Chapter 6
Wednesday. Lori called to remind me that I was supposed to be at the Sunshine Gallery at noon for an exhibit of her erotic paintings. She made her living as an artist so it was important that I be there and not blow this opportunity for her.
"Perry Lash is going to be there," she excitedly informed me. "He's the art critic for the paper. If he likes my work, I've got it made."
I promised not to let her down, and told her I'd better say goodbye if I was going to get ready for the exhibit on time.
"Okay, Sis," she said, "just one more thing before I let you go."
"Yes?"
"Perry Lash is a raging queen."
"A homosexual?"
"One hundred percent fag."
"What's that have to do with your paintings?"
"He hates women unless they're dykes. The only artists he gives good reviews of are all as fruity as he is. I'm telling you, this gay liberation thing is a goddamn conspiracy."
"So ... so what do you want me to do?" I hesitantly asked.
"Come on as butch as you can to him," she instructed. "It's the only way. Show up in jeans and a leather jacket or something with your hair greased back like a punk."
It was several minutes after we hung up and I was halfway into creating my macho costume that I realized Lori and I had never spoken of my family once. I hadn't even asked how Rick and the kids were, let alone find out if my sister had succeeded in bedding my husband.
I tried to feel guilty over my lack of interest in home, but I couldn't bring it off. The longer I was, Lori the more difficulty I had in activating my neurosis. My conscience seemed increasingly inoperative.
Instead of being ashamed of myself over being so callous toward my family, I was elated at the sense of freedom I was experiencing. No guilt meant no inhibitions and no regrets. What they called in Lori's circles, a natural high.
Forgetting that I was anybody but Lori, I gleefully threw all my attention into Fixing myself up like the toughest dyke in seven states. I'd have Perry Lash wishing I was a man so he could suck my cock.
In fact, in a moment of wild inspiration, I took measures so he'd never know for sure whether he really could have. Instead of wearing a pair of panties under my jeans, I balled them up and stuffed them just inside my fly. After I was zippered it was impossible to tell whether or not I had a pulsing hard-on in there.
Lash would know from my name that I was supposed to be a woman ... but would he really know?
Needless to say, I was immensely pleased with myself by the time I strode into the Sunshine Gallery like Clint Eastwood crashing a tea party. From the way the eyes of both sexes dwelled on my entrance, it was obvious that I'd succeeded in making myself irresistible to inverts of each gender. Even though I was dressed like a car mechanic, I felt more desirable than I ever had on my home ground in my most feminine Parisian copies.
The paintings of which I was supposed to be the artist were incredible. I'd never known Lori was so talented.
When it came to depicting eroticism my sister was practically a genius. With paints and brushes she had succeeded in turning the most intimate sex act into art. No blue-nose prosecutor could ever convince a jury my sister's work was pornographic.
It was pure art.
I was standing in front of the biggest painting, admiring Lori's bigger-than-life version of a cock going into a cunt, when my thoughts were interrupted by a reedy, whining voice. "Don't you think what you've done here, Ms. Morgan, is a bit crass?"
It took me longer than it should have to respond. Morgan was Lori's and mine maiden name. After her divorce she'd started using it again, but I hadn't been anything other than Mrs. Crane for sixteen years.
"Ms. Morgan," the voice twanged impatiently, "I believe I was talking to you."
Concealing my embarrassment behind my facade of toughness, I turned around to face him. From the voice, I expected him to be a wimp. I was wrong.
He was big enough to be a pro football player, and ruggedly handsome enough to be a movie star. I was so astonished I was rendered speechless and just gaped at him like a fool.
He wasn't in the least surprised by my reaction to him. In fact, it definitely seemed to amuse him. And, God, he was even better looking when he smiled.
"About this painting of yours, Ms. Morgan," he gestured contemptuously toward the canvas that had precipitated our conversation. "You seem to actually be saying in this work that the only eroticism worthy of artistic interpretation is heterosexual. I needn't remind you what a discredited concept that is in this day and age. You're either a sexist or a reactionary, and frankly both alternatives disturb me immensely."
"You're Perry Lash, aren't you?" I muttered the obvious. "The art critic for the paper."
"The one and only," he preened like a muscular peacock. "Why else do you imagine I would be here?"
"Then you don't like my work," I accepted responsibility for my sister's paintings. "Loathe it," he grinned.
"What do you dislike about it most, as if I didn't know?"
"It's obvious, isn't it?" he snapped as he began to make a walking tour of the rest of the canvases. "Look, in every one of them-sexual organs of both genders. The approach is so narrow-minded. So provincial that, frankly Ms. Morgan, it makes me want to throw up my hands in anguish and go on unemployment. No, disability. If art criticism is going to cause me such pain, I should be amply compensated for my ordeal."
The real me would have been devastated by such withering sarcasm. Lori, I suspected, would accept Lash's attitude as a challenge. Since for this week I was in truth my gutsy twin sister and not faint-hearted Ruth Crane, I eagerly accepted his implicit dare.
Catching up with his long strides, I drew even with him and took my gamble. "Okay, Lash, I know now you hate my paintings," I laid it on the line, "but what about the painter?"
"I beg your pardon, young woman," he sneered like I smelled of dead fish.
I was unfazed. My sudden strength intoxicated me with boldness. As Lori instead of Ruth, I was capable of anything. Even I didn't know what I would say or do next.
"Do you want to fuck me, Lash?" I surprised both of us.
That wiped the smile off his face. Lash was such a notorious and militant fag that no woman had probably had the guts to proposition him in years. The effect was somewhat akin to what happened to the Wicked Witch of the East when Dorothy spilled water all over her near the end of The Wizard of Oz. Lash practically melted.
"I ... I'm not of that p ... persuasion," he finally stammered. "I ... I assumed that was well-known."
"How do you know I can't give you what you want?" I leered, blatantly patting the lump in my crotch. "As a connoisseur of art, certainly you're aware that everything is not always what it seems."
I really had him going now. Since this was our first meeting all he'd known about me in advance was that I was known as Lori Morgan. Somebody had pointed me out to him, and he'd come over to nastily introduce himself just assuming I was a woman. He might have noticed the lump in my crotch if he'd bothered to look, but of course he was sure there was nothing but a pussy between my legs. And he hated pussies.
Lash was the kind of person who likes everything to be perfectly under control. His control. I'd just struck him the most severe wound possible by turning things upside down.
"Take me to your place and I'll give you a night you'll never forget," I promised him, lowering my voice to sound more masculine.
Suddenly he recovered his wits enough to look skeptical. "How do I know you don't have a pair of rolled-up panties or something stuffed in there to attract my attention?" he warily asked. "After all, some artists would go to any length to get a favorable notice from me."
I should have been thunderstruck. The bastard had just stumbled onto my game. Ruth probably would have fainted under comparable stress and blown everything.
Lori was cool as a cucumber. Already she was plotting through my brain to work things to her advantage.
"There's only one way you're going to find out what's in these pants, slugger," I brazenly taunted Lash, "and I don't have to tell you what that is. Either this conversation is over and you go home alone and write your lousy review, or you take me along and we get it on. Which will it be, turkey?"
As if I had any intention of waiting for his answer. The poor sucker was so confused it might have taken him all night to make up his mind.
Brushing up against him, I abruptly stuffed my hand into his right-hand pocket on the hunch his car keys might be there. Eureka, they were.
Before I snatched the keys out, however, I made sure I made an exploratory feel through the fabric of the pocket for Lash's cock and balls. There was plenty there, all right, and it was growing.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Lash yelped with alarm.
"I supplement my meager earnings from my reactionary paintings by picking pockets," I cracked, dangling the jingling tabs of metal in front of their owner. "Why don't you try and make a citizen's arrest, tiger?"
He tried to grab me but I danced away. A chase through the Sunshine Gallery ensued, the art critic hot on my heels.
Outside I hid in the shrubbery, jumping out and surprising Lash from the rear. "Okay, mother fucker," I put on a mock snarl, shoving my index finger into his ribs like the barrel of a gun, "this is a stick-up. Lead me to your car, I'm taking your wheels."
He knew it was me, of course, so he wasn't scared. But he sure was mixed-up. Obviously I was more woman than he'd ever seen.
"Okay, okay," I prodded him, sounding more like Jimmy Cagney every second, "I'm tired of waiting. Let's get moving or you'll be picking hot lead out of your liver."
God, this was fun! I couldn't help but wonder if Lori often found herself in stimulating situations such as this. Let's face it, I like being free.
Getting back to the action, when Lash continued to hesitate, I reached around his waist with my free hand and unzipped his pants. Suddenly his cock was engorging my fingers and it was a big, hard one.
"I'm holding this for ransom," I hissed. "Let's get going and see if it's worth anything."
He gave up and led me to his car. It was a sleek, black Lincoln about a block long, and I had a great time gunning it through mid-town traffic. These lush wheels put a lot of the pimp-mobiles I saw cruising the inner-city streets to shame.
Lash directed me to his townhouse. Whenever he got his tongue tangled up, I milked the words out of him by taking my right hand off the wheel and squeezing his cock and balls. When I did that he was my slave.
He lived in baronial splendor. It was obscene that while talented artists were living in squalor, their harshest critic was living like a king.
I maneuvered him straight into the bedroom right away. Shoving him down on the bed, I stripped away his pants and immediately began sucking his huge hard-on. Even a dumb housewife from the suburbs knows that male fags live and die by blow-jobs.
When Lash moaned with shuddering pleasure, I knew I-that is, Lori-was home free. After the art critic came in my mouth, he'd have to praise Lori in his column.
Obsessed by purpose, I sucked his cock better than I'd ever sucked any cock in my life. My mouth became an oral cunt, stroking and chafing, suctioning and spasming.
"Oooooh, Jesus, you're killing me!" Lash gave in to his impulses. "Keep doing it harder ... harder. It hurts sooo gooood."
Drawing him deeper and deeper down my throat, I finally took him to the hilt. His balls were churning against my lips. It was the first fag's prick I'd ever swallowed, and it was a beauty. I was beginning to understand all this shouting about gay Naturally I began to wonder what gay cum must taste like. Was it the same? Thicker? Runnier? Whiter? Yellowish or grayish?
Sweet or sour?
To find out, I really poured on the friction. My compressed lips started making numerous trips along the expanse of Lash's stiff dick. From the balls to the head and back again-over and over and over.
"Nnnnyyyaaaaahhhh!" he screamed at the height of male passion. His dick jerked in my mouth and came all over the place.
Oh, God, that cum was sweet. It tasted like he had sugar in his balls. I could have drunk it all night.
Fortunately for my thirst, Lash's ejaculation was prolonged. For awhile his squirting prick was more like a full-blast fire-hose than a human organ.
When his wad was finally spent my stomach was bloated with bubbling jizz. I must have swallowed a thousand calories.
The excess jism, of course, was dripping as usual out of my nose and mouth. My face looked like I'd been hit with a pie.
I was in ecstasy, but I forced myself to get a grip on myself. After all, I couldn't go much further with this guy or he'd find out I was nothing but a woman. I had to get out of here while he was still moaning from the head I'd given him and wanting more.
Lash was still thrashing on the bed when I made my move to split. However, to my astonishment, I didn't make it to the door before he sprang into action, caught up with me, and blocked my departure.
"Oh, no," he smiled like a shark, "you're not going any place until I find out what the bulge is in your crotch. Nobody drinks my cum and runs."
My euphoria suddenly drooped. Could it be that I was outmatched? After all, Perry Lash was a veteran of countless perverse encounters. How could I have been so naive to expect to so easily get the drop on him?
"What do you want me to do?" I suppressed an instinctive stammer and continued to hold my crumbling facade together.
"Fuck my mouth!" he snapped.
Oh, Jesus, with what, I thought with alarm. What was the good in keeping up my tough front if my advertising was backed up with nothing to sell?
Or was it?
A blow-job would be a farce, of course, because he could visually see that I didn't have what he craved between my legs. But what if he couldn't see? My confidence resurged.
"I'll fuck you in the ass, or nothing," I snapped. "I want to find out just what an art critic's shit-hole feels like. Everybody says you're tight-ass bastards."
He wavered. I was winning.
"Come on," I pushed it, "get back on the bed and spread your cheeks. Or are you afraid I'll laugh at your hemorrhoids?"
When I pushed him Lash let up on the last of his resistance and stumbled toward the bed. Falling on his face, he obediently raised his butt and pried open his meaty buns.
As I closed the distance between us, I ritualistically stripped, instinctively craving nudity during sex. While my jacket and jeans and T-shirt were flying off, I simultaneously surveyed the room for some phallic-like instrument with which to do my deed.
Mmmmmm, the long-handled brush on the bureau would do just fine.
I greased up the brush handle with spit and brought it to Lash's upturned ass. There was a nice, big, brown hole-a perfect target.
Oooooommmppph, I slugged my dildo home. A delighted "Yaaaaggggghhh!" was his response.
I pumped it in further and further. Lash could probably feel the blunt end of the brush handle gouging the shot from his bowels. If he was as constipated as I assumed, the pressure was undoubtedly enormous.
Lash loved my hilted penetration. His ass wiggled like it would never stop. In fact, I was too successful for my own good.
Lash was so horny that he couldn't help himself from reaching around to squeeze my nonexistant balls. Before I could stop him from exploring my nudity his fingers were in my crotch.
Well, you know what was there by a fruit's standards. Nothing. A slit where hot gristle was supposed to be filling the void.
Lash had screamed when I'd pronged his ass, but not as loudly as when his fingers abruptly slipped inside a wet pussy. As for myself, I was terrified, but still struggling. The way I desperately figured it, now that Lash knew I had a cunt I had to show him a cunt was worth having.
My pussy muscles constricted tighter than they ever had before. Lash's hand seemed to be sucked up in my fuck-hole like I had a vacuum between my legs.
"Wiggle your fingers," I commanded.
His impulses took over and he did. Down deep, beneath his faggy exterior, Lash was as apparently susceptible to a woman's cunt as any Thursday night bowler.
"Oooooh, that's it," I encouraged him. "Now move your fingers back and forth. Fuck me with them" Lash was hooked now and performed perfectly. Already I was starting to feel an orgasmic surge.
Aroused as hell, I slid my hand between his thighs and grasped his balls. Then, after giving them a hefty squeeze, I moved forward to his cock. It was throbbing like it was ready to explode.
Too bad if it had to happen in mid-air. I wanted his cum dripping within me.
Pulling the brush-handle out of Lash's asshole with a loud pop, I completely abandoned the homosexual pose. It was time for real sex, now. Man inside of woman!
I'd make Perry Lash love fucking a cunt!
I jumped onto the bed, whipped my nude body around, and presented him with the hairy, dripping spread between my legs. "Fuck me!" I commanded. "Stick your cock in my pussy and fuck me!"
When he hesitated, I threw my legs in a scissor around Lash's waist and pulled him toward me. Since he'd been in a kneeling position to begin with, he fell right on top of me.
"Ooooooohhh," I moaned as Lash's prick slashed into my cunt. "Start moving. . .fuck me ... fuck me ... "
Right on schedule his hips began rolling. It was a perfect fucking motion, gay or straight.
"Deeper ... deeper!" I implored him. "Let me feel your cock in my cunt to your balls!"
Lash sounded more like a crazed beast now than a prissy art critic. He was snorting and grunting like an enraged bull.
Now his nuts were roiling against my pussy lips. He was in me all the way. He'd have to come before long.
The bed springs squealed from our violent fucking. Lash could jam his cock down a woman's cunt as well as any man. I felt proud to have opened up this new door to him.
"Okay, now," I rasped, "time to come. Time to soak my hot pussy."
"Unnnhhh ... uuuunnnhhh ... unnnnnhhhh," Lash gasped in triplicate the way even the most heterosexual of us does at the moment of climax. Whoosh, the jizz came flooding from his dick.
"Ooooh, you're coming so fast," I congratulated him. "My cunt is already full and you haven't even stopped."
Yes, it was true. His wad was so copious that excess jizz was rushing into the open from between my legs. Soon my thighs felt like they were coated with hot fudge.
"When can I see you again?" he urgently asked when he'd squeezed off his final drop of dew. "I've got to see you again to find out if this is all real or a dream."
"Give me your number," I said. "I'll give you a call-after I read your rave column in the paper about my exhibit at the Sunshine Gallery. Dig?"
He dug. He was more like a grateful puppy than a grown man.