Destiny moves her ass round and round in time to the music, the g-string she wears completely exposing the cheeks of her ass to the view of the bar patrons.
She lets the audience lead her, the music making this easy to do, with its slow, heavy forgiving rhythm, as though the band is tired, is dragging its breath, its fingers, its hands and arms through the notes, notes which resist, which must be pushed through the horn and sax, plucked with great reluctance from the bass, punched out of the drums and cymbals, a draggy, whiny presence, the melody, one which would rather be left alone in solitude and hibernation than dragged forth into the light, even the dim, murky, humid light of this sleazy place, the lights kept low so that nobody will see the stucco walls that need repair, the paint job that needs renewal, the floor whose vinyl tiles had long ago developed elaborate cracks which catch and hold the filth and do not respond to the desultory, early morning cleaning by an indifferent and underpaid service.
Destiny is not her real name, of course.
Only a total ass hole would actually expect somebody to actually be named Destiny.
But that is the only name the patrons know her by.
And it fits.
Because she is a young girl, actually, just out of high school.
But that body, those glands and curves are not those of a girl.
Rather, they belong to a grown woman, to one who has reached the peak of her maturity, who stands at absolute ripeness, awaiting the force of gravity which can, momentarily, be expected to begin its work, tugging on those huge, pear-shaped breasts of hers which sport doorbell nipples at their full, wide ends.
But she is well named Destiny.
Because she carries the promise and the threat of the future within herself, radiating both with every move of her large, voluptuous body.
The face of youth, she has, not yet hardened, oxidized by time into rough edges and tough expressions like those of the other dancers.
The face of youth, but a body whose power men behold with a combination of desire and trepidation.
Because, with few exceptions, they cannot compete with her.
And all men carry, within their natures, that part of sexual desire which is competitive, not only with each other, but with the actual object of their attentions, the potential object of their lascivious desire.
Because the image is for two, not one.
So that they must see themselves in action, when the pictures form in their minds.
And to see themselves in action with Destiny is to see themselves outclassed.
What body would they have to assign themselves, what cock, in order to be worthy of Destiny, in order to imagine themselves "holding their own"?
Certainly not this present sweating flab or fat or skin and bones.
Certainly not this aging, out of shape torso which they themselves are at pains to avoid, even when shaving or in the solitude of the shower.
So that, even as they watch her and dream, they temporize.
They have not done too badly, on balance. All things considered, they are okay. They have their health.
Granted, it is not the powerful, robust good health they see up there on the small stage, the fixed spotlight glaring off the voluptuous, undulating curves to the recorded music, but still, with the help of aspirin and Maalox, they are not in need of medical attention, at least.
And, if they could not afford it, they would not be here.
If most of them did not have good jobs, jobs that could even be considered important, they would not be here, here in this sleazy booze boutique where the entertainment begins by taking off its clothes.
Because this is not the heart of town but a piece of frontage road near the airport, this stretch of small, run-down bars.
Between flights, they are, many of them.
So that there is no question of waiting around while the action builds up.
It has to be there, right up front, because there is no time.
Two, three hours between flights.
A night on the town, out of town, before meetings, between meetings.
So that some are here the night before, seeking diversion, voyeuristic acknowldedgement of the amorality of travel.
What happens away from home doesn't count-so long as they just look, right?
And some are here mid-conference, awaiting the dawn and breakfast and the resumption of whatever it is on the agenda for tomorrow, so that this is all right, they can always doze through the morning session if they only get three, four hours' sleep tonight, or rather this morning.
And some are leaving shortly, catching a red-eye to be back at the office in the morning, half a continent away, losers, middle management who travel on their own time, lest they deprive the company of their all too dispensable services.
Mission accomplished, mission failed, they are in transit.
Their bodies are in transit.
Whereas their minds are anchored, heavily laden with the frustrations of their existence and the images which beckon to them from a never-never land, from behind an invisible and impenetrable barrier.
Images like the one before them, the image of Destiny, real and unreal, all in one.
Real, all too real, she is, her flesh revealed in all its splendor, in all its detail.
Not just any curves, but her curves.
Not just any jugs but those heavy melons, high and full, the pectorals beneath them in great shape, the girl herself on a scale just slightly larger than life.
Which adds to her irreality, to the aura of fantasy which surrounds her.
As she lets the music and the feedback of lust from the audience move her, shoving her this way and that, gently, slowly nudging her.
Because Destiny can feel it.
She can feel it in the unabashed, glazed stares of the loners.
She can feel it in the groups, some of them gaping sophomorically, clowning, thereby concealing what they really feel toward her, others taking the opposite tack, playing it cool, their faces expressionless masks as the tingling in their abdomens tells the truth.
She can feel it, the energy, even a little of the heat, coming from the audience.
She can feel it, understand it, feed off it-and not care.
Because there is no way one person can become another.
There is no way they can transform themselves into that which is worthy, in the strictly physical sense, of making love to her, of going to bed with her, of having sex with her.
So that she knows.
She knows that, even in their fantasies, this is not what is happening.
No, in their minds, they are not fucking her, but doing everything else.
They are actually tasting those silver dollar-sized nipples of hers, feeling their irregular tips against the tips of their tongues, their broad aureolae, rougher than the surrounding expanse of smooth, firm, blue-veined flesh, against the flat, drooling surfaces of their tongues.
They are feeling the solid but yielding masses of her mammary glands in their fingering, fondling, kneading, squeezing hands.
They are losing their faces in her cleavage, sandwiching their faces between the twin towers of tit.
They are losing themselves in her warm, voluptuous vastness, helping themselves to mouthfuls of her undulating flesh, tasting her, tasting the reality of her.
They are sliding down, down, down her curvaceous body on their salivating tongues, heads gliding like snails on their extended, slime-oozing foot as they continue their salacious journey in their minds.
And yes, they are tasting her-wait a minute, the g-string interferes.
But now, on the stage, Destiny slides it down, the thin strings gliding over the flared bell of her hips.
Down, down, down it goes, her feet together, hips swaying heavily to the even heavier, relentless rhythm.
She steps out of the g-string.
And quickly, before the audience, the dreamers, the tongue-trippers can get a really good look at her snatch, turns her back to them, bending over, legs spread, to pick up the g-string.
So that there, there! it is.
It.
Her pussy, its large, pink labia exposed between tufts of dark hair, as she recovers the g-string and, straightening up slowly, hips swaying, tosses it almost lazily off stage.
And does not turn around.
Rather, she stands there, hips swaying in time to the music, or rather to the drumbeat and crash of cymbals, the melody receding into the background, into a bare hint of tone.
As she goes lower and lower, bowing away from them.
As, hands on the cheeks of her ass, she spreads them, wider and wider.
As the audience gazes in rapt fantasy.
Because unattainable, untouchable she may be, in reality.
But then, how real is real?
Because here, here! is reality.
Her ass hole, her big bung with its puffy segments, pale mauve even in the glare of the harsh spotlight, is showing them its individuality, its uniqueness and therefore and thereby its intimacy.
And she gives them a long, slowly undulating look, holding it out there to them, letting them absorb it in full detail.
That's right, guys, this is where my shit comes from, she seems to say.
As they gawk-and dream.
Because here is reality and the unreal combined, at its lascivious best.
Here is the best of both worlds.
They can sit here in the audience, safe, civilized, anonymous.
And they can also-eat her shit!
Yes, that's right.
In their mind's eye, they can just see themselves, sealing their lips to the large orifice, its irregular, slightly elongated shape formed by the puffy, protruding segments.
And not her hands but theirs now spreading her cheeks wide, wide, wider.
So that her ass hole is distorted horizontally, the segments gaping slightly open.
As they chew and suck her bung.
As their tongues probe deeply into the heat of her rectum.
As they fuck her in the ass with their tongues, while continuing to suck her bung, while carrying on with their hands, which squeeze her ass cheeks, even as they move them round and round, faces buried in the crack of her ass, tongues probing deeper and deeper.
As they explore her in ultimate intimacy.
As they ream her ass with their tongues.
As they solicit, elicit that which lies deep within, summoning it, harder and harder until, until-yes!
Why not?
This is fantasy combined with reality, after all.
So that there is no smell, no taste.
But there is texture, as convenient, elongated, bite-sized shapes transfer from bung to tongue and are swallowed, again and again.
As their sex-fevered brains exclaim, Yeah, baby, gimme yer fuckin' shit!
And all the while, they can swig from their long-necks, eyes glued to her, the fantasy continuing unabated.
As she turns around.
As she thrusts her hips forward, pulls her body back.
And spreads the lips of her pussy apart. So that yes, they can see it all, they can see the large nub of her clit, right there.
And yes, that's exactly where it is-right there! Meaning right here.
Meaning in their presence, as real, as immmediate as the here and now.
Moist and pink it is, shiny in the spotlight.
As they move closer and closer to it, in their minds.
As their heads crane forward-and keep going. As their necks extend.
As they become Plastic Man in their arousal, their inspiration.
So that here, now, they can, they can-taste her goodies.
They can taste her warmth, her wetness.
They can strum that joy buzzer of hers with their flickering, drooling appendages.
They can hold her thighs aloft-big thighs, hefty thighs, thunder thighs-they can hold them raised and spread as she lies back, sighing in passionate surrender.
And they fuck her with their tongues.
Yes, in and out, in and out they shaft, their tongues swollen in their excitement, engorged to thick massiveness.
And drooling uncontrollably, their secretion matching that of the hot, juicy cunt-that exact one-that they are servicing.
And service it they do now, tongues moving in and out, in and out of her hot, drooling depths, sliding across her now fully engorged nub of a clit both ways.
Delicious, she is, making them salivate all the more.
And yes, yes, maybe not before, but now, right here and now-they can!
Because that is a real boner they have, and this is the real world.
So that there is none of that penis panic, none of that sudden, terrifying shyness as their body, not used to the bodies of strangers, especially strangers with equipment of this magnitude, betrays them, wastes them, wastes the moment.
No, there is none of that.
Not here, not now, not in this man's fucking reality.
None of that namby-pamby, pantywaist sicko bullshit for them!
Because they are man, all fucking hot, potent, virile man!
No question!
True, the world frustrates them, holds them back. But not here, not now! Because their crotches bulge. And not with one of those weak, momentary surges, either.
Because this is the old big baton. Yes, dick's himself again.
As he was meant to be, rock hard and fucking right up there!
Tingling, pulsating with vibrant, virile life, he is, it is.
And he needs no fantasy, no daydreaming right now.
Because, dammit, he could do it!
I mean to say, he could fucking take her, right here, right now, in front of all these fucking losers.
And care less, give a shit less.
Because he is what he always knew he was, for sure, for sure.
Stud of studs, he is.
And an invisible chorus in his head drowns out the stage music in favor of Handel, as the Hallelujah Chorus, appropriately modified for the occasion, bursts into climactic grand finale-
Stud of studs, and co-ock u-huv cocks and he shall reign for ever and e-he-ver!
As, with a discordant crash of cymbals, Destiny finishes her act.
And just in time, the stud tells himself, because we were about to have an accident here.
As his trouser snake goes back off point.
As it calms down to a lazy hard-on.
As it accommodates itself once more to its narrow confines.
But its tingling glow leaves him at once excited, satisfied, becalmed.
So, he thinks, I haven't lost it yet, I've still got it.
Even for something like what he has just seen, gazing now at the empty, dark stage, Destiny's ghost still up there performing, tantalizing.
Except that now, he is no longer unworthy of her. Hell, he could take the big bitch, no fucking sweat.
No question.
No question but that he could have a date with her, could take her to his hotel room, could do the fucking deed.
And if that cannot happen in reality, well, what can he say.
Her loss, right?
Damn staight, her loss.
Although.
She's got a big cunt, a big ass hole, a puffy bung.
So that both orifices have been used, used repeatedly and with great frequency.
He knows; he can tell.
But when, where, and by whom?
And he feels a wave of nausea, a sickening sense of waste.
Somebody is getting into that, getting into it on a regular basis.
Yes, a regular basis!
Meaning, like, tonight, or rather, in the wee hours of the morning. But who?
The greasy-looking mafioso type he sees walking around from time to time, obviously the manager of the place?
The stone-faces that were here when he came in and still are, glasses of water in front of them, not being pressured by the waitresses, being strictly ignored by them and vice versa, the bouncers, obviously?
Or is it some guy, mid-thirties, say, wearing an open-throated sportshirt over his broad, hairy chest, gold chains resting around his sun-bronzed neck as he swings into the parking lot in his Caddy convertible, rugged features partially obscured behind sunglasses, aviator style, even though it is night?
But no, not this last.
Because that is his own alter ego, himself as playboy.
And that is not real.
But his hard-on sure as hell was!
And on that note yes, hell yes, he'll have another beer!
But he wants no company from any of these other dancers, the ones, clad now in their starting costumes, who circulate among the patrons, now become hostesses.
Meaning drinking companions, people to talk to (about anything), people to proposition (fat chance!), people to buy drinks for (the whole idea, and he knows it).
No, he doesn't want any of the lesser talent.
Not now.
He prefers Destiny's memory to their physical presence.
The idea of Destiny is hotter than their company. No comparison, in fact.
And, now that his body has confirmed to him his actual status as stud of studs, his hidden identity, his alter ego, he wants no company but that of his own thoughts.
Unless.
But that's not going to happen, and he knows it.
Just as he knows that Destiny will not appear among the patrons at this time.
No, he can see those curves now, in the shower, can see her hands gliding, with soapy washcloth, over her own contours, can see her idly scrubbing her boobs, rolling them around absent-mindedly, oblivious to her own sexuality as she reflexively washes off the sweat of the spotlight's heat, the grime of the atmosphere, laden with the scent of beer and stale bodies, glands secreting their excitement.
From all those male animals in heat, himself among them.
Among them, but not of them, not lumped in with them, dammit!
And again that nausea.
Because he could have done it!
Does she understand that?
Waddaya, nuts? he asks himself, catching himself becoming over-wrought.
She doesn't know him.
She has never seen him in her life, and she never will.
And the nausea gives another surge. What a fucking waste! He wasted a perfectly good hard-on. Not that he has a problem with his Johnson, mind you.
Hell, if nothing else, he has just proved that, has given himself a prime demonstration to attest to the fact of his potency.
But he can only sigh in regret.
Other times, other lives, right?
Their paths can only cross as they just have.
Which is not a crossing at all.
They are ships that pass in the night, she an ocean liner, he a trawler.
He has seen her, but he doubts that she even knows he exists.
But surely, he tells himself, surely she could feel his excitement, his thought waves, his eyes upon her, communicating with her.
Yeah, right, he tells himself. You and a hundred other fucking jamokes sitting here with their tongues hanging out.
Because she was not like the others; them, he could take in stride.
Better than anything he ever had in person, some of them-face it, most of them-but, in this atmosphere, he can afford to be a sexual gourmet, to reject them out of hand.
Yes, he rejects them before they can ever reject him.
He can afford to play that game with them and be out nothing.
And in fact, it gives him a certain sense of power to wave them off, to cancel their approaches to him.
Even though he is just some stranger they want to buy drinks for them and thereby enhance the house's profits.
Still, there is a certain superiority to shrugging them off, to rejecting their company.
Saying to them, in essence, No, I do not want you for my harem, I require something better, something truly worthy of me, of my manhood, of the stud I know myself to be.
But this is bullshit, he knows.
He could not service a harem.
And doesn't really want to try.
No, he only wants one thing, one woman right now.
Destiny.
But alas (again that surge of nausea, that sense of waste of what he has to offer, of waste of time, waste of his life), that is not to be.
For one thing, she doesn't know he exists.
For another, he knows that he is not physically imposing, is not in any sense her ideal male partner, the man for whom she would experience a surface attraction.
And then too, he has a plane to catch.
CHAPTER TWO
The new girl, Tony thinks. Destiny.
He knows her real name well enough; it's right on her application, on her W-2.
He knows where she comes from, who her parents are, at least by name, what high school she graduated from.
He also knows that this is her first job, the first place she has ever worked in her life.
Which fascinates him all the more.
Because she is his fucking star attraction, no question.
No question but that she is the one the customers take seriously. Seriously.
Meaning that the joking, elbowing, sophomoric surface enthusiasm they love to demonstrate for each others' amusement has no place in their deportment when Destiny appears.
He has seen it, over and over again.
Conversations cease-attention is directed toward the stage.
And then there are the remarks.
Because there are no remarks.
Not even from the loudest, the most unruly patrons in the place, the ones Rocco and Alphonse have to keep an eye on.
Calms them right down, she does, does Destiny.
Because all she ever wears out there is a g-string and high heels.
Very effective, that,-Tony knows.
He has had only one other dancer over the years who had an effect resembling Destiny's.
Darlene, her name was.
She was big like Destiny, only older, about thirty, maybe, maybe thirty-five at the time, as Tony recalls.
And she was brassy, as only a bleached blonde can be brassy.
Her hair-black or brown, Tony never saw it in its natural state-was bleached platinum, which looked good, at least on stage, against her naturally swarthy complexion.
And it made a striking contrast to her black bush, of just the right thickness, not so thick as to obscure anything, but showing the individual curls at the edges.
She trimmed it a little, but seemed to know just the right way to do it.
Anyway, she would come out on stage wearing a cocktail dress, topless, backless, frilly, summery.
But it would break away from her body.
Held in the back by Velcro fasteners, it was.
So that all she had to do was to reach behind herself, bending over in time to the music, of course, undo the two spots, and-ta-da!
There it was.
Big fuckin' tits, she had!
And that black bush with the blonde hair up top.
And it gave Tony-well, not just Tony, any guy who saw it, saw her and wasn't dead from the navel down-that quick zing, that sudden thrill, and, in Tony's younger days, which those were, an actual if faint flush to the face.
One minute, she was a large, attractive blonde, well worth the second glance.
But the next?
Magic!
There was no other word for it, because that's just what it was-magic.
She was every-man's dream, after if not before the fact.
Every man's dirty, lascivious dream, that is.
If you thought sex, you thought Darlene.
If she didn't already exist in your mind as the ultimate sex partner, she planted herself there in the flash of that first moment of revelation.
She was just-there!
And maybe that was part of the magic, that Tony could never figure out what he meant by that. The thereness of her. Meaning what?
Her reality, of course, the confirmation that yes, there is such a woman in the world, that she exists in nature and that she is not some impossible mental construct, some unattainable if droolingly lascivious ideal.
But reality alone did not explain it, did not explain her.
Because there was no explanation, not in words, anyway, not in ordered thought processes, not even when he tried, tried to figure her out, to discern her true meaning.
It was a, a ... thing of the body.
It was like a sensation, a complex of sensations, a million and one feelings coming together.
And Darlene would give you no peace, Tony recalls.
Okay, there was the magic, the mystical, the deep down sexual shock of suddenly seeing her there, solid, real, revealed.
And no sooner did she land that blow, leaving the senses reeling with the realization-the making real-of her sheer physical presence, than she would make her moves.
Her moves, Tony thinks, and a thrill stirs his groin at the memory.
Because she would put her hands above her head, as the music went into some middle eastern thing, with heavy tambourines and wailing flutes.
And she would move.
Or rather, they would move, those melons of hers.
Around and around they would go, circling clockwise, the crowd too agape at the sight to applaud.
Then, she would throw them into reverse, making them go the other way, all that gland, all that flesh moving with mechanical perfection.
And then, she would revolve them toward each other, cleavage appearing and disappearing as the twin monster mammaries formed and destroyed it.
Then, away from each other, in perfect muscular control at all times.
And she did not put on any airs.
She did what the rest of the nookie in the show did as well, at least up on stage.
Which was to bend over and show her goodies, all of them.
Front and back, she showed.
She smiled at the audience, too.
But it was an inward smile, the smile of somebody all alone, engrossed in their own thoughts, thoughts of their own self, their own image.
Because that was the other thing with her.
A completeness.
One person can never become another, of course, but still, there is an interplay, a reaching out, this thing that people do who acknowledge that others exist and are of some meaning, if not importance to each other.
With her, there was none of that.
She didn't need-anybody.
Tony fucked her.
But it was not because he fed her a line, not because she had any interest in him.
It was more like, Hey, why not?
Unfortunately, that's also what it was like in the sack as well.
She was there.
But the thereness of her was not like it was on stage.
Because that thereness was the confirmation of a reality which, otherwise would have existed only as a potential, an unattainable image in the mind.
Whereas this was totally lacking in such shock value, had in fact no spontaneity whatever.
It was like a song the Beatles were singing at the time.
If you want it, here it is, come and get it.
So that her thereness was that of an object, in the literal sense; in other words, a thing.
The body was there, was available, was his.
And yes, he availed himself of it, in the sense of a physical facility.
Oh, he explored her, her every contour, her every nook and cranny.
With eye and fingers, hands and tongue he covered all the bases.
And, even with her extreme passiveness, she was worth "doing".
The quantity and quality of those boobs of hers!
The taste of her body, even of her pussy!
So that Tony would become excited just handling her, fondling her, kneading, squeezing, manipulating and finally eatiner her out.
Yes, he would raise that big staff of his in a matter of, say, five minutes, and this with no help or response from her, other than her raising and spreading her legs when he went to eat her and keeping them there as he fucked her.
And fuck her he would, wallowing, losing himself in that fantastic body of hers.
And scooping up her big legs from beneath, showing her, showing himself that he was actually very well suited to her in the physical department, being a big, strong guy and all.
So that now, she was doubled up, impaled on his big boinker.
So that he could handle her jugs with both hands while holding her in position.
So that, bending his head forward, he could suck her tits and fuck her at the same time.
So that he could envelop her, could possess her completely.
So that he could be inside and outside, above and below and all around her, at the same time.
But he could not break that complacency, that completeness of hers, no matter what he did.
However great his staying power-and back then, it was great indeed, a matter of considerable pride for him-however fantastic his technique-and he used to drive the fuckin' bracchioles up the wall with it-she took him in stride.
He could not raise the flush of her passion.
He could not cause the sweat of it to form on her.
In short, he could not get through to her.
So that he was, in essence, masturbating himself with her.
That's right, he had to concluded, finally, what he was doing was jerking off, using her as the geeks and creeps would a rubber inflatable doll.
She was a walking hand job.
She was a way to jerk off without having to form the mental images.
She was an easy lay-the easiest in fact-and, for him, an easy come.
Pleasant enough in its way, he supposes, but what grown man wants to jerk off?
Especially when there was so much stuff around. Especially when you were a rising young business man like Tony.
And he could not even claim she was insulting him.
Because, at least after that first time, he knew what he was getting into.
And went for it anyway, hoping for a change. But the change never came. Not even when he tried fucking her in the ass. And more than tried.
And had a good time trying, a good time doing her, doing it.
Because face it, that great big, beautiful ass of hers has something.
Something to look at, something to feel with hands and fingers.
And something to spread, something to behold when he had done so, that big bung of hers, pink and round and evenly segmented and slightly protruding.
And yes, he enjoyed it, enjoyed it thoroughly, in fact.
As he sealed his lips to her ass hole, sucking it, chewing it, his tongue probing the juncture of the segments.
And then penetrating her, feeling her interior heat, feeling the soft, yielding tissues of her rectal wall.
And moving his tongue round and round inside her ass.
And pulling his face back, wetting the fingers of one hand and inserting two of them in, in, into her ass hole.
And moving them round and round, the pressure of his knuckles widening, slackening her entrance still further as he reamed her interior with his delving digits.
Until he was convinced that she could take him with ease.
And, in the event, she did.
With so much ease that it seemed to him that he was making no impression at all upon her, as though her mind were somewhere else or perhaps nowhere at all, but in any case not on the action at hand.
Still, he was excited.
Because this was, she was a marvel of female flesh, no question, never a question of that, his enthusiasm for her, for the image she projected and of which she was the realization never waning.
As he sat back on his heels, his knob hobbling stiffly at the end of his monster baton.
And he remembers, remembers every last detail of it.
He remembers how he polished his knob with a blob of saliva, even how it glistened, reflecting the light of her bedroom.
And he remembers the action, remembers the appearance and the feel of it, of her.
As he buttoned his cock head into her ass hole.
As he felt her vestibule caressing his knob, welcoming it.
And he remembers her ass hole, stretched now to a perfectly rounded, smooth orifice, clinging to his cock as though it were a mouth about to suck his prick.
And in fact, he recalls, it seemed to be sucking him in, in, into itself.
As he rotated his hips, both his hands on the swell of hers, as he pushed slowly forward.
So that he was literally screwing himself into her ass.
So that he was spiralling in and in and into her, the battering ram head of his cock parting the rectal channel, stretching it, filling it with his shaft as he advanced.
Until he was fully seated, the cheeks of her ass pressing lasciviously against the hard slab of his stomach.
And he was into her all they way, into this glorious creature's ass, the top man, the winner in this most intimate act of physical giving.
And he heightened the intimacy of it now, releasing one hip and reaching down and around to weigh one of those magnificent udders of hers, to thumb its large nipple.
Yes, he remembers playing with them as they hung below her, firm and massive and very, very heavy, the biggest, the heaviest jugs he had ever encountered.
As he began to fuck her.
As the image in his mind, he recalls, was exactly what was happening-himself fucking Darlene in the ass while playing with her tits.
The image of himself doing that while thinking of himself doing that, and so on, an endlessly introverting and introverted image which drove itself into the innermost depths of his consciousness.
And she took it all, took it even when, placing both his hands back on her hips to steady her, he began to go crazy.
Yes, he fucked her in the ass using every motion he could think of.
He pistoned in and out of her-hard, pounding thrusts which rocked her, which set up a seismic wave which coursed through her body, ass to shoulders.
And he rotated, round and round, reaming her ass with his mighty marauder.
And he rotated while ramming and jamming.
With an inner viciousness he acted, at one point, he recalls.
Teeth gritted, glowering at her expressionless back, he assaulted her with his turgid invader, battering her, hammering on her insides with its wrecking ball of a head.
And she took him.
She took everything he had to hand out to her. And remained rock steady, remained maddeningly calm.
And yet, he knew, is to this day convinced, that, on some level, in some manner, he was, had to be, getting through to her.
Nobody could take what he did to her ass and not feel-something.
So that that then became a part of his fantasy, became the fantasy part of that reality.
Which was that yes, in a manner unclear to him, then or now, he was reaching her, was getting through to her.
So that she was, she was ... enjoying it.
At some level of her awareness, of her body's awareness, it was happening for her.
Had to be.
Had to be, because it was impossible for her to be that sexy, to have that much, that much ... stuff, and not be impacted by the very acts for which she was, let's face it, made.
And yes, he remembers, remembers making one last attempt at getting her to show something.
And he succeeded, at last; or so he would like to believe.
Because he reached back down, down and around, the position awkward, his hand reaching beneath her belly, finding her hairy crotch.
And two fingers delving into it, searching, searching-
And finding.
Her joy buzzer, her clit.
Which he twiddled between the two fingers.
And which was not dry.
Which was slick with the juices of her pussy, of her warm, if not hot pussy.
And which was, granted, rather large of its kind to begin with, but which quickly took on a firmness, its engorgement, to him, an established fact.
So that it was being doubly stimulated, from within and from without.
So that it was, in essence, his prisoner, his captive, to thus amorously stimulate, to thus determinedly, delightfully torture.
Because she did, she absolutely did, give him her ass.
No question.
No question but that she was holding nothing back from him, that she was not tensing up, not in any way hampering him, was, in that sense at least, totally receptive to his efforts and attentions.
So that maybe, just maybe, he was getting through to her.
But so complete was she, in and of herself, so little in need of outside contact, so independent of anybody or anything beyond her own physical self that this was as far as she could go toward deriving pleasure, even the most ultimate of pleasure, from another.
Encouraged by this notion, Tony redoubled his efforts.
And pumped in and in and into her, all the way.
So that, very soon, spurt after spurt of his thick, hot, copious jism was injecting itself in and in and into the depths of her bowels.
As he came and came, continuing to drive his hard, thick, long, discharging intruder into her, again and again.
And yes, he rode her, all the way down.
And lay atop her, fully inserted.
And saw, or imagined he saw, a slightly heightened pinkness to her cheek.
And he lay there, watching it fade, which meant that it was not entirely his imagination.
As his cock slowly detumesced within her ass.
Until it was sufficiently flaccid that the peristaltic action of her bowels was able to expel him, turd-like.
And still he lay there, wondering at the size of her, the beauty of her, the raw sexuality of her.
And at the lack of responsiveness of her.
And preferring to believe, on the scantiest of evidence, perhaps even in the absence of evidence, that he had gotten through to her.
He never knew for sure.
Certainly, she never told him a thing, never said anything about what they did, before, during or after.
And that was the last time Tony fucked Darlene. Because a man has his pride, especially a large, strong, ruggedly handsome, virile stud like Tony. And he didn't need that.
He didn't need the lack of appreciation, no matter what the reason behind it might be.
Whether it was him or her, the fact remained that he could do better.
Not in the sense of physical partner; that would be impossible, as he would be the first to admit.
But in responsiveness?
She was, had to be, his worst ever.
And his pride at the fact of possessing her, of having her available to him any time he wanted, well, that would carry only so far.
Because, as far as that goes, there were plenty of other good looking heads, better looking than Darlenes, for that matter, heads that heads would turn to see him with, for sure.
So that he was not about to waste himself on her on the off chance that, somewhere deep down inside himself, in a manner unknown to him, she was in fact enjoying her sexual experience with him.
Even back then, he was running a club for the outfit.
And she asked him for a raise. And he refused. And she was gone.
And he never saw, never heard from her, never heard of her again.
The body that wouldn't quit, she had.
And it remained in his memory, the thought of her undiminished in all these years.
While the image and memories of other, hotter numbers faded, melting all into one.
To form the archetypal hot number, the stacked and sexy bitch in heat.
Hourglass figure, swivel tits and flaring hips, smaller than Darlene, but infinitely hotter than Dar-lene.
Yes, that became, is the one he holds in his mind now.
As he fucks whoever he fucks with his eyes closed.
Because Darlene is the last one he fucked with his eyes open.
Better to fuck the ideal than the real, it is.
And it is, perhaps, the main magic of sex, the joyous mystery of it, that it can encompass both worlds, the real and the ideal, while transcending them both.
So that, if Darlene taught Tony nothing else, she taught him that sex is all in the mind.
So that perhaps, in that sense, all sex is masturbation.
And the only difference between one sexual act and another lies in the devices we use to masturbate with.
Because, woman or hand, for Tony, the images remain the same.
Even when, as is his practice nowadays, he dates women who resemble his ideal-latin, stacked and sexy-he closes his eyes.
And of course, women do that anyway-close their eyes, that is-so they never know that he is not peering intently into their faces, his own becoming redder and redder, his expression goofier and goofier until, together, they go over the rainbow.
Togetherness and separateness, Darlene's other lesson for Tony.
Which is that, for him at least, there is no longer a true merging of bodies, no longer that losing of himself in another, in an entity comprised of both of them.
In the end, we have only ourselves.
So Tony believes now, AD, after Darlene.
But then, that's just as well, he reflects.
So that now, after all these years, there comes another which arouses within him what he felt for Darlene.
But this time, he will approach without high hopes, without great excitement.
So that, if Destiny proves as cool as Darlene, he will not be disappointed.
CHAPTER THREE
"Waddaya think, Al?" Rocco asks Alphonse, as they scan the crowd, still applauding after Destiny's act.
"I uh, I never watch the girls no more, t'tell ya the truth, Rock.
"I got the wife, the kids.
"I make a nice living here.
"I got the boat down the marina, my house may not be no palace, but it ain't no fuckin' trailer either, so what do I want with some fuckin' young cunt, 'specially one waves it around for a huncha drunks an' losers?"
"Just axin' ya about that partic'lar one, Al.
"No need fer no fuckin' speech."
"I know what choo was axin', Rock.
"The hell ya think I hadda go over it for?"
They grin.
"Hadda lcxik at cher cards one more time, huh?"
"Damn straight.
"I ain't dead yet, y'know.
"Once't in a while, one of 'em up there'll get through t'me.
"Ain't happened in a while, but it still happens, knock wood."
And he does, on the table, through the oilcloth of red and white checks, reminiscent of a pizzeria.
""Ey, nice ta know there's still lead in the pencil, that's Psure," Rocco concedes.
Then, "How old ja think she is, Al?"
"Hell, I dunno, Rock. Din't take that close a look at 'er face, y'know?"
"Take a guess, see how close ya come."
"Uh, okay.
"I'll say, I'll say ... twenny-five, maybe."
"Wouldja b'lieve, Al-check this out, I kid joo not-eighteen."
"No!"
"Read my lips, Al; eight fucking teen years old, that is."
"Then uh, all I can say is, that ain't gonna last, Rock.
"Too much of it t'stay in place much longer. "I mean, I thought, you know, she was like just gettin' there, reachin' her peak an' such."
"She is, she is!
"So I'd say this is definitely a case of gettin' it while the gettin's good, wouldn't choo?"
"Speakin' for myself or for the bachelor next ta me, Rock?"
"You we arready know about, Al.
"You just reread me the fuckin' pledge of allegiance, remembuh?
"Talkin' about a well-built, single, early thirties type such as myself."
"Who has yet ta date one of these picchiacs workin' here."
"Who has yet ta see one worth stickin' my fuckin' salami into, 'til now," Rocco qualifies.
"Yeah, well, check wit' Tony before y'make a move on that."
""Ey, y'think the boss is innarested?"
"He ain't dead yet, Rock.
"From what I seen, he does better'n you."
"Hey, I go for quality, not quantity."
"Yeah, well, this Destiny broad's got it all, so uh, just watch y'self, is all I'm sayin' here, y'know?"
"So I'll axe 'im first, is all.
"What could he say-no?"
"He could say no," Alphonse replies, nodding.
"So if he does, then it's no.
"No means fuckin' no."
"It also means no fuckin'."
"No fuckin' her, y'mean.
"Waddaya think, she's the on'y fish inna fuckin' sea?
"For Tony, she just might be."
And Alphonse sips from his glass.
And Rocco punches him in the shoulder, laughing, making the water spill onto his sportshirt.
"Yer bustin' my fuckin' chops, right, Al? Am I right?
"Yer so fuckin' jealous 'cause I'm single you can't fuckin' see straight!
"I'm goin' for it, y'fuckin' mamone, so eat cher fuckin' heart out!"
"Just axe first, is all I'm sayin, Rock."
"I'll axe first, Al; I'll axe her though, not him.
"I always axe the broads.
"I ain't found a husband yet'd go along with the program, y'know?"
"Yeah, right, Rock. The married woman's friend, that's you, all the way.
"Only thing, Tony ain't 'er husband, he's 'er boss."
"Meanin'?"
"Waddaya think, Rock?
"Think the outfits diff rent from any other corpo-ration?
"We got our politics too, y'know.
"Just wit' us, the backstabbin' becomes a little more literal, is all."
"Hey, hey, hey!" Rocco says, backing away in mock terror. Then, with an Irish accent, "Threats is it now, y'd be threat'nin' me with is it, me boyo?"
"Keep clownin' around, that's what cha want, Rock, but I'm tellin' ya, you can't be the only one sees somethin' special lookin' at Destiny.
"Anyways, here come more'n you can handle, anyway."
"Oh no!" Rocco moans, covering his face with a hand, turning away.
"Like she don' know where ta find ya, right?" Alphonse says, as Conchita comes sidling up to them, breasts, high and round and firm covered by a leather vest, open at the front, Argentine gaucho hat on her head, gauzy pantaloons over her g-string.
"Hey, beeg boy!" Conchita says, placing her arms around Rocco's neck from the rear, putting her cheek against his ear. "Joo change joor mine jet?"
"Listen, uh, Conchita-will ya f crissakes leggo of me?
"I'm workin', arright?"
"Bot all work an' no play meks Yack de dull boy, swee'heart!"
"When I see Jack, I'll tell 'im, okay? "Meanwhile, couldja just, just-cool it?
"Go find a customer, see how many drinks y'kin get 'im ta buy ya, like yer s'posed ta, okay?
"An' stop pawin' me; people're lookin'."
"Nex' joo gonna be tellin' me joo don' date de help, ri'?"
"Haven't yet, have I?"
"No' jet, thass true.
"Bot ees abou' to change, no?"
"No fuckin' comment."
"Aha! I wass rl', then!
"Joo gonna hab a date weeth Destiny!
"Joo gonna go fo' de beeg estoff een a beeg way, no?"
"You got a big fuckin' mouth, Conchita, you know that?"
"The bedder to sock joo weeth, my dear!
"Wha' joo thin', Al? Could I sock hees cock good, or what?"
And Conchita opens her mouth, purses her lips, and makes sounds like a monkey, inhaling and exhaling rapidly and loudly, to the amusement of nearby drinkers, who chuckle and grin.
And, in response to Rocco's glare, shake their heads and divert their attention to their mugs and glasses.
"I don't hafta take this fuckin' harassment," Rocco says, scraping his chair back. "Watch the fuckin' store, Al; I'm goin' fer some fuckin' air-away from the stink of cheap perfume."
Casting a contemptuous glance at Conchita and heading for the front door, like a customer leaving the place.
Conchita looks after him, fists on hips, laughing, before approaching a customer at the bar, saying, "Hey swee'heart, joo wanna buy a leddy a dreenk or two or t'ree?"
* * *
Fucking Conchita, Rocco thinks, inhaling the sticky, humid night air. She's not hot for his body, she's just busting, is all.
Seeing him there, night after night, as bored as she herself is, she's merely passing the time.
She doesn't understand that the bouncer thing is just a front, that he and Al are more important to the organization than they appear.
She isn't talking to some ex-jock, down on his luck, or some gym instructor looking to pick up some money with a second job.
She doesn't know about the valises of money, the trips to banks, the deposits and transfers, above all the trust the organization reposes in Al and himself.
And Rocco smiles.
If she did, she'd probably make a joke out of that as well.
Big deal, so he's a laundryman as well as a bouncer.
How about a little less starch in the fifties next time, and like that.
But it's no joke, what he does.
It's dangerous, especially in this part of Florida.
Where he has to worry about threats from all sides, his own not excluded.
Where several so-called mafias are at work.
The Mexican.
The Colombian.
Even the so-called Black Mafia.
If only his own were as well organized, as powerful as people thought, he would be a lot more secure, his job much safer.
But, unfortunately, the power is not that great, the organization not that tightly knit.
And, for the most part, not all that close, either.
A thousand miles north. More, even.
That's where the power base, the muscle lies.
Fat lot of good it does him.
Big with the orders, the demands, they are, up there, from up there.
Up there is where they like to be.
The supreme threat, with which Rocco is constantly faced for one reason or another?
"'Hey, Tony, I gotta come down there myself, or what?"
No, the last thing in the world they want or need, any of them, is for people to have to come down here.
Even casual visitors are courteously but not all that well received.
Changes in the wind. Politics. The occasional outright betrayal of each other, within the organization or to the cops.
All, all prompt visitors.
Visitors mean, ca mean change.
And change is not good.
Change is always something somebody up there thinks is good, but it isn't, not in ways that they down here can see, can appreciate.
Change.
Meaning that somebody up there has a better idea.
And the better ideas are the ones that kill you, the ones that can get you killed.
Because there are no geniuses up there.
Lotta wise guys, meaning street smart, meaning tough, determined, imaginative even, in rare cases, but no big brains, not really.
So that, at any time, big, big chunks of the outfit can soften, crumble, fall apart because somebody forgot to think of this when they thought of that.
And they never know down here.
Always, always, they have to call back and check.
Did you okay this? Did you approve, were you aware of that?
You check, they resent you.
You don't check, you're wrong again, they think you're an ass hole.
A no-win situation, this."
Still, it has its advantages, its good points.
The weather.
Okay, so they had two bad days last year.
The only ones who spent a worse Christmas Eve and Christmas than Florida were Manuel Noriega and the Romanian guy who got his brains splattered as a Christmas present to his grateful nation.
Joy to the world, and like that.
But better two cold days than two cold weeks or months.
And Rocco has known as many as five in Jersey, which often seemed to have only two seasons-summer and winter.
And of course there was less playing messenger boy down here than up there, less chauffeuring, less bodyguarding, less of all the bullshit that comes of trying to govern within a government, using and enforcing laws in direct contravention to this latter.
Destiny comes from Jersey, Rocco knows.
Tony mentioned it, when he introduced them.
And did not elaborate.
What if she was-no.
Private stock would not be available for public viewing, not like this.
Girl want to sing, wants to dance in a regular night club, hey, that's one thing.
A start in show biz, an up, a good connection, nothing wrong with that.
But you don't put your personal sweetie-pie on display like this, not in a place like this.
No, if Destiny is down here from there, she made it on her own.
And the decision to work for a place like this was, had to be, hers and hers alone.
A shame, in a way.
With a bod like that, Rocco thinks, she could of, she could of-what?
She could of attracted some fucking loser, who would have married her and kept her broke, barefoot and pregnant, is what.
What she has is rarely an advantage in the real world, or this has been Rocco's experience and perception, to date.
More likely, it serves as a magnet to attract all the wrongos.
And at least, Rocco thinks, at least she has escaped that particular pitfall.
So far, he appends.
The opera isn't over 'til the fat lady sings, and Destiny's life is still in the overture stage.
Eighteen and with a body like that!
It won't last, of course, but then, nothing in this world lasts.
So that Rocco lives life as a series of nows.
Which makes it all the more imperative for him that he act at once, or at least as soon as possible, on this Destiny situation.
Tony or no Tony, he adds.
Fucking Al just wanted to give him agita, is what.
Wanted to bust his chops because Rocco has what Al doesn't.
A chance.
A shot at some prime young nookie.
And Rocco shakes his head, looking down, thinking that it wasn't all that long ago he would have considered Conchita prime, would have been only too happy for her to give him a tumble, and to tumble her, in turn, in the hay.
She's got all the right stuff, for sure.
A little too blatant with it, a bit too eager to show it off, perhaps, but still, the equipment is there, no question.
It's there, and it's his if he wants it.
No more of this picking up stuff on the beach, bored housewives and such.
Going with somebody who actually knows him.
Meaning knows who he is, knows his real name, where he works, stuff like that.
A real person fucking a real person.
As opposed to an image seeking and finding a symbol, a momentary and partial occupant of that image.
He walks along the beach, enjoying the sun and surf and sand, shirtless, white clamdiggers clinging to his muscular legs, the sun bronzing his skin, right down through the hair on his brawny chest, right around the gold chains at his throat.
His wavy, thick, black hair glistens in the sun, above his sunglasses, aviator style.
And she sees him.
Not some pale, balding piece of flab like her husband, the father of her children, in school, thank heavens, so that she does not have to think about them for a few hours, anyway.
Here is a man of both leisure and substance.
This one doesn't have to punch a fucking time clock, doesn't have to labor under a supervisor in a closed and unnatural hierarchy.
No, this one is wealthy, independent, strong and handsome.
And alone, an elemental figure, an archetype, the male lover, an amalgam of the blue sky, the brilliant sun, the sparkling sand, the pounding ocean.
Yes, he is earth, air, fire and water, come to life, made warm, glistening, muscular flesh.
As though she had willed him, had summoned him, had in essence created him from her mind.
The very elements have granted her wish.
And Rocco?
He looks and sees-urge. Desire.
The concatenation of those feelings, be they whatever, from sexual frustration to a minor irritation of the wall of the uterus, from a mental to a purely physical itch yearning to be satisfied, capable of being satisfied in only one way.
And yes, he knows only too well the image he presents to her.
Which is a lie.
But it is a lie she has told herself, a tale she has woven about his perceived image. Nice legs, she has.
Nice set of jugs, good hips, not too much face, perhaps, but then, who does, squinting in the sun while trying to smile encouragingly?
Yes, yes, hello and hello.
And yes, it really is a beautiful day, the kind of day that makes a person want to live life to the fullest and we all know how you go about doing that, do we not?
And shall we and why not and like that and away we go.
And welcome to the Sleazo by the Sea Motel, rooms by the day, week or hour.
And yes, he actually eats her pussy, which her husband will not, has not in years.
On the other hand, she has gotten herself cleaner in the shower than she would for Fatso, so there's no reason why he shouldn't.
And in fact, yes, she will return the compliment, will experience his reality by rimming him, by actually raising that magnficent cock of his by pushing his inner rear buttons with her tongue.
As she helps herself to handfuls of his firm, protruding buns.
And now, he takes her, takes her as she, with eyes closed (Odd how they always do that, he thinks, since they cannot seem to get enough of his image immediately before.), issues moans which she would not dare at home, even if inspired, because the children might hear and not understand.
Or worse yet, hear and absolutely understand.
But here, it's okay, okay to moan, okay even to cry out her pleasure.
Just as it's okay for him to take his time, to make it last, to speed up or slow down, taking her on a sexual roller coaster, through the amusement park of her own passion and of the image which can best service, best satisfy it.
As now, the both of them advance steadily, inexorably up and up and up the ladder of their shared arousal.
As they ascend level after level, the satisfaction of each generating the hunger for the next.
And yes, desire will give way to ecstasy.
And yes, ecstasy will find itself melting into rapture.
And yes, rapture will yield to sheer sexual transport, as he takes her away, her and himself, to some never-never land of raw, tingling sensual delight.
As he plows her, his strong, steady, powerful strokes the piston action of the engine which drives her, drives them both, higher and higher.
And she knows and she remembers her first time, but with this body, with these thrills.
And she knows and remembers her youth, her beauty, her freedom, now restored to her by this rescuing angel made flesh.
And she is running away with him, running onward and upward through green fields dotted with daisies, running through forests and leaping over babbling streams, cutting through sunbeams filtered through high oaks over a forest floor of velvety moss in her bare feet.
And he is beside her, dancing with her in a naked ballet of utmost sensuousness, both of them graceful, their leaps perfect, weightless arcs.
And the very air itself is charged with their arousal, tingling around them like endless invisible champagne bubbles.
This, all this, he does for her.
Once.
Because now is the time of climax. Now is the time of leaving this glorious place for even greater heights. And so they do.
As the pleasure beyond pleasure explodes within them, a silent nuclear blast in the far inner distance.
Which spreads like an elaborate giant blossom, unfolding its petals in slow motion.
Like the mushroom cloud of that nuclear blast in smoothly blended, stop motion photography.
Until they are no longer free to move, are no longer in control in their minds.
Because the ultimate pleasure has seized them both in its almighty grasp.
They do not have it; it has them.
So that, as the pressure of the pleasure beyond pleasure reaches their capacity to contain it, it keeps right on going.
And they blow their safety valves.
And now, they are coming and coming, her series of multiple orgasms gratuitously milking his mighty marauder of its vital essence.
Spurt and spasm, spurt and spasm, they alternate, as they zoom and soar through the rosy empyrean of their private sexual paradise.
Until, at last, their climax subsides, then ceases altogether.
And they float gently back down to earth, to this earth, to present reality. And she opens her eyes.
And yes he knows that was terrific and you were great too and sure, why not hose down and go for another round and besides there's something he wants to do for her.
Because after all, she has -rimmed him and turnabout is fair play.
So they wash off meticulously and he returns the compliment.
But he keeps going back there, keeps right on trucking and no, she's never done this before but then nobody ever offered and there's a first time for everything and she's heard a lot about it and no he's no expert but he believes he can pull it off and if he's hurting her just say so and he'll stop but he isn't because he has taken the time to properly stretch and lubricate her so everything will be okay and he knows it.
And he cautions her not to tense up but she is already loose as a goose, physically and mentally after that first terrific fuck so of course this puts her right back on the rainbow path.
So that now he is fucking her in the ass, having first -rimmed her, tongue-wise, having then reamed her, finger-wise, so that yes he has no difficulty at all in ramming her, cock-wise.
And he propels her onward and upward once again, pumping her up the rainbow as his cock slides in and out of her rectum and he weighs her hefty jugs one at a time while holding onto her wide hips with his other hand.
And he fingerfucks her as they both come, her hot, clear pussy juices flowing over knuckles and wrist, even as he fills her bowels with his load, then rides her all the way down and she shits him out in a while and they call it a day.
CHAPTER FOUR
He does not ask for her telephone number and she does not volunteer.
Neither of them want or need this.
He is seeking to preserve his image and she is not looking for an affair.
If she wants a repeat, she will see him again on that same beach.
If she does not, then she will select a different beach on her next solo outing, on her min-vacation from house and family.
Most likely, it will be this latter.
He is not her first beach pick-up and probably will not be his last.
He knows this.
Just as he knows that, so long as she sees him only once or, if more than once, then only after a very long interval, she has not been, is not being unfaithful.
She has betrayed nobody and nothing.
Neither social expectation nor sacred trust has she violated, so far as she is concerned.
Because he was not real.
Only his image was real.
She has not fucked and sucked, has not made love to and received the amorous attentions of a real person, but of an image made flesh.
He has no name.
Nor had she.
Strangers when they met, they were, and less than strangers.
Even a stranger can be a real person.
But he was merely the embodiment of a prurient thought, of a salacious idea, which had crept unbidden into her consciousness, only to be perversely reflected into reality, there on the beach.
What, then, was to be done?
Was she to have passed on, to have ignored what was, after all, merely the by-product of her own thought process.
He did not seduce, did not manipulate her, after all.
On the contrary, it was she who had summoned him, first in her mind, then into reality.
Was she then to commit an absurdity?
Has she not the courage of her convictions?
Would there then have been some inner satisfaction, some spiritual reward awaiting her if she were to have resisted temptation?
And not even temptation, nothing so grandly evil as that.
This was a kind of conjuring on the part of her innermost desires.
And it worked; it did work.
So that she can leave the beach parking lot, back to which he has driven her in his Caddy convertible, top down, of course.
And she would not betray her marital vows, her family responsibilities by so much as a short kiss goodbye.
As she gets out of the car, opening the door herself because, naturally, he has not gotten out and come around to assist her.
And he sees her there, in straw hat and terrycloth robe, fumbling with her car keys.
And drives off, not waiting to see if in fact she will be able to open her door, get her car started and drive away.
Because his image calls for doing exactly as he does.
Because, beneath that image, behind it, sustaining it, is a real man, with a real man's weaknesses and shortcomings.
Archetypes, images, symbols don't work for a living, for one thing, are part of no structured environment.
What you see is what you get.
He stands, complete in and of himself, not requiring anything to be added or subtracted to be what he is.
This is, of course, a lie, a lie he told her with his body, a lie he uttered without words, simply by being there, a lie she told herself.
But it is the provisional truth, the truth of the moment, the fact within the fiction.
Like the plot of a book or a movie.
Which is, if you will, an elaborately constructed lie.
A lie, but not a deception.
Because both of them knew, both of them know the truth, the reality, at least in part.
So that they were like actors, playing their respective parts.
And, like a movie, having no permanent effect out here, back in the real world.
As though it never happened.
As though they were merely spectators.
The only truth of the movie was that they went to see it.
And where's the harm in that?
On the other hand, where's the good in that?
For her, at least, Rocco reflects, there was some good.
Because she has the power.
She has the power to summon that which can alleviate boredom, frustration, pointlessness in her existence.
Because she did it, after all, did she not?
Not that she deceives herself that there was any magic at work here.
No, her conjuring is the mundane sorcery of probability.
Such men as he exist.
Not living archetypes, images or symbols, but real men whose personal circumstances are such that, on a certain day, at a certain hour they are very likely to be in a certain location, projecting a certain image.
If, then, she is free to do as she pleases, again not in the absolute sense, but on a certain day, at a certain hour, and she makes herself available to this relative, temporary, limited freedom, then the concatenation, the coinciding of herself with that far from hypothetical image has, in fact, a certain likelihood of occurrence.
And she will have, in essence, demonstrated-what?
A certain understanding of certain aspects of the real world.
It was just that simple. And Rocco?
He was not that personally involved.
Intimately, yes, personally no.
Because images are impersonal.
At that exact moment, on other beaches all over the world, other men were projecting that same image.
It did not have to be the beach, even; it could have been a hiking trail.
It did not have to be the endless summer of summer coastal Florida.
The image could have worn a navy surplus snorkel coat, the tanned, sun-glassed visage encircled with simulated fur.
It would have made no difference.
She did not have to be a wife and mother.
She could have been a convenience store clerk on her day off or a prostitute on vacation.
Because that particular bent, that frame of mind, is also an impersonal image, a universal pattern.
Intimate, but impersonal, they were.
More intimate and less personal, perhaps, than she has ever allowed herself to become, she was.
Moreso than she ever could be with anyone she actually knew, perhaps.
But that is the nature of images.
We do as images what we would never dream of as individuals, in many ways, Rocco knows.
The soldier who does his duty in the face of incredible dangers and in the face of all logic, reason and common sense.
He thereby fulfills his image as a soldier and is maimed or killed in the process.
What could be more individual than that, on the surface of it?
And yet, it was not he but his image of himself which did the deed, even though it is he himself who must suffer the consequences.
There never was a hero who was fearless.
His image was fearless; he, no doubt, was ready to shit his pants.
But enough is enough, Rocco thinks.
There is a time to live as ourselves, and not as our images.
And, believing as he does that we live in a series of nows, then surely now should be that time.
So that he and not his image will have done the living.
Not role playing but actual life is what's wanted here, he tells himself.
And yet, Destiny is no solution, in that regard.
She doesn't know him.
She met him once, knows his name (if she even remembers it), knows what he does-part of what he does.
So that he would come across to her, image to image, which is all that he can be to her or she to him right now.
But then, he reasons, ultimately, is that not all we are, all we ever can be to one another?
Still, there is a difference.
And that difference is not hard to see, to define.
Familiarity.
Knowing a person on good days and bad.
But this can come only over time.
If only, he thinks. If only they knew each other, he and Destiny.
Things would work out or they wouldn't, and there's an end to it.
It would be just that simple.
If only they knew each other, like, like-he and Conchita.
Conchita knows him, knows his surliness, his rotten moods, knows and is not repelled by this.
Conchita knows him, knows what he does for a living, knows that he is more than a bouncer, but less, far less than an executive, that he is, essentially, a foot soldier in the organization.
And Conchita knows him, knows the feel of him, that knowledge garnered playfully, over a period of time.
And yet, now that he thinks about it, not without a system on her part.
At one time or another, she has felt everything on him, from the back of his neck to his calves and all points in between.
Yes, she has grabbed his ass.
And yes, she has even grabbed his balls.
She is after him.
Not the image of him, not some contrived impression, but himself as he is.
Still an image, granted; but an image of his reality, of himself as individual, himself as himself.
She sees him and she likes what she sees.
And her?
How well does he know her? Pretty well, actually.
Hispanic, Cuban parents now living in the Keys, no other relatives, shares a room with another of the dancers.
No boyfriends.
The occasional accompaniment, on the sly, after hours, of a customer, usually older, usually, he suspects, wealthy, so no mystery there, except whether or not she actually enjoys it.
And, for the rest, an inner fire, a dancing for herself alone, partially erotic, of course, because she is stacked, but mostly a private thing, for all its public performance.
So that she has an inner life, an inner fire.
So that she is passionate, but in a way best known only to herself.
Who knows what she really wants?
And Rocco realizes that he has reached the extent, the outer limit of his knowledge of her.
And if he wants to know more, then he will have to get closer to her, as close as she apparently wants him to.
Apparently.
Meaning that she could very well just be stringing him along.
But if this is a joke, then, even as a standing joke, surely it would have worn thin by now.
So that he has to believe that, on some basis, she means it.
And, living as he does in the present, what better time than the present to find out?
Because, now that he thinks about it, it is a long time since Rocco as Rocco, and not as some anonymous image, has actually been with a woman.
In fact, he cannot remember when was the last time.
Because he has played the game for too long, the game of images. Playboy. Phantom lover.
Male archetype, mystery man, superstud, the male principle itself, he has been, has represented, has impersonated.
So that yes, it is time, high time for Rocco as himself.
And there are no other candidates. Conchita, it has to be. He goes back inside.
Conchita is sitting, talking, drinking with a customer.
Rocco could care less.
His hand is on her shoulder.
She and the bar patron both look up, startled.
"Okay, you win." Rocco says.
"I ween? How's come? How? What, I ween?"
"You wanna introduce me to your friend here, or would you rather just the two of us discuss it."
Conchita shrugs.
""Scuse me," she says to the customer, "see joo letter."
And she stands up, preceding Rocco to the edge of the crowd, surging forward now, because Destiny is back on.
Suddenly, she turns to Rocco.
"Wha's op?"
"What's up is I can't take much more of this. "Time to shit or get off the pot."
"Thass what I bin tryna tell joo," she says, with the emphasis on "joo". "Okay, so we're on."
"Okay, so we're on," she echoes.
"See you at three," he says. "Fine weeth me."
And she turns without another word, going back to her sponsor of the moment.
Who has clearly forgotten all about her, engrossed in Destiny's performance as he is.
"Not ready for that yet. Gotta kinda work my way up to it."
"I can appreciate that."
"Can you, now?"
"Sorta, yeah. You think I ain't still got the old urge?
"That's first class, pal, and no question about it."
"Glad joo like my taste in women," Rocco says. "Your taste. Yeah, right.
"That your seashell collection I see when I go t'the beach?"
"You got it." They laugh.
But there it is again, Rocco thinks. Images.
And Destiny must know something about images too.
Otherwise, why would she have named herself after an archetypal image? Destiny.
She could have been Fortune, or Fate, or, adopting a bizarre costume, Nemesis.
But Destiny is not bad.
Better than, say, Shirley, for what she does.
And much better than Geraldine, for example.
But if all she was doing was looking for a name that would over-ride .her own inappropriate one, she would not have had to resort to Destiny.
And now, he realizes that he has been looking at the table, and not at Destiny.
He looks at the stage, the lower half of her body obscured from his vision by the intervening crowd, which is quite heavy tonight, due in part, no doubt, to Destiny.
Because word spreads fast among travelers in the same company.
("If you gotta hit the Florida office, be sure you see ... )
But, even from what he can see, he thinks, Tony may be thinking about it, but guaranteed he hasn't made his move.
Because Destiny hasn't been here long enough for lechery.
And, face it, Tony means nothing to her.
Not yet, anyway. Too soon.
So that Rocco has time.
He has time to determine if Rocco still has what it takes as Rocco, and then move in on Destiny. Destiny.
Who the hell would have the balls to approach somebody named Destiny and start handing her a line of bullshit.
Not too many, he would suspect.
And that's another thing the name accomplishes.
One more barrier.
One more hurdle, one more obstacle to be cleared, to be passed.
But of course, the first one is that fantastic body of hers.
Who is actually, physically, naturally qualified to match their body to hers. Mister Galaxy?
Okay, but not too many others.
Although Rocco has the size and the conditioning, he reassures himself.
And he is younger than Tony.
But now, he lets his mind travel to the immediate future, to the almost now.
Conchita.
And he wonders at himself, at his lack of anticipatory eagerness.
Because Conchita is more, far more than not bad.
But for her peculiar style of dancing, she could turn guys on almost as well as Destiny.
She is smaller than Destiny, darker, but lithe, well defined, her breasts large and firm, solid glands.
She doesn't have Destinys oversized, exaggerated, almost cartoonish hourglass figure.
But she is broad-shouldered, wasp-waisted and flare-hipped.
And her legs are a dancer's legs, solid and muscular.
And her ass is large enough, round enough, firmer looking than Destiny's.
So that, body for body, there is a serious question whether, put to a vote, everyone would prefer Destiny.
But not, fortunately or unfortunately-Rocco is unsure which-in Rocco's mind.
Conchita he will take in stride, for better or for worse.
Getting back in the swing of things. He will have no difficulty with Conchita, of course.
One thing's sure, new bodies, new specific sexual experiences, hold no qualms whatever for him.
That's all he's done for several years now, fuck new and different bodies, perfecting, polishing his sexual techniques, building, enhancing his image.
His image, but not the image of himself.
Or rather, the image of himself as superstud.
And yes, this had, has a certain kind of deep satisfaction attached to it.
As once again, he triumphs, is awarded the plaque, the trophy which is then shelved, which is his forever, which cannot he taken from him.
Because each act is separate, discrete, complete, in and of itself.
Quality time, it is, his peculiar definition thereof.
Meaning time spent as the embodiment of the perfect male sexual partner, performing to perfection, each act having a beginning, a middle, an end-a beautiful ceremony, performed to perfection, a shining memory for the fortunate woman who is its concelebrant.
And yes, they are a comfort to him, in moments of boredom or of stress.
Whatever else may happen to him, is happening to him, those particular episodes are forever frozen in time, their perfection an accomplished, historical fact.
So that, in that sense, he is looking forward to his date with Conchita.
Because he will apply what he has learned, what he has practiced, what he has perfected over the years.
He will bring to her all that he would bring to a stranger in his role as superstud.
Except that they will not be strangers. He knows her and she knows him.
And, when tonight is history, they will know each other better.
But, even now, he stands up.
So that he can catch the full view of Destiny, as she once again bends over, completely naked now, her back to the audience, bent over.
Amazing, Rocco tells himself. Simply amazing that he could put on a pedestal a woman-a girl, actually-who has opted to make a living showing her ass hole several times a night in a bar.
But that doesn't help, doesn't diminish in any way the fascination she holds for him.
She has passed that test, and Rocco is not particularly pleased that this should have proved to be the case.
Because, dammit, you have to be some kind of a real low-life to feel about somebody who would do that, who does that, as he does.
So big deal, he tells himself, you're a low-life.
What else is new?
That's not even a put-down, it's a fact.
Look what he's into, after all.
And, in a way, that sort of makes his attitude toward Destiny all right.
Yes, we do belong together.
She is not royalty, she is not old money or new money, she is simply, or perhaps not so simply, Destiny.
And by this he means only a name, a stage name with a real one behind it, one he will make it a point to find out.
Later. When it matters.
For now, let that just be her name. Like Shirley or Geraldine.
"What time ya got, Al?"
"One-thirty.
"Another hour an' a half, and you get to see where Conchita is comin' from."
"I'm thrilled," Rocco says. "Not now you're not. Later on, who knows?" And Rocco concedes that Al has a point. Who knows, indeed?
Maybe this is what's been missing from his life all these years.
Maybe being a superstud, the stranger on the beach, has taken its toll.
Not in the physical sense, but in the temporal one.
Because it could very well be that he has wasted his time, trading a couple of hours of satisfaction here and there for what could well prove to have been days and weeks, months and years of happiness and deep inner contentment.
Maybe, maybe not, he tells himself. One way or the other, he will know, very soon.
In less than two hours, to be exact.
And part of him can hardly wait to find out.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rocco thought that Conchita would be all over him, in the car.
Instead, she sits up straight on her bucket seat, even using her seat belt.
And says nothing.
"Nothing to say, huh?" Rocco asks.
"No' much, no," she concedes.
"Yo'i uh, you nervous or sumthin'?" Rocco asks.
"Cou.I' be."
And he glances over at her, surprised, before turning his attention back to the night highway, stretching before them like a light grey ribbon in the glare of the headlights.
"Problems?"
"No, no problems. Jus', it's been a long time seence my las' ril date, joo know?"
Rocco says nothing, but he knows only too well.
For a long time, he too has made love sex object to sex object, thing to thing, that is to say, image to image.
But now, he is about to do it, person to person.
And there is a very big difference.
Not he but his image was intimate with a succession of perfect strangers.
And his image was that of a perfect stranger, and this in the literal sense, that is, the image of a stranger who was perfect.
It was as though he made love wearing a mask, a mask of anonymity.
A mask.
The condom of the soul?
In the women's case, that was certainly true, he knew.
His anonymity was what made it all right, so far as she was, they were concerned. And Conchita?
A dancer playing at whore for her sex.
An erotic, some would say obscene dancer, who danced for herself alone, only in public.
And who went out with old men for money, sometimes.
And who was now about to stay in with Rocco, for free.
And who, for all her aggressiveness at the bar, sits here as shy as a blind date.
Where is the common denominator, the consistency here? Rocco asks himself.
And he thinks he knows.
Safety.
Her other partners were safe in the physical sense. She could take any of them in a fair fight. And Rocco?
He is safe because she knows him.
She knows him because she wants to know him, has taken the time and trouble to know him even better, has overcome her natural shyness to risk making a fool of herself in the process.
But now, now that it has worked, she has no reason to continue with her artificial brass.
She has embarrassed, shamed, harassed Rocco and herself as well, to bring him to this point, mostly because she knew no other way.
He is not of her people.
They have no natural association.
Because there is nothing natural about the bar.
It is a scar in the terrain, a thing dropped there, near the airport, with others of its like, a response to an opportunity, a shoddy monument to its own oppurtunism and an understanding-a correct understanding-of certain urges, certain images in the minds of men.
Which it serves them in regular doses, scraping profit from the side dish.
The main course is free, but the side dishes cost more than they should, at this shabby, sham feast ol the flesh, this carnival whose tacky show is always changing but ever the same.
But people are required to put on the show, to manage it, to keep the sad, dingy party going.
And people are people, no matter what shell they construct for themselves.
Enough hours, days, weeks and months together and the humanity is bound to emerge.
So it was with Conchita, who, after all, is young, young and with a hot latin idea of good times.
So yes, hell yes, she wanted Rocco.
Well, not Rocco exactly, but someone very like Rocco, someone who could carry the image, on the one hand and, on the other, have a human side, a vulnerability as well.
So that he could not put on the macho act, that making something out of nothing that makes of grown men such dangerous and immature fools and which Conchita so suspects and fears in the latin lover types.
Who never worked out for her.
Who would punish her for any attempt to penetrate their macho, that is, to imply in any way that they were something different, something less than the tough, hard image they presented.
Because the front, the faade might be false, but the pain they could inflict, the damage they could do for questioning it was all too real.
So that she gave up on them, early in the game, considering herself lucky to escape unscathed from that world of macho men she dared to reject.
And yet-and yet.
She too has her images, her ideal man.
And she too wants, needs those feelings which only men can give her.
But she is unwilling to pay the price, to put up with their stupid bullshit.
So that the rest, well, the rest is history which has yet to be written.
And now is about to be.
To act out her sexual fantasies on the stage, making love to an invisible partner in time to the music, that was, is to shout her innermost thoughts, her private secrets to the world in a tongue nobody but herself can understand.
Because they cannot see the invisible image.
Only she can.
Only she can see him, his muscles gleaming, his shoulders impossibly wide, his cock huge and ready at all times, as he lifts her, turns her, clamps her. onto his lap as they go round and round, oblivious to their ogling audience.
Or, most of the time, in her case, puzzled audience.
But Rocco understands.
The one useful thing he has gained over the years of playing at superstud is the ability to read certain parts of women's minds with reasonable accuracy.
So that Rocco knows what she's up to well enough.
But it doesn't work.
Sex is horizontal, dancing vertical.
Dance is symbol and substitute for the real thing; it is not, never can be, the real thing itself.
The tango wasn't, the lambada isn't.
And Conchita is not about to change that.
So that she will go out there on the little stage, night after night, and her luscious, writhing, tawny body, all gland and lithe, prime flesh, glistening in the harsh spotlight, will project-her own frustration.
And the best of the men and the worst of them will look on and know that, if with a body and face like that, obviously able to do what she can, she cannot find what she is looking for by way of satisfaction, then that is a mystery beyond their physical and emotional powers to solve.
So that they can only look on in puzzled impotence as she writhes her anguished, sweating way through whatever private world in which she is lost.
Thus her success, because who would not behold a body like that in naked gyration?
Thus her failure, because she leaves behind her, hanging in the air, the very unresolved tension and frustration the men brought in with them.
So that they sip and wait for the next act, as though they have somehow just had the beginning of sex, only to be left hanging in the middle.
All this, Rocco sees, Rocco knows.
But he is confident that he can resolve her problem, although at what emotional cost, with what future involvement he is not sure.
But that is for the future, a thing in which Rocco, the man who lives always in the present, does not believe until it arrives.
For now, Rocco is happy, is confident.
He is not excited, cannot force the excitement.
Perhaps, he tells himself, that will come later.
If she is as hot as she imagines herself.
Because it has been a long time for her.
And there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip, especially if you wait a long time for the sip.
But, he sighs to himself, we shall see what we shall see.
* * *
Naked together, they are.
And Rocco wears his naked face.
And it is his body he occupies, and not that of the superstud from the beach.
And he feels her firm but yielding flesh, feels the superb condition of her (because that dance of hers, however odd, however incomprehensible, is fantastic exercise, no question).
And he feels her responsiveness.
Because he has but to touch her breast and she closes her eyes (they all, all close their eyes; he has never understood that) and issues a shuddering moan of incipient arousal.
Nor is she faking it.
Because that nipple is fully erect, rubbery, the gland beneath it like a ripe grapefruit in its firmness, before ever he covers her nipple with his mouth.
"Ayee!"
And he almost draws back in surprise.
But he quickly realizes that it is only her passion, her excitement at the real thing, at last, her anticipation which is causing her to go crazy, to express by other means that which she reaches for on the stage.
Yes, she is hot, hot, hot.
He continues to knead and fondle her solid breasts, as he slides down the lithe but voluptuous body, biting her gently as he does so, apparently driving her crazy with this, so responsive, so reactive is she.
Her back arches, her legs fly into the air, high and wide, as he seals his mouth to her wire-haired bush.
And now, as he eats her, he finds that he must actually press his forearms against the backs of her thighs to anchor her, so excited is she.
And in fact-he had not counted on this.
As he realizes that, incredible as it may seem, the fact is that she is sky-rocketing.
Yes, she is going right through the roof.
No way, he thinks. No way is he going to catch up with that.
Best to stay calm, to play the tongue mechanic and simply take her all the way, taking the edge off.
So that she can calm down.
So that she can regain her perspective.
Because Rocco can see that here is so much pent-up frustration being released, so much long-delayed pleasure being unleashed, summoned, that there is no relating to her feelings and no stopping her.
So he doesn't.
He'll do her this favor.
Because he is here as Rocco, as somebody she knows, is wearing his naked face, rather than the invisible mask of the superstud.
He has nothing to prove here, at the moment.
Right now, the only critical needs are obviously hers.
Right now, the only thing that is required is that this particular Hispanic sky rocket arc gracefully into the dark heavens, there to burst into a thousand points of light, as somebody once said, no doubt in a different context.
Conchita is writhing, rocking and rolling from side to side, Rocco's triceps and biceps actually having to flex in order to hold her steady with her forearms so that he can maintain full contact with her clit and cunt, as he alternately strums her joy buzzer with the tip of his tongue and then, turning his head to one side, glides the side of it against the engorged bud as he tongue-fucks her hot, drooling pussy.
Until-
She is coming.
She is coming and coming.
"Alyalyai!" she shouts, one hand clutching her straight, parted hair, then both, her chin in the air, head dug back into the pillow, her face a grimace of ultimate pain or pleasure (but Rocco knows which), white teeth gnashed together and exposed.
As the powerful contractions of her cunt milk his ever-working tongue of the ultimate pleasure, the pleasure beyond pleasure, and she is utterly transported to realms she has obviously not visited for far, far too long.
And only very slowly does she return to earth.
And relax.
And open her eyes, as he feels the tension leave her body.
He pulls his face back from her crotch.
And lies beside her, feeling the heat still radiating from her body, smelling the faint musk of her excitement, lingering in the air-conditioned atmosphere as it cools the sexual sweat on her now completely relaxed frame.
Suddenly, she opens the eyes which she closed again, as soon as he was off her.
And cranes her head up, looking down.
"Hey, wass theece!
"Joo don' ged essited?"
"Who had time, remember?"
"Oh, hey, leesen! I gonna take goo' care of joo, right away, okay?
"I jos' take a chower an' be rl' back."
And she is suddenly a bundle of energy, as she bounces up and strides quickly into the bathroom on her dancer's legs, walking on the balls of her feet, firm ass cheeks winking at him as she retreats.
Come to think of it, she's right, he thinks.
Because his dick is long and thick, but completely flaccid.
It never twitched during that whole episode. Interesting.
But Rocco is not disturbed. He lies there, thinking, this one doesn't count anyway.
Callous but true.
Because, even now, his thoughts are of Destiny. Who could well prove to be a disappointment. Who could in fact be much less sexy in bed than the redoubtable, the sexually formidable Conchita. But, there it is.
He is a man with a fixation, an ultimate goal, and this is but a step on the path. It doesn't count.
Conchita emerges from the bathroom.
And comes at once to the bed.
And dives at once, right onto his prick.
No socializing, right down to business, she goes.
Why?
Because she is embarrassed at losing it so fast before?
Or because she too has a hidden agenda, a list of priorities? Or both?
She sucks his cock, sucks it with a fair amount of skill, but without the enthusiasm he would have expected from such a bombshell.
So that he doesn't respond all that quickly.
So that she looks up at him, puzzled, challenged.
But his face is expressionless, gives no clue.
She shifts her position, crouching now between his legs.
. And redoubles her efforts. But he does not respond.
He came home with her, brought her to his home, he knowing her, she knowing him, so that they might experience sex, person to person.
Instead, she used him, used his tongue to get off on.
The heat of pent-up passion, he thought, so okay.
But she did not join him in the bed upon her return; rather, she attacked him.
And he did not bring her here to be attacked.
He did not bring her here because he was possessed of an urgent, overwhelming hunger for her body or for sex itself.
And Rocco sees now that this is not working out.
He wanted to go person to person.
But, he discovers that she desires no such relationship, no such ... friendship.
In fact, she is, quite literally, hot for his body.
As opposed to being hot for him.
She knows him, is therefore safe with him, but that is the sole purpose of her knowing him.
Not for human companionship, not for conversation, not even in between rounds, but so that she could milk him of that which he appears to have, that is, an active virility, to be used in service to her sexuality.
And Rocco realizes, with a chill, that he has painted himself into a corner.
All that garbage he ascribed to her, about her wanting his vulnerability, his human weaknesses, his less than impressive position, his thoughts and hopes and dreams to be exchanged with hers in the quiet afterglow of fantastic, person to person sex-that was all in his head.
All that stuff about her rejecting latino macho men was true enough, as far as it went.
But what she wants is a macho man who is as he is because he is the genuine article.
Not somebody who looks strong, but somebody who is.
Not somebody who puts up a superstud front, but somebody who is.
That, that! is what she is after.
And something dies inside Rocco.
Somewhere deep within him, a door closes, and he is on the outside of it, now and forever.
We are what we pretend to be, he read somewhere.
And the rest of the quotation? Therefore, we should be careful what we pretend to be.
And Rocco was not careful.
Rocco made no effort, no attempt to differentiate between what he pretended to be and what he actually was, was and is.
For better or worse, he is the superstud, now and forever.
There's no turning back.
He can see his error well enough, knows his mistake; but it is too late to correct it.
He lives in the present, always.
And real people don't do that.
They have a past and a future, not only as fact, but as a part of their thoughts.
Only the archetype, immortal and unchanging, lives outside of time, lives in a perpetual present.
Even this thing with Conchita, then Destiny.
Rocco does not see that as advancing into the future.
Rather, he sees time as a conveyor belt, like a bottling plant process, where a series of bottles, each containing a present, a "now" comes to him as he, he! remains fixed in place.
He does not rise to the occasion; the occasion advances to meet him.
So no wonder it isn't working.
Person to person isn't working here, because he is no longer a person but an idea, an image.
Others are real human beings, even as he once was, he supposes, many many "nows" ago.
But gradually, his humanity faded.
So that here, now, there is only one real person, and it isn't him.
Conchita is alone with an idea made flesh, with an image become real.
And Rocco has turned that image off, so that he might be human once more.
But it's too late.
Rocco is the image or he is nothing.
And not even her knowing his name, his occupation, his personality can change that.
He is a soldier too long in the trenches.
For too long has he faced the enemy, for too long has he had to wear the uniform, to think and act the soldier.
Use it or lose it, the old saying goes.
And Rocco has lost his humanity, somewhere along the line.
The man he might have been, for better or for worse, whithered inside him, dessicated, turned to powder and blew away.
Rocco closes his eyes.
And there is not enough human being left within him to pray for the dead.
He is a robot of living flesh, a zombie, his power that of the image he projects, a power the outside world assigns him, keeps on assigning him.
The condo of steel and glass, its furnishings exquisite and impersonal, of muted blues and greys and synthetic materials, forever new, pristine in their spotlessness, this is home base for a certain image, a certain lifestyle.
He is the superstud, with his large convertible, his featureless condo, his hairy chest and muscular frame, his sunglasses and large wardrobe.
What you see is what you get.
Even now, he feels the power surging within himself.
No doubt, Conchita is thinking that, at last, her cocksucking is having its effect. Not so.
The power he draws from the very air, from this world and its values, from the image it has assigned him.
Yes, oh yes, the warmth is flowing into his cock now, bringing it to pulsating life as it flows into him, as the world charges him, as he switches himself on.
This, this! is what he was meant to be.
And now, Conchita is having difficulty.
His cock is too big, the head too swollen, the shaft too thick and long for her mouth.
She was beginning to have her doubts, beginning to think him impotent.
But now, she sees how very wrong she was.
The man is a monster!
Well, not the man, perhaps, but his cock is, for sure.
And yes, this, this! is the true macho man.
Because here is fact, here is truth, here is the prong you just don't argue with.
Huge cock, big balls, big, muscled body, this is the one she has been looking for.
She knew it!
She knew that she had but to pick him up and this is the way he would be! He is just as she imagined him.
Well, not imagined, exactly, but saw, saw him as in fact he is.
And now, he pushes her head back, gently but firmly.
And now, he positions her in the bed.
She raises and spreads her legs.
And that monster of his is in and in and into her, stretching and filling her cunt as it has never been stretched, never been filled before.
Yes, he is exactly, exactly, exactly the man she thought he'd be.
And now, he is fucking her in long, powerful strokes.
Taking his time, he is, in no hurry at all. Mister Technique, Mister Control, he is. A regular fucking machine, he is, she is certain. As he accelerates slowly, a steam engine leaving the station.
In and out, in and out of her hot, juicy cunt he pistons.
As he activates millions of nerve endings within her, each sending out a message of lascivious pleasure, each joining with all the others within her, a mounting chorus of raw sexuality.
And Rocco?
He feels it as well.
Because this is a most sentient robot, its sensors quite acute.
And very, very responsive, very cognizant of exactly where she is on the scale of her mounting sexual arousal.
CHAPTER SIX
Here is excitement, here is satisfaction, Rocco tells himself.
Because this is what he has made of himself, this superstud, creature of his own creation.
By his own will has he transformed himself.
And that, that other, that errant urge toward his former self?
Off base.
Way off base.
Nostalgia, sentimentality, is all. Not natural to him.
Because the past is the past, is dead, is gone forever.
And to dwell therein is to be stupid, to waste time, to waste the reality of now for a past which can never be again.
Onward and upward, through now and now and now!
Thus does he exist, now that he can no longer live.
Thus does he move, even though he is dead. If he's dead, then he's dead, and so what? This is better than all those other feelings, anyway.
Because this, this! is what it was all about to begin with.
He was convinced of it, or he would not have made of himself what he has.
This, this! is all there is that is of value in this world.
This is what all human endeavor, directly or indirectly, is all about, the goal and the activity, the feelings and sensations, toward which all men strive, whether they know it or not.
The tycoon is the superstud of finance.
The dictator is the superstud of power.
Mister Galaxy is the superstud of strength and form.
But what are these, all these, but symbol and substitute for the real thing?
And he, at least, has had the good sense to sacrifice his humanity in the one true and worthy cause.
And it is great satisfaction to know that he did not die in vain.
Because now he is risen, is resurrected, is transformed.
And was, has been, without realizing it until now, until this particular now.
And now, he honors Conchita by fucking her.
And surely, some part of her is aware of just what an honor that is.
Those other women, the women from the beaches were, he is certain.
He changes his attitude toward the beach scene now.
His image would not fade, would not suffer from overexposure.
But still, he will not overdo repetition.
Because he is habit-forming, he knows.
And does not want, certainly does not need, women clinging to him.
He hates clinging vines.
Always has, even as a human being.
But enough of these meanderings.
Back to the business at hand, or rather, the pleasure.
As he continues to piston in and out of Conchita's cunt.
As she concentrates, eyes closed, on the feelings which he is generating within her.
As she writhes and twists, rocks and rolls, squirming so much that only his length, his thickness prevent her from accidentally separating from him.
Here ya go, Conchita, he thinks, you like to rock and roll, do you? You like it on the wild side?
Let's just give you a real fucking adventure, shall we?
He unplugs, turning her over before she can react, pulling her to knees and elbows by tugging at her hips.
Quickly, he seals his mouth to her ass hole, his tongue probing powerfully, insistently into her depths.
Quickly, he pulls his face back from her.
Quickly, he shafts his mighty prong, slick now with her clear, hot pussy juices, in and in and into her ass.
And now, placing both hands on her hips, he pumps in and out with the same piston action with which he was fucking her cunt, moments before.
And now, he holds his own hips steady, lifts her pelvis, both hands clutching the flare of her wide hips, and rotates it round and round, reaming her ass with his prick by rotating her on it.
And now, he puts her back down and rotates his own hips, continuing the action.
And she is going crazy now, cries of ecstasy and passion ringing flatly off the walls of the spacious bedroom.
And now, he pulls his cock out of her ass, flips her over, plants a knee on either side of her body and leans forward, holding onto the headboard for support-
And feeds his cock into her mouth with one hand.
And now, both hands on the headboard, he is literally fucking her in the mouth, hips pumping as she takes his cock, as much of it as will fit, into her mouth, holding it open, merely maintaining the warm pressure of tongue and roof of mouth as he plows away.
And now, he pulls away, sliding back down her body, pausing only to suck and fondle her tits along the way.
And jams his cock back into her cunt.
And grabs her by the waist, holding her to himself, as he rocks back onto his knees, then gets off the bed, one foot at a time.
And walks her all around the bedroom, all around the condo as, arms around his neck, head on his shoulder, he carries her by the cheeks of her ass, legs wrapped around his waist, cock fucking her with the motion of his walking.
And she moans there in rapture, rapture at the flood of erotic sensation which rises within her, rapture at this ultimate expression of his macho power.
And now, back onto the bed he lays her, leaning forward, not for an instant breaking the erotic connection.
And she thought there might be a problem back there, when she first emerged from the bathroom? How very wrong she was!
Problems there may be, problems he might have-everybody does, after all-but not here, not now, not in the saddle.
No, here he is the perfect stud.
No question.
The sex could get better than this-it always does.
But certainly the man cannot.
That is, there cannot be a more manly man, a sexier man than this, Conchita thinks.
Insofar as she is able to think at all, that is.
Because her mind is awhirl.
She is dizzy, disoriented.
She is both relaxed and excited.
Because she has surrendered herself totally to this wild man of sex, to this passionate, powerful maniac of the bedroom.
Useless to predict what he will do next.
Clearly, he is capable of anything and everything.
So that all she can do, all she has to do, is to surrender to him completely, body to body.
Useless to think, to plan, to conjecture, to anticipate.
His power exceeds her imagination.
His power exceeds that of any man she has ever known, has ever heard of-except of course, from their own lips.
Which proved to be bullshit.
But there is no bullshit to Rocco.
Rocco has made no claims, has touted no boasts, has said nothing concerning himself, really, not now, not ever, at least not within her hearing.
And he makes none now.
What words are required here, for heaven's sake!
He is a man of action, of erotic action, or action which has the power to transport her through the rosy empyrean, the boundless, scintillating realms of one sexual paradise after another.
Hell, he can even-
Yes, yes, yes! Oh yes!
Because she is coming.
She is coming and coming, her series of multiple orgasms surprising her with the quick advent of that concentration of sensation, that pleasure within the pleasure which quickly reveals itself as the pleasure beyond pleasure.
So that now, her pussy, as though possessing the same arrangement as a mouth, is sucking his cock, is milking it of the ultimate pleasure.
The ultimate pleasure-and nothing else. Because he stays right up there. Why not."
If this is all there is, if this is what he has given up his life, his humanity for, then why not indeed?
Why not make it last?
Why not make it last and last?
Why not go on and on like this forever and ever, until, like a wind-up toy, like the robot he has made of himself, he runs out of power?
What wonder of the world has she found here? Conchita asks herself, rhetorically, as Rocco, not pausing, not missing a stroke begins at once to propel her right back up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.
He is like, like ... a rollercoaster.
He is a ride-in the amusement park of raw sex, taking her up, up, up and over the top, plunging her down, down, down to the irresistible thrill in the pit of her stomach, only to boost her to the next hill.
And the next and the next.
As here we go again.
And now, it is as though his hips have a life all their own.
In and out, in and out.
And now, round and round, reaming her hot, drooling cunt with his mighty marauder. Was ever woman fucked like this before?
She doubts it.
Was ever man able to do this before? She thinks not.
Because he is fucking her as no sane man would, as no normal man could.
He is going crazy on her, in her.
She opens her eyes and quickly closes them again.
She cannot look; it frightens her.
Because his face is purple, the rest of him bright red.
The veins of his neck stand out like pipes, exposed tubing.
His chest muscles are strutted, his head thrown back, his teeth gritted and showing whitely against his blood-engorged visage.
And the sweat is pouring off of him, running in rivulets, so solid that they seem to glisten in the reflected light of the lamps on the nightstands.
So that she must enjoy the feeling while it lasts, must savor the ever-mounting floodtide of lascivious sensation within herself, must get while the getting is good.
Before he fucking explodes.
Because it seems to her that he is committing suicide by quite literally fucking himself to death.
And she?
Well, she'll let him.
Because this is a once in a lifetime experience. This is like nothing she has ever had before or will ever have again.
And she is determined to ride it through, to see it through to the end, however spectacularly horrible that might be.
Not that she has any real choice.
She is in the grip of forces far beyond her own feeble powers.
There is this sexual madman, inside, outside, all around her.
There is this exquisite, irresistible feeling, the pleasure beyond pleasure, ever novel, ever familiar which is welling up inside her, becoming stronger and stronger with every heartbeat.
Even now, she feels herself losing control even of her own thought processes, once again.
So that the floodtide of pleasure is sweeping her away on the crest of its tidal wave.
So that she is being borne aloft, tossed this way and that, by the warm, surging inundation, the tingling, thrilling permeation.
And now, and now-
There she goes again!
She is coming and coming.
And this time, the milking action of her pussy's contractions yield-
His load.
Thick and hot and copious, he injects wad after wad into the depths of her streaming cunt.
He is a spurting fountain of jism, of pleasureful sensation, adding to that which he has already produced within her.
On and on he fucks, even as he shares this climax with her.
So that he is in the throes of a power even greater than his own right now.
He has been spared, has been permitted to blow his safety valve, rather then himself exploding, bursting a vein, popping an artery, perhaps suffering a heart attack.
Not that it wouldn't have been worth it, she tells herself, as twinge after twinge of ultimate pleasure convulses her body, her cunt, again and again.
But he has survived.
And just as well, she supposes.
Because, even as she floats back down to earth, she realizes that he is not for her, he is not for any one woman.
Useless, foolish, stupid on her part, it would be, to imagine, even for a moment, that she could have exclusive claim on something like this.
As he seemed to be, so was he.
Not man, but superman.
Maybe, she tells herself, maybe if he had done one human thing.
Like telling the truth, for example, claiming openly to be exactly what he was and is.
That alone would have been enough to humanize him, to make him a real person, a man like any other, in her eyes.
So that she would be able to say to herself, Bullshit!
And know that, no matter how good he seemed to be, he was not, is not superman, or he would not have had to make the claim.
But he makes no claims, not in words, anyway.
His appearance, his car, even this condo make claims, but not he himself.
No personal words escape his lips.
Even his complaints at the club are directed at that which is outside himself.
He is sick and tired of such and such.
Never, he himself is sick, he himself is tired.
Superman does not get sick, does not get tired.
Even now-
"Well, shall we hit the shower and call it a night?"
"Are joo tired?"
"No, but we do hafta go to work tomorrah an' you need jer beauty rest, right?" She gives up. It's simply no use.
He is intimate, but he is not personal.
They will go to sleep, not because he is tired, but just because it's time for that particular activity.
So she accepts his hand and accompanies him to the shower stall, the large, tiled, glass-doored enclosure which occupies one corner of his spacious bathroom.
She does not do the polite thing, does not compliment him on the condo.
He knows exactly what he has here and requires no evaluation from her.
Just as he desires no companionship on a personal, no relationship on a human level from her.
And she cannot find it within herself to resent this.
He is an elemental, a natural force, one of the powers that be.
More than a man, he is and, at the same time, less.
No jokes, no small talk.
Not here, not at the club.
So that, at least, she will be spared the hollowness, the emptiness of an affair with this, this living statue of a man, this mechanical fucking machine.
He is not stiff in his movements; if anything, they all seem a bit too smoooth, too practiced.
As though he were ... programmed to make them.
My living dildo, she thinks. Because this is what he is good for, all that he is good for.
She has used him and used him well.
And will again.
Why not?
Can't beat the Rocco One for getting your ashes hauled, right?
She looks at him, sees him looking at her as they wash up with soapy washcloths.
Studying her, he is, his gaze analytical rather than admiring.
And turnabout is fair play.
Yes, he has all the right stuff in all the right places.
And he still represents to her, now more than ever, in fact, the essence of the male principle-strength, potency, virility.
Only once did his image sag.
And, now that she thinks about it, not even then.
She was trying to arouse him.
She was.
As though she knew how to turn on a 747 or start the water flowing over Boulder Dam.
And she does not flatter herself that, eventually, he responded.
As well to believe that rain dances cause rain or prayer cures eclipses.
There was no cause and effect at work there, none involving her, anyway.
She was, she is out of her league here, sexually speaking, a new experience for her, a unique experience, perhaps, for any woman.
A woman can wear down a man, that is a well-known biological fact.
Any woman, any man.
But she is truly ready for some serious z's.
And she knows that, if he wanted to, he could take her again and again.
She knows it; she can feel his power, radiating from his presence.
She can see it in the way his cock is half erect, even as he ignores it, even as he concentrates on getting other parts clean.
They complete their shower and dry off.
They cover up in the bed, ignoring the still drying evidence of their recent copulation.
Each of them turns out a lamp and they are left there, side by side, in total darkness.
Conchita turns away from him, curls into the fetal position, and sleeps.
And Rocco lies awake, flat on his back, head resting on a pillow, staring up at the ceiling.
As he realizes that Destiny is his.
She is his to use, his to keep, if that is what he wants.
But he is no longer sure of that.
He is no longer sure of anything he wants.
Not now.
Not now that he is stuck in his own image, merging with it, becoming one with it, becoming it.
But his image is sure of Destiny.
Because she is very much a female, whatever else she might or might not be.
And the female desires, to some degree, the male principle, or a male principle, with which to join in mystical conjunction.
Which seems like bullshit, the way Rocco puts it, but he knows what he means, knows that it is not.
Call it what you like, the urge is there, within her.
And Rocco is but the reflection of that urge, that impersonal, universal, quintessentially female urge, made real, brought to life.
No, she will not be able to resist him.
Odd how that thought no longer excites him in the least.
But then, that figures; people get excited, images are what they are.
What you see is what you get.
The only trouble with that is, what you see is all you get.
Because behind that, inside that, there is no more, there's nothing else.
Destiny is young, therefore impressionable.
So that perhaps he will do her a kindness.
Perhaps, like Marley's ghost educating Scrooge, he will warn her.
Use me, but don't become like me.
Because something has caused her to call herself Destiny.
And he owes it to her, he supposes, to see to it that that something was not the urge to actually become that which, right now, she so exquisitely represents.
It's an act, honey; for your own sake, keep it that way.
Leave Destiny where she belongs, out there on the stage, under the spotlight.
Be Shirley or whoever at all other times.
Because that is where Rocco went wrong, and yes, he knows that to give up one's humanity is wrong-that is where he made his fatal mistake, where he killed the person inside himself.
His stage was the beach.
Any platform, any exposure will do, it seems, any making available of an image and nothing else.
Especially when aimed at a certain class of beholder.
In Destiny's case, the bored, lonely, frustrated men, in his own, the bored, lonely, frustrated women.
Not that he looks down on them, not now, now that he can take a lofty view. They were not, are not losers. Their condition is temporary. Meaning right now.
But then, that's the time frame within which images operate.
They will not always be bored or lonely or frustrated, at least not to the degree that they are when he encounters them, the women.
But sufficient to the moment that that should be their present state.
Because at that particular juncture of time and space, within that specific "now"-he has them!
As surely as fish in a net, droplets in a rain barrel, he has them.
And the course of action, from that point onward, is predetermined.
The thrill, the challenge?
Illusions, the last wishes of the dying man within him which was himself.
I died happy, at least, Rocco tells himself.
And he cannot go back.
As with all things in this world, what's done is done and cannot be undone.
That was then and this is now and never the twain shall meet.
So that now, all he is he can see in the mirror.
He began as a reflection of the urges of others.
He ended up by becoming his own reflection.
A walking urge, with nothing behind it; that's Rocco, and the definition thereof.
And there's nothing he can do about it, except to do that which this particular image does, and, if possible, warn others, lest they fall into the same pit.
Rocco was never what you might call a true believer; nevertheless, it seems to him that he has given up what can possibly be termed his immortal soul in exchange for superstud status.
And it was so, so ... unnecessary.
Because he was doing okay without going to that extreme.
And now, it's too late.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"How wazzit, Rocco?" Tony asks, poking him in the ribs.
"How was what, Tone?"
"Oh yeah, right, like we both don't know who you spent the whole fuckin' night with las' night, right?"
"Oh, you mean what's-'er-face, uh ... "
"Conchita?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"I know that's the one, Rock!
"I'm innarested, Rock, old buddy.
"We're not talkin' merely curious here, we are talkin' innarested, unnastan' what I'm sayin' here, Rock?"
"Like you wanna know."
"Now ya got it!"
"She was ... okay."
"Rock, Rock, Rock," Tony sighs, "I got, like, a real reason fer axin', pal.
"I mean, tell ya the troot', Conchita is my kinda gal.
"Only thing, I had a lotta things ta worry about, bid'ness an' all, kep' me occupied."
Rocco looks at him, catching the hesitation.
As Tony attempts, unsuccessfully, to conceal the truth from him.
Destiny.
That's the one Tony wants.
And now Rocco knows for sure that Tony's got nothing going there, at least not yet.
It's probably true, what Tony says, the part about Conchita.
Rocco can well believe that she is in fact exactly Tony's type.
Or was, before Destiny came along and blew Tony's mind-among others.
Just as he can believe that Tony was about to go after her, about to break his own long-standing rule about dating the dancers from his own club ("Don't shit where you eat," as Tony so elegantly expressed it).
Because he has seen the women Tony dates, all Hispanic, to a woman, all looking like they could be relatives, and not too distant relatives at that, of Conchita.
Ironically enough, it took Rocco's date with Conchita to get Tony back on his own chosen path, as far as taste in women is concerned.
Because it took Rocco's date with Conchita to instil in Tony the realization-the making real-in his own mind of Conchita as an actual, available sex object.
One might even say that Rocco's action inspired Tony.
But then, that's what archetypal images are all about, inspiration.
First Conchita, then Destiny.
Great game plan, Tony, Rocco thinks. Wherever did you get the idea?
However, the finishing order of this particular race pleases Rocco, so-
"Okay, Tone, here goes: She's a hot number and I wouldn't pass it up, if I was you."
"Thanks, Rock. My on'y concern was that she might not be as hot as she looks."
"And then some, Tone," Rocco rejoins.
"Really? Thanks f' the tip, Rock."
Rocco stands there, looking down at Tony, behind his desk, expecting something more.
But Tony goes back to whatever he was doing with those papers before he snagged Rocco passing by his door.
And Rocco walks away.
And smiles to himself, thinking how much the old Rocco would have resented Tony's piggish attitude.
Rocco had a hot date with Conchita.
From which it might be inferred that this was, could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
But Tony didn't care, didn't even consider the possibility that they might now be going steady, be in love, whatever.
Tony's the boss, what the boss wants, the boss gets and fuck everybody else.
Good way to be, in certain situations, Rocco supposes.
And right now, he could care less.
Tony wants Conchita? What the fuck, let 'im have 'er.
Enough to go around, actually, since Rocco has no special plans, no plans at all, in fact, for Conchita and himself.
So good luck, Tony, and I mean that sincerely.
Or as sincerely as a dead man can mean anything.
He passes Conchita in the narrow hallway.
She smiles and shrugs, half embarrassed, like people who keep running into each other constantly over a short period of time and thus run out of appropriate salutations.
Not that they had all that much to say to each other when he drove her back to her room about noon, on his way in to the club.
Conchita lives nearby, so she simply walks to and from work.
""Ey, Conchita!" Rocco hears Tony's voice say. And, looking back, sees her stop. "C'mere a minute an', uh, close the door. "I wanna talk t'you about some-" The door closes.
Rocco shrugs and walks through the curtain which covers the exit to the hallway, to one side of the little stage.
And there she is at the bar, sipping a club soda.
Destiny, in the flesh.
And the flesh is looking really good, close up.
She nods and smiles at him, then goes back to thinking her own private thoughts, staring at her own reflection in the mirror behind the bottles and cash register, forming the background of the array of decanters and glassware running the length of the bar.
She wears white clamdiggers and a black tube top, bountiful bazooms bulging from it, her decolletage long and deep, shoulders full and smoothly rounded, spinal cleavage at the back deep.
Her brunette hair is softly waved, of middle length, looking as though it is at about the third wash after a perm and set, that is, natural and perfect at the same time.
Her regular features add to the impression that she is modelling something.
Or perhaps appearing in a commercial for a product yet to be defined.
Only her size-slightly larger than life--prevents this from being a page layout for soda, pedalpushers, whatever.
Rocco seats himself beside her.
And they watch each other watching each other in the mirror.
"You uh, you gettin' all settled in, gettin' t'know yer way around okay?" Rocco asks.
"Oh yeah.
"I haven't been anywhere much, not yet.
"My car made it down okay from Jersey, so it's not a problem getting around."
"Gotcher Florida license and registration yet?"
"Registration yes, license no.
"I've got an appointment next week, though."
And Rocco thinks, the old Rocco would have wanted her bad.
The present Rocco simply wants her.
"So I guess the only excitement you seen around here so far is what choo generate, huh?"
She smiles into her glass at that one.
"That what I generate?"
"I think you know it is." She shrugs.
"Hard to tell, really, from the stage," she says.
"Not that hard, I don't imagine."
She reaches over the bar, grabbing the seltzer squirter on its flexible hose and refills her glass before replying, "Not generally, no."
And she looks directly at him for the first time.
"Not generally," he echoes, "but specifically, you're not so sure, huh?"
She shrugs.
"Some people find big girls ... intimidating." Rocco grins at this. "Well, I didn't mean you, certainly. "I mean, I doubt you even find big men intimidating."
"If I do, I'm definitely in the wrong line of work," Rocco says.
"No," she replies, "I think you're definitely in the right line of work."
"And uh, just what line of work d'you think that is?
"You're not just a bouncer," she says, a statement, not a question. "I mean, you're definitely a person who does more than just ... bounce."
He laughs and, after a slight delay, so does she.
"How'd you uh, how'd joo happen t'find this place?" Rocco asks.
"It found me. Ad.
"I graduated from high school and came down here.
"I needed a job and they needed dancers. "Or a dancer.
"Dancer-hostesses, they needed, yes."
"I'm under drinking age, so Tony said I could just dance.
"He said the others could make 'em spend once they were here, but that I could do okay if I could bring 'em in."
"And have you? Brought them in, that is?"
"Of c-I mean, yes."
Rocco smiles slightly, turning away from her, gazing once again at their reflections. There it was.
Of course, she almost said. As in of course he picks up women on the beach. "Why Destiny?"
"To, to ... protect myself."
"I thought that's part of what I was here for," Rocco says.
"Not that kind of protection," she responds. "Then what?"
"Oh, I guess you might say ... advances, propositions, like that.
"I mean, give yourself a stage name and all that happens is they start calling you by that name instead of your own.
"This way, nobody is about to call out to me or try to send me notes or whatever."
"You figure that out all by yourself?"
"Yeah, I kinda did, running it through my mind an' all.
"I mean, I know what I've got to offer, but I also know what I don't wanna offer.
"Not uh, not to the customers, anyway."
"No no, you wouldn't wanna do that."
She looks at him sharply, to see if he is being sarcastic.
But he seems sincere.
"Still," he says, "you can't just be here and in your, your-"
"Efficiency apartment," she supplies.
"-your apartment," he continues, "like a hamster on a treadmill.
"Sooner or later, you've got to have, uh, some kind of a life."
"I know."
"That's real good, that you know. "And?"
She turns away from him, looking down into her glass, and does not reply. So-
"You open to suggestions?"
"Why not?" she shrugs.
"Tonight. My place, when we get off."
""Kay, I guess."
"That's a good guess. See ya after."
And he moves off, to see-
"Phil from Philly!"
They shake hands, but Rocco frowns at the sight of the bag in Phil's hand.
"If that's what I think it is, Phil, what the fuck are you-"
"What the fuck is fuckin' Tony doin' in his office that's so fuckin' important I gotta wait for, Rocco?
"It ain't like I'm one of the fuckin' hired help, no offense.
"This shit's gotta be processed an'-"
"Phil, Phil, Phil! Calm down a second, okay.
"Man's in love, cut 'im some slack, okay?"
"Yeah, right.
"Try to fuckin' imagine how little I fuckin' care, okay?
"I got a fuckin' plane t'catch, arright?"
"Lemme uh check, see what's goin' on an' like that, Phil."
"You do dat."
Rocco goes back down the hall, wondering what Tony is doing in there so long with Conchita.
"Mmm. Mmm. Mmmhmm," he hears through the door.
Then, "Haahhh," like air being let out of a tire.
And, moments later, Conchita opens the door, brushing past Rocco without a word, not looking at him.
"What's uh, what's-"
"Yeah, yeah, c'mon in.
"Just hadda get a fuckin' blowjob ta tide me over 'til tanite, is all. Plus, nuthin' like gettin' things started off on the right foot, right?"
What a fucking pig you are, Tony! Rocco thinks.
But it is more realization than condemnation.
Aloud, "Phil from Philly's here."
"Yeah, I know. Geez, lousy timing, huh?"
"His or yours?"
"Just wunna them things, Rock. No big deal, arright? "Fuck is 'e, anyways?"
Peering over Rocco's shoulder, then leaning into the hallway, looking up and down.
"He's in the bar. I'll go get 'im."
"Come back here widdim. I want choo should make the bank this aft'noon yet."
Rocco brings Phil in.
"Sorry about the delay, Phil," Tony says, extending his hand.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, can we jus' dodis, or what?"
Rocco closes the office door and locks it.
Phil opens the briefcase, saying, as he clumps the bundles onto Tony's desk, "Fifty uckin' bundlesa fifties, twenny fifties the bundle, I make it a halfa mil.
"D'you see what I see?"
"Yeah, okay."
"Then signa fuckin' receipt an' I'll be on my fuckin' way."
Tony signs the slip, handing it back to Phil.
"The bracchiole that just come outta here, she one of your dancers, Tone?"
"Yeah, Phil, she is. What's it to ya?"
"Nuthin'. She din't look too happy, is all."
"What can I say?
"Ya pay 'em a decent wage, ya feed 'em," grinning and winking at Rocco at this last, "an' still they ain't satisfied."
"Unhappy people inna workplace, Tone, gotta watch 'em.
"Nex' thing y'know, they're sayin' all the wrong things ta all the wrong people, capish?"
"Like I need a fuckin' personnel relations lecture from you, Phil.
"You got a plane ta catch or sumthin'? Have a safe trip.
"Now, where the fuck did I put them fuckin' deposit slips?"
Tony fumbles in his desk drawers as Rocco and Phil shrug at each other and Phil leaves.
* * *
The gym.
An hour a day is all Rocco needs, he knows, but he has a hard time squeezing even that in, some-times.
But now, the workout over, worked in following his trip to six banks, he stands under the shower, wondering what will be the outcome of his invitation to Destiny.
Who, in the event, proved to be quite approachable.
She is, after all, merely a generously endowed high school graduate with little or no practical experience of the world.
She's more than that, he corrects himself.
But then again, maybe not.
It could be that, with singular na vet, she figured out a rudimentary idea.
Men would pay to see what she has to show.
Meaning a simple transfer of funds, in this case, from the club's bank account to hers.
But she is wrong.
Simple transfer is what Rocco does, what he did today.
The money comes, in this case, from gambling, probably.
But it could as well come from prostitution or dope.
When it reaches him, or rather Tony, it makes no difference.
Cash, income, comes from here and goes to there, where it can be used to transfer to other accounts in conjunction with purchases from outside interests with goods to sell, be they various controlled substances about to go out of control, or arms or actual armaments, major pieces designed to inflict major damage.
But to Tony, to Rocco, it's simply cash.
Not so, however the transfer from the club to Destiny.
That is value received for services rendered.
Meaning that she has no such detatchment, no such distance between herself and the revenue source.
She is the fucking revenue source. And she has had to show her goodies to hundreds of men.
And they have had to look at them. Had to.
Meaning been compelled by their libidos, given no choice in a situation which Destiny herself has created.
So that there is power involved here.
The power of whoever that is behind the invisible mask of Destiny.
And there is weakness here.
The easy way out, fast money requiring neither skill nor effort.
And this power of hers has compelled her as well.
Her strength has compelled her weakness, has chosen to exploit it.
So that she is both perpetrator and victim, manipulator and manipulated. How victim?
She never gave herself a chance, is how.
She took that great big, beautiful body of hers and put it to work avoiding work, avoiding learning how to work.
And-it worked.
Because she will never have to know what real work is, if she learns to take care of herself, if she doesn't become as lazy in small ways as she is in the big one.
As Rocco, when younger, could not abide the thought of working in his father's bakery, but was always careful to keep himself in shape by working out at the gym.
But these are subordinate, are minor matters.
For now, he must do only one thing.
Which is to get her into the sack.
The rest can wait.
Because the image does not concern itself uduly with the lives of othets, the futures of others, except insofar as such concern may impact what happens now.
* * *
"Wha' de fock deed joo do, Rocco, geev Tony a blow by blow?"
"No, Conchita, I didn't. But you told ev'ry fuckin' body that we were gonna do the deed last night, remember?"
And it is clear from his cool, distant tone that he really doesn't care what she thinks or if she remembers.
"Yeah, okay, all rl', I soospose."
"You uh, you goin' out with him tonight?"
"Stayin' een, mos' likely, bu' jes."
"Well, that's good."
She looks at him, curious, but his expression is inscrutable and he makes no further comment.
Because what did she think, anyway, that they could have some kind of a life together?
How can he have a life together with anyone, when he has no life, when there is nothing left of him but an image?
He is like a great, empty house.
Beautiful to behold, but there's nobody home.
As, he suspects, is the case with Destiny.
With Destiny, whom he will be with tonight.
With Destiny who, unlike Conchita, has said nothing to the others.
Because, he reminds himself, we ideal images don't believe in small talk.
Just as well that Tony is preoccupied with Conchita, too, he thinks.
Who would have suspected that the guy is such a fucking pig?
Or that he would have so little concern about appearances that he would do as he did, knowing that a courier was coming from up north.
A courier who will, no doubt, report all that he has seen and heard in his brief, if involuntarily extended, sojourn at the club.
He kept Phil from Philly waiting, and did not have the courtesy to offer to share.
Because Rocco is certain that Phil would have been more than happy to catch a later plane, if necessary, in order to avail himself of Tony's hospitality.
But then, that is not Tony's style.
C'Fuck these horny fuckin' jamokes. Fuck they think, anyway, we're runnin' a fuckin' whorehouse down here?")
Not that Rocco really cares.
Not about Tony, not about the club, not about up north.
Funny, he reflects, how being dead will do that to you, make you so indifferent to everything.
Except, of course, to the one thing for which he gave his life.
Because he wants Destiny now, wants her to the exclusion of all other nookie.
What he wants, he will get, of course; there was never a doubt in his mind concerning that, not for a moment, not since he realized the deal he had made with himself.
Almost childish it is, viewed in a somewhat melodramatic light.
He has traded himself his own soul for all the ass he can handle.
That's what it comes down to, after all.
And Destiny is so important to him because he sees in her a kindred spirit.
Because it isn't just the money, not even if that is what she is trying to tell herself right now.
Rather, it's the power, the sheer physical compulsion she exercises over men, which she foresaw and which came to pass-that is her turn-on.
So that the girl within her is in danger of being eclipsed by her fascination with her own power.
What a dangerous thing is our reflection! Rocco reflects. One minute, we are human beings, merely trying to gain some peace and comfort in this hard and heartless world.
And the next, we find ourselves harder, more heartless than the world itself.
Rocco used to feel sorry for others and for himself.
Now he has no pity, not even self-pity.
He has made his pact with darkness and now he will have to live with it, which, in his case, is merely an expression because he is already dead inside.
He is a hall of mirrors, each showing his own reflection, his image, his image and thereby, the manifestation of his power, gained at what he would once have thought of as a great price.
But no longer.
He has no regrets, is actually better off this way.
It is better to be strong than weak, to have some power than none at all.
And caring less is certainly an improvement over letting things get to him.
And he will be with Destiny tonight.
Which could very well make it all worth while, what he has given up, what he has gained.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It's happening, Destiny thinks, just as she had always imagined.
Rocco is the embodiment, the aggregation, the coming together of exactly what she always thought that every man thought, that every man wanted to do at the sight of her.
Not clothed, perhaps.
Because she is a big girl, who merely looks big, in street clothes, in bluejeans, in skirt and blouse, dresses, whatever.
So that it was always the smaller, pretty little things who got the attention, the second looks.
But with her clothes off?
There, there! was a horse of a different color.
Perhaps, she remembers thinking, perhaps it was better that way.
Because she was always firmly convinced that, naked, she was, had to be, irresistible.
And therefore an irresistible temptation to whoever beheld her thus.
Of course, she need have no fears about that.
Because ours is a clothed society.
But she began, early on, to try and discover the venues, the circumstances under which she could be seen naked.
And lo and behold, there was a nude beach a little over an hour's drive from home.
And so she went.
And saw and was seen.
And what she saw was disappointing and those by whom she was seen were enchanted.
And their lust flattered, even as their bodies repelled.
So that she did not choose to repeat that experience.
Still, for the right guy, under the right circumstances, she could envision the possibilities, the delights.
She was aided in such envisioning by her faithful dildos, both vibrator and solid rubber, procured at great personal difficulty following a conversation overheard in the high school gym locker room.
She was much alone, having neither girlfriends nor boyfriend.
The former were jealous of, the latter intimidated by her presence.
But she could care less.
Because, alone in her room at night, vibrator in her cunt or shoving the solid rubber job vigorously in and out of herself, he would come to her.
Ruggedly handsome, broad-shouldered and tall, hugely hung and tireless in his ardent and detailed attentions to her, she would summon him to her, not to do her bidding but rather his own.
Because he always knew exactly what to do.
Not her mouth but his sealed to the doorbell of her nipple.
Not her hands but his kneading and fondling her large breasts.
And not rubber but hard, hot, thick, long, living flesh lunging and plunging in and out of her hot, juicy cunt without stint or letup until it put her over the top.
So that she would roll around in the darkness, doubled over, breathing hard and sweating, her pussy convulsing again and again, milking the rampant invader of the ultimate pleasure.
Her phantom lover, her masculine ideal would come to her whenever she wished, in the stillness of the night.
But not otherwise.
Where was he to be found?
Not among the school jocks, for all their adolescent bulk, their supposed excess of hormonal activities.
The male may well be in his prime at that age, but if that is the case, then she was looking for something other than that prime in her partner of choice.
But perhaps, she thought, she was being unrealistic, unreasonable.
Perhaps that male image was but a part of her own mind.
So that, as alone as she was in the world, just that alone would she remain.
But if it had to be, it had to be.
And she was big enough, beautiful enough, that she was fully prepared to be her own best company.
But what is the sound of one hand clapping?
Does the tree make a sound if there is nobody in the forest to hear it fall?
Of what good was all this ultimate femininity, this abundance of perfection, if there was none to observe it?
So that yes, she wanted to show, to feel that desire, to get from the real world that which she accored herself in her own mind and thus know that reality itself supported her in her opinion of herself.
As she knew that it would, given the right circumstances.
The right circumstances.
Where men-not boys, but men-could see her, could desire her, could fuck and suck her in their minds, even as her body, her mind suggested.
An article in a magazine, decrying the absence of morality, alluding to nudie bars gave her the idea.
And sure enough, there in the newspapers were the ads.
She did not have to go to Florida.
But it was far enough away from her folks who would never understand, had never understood her.
And there were tourists and money, she knew.
So that she could dance here, or she could dance there.
Here, willy-nilly, she could and would remain herself.
There, she could be anybody she chose to be.
Even the image she chose to project.
So that there would be no more young girl left within herself.
There would be only every man's dream, the feminine ideal.
She would become the sexual fantasy made flesh.
Indeed, she already was, except that nobody knew it, for one thing, and, for another, there was this teen-aged girl within her, a shy and silly, know-nothing creature she would be much better off without.
So that nothing remained, once she graduated, but for her to drive south, her few meager possessions in the trunk, her saved allowance her only stake.
Her parents disapproved, but she promised to keep in touch.
And there, as she knew it would be, was the ad, the job.
And there, as she knew it would be, the stage for show and tell.
And there, as she knew they would be, her protectors, men whose job it would be to see to it that, while she was real and the audience was no less real, the men and their fantasies, never the twain would meet.
And so it came to pass, even as she envisioned it, even as she willed it.
So that she became the dancer, the dancing star, the main draw.
Naturally.
Because who is there to compare with her?
Who is there who has what she has, who can show it as she does?
Because how often, back home, had she practiced her exhibition, her exhibitionism in front of the mirror in her bedroom?
Until the dance, if such it could be termed, was perfected, even before it was a dance.
And dance she did.
And dance she does, now.
And Rocco?
The first time she saw him, there was something strangely familiar, a very strong sense of deja vu at work within her.
And every time she saw him thereafter.
He was the bouncer-and more.
Much more, she suspected.
He had to be.
Because there was too much of him. Too much presence, too much power, too much sexuality he radiated. He was single, of course. Naturally.
Because he was too much man for any one woman, that went without saying.
And he looked at her, she knew, he saw her.
And it was in fact to him that she played, at him that she aimed.
The others, the customers?
They were there and she drew the power of their lust from them to herself, drinking it in through her very pores, letting it make her stronger and stronger.
From girl to woman, she went.
From woman to superwoman, to the essence of feminine voluptuousness, of female sexuality.
The female ideal and the ideal female, she became.
So that whoever, whatever she was before shriveled up within her and was expelled, unnoticed and unmissed, so much waste matter.
Because she had evolved, was transformed.
And she could feel them, feel every one of them, all their imaginings on her.
A hundred tongues fought one another for the privilege of rimming her.
A hundred tongues licked her pussy.
A hundred mouths sucked her tits.
It happened, all of it, none of it.
As reality and fantasy, theirs and hers, melded into a mystical, magical world which flickered between imagination and existence.
And always, always, she was aware of Rocco, the conglomeration and the embodiment of all their desires, the man they all wanted to be, wanted to be and, somehow, were.
Because he, he! was, is their representative.
He stood for all of them, for the sexual, the physical best of all of them.
And he had the power, the virility of all of them.
But had he their desire, their raw, driving, driven lust?
He had the potential for it, certainly; but what was he thinking, what was he seeing when he looked at her through those impenetrable dark shades of his?
Was that superabundance of virility attracted to her correspondingly total femininity as opposite charges of electricity to each other?
It sounded right, certainly; but in fact she had no idea.
And she was crushed when she heard of his date with Conchita.
But still, her faith in herself did not die.
Because, after all, herself was no longer the girl she-was, but rather a superwoman, the essence of the feminine ideal.
So that she had to believe, had to-
And suddenly, there he was, beside her, talking to her, saying all the things that meant only one thing-let's get together and be all right.
Because if they were, then it would be all right-everything.
The world and they two within it, above it, ruling it, making it theirs. And now, it was going to happen.
* * *
He is every man who ever desired her. He is all the maleness in the world, concentrated into one image, one solid, real, three-dimensional presence.
And now, he is doing it, doing it for them all, for every man who ever saw her, every man with whom she has ever communicated with her body.
Oh yes, he is sucking her tits!
Oh yes, he is kneading her breasts!
Oh yes, he is doing it all for her.
And he does not stumble, does not grope, does not falter.
He knows exactly what he is doing.
Which is good.
Because he is the one man who is not overwhelmed by her, who is not in any way intimidated by her, who fears nothing, who is as strong and brave as a lion, in bed or out.
He has nothing to prove, but everything to gain here.
And he is gaining it, is taking possession of her as she yields herself, all of herself, to his attentions.
She is the female essence, he the male.
They are, like the ancient Olympians, more than human.
So that perhaps this is the ceremony between semi-divine beings, between the male and female principles, which is required to preserve the world.
Or to create it anew.
As he squeezes her breast flesh, more than a handful each.
As he brings the doorbells of her nipples to rubbery firmness.
Not only what is being done, but who and what is doing it, is she aware of.
As he travels down her torso, one mouthful at a time.
As he sucks and chews her, the reality, the flesh of her, the female essence of her.
And now, he draws closer and closer to her hot, juicy cunt.
And seals his lips to the whole thing, bush, labia, all.
And begins to chew it gently, even as his tongue seeks her clit. And finds it.
And now strums it with his tongue, flickering at vibrator speed, hands on the backs of her thighs.
And she knows that this is exactly, exactly, exactly as she imagined it would be.
This is what she has predicted, projected, willed.
She has known for a very long time that this is just what would happen.
And that Rocco was the one with whom it would happen.
Because that image was in her mind.
She knew the briefest moment of anxiety when he removed his clothes.
Because, after all, in spite of everything, what if?
But no, she saw at once that she need have no qualms, that he was indeed the worthy vessel, the symbol and living representative to her of all things male.
And now, now-
"Aaah!"
He is tongue-fucking her, sending thrill after thrill of sexual electricity coursing through her entire fantastic ultra-female body.
Surge after surge he sends through her, the intensity of these waves of raw pleasure radiating out beyond her in all directions.
Better than she ever did it for herself, better than she ever imagined it could be, this.
So that both reality and imagination are refined, are redefined within her.
The adventure continues apace, its heat increasing with each passing moment.
And this is right, she knows. This is exactly as it was meant to be.
So that all she has done has been correct, because it has led to this.
And she has been correct, her interpretation, her understanding of herself.
She was right to save herself, to think as she did, to do as she has done, all the way.
So that she knows that there is that within her which has guided her infallibly.
So that this, this! was her, her ... destiny?
A grandiose idea, that, but fitting.
And she would not reject it.
And indeed, this is no longer the time for analysis, for evaluation, but for acceptance. This is the time of yes-saying. And she does.
She opens herself up to him.
And knows that she is perfectly safe in so doing, because of who and what she is, who and what he is.
And now, he pulls his face back from her streaming pussy.
And he is on her, on her and in her, and her innermost being receives him, embraces him, accepts him.
And she can feel every contour of his cock as it pistons slowly inside the hot, wet, smooth, pressurized embrace of her cunt.
She can feel the engorged, taut head with its flared flange.
She can feel the rugged, long, thick, irregular cylinder of the shaft, vibranting with the essence of maleness.
She can feel and feel and feel, her body and his in communication in the language of the body, the language the body alone can speak and understand, the language of raw, voluptuous, delicious, erotic sensation.
And now, he is pushing her up the rainbow, his engine working away flawlessly, effortlessly.
Fucking as it was meant to be, this, he thinks. Fucking as I have always meant it to be, she thinks.
And now, he uses his specialty on her, scooping up her legs, doubling her up on his pounding prick, even as he leans forward and his hands feed him her breasts once again, one at a time.
The act of total possession, this.
And she feels herself totally possessed by him, by the male principle, by the embodiment of all things male.
So that there is no question now in her mind but that this was as it was always meant to be, a conjunction predestined, written in the stars.
And not for nothing has she called herself Destiny.
Because she is truly no longer who she was.
That girl no longer exists, was but the precursor, the pupa from which the present butterfly has emerged.
And the genie cannot be put back in the bottle.
So that there is for her only the here and now and the feeling and the action and Rocco.
Who is not Rocco at all, who is not any one individual but an aggregation of them all, a condensation of their collective power.
And now, he is applying it to her, the power and the power and the power.
And she is absorbing it, matching it with power of her own.
And the reality of it, the surreality of it, the fantasy of it all become one.
And she rises higher and higher up the rainbow of her arousal.
And the pleasure beyond pleasure is summoned from her depths by his mighty tool.
As the fountain of lascivious sensation gushes forth within her uncontrollably.
As he too rises through level after level of his sexuality, of the sexuality of the image he projects, the image with which he has merged, the image he has become.
Together now, they approach the peak of their capacity to contain within themselves this incessant torrent, this geyser of exquisite, irresistible sensation.
They cannot, and, at a certain critical point, they do not want to.
So that, together, they fulfill the promise, the implication of the images they have become and that in turn have become them.
And, male and female, they recreate the world, in a burst of ultimate pleasure and release.
And they are coming and coming in what seems to them the fulfillment of their shared destiny.
As Rocco injects wad after thick, hot wad of his jism into the depths of her hot, flowing, convulsing vagina as her snapping pussy milks his turgid invader, again and again, and Destiny knows that this is what it was all about, all along.
* * *
Down and dirty is the phrase that comes to Conchita's mind, again and again, louder and louder, as Tony fucks her for the third time now.
He cannot seem to get enough of her.
He is like a kid again, a teen-aged boy with his first sexual date, like this is the very first time that he is alone with a woman and exploring the wonders of her body and his feelings.
Not at all like Rocco, she thinks.
Not a superman, but a man, a man who is giving to her by taking from her, greedily, hungrily.
And not pushing her buttons, manipulating her, operating her as though she is some kind of sophisticated machine.
Which is what Rocco is.
He-and Destiny.
Conchita knows, and is not deceived by Rocco. Not that he would bother to try actually deceiving her.
Even that would be too great a concession to her, too much a waste of effort on the part of Mister Superstud.
No, she is far better off in the long run with Tony.
Who, for all his crudeness, his thoughtlessness, his vulgarity, knows what it is to get down and dirty with a woman, to animalize her, to go crazy with her, on her.
And this, this! is what Conchita needs.
Let Rocco play his conceited, sophisticated, expert, cool games with Destiny.
Because Conchita has seen the way he looks at her.
They deserve each other, Conchita thinks, deserve to play god and goddess, high priest and high priestess of that self-centered, self-seeking cult of arrogance they choose to call love.
Destiny and her big equipment that she displays as though performing some arcane and powerful sorcery.
Yes, Conchita thinks, let them have their moments.
Let them have their years, even.
Sooner or later the years will have them, she knows, the inevitable will take place.
Not that they give that so much as a thought, living as they do in a perpetual now, moment by moment.
There could never be a future with Rocco, because Rocco has no future, does not believe in the future.
Like Destiny who never has anything to say, has no thoughts about, no opinions concerning anything, who has no mundane concerns and therefore nothing to talk about, Rocco too exists one second at a time.
So yes, she thinks, let them live in their own little world, a sterile, empty place in which they have, they have-not even each other, but only themselves.
So that they live alone, now and forever, and they will surely grow old alone and die alone.
Better this way, she tells herself, better to live in the real world, among real people.
Still, eyes closed as Tony humps and pumps away on her, Conchita can see them making love on the viewscreen of her mind, Rocco and Destiny.
But they aren't real; they are merely characters in a porn flick, a piece of hot video, an exaggeration, almost a cartoon, a parody of this, what she and Tony are doing.
And they are not role models, not even instructors.
Rather, they are imitators, forms devoid of the real content, what Conchita would call the down and dirty feelings which she and Tony are generating within one another.
And she does not envy them their perfection, their no doubt absolutely exquisite performance, which is exactly what it is in their case, an act, perhaps ceremonial, fraught with meaning, the movements ritualistic in their perfection.
Because this, this! is the real thing, with and between real people.
She and Tony will talk, will know one another after this.
She could live with Rocco and not know him, never know him, if in fact there is anything within him to be known.
What you see is what you get, with Rocco, but that's all you get because that's all there is to be had. And Destiny as well, no doubt.
Rocco and Destiny. Two physical paragons who will live alone and die alone-if they're not already dead and don't know it.
