Help
Jus' a lil' sumpin' sumpin'. Dig?
Here's a portion of a piece I wrote for a friend, just because she asked nicely.
Shay had never seen the like, and was sure she never would again. This was Lost Peaks, and nowhere else could come close, and The Source was center of all of Lost Peaks. The place where everybody who was anybody wanted to be, and be seen. The paradisiacal, paradoxical dreamscape at the dark core of the lurking nightmare that was Doomtown.
Shay glided into the Venue as if wings had sprung from her back, and let the galactic groove take her. Normally this kind of musical flava’ was not her bag, but in the midst of the funk fidelity, she could not help, but let it invade her soul, like a fantastic retrovirus that rewrote her DNA spiral from end to end, transforming her into a new, and vibrant creature that shook and swayed her over-stimulated body to the roaring rhythm, grinding her swiveling hips, and shimmying her pretty titties to a maximum effect. As the music possessed her mind and body, it guided her to perform actions and motions she never believed she was capable of achieving. She had always had the gift of lithe athleticism, and innate rhythm, but upon that night in The City of the Damned, she seemed to enter a fugue state of wild abandon that Iberian Gypsies call the Duede, where a performer becomes one with the music, as if they are a wave and spark on an electric current, part of the very vibe of the Cosmos.
Shay danced and danced, and others in the crowd seemed to sense she was beyond them, in the erogenous beauty of her motion, and an unspoken circle pulled back, and formed a static perimeter around her, as eyes watched with awe and ardor at the libidinous marvel she had become right before their eyes. Time seem to slow for her, as she felt the ripples of the notes in meter, writing the dance upon her soul. Hands and eyes reached out for her, praising her for the orgasmic goddess of divinity she had become. Erotic heat pulsed in blasting waves from her sexuality like the core furnace of a star’s reactor, and all who saw her felt it and were burned by it’s intensity, yet still desired to be consumed by it.
As George and P-Funk launched into “One Nation Under A Groove,” Shay was in a daze, her mind almost wiped blank of anything but the music. Suddenly, there stood a man behind her, emerging from the raucous mob like wraith, enigmatic and singular. Standing majestic and iconic, the essence of cool and aplomb, he was draped all in the shimmering black of a double-breasted suit, silk shirt and tie, wingtips, and fedora. His eyes were concealed by shades, even in that dim, strobing environment. Much of his face was hidden under the down turned brim of his hat, but the sparkling radiance of his infectious grin shown plain in the flashing lights. The crowd looked at him and howled a cheer in a new wave of ecstasy, but Shay did not hear it, or see the man, so lost was she in the current of the groove. He circled her, watching intently, his movement utterly graceful and confident. Shay danced on unaware that anyone had entered the circle with her, then as if sensing some inaudible signal, the man entered the dance with her, but never intending to touch Shay, just moving with her like he was just another part her being, separate, but connected, still circling so close, but just beyond a physical merging, only together in the synchronicity of the music.
George and the gang, cut short suddenly as they broke out of the last song, and there was only the tick of a high-hat to mark the time of the next jam. This jolt shook Shay momentarily from her trance, to find the tall figure standing calmly before her. In the dim light, she could only make out the amused smile on his face, as once again P-Funk punched the atmosphere with “Give Up The Funk (Tear The Roof Off The Sucker,)” and the man without warning took her in his arms, and spun her, into a deep dip, snatching her breath away. Of a sudden, they were both moving together perfectly in synch to the driving rhythm, and just as suddenly they seemed to be alone in the Duende of the universal spark of the music. Only they two, and the music existed in that realm apart, moving in sublime harmony; Shay and this unknown male of power and precision. His smile never wavered, as if he knew something no else knew, and never would. Shay wondered if his eyes would reflect what his gleaming smile spoke to her, but they remain hidden behind the darkly obscuring lens of his shining black shades, leaving her to see only reflection of her yearning face blinking, in and out with the flaring lights, and whirling blur of the faceless mob. Their primeval dance was sultry, feral, and at times almost brutally savage is it’s desire, with hips locked, bodies now merging intimately, hands seeking, and caressing, limbs sliding across each other, through spins, dips, twists, flips, and other contorting acrobatics, of which all displayed Shay’s flying form in magnificent motion, testifying of her stunning fecundity; all of their conjoined movement blazed a burning effigy of unbridled longing for carnal congress.
Nothing else seemed to matter. Nothing.
In a close clutch together, her left leg up and wrapping his hip, his right hand at the top of the crack of her derriere, her left hand at the back of his neck, fingers in his hair, their other opposite hands clasped tight together next to their locked bodies, his lips brushed hers, and continued to her right ear, and murmured what only she could ever hear.
“You’re magic! This City needs more of what you’ve got, baby.”
Then he whipped her out into a whirling spin, and let her go as the song finished, and just as suddenly as he appeared, the man, like a wisp of opium smoke, vanished into the seething press of the mob, which seemed to roar in joy, or perhaps rage, at the ending of the dazzling dance. Shay came out her spin, her face flushed, but smiling in the joy of her motion, only to find him gone. Gasping for breath in dismay, her exhaustion abruptly caught up with her, and as she searched the faces of the crowd around her for the man that had so recently been pressed into her flesh, the world spun dizzily, and she swooned, and knew no more.
Distantly she felt hands on her, many hands, rubbing, caressing, kneading, exploring…everywhere. And yet, even though she consented to none of the attentions, she was lost in the sensations, lost in the lingering malaise of the Duende, and utterly submitted to the invasions of unknown fingers upon her body’s charms. Lights swirled and the beat drove on, and the hands searched further and deeper, and unwarranted her rapture built higher and higher. Then the hands were gone, as if cut off by a guillotine, and she felt herself lift up, and float away into nothingness, with only a slight frustration at being interrupted in reaching the promised fruition of her loins need. And the beat drove on… Pounding and pounding like the thump of the Heart of the World! Like the insistent Pulse of Creation! Like the Hammer of God forging a New and Everlasting Word!
And inside Sweet Shay, her need grew, even in her semiconscious state, and the wetness of her dream state envisioned the Man in all his majestic mystery and potent power, dominating her subconscious, like a tantric juggernaut, ever gaining speed and momentum, a virile embodiment of all things masculine. The yang to her yin, and yin to her yang, both fulfilling the yen of her Zen. Her senses filled with his memory, and a fire lit by the Duende conflagrated exponentially inside her until the craving fairly screamed her desire. And in the center of that furnace of need was his grin burning like a sun, a special brand of magnetic Mojo all his alone.
Well, that's all you get, folks...
Unless you wanna drop by my new blog I started a couple of months back to experience the entire piece. My old blog's server went Ka-Blooey!!! Damn it.
You can find my blog here, or just click on my signature banner.
Oh, and the text on my blog is kind of hard to read because of the background, but I like the background so fuck you if you don't like it!
No, seriously, if you highlight the text it is much easier to read. I'm working on fixing the background so that I keep the Frazetta image, and still the text is easily readable. Meh. Work in progress...
Trust me though. Everybody loves the Golden Girl. She's Frazetta's art at its finest.
Rest In Peace, Frank. Millions miss you.
Can Ya' Dig It?
Slick Jimmy Has Left The Building...
This post has been edited by Slick Jimmy: 23 July 2010 - 10:16 PM
