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Andrew Roller Presents
FUCK DECENCY
Issue No. 281
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Bush League
Chapter Six
Over the years, before the sea finally cut a path between the
peninsula and the mainland, flooding in where the blasting had gone down
too deep, forcing the mine to swing back away from the castle, the
laborers had come and stolen stones from the demolished castle. It had
crumbled slowly at first, I learned. IÕd asked of it in the bars in the
mining town. One day, I was told, a particularly vicious blast, set off by
too much dynamite, that killed 30 workers, had brought the whole antique
structure down.
The people in the town had kept me up late last night. TheyÕd told
me of the castleÕs fate. IÕd arrived fresh from America and passed through
the streets, buying drinks until dawn for anyone who might tell me of it.
At dawn IÕd met Maria. IÕd found her washing dishes in the back of one of
the bars. SheÕd remembered me reluctantly. I think she wished to have
nothing more to do with me, but money talked. Or, at least, it talked to
the man who appeared to be her husband. HeÕd agreed that sheÕd give up
her dayÕs sleep to row me out here and show me the ruin of tumbled rocks.
RoseÕs title to the property had been defective. At least, that was
what the courts ruled. It made it easier for the government to nationalize
the property if they didnÕt have to pay anyone. Even the workers digging
out the gold worked at no expense to the government. Arrests had gone up
in the town the year after the gold was discovered. The government had
imported other prisoners from far away. They were all brought to the
mine, given long sentences, hard labor, time off when you die.
I walked up to the pile of old stones and kicked one. It wobbled. A
stone on top of it fell to the ground, nearly hitting my foot. We walked
round the pile of stones and found the pool out back. It was empty,
cracked, with rainwater in the bottom of it. The diving board was gone.
Only the stand for it remained. In the distance, where the laborerÕs shacks
should have been, there was nothing but weeds. A mile on and the top of
the land suddenly disappeared. The gorge. Man-made, filled by the sea
after the mine dug down and depleted the gold in between.
ÒI want to eat lunch here,Ó I said to Maria. I walked back toward the
pile of rocks.
ÒBefore dark...we must leave before dark,Ó she told me. I took off my
knapsack and knelt and unzipped it. Such a superstitious lady. Standing, I
unfurled my white tablecloth.
ÒWhy?Ó I asked. Something made me want to stay the night. There
was nothing here, just the wind, the gulls, but I felt a desire to stay just
one night, and leave in the morning. Or at least to spend the afternoon
eating and enjoying the sea and the play of the light upon it. And perhaps
taking a nap. We could leave at sunset, couldnÕt we? I was too sleepy
from my night on the town to just hop back into the boat after lunch. The
climb down would be hard. My lunch would make me want to nap.
Maria watched me put my tablecloth down on the grass. She said
nothing. She went and sat down on some rocks that had once been the
castle and watched me eat. I offered her a sandwich. She declined it. I
was glad because I was hungry and I ate it myself. She took out a canteen
and drank from it. I wondered if it was liquor. She should not drink if she
was going to row me back across the water. But I said nothing. She was a
large woman. A whole tub of liquor would probably have gone down with
her and not made her the least bit tipsy.
When I was done eating I let myself lie back on my tablecloth and,
despite MariaÕs protests, I let myself fall asleep. I put my knapsack under
my head, just in case. I didnÕt intend to tip her until we arrived safely
back on the mainland.
I awoke at sunset. I did not see Maria. I looked about, called her
name, but she was gone. My knapsack was untouched, but she was nowhere
to be seen herself, and when I ran to the cliffside and looked down I saw
our boat was not there. Had she finally exacted some jealous revenge on
me?
I glanced back at the rubble of the castle, feeling quite alone
suddenly. I could not escape the island tonight. I could shout, but the
miners would not be able to hear me. I got out my compact and tried
flashing it at them, but the sun was sinking fast. I could not get the
proper light.
Slowly the stars came out. I could hear the roar of the waves all
around me, dashing the rocks below and sluicing in and out of the channel
at the islandÕs rear. I sat down amidst the rubble and consoled myself
with my fate. Perhaps Maria would return tomorrow. I would scold her.
She would simply nod, saying nothing, and not listening, either, I
suspected, enjoying her little peasantÕs joke on the rich girl turned woman
visiting from America. I returned to my tablecloth at last and lay down on
it. I pulled a small blanket from my knapsack and drew it around me to
protect myself from the wind. It was woolen, not too warm, but warm
enough, I felt, as the wind seemed to die where I lay though, in the
distance, it still whipped at the long grass and the weeds.
When the stars had almost completely wheeled about and dipped
their evening places into the sea I heard footsteps. I woke, looked up.
There, in the distance, where nothing should have been, I swear I saw him.
Lord Shaftsbury, uncloaked, for there was nothing but starlight here.
Barbi stood in her bikini beside him, gold rings through her nipples,
wearing just her panties. They seemed to shimmer in the starlight and I
saw Lord Shaftsbury looking at me, his chest bare, his hair flying back in
the wind I could not feel. And then, lying in the grass at their feet, I
thought I saw myself. Barbi knelt and drew down the back of my panties
from my bottom, which stuck up with the impudence of youth for I was
just 13 again and my bottom was white in the starlight and I was lying on
my belly. Lord Shaftsbury revealed himself and drew me up just enough,
and knelt between my legs and took me. Barbi helped him, then went and
knelt by my face to urge me to let him take me, right in my bottom, with
his shaft gleaming and finally pumping in and out of me as I moaned into
her hands and she untied her panties to let me lick at her cunt.
I awoke with a start. Sunlight blazed in my face. The wind had
picked up again but my blanket kept me warm in the rising sun.
Instinctively I twisted my head round, to where IÕd seen myself. There
was nobody there. And then I saw them. A childÕs panties, swim panties,
lying on the ground. They were printed with my favorite color. Had they
been swept up here by the wind? And then-- beside them, I saw the
panties that a slightly older girl might wear, untied, fluttering loosely in
the breeze. A sudden gust caught them and they blew away over the cliff.
I leapt up. I ran to catch them but I was too late, and I stopped
instead where my own panties lay, or ones just like mine, and I bent and
picked them up before they too were swept away by the wind.
Looking out toward the horizon, I wondered if Maria would come. If
she did not I could signal the miners with my compact when the sun was
higher. I turned and looked at the old castle, clutching the panties that
must have been mine yet could not be mine but somehow I knew were
mine, blown in from the beach from years ago, where IÕd left them and my
childhood behind. The castle was just a pile of old rubble, but the panties
I clutched in my hands were brand new, just like when IÕd left them on the
beach at Montevideo all those years ago. I looked down at them. Had some
pervert found them, and kept them in his collection all these years, so
that they did not age as I had? Had they been kept carefully bagged in
plastic, with just a touch of my youthful essence imbuing them where my
cunny had rubbed softly against them? I fingered the soft fabric. I would
keep these always, no matter how old I got. And someday, someday IÕd
give them to another girl, a girl of 13, a frisky girl who wanted to grow up
too fast and couldnÕt wait any longer. And, thinking, imagining, I knew
who would come if these panties were worn by just the right girl, a well-
brought up blonde girl, with a pair of young breasts and long legs that still
were too skinny but werenÕt quite skinny enough anymore to keep Him at
bay, or other men either. Men who liked to see a girl walking along the
shore in the breeze of early morning, that clear clean salt air breeze that
made everything pure and made young spoilt girls want to lie in the sand
sometimes, all alone, and wait for whomever might come by.
THE END
Naughty Naked Dreamgirls in
Pussy Playland
Chapter One
When I was 14 I had an older boyfriend. His name was Alex. One day
I was in his bedroom, going through his things on top of his dresser. Just
nosing around, wearing my cuffed jeans and my concert t-shirt. HeÕd
bought it for me last week after IÕd taken his dare and bared my boobs to
the band. I was feeling daring, suddenly, and perhaps it was some
GoddessÕs wish that I found a little pin on his dresser and felt curious
enough to ask him about it. We had just known each other long enough to
be frank. He was.
ÒOh, thatÕs a sex club I joined last year,Ó he told me. He was casual,
but I saw something rise up in the crotch of his shorts as he spoke.
For a moment I was speechless. Then, blustering, I said, ÒYou belong
to a sex club?!Ó
ÒNot since I met you,Ó he added hastily. But he seemed about as
credible as a boy with one hand in the cookie jar as he said it.
It didnÕt take me long to go storming out of his apartment. I didnÕt
care if he was the handsomest surfer dude on the beach, I was NOT hanging
with some dude who belonged to a sex club.
But, wouldnÕt you know, I found myself pining away for him in the
middle of the night. Every night. Finally I decided to get back in with him.
And, of course, being an older guy, he had no hangups about me being a brat.
Older guys who like younger girls donÕt seem to mind if theyÕre brats. It
might even make them like us better.
One day, gulping down my pride (not to mention my modesty) I agreed
to try his sex club myself. He said heÕd be proud to Ôshow me off.Õ That
took another week to get over. Finally, when all my reservations had
peeled away, I agreed definitely to try it. I should have known I was
getting in over my head when he told me IÕd have to be ÔinterviewedÕ by a
woman before I could be accepted.
ÒWell, IÕm very pleased to meet you, Kelly,Ó the woman said when I
met her at a coffee shop. She quickly assured me that sheÕd cover the bill.
I could have whatever I wanted. The prices were glamorously high, so I
decided to have just coffee, the same as hers. Perhaps for my sake she
ordered a chocolate-flavored coffee.
The ArtistÕs Studio
by David Lescarini
The smoky air of the room
conceals in a somber state
the paint bespeckled walls.
it is a spartan dwelling
having little more than a
kitchen, bathroom, couch and bed,
no frivolities only necessities
and in the center of the room
sits the painter
atop a stool with a palette of
reds & blues, greens & yellows
precariously perched on his thumb
long hair, an earring and
a butt cheek tattoo mark him
as a nouveau, avant-garde artist
who embraces his own uniqueness
and not that greatness of the masters.
he is young, brash and unshaven
as he paints his newest canvas,
masterpiece in oil.
on the couch poses the model.
like a snake she writhes in nude
formations of imaginative pleasure.
she is young, slim,
light brown hair on top and below,
creamy milk skin in between and dark
brown eyes that shine under
the florescent bulb overhead.
she thinks herself a model
and he an artist who
will immortalize her in oils.
if only she could see the canvas
on the easel hiding his face.
He is finished. she is spent
from her motion on the couch.
he ransoms the painting to her;
one night, one painting,
thatÕs the price, thatÕs the offer.
she accepts.
onto the satin, red sheets he
places her young body. it is
the first time for her and
she is eager. now
he is cinematographer.
a vid-cam hums.
under his caress she smiles.
under him, on him, around him
she poses. the vid-cam hums.
he is master of the art of
whatever he chooses.
she cries for mercy several times.
he laughs and gasps and cums.
he finds it enjoyable and realizes
she has power over men,
the power to please, the power
to trap. the vid-cam hums.
It is morning, the smoke is cleared,
the two lie in each others arms.
the vid-cam is stopped.
the painting is hers he says.
she gasps. the canvas is splotched.
he shows her the video tape,
how she enjoyed herself,
how she squealed with delight
when her cherry popped.
he will sell the tape he says
and make some smoking money.
she pleads, and begs. he laughs.
he wonÕt sell it, heÕll keep it
if, if she comes every day
and poses, poses for his canvas.
(Poem was slightly edited and revised by me. - h.j.)
AND IN THE END...
ELVIS THE CHILD MOLESTER
Why wasnÕt this monster castrated?
ÒEurope provided the perfect setting for the 23-year-oldÕs libido
to come out. As one of his friends remembers, ÔHe just let loose
sexually.Õ That included everything from dating 16-year-old Margrit
Buergin, to... an army brat named Priscilla Beaulieu. Fourteen years old,
she was the precise age Elvis liked in a ÔwomanÕ.Ó
- Penthouse, August 1997, pg. 34, on Elvis Presley.
(no wonder Elvis is so popular. HeÕs a pedophile! - h.j.)
-------------------------- Fuck Decency! ------------------------
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- JOIN the worldÕs greatest organization! Send $35.00 to The North
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NAMBLA, P.O. Box 174, Midtown Station, New York, NY 10018.
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1997 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. Work by others
copyright 1997 by the respective copyright holder.
-END OF 281 EMISSION
- ÒRemembers Lamar Fike, one of ElvisÕs sidekicks... Ôhe was the
worst.ÕÓ - Penthouse, August 1997, pg. 26, on Elvis Presley.