by Deb R. Lewis
The leather-corseted, fierce-eyed Vivian and I snaked through swollen crowds and beer-soaked sidewalks. We'd escape when peltings of MGD Light coasters, Mardi Gras beads with obscure campaign slogans, and mint rubbers wore thin. I wore Doc Martens and leather vest. I was packing.
Vivian delights in the interchangeability of my "Snap-on Tool"; she'd opted to make an immense, red-gelled, monster-veined statement in honor of what the Pride Parade commemorates, namely:
June 28, 1969. Cops raid the Stonewall Inn. Raiding queer bars ain't new, but a stonebutch, billyclubbed for complaining the handcuffs're too tight as a cop shoves her into a paddywagon, asks bystanding queers, "Why don't you guys do something?" One tranny after another refuses to go quietly. Crowds of drag-queens and queer malcontents start throwing pennies, bottles, rocks. They slash tires, try overturning the paddywagon. Cops barricade themselves inside the Stonewall Inn for safety, so drag-queens set it ablaze! Of all the riots of the 60s, the Stonewall Riots, in that first forty-five-minute explosion, marked the first in history to make NYC cops retreat.
So what's a busted zipper in the larger scheme of sexual liberation?
Viv's knee-high boots—objects of my lust—halted. I anticipated the first parade banners and convertible politicians waving as if they were our best friends. When Vivian shoved me back against a maple at Broadway and Buckingham—across from a red brick church, not ten steps off the thoroughfare—sank to her knees, and unzipped my fly, I nearly lost my legs. "Ma'am? Uh, we're on a busy public sidewalk!"
She excavated Moby Red and kissed the head. May not've had nerve endings, but I felt it.
"Any skin showing?" Rhetorical steam rose from her. "Those faggots ten feet down wish they could be you right now."
A leatherman in chaps, just a red hanky flap covering his furry butt, eyed us with amused envy. Past his elbow, a fey darling in purple spandex sneered: "Find a hotel!"
I ceased caring once Vivian tugged my tool and hips into a pornthrust rhythm. She deepened her hold, lips tight with suction.
Science says Moby Red, having no nerve endings, cannot transmit sensation to its wearer. Any butch who's packed, however, can report a ghostly extension of self that plugs in when they strap one on. The ghost-cock awakens. Truth told, there doesn't have to be a dildo; once pleasure's spent and the harness comes off, the ghost-cock remains—like a wristwatch once you lay it on the nightstand—you still feel it. After first visitation, it comes and goes under its own power.
So when Vivian sucked hard, I felt her throat open, swallowing against my head, and let the tree hold me up. My groin tightened like a jackknife hinge, harness warming against my clit until my body gushed like hot milk, shuddering against the tree on buckling legs.
Vivian's arms slid around my neck. "Feel any less tense?" What could I do, but feel her warmth and the light of the sun? I gathered her hips, come-stoned and loving, smooching, tonguing—
"Sister, there oughta be a law."
We broke. The spandex fairy stood near, hands on hips like a moral superhero.
Vivian turned her corsetry to menace him with cleavage and bare shoulders. "What law, pray tell, do you propose? No queers kissing on street-corners? No handjobs at the Manhole?" —He covered his mouth. Viv suppressed a gotcha grin— "What law, sweetheart?"
He fidgeted with his fanny pack. "What about simple taste and decency?"
Feeling like a junkyard dog, I sidled next to Viv, growling: "Oh, the Stonewall Riots—"
He drew a blank and I wanted to slap him, slap someone. I spat, "Google it, asshole—
Stonewall sure was all about conforming to prevailing standards of taste and decency. So, how about a law like, 'No drag queens in the parade?' Or since you don't know shit about what it commemorates, how about 'No fuckin' Pride Parade at all?'"
I gave his shoulder a shove. "Why don't you go home to your little closet, you sad little jackass, and fuck yourself?"
A yank round my neck jolted me out of spiraling rage—Viv's finger in the leash ring of my collar, her tongue sharp. "Heel!"
And my anger just glazed away …
Deb R. Lewis is a company member of Serendipity Theatre Collective and a storyteller in their 2nd Story performance series ( Storiesandwine.com ) , for which she originally wrote "Blown at the Pride Parade." Her novel, Hades' Son, was a top-three finalist in the most recent Project Queer Lit competition. For more info, see www.DebRLewis.com .
