Read an Excerpt
Seven Against Georgia
Erotic Fiction
By Eduardo Mendicutti
Grove Atlantic, Inc.
Copyright © 1987
Eduardo Mendicutti
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-8021-4037-8
Chapter One
Where Miss Balcony attempts,
despite her multiple bruises and
multiple digressions, to convince
a rather incredulous audience of
the aphrodisiac properties
found in a loaf of bread Dear Mr. Police Chief of the State of Georgia: get comfortable
now, press down on your sphincter, arrange your jewels so they
don't bother you, and fasten your seat belt, just like Bette Davis
said. Miss Balcony is my name, and consider yourself lucky that
the rules of this game prohibit me from insulting you, because
otherwise you'd find out just what Miss Balcony's little golden
spout is capable of spewing forth. But that, sir, is prohibited. I
must obey the rules, and my fabulous queer sisters are already
telling me enough with the introductions, the tape is rolling.
Baby, even the tape recorder is a member of this union: they call
her Boccaccio. Well, all right, forget the "baby" bit, these
bitches are telling me to move on and just hit you with my best
shot.
Here goes. Now, before getting into specifics I should explain
the story behind my name, Miss Balcony. You probably won't
believe it, but anyway. This humble servant is an architect-okay,
so it took me nine years to get the degree, but believe me,
I've got plenty of imagination and good taste to boot. Wait,
wait, these bitches are getting on my case again. Go for the
jugular already, they're telling me. Now, as you might have
guessed, I owe my nom de guerre to them: I live right smack in
the Plaza de España-note the choice address, I wouldn't want
you to think that all us fabulous queers are dying of hunger.
Fuck it, let me embellish a little-because the Plaza de España is
the caviar of Madrid, and when it comes to European cities we
all know that Madrid is bad, so very bad. In this town you boys
would put on your boots and fill up your jail in ten seconds with
all the ladies we've got here, some of them quite elegant, take
my word for it-like me, for example. Now, Miss Balcony has
an apartment you would die for in the Plaza de España-relax,
relax, I want to give the boy an idea of the design scheme-completely
renovated, like new. The apartment, I mean-my
cunt is a total disaster, everyone in Madrid knows that, who am
I kidding? With all the characters that have crossed my
threshold by now, it's a well-known fact that my cunt is located
out back. But that, shall we say, is a geographic accident, as
much as you and your boys may refuse to believe.
All right, girls, I get the picture. They're nagging me to get to the
point. Very well, I will try to tell you my story as briefly as I
know how. There I was, walking home from the Plaza de Callao,
on foot, like a bitch in heat. And just as I stroll past a movie
theater showing a soft-core porn flick, an adorable boy walks
out, the kind you just don't see much of anymore: a gorgeous
construction-worker type, blond but with dark skin, taller than
me, tight pecs, hard little nipples, arms like tree trunks, hands
like a lumberjack and just in case you don't catch the drift,
honey, the package on this guy only barely made it into his
jeans. And the way he was walking, pumped up and hard as a
rock, struggling in vain against a bulge that was as swollen as the
Sunday paper, it made you feel sorry for the poor thing-he
was about to explode. Oh, what pain, what anguish-mine, that
is. Just looking at him made me want to cry, and immediately I
began to pray like crazy that I wouldn't faint and fall into a coma
right there on the street. No way could I let this one get away, I
would never forgive myself. He looked ready to come; he could
barely walk, with the hard-on he had. His body seemed almost
numb, frantic, and from the creases in his pants you could just
picture the cock he had on him, it was enough to make you
scream. I went wild just looking at him, and then my eyes started
stinging and my asshole started to quiver. What a scandalously
fabulous package he had, for God's sake, so perfectly
silhouetted against his thigh.... Oh, the palpitations, oh, the
tremors it gave me. That man was dangerous; he was on the
verge of a heart attack, he was so desperate to spill his load. He
needed help, he needed release, full release, and he had to have
noticed how I was staring at him. And when I stare, it's for real.
My stares are delectable enough to eat, so how could he not
notice? Well, of course he noticed-I mean, the look on my
face must have been bad, out of control. I could barely swallow,
my God, I couldn't take my eyes off him, so how could we help
but cause a major scandal right there on the Gran Vía, with me
facing him and him facing me, both of us frantic, him with his
hand in his pocket, desperately trying to control his prick, and
me with my panties all creamed and my throat as wide open as
the arms of Mother Teresa of Calcutta. My God, at that moment
my throat was open so wide it could have swallowed the entire
population of India, the pyramids of Giza, the Hanging Gardens
of Babylon, the Alhambra of Granada, the complete works of
Pío Baroja, but most of all, the abundant offerings of that
adorable creature, that masterpiece of masculinity, that stud
whose tiny hole was ready to burst, he could barely stand it
anymore, he wasn't going to hold out. And that's the way the
poor thing looked at me, as if he was drowning, beseeching me
to rescue him; I felt genuine pity for him-pity, I tell you. What
a beautiful way to smile at someone; it was as if he was saying,
"Do what you want with me, sonofabitch, this is a once-in-a-lifetime
chance, take advantage of me now, I can barely move
with the hard-on I've got." That's what the little angel was telling
me with his smile and his eyes, even though he couldn't utter a
single word; it was as though he feared total blowout if he dared
to say or do anything. So yours truly had to take the initiative,
and take it from me, yoga is worth its weight in gold, girls: I
exercised restraint, total control of muscles, glands, and
cartilage, maintained superior flexibility, employed my deep-breathing
techniques, kept my mind in blank, slowed down the
heartbeat, relaxed the internal organs-a regular Hollywood
performance. But I had to watch it, I couldn't let the arousal
grow soft, either, I couldn't let anything grow soft. Now, I am
an actress, and you better believe I had to employ every last
trick in the book, just so that he wouldn't see the kind of
restraint I was exerting. I had to keep the sparks flying, I had to
suffuse my voice with enough suggestive innuendo to give him
shivers as he heard me say, so brilliantly, so intensely,
"That movie got you hard as a rock, baby." Finally, at that, he
managed to nod his head yes. And then I replied, "Easy, baby,
relax a little, try to think of something else." A look of pure
frustration came over his face, only for an instant, but it spoke
volumes. That was when, very smoothly, I introduced myself.
Naturally I gave him my real name, my baptismal name, my
masculine name, because that day I was dressed like a man from
head to toe. That day I was the architect, the responsible citizen.
And right away I said to him,
"Why don't we go inside-it will distract you a little." We were
right outside of a huge bar filled with slot machines, one of
those places that could turn off the randiest faggot. But he
shook his head no, as if to say, "Take those machines and stick
them up your ass, honey." Then he breathed deeply, smiled to
himself for strength, took his hand out of his pocket, and
motioned with that hand as if to say, "Let's just keep our cool."
"My name is Anselmo," he then murmured. "Pleased
to meet you." "The pleasure is all mine," I said, or at least that
was what I was thinking-pleasure was exactly what I wanted to
give him, pleasure like nobody had ever given him before. For
the moment, however, I was unable to say a thing, and so I kept
the thought to myself and went weak at the knees as he admitted
that the movie had, in fact, gotten him as fired up as a brand-new
Yamaha. To be honest, I don't remember if he said
Yamaha or Honda or what-I don't know much about
motorcycles, but I can assure you that Anselmo was a full-cylinder,
top-of-the-line model, what with all those cubic meters
the movie had piled onto his frame. The movie wasn't even that
good, he said, but added,
"I've been existing on bread and water for God only knows
how long, if you know what I mean. It's been ages since my last
little taste treat, you know? Occupational hazard, I guess, sir."
Good God, how I love it when men with rock-hard cocks call
me "sir," I love it when a stud starts off like that, so full of
respect, only to end up giving me a tongue-lashing like a
streetwalker as he comes, as he fills me up with his sweet, sticky
yogurt. And I felt myself grow woozy as I fantasized about the
kind of pantry that horny ram would have stored away after so
much fasting in the interest of his professional obligations. And
then I asked him: "What is your profession, anyway?" That was
when he admitted that he worked in Villaverde, at the National
Guard academy for noncommissioned officers. I almost had
seven orgasms, one after the other, right there. Thank God for
yoga, though, especially after what happened next. He leaned
toward me and with his mouth right next to my ear whispered
that he was ready to pump me up right there, hot and sweet.
What an experience, my God, the miracle of yoga was the one
and only thing that saved me from falling flat on my face. As I
started to go weak in the knees, he put his hand around my waist
and my hand couldn't help but graze the tip of his inflamed bud,
why, it was just like touching heaven itself with the tips of my
fingers. Suddenly I got goose bumps all over and it felt as if all
my juices were about to come rushing out of my pores, and that
was when he jumped back a bit.
"Careful," he warned, "let's not fuck it up now," and finally he
asked me if I knew of some place we could go. Suddenly I felt
like a true queen again, rich and powerful, as elegant and
exclusive as the Côte d' Azur, and in the most magnanimous
way I knew how I told him that I had a marvelous apartment
only a few blocks away, at the end of the Gran Vía right on the
Plaza de España: a penthouse, fabulous skyline views from
every window. Of course, he could have cared less about the
view, but image sells, girls, and in the end the urban landscape
did take on a certain significance in this little episode. The whole
way there I was petrified that this answer to my prayers
wouldn't be fulfilled in the most ideal circumstances, because it
had already been quite a stroll and my archangel had to walk half
bowlegged to avoid causing any unnecessary friction that would
threaten to end it all on our way upstairs, and God only knows
that the hum of the elevator was enough to drive me mad as I
worried that it was all for naught and feared that he was going to
explode on me right there. But as luck would have it, he
distracted himself somehow. Suddenly, he asked me why there
were so many people in the plaza looking up. I explained that a
group of trapeze artists had stretched a steel cable from the
plaza floor up to the top of the Edificio España building, and
that a guy on a motorcycle performed a stunt of going up and
down the cable. He didn't believe me and, like an idiot, I said,
"Don't worry, you'll see." And so, upon entering the house he
went straight to the balcony. I placed my hand on the crack of
his ass to entertain myself, my pipe on the verge of bursting, and
that was when-God, what bad timing-some crazy queer
announced on a loudspeaker that in a few moments some brave
soul would begin the spectacle. He got all excited, because he
had never seen anything like this-he was from Badajoz, and
had only arrived in Madrid three months earlier. By now my
floodgates were threatening to bust open, but Anselmo, damn
him, was transfixed by the circus below. Then we heard the
motors beginning to rev up-yes, girls, velocity and vertigo all
at once. The boy from Badajoz began massaging the landmass
inside his Jockey shorts, that bulbous life force beneath his
jeans, the head of his prick as tense as a Republican Party
meeting.... Ah, the quivering, the accelerated breathing, the
shivers racing up and down my spine, the desperation as I bit
my lips, my nose twitching, reveling in the danger of it all, Mr.
Police Chief, of that man who escaped my clutches by
satisfying himself on his own after such prolonged abstinence.
As if I hadn't been ready and waiting for him. The man on the
motorcycle solemnly rose up the cable until reaching the top of
the Edificio España building, with all the windows of the nearby
buildings opened wide and filled with spectators. You have to
understand, the crowd had good reason to gape, for they got a
double show, two attractions for the price of one. It was like
Eros and Thanatos, as the educated would say, at the same time:
risk and eroticism, danger and sex, a very special performance
to benefit the National Guard academy for noncommissioned
officers. In midair, the man on the motorcycle was on the brink
of cracking his head open, and on my balcony a humble servant
was on her knees, facing that child prodigy from Badajoz on
that narrow passageway. I was a bundle of nerves as I unzipped
those indigo jeans that suddenly became army-green right before
my eyes. I dove into the folds of a plaid shirt, scaring the flailing
arms of the owner of said shirt, tearing his Jockey shorts down
like a woman possessed until the light of day finally shone onto
that miracle of nature, that privileged prick, that madness, that
macrocock the color of corn and as thick as Fred Flintstone's
forearm, straight as a rod, squeaky clean, with its smooth
casing, slightly rough to the touch, with an aroma as refined and
potent as the very best narcotics, an indomitable consistency,
polite arrogance, as brilliant and steely as a Bergamin aphorism,
as solid as a Rubén Darío poem, as tender and rebellious as a
Brassens song, as sleepy as the Autumn Festival program. It
was utterly irresistible and perfectly tailored to the contours of
my mouth, resistant to the flow of my saliva, more than worthy
of bringing my lips and tongue to the highest of altars, of
catapulting my tonsils to seventh heaven.
Continues...
Excerpted from Seven Against Georgia
by Eduardo Mendicutti
Copyright © 1987 by Eduardo Mendicutti.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
