- Bruce P. Grether
Kerouac: The Great Masturbator!
(Peter Orlovsky and Jack Kerouac wearing wet shorts…)
Great city sounds muted yet distinct as jazz blows from just down a shadowy hallway brown, neon flicks off and neon flicks on reflects underwater in seedy little apartment, stale sheets rumpled rhinoceros hide Renaissance angel's fallen drape there naked man sprawls brawny legs wide in a reefer-hazed stupor of bebop eyelids heavy only not shut since he triangulates along his godlike torso to the valley of the shadow of pubic hairs base of the football star's carved belly there Lord Shiva's meaty Catholic lingam stick up like a whale breaches for air his hands prop it in prayer--Ti Jean Kerouac, still mommy's cherub somewhere in this big brawny man-body, scrawl of chest hair, thighs left and right like Hallelujah--say what? Muscles twitch forget that bitch, for now get behind me devilish grin. Masturbating maniac: full of juicy God! Drumming little pity-pats and tickles on this thick hot cock kuz it feels like holy rock a jay-walk after midnight whose gonna catch you playing with yourself, almost-famous guy? Nobody knows only you know. Again, again. Forbidden fruit tastes best--tastes so much better than the rest. Wrestle this raw pink snake swollen upend awake cyclops eye.
He's been in the habit, though no queer himself, he tells hisself, letting Ole Bull Balloon, that is Bill, and Allen take care of this majestic pork sword when they want to see it lick it suck it they're all high they're alone, oh yeah, his cool buddies, them hipsters have a way with words, and tell him HE wears the crown of the King of Beats, only he's a lot more pathetic than that… already divorced and daddy to some brat, only women just don't get it how to swallow a sword like this one, this mighty Catholic boy pillar holds up the sky Ti Jean's huge uncut cock… he can take care of it better than Allen and Bill when they suck him off over and over all night on benzedrine drunk, he just lets them kuz they wanna and they're sweet dudes and he'd rather they drink his Jordan River of white seed than make more brats that really he doesn't need… no. Plus he loves it, holds their heads in place between his thighs with his strong basketball hands while he groans grimaces and sighs they dunk and slurp and eyes meet his sighs.
What he truly saintly needs is this mid-1950s crazy-cock bliss he can churn like ole train yard blues howling in the cold switchyard sky all night long in the distance, his thick manly fingers that still can type so fast and furious all tricked-up and now this reefer stinky blanket warm and fuzzy on his handsome Canuck head, black-hair-wavy, dreamy-eyed gazing down along the midline where the belly-button's swirled by some of those paradise hairs and a darker jungle hides the famous root of what all those pals and gals mean when they say, "Jack, he's the Great Masturbator," YUP knows no one can take care of him like himself, climbing this beanstalk with fingerish typings tapping tickling so fast and fine, then slow and glow like some old mellow music made of clouds and sappy fat angels rolling over and over.
Pulling hard on those French Canadian balls down below that swell up with hours and hours of seed he's sweetly churning up like butter in a creamery, oh man OH manno those pals that like to suck this for him, make it feel almost as good as the noble beatific hermit hisself alone doing this dance, these fingers gripping this big weenie, thick sausage shaft, slip this prepuce, this silky skin like Veronica's Veil from the face of the helmet of flesh got no ears no nose just one eye ho-ho-who can do what you do, do to it, do with it Ti Jean, this sin of self-pleasure is forgiven before you do it, confessed ahead of time with a broad-shouldered shrug by the handsome football hero from high school gone to seed in the Big Apple where brass blares, traffic beats horns and wheels drum the pavements of Hell while he lies naked saintly muscled chest heaving French nipples dark as pepperoni slices.
Only this is such Heaven, the only real Heaven like when the words roll from him as good as this stroking his big hot hard cock in heavenly frenzy clouds part from the moon of the head while he skins it back, adds spit on his palm… that shiny cock head purple and plum what a sweaty tangle, naked in his head, the rumpled sheets like the cracked ceiling he's breathing fast and wet slick fingers slide raunchy spit smell hairy man-O-man no one can, only Ti Jean all alone with his bone made of meat and bliss and yes and this, OH this this thisss, balls pulled up like boulders in a stream of bliss, rushy foaming bliss all this SEED has to be so holy, a whiff from hairy pits… Jack jacking in bliss, athletic hips lift, push up in the air almost get him there he's come so many times already today was that hash that he ate and the reefers half burned on the plate. Pumping this this shameful blissful blameful erection that connects all the stars into pictures the Greeks knew but never told them all.
That old Eden smell of naked man, himself that man that can do it, only he can, only HE-HEE-HEE Bill's so sly and so funny and has some money but Jack got what it's takes got the balls, the meaty swollen cock that stands up again and still gleams kuz his spit is limitless and Allen's mouth moves slow here, those horn-rim glasses et aside his cock now remembers Allen's tongue so sweet and sweet and slow at the underside of this, this spongy cock head that he shrouds with its skin makes him grin again and again not that serious writer face he squints at the camera stupid voodoo grin but now slow his fingers dance and pull it back from the unbearable head should he slip over and come again did it plenty already today/tonight and still nothing feels this good, not Allen or Bill's mouths, not no part of any woman… not his mother, no she can never know, OH! Shit! Now his hardon's gonna wilt like a wildflower plucked in the wrong place/wrong time. She'd scream horror to know that her handsome Ti Jean like this self-abuse better than anything, better than married, better than secret boyfriends, sin-sin-sin better than Neal who never sucked him though they did take out their cocks that time and wrestled and rubbed them together so both spurted and shouted. Dint madder drunk or not he loved the man too much to let it happen again, though he knew Neal would do it all if he let him. Let Allen, and if Bill got lucky, let him too. Bless them both: queer angels of mercy and thirsty. He'd watched while they did Neal, then said he'd do it too and they all watched and giggled solemn in their disbelieving high. Instead he just did himself like onstage under a hot spot. They all watched him shoot, three pairs of dreamy eyes and grins, he stroked and shot hit the lamp's bulb sizzled it explode in wild times they never talked about again. Ti Jean's penis was his way to Heaven he never minded if they knew or heard even saw or smelled. Could always be denied or blame the dope and the booze and the hard winter horny times of desperate men trapped indoors together without women.
His mind's gotta tilt away from women, take a break from men of letters sucking all the literature from him, so he heaves up from the bed, staggers to a mildewed full-length mirror, stands feet apart swaying there faint rainbows of neon glare the purr and stumbling sounds of NYC traffic stories below: ahhh, yesss, this sweet Canuck penis swings out, half hard again, it's crinkled snout draws back while it grows and lifts its head again, a shiny pink snout comes out like a bug from a rose, sways on that thick veiny neck from the black midnight his groin those hairy Catholic balls hang back behind and jostle for attention but his hands move in like angels to the rescue he knows how to tease it, just brush up with palms and finger that could write Homer and better gospels than God dictates, only goosebumps run up and down Ti Jean's bare naked skin again and again, big manly chest wheezes, look up into his own--Omygodhandsome face, rumpled hair over that noble brow, eyes dark in the shadowy pits eyelids foreskins peeled grapes yes he looks like a naked god only a raw godliness made of meat and hairy forearms, these typist fingers doing an even better trick than all those books written and still nothing sold… he believes Allen and Bill that he's great though they know he'd rather masturbate--rather do this than get all tangled up. This naked man in the mirror his stiffy unhooded alert as the time of day sways from a dark cloud of pure secret joy almost makes him feel queer this naked guy feet apart looks so good!
Maybe just one more time today he'll ejaculate. This penis that someday will be famous, it suddenly hurts, feels raw, stings even, for being so high and humming so hard again and again he forgot it could wear out. This cock has its own soul? Bitten nails on these paws crawl up to Greek god chest thumbs the nipples but still it hurts down where he pees. So maybe he'll crash now and when he wakes up write some more more pages or or or start this again. Does it matter? Oh the crashing guilt feels so so so good the naked shame and no one to blame. It's just IT. This swollen cock hangs its head again, swings and wobbles when he shuffles back to the bed lets himself topple onto rumple that already smells like his seed crusty dried and wet and his sweat and that raw human life so shameful delicious this side of Eden's rude electric night. His foreskin's really sore, so when his fingers approach to test the waters he calls them back like naughty animals. "You're not so hungry," he says, "you're not me. I'm a demon of lust that's okay to be. Just soze no one really knows. Or none but my Bros."
So when he wakes up, not really awake you know which way he goes, he follows the treasure trail of hairs there from his dark stubbly chin down middle chest over abs down belly to between his legs. Rhymes don't matter, they get in the way. Only touchy-feely now, no reason to fumble or hesitate. Because those tumbling typewritten words can wait. It just feels way too good so: masturbate!
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