This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “Audition Inside”
Never perform with your back to the audience, Orlando taught his rare music students (he took on such a commitment only when financially desperate). Shaking your booty works if you’ve got Jon Bon Jovi’s ass, he instructed, worthy of leather encasement and admirable even from the back row of an arena. But if you are a mere mortal crooning in a local pub, best to face the fans.
How, then, did Orlando come to find himself bent over a barstool on the stage floor – nothing more than a bar corner cleared of tables – with Isabella’s dick up his forty-one-year-old virgin ass? His back to the audience, indeed.
Orlando now sang a different tune than the melodic ones he’d played for the small audience of late-nighters. His voice lost its smooth patina. His words contained no witty double ententes, looping rhymes, or seductive repetitions. He abandoned his lyrical search for meaning in a complicated world of misunderstood words. His fingers no longer picked at intricate chord progressions on the six-string or the electric keyboard. They clawed at the air. He growled and shouted, his words incomprehensible, pushing back against Isabella’s thrusting thighs. But before he descended into passionate, guttural urges, his words were clear.
Orlando feared the peculiar combination of words he shouted. He was terrified that, once uttered, Isabella would have what she wanted and would leave him. Again. Only this tiem she would desert him for speaking the irretrievable, and not for silence.
Hold something back, Orlando taught. Leave them wanting, so the fans return, or, better yet, purchase the compact disc you’ve peddled for years, stacks of them stashed in your attic. The whole song can’t be a repeating chorus, he instructed. You’ve got to build up to the consummate word at the end of the line. A literary crescendo to a word so perfect that the audience thinks they could have guessed it, but a word so unexpected they never do. They echo it once they’ve heard the song, and then forget the wonder and surprise of it. Like this word he just enunciated as clearly as the Rain in Spain before deteriorating into whimpering gibberish. A word that all-too-often atrophied, stalled, and lost its meaning through overuse. A powerful word that dulled and tired. Coveting words, understanding their potency and deception, he had refused to utter it all these years.
Now that he’d said it, held nothing back, Isabella would leave him with his cock dancing in the air. Something prevented him from seizing his straining dick, which beseeched the stale bar-room air like a blind man extending his cane over a bluff. One clench of his fist and Orlando would add to the stains on the floor, he hovered that close to the edge of primal fulfilment. Isabella hadn’t told him not to touch himself, though she often commanded him in bed. Orlando himself was never comfortable articulating what he wanted done to his body, and he graciously accepted what was offered. But right now he wanted his satisfaction – if she planned to give him any – to come at her hands, the gift of her body. He’d had enough of his own fist since she kicked him out a month ago.
As Isabella brought up the rhythm section behind him, the logistical success of this joint venture amazed Orlando. But, then again, they’d always enjoyed the challenge of different body sizes. He tended to forget how small she was. Her ass gave her such solidity, a gravity-hugging mass – like a steel girder that holds up a delicate bridge, one of those impossible pieces of architecture that tourists traverse the world to see – that he often forgot that his long fingers could nearly span her petite waist. Sometimes when he spied her tiny shoes kicked off at the front door, he wondered who’d come to visit.
Isabella’s ass. Now there was a show fit for stadium concerts. Forget the rules about facing the audience. Her magnificent flesh danced in multiple directions when she moved. Some law of physics or aerodynamics caused one hemisphere of her buttocks to return from movement while an opposing quarter gained momentum in the opposite direction, the way two stones tossed in a pond throw concentric circles into delirium. Her gluteals were like tectonic plates beneath the earth’s surface, the mountains above them trembling and quaking when they shifted.
When Orlando was still a young man, years before Isabella backed her ancient Cadillac into his Toyota, one of his dates had blubbered over the televised royal wedding of the worthless second-in-line son to the worthless British throne. Somewhere in her tears Orlando saw the crushed belief that even though the first-born prince had escaped her, the second son had still roamed in her fantasies as a distinct possibility. She, an American. From Detroit. He had waited impatiently for the “I Do’s” so they could head to dinner. And then he’d caught sight of the bride’s well-padded ass behind an oversized satin bow. He could have watched the princess march up the aisle for miles. He wanted to reach up inside her gown and caress those buttocks, to crawl after that fanny through the church and into eternity with his hands groping. Her ass wasn’t even that big, except in comparison to Barbie dolls like her new sister-in-law. When radio deejays made cruel Mount Everest and Twin Peaks remarks about her behind, Orlando knew that not one of those men voicing loud derision over the princess’s flanks would turn down the chance to feel her ass bouncing against his belly, his cock lost in the valleys only mountains like hers could provide. A guy’s dick could seem awfully small and insignificant rutting around a generous ass, and Orlando suspected their taunting was born of that insecurity. Orlando thanked whatever cosmic force had blessed him with the long and narrow cock ideal for such excavating, a highly evolved instrument honed for intricate manoeuvres.
Orlando and his date never did get to dinner that night. They ordered in, and he had barbecued rump roast right in her bed. It wasn’t the start of a fetish, exactly, or even an obsession. Orlando liked women of all sizes – but big-hipped women became synonymous with royalty in his plebeian mind. That bow on a princess’s palatial behind tied a permanent knot around his preference, and he remained married to the idea of someday finding his own monarchical mounds to worship.
But Orlando soon learned that these splendid endomorphs didn’t crave worship of the twin-buttressed cathedrals on their backsides. Rather, they wished to crush these sacred temples, as ancient peoples had smashed shrines glorifying opposing religions. They wanted to destroy these icons of femininity, praying for the holiness of honed and toned hind-ends. They wanted him not to pay homage to the bouncing, mirrored embodiment of his faith, but to ignore them, converting to a belief in lean and inhospitable flanks.
When the princess crash dieted later on and became the spokesperson for a diet product, Orlando composed a dirge. Her lost flesh symbolized the war waged upon the tortured landscape of women’s asses, a genocidal campaign for the extermination of something holy. His lovers all felt rotten about not being Twiggy. He craved the sight of their haunches wriggling, but these ripe, succulent women extinguished the lights and crawled under the covers, face up in the dark. Which is why, with the passage of years, he seldom followed through on his attraction for them. He swore them off, a gluteal abstinence, the way friends with wheat allergies had given up gluten. Their constant need for reassurance wore him down. They vacuumed up his repeated compliments, and then ceased to believe them precisely because of their repetition. Ah, the trickiness of words.