COLUMN 117, MAY 1, 2005
(Copyright 2003 The Blacklisted Journalist)



[Tsaurah Litzky is a poet and writer of fiction, non fiction and erotica. We call her America's queen of erotic literature. Susie Bright, editor of the yearly Best American Erotica books, calls her "Miss Dirty Stories." Tsaurah's work has appeared in Best American Erotica 95, 97, 99, 2001, 2002 and 2003. She has also been published in Penthouse, LONGSHOT, The Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Appearances, Downtown Poets, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Pink Pages, Beet and many other books and periodicals. Her poetry books include Kamikaze Lover (Appearances 1999), Good Bye Beautiful Mother (Low Tech Press 2001) and Baby on the Water (Longshot, 2003). Formerly a columnist for the now defunct New York arts weekly Downtown, she now teaches erotic writing and literature at the New School University. ]

I don't want to tell my friends I am having an affair with a priest. It's not that I'm ashamed of it; it's more that my adventures between the sheets with Father Sal move me so deeply; I don't want to talk about them. I don't want to sit with Carri and Ursula at Southside Lounge drinking margarita's and talk affectionately about the faded blue boxer shorts with little Snoopys on them that he wears or how much his hairy barrel chest turns me on.

I don't want to chat about his mighty eminence, so thick when it is erect and wanting me that it fills my palm. I especially don't want to get all girly-girl with my dear gal pals and giggle with them about the fact that the Father's favorite position is indeed missionary. Nor do I wish to share with them the fact that that due to the particularly pleasurable geometry of our bodies, I can swing my legs up, up so that my toes can tickle his neck while he is nailing me.  Then, by just lifting my head a little bit I can grab one of his nipples in my mouth and suck it so it gets as hard as the holy cock that is reaming me. I suck at his nipple almost as hungrily as my ravenous pussy is sucking Father Sal's cock deep into my heart of hearts. Most of all, what I don't want to tell my friends is that I think I am falling in love with him.

He visits me on Thursday evenings because that is the night when he is free of responsibilities for his parish. The day before his visits I can't get him out of mind, I anticipate how I will welcome him with a big juicy kiss and a nice glass of scotch, and my pussy gets so wet that the crotch of my panties is drenched. I wonder how much falling in love with a priest will complicate my already complicated life. I can't imagine bringing him to the yearly Passover seder my eighty-nine year old aunt holds in her split level house out in Valley Stream, Long Island but then I don't even have to bring him, ours can be a secret love. People can be secret lovers for a long time. Last year, Carri's father died, and only three months later her mother married the father's best friend, Herbert. It turns out that the mother and Herbert had been secret lovers for forty-five years. I have begun to imagine the Father and I growing old together in our secret way. He will keep a pair of slippers at my house; I'll always have a tube of Ben Gay around because even now he is beginning to complain how his back sometimes aches after fucking me. However, on our date last night, something happened that has started me worrying about our future together. He and I may be developing a serious problem.

Sal always brings me roses, roses in different colors. Last night they were pink, the color of romance.  He has also started to bring along an article from the newspapers for us to discuss because, he says, he wants our time together to be about more than just the bed. I poured him a hearty scotch and for me some white wine. Then I sat on his lap while we talked about social security reform. I couldn't resist putting my hand down between his legs to rest on big elephant balls, I stoked them with adoring fingers. Very soon, his manly nature rose up like a little wooden ruler smacking my wrist. 

Just as I was talking about the dangers of privatization, and comparing our system to retirement programs in Europe, my dear Sal picked me up of my chair and carried me into the bedroom.

He was so impatient, he did not bother to undress me---there must have been something about the pension system in Holland that passionately excited him. He just pulled up my skirt---of course I wasn't wearing panties. He sheathed his proud piece with the condom he always carried in his shirt pocket in anticipation of our raunchy romps, then he pulled me onto my hands and knees and took me doggy style. With each deep lunge, his hot balls spanked my ass cheeks making me even more exited, so excited, I wanted to privatize him for myself forever. He collapsed on top of me, his mouth kissing my neck, his cock-a- doodle- doo ramming into me, his sizable belly slappping my back like a silken cushion. Finally his divine rod exploded a steaming jet of pure heaven into me, sending us both to kingdom come. 

Then as he usually did, Father Sal peeled off the condom and put it on my bedside table.

"Unfortunately," Father Sal said, 'the truth is that the social security system here in America has always been flawed, never has it been properly calibrated to keep up with the cost of living increases."

I was pleasantly exhausted, and already dozing off.  

"Lover," I told him, "Let's just give this a break, I need my beauty rest."

"Why, Bella," he told me, you do not need the beauty rest. You are so beautiful already," and he hugged me close as we drifted off to sleep. . 

I was dreaming that Sal and I were at Coney Island, stretched out on a big blanket. The smell of Coppertone was heavy in the air. On a nearby blanket, a radio serenaded us:

"Every breath you take, every move you make, I'll be watching you."

He was wearing the kind of old fashioned baggy navy blue knit bathing trunks my grandfather used to wear. I was wearing the flesh colored bikini that I shoplifted from Saks Fifth Avenue last week. Father Sal liked my bikini very much. I didn't tell him how I got it. My head was on his lap and he was feeding me ripe summer cherries out of a brown paper bag.  From my horizontal position I had a lovely view of the calm ocean and the clear blue sky above, marked by not even a single cloud.  A crop duster airplane flew into my line of vision, trailing a long white banner. This is the end of the world as we know it, the banner said in black block letters.

Why this frightening message? I wanted to point it out to my darling, but before I could the sky darkened. There was a great clap of thunder and then another and then another. I saw a giant wave rise up out of the still ocean heading right for us! I could no longer feel Sal's warm lap beneath me. I woke up. I put my hand out to touch him but he was not there. I was all alone in my empty bed. He must be in the bathroom, I thought, he wouldn't just get up and leave. Then I heard a whispering in the still room. I raised my head and saw him kneeling at the foot of the bed. He was clutching the big silver cross he always wore around his neck in his hands and rocking back and forth on his knees, his lips moving. I put my head back on the pillow and shut my eyes, pretended I was still sleeping. I could just make out what he was saying:.

"Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa," he kept repeating over and over. I knew just enough Latin to know this meant he was ashamed.

I wanted to call out to him, there is nothing to be ashamed about, we are so blessed, when we are in bed together, but then I said nothing, I did not think he would want my company in his dark night of the soul. After a while he stopped whispering and got back into bed. and pulled the top sheet up to cover us. Then he turned on his side and curled away from me like a question mark.

In a few minutes, he was snoring, but I couldn't fall back to sleep. I wondered how long my amorous padre had been plagued by guilt, whether he had been harboring it since the start of our affair or had suddenly started to feel guilty because was he was falling in love with me, too. Perhaps it was a part of all his romantic adventures; maybe he enjoyed feeling guilty, maybe the guilt turned him on. I suddenly thought of my two-hundred "fifty pound Cousin Marcia and the silly little smile she on her face as her hand dipped once again into the box of Godiva chocolates she always carried with her. She would chomp the candy down, smiling even wider; she would call herself a fat little piggy and then reach for another one.  I couldn't fall back to sleep, I lay awake lay beside him as the night fell into morning. He always woke up automatically at five a. m. so he could make it back to his parish for the six o'clock morning mass. I kept my eyes shut as he gently kissed my shoulder, then he dressed and left.

Finally I slept, when I woke up it was noon, and the room was filled with bright sunlight.  I felt groggy and miserable so I decided to go out to Coney Island to try to leach my unhappiness out in the salt water. On the F train I was surrounded by noisy families, children drumming their plastic pails, teen lovers with pierced lips and eyebrows, old folks with canes and hearing aids talking with each other. I seemed to be the only one alone, I wondered if this was my destiny, a solitary woman traveling to the beach looking for release from her sorrows, her backpack stuffed with a couple of towels, a big tube of sun block #45 and the book review section from last week's Sunday Times.

Out on the beach, it was a beautiful day. I put my big towel down  next to two old Russian women sitting on a faux leopard skin blanket. Their faces were lined, but still they were so glamorous. Their faces were radiant and filled with life as they laughed and chatted with each other, smoking

Maybe she was forbidden fruit to Father Sal, but nothing was forbidden to her

cigarettes. I wished could join in but the only Russian I know is balaika.  They were beautifully made up, their lips painted with come hither red, their eyebrows tastefully penciled in. They were both wearing black string bikinis, flesh spilling out generously on all sides. They were obviously so happy in their skin, it was very sexy. They agreed to watch my blanket when I went into the water.

"Go Darling, swim," they chorused.

The ocean was warm and calm as a lake. I turned on my back and floated in the salty brine. After a while I reached an island of beginners mind where, anything was possible. Maybe I was forbidden fruit to Father Sal, but nothing was forbidden to me. If we split up, I would keep floating on. As I float into old age, I promise myself I will try to stay as glamorous as my two vintage beach neighbors. 

I spent the rest of the afternoon going in and out of the water. The sky remained a clear blue, no planes passed overhead carrying ominous messages. Whatever happened with me and Sal there would always be the ocean. I was so glad I lived in Brooklyn where the beach is just a subway ride away. I bid good by to the two ladies, I had learned their names, Anya and Maryiasha, feeling much calmer.  I brought a kasha knish at Mrs. Stalls Knishes, which I thoroughly savored, eating it slowly on the subway ride home.

I get back to my place with a lot of sand stuck in my jam jar and up inmy ass crack. I am eager to get into the shower. However, the red light on my answering machine was blinking merrily and I cannot resist hitting the message playback button.

Sal's rich baritone floats out into the room:

"My angel," he says, " I was tempted to wake you before I left for a good morning kiss but I managed to resist, I had once again a wonderful time last night. I look forward to Thursday. I will call you again before."

He hung up

He certainly didn't sound guilty, and hearing his voice made me want him again, maybe I was making too much of the little scene at the foot of my bed, maybe he was guilty about something else entirely; perhaps he drinks half a bottle of scotch in his chambers every night or maybe he uses money from the confession box to play the ponies. I stripped and climbed into the shower.

Sal called me Wednesday to confirm our date the next night. We spoke very briefly, he sounded harried, his tone was brusque. It could be that our affair is entering a roller coaster phase, up and down, up and down like the cyclone at Coney Island.

When I answered the door the next evening, Father Sal was holding not one but two bunches of red roses. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he was wearing his black priests shirt with the high collar and black trousers. He had never showed up for one of our dates dressed all in black before, an ominous sign

'two bunches of flowers, you're spoiling me, I said.

He didn't say anything. Once we got upstairs, I took the roses from him and stood on my toes to kiss him but he turned his head so I got his cheek not his mouth.

"What is this special occasion??  I persisted, as I put the roses into a vase.

He answered me with another question.

'so you have some whiskey?? he asked, "Let us have a drink."

'sure," I said, 'sit down." 

I got the bottle of Chivas I had brought us a couple of weeks ago because we deserved the best, as well as a couple of glasses and bought them to the table. I sat down opposite him and poured us each a stiff one.  .

'so," I said, "Now about this special occasion??

He took a big gulp of his scotch and swallowed.

"Bella, "he began, "I do not wish to hurt you, but I can not continue our, er, er er arrangement."

He looked down at his big hands, more the hands of a mason or bricklayer than a priest.

"I think about you too much," he went on. "I'm hearing a confession and I think about your um, um..bust. I? m passing among my congregation putting the communion wafer on a congregant's tongue and I think about your tongue on my, er "and I am filled with impure thoughts."

"I thought you understood that impure is a relative term," I cut in sharply. I knew I should try to be Zen about this but I do not have a Zen nature. 

"Maybe if you are so conflicted about your vocation," I told him, "you should leave the priesthood."

"Never, Never," he cried, "It has been my calling since I was a boy, my dream."

He was almost weeping. Inside my head I heard Bob Marley singing, Is there a place for a hopeless sinner?

 "I don't know what you want me to say," I told Father Sal.

 "Do you want me to absolve you, to give you a penance, a hundred Hail Mary's, so that after that we can go at it again? Isn't that how it works? The priest absolves the thief and then after the penance, the thief goes out and steals again? "

"You are so sarcastic,? he said, "Where is my sweet Bella?? I realized we were having a fight.

'she went to the beach," I told him, "If you're trying to tell me you want to break it off, o.k. by me. I don't want to be with someone who fells guilty about making love with me."

His face was all sorrowful, his big eyes liquid with tears. I felt a great sadness filling me, puffing me up like a balloon. I floated up out of my body and looked down on us from the top/ceiling of my room. I saw an aging sex kitten who still had a good figure, whose blonde bleach job, dark at the roots, needed a touch up. I saw a portly priest with a big bald spot on the top of his head and a huge erection clearly visible through the fabric of his black trousers. I saw two middle aged people who had already licked their little plate of happiness clean. I decided to try to not make this awkward scene even worse.  

I returned to my body, as Sal was finishing off his scotch.

"Well, we had some good times, didn't we?? I managed to say, in an effort to be a good sport. He smiled a tight little smile.

"Rock and roll," he answered, in a feeble attempt to be hip.

I gulped down my scotch; it burned like hell fires in my throat. Then, I couldn't help myself; I put my hand out to rest on his very visible knob. I gave it a few solid yanks,

"How about just one more for the road??  I said. I knew he could not resist me. I moved my chair closer to his, put my knee between his solid thighs. I kept a firm grip on him as I pulled and squeezed, pulled and squeezed.

"Ah, Bella, Bella," he sighed unzipping his  fly, "but I did not bring, I do not have a "?a?---I knew he was searching for the word,  condom. 

"But I do," I said, and quicker then you could say the wages of sin are death,

I sprang up, went into my bedroom and got a condom out of my condom box.

I had it out of the foil packet by the time I got back into the kitchen. He was holding his rod between his hands. I wondered if he was praying to it.

I bent over and pulled the condom on him. I kissed his lips, dipping my tongue into the sweet cistern of his mouth. I spread my legs and climbed astride him, taking all of him deep into me. My thick cunt hair must have tickled him as I slid up and down, down and up because he giggled a little. I kept on, up and down, up and down, faster and faster until the friction generated between us was so great, I thought we would burst into flame. I opened my eyes to see his screwed shut and his face was covered with sweat while my whole body was wet as if all the love juice inside me was seeping out from my pores

He arched his back suddenly, and with one forceful thrust, he exploded into me like a bolt of lightening as we came at exactly the same moment.

Weightless and free, we bobbed up and down like a top floating in the ocean at Coney Island but only for a few moments did we rest in this tender release. 

Then he stirred beneath me, his silver cross was pressed into my chest between my breasts, I could feel it, even through the fabric of my dress, cutting into me, branding me.

I climbed off.  He sighed, he seemed to be weeping. I peeled the condom from his cock and put it into the garbage can next to the refrigerator. I didn't offer him another drink.

"Are you all right?? he asked.

'sure," I answered, "Great."

" Oh, my Bella, he began".

"Please," I said, "Don't get all sentimental, just go."

He stood up and tucked his now shy scepter back inside his pants and zipped up. He looked sadly around my cluttered kitchen. "Bella, Bella," he said, "I will never forget you."

He took a step towards me, his arms out as if to embrace me. 

"You better go," I told him, "before you get tempted again," and I turned my back to him. I heard him take the few steps to the door then I heard it shut behind him. I couldn't help but wonder if this was really the end.  ##  


"A masterpiece!" --- SALLY GROSSMAN, widow of Bob Dylan's brilliant original manager, Albert Grossman.

"This book is a must-read for all rock 'n roll aficionados!"---EAR CANDY

"An essential reference for demystifying what the author refers to as: 'one of the most self-destructive binges of creativity in cultural history.'"---HAMMOND GUTHRIE, COUNTERPUNCH MAGAZINE

"Required Reading for anyone and everyone who considers themselves fans, followers, students, or those just plain curious of the Golden Age of Popular Music"---GARY PIG GOLD, FUFKIN.COM.

"I love the book. I love the way you can open it to any page and start reading and it keeps you reading. The book is just fun to read." --LEVON HELM, Drummer of THE BAND from Big Pink.

"Ellis Paul and I love your book."---RALPH JACCODINE, Ralph Jaccodine Management.

". . .perfect for our times."---WOODSTOCK TIMES

"Adam Duritz (he's the lead singer and writer for the famed Counting Crows). . .was at my studio and couldn't put the book down."---STEWART LERMAN, RIGHTEOUS SOUND INC.

". . .a must read for anyone who loves, music, loves life, loves rock and roll."---TSAURAH LITZKY, author of The Motion of the Ocean, Baby on the Water, and  Goodbye Beautiful Mother.  


".  . .It is a fascinating, insightful read. You are such a wonderful writer."---STEPHANIE LEDGIN, Music Journalist.

"I could not put this book of yours down for a minute."---ED GALING, POET LAUREATE OF HATBORO, PA.

"Quite simply, Al Aronowitz is a living legend"---JOHN FORTUNATO, THE AQUARIAN.

"Every student and fan of The Beat Generation, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones will want to read this book"---RON WHITEHEAD, POET

"Volume One Of The Blacklisted Journalist is the kinda tome what a fella can dip into at any given point and find oneself hooked within a couple paragraphs"---DUKE DE MONDO, BLOGCRITICS.ORG.


The sometimes scattered chronicles of the rock journalist's friendship with a few of the most recognizable music icons in rock and pop history.

It certainly takes a bit of hubris to say that "the '60s wouldn't have been the same without me." But coming from Al Aronowitz, the former music columnist for the New York Post who was often called "the godfather of rock journalism," such sentiment is perhaps justified.  Here, in a compilation of many of his unpublished manuscripts, Aronowitz describes in candid yet affectionate detail his friendships with Bob Dylan and the Beatles.  As a music writer and fan who recognized the musicians' limitless potential early in their careers, Aronowitz decided to bring them together for the first time, in a New York City hotel in 1964, a meeting that also involved the Beatles' introduction to marijuana. His prescience was soon bolstered by the 1965 releases of Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited and the Beatles' Rubber Soul, both seminal albums that altered the landscape of pop music.  This landmark moment is just one of Aronowitz's colorful memories and musings of being a hanger-on with these legends and their associates, including The Band, Beatles manager Brian Epstein, poet Allen Ginsberg, deejay Murray the K and others.  Specifically provocative are the accounts of Dylan's erratic behavior and short temper, which often led to fitful confrontations and even the ending of friendships, including that between Dylan and the author.  It's also evident that Aronowitz was particularly fond of George Harrison, and the two remained friends until Harrison's death in 2001.  Most remarkable is the close proximity he maintained to these gods, whether he was at their homes, hoteI rooms, recording studios, or concerts.  Though his personal life certainly had its share of woes (particularly bankruptcy and his wife's death), Aronowitz exhibits a marked sense of pride---and rightly so---for playing a key role in music history,

An enticing backstage pass to the meeting of arguably the two most influential acts in rock history.

"BOB DYLAN AND THE BEATLES: Volume One Of The Best Of The Blacklisted Journalist is a golden stash box of Al's You-Are-There history of two thirds of rock's Holy Troika"---MICHAEL SIMMONS, LA WEEKLY.

". . .Amazing stories in this book" ---JAY LUSTIG, NEWARK STAR LEDGER

". . .Aronowitz has a place in the annals of history that nothing can erase"---DAVID DANKWA, GAZETTE LEADER

". . .Aronowitz has a simple, straightforward writing style that makes the reading go fast. . ."---JEFFERY LINDHOLM, DIRTY LINEN

"Aronowitz. . .witnessed things that most rock fanswould give an arm and a leg to see"---REGIS BEHE, PITTSBURGH TRIBUNE REVIEW

"The best of Aronowitz's writing. . . offer riotous and rambling time capsules comprising detailed vignettes and told in a voice that's direct, disarming and self-deprecating"---MIKE MILIARD, BOSTON PHOENIX

". . .Addictive reading" ---GOLDMINE MAGAZINE

". . .If you are truly interested in the 'behind the scenes' events of people who spawned an entirely new direction in the time we identify as the sixties, this book is truly for you!"---JOHN ANDERSON, HOST OF THE "ON THE HORIZON" RADIO SHOW




". . .A highly entertaining and informative read"--HAMMOND GUTHRIE, THE THIRD PAGE

". . .Its 43 chapters provide snapshots of Darin's brief, sensational life>" ---GOLDMINE MAGAZINE



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