NOTE TO THE TABLOIDS:
ÒWould you please print all the sexy photos of JonBenet Ramsey in ONE
issue? It pisses me off to keep having to buy your magazines every week.Ó
(a request from a guy on the bus. - h.j.)
Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 212
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Private Places
Chapter Five
Chairs arranged in neat files stood on either side of me. The
congregation sat, perhaps to better see under my dress. I walked
nervously. I felt my bottom rolling, and more and more air upon it with
every advancing step of my feet.
ÒAh, what a bottom!Ó I heard a man ejaculate behind me. A woman
sitting beside him murmured her approval. My face grew red. I gulped.
Yet I kept walking. There were perhaps two dozen people in the room. It
was a large dining room, long and formal, but with the dining table
removed, so that we could have our little ceremony. With every step I
wished IÕd declined SamÕs engagement more and more. I fingered the ring
heÕd given me. It was wonderful, a dream ring, diamond, with a gold band,
but I knew whoÕd paid for it. Emily. I stared fixedly at her. She looked
beyond me to Jill, savoring the womanÕs apprehension as she felt her dress
raised behind her.
ÒAh, now thereÕs a true womanÕs ass!Ó I heard a man declare.
ÒAnd such pretty legs!Ó his wife added. We were exposed in back,
both of us now. Sam stood with a frank erection in his trousers. He wore
a tuxedo, but with the sides of the jacket cut artfully away so that
nothing would be hidden. I knew half the ladies in the room must be
staring at the projection in his starched pants.
With a somewhat glum look I took up position beside Sam. Jill,
arriving after me, stood on his opposite side. He seemed to mind not the
least that his wifeÕs bottom was being shown off to the audience.
ÒUnzip the brides, please,Ó Emily said. I felt the woman behind me
take hold of the zipper at the back of my dress. Simultaneously Emily
reached forward, cupped SamÕs bulge, and unzipped his fly.
ÒNooo!Ó Jill cried. Yet she stood stock still as her dress was undone,
pulled away, and Emily rummaged in her husbandÕs pants to pull out his
cock. A moment later and I stood in just a frilly bra and garters before
the alter, with patterned lace stockings running down my legs to my
pumps, everything white, pure, yet so utterly sinful! My bridal veil still
hid my face, despite my bare heinie. Jill stood similarly revealed on
SamÕs other side. I looked down at my muff, saw it reflected in a mirror
near the alter. How dare they! All of me could be seen, I realized
suddenly. A mirror on the other side of the alter made sure JillÕs pussy
was as visible to the congregation as mine.
Between us, Emily now drew out SamÕs penis. It dripped with pre-
cum. She tutted, displeased to see her hands sullied. Yet she stroked him
several times to make sure he was at his full length. Then, not wiping her
hands, she turned and picked up the Holy Bible. Ashes to ashes, I guess,
and pre-cum to the Maker who created us all.
ÒDo you, Sam, promise to take Jill and Fury with all your might?Ó
She used my real name, I saw. I liked hearing it. My real name IÕd given
myself. IÕd told her that was my name, and sheÕd remembered it. I felt
happier. She might look through me when I came up the aisle, yet she did
not ignore me entirely. Jill and Sam called me Flurry, but to Emily I was
Fury, an independent girl, with my own name, even as she joined me in
marriage to Sam and his wife.
ÒAnd do you, Fury, promise to have Sam with all your love?Ó Emily
asked me, turning to me, meeting my eyes for the first time this evening.
ÒI promise,Ó I answered.
ÒSay ÔI do,Õ silly!Ó Jill hissed at me, bending forward slightly. When
she heard a whistle from the audience she remembered her behind was
bare and quickly straightened herself again.
ÒI do,Ó I smiled, then looked at Sam, but he stared straight ahead,
his eyes in line with his dick.
Emily moved to Jill. Inspired suddenly, she reached up and touched
the front clasp of JillÕs bra. She released it. JillÕs breasts popped into
view, quivering, her bra falling away to hang uselessly under her arms.
Emily touched a finger to each of JillÕs nipples. They responded, rising
quickly. I think her shyness had kept them from standing up sooner. There
were so many people behind us, we felt so vulnerable, much worse than at
Ms LaliqueÕs dinner party.
ÒAnd do you, my darling Jill, take this handsome man to be your
husband?Ó
ÒI do,Ó Jill whispered. Emily bent, caught one of JillÕs nipples
between her teeth. ÒI do!Ó Jill exclaimed, afraid, unsure.
ÒThatÕs better,Ó Emily answered, and lifted her head. ÒMay I kiss the
bride?Ó she asked Sam.
ÒSure,Ó Sam answered, surprised, but not displeased. Emily dropped
the Bible to the floor and grabbed Jill round her neck, embraced her, kissed
her hard.
ÒOhhh!Ó Jill responded, trying to back away, failing. I saw her hands
flutter, rise. Her bouquet of flowers fell to the floor. Jill probed her
mouth with her tongue. For the first time I saw Emily had a riding crop
stuck through the sash of her dress. It was black, matching her dress and
sash. Sam saw it then too. His eyes widened. Ours was a most
unconventional minister!
Jill pulled her mouth from EmilyÕs. The woman held her by the neck
still, close-pressed to her own body. Emily could not escape. Jill
regarded her, tucked up her bridal veil so that it would no longer hide her
face.
ÒGo to the altar, bend over it. There is a cushion there for your
tummy,Ó Emily told Jill. I looked, saw the Bible had indeed been resting on
a small red velvet cushion on our nightstand altar. Now the holy book was
on the floor, forgotten. But the cushion remained, properly placed, waiting
to receive a soft female tummy over it.
ÒAnd if I refuse?Ó Jill asked. She seemed not to want to participate.
Emily drew out her riding crop. Jill gave an audible gasp.
ÒTo the altar!Ó Emily said, and pointed with her crop.
Jill glanced once at Sam. He smiled back, pleased at the show, not
the least minded that his wife should be made to display her sex in public.
Jill walked forward, mincing steps. Emily whacked her bare fundament
and she shrieked, hurried the last steps, bent over the altar quite
sheepishly.
ÒPart your legs. Let us see your brideÕs cunny. Has it been
deflowered?Ó
ÒWhat?Ó Jill asked. She was blushing most visibly. Somehow she
managed to find the courage to open her legs, but was rewarded with a
quick jab of EmilyÕs crop right in her fig.
ÒHas anything been up here yet?Ó Emily asked.
ÒWhy, yes it has, and you know it!Ó Jill answered. She seemed on the
verge of tears. I stood, my veil still hiding my eyes, but my bottom
jiggled nervously behind me as I shifted my weight from foot to foot.
ÒAnd here?Ó Emily asked in a commanding tone, intruding the tip of
her crop into the inswirl of JillÕs anus.
Jill shrieked again. Then, settling down, still hunched over the
alter, she answered, ÒYes, IÕm Ôanally liberated, if thatÕs what you mean.Ó
ÒGood. Come right out and tell us. DonÕt make a mystery of it.
Precious little remains mysterious about you anyway, my dear. Such a
proud bottom!Ó Emily remarked. Jill did indeed have a royal fundament,
with queen bee cheeks, well-fatted, yet her legs we breathtakingly slim,
as was her midsection and arms. Her large bosoms impressed themselves
into the linen altar cloth.
WHACK! Emily struck JillÕs bottom hard with her crop. Immediately
a slim red mark appeared, puffing just a bit, showing where sheÕd been hit.
ÒOwwww!Ó Jill shouted. Her hands flew behind her. Tenderly she
touched the spot where her skin had been marred by the crop. Yet she
somehow remained bent over, fearing, perhaps, that to rise would earn her
a second assault.
ÒI am jealous, my dear, as most women in this room probably are,Ó
Emily answered. Openly she admired JillÕs well-displayed peach, though,
in truth, I thought she bore an equally proud pumpkin herself, be that it
remained under her dress.
ZINE REVIEWS
by holy joe
Dreamgirls with Shaman, No. 54, $1.00. Minicomic, 32 pages. Will
Dockery, P.O. Box 3663, Phenix City, AL 36868.
Review: First, the truth. My review copy of Dreamgirls with Shaman
is only eight pages in length. However, Dockery has prepared Òfor saleÓ
copies that are 32 pages long. I misplaced the letter in which he details
exactly what these issues consist of, but they are the issue reviewed
(below) plus extra issues, all bundled into a generous package of poems
and comics.
Back in the early 1980Õs minicomic-maker Matt Feazell pioneered
the Ôminicomic for a quarterÕ concept. A stamp cost 22 cents (never mind
the envelope), but somehow the whole thing could arrive in the readerÕs
hands for a quarter. Many of us, including myself, were inspired to labor
in this genre.
Then the price of a stamp rose to 25 cents. It became rather
difficult for a publisher like myself to sell an eight-page minicomic for a
quarter. Some minicomic publishers raised the price of their minicomics
to 50 cents. In doing so, they raised the page count of their minicomics to
16 pages.
The tradition continues. Charging $1.00, Dockery is offering his
poetry and comics for the same price he would have charged you in 1983!
32 pages for $1.00, which works out to 25 cents for every eight pages.
Dreamgirls with Shaman is a long-running title dating back to the
previous decade. Originally it was titled Shaman. There was a separate
title (by me) called Naughty Naked Dreamgirls. Eventually the two merged.
Now the two have parted company. For the moment the hybrid-title
remains, perhaps to adorn future issues, perhaps not.
Dreamgirls with Shaman is currently on an annual publication
schedule. This is the new issue. It is for the year 1997 but, since Dockery
never made an issue in 1996, it could be considered the 1996 issue,
although the art and poems in it didnÕt actually exist in 1996. Perhaps
later Dockery will put out an official 1996 issue containing art and poems
that couldnÕt exist in 1996, because they were created in 1997.
Such is the way of small press publishing. The cover of this issue of
Shaman (with Dreamgirls) features DockeryÕs bizarre art on the cover.
Worrisomely close to Florida, home of Mike Diana, there resides a whole
school of ÔbizarroÕ artists. Will Dockery, Dan Barfield, P.D. Wilson, Carol
Horn, and others. This loosely-knit community of artists is as odd in
geography as it is in its artistic visions. It spans the state line that
divides Georgia from Alabama, populating both states and, often, both
states at once in the same day. It produces such oddball gems as the
current cover of Shaman.
Here, on the cover, we see a beak-faced man. He wears a hat but no
pants. He has a visible pair of testicles and he appears to be directing a
host of girls with a baton-sized penis. The girls, as they dance, with
cunts and breasts on display, sprinkle dollar bills, hearts, and peace signs
across the cover. Above this weird male/female assemblage loom two
heads. Each head contains only one eye but two pairs of lips. Certainly
this is a cover worth the notice of a Florida district attorney. Perhaps
this $1.00 comic can spawn a $100,000 trial.
Meantime, Dockery will eagerly accept your dollar. Currently heÕs
down on his luck. HeÕd be homeless, but an absent in-law has (perhaps
unwittingly) permitted him to live in a vacant mansion in a yuppified
section of town. Despite the wealth of DockeryÕs surroundings, the
mansion heÕs living in has no electricity. The water has also been cut off.
Hence, the grounds of the mansion have become DockeryÕs toilet. I asked
him recently in a (self-funded) telephone call how he managed to relieve
himself.
me: I suppose you donÕt just hold it?
dockery: No. I let it out just like everybody else does.
me: How?
dockery: Well, to pee, you just go out back and pee.
me: How about to poop?
dockery: For that, you dig a hole. Then you poop into the hole and
cover it up.
Dockery has learned to cook food over a fire, in the fireplace of the
mansion. This, I admit, sounded pretty great, living by firelight and
candlelight in a mansion, eating food cooked over a fire. WouldnÕt you
know, of course, Dockery even has a girlfriend to keep him company in
such circumstances. And, together, they make art.
I was quite impressed by this issue. The poems were quite well-
written, in my opinion. HereÕs a sampling:
From Dan Barfield:
ÒThe earth runs
through my veins
Deep and black
ancient memories
ancient magic
...I am the reason
you fear the darkness
I am
the darknessÓ
From Lisa Scarboro:
ÒWords shared
among friends
...voice after
voice echoes
like feelingsÓ
From Rick Duffey:
ÒThereÕs a spider in our warehouse somewhere
who keeps making webs
in all the worst places & she does this
overnight
webs of immense size
bigger than pillow cases
big enough to capture chess pieces
they only appear after five in the evening
& eight the next morning, punched in,
when weÕve got sleep under our lids
& sip at the cooled edges of
styrofoam coffee we always discover them.
WeÕve never seen this spider in person
but opinions abound
itÕs a big one says Mike...
& sheÕs red with yellow stripes--her name is
probably Amanda
(I say)
she tells fortunes to the other spiders
her name means Ôworthy of being lovedÕ
her bite is poisonous with no puncture marks
she seeks out the crevasses of skin
attracted by the warmth
of your body
scratch an itch there
only if you mustÓ
On the back page of this minicomic I was delighted to see new comix
by John Jones. HeÕs been drawing his Retros comix for years. At first I
was fairly dismissive of them (back in the 80Õs). But like fine wine they
have grown on me. I have a deep appreciation for them now, perhaps born
of their intrinsic merit, perhaps born of nostalgia. Can one ever be sure
about such things? I feel nostalgia for GilliganÕs Island too.
Will Dockery produces a similar line of comix (not present in this
issue), titled Demon House Theatre. Suddenly I find myself wondering,
with regard to DockeryÕs comics, and JonesÕ, and even WilsonÕs and HornÕs,
ÒHas all their work been saved?Ó ÒIs there some way it could be collected
and displayed?Ó
Once you develop an appreciation for what they are creating it
becomes quite addictive. ItÕs strange art, visual poetry, really, for it
Ômakes no senseÕ to the DC and Marvel-trained eye. But once you let go of
your preconceptions of what art ÔshouldÕ and, indeed, ÔmustÕ be, you find
yourself in a new realm. Their art is unique; a strange blend of human,
mystical, and even superheroic creatures. And, like I said, there is a
whole school of them, all cross-pollinating each other, all living in the
same locale.
And all dangerously close to Disneyfied Florida.
AND IN THE END...
TOO SEXY AT 12
ÒSome critics accuse producers of firing Joanna because they felt the
4-foot-9 actress had matured during the off-Broadway run in Boston,
and had become too sexy to play Annie.Ó
- Globe (on former Annie star Joanna Pacitti, age 12), March 18, 1997,
pg. 32.
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-END OF 212 EMISSION