salome unveiled 3

        Salome's strip scene axed Tom between his blue peepers. He ogled the woman, eyes drawn to the pubic delta. His pituitary gland fired electric sparks. Everything around him began to pulse. Inflating, deflating. Colors deepened and grew warm. He was sweating through a panic attack.
         Damn that faggot Kit Pico. I never should have listened to him and taken that crazy herb!
        Then his glans betrayed him with a small seepage of semen. Not since he was sixteen, slouching like Holden Caufield, low in that tubercular Times Square den of iniquity, watching a Johnny Wad flick, had he experienced such an Oops! Moment.
         "Are you all right, Mon Cher?"
         "I'm fine."
         The playwright had handed him a hefty bag of  raw damiana. A massive dose, Tom was told, would activate a part of the brain never before experienced. And he could then control anyone for whom he felt lust.
         "Dude, you will be hearing the person's thoughts! While seducing that person you will have total mind control! You won't be creating a love zombie. You will be creating a warm, vibrant lover. Dig it!"
        

                                                                                          *


          It was clear to Tom that she was no svelte ingenue. He marveled at her unabashed revelations. Her body was a garden of earthly delights. She gyrated with feral abandon. A doomed seductress, writhing in mental torment. Opera! Bravo! The full-throated voice mesmerized him with an opiate tongue.
          Solange sat enthralled.
          She moved with Salome. They together were two mermaids in synchronized swim. Her soul ascended with each swell of music. Bodily she rose up, arching her spine. Then a subtle force propelled her toward Tom, and she collided with his roiling aura. Two quanta of energy melded, golden and sublime.


                                                                                             *


          In the hall of her hotel Tom stood brain-bashed while Solange rummaged through her purse for the room key. Freud be damned! he was thinking. He lusted for this woman, ancient enough to be his dear old grandmother. He could almost feel his tongue removing surgical pins from her brittle bones. His cock stiffened like a phallic effigy at the Tiberian bath on the Isle of Capri. He would fuck the crone within an inch of her life!
          Solange retrieved the key. "Voilla!"
          Hoarsely he echoed: "Vwallah, eh."
          He closed in, nose to ear. Beneath the Chanel #5 lurked something acrid, like stale caviar.
          He touched her tiny elbow with the force of eider down dusting a snowdrift.
          Summoning all he was good for, he searched her eyes for guidance.
          Nothing. Nada.
          Demurely she hugged him and kissed his earlobe. "I have had a wonderful time, Squire Tom. Bon soir."
          Her door closed quietly and he stood alone in the hall.


                                                                                      *


         Solange peeled off her clothes. She inspected her gams and thought they were still quite nice. Cyd Charisse in "Silk Stockings"!
        Then in a blush of elation she performed for the closet mirror.
        Truly this had been an evening of enchantment. The glorious music had given her that extended orgasm. At her age! Even that craven young man had been stimulating!
         Standing naked she scrunched her toes, making divots in the shag carpet.
         She donned a blue chemise and opened a cold Perrier. She sat crosslegged upon the wide bed.
         A magazine lay open and there was an article on Susan Sontag. A ghastly photograph showed Sontag lying in state, no longer the quick-faced luminary with a white streak through the black bouffant. Solange found this too depressing. She clicked the TV and found Yo Yo Ma in concert.