To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Rich Logsdon's previous piece To Rich Logsdon's next piece
Sweet, Sweet Annie
I. Christmas Eve, and here is Annie, my sweet angel of the night. A small, thin, and beautiful Asian girl, she is dancing topless in animal splendor to incessant, pounding music. Dim stage lights cast a glow over her, and my eyes feast upon this delicious woman. She’s changed, I think: though her eyes are still dark slits, her hair has a reddish brown tint and is tied in pig tails; and while the rose tattoo (which I bought her) remains below the belly button and small golden rings pierce her nipples, she has put on needed weight and enlarged her breasts.
But I’ve changed, too, and I’m sure she senses that. As she dances, eyes darting at me, her nipples are erect. I can smell her sweetness. Her back against the pole, she slides down to the stage, spreads her legs, and massages herself through her light blue, semi-transparent panties. She never takes her eyes off me.
“That’s my Annie,” I say.
In the smoked-filled club, I grin, stick my tongue out, and wiggle it obscenely, hardly an appropriate gesture for a professor known for scholarship on Nabakov and Pynchon. She laughs, pulls away from the pole and, on hands and knees, crawls over to me.
“How ya doin’, Jerry?” she purrs, leaning forward and licking my forehead. Wrapping her arm around me, her hand cradling the back of my head, she puts her face inches from mine.
“Merry Christmas,” she says in a seductive whisper. “Long time, no see.”
“Same here,” I respond. I can’t imagine another place I’d rather be than with Annie. It’s like standing at the gates of paradise. She smells like a rose garden, and I want to stick my tongue between her legs and taste her juices. Through sweat and smoke, she leans forward and kisses me lightly on the lips.
“Missed you,” she says, slowly pulling back. “You still taste good?”
“We’ll find out if you want,” I say.
Aroused, I hesitate: though I’ve finally found her after months of searching, I’m now not really sure that I want to start up again with this woman. Annie can be a mixed blessing. An unusually sensitive person who will allow me to fuck her any time and any place, she has the ability to pull me from the black hole in my soul. But there’s another side. Once, several years ago on Christmas Eve, when we were playing in the front room just after dinner and just before church, she grabbed my dangling manhood in her teeth. (Please understand, of course, that we had been drinking.) When I didn’t respond the way she hoped, she bit, at first gently, then harder and harder. I tried to push her away when, with an angry snarl, she gave a hard yank, a dog tearing a piece of meat. Pain shot through me like a hundred lightning bolts. Immediately seeing that she had wounded me, Annie panicked, wept apologetically, grabbed my manhood and tried to stop the wound with her tiny hands. “Get a towel from the kitchen!” I shouted, visions of John Wayne Bobbit bouncing in my brain. As she ran to the kitchen, I looked between my legs and saw blood dripping down my legs and onto the carpet. “Hurry, you little cunt!” I screamed. Instead of calling a physician, Annie drove me, bundled in a light green dishtowel, to the ER where some young smart ass right out of medical school stitched me up.
This is what I remember as I now watch this gorgeous little beast dance. Once again, it is Christmas Eve, and in my bones I ache for Annie.
“Hey, Merry Christmas, you little dick biting bitch,” I tease her, placing my hand on the back of her head and pulling her lips onto mine. As I kiss her, I run my free hand over her nipples, and she reaches down, places a hand between my legs, and grabs my hardness through my pants. When Annie finally draws her hand away, I tell her that I’ll be sitting at one of the tables under the big stage across the room.
“Come and join me when you’re done,” I say. She nods and smiles. For old time’s sake, I want once again to spend the night with her and enter her savage garden of delights.
II. I met Annie years before in another joint. At the time, five years out of high school, she had taken several classes at the college and had a two-year old daughter, which she left with her mother. She didn’t know who the father was. “One of hundreds,” she told me. She danced at Cat’s Place, a purple and pink one-story topless nightclub located in the industrial area of Vegas and just behind Stupak’s Tower, the tallest building on the Strip.
The place had the best dancers in town. Many were university or community college students trying to make a little extra cash. I had been invited to the club by two of my students. In their papers and out-of-class, they had alluded to this specific club, and at the end of spring semester had asked me to come, all promising at least one free dance. Expressing my preference for another club located downtown, I had politely refused. But finally, late in August of the same year, my girlfriend having flown to Seattle to attend her sister’s wedding, the fires of desperation exploded with in me and I agreed.
I sat at a table in the back of the club with Angela and Marci; I forget their stage names. Angela wore a thin black net top revealing large tanned breasts while Marci was dressed in a small white blouse, open at the top, and a plaid schoolgirl dress. No sooner had they excused themselves to go to the back room when a small Oriental girl pulled herself away from the bar, walked over to me and asked if she could sit. “Be my guest,” I said, gesturing her to sit in the chair next to me. She gently sat on my lap, her left arm around my neck, gazed longingly into my eyes, and smiled coyly. It wasn’t the mechanical smile you might expect from a dancer whose chief means of livelihood is stripping in front of gawking men and making them hard; this one was warm and teasing, the kind you get from someone who likes you and wants to know you better. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black in the dim light, and her raven hair was swept back out of her face and flowed down to the small of her back.
“What’s your name?” she cooed. While she had a tinny, singsong accent, there was laughter in her voice. Before I could answer, she kissed me lightly on the cheek.
"The professor. Call me that for now," I responded.
"Don't play games with Annie," she said, reaching between my legs and feeling me through my slacks. I was already partly hard. “I know who you are,” she added.
Slightly over five feet, she had an engaging manner. When I pulled her blouse open, admired her nipple rings, and then kissed one of her nipples, she commented, "I like that." When I slipped one of my hands into her panties and found her already wet, she purred.
I don't know what happened to my students. I didn’t much care. I bought Annie drinks, talked, asked her to dance, and finally slid inside of her as she sat on my lap. It was a darkly glorious moment: with people wall-to-wall, dancers performing on each of the four stages, Annie pulled the crotch string of her panties to the side as I unzipped and then slowly, gracefully eased herself on top of me. She took all of me. To a casual observer, she must have looked as if she were performing a normal, slowly pulsing dance.
III. That night, I left the club with Annie. We didn't go right to my place as I had planned. Hungry for steak, Annie suggested we stop somewhere and get a bite to eat. Because she lived on the west side, she named a small family restaurant miles away from the Strip on Sahara. At the time, I had no idea that Annie's wildly passionate nature went beyond her sexual desires; I had no idea that mine did as well. At the time, I didn't know myself.
I still can’t remember the name of the place: a cozy Italian restaurant located in one of those new shopping centers with squat, stucco buildings that age in five years. Across the street was a soccer field, and several adult teams were practicing under the lights. While I ordered something typically Italian--spaghetti, I think--Annie asked for a steak, done very rare.
“Your steak will be very bloody, almost raw,” the waiter said. “Did you know that?”
Sitting next to me in the booth, her hand between my legs, Annie smiled and responded, “That’s the way I like it. The bloodier the better.”
As we waited in a semi-dark corner for our salad, Annie looked at me, asked, “Ready for a little fun?”
“Always ready,” I said, heart pounding.
Swiftly, she unzipped me, reached her small hand in through my fly, and grabbed me.
I laughed at Annie’s boldness. The waiters stayed in the other room, so I figured we could do pretty much what we wanted. When I unbuttoned Annie’s blouse, she put her head between my legs and slid her warm, moist mouth over my cock.
“That’s my girl,” I remember saying.
Visions of angels dancing in my head, I leaned back, and as I did I glanced across the restaurant. When we had first come in and sat down, I really did not see anyone else in the restaurant. But now, my eyes adjusted, I glanced across the room and noticed, in a far booth, a couple about our age, maybe a bit older. They were both shooting glances our way between, I suspect, mouthfuls of lasagna or chicken marinara or whatever they were eating. I remember remarking to myself that the woman, a beautiful, stacked blonde with blood-red lips and long red fingernails, looked good enough to eat.
“Whatsamatter?” Annie mumbled, looking up.
“We’re being watched,” I said. I didn’t enjoy the sensation of being watched as I do now.
“That couple over there keeps looking our way.”
“They don’t know what we’re doing.”
“Sure they do.”
“Well, fuck them,” Annie said. She lowered her head.
“Annie,” I said, pushing her head back gently, “let’s do it later. I can’t enjoy this with them watching.” I looked across the room at the blonde, who was no longer looking our way.
Annie sat upright, arranged her hair and blouse and stared across the room.
“People should just fucking learn to live and let live,” Annie commented. At that moment the waitress brought our salads.
Dinner went well. Annie ignored the woman, and as we ate and talked about everything from Annie’s job to baseball in Korea. Annie even hinted that, recently, she had been marginally involved in a triple homicide for which three of her family members went to prison.
“Would you ever kill someone, Jerry?” she asked, studying me between mouthfuls of raw steak.
The thought made me queasy, and I chokingly responded, “Not on your life.”
We finished with the house specialty for dessert and, after paying, rose to leave. Heading for the door, Annie glanced over her shoulder at the blonde, who was staring back at her.
“Forget it, Annie,” I said, pushing the glass door open for her.
We walked out of the restaurant, hand-in-hand, two lovebirds, and I figured then that the rest of the evening would consist of porn, sex, and maybe mild stimulants.
When we got into and car, just as I was starting the ignition, Annie reached over, grabbed my arm, and said, “Wait, Jerry.” She pointed.
“What?” I said.
When I glanced up, I saw the other couple walking toward a green Mercedes in the parking lot on the east side of the restaurant. The man walked with short, mincing steps.
“I see,” I said. “So what?”
Annie laughed. “Wanna have a little fun?”
“With them?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
Normally a staid, retiring type, Annie’s question aroused something in me. I realized that I would enjoy a little excitement.
“Why not?” I agreed. Having some fun at the other couple’s expense would bring back memories, I told myself, recalling how in junior high and high school my friends and I had routinely tormented neighbors and school mates.
I started the engine and waited. Just before the Mercedes reached the exit, I hit the gas. My car shot forward, blocking the way. As I put my car in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake, Annie threw open her door, walked around my car, and positioned herself outside the Mercedes passenger door, shouting and gesturing obscenities at the young blonde. I got out and stood behind Annie.
Almost coolly, the woman got out, closed the door, and faced Annie while her boyfriend remained inside. This gave me a chance to see this woman more closely, and my heart almost stopped. She wore a blouse tied just above the navel and in a manner calculated to reveal her breasts to the tops of her brown areolas, and skintight blue pants that left nothing to the imagination. She was gorgeous beyond words, and, as she faced Annie, licked her lips and gave me a seductive look.
“Think I’m a cunt?” Annie hissed, standing sideways, a posture a friend of mine used to assume just before he hit someone in the face.
The woman was not intimidated. “Of course, you’re a cunt. You’re a disgraceful little tramp is what you are.” Apparently a tough type, she was probably from New Jersey or Brooklyn.
Annie stepped forward and shoved the women backwards against her car. I’d seen women fight only on film.
It was a beautiful night, I’ll confess that much in retrospect, and at the time I wondered what the woman’s boyfriend, still sitting in the car, was thinking. There was a cooling breeze, and we were far enough beyond the strip that I could see thousands of stars overhead. The moon was brilliant.
There was a long, almost predictable pause before the action began when the two women called each other things like “bitch,” “whore,” and “cunt.” My legs trembled in anticipation. After Annie said something in Korean and started to walk away, the blonde stepped forward and grabbed Annie’s hair in both of her hands. Annie turned and, in windmill fashion, swung back with closed fists, striking her adversary several times in the face.
Then Annie stumbled, and with little effort, the blonde bore her to the ground. I watched as Annie, one of her arms held and on her back, was slapped repeatedly. Annie shrieked and fought like a wildcat and did rip open the left side of the woman’s blouse. An enormous, well-shaped tit hanging out of her blouse, the blonde went into a rage and hit Annie in the face again and again, and while I wanted to step in, I decided it would be safer and just watch. Besides, as far I was concerned, Annie was to be no more than a one-night stand.
For a moment, the women stopped, the stars seeming to spin slowly overhead. I could hear Annie gasping and lightly sobbing as she looked up at her adversary. Then as Annie struggled weakly, the blonde tore off Annie’s blouse, exposing small but beautiful breasts. Annie’s nipple rings glowed in the moonlight.
With surprising ease, the woman pulled Annie’s shorts off, revealing that Annie wore nothing underneath. Pulling Annie’s legs apart, spreading this Asian angel’s pussy, the blonde looked at me. “This is the fresh meat you’re after, right?” she asked. I could see that the woman had a small cut over her right eye. She patted Annie’s pubic area gently as I kept my eyes on the beautiful pink slit between Annie’s legs. Then, making sure that I was watching, the blonde slowly inserted one finger into Annie, who offered no resistance and moaned like an animal. It was almost more than I could bear, and I wonder to this day if Annie derived some kind of perverse pleasure from this twisted event.
As the couple drove away, I retrieved Annie’s clothes and then carried her back to my car. For at least half an hour, she sat silently in the passenger seat. Then, suddenly, she came to life and began brushing her hair out of her face. What the hell is this? I wanted to ask. I wondered how she would handle the humiliation she had just suffered. “Well,” she said, sniffing, “I get my ass kicked that time.” “Yeah, you did,” I said. The fight didn’t seem to faze her much, and as she used a Kleenex to dab the blood from her mouth, nose, and chest I figured that she’d been in fights and lost before.
Curiously, the night turned out well. By the time we got to my apartment, Annie was ready to fuck. As we undressed, face and body bruised and cut, Annie attacked me savagely, first grabbing me in her mouth and then allowing me to enter her in any way I wanted. That night, I learned that every hole in her body was an avenue to bliss. We never slept that night, and one week later Annie moved in with me.
For six months, we lived together and feasted off each other. I tasted every inch of her, and she tasted every bit of me. Pudding and pie became two of our favorite desserts; after all, they’re easy to lick. It was a period of unrivaled sexual frenzy and delight, and often, when Annie had three straight days off, we never left the apartment. After the Christmas Eve accident three years ago, Annie moved out without an explanation, and I was left horribly alone.
IV. And now, here she is, and here I am. Sitting at the table, awaiting Annie, I think over the past three years when I became addicted to a savage, even occasionally violent kind of sex. As one might suspect, I finally did meet up with the parking lot blonde, who could fight but failed nonetheless to rise to Annie’s standards. The blonde disappeared just six months before this night.
Top still off, Annie approaches, smiling hugely, and I have put all hesitation aside. I can’t wait to resume our frenzied, anything-goes sex.
After her shift ends shortly after midnight, I drive Annie through the desert and into the mountains. When she asks where we are going, I tell her to a special place. It’s a very cold Christmas Eve, the temperatures in the low thirties, and I’ve heard that it’s been snowing in the higher regions just outside of town.
Just above the lodge, I turn to the right and slowly drive the slick road up to a small cabin; as the moon temporarily breaks through storm clouds, we can see that the ground is white with snow.
“This is my cabin,” I say, and in this I tell the truth. It’s a cabin I bought last year with the inheritance from my parents’ estate.
“Oooh, how pretty,” Annie says. She’s moved by the Christmas Eve winter wonderland.
“Do you want to come in and see?” I ask, moving into the gravel driveway and turning off the engine.
“Do you want me to come in?” she asks, coyly.
“I have a surprise for you, Sweet Angel.”
Annie doesn’t hesitate. She loves surprises.
After we enter through the front door, I flick the switch and the room softly explodes in soft, almost ethereal light. The living room looks like something right out of a magazine: wreathes over the window, a soft brown couch with the stairs behind it, three lamps, a coffee table made of cypress, and two soft leather recliners. Norman Rockwells hang on the wall.
“God, it’s beautiful, Jerry,” she gasps, removing her black leather coat. Underneath, she’s wearing a Green Bay Packers T-shirt.
“You want it?” I say, walking over to the stereo and putting in a Christmas CD.
“Of course,” she purrs.
My heart soars as I walk to Annie and, putting my arm around her shoulders, say, “I want you to see one more thing.”
I guide her through the pantry to the storage room in back. The room is cold, and when I flick on the dim overhead light she sees the padlocked freezer across the room.
“There’s something here I want you to see,” I say, guiding her across the room.
Tense, Annie is frightened, but I keep one arm firmly around her waist as I slip the key in padlock. As I lift the top of the freezer, I pull her closer and tell her to look in. She shrieks and resists, and I can feel her whole body trembling. Suspecting some diabolical trick, Annie collapses and, with both arms, I pick her up, hold her over the freezer, and force her to look inside.
It takes her a moment to realize that I am not going to shove her inside and close the lid. Her body becomes merely rigid as, stunned, she sees the that the long rectangular block of ice contains the body of the nude dead woman: the blue-green eyes are wide open, the face has a slight blue tinge, her nostrils are flared (odd for a freezing), and her blood red lips part in eternal bewilderment; the woman has large tanned breasts whose shape has been preserved. Even now, six months after her disappearance, the blonde’s features are quite recognizable.
Numbed, Annie shakes her head as if to clear it of thought and stares at the corpse as I put my arms around her, kiss her on the neck, and whisper, “Merry Christmas, my sweetest angel.”
As “Silent Night” fills the air, Annie breathes deeply, laughs very nervously, relaxes even more, and says, “Jerry, you are one sick son of a bitch, you know that? I think you’ve changed a bit.”
I have to admit, albeit silently, that Annie is right: I’ve changed.
“This is your gift, Annie.” Holding Annie, my cock pressed hard against her small ass (we’re still dressed), I tell the brief story of my relationship with Joan: how I met her at a supermarket maybe a year after her fight with Annie outside the restaurant, began dating her, actually lived with her in order to gain her trust, and then asked her to join me up here where, lured by the thrill of ropes and bondage, she actually allowed me to strangle her to death.
There is a long pregnant pause, and the player switches to the next CD.
“Did you fuck this bitch on the night you killed her?” Annie finally asks, almost offended by the prospect that I might do such a thing. The tone of the question tells me that, outward appearance notwithstanding, Annie really has not changed; she’s still the delightfully possessive slut that I used to live with. It’s a question she would have asked years ago, and I am ready for it.
“No goddamned way, Sweet Angel,” I say, lying through my teeth. “I’m not that crazy. But I figured I had to do something to get you back after you left—I went fucking nuts when you weren’t there--and I figured that this would work.”
For a long time, Annie says nothing, and I know that she is considering asking me to take her back. If she asks, I will oblige. Annie is my angel, and I cannot imagine that I shall ever harm her.
Finally, she turns, puts her arms around my neck and, before I have time to say anything, kisses me on the mouth. I remember then how much I enjoy how Annie tastes.
“It works,” she says, slowly drawing back. A few years back, as I’m sure she recalls, she wanted this blonde bitch dead. “I won’t leave again.”
In my bedroom, “O Little Town of Bethlehem” playing softly in the background, we slowly undress each other, taking precious time on the parts that have become significant. Delicately, I part her legs and slip my tongue inside her. When Annie takes my manhood in her tiny hand, I can feel her touch and then lick the scar. The sensation is euphoric.
“Bite me, Annie,” I request, looking back at her, and she begins giggling. “But not too hard.” This is as close to true love as I have ever been.
As Annie gently takes me in her teeth and give me an easy tug, I lie back on the bed, listening to the Christmas music; I put a hand between her legs and insert a finger into her asshole. I remember that Annie has a fondness for anal sex.
It doesn’t get any better than this, I tell myself, hard as a rock. Annie and I will surely be inseparable from this night forward.
To the top of this page