Been Down So Long
“Weeeellll… I been down so god-damn long!” Jim Morrison sang via the 8-track player via the speaker into the small glassed-in room, into the shell-shaped young ears of Polonia Melody a.k.a. Judy Right a.k.a. Jean Summers, or whatever name you wished to call her, most preferring bitch, as in “Suck it, bitch” or some, slut, as in “Harder, slut.”
Polonia watched beyond the waistline before her, watched the young princes, the elderstatesmen, the senators, an occasional wife, even a jester, all come to the court of the head-queen, gaping in homage, stealing secrets, taking techniques home to try. She was glad for the music to drown their shouts.
“That it looks like up to me,” Morrison sang.
It was time to turn the chair. The owner, Henry Miller (who knew not his namesake, nor could probably read him anyway), thought himself clever to tease the audience so, to keep the chair-back to their front, to give them time to gather saliva, to begin drooling even before they could see the lusty scene played out in the open.
No one took notice of the man’s face as he stood and turned, Polonia, on her knees, repositioning the wooden chair behind him. She cat-crawled Madonna-video-style around to the front of the chair as the man sat with his legs spread wide. The next scene in Henry’s play: Polonia, with her back to the court, pumping her head-well up and down over an unseen shaft.
The tile was cold on her bare feet, on her bare knees.
“Yeah, I been down so very damn long!” Morrison sang.
The man in the chair put his huge hot hard hands on either side of her head, covering her ears, and pushing her skull up and down faster and faster.
“Fool around and come too fast,” Henry had warned, “and you’ll both be out of a job — in more ways than one.”
The man in the chair seemed not to care.
Morrison sang, “Thaaaat it looks like up to me!”
And in truth, Polonia’s dizzied senses had lost their direction, her eyes and ears squeezed shut as they were.
Then the ride stopped.
But the man in the chair wouldn’t get off.
Polonia lost her balance, falling back and catching herself, palms bracing the unsterile, non-white tile. Her hearing came back, and over the disgruntled shouts of the got-him-up-now-get-him-off-and-let-us-see customers, she heard Morrison intone, “Now, why don’t one a’ youuu peo-ple / C’mon and set me free!”
The ceiling stared down at Polonia. Then the man in the chair, saving his own ass, rose out of the chair and sat down on Polonia’s form. His legs straddled either side of her chest as he leaned forward and pried her mouth open with his huge hard hot fingers.
“A job for a job,” the man-out-of-the-chair demanded. He pointed to the video camera up in the corner opposite the speaker.
“War-den! War-den! War-den!” Morrison shouted. Then the music went off, replaced by Henry Miller’s anxious voice — “C’mon, you two. Give these people what they came for.”
The man-out-of-the-chair jammed his organ into Polonia’s mouth, throat-deep. She bit down as hard as she could, feeling a warm rush of waves crashing against her epiglottis. The man yelped and drew back, tripping over her outstretched legs. He looked down at the teeth marks, looked to Polonia’s mouth, the drizzle of blood in the corners — an erection-vampire!
Polonia swallowed the blood in one thirsty gulp.
The man-out-of-the-chair stumbled back against the chair and toppled it.
The young princes, the senators, even the jester, banged on the glass wall. Some thought it was part of the show, others applauded the action whether it was a show or not. The senators’ wives stuck their noses to the glass, wet already at this rarest of sights, this most envied of creatures!
Polonia got to her knees and crawled slowly toward the wounded man-out-of-the-chair. “Sssuck it, bitch,” she slurred the “sss” sound and dragged it with her.
The wounded man bled into his cupped hands. His erection fled like air from a pricked balloon. Polonia crawled closer.
Desperate for an idea, the wounded man threw his cupped hands at her. The small pool of blood splashed her face, highlighting her ash-blonde mane. Polonia licked her lips, a mask of red dripping off her face, over her intricately-structured high cheekbones, and down her V-shaped jaw.
The glass-banging in the background formed a primal rhythm of sorts. Polonia timed her crawl to the beat, and, feeling slightly replenished, even swayed her behind a bit.
The man-out-of-the-chair suddenly remembered the chair and reached back with one hand for the wooden weapon. He hurled it as hard as his state would allow at the naked figure advancing on his position.
Polonia half-caught the chair with one outstretched arm. “Harder ssslut,” she mocked him. Then she leaned almost within his reach, frowning at his bloody mess of a waistline, and said, “Out of a job? Guess we both are.”
The man-out-of-the-chair saw the chair speeding down at his head (the one on his shoulders) and then he saw no more.
Polonia’s mouth sped down over his other head, and she sucked him dry in all of thirty seconds.
Fully nourished, her strength returned, her jail term early — paroled, Polonia lifted the huge hard hot dead man over her own head and threw him at the weakened glass wall. The senators’ wives ducked in time. Everyone else, even the jester, caught either the body itself, or shards of slicing glass from the explosion.
Henry Miller burst through the door at the rear of the room and Polonia flattened him with the chair, shattering it into splintered fragments.
Polonia stared down at Henry’s crotch. No, he couldn’t get it up if his life depended on it. No feast there. Not even a snack.
Groaning from various injuries, the audience drew Polonia’s attention away from Henry. The senators’ wives stepped through the glass and over the bodies and began to rub their thighs together. In the same room with one! They literally dripped with excitement.
With Polonia’s naked back facing him, Henry spied with blurry eyes one broken off leg of the chair. He grasped the jagged-edged weapon and rose up behind her.
The senators’ wives screamed as one.
Polonia turned, caught Henry’s arm in mid-thrust, and re-directed his aim, piercing the chair leg through his heart, and pinning him to the cold tile wall.
“Is this what they came for?” she said.
Henry spontaneously ejaculated and died. His blood ran in a thick stream over the unsterile, non-white tile.
The senators’ wives maneuvered themselves to Polonia’s side, afraid to touch the living goddess, until Polonia took their hands in hers and pressed them between her breasts.
The threesome moved toward the exit, but one of the wives stopped, her expression dismayed, her finger pointing to the video camera. “Did they capture it all on tape?” she said.
Polonia’s delicate lips stretched into a wide grin, baring her fangs, blood-streaked and pinpoint fine. “All but me,” the erection-vampire said.
Then she led her new disciples out of the whorehouse prison.
