| .. |
|
||||
|
Dear Forum, I am an internationally famous singer who has sold millions of records in 26 languages. Women the world over have longingly kissed my pictures, and its not for nothing that I'm frequently known on the club circuit as "The Chairman of the Babes." Listen, I've made more chicks than you've ever even met, but I never had the experiences I've read about in your magazine, and I never expected I would. But I'll tell you, mac, it wasn't until recently that an officer of the Los Angeles Police Department taught me a lesson. I was driving my rust-orange Mercedes convertible to a home I own in Beverly Hills, feeling great after a really good gig and a few martinis. I was on top of the world, until I saw his blue lights flashing behind me. No problem, I'll schmooze, everybody does -- I'd done it lots of times. I pulled over. The cop got out of the car and walked over. He was a stocky man with full, well-trimmed hair and a mustache. That was all I could see, because he was in uniform from his starched blue hat down to his polished knee-high patent leather boots. And get this: sunglasses. At night! I figured that outside that crisp, clean uniform, this baboon was about as debonair as a high school gym coach. Heck, when I first saw him, I figured he was just a strong, silent type, stuck with a few kids, an ugly wife and a lousy weekend shift. Boy, fella, was I wrong. I'm always a smartass with the cops, so I quickly put on my own sunglasses. When he got to my door, I lowered them and handed him my license, flashing my world-famous baby blues. "Howya doin' tonight, kid?" I said with a hammy grin. He took the license. "Fine, sir," he said and walked back to his car. He didn't even look at me. Will you get a load of this guy, I thought. He made me wait a couple of minutes and came back. "Please step back to my squad," he told me, and I followed him into his car. There were so many lights and gadgets on the dashboard, and it smelled so . . . strong. "Listen kid, do you know who I am?" I protested. "Yes, Mr. ______. You were driving 60 miles-per-hour in a 40 mile-per-hour zone," he said huskily from the back of his throat "What?" I was amazed, partly because no one had addressed me in such a sharp tone in years. Hey, man, I'm the one who gives the orders. I worked hard, I fought and scratched, I busted my tail to get where I'm at in this lousy racket. Now I'm on top--I'm the man--and here this monkey's giving me lip. He was real slow. "You were not wearing your seatbelt," he dictated sternly. "Yes I was! I took it off when you pulled me over." I was telling the truth. I always wear my seatbelt, except when my fans might see me. Not good for the image. "You were operating an automobile wearing sunglasses in conditions of low visibility," he continued. "All right, all right, how much do you want? A hundred? Two?" I was waving a nice wad in front of him. "Attempting to bribe an officer of the law," he declared. "You'll have to come down to the station." "What?" I screamed and almost grabbed his lapel. "Listen, punk, I don't know what your scam is, but you're messing with the wrong guy. I can have you busted down with one phone call. Killed! I can have you killed!" He just stared at me behind those shades. "I also smell an incriminating amount of alcohol on your breath. You'll have to come down to the station." "I . . ." I choked, and he slapped cuffs on my right hand, and locked me to the cage behind the seats. A drunk driving rap would be bad PR. I figured there was no getting through to this lunk, so I bit my tongue and waited for my one phone call so I could get the hell out of this mess--and have this joker thrown out on the street. I was gonna have fun with this guy. "Say, what's your name, officer?" I asked, and I was going to remember. "I am Officer 57," was all he said, but his nameplate said Kruczynski. The hairy immigrant ape. He probably had hair all over his body, right up to his neck. I was always glad that I wasn't hairy, not even my chest, because the ladies like it. I have a smooth, supple chest. |
|||||
 |
|||||
|
He drove and drove, and finally pulled into a gravel parking lot next to this square cinderblock building at I don't even know where, because I was fuming so much I wasn't paying attention to where we were going. It was dark, save for a single light fixture mounted on the side of the building. There were no other cars parked anywhere in sight. "Where the hell are we?" I spat impudently. "Shut up," he said and dragged me out of the car. He hustled me into the building and down some steps, into an empty white room with a naked lightbulb dangling over a bare table and two chairs. "Hey, punk, I get my phone call, remember? You're gonna be . . ." but he walked out of the room. He returned a minute later with a styrofoam cup of coffee. "You hear me?" I sneered. "I get a phone call. Or didn't you learn how to read that part of the manual yet?" "Yeah, you'll get it, you'll get it, all right," he laughed as he walked out and locked the door. "Get back here! Get back here, you fucking ape!" I shouted, and banged at the door. "I'll have you sweeping fucking floors like you were meant to do." I was so, so mad at him. I wanted to hit him and kick him and scratch him and pull his hair. The coffee tasted like shit, but I drank it anyway, it was so cold in there. As I was swearing under my breath all alone in that room, thinking how I was going to fuck this guy up, I thought I heard a running shower in the room next door, and someone humming "This Buttercup's for Me," a song from one of my movies. I was listening, startled, and getting very sleepy. I tried to raise my head from the table, but I couldn't. The bum had slipped me a mickey . . . I came to in a most compromising position. I found myself with my hands chained individually to the ceiling, buck naked except for one of my trademark blue fedoras and tap shoes with white spats. Officer 57 stood directly before me, slipping on a pair of black leather patrolman's gloves. He pulled them taut over his fingers. I remember so vividly how the polished brass buttons of his uniform caught the light. "What . . . the . . ." I mumbled, still groggy. "Mr. ________, you are charged with driving 60 miles-per-hour in a 40 mile-per-hour zone," he blurted officiously. "How do you plead?" "Fuck . . . you," I said. He punched me square in the breadbasket. God, did that hurt. A warm fluid that tasted like death dripped from my mouth, but I decided to bite the bullet. I made a blood-pact with myself for revenge; hopefully, I would live to spit on this goon's grave. I looked down to see I was only drooling. "Mr. _______, you are charged with driving 60 miles-per-hour in a 40 mile-per-hour zone," he repeated, "while intoxicated. How do you plead?" I tried to tell him to fuck himself again, like I did in my 1951 movie "No Place for Angels," but nothing came out. He slammed me again in the gut. I swore I'd never felt pain in my life until then. Believe it or not, I'd never been punched before, and I didn't like it one bit. "Mr. _______, you are charged with . . ." "Guilty, guilty. All right?" "You are further charged with consortation and collaboration with elements of organized crime alleged to perpetrate illegal gambling, prostitution and other heinous felonies against the good and great State and Peoples of California. How do you plead?" He didn't wait for an answer, and plugged me again. "Guilty," I stammered. "You are further charged with the inordinate and excessive making of money; with the extravagant consumption of goods beyond what is necessary to sustain a reasonable and comfortable life; with adultery and with contributing to the degradation of the general female population; with the idealized portrayals through the media of recorded sound and motion pictures of the lives and exploits of gangsters, military officers and playboys having lifestyles as alien to yours as that of any person who has ever worked a day in his or her life; with exploiting for personal profit the hopes, fears and insecurities of the working masses who toil through dreary existences of boredom and unrealized expectations; with engaging in snobbery and loutishness and other forms of behavior considered outside the bounds of civilized conduct; with pursuing and perpetuating the continuance of your career beyond its planned obsolescence; with continuing to charge currency for your performances; with contributing to charities in a self-righteous manner amounts equal to your monthly drycleaning bills; and, Mr. ___________, with the foisting upon the marketplace, under duress, the misbegotten by-products of your degenerate offspring. Sir, how do you plead?" "Uh, guilty," I guessed. "As you have pleaded guilty to the aforestated charges against the people, you are compelled to serve penance to an authorized officer of the law." Whatever, I thought. He slugged me again in the gut. The pussy, I thought when I regathered my senses, when I get outta these things I'm going make this guy swallow some knuckle. "Stop crying," he admonished as he unlocked the clasps around my wrists and I collapsed to the floor. "Take your sentencing like a man, you rich wart! How old are you?" He whipped me about the ears with his gloves when I did not answer. "Seventy-five," I whimpered. "Liar! You're seventy-nine, aren't you? Aren't you, you pig?" "Yes," I admitted, dumbfounded. I'd never told anyone my birthdate, not even my wives. "Well then," he said as he sat on the chair and heaved me across his lap, "your sentence will be seventy-nine spankings." He chuckled. I was in no condition to resist, especially after he stood his sleek, black nightstick in an open jar of Vaseline on the floor before me. I was sure I was as good as dead. "Sing that pretty song, 'L.A. Is My Baby,'" he cooed softly, referring to this trashy song I sang on a recent album: we figured it would be good PR with a video. "Do, it. Please." His sudden change of tone surprised me. So I sang the tune as best I could under the circumstances, and he whacked my bare behind tenderly in time. He even had rhythm, and played occasional fills. "L.A." slap "is my" slap "ba-" slap "by." slap I was surprised, this being what I thought a violent galoot. The fresh smell of the fabric softener in his pants wafted to my nose. I was surprised that we had made this connection. It actually felt good. By the song's end, however, Officer 57 was again dismayed, announcing that the song had only accounted for sixty-nine spankings. He insisted irritably that I had not performed the complete tune, and that he would spank me hard with his wide, fleshy hand for the remaining ten strokes. He meant business, too. Like a drill sergeant, he barked "Bad?" before each hard slap, to which I was to reply, in the loud monotone of a fearful, subservient buck private, "Bad!" "Bad?" On ending, he bolted up abruptly, as I rolled helplessly to the floor, rubbing my smarting buttcheeks with both hands. He handed me a martini, which I joyfully gulped down. Officer 57 bent over a black bag lying on the floor beside him, and produced various effects which I could not quite make out in the dim light. It was not over yet. He turned a blaring, high-powered flashlight on my eyes. "Now," he said beyond the intense light, "you think you can sing and dance, huh? Well, why don't you just get up there on that table and do it?" "I can't do that!" I protested. "I haven't danced in years!" "I'll bet you can," he insisted slyly, squishing the long nightstick around in the jar of Vaseline with the toe of his boot. He then pushed before my squinted eyes several trails of a white, powdery substance neatly arranged in rows on a mirror. Beside these lay a hollow Bic pen, cut off at both ends. In the periphery, I caught the cool glint of a graphite gunbarrel. "Well?" he snickered. I inhaled the powder through my nose, line after line, and climbed unto the table. I was so scared I could've pissed, but I didn't want to displease Officer 57. No, no. "You sing `The Night Is for Lovers,'" he ordered, referring to a song-and-dance number from my 1970 movie "Last Evening in Da-Nang." I was nominated for an Oscar for that one. |
|||||
|
|||||
|
So I started to dance, awkwardly at first, but later, I can't describe it exactly, except that I was feeling really heady, you know, really up. I ground my teeth continually, and slobber splashed from the corners of my mouth. Then I realized that I was really dancing, as if my life depended on it. I could dance again--I was young! If this guy wanted a show, well, I'd show him that I could dance better than he ever could. I was hot and I knew it. I was a naughty tart. "Sing louder!" he barked from beyond the light. I did. "Louder! Louder!" he commanded, until I was almost shouting, and dancing faster, too. Then I heard a loud electric motor whirring, and looked down from the light, not daring to stop my hoofing, to see him behind an iron welder's mask with a large jigsaw in his hands. I could not see his eyes behind the tinted eyeslot, but his neck was craned up at me . . . as he started sawing off chunks of the table I was dancing on! His gaze never turned from me as he worked the powerful tool, not even when it shrieked like a bird of prey mangling its target beneath my feet. I was so afraid that I had to look away into the light to keep dancing. I was never so scared in my life. I noticed, too, that my ding-ding was hard. I could feel it slap-slap-flop-slapping against my thighs and belly. My pecker is 13 inches long, and sometimes it flopped over even my bellybutton. Ooo! He liked it, too, that bastard, the way my sweat dripped down and ran over the eyeslot of his mask, the way I spun and rubbed my smooth, hairless chest, the monkey, that monkey, he couldn't hide it, I was hot again, we both could feel it. My orgiastic trance was abruptly snapped when he shouted violently above the din, "Get out of here! Get the fuck out of here!" Alarmed, I jumped from the table just as it collapsed to the floor, now nothing more than an irregular plank too scant to connect the four legs. I ran from the room and found my clothes in a heap outside the door. I slipped them on and collapsed against the wall, too tired to run. Through the wall I heard Officer 57 yelling shrilly like a banshee above the tearing sound of the saw. Twenty minutes later, Officer 57 emerged from the room with a sweaty towel around his neck, clutching a Hefty bag bulging with wood scraps. He tossed a dustpan to the ground as he led me up the stairs to the squadcar. He put the bag in the trunk and we drove in silence to my car. As he put the car in park, he admonished, "Mr. ________, always wear your seatbelt. It's the law." He drove off and I haven't seen the burly Officer 57 since. I
still enjoy the company of young women most of all, but I have
to admit that some days when I know I've been especially bad,
I find myself driving that same road. Not wearing my seatbelt. |
|||||
|
|
12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
| .. | visual art • prose & poetry • nonfiction • artists in residence • archive • home |
