deep in her throat, she found Cliff with her lips and tongue and explored him with her mouth. Steve's head sagged to watch, Cliff's lolled to one side, so he could also see. Having her father now fully inside her, distracted Cindy from sucking her black lover, so she began to take him with long, firm strokes.
"Pete," the girl whispered, "I want to get Cliff wet with you so it can be really special for him."
The white teen cooperated immediately, moving his hips against Cliff and torpedoing the boy's erection with his own hard penis. Cindy left Cliff in a state of the wildest imaginable anticipation and began stroking the twelve year old. Steve reached alongside his daughter's sweating body and took Cliff, himself, smiling inwardly at the youth's prayer of thankful relief.
Now that he was fully mounted and growing used to the hot, pulsing tightness of the young girl, Steve felt the minute song from the tip of his penis that sang of another male freshly with the female.
"Pete," Steve gasped, "it must be you I feel in Cindy. Bobby's not mature enough to make it feel this way."
"In the shower, this morning," Pete panted in labored response, then groaned, "I'm cumming, Cindy."
The girl was still mesmerized at the overall awesomeness of males, and here was another example. Pete spraying his white sperm all over Cliff. Her dad got a little of the semen on his hand, grabbed her from Pete who began masturbating himself, and guided the child back to where she'd been on Cliff. No slick and wet, the girl's hand became hard and businesslike. Her beautiful brother was making sperm all over them, and she wanted to see more.
"Oh, Cin," Cliff groaned, and began cumming, for long seconds his hard animal spray matching Pete's in covering the silky wet skin of his bare chest. At Cliff's first uncontrolled ejaculation, Steve let his seed rush into Cindy, and the girls shivered and quaked at the hot tornado so deep inside her.
"Now I want you inside me," the pixie gasped as she felt her father begin to still. Steve helped bring her up high on the male, exactly as he had with Bobby, and Pete reached with a wet hand to guide the fourteen year old quickly into the female.
Cindy melted to the male, worked against him for just seconds, and let herself tumble into a long shaking orgasm while her father held her and her brother felt her up. Cliff came off inside Cindy after five years of minutes, shaking the girl for the second time.
In half an hour they were enroute to Sanford Place, new address, with continuing service to Clinton way. It was approaching eleven. As the foursome drove quietly through the California night, they reviewed the pure massiveness of the day, from hours of shoveling, to lobster and butter, to bus boys. All the better to sleep on.
Let's not waste time getting to our instant messages.
Doctor, I feel I'm in a state of denial about being a god. I'm nothing like mortal; is it me or the human race?
Sorry to see Frasier in the ditch. Daphne jealous over a patient, and a little cricket story. How the mighty have fallen. Maybe I can help with an operatic note. Lucia de Lame-O-More. Keeps going at this rate I may not only be the best writer, but end up the only one.
What really astounds me is how much better I am than all other artists. Higher peaks, lesser valleys, if any valleys at all. Athletes deal with balls and pucks while I diddle with kids that don't duck issues concerning literacy, cultural habits and attitudes, and life as it is on most streets of most towns. Every page says something. My characters don't lose their wits, pretty much not matter what. They have a marvelous outlook on life and are magnificent not only in their own happiness, but in that they inspire in others. All of them. They tell you with great precision how you should live your life. Read large, consume small. If I were your king you'd read to your children an hour a day or be publicly whipped. Neither Shakespeare nor Dickens would tell you any such thing, which is why I'm great, and they were great.
By some weird twist of fate I was an enormously alert and charming baby. I think perhaps even my mother enjoyed reading to me until I was two or three. I remember a book titled, "Out Jumped Boo!" Man, o, man did I think that was a funny/scary book. I was still new to talking but I said to myself, self, you are going to write funny, scary books. That my mother was so much scarier than the Boo of literary made me funnier, and Jewry has done a relentless job of making me scarier. Now I have to get used to Michael Jordan's big camera face, again, and that isn't going to help.
A perfect writer is a perfectly ground and coated mirror. It reflects you without a hint of distortion. What you see in me is exactly what you are. This is art, because I am nothing like you, at all. Gives me the creeps just thinking about it. Cold seed. The lowness and meanness of your wants and desires. The superficiality of your intellects. The banality of your existence and vapidity of almost everything from soaps to tattoos. Your mistreatment of small neighbors. I have lived in my town here for ten years, and I've never heard of a child being helped by UNICEF, CARE, Feed the Children or any American based agency. The only way I know these assholes are here is I see their huge spanking new pick-em-up trucks rollin' on the highways. Again, it's you driving the trucks, playing a role, wasting resources, and accomplishing nothing. If you die of shame it can't be soon enough to suit me. You deserve to disappear from the face of the earth like Jimmy Six Fists Four Mouths Hoffa, and the thirty-dollar-an-hour, high-school dropout sandhogs are digging your grave in Boston as I write. Interesting that they call them hogs.' Guess that makes you the swill. There, I've gone and given myself the creeps, again. And the only cure is twenty-five hydrogen bombs dropped on the Arabs. Until then, I'm talking to zombies and that's what you're seeing in the mirror.
The best of whitey is fabulous, amazing and spectacular: god, indeed, an Englishman, but don't you think you're pushing it? Or maybe my buddy Seinfeld at Carnegie Hall is your preference, with Miss Cleo in case the Jew bombs. Wouldn't it be cute if he used my gags? Kenya having no chance in the next marathon; who put the sky back in skyline? Remember? Think of the words of my sweet children, some as young as six.
This, by the way, is not made up copy. My great grandmother, at six, wrote letters in step with my characters. Think of Haley Mills. Mozart wrote an opera at nine.
KTLA has a gufus named Kriski, an always-the-fun-boy Canadian He went to a SoCal montessori where it was one doctorate per so many kids, and one masters for so many kids. Even Kriski said, on air, words to the effect that These kids are nothing. Sure looked like it to my vastly experienced eye. Nothing, nobody all going nowhere, led by masters with doctorates. Of course, perspective and context are the first duty of the writer, so I'll have to allow as how these youngsters do get to go home and watch Big Bird.
The neat thing about liberals is they suffer so unimaginably from their disorder. Rotten kids, almost certain to amount to nothing. And consider the ghastly things they put in their bodies to keep in step with the times. Look what their faggot politics has done to the entire world. How the incessant fanning of racist flames by their media Jews has gutted city after city, leaving Springsteen's Philadelphia. Even IBM has a jewboy pitch apparatus that bobbles the mind with a "Cool-O-Meter." They rejected my external-screen laptop without a trace of interest, but they've got a "Cool-O-Meter." Well, I've got a meter, too. It's called a misery index. All you have to do to make it read zero is cut the crap and do what you're told. Bomb our enemies fast and hard, get rid of Wal-Mart and its ilk, import half a billion immigrants to clean up the mess we've made and get all usable land under use as woodlands or farmland. Do it fast, pay for it by cutting the seniors loose. They've had their turn, good-bye.
"The History Channel" is back on. Excellent hour on concrete. Rome, England, England, France, America. Typical example of a few free headed geniuses inspiring massive change while the priests are praying nothing will ever stem their tithe. Hope you have room for one more. The abolition of democracy is likely to be a tricky process, since it's half collapsed already. Getting used to having as an extreme national motivation Not pissing off the king is going to be new. Very well may be you'd rather be dead, and that's a definite option.
Cyber Sex on "Silicon Spin." The dark side of the force. How many people? My answer is the bath house in Tijuana. It's virtually the first business as you enter TJ, proper,, and draws a modest crowd, indeed. It is perfectly okay to bring kids to this establishment, but men never do. The bath houses in Los Angeles are the same. Often more or less empty, same faces, and there are only six or eight, with perhaps a thousand lockers and cubicles, for eighteen million people. The gay bars are more active, but hardly pandemic, even in West Hollywood, where I worked my first six months in Los Angeles. These figures in no way jibe with the tremendous role of pedophilia in building the internet, and I hope that's because most people are smart enough to realize that fantasy beats reality. In my very modestly active life I have had one, repeat, one fantasy experience with a partner. Everything else was merely fantastic. Just kidding. Nifty and related sites are the best s-e-x the world has ever known and may be fulfillment of the reason it was invented in the first place. (I mean who in their right mind would want real kids, not the kind I write about, which were real two generations ago, but which are now extinct, but the kind that grow to six-four by the time they're fifteen?)
You know, it just occurred to me that it's a good thing I was a little experimental at a time in my life. Since I'm an anti-Semite, censorship laws forbid access to any conventional press. So, as exceedingly modest as my adventures have been, I can use my arty skills to embellish and still half-way know what I'm talking about. Very handy, because with an ego the size of mine it would be most disappointing to be blown half way up Stann Creek Valley and leave no tombstone. Because I fooled around, as an aspiring writer, mind you, I not only get a stone, it has an inscription. It may not be the longest in the world, or then again, it may just, but none other comes within a thousand miles. Again, always what gets me; the extreme nature of my talent. I spend three hours a week drinking in town, and the whole time my fingers are itching for a laptop. You are lousing up so stratospherically, it literally hurts not to be mocking you and slapping your other cheek and other cheek. If I'd known how much fun my mother was having with me when I was three or four I would have been even happier when she died. If you're extremely lucky, and, again, cut the crap, you may have the joy of living to witness my own demise.
Yow I'm back on television. I haven't seen this ad for a couple of months. A Fifties collection called "Rockin' Instrumentals." There's a boy, about thirteen, who appears several times. At one point he's slow dancing on the right of the screen as Santos and Johnny's "Sleepwalking" is playing. He looks so exactly like me I never fail to be almost shocked. Kid, when you hit fifty-five you are going to look fabulous. It's kind of a joke, I guess; here I am, this anonymous scrivener, hiding away in the remote tropics while I could sell a million copies of twaddle based on the face in my mirror, assuming, that is, that I'm not just off a thirty-hour jag at the keyboard. I'm glad I don't have to. My wife's mother was a cutie pie and she said she was glad I asked her to marry me before I met Yvonne. I'm glad you've accepted me so graciously before you locked the old peepers onto my chops. Eat your heart out Paul Newman, is all I can say by way of warning.
I was looking through a family album once, and happened to across a picture of my dad in his twenties. My uncle, Laurie, was standing beside me and I said, Wow, he's the handsomest man I ever saw. Uncle Laurie said, "You ought to look at yourself." He, Uncle L., was CEO of St. Joe, an unlikable prick, but he'd seen plenty of faces. Prince or god. Maybe some day you'll get a chance to decide for yourself, but meantime, keep you eye peeled for "Rocking Instrumentals" and look for the boy in the brown knit shirt.
Still packing them in at the race tracks; wrestling, too. The wounded soldier staggering a hundred yards is a literary cliché, probably based on many true events. I, personally, hauled a dead man out of a car. In fact, I couldn't restrain him from getting out without punching him. So round and round they go, where they stop, nobody knows. Meantime, it must be freaking the biz cats, you know where, that life can proceed an inch in any direction without them. The chutzpah . Again, it brings up a central thought. Was Old New York a nerve center, or a clot?
I mentioned the ICC and the destruction of efficient railroading. The last time I rode a train in the USA it was from Boston to Concord. Wouldn't you just know it, not two hundred yards from Henry's hut, the iron horse came to a stop. We all got out and walked a hundred feet, got on a second train, and completed the run into town. Trucks may have hurt the railroads, but unions that can't even keep a light commuter line safe killed them. Guess, oh just guess what they're doing to the whole country? Need hard evidence? Look at Japan. Billion dollar bridges that carry incidental traffic. Both a railroad and a postal system that are the largest employers on the planet, one, one year, the next, the next. When liberals shit it really stinks, and McArthur was a democrat. So the triumvirate is trucks, unions and the government and a walk on te B&M with enough symbolism for a novel.
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Looks like that "Selena" movie is going to become a classic. Kiddie porn, because Edward James Olmos would be offensive to a Neanderthal watching HDTV for the first time.
Is that freak at Sun a kike? Ellison? Seems to have the lips, and certainly has the mouth. The only problem with capitalism is that it does not have a dude with a pair of tweezers who picks out the spoilers. Jobs has that reputation, Turner, dozens of others and probably no more than a few hundred who make life miserable for all around them, and, if they accomplish anything, it's at the greatest possible cost. Benton on "e.r." is the archetype. They're what Newfoundland is for.
Beautiful bit of genius on the tube the other day. "Beverly Hillbillies" movie. As soon as I saw it, I broke out in cold seed, as they call goose bumps here. Always interesting that glossy Jews actually can recognize the fire of brilliance, rare though it be they emote it. They use the mountain girl time and again in the final gala. Watch her dance, watch me write. Birds of a feather.
Evidence mounts that the end is going to be predictable and pathetic. Bible sales, up thirty percent, books on Islam, sold out, books on prophecy, sales up eighty percent. With the frenzy for the very moronic god that brought you thus, how can there be but one prophecy, and how can it differ from that of the legendary bird that sticks its head in the sand at the approach of the hyena? The only thing I know about god is that if there was one, he'd get so irritated by all the weeping and wailing and special interest praying he'd smite us like a mosquito, probably just for the fun of it. If all the leadership is going to lead you in is prayer, bring sheet music for a requiem in your honor (and don't forget copies for your kids).
Blobs and Plunketts. Pelican Bay. Two guards were killed so the liberals went into Plan B mode, which results in the most horrific prison conditions, albeit on clean tile, ever known. These black boots are overcommitted as peasants often are. If I were to whisper something in your ear it might be to Keep an eye on them.
Hyping Columbus Day Parade in late September. Columbus Day always brings memories of the five hundredth anniversary of the event, and PBS's crying Indian ninety-minute spectacular. Not a nice word about whitey in that package. Well, Injun Joe, you wanted us out of your lives and there is way better than even odds that the spirit of Crazy Horse will once again visit your tepees. You'll be sad not to be able to offer him a cold six pack, but beer never made you happy in the first place.
Enemy at the Gate. The Soviet as hero. First time, last time, only time. Where is McCarthy when we need him? The film in attitude and moiré certainly provides evidence of a tight Jewish Bolshevik connection. Nice time for it to re-emerge. Komrads and kikes. Maybe they can double temple time, you know, a professional droner for the scrolls, and maybe a little louder mouth for the manifesto because there is such a utopia involved.
By the way, there's a lie in this story. In Chapter 14.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
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