from Life of Death
by Phil Lewis
 
 
Johnny-Boy's in the hospital. He just got an overdose of cocaine. I saw the blood all over the floor, after they mopped it up -- but the stains remained and bore testimony to it all. It was all passing over my ears as I heard it. Another one happened to do with Lolita -- she dumped her old boyfriend, some guy named Jose -- for a Vietnamese kid named Ding Dong. On top of that, she's having an affair with Sal Moustafa, of all people. It was all very confusing when I heard it through Basil. Jose had leaped into the Potomac River and killed himself, I heard. But Sal Moustafa, too, was dead. Ding Dong and Lolita got into a car crash not long ago and Lolita broke her neck; she also had a miscarriage with Sal's baby -- the one I picked up, I discovered. They were driving home from the Tropicana disco in Holiday Inn downtown when Ding Dong, drunk as usual, crashed his car, a beautiful Rolls Royce, right into a tree. A Rolls Royce! What a fool . . . "Gooks can't drive, man," Barnaby said to me. He was another one giving me news of the goings-on. "Look -- you know Sal Moustafa, Lolita's man? Well, Lolita was hot for him until she met Ding Dong. Then she got tireda him, too. Then, he went after Concha. Concha fell for him, the handsome young Libyan dude. Well, she used to give him good blowjobs, real good, until --- well, no, Lolita and Sal never broke up --"

"What the hells this?" I butted in. "I don't give a shit about Concha's beautiful blowjobs. I'll find out for myself! Tell me just how Salah got killed. That I wanna know."

"Well . . . Concha was going out with Sal, too. Sal had the botha dem, see. But Concha an' Sal were alone, going to a movie when they began speeding, real, real fast, about 100 miles per hour, an' the car skidded out of control, 'cause it was raining -- an' crushed into the telephone pole. They were inna police chase, too, see. Concha fell out of the door, the door flew open. She got K.O.ed and broke a leg . . . but Sal! Hell, he got smushed . . . his face was on the letter box, in the compartment -- torn right off his head! It was that -- and his nuts. The only two things they had lef'! The nuts flew out and landed on the ground, that's where they found them. They buried him three days ago in a box . . . the mother shot herself and fell in the grave during the funeral . . . they were Muslims . . ."

Death . . . I couldn't get used to it. The death of Sal didn't seem real. It was a tidal wave getting ready to engulf this entire country, it seemed to me now. The statistics I read in the paper day after day scared me and I could almost see myself in there with the rest of the dead black kids who had their brains blown off for drugs and t-shirts and sunglasses. I didn't know him, but it was frightening and painful just the same to hear of his death. He always seemed so very quiet, so innocent. How could I have wished that Concha AND Lolita, whom he died for in all his Arabian foolishness, had been smushed instead of poor Moustafa!

The coke racket. How well I remembered it. It was rampant. Lolita and Ding Dong were well into it. One time she walked in the joint with blood on her dress. It was from all the damn holes she had in her nose, by far. She snorted like a bull. You could even hear her in the back with Maggie and Ruby, who were the two centerpieces in the dope racket. They got their shit from Louangphuck, who got the coke from a Cuban dealer operating from an El Salvadoran agent in Belford who operated in Miami, and further into Columbia -- and also opium from a friend she knew in Laos, and not to mention marijuana, of which she had plenty. She even grew marijuana plants in her house. All in all it kept her quite well off -- but she wasn't showy with her money. She got the dope from the agents, she sold it to the stool pigeons, and the stool pigeons sold it to anyone they could hook up. All three operated together. They took up turf, they blew up tenement houses and threatened all the dealers and the other "agents". The dope almost always came from a foreign place like Laos. They came in innumerable forms -- for one, it came in between the two sides of a record they pieced together. The record was in Lao -- as was all the packages I found lying in the trash, marked "Vietiane" and shipped out as fast as possible through absolutely secretive means. Her agents had unlimited access to the poppies. They took part in that Golden Triangle operation. As for the coke, it came from Bogota -- but these were burnt, the packages, because of the Spanish-speakers in the joint. Tramsokong Louangphuck was the only Laotian working there at the time, so the weird Lao scribbling was seen as just another one of her letters from overseas friends and relatives. And Lolita, too, was buying it regularly. Even Basil had some for a girlfriend of his. Ding Dong had plenty. And not only that, but Lolita was drinking with her boyfriends quite hard -- gin, brandy, whiskey -- that strong stuff. Indeed one day she turned up dead drunk, after getting soused up in a nearby pub with Ding Dong. Watching her wobble around like that I knew I could pull it off. I was on break to boot. I led her downstairs carefully and she began fussing. "Whadda you do, you phool! Ge' offa me, stupi'! Leeeme alone! Gedada heah, now . . . ooooooooh! Dat feel so nice! Wha you do to me?" I felt up in her crotch. She forgot to put on her panties. She probably had another brat coming for all I knew, for I could tell that she had been screwing with Ding Dong just then, because I could feel the spunk . . . she wrapped her arms around around my neck, giggling, me dragging her along to the ladies room. Barnaby wasn't washing the pots -- Yo Yo was, since Barnaby was off. Yo Yo didn't notice -- his eyes were dead set upon the pots. Good. I clutched Lolita's bony ass and led her inside. She began to strip . . . she was drunk as hell . . . she lifted up her skirts. Quite a pleasant surprise -- she was well-made, one of the delicate ones, if only a bit small at the hips. Lolita looked up at me . . . "C'mon, stupi', fuck me! No -- eat it, lick i', touch i'! . . . Put you' mouf on it . . . c'mon, he nice, he no bite you . . ." So I ate it. It wasn't too bad -- I held my nose . . . She fell into one of her sexual comatose states. Then I felt her jerk -- she had a little orgasm. And another little orgasm. And another. And another. I looked at my watch -- 40 minutes to go. More than enough, I thought. She got up, sat upright; she didn't know who I was. "C'mon stupi', lemme feel yo' bawls! . . . mmmm! . . . dey very good . . ." She went for the balls, sucked on each one, and stroked the shaft just the same. Penny could've eaten her damned heart out for this one. She sure knew how to suck for a fifteen year old. I heard Concha was better . . . I almost blew off in Lolita's mouth thinking about Concha. I had copped her ass one time, but she hadn't blown me. A thirteen year old sucking you off, a fifteen year old licking your nuts . . . and from a Banana Republic . . . I had to cool off. I took it out but she grabbed for it again. "No, no, more, more, I show you trick . . . lookie!" She took it all the way down . . . to the balls . . . she almost swallowed those too. But it was taking me a long time to come. So much the better. I was sick of those fast ones. I liked it good and slow. I had half a damned hour, so it didn't matter much. The blowjob went on for fifteen minutes because I kept holding back so skillfully. But not only that, Lolita's weird get-up put me off too much and coming was difficult. But her voice got me horny; that spicy Latin voice and those slurping noises she made were sexy as all hell. Finally I thought of fucking her in the ass. I turned her over and used the grease from the fried chicken bones lying on the plate to oil up her ass. But it slid right in just the same. She'd been buggered so many times she could open her rectum up like her own mouth when she relaxed her asshole. It was a nice, snug fit up in there, and the rhythm was good and rolling. But still, I couldn't come. Then I thought of Concha. Thirteen years old . . . I came in no time. I almost cried her name out loud. Whew! That was a long one . . .

I left her on her back. She got up and threw down her skirts. She was still completely drunk. I went upstairs for my "dinner" -- my chocolate cake with cream and fried chicken for the belly ache and the tea which was always lukewarm. But then, BOOM! CRASH! Something's rolling down the stairs . . . I look -- . . . It's Lolita! She tried to get up the stairs. But she laughs still. Blood runs down her face. She knocked out her front teeth. She wrenched her back so badly -- she's bent like a pretzel -- she'll have to get an operation for that one. Fool bitch! And she was flunking out of school too, I heard. Wasting money. She wants it all too soon . . . she's just making a mess of her life.

Then there was Concha. I thought of her all day. I was lucky to have been chosen to clean the bathroom again for Concha was in there douching herself in the toilet. For the hell of it I dropped my pants and opened the toilet door -- then closed it. She squealed. "Ooops! My mistake," I lied -- and went back to cleaning. She got out. "Whaa you wan', fool? Whaa? . . . Hey," she said, her voice heaving in obvious anticipation, "you fuck, yeah? You like fucking?"

"Oh, no, I can't stand it," I lied. "It's filth!"

"You wan' to fuck me? Free! No charge," she squealed in lust. Her squealing was driving me hysterical. Thirteen . . . "C'mon -- I suck you. I give goo' head!"

I sprouted a gigantic hard-on and went to the door and locked it. "Okay -- go ahead!"

"Wai', stupi'! You ga' pay monee first!"

"You lied!"

"No, dat was for fuck. For suck, monee! Gimme one dollah!"

I pulled out a dollar and gave it to her. She unzipped it and pulled it out and went to work right away, jewels, blown-out dyed red hair, long earrings, red high pumps, tight skirt, plump juicy ass, midriff and all. It was excellent. She was a master -- and thirteen! And she kept grunting when she did it . . . I suddenly felt something the size of a bowling ball deep in my crotch, rising and growing ever harder and harder and harder, until it finally exploded in torrents of jism everywhere . . . it was a gallon of it, all over her face, all in her mouth! Probably the biggest of all. It even hurt it was so good. It was all over the floor. Her face and mouth were all white inside . . . she let some dribble down . . . I spurted one last right there . . . it was too much . . . she was a hot piece of tail . . . just like a porn flick. But it wasn't over. I got it back up and took her cunt from the rear. She began giggling, then I jammed it in her soft behind, and I as I pushed it between the plump cheeks of her ass I heard her swallowing the juice from my balls . . . thirteen and from the South American jungles! A pagan! Loose! Hot! Dirty! A savage pussy! A steaming vagina! Twat of the tropics! . . . All that kept popping up in my head, I switched from her ass to her cunt again, she kept yelping in Spanish, clenching her twat muscles -- and I ended it all with one good, agonizing blast of sauce for all it was worth!

And the soda jerker was hot stuff, too. I pursued her -- but failed. She was one of those stuck-up puritanical Chinese. Yet I did something incredible the same night. I succeeded with Rosa in the back of a Belford movie theater I visited with Giuseppe and she. Giuseppe wanted me to come along with he and Rosa on this one to make sure that I knew he was really having an affair with her. I believed him by then -- but he wanted to make a point. When we got in the theater and settled down he was sitting beside Rosa and Rosa beside me. Squashed right in the middle, Rosa. She began getting hot after a few minutes into the film. "I want it in my mouth," she cried for the umpteenth time. So Giuseppe unzipped his fly and Rosa was so eager she pulled out his dick and sank her molars into it and began sucking on it. Giuseppe sank back, eased up against the chair. The bastard . . . and I go on like this without getting a piece myself. But not just yet . . . for I notice that Rosa's ass is sticking right under my nose because she's leaned forward sucking Giuseppe. I also see that she's wearing a long thin blouse, which is perfect because it's more manageable. I know she doesn't care what happens to her, so I stick my hand up her blouse. She isn't wearing any panties. Still more perfect. I get my ass over the arm of the chair, pull out my dick and shove it up her pussy. It feels wonderful -- just like putting a hot burrito on my shaft. She moves herself to the rhythm. All the while I face the movie screen; Giuseppe's in such ecstasy he thinks I'm sitting and minding my own business. I think and then wipe off my cock and bugger her real fast, taking a risk because she might still have shit up her ass for all I knew. But she was real good and tight up there, also. But then . . . "Fuck me, Giuseppe! -- no! -- eat me, lick me first! I like it!" I sink down. Now she turns the other way around and Giuseppe begins to eat her. Her face is right over my dick. She says nothing -- she just takes it and puts it in her mouth. I'm sitting down, watching this film, minding my own business. They seem to hear our grunts but nobody pays any mind. Nobody gave a damn -- because it was the good old Belford theater near the 10th street "honky-tonk" district. She hadn't much skill, at least in comparison to some of the others -- she was overrated. I didn't see what Giuseppe was getting all excited about. She kept biting it and gnawing the wrong way, just like a little girl. That was wrong. She obviously didn't know much better, anyway. She was just all heat -- period. Her sisters knew better, especially Concha. They had more control.