(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. ]

It's four o?clock in the morning. I'm sitting in my kitchen, drinking tequila neat and weeping. My friend Lynn Busa died yesterday. On my right hand, I'm wearing the ring she made me, a big pink baroque pearl set in gold. I don't have any clothes on. All I'm wearing are the shoes on my feet---the red, high-heeled, alligator sandals I got that day Lynn and I went shoe shopping at Bendel's so long ago. I've only downed my second shot but already my head is nodding, a third drink and my soul will float away to Timbuktu. Lynn was fearless as a hurricane and when we went cock hunting together, she could match any man shot for shot and drink him under the table. 

Her husband Matt called to tell me. The funeral is today at 2pm. Lynn had  a cerebral hemorrhage when she was in the bath tub. She was always such a clean freak, a gorgeous clean freak. Matt found her when he came in to pee. She was slouched down, knees up and spread wide, her head arched back, in the let's-do-it position. Her slender hand was holding a shocking pink washcloth between her legs.

We had so many adventures together. One time we picked up two soccer players from Naples at Danceteria . It was around 1982. I was wearing one of those absurd balloon dresses that were so popular then. Lynn could lead and I could follow. When we started dancing together, a crowd of admiring men would inevitable surround us. That is how we met the soccer players. They trampled over our other admirers to cut in and dance with us.

Lynn's suitor was named Bebe and mine was Adriano. He charmed me when he told me he was the illegitimate son of Federico Fellini, although I didn't believe him. Later we went to their room at the Martha Washington Hotel, a dark green room with Audubon bird prints on the walls. We smoked opiated hashish that Bebe had smuggled into the states in his socks. It was Lynn who suggested we take off our clothes and cavort like the dancers on Etruscan vases but it was I who grabbed Adriano's long, snaky cock in my hand and started to twirl about.  Lynn took my other hand and Bebe grabbed her around the waist. We whirled up and down, prancing around the twin beds happy as angels or fools. 

Soon Lynn and Bebe were doing 69 in one bed while I straddled Adriano on the other. The sucking sounds they made were a jolly accompaniment to the slippery melody my slick pussy played as I slid up and down on Adriano's skin flute. My small breasts slapped against his hairy chest, but I felt no pain. His odor of rut and olives floated in the air above us mingling with my Sandalwood perfume. As my hands grasped his bulging, muscular rump, I felt as if I was mating with a centaur in some primeval glade. We came at exactly the same moment. Adriano cried out, "Graciella, Graciella, mio!" I didn't  mind. I thought it was nice I reminded him of his sweetheart. Afterwards they wanted us to move into their hotel, be their guests for the duration of their vacation but we declined. Although Lynn and I agreed true love can be found anywhere, we avoided turning our adventures into entanglements.

Lynn lived across the street from me, in one of the new condos in the old Berglass wooden toilet seat factory. At least twice a week we went out on the prowl. At the designated time, I'd ring her bell. Then she would come gliding out the door, tottering only a little bit in the five-inch heels she always wore.

 "Ready to bust some balls?? she might ask, flashing me her 48-karat smile, then she might add, "I'm hoping for at least seven inches." She'd look me over and say something like, "You look fabulous, but why don't you undo a couple more buttons on the top of your shirt??

She was always teasing me about my vestigal shyness, at the same time she was so proud of me. At art openings or parties she would introduce me to people she knew as her friend, the brilliant poet, the poet of the moment.  "I can't believe you haven't heard of her," she would say, even though no one had as yet started to publish my fledgling poems.

Our wildest escapade involved two men we referred to afterwards as the Narco Duo. We met them at Pierre's, our favorite spot for Margaritas. The bartender, Picky Dicky, so called because he never dated the same woman twice, made his Margaritas wicked strong and sipping sweet. Also, my ex-lover-turned-good-friend Sandy was the sous-chef at Pierre's. On a slow night, he might send us a plate of fried calamari.

No hope for a free appetizer on the very hot night we met the Narco Duo. That was the night it seemed half of Soho was seeking comfort in Picky Dicky's cocktails. People were standing elbow to elbow and the air over the bar was a gray haze of cigarette smoke. 

Lynn and I miraculously scored a couple of seats. We were talking about the woman who just gave birth to a baby she conceived in a petri dish.

 'the Catholics are so horrified," Lynn said, 'they want total sperm control."

I took another sip of my drink.

"Yeah, of course," I said, 'that's why so many good Catholic girls come to the big city and become librarians or gym teachers or junkies."

"Or,? Lynn added, "beautiful, butch mamas. I," she continued, "would gladly give an egg to a woman who didn't have good ones."

It was then I looked up and saw them, two enormous men making a bee-line through the crowd, straight for us. The tropical flowers on the Hawaiian shirts they wore looked like flashbacks from

Their 'wildest escapade' was their adventure with what they called 'The Narco Duo'

a bad acid trip. These garments were unbuttoned all the way down the front to show off identical silver Peace symbols on long, leather cords. I hadn't seen a Peace symbol in five years at least. I made them for cops, right away.

 "Politzei approaching," I said to Lynn, nodding my head in their direction, "Narcs probably," I said, "Reagan's Raiders."

She looked over, "You betcha," she said. "Let's have a little fun. We?ll tell them we're actresses or models, and then they'll think we're working girls. Maybe we can make some money. I want new shoes."

I asked her if she was crazy. "No way," I said, " I don't believe in sleeping with the enemy."

She reassured me: "Don't worry. You know I don't, either. Trust me."

They were already standing behind us. One of them was breathing down the back of my neck. I pretended not to notice as I said to Lynn:

"I bet one day it will even be legal to sell your eggs, and then some women will support "?? I didn't get a chance to finish my sentence because a ruddy, freckled hand clutching a 100 dollar bill pushed between us, nearly knocking over my glass.

 "We?d like to buy you lovelies a drink," a slow, southern voice said.

 'that's why you tried to knock this one over?? was my comeback as I turned to see who was talking. He was a tow-headed man, buck-toothed and grinning, with big blue eyes. His smile was too wide and too wet. I could see the saliva shining on his teeth and tongue.

'sorry,? the tow-head said, "But we saw you two as soon as we stepped in this place. You are the prettiest girls here. We're strangers in town and?? then his friend chimed in, his southern accent even more pronounced:

"We're looking for company. So, how about that drink??

This guy had a funny pug nose and a long jaw. With his red hair and freckles, he looked like Howdy Doody.

"Please join us, do us the honor," he continued, "You two sure are good looking. You must be actresses or models. What are your names??

Lynn batted her inch long eyelashes at him, "You are so smart to guess we are actresses and you do say the nicest things. We'd love to have a drink with you," she cooed.

 "I?m Erica," she continued, "Erica Jong, and this is my friend, Emily Dickinson," I glared at her. She well knew I was no fan of the spinster poet of Amherst.

 "Ah?m Charlie, Charlie Smith," drawled the blonde.

"I?m Mike White," said the red head. "Me and my buddy here are up from Georgia."

 "You don't look like peaches to me," I said sarcastically. 'so, what do you do?? I asked Mike who was by now standing at my side.

 "Me and Charlie are gun salesmen," he replied quickly, "We're here for a convention."

'that's so fascinating," said Lynn, "Do you have any samples to show us. We're interested in great, big guns."

I interjected, "Ha, ha, ha, very funny." Lynn ignored me as she smiled up at Charlie. Part of me wanted to bop her and I was aware that I could just march out the door, but I was beginning to wonder just how she would play this one. 

Two Margaritas later, Mike White had his arm around the back of my chair. Every time he tried to move it closer around my shoulders, I elbowed him, not all that politely in the ribs. I had told him I was putting myself through acting school as a baby sitter.

"Maybe you could take care of me," was the best he could come back with. I nodded enigmatically. 

Lynn, however, had told Charlie Smith that between roles on the Broadway stage she worked in the phone sex business. He had given her a ten spot, which she quickly tucked into her cleavage, to demonstrate her technique. Now, she was rubbing her knee against the outside of his leg and her hand was on the top of his thigh. Despite the din, I could hear her whisper:

"Oh daddy, daddy, you're so big, I've never seen anyone as big as you." His face was flushed and he was breathing heavy.

Mike stopped gazing adoringly at my profile to look over at his friend.

 "You need to cool right down there, partner, cool down now," he said, his voice rising, becoming strident. Charlie took a little step away from Lynn. He picked up his drink and drained it. Mike reached behind me and patted him on the shoulder. A look passed between the two men. After a moment, Charlie spoke:

"Erica here sure does know her stuff," he said and then, "We are just so happy to meet ladies like you. Would you ladies like to come back to our hotel? We could relax and get to know each other better, but the truth is me and Mikey are feeling mighty tired, long day and all of that. Maybe you know where we could get a pick-me-up, a little something to give us some more energy??

 "How about a cup of strong coffee?? I cut in. Lynn kicked me hard in the shin with the tip of her pointy shoe. 

 "What do you mean actually, Charlie?? she asked but it was Mike who answered her.

"Maybe you could introduce us to someone who could find a pretty white lady to pep us up, sometimes she goes by the name of Coco, Coco Chanel." This was when I was sure they were narcs, how else would such goofballs know the street name for blow?

Lynn smiled up at him, fluttered her eyelashes some more. 

 "Oh, now I understand what you mean. I do have a friend who might be able to help you."

"Can you take us to see your friend?? they asked simultaneously.

"OH! No, no, no," said Lynn. "You see he's a very private person, nearly a recluse, a monk. He hates to meet new people but maybe I could go to visit him. I could take a taxi up there right now and see if he will help you out, " she said.

 "How much do you think it will cost?? Mike asked.

Lynn paused dramatically. Mike and Charlie's eyes were riveted intensely on her perfect Cupid's bow mouth, as if they were waiting for gold nuggets to come tumbling out.

"Hmmm?, " she said, "Well, I really don't know, but at the very least two hundred dollars, and also I'll need a twenty for the cab."

Quick as the crack of a whip, Charlie took his wallet out of his back pocket and peeled off two hundreds and a twenty. Lynn put the money in her pink, heart-shaped Mary Quant purse.

 "Now, you take good care of Emily while I'm gone," she said. "Don't let her drink too much." She gave me a quick wink and a little wave before she turned and made her way through the crowd. I was ticked off at her for leaving me and I felt scared, but I knew she would be back. She would never take off and abandon me with these creeps.

 "Your friend is a great sport," Charlie Smith said, "We need fresh drinks all around, could you handle another one, Emily??

'sure,? I told him.

When our drinks arrived I gulped mine down, not even taking time to savor the salt on the rim of the glass. I was terribly nervous, glancing back at the door, already praying for Lynn to walk back in.

 "Well,? I said, forcing myself to smile coquettishly, "Who do you two, big handsome boys sell guns for??

'smith and Wesson," said Jimmy.

"Colt 45," said Charlie at the same instant.

 "You work for competing companies?? I asked, feigning surprise. These bazookas had no idea I was on to them. "But," I continued, "You're such good friends??

 "We go way back," Mike said, "We went to high school together, then we played football together at old Georgia Tech."

As if to demonstrate their solidarity, they put their meaty arms on the back of my chair, hugging me between them.

I felt nauseated but managed to push the bile back into my belly by downing the rest of my drink. The two fast friends immediately ordered me another. By the time Lynn finally appeared next to me, I was demonstrating how I could dance the twist sitting down.

 'sorry it took so long," Lynn said, 'the taxi got stuck in traffic."

 'that's o.k.. Did you find your friend?? Charlie asked.

 "Mission successful," said Lynn with a sweet little smile, and she leaned over and slipped something inside the front pocket of his jeans.

He put his hand over the pocket right away, his fingers stroking it as if to measure what was inside.

"You got me excited when you put your hand in my pocket, Erica." he said to Lynn.

"You should be excited," was her reply, "you have a pretty white lady inside your pants."

"Wow-eee, you are something else!,?  he exclaimed, "You deserve another cocktail ."

 "I would just love one," Lynn told him. "I got so hot running around and I bet Emily would like another one too."

I couldn't speak, not only was I drunk speechless, I was spellbound by her performance.

Then I hope," Lynn went on, "we can go to your hotel and really get to know each other"." She paused and licked her lips while gazing up into Charlie's eyes. "In," she went on, "more intimate surroundings, but first, I need to go to the ladies room and freshen up. How about you Emily? Your nose is very shiny." I was feeling so shaky I didn't want to get off my seat, I shook my head no. 

 "But your nose is very, very shiny," repeated Lynn and then she just reached over, grabbed my arm and yanked me off the stool.

"Hurry back," our dates called after us.  When we got to the ladies room door, Lynn suddenly stooped low.

"Bend down, bend down like me," she hissed, "in case they're watching." She had saved me from those beefy brutes and I would do whatever she asked. I squatted down too. She pushed me a few steps sharply to the right and we burst through the swinging kitchen doors.   

We entered a scene of frenetic activity. Men in white hats were stirring big pots on a giant stove, turning meat on a three-tiered grill, arranging food on plates. Sandy was standing at a big, butcher block table right in front of us holding a long knife over a fat, pink fish.

 'this is no time for a visit," he said, frowning. 

 "All we need is to make a quick getaway. Is the back door open?? Lynn asked him.

He stopped scowling, "O.k., go ahead," he said, motioning with the knife towards the back of the room. 

 "What did you do," he said as we ran past him, "Goose Norman Mailer??  The pugnacious writer frequently drank at Pierre's. 

The kitchen door opened onto a narrow alley that led right out onto Sixth Avenue. I was so woozy, I could barely stand and I was barefoot. I had left my favorite black patent leather sling-backs under the bar.

 "Are you all right?? asked Lynn.

"Yes, barely," I answered. I leaned against a mailbox to steady myself, "but I lost my shoes. You should be a comedian," I added.

"Only if you'll be my straight man," she replied.

 "What did you give them?? I asked Lynn, as our taxi sped home over the Brooklyn Bridge.

"I went to the deli on Bleecker Street," she answered, " got powdered sugar and some baggies and made a neat little package."

 " Maybe they'll snort it and get a sugar high," I said.

"Maybe,? Lynn replied, then she opened her handbag, pulled out a hundred dollar bill and gave it to me.

 "Want to go shoe shopping at Bendel's tomorrow?? she asked.

 "Why not?? I said.

                                                              * * *

The tequila bottle was nearly empty and I staggered off to bed. I had to get some sleep. I didn't want to look like a dishrag at Lynn's funeral.

When I woke up, the sticky July heat was flooding through the open window. It was already eleven o?clock. My head was pounding and I still had on the red alligator sandals I'd bought at Bendel's with the hundred-dollar bill Lynn had given me that night. I had fallen asleep wearing them. I wore them into the kitchen as I mixed myself a double Alka-Seltzer and orange juice cocktail, my recipe for hangover relief.  Then I went over to my closet to choose one of my dresses to go with the shoes already on my feet.  ##



The Blacklisted Journalist can be contacted at P.O.Box 964, Elizabeth, NJ 07208-0964
The Blacklisted Journalist's E-Mail Address: