www.bobkull.org
Passion’s Niche
Frank Bob Kull
1991
Montreal,
Canada
As
I watched the train pull into the station amidst the
clanging of bells and shouting of porters, I was looking forward to meeting
Emily. I had never seen her, but I
knew how she would look.
I’d
first met her through a letter she had written to her brother, Jake. I’d been living down here on the Island
for three years and my terror of Voodoo had kept me away from the local flesh
peddlers. (It didn’t matter much as
it turned out, not getting laid for so long had nearly turned me into a zombie
anyway.) Jake had known all that,
but still he showed me her letter and said she’d be coming down for a visit some
time and that we’d probably like each other. It seemed a little odd. I know I wouldn’t want anyone in my
condition getting near my sister.
Ah,
her letters. Now, as I waited to
finally meet her, gentle memories of them nudged their way into my mind and
nestled there between the clanging and shouting of bells and porters. There had been the sweet sisterly
letters to Jake at first, and later the not so sisterly letters, written
privately for my eyes only. Those
letters were ripe with a lust and a longing strong enough to match my own. Lust so powerful that just the thought
of it caused the crotch of my trousers to bulge and the train to whistle in
apparent admiration.
Hot
and sweaty, waiting in the fetid air, I felt fitted into place like a hip joint
into its socket; loose, easy and ready for action. Around me, the raucous swirl of people,
the heavy stench of garbage, and the delicate scent of frangipani – dusting
everything with its sweet odor – all matched and gave body to my private
thoughts.
The
train stopped. Steam hissed out and
broke my tension. She was finally
here. I was sure I’d know her. Even though she had refused to send me a
photograph, in my mind I carried an image of her so real I could nearly taste
it. In the image she was
perfect. Now I began to doubt. She couldn’t be so
beautiful.
Then
the train opened its doors and dumped her out. Smiling, she looked around at the
milling crowd and then, sodden with sweat, slumped down onto a nearby
bench. It collapsed with a
splintering of half-rotten wood.
Completely at ease, she lounged there in the wreckage as though she’d
been waiting all her life to be just ‘There’! I had been edging my way toward her
through the chaos, but now I stopped and clutched a post for support. I ogled, I gaped. She was just as I had hoped she’d
be. She was perfect: all 284 pounds of her. I felt joy well up in my heart. I had thought that love would always
pass me by, I knew now I had been wrong.
We were meant for each other like one bookend is meant for its mate. I lumbered over to claim my
own.
She
looked up when she felt my sweat drip down onto her face.
“Wilber,
my sweet.”
“Emily.”
“Come
down here, Honey, and kiss me hello.”
I
started to kick some rotten mango peels and a dead dog out of the way to clear a
place to sit, but she stopped me saying, “Never mind, Wilber, that stuff just
cushions the concrete. Lounge on
down here beside me.”
I
settled down in contentment.
Finally I’d met an intelligent and sensitive lady who really knew how to
relax into her surroundings. And
then the moment had arrived to welcome her into my life. I kissed her. Not just like that, of course. It took some shifting of position before
our mouths actually got close enough to share the sweet taste of what we’d had
for lunch. And then we lost
control. Passion had its way with
us. Our hands started to wander and
explore mounds, mountains, nay worlds of flesh.
We
must have presented an unusual sight even for the train station in Port au Rey. After all,
six hundred and fifty pounds of straining orgiastic flesh is not something you
see every day… A crowd gathered and
began moaning and chanting in rhythm with our sharing.
“Ummmum look at them white folks hunching down there on the
floor!”
“Little
Billy, you stay the hell out of the way, you hear? You get caught in the middle of that
mess you never get out alive.”
“Whoa,
Wilber, that’s some force of nature you got yourself tangled up
in.”
A
few wild young studs, caught by the fever, tried to climb on too. But the police, understanding the
tenderness and delicacy of our first meeting, held them back.
Later, young boys brought chilled coconut milk to pour over our steaming bodies, and then my own sweet sweat-hog and I waddled off into the cooling night air.
www.bobkull.org