Andy Gasmask Treated by Pris, image by Pris Campbell
I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure.
My mother was a hippie, who dropped a lot of lysergic acid. And other strange narcotics with mystical properties. The psilocybin William S Burroughs grail-quested through Amazonia to find, but could never discover. My father was the electric Folk-Rock group she groupied for on tour. Multiply, or in sequence. Or maybe it was the sizzle of radioactive fallout drifting in from the Yucca Flats nuclear tests. Absorbing into cellular DNA, corrupting chromosomes, innovating, bending gene-structures into new unfamiliar shapes. My favourite book as a child was HG Wells ‘The Island Of Dr Moreau’, about vivisection experiments splicing human and beast.
I’ve learned to coil my tongue like a Swiss Roll into the back of my throat. My teeth don’t meet, and it gives my face an elongated appearance, but it does mean I can pass in a crowd without notice. I have an anteater tongue, or maybe a frog tongue. A chameleon or pangolin tongue. I research it. An anteater tongue is sixty centimetres which enables it to devour 30,000 termites a day, but is as thin as spaghetti. Mine is normal in every respect, but for length. When other kids strive to tongue-tip touch their noses, I can comfortably lick my forehead. At puberty, while other boys are masturbating, I can reach down and encircle cock and balls in my tongue’s moist coils and bring myself to deliriously intense climax.
I am Tonguesmith. A life filled with strangeness. Stick-slim and awkward, a freakish biological misfit, shunned and ridiculed. My mother cares, after a fashion, but she has her life, her job at the Diner, her guys – a succession of sleazy sleep-over ‘uncles’. I’m a scaredy-cat, escaping from tormentors into the woods, beside the lake, I crouch down, watch the bullfrogs and imitate their passive eye-bulging squat. Waiting for that flick-flick-flick tongue-flick that unites us, croaking in unison. It’s then I see the travelling carnival in the glade beyond, something wicked this way coming. On a gipsy trail from the east. Beguiled and drawn towards the circle of ornate caravans and bright sideshow cars beneath the lilac trees, by dancers in black with ghost-white faces and coats slashed into strips that flair like dark feathers as they move. Dr Dark Electrico, Barker and Ring-Master notices me and beckons, he’s intrigued by my talent, and abilities. He sees my potential. Alongside the Bearded Lady, the Human Skeleton, Danny Longlegs, the Stork Woman, Flexi-Girl and the Living Torso, I discover my first role, welcomed into a close-community of oddments and outcasts.
The dancers spin beneath a huge moon around the roaring bonfire. In the caravan, Dr Dark observes me critically, cosmetic changes must be made, the punters expect spectacle. Standing nervously naked as Olga, the Bearded Lady carefully shaves my scalp, then my body-hair, removing every last follicle. Then Dr Dark applies green body make-up, tensing, skin-crawling as he carefully cups my ball-sac, the better to paint my inner thighs. And I’m reborn as Lizard Boy.
At first wary and ill at ease. We travel from town to town, drawing up in a festive circle. The white-face dancers in black prance and gyrate, the town-folk gather to gawp and snigger in awe and prurient curiosity. I sit inside a cage as they file past to goggle. Dr Dark Electrico has the idea of a concealed roustabout lowering a raisin on the slenderest of invisible lines, so I flick my tongue the full cage-length to retrieve it, as a lizard captures a fly. The punters love it, takings are good. I settle into my new life as Dr Dark’s Carnival spirals downstate through the Louisiana bayou’s. Ibis and egrets, paddlefish, terrapins and tree-frogs.
Flexi-Girl flexes boneless limbs, her pale skin so soft, her eyes twin stars aglitter, her mutant abilities allow her contortions that leave me breathless. We, who are thieves and vagabonds living on the periphery of normality. ‘We are outlaws in the eyes of America’ she confides. ‘Always different. My personal criminal history begins as a little girl eager to learn the magic of sleight-of-hand prestidigitation, but growing up to appreciate the power of flexi-nimble and dexterous fingers. Soon finding I’m equally aroused having my fingers in a pocket or around a cock, and sometimes in a pussy. After rehearsing pickpocket skills on a specially-dressed mannequin, I move on to living targets, namely boys in my school. I take artful pride in my ability to completely fool them, using beguiling beauty as a distraction to stealthily dip and lift their wallets, watches, phones, neck chains and even rings. I gloat over their strewn stolen stuff on my pillow as I lie in bed masturbating furiously. The idea that the fingers pleasuring me now are the same digits doing that nimble work always tips me over the edge. Into full-on kleptophilia! Jean Genet was an erotic vagabond and petty-thief too, dexterously skilled with the Artful Todger. Old Bull Lee rolled drunks on the subway. Once while working a rube in a crowded tube, I mistake the bulge in his front pocket for his phone, they’re bulky back then, but it was his hard cock! By then I can’t stop what I’m doing and end up giving this guy a hand-job in his pants. He never saw my face, but I still remember the naughtiness I felt that day. Touch is a hugely underrated aspect of sex. The tactile senses, fingers or tongue on cock or pussy are such a slow and indulgent ecstasy to be enjoyed for their sheer sensuality, as distinct from the pure rawness of the straight fuck. Bodies should be adored and pleasured in a mutual orgy of the senses. I'm certain that guy in the crowded subway loved every minute of my discrete hand-job, and still gets pleasurable erections just from the memory. The orgasm would be well-worth the picked-pocket. From then on, I divide my sticky-fingered skills pleasurably between pockets and cocks…’ I’m intrigued, fascinated, hypnotised by her.
That same night we set out from the circle of caravans. She’d noticed an old colonial house set some way back from the highway, ripe for furtive plunder. The winding shingle driveway is dark, overhung with trees ghosted in Spanish moss. Bats circle across the huge white moon. A house in darkness. She has ways, techniques of gaining access. Shrinking and elongating her body in ways no-one else could. A haunted twilight inside, as spookily humid as flesh. A hall clock set in a wrought-gold sun, its hands are warning me, the minute hand spinning in reverse, the hour hand racing forwards. I’m on the cusp of possibility, go on or go back. I look away and look back real fast, hoping to catch it off-guard, but it’s still doing its cartoon thing.
She leads the way upstairs, pacing step by step. I follow. Her eyes are crystal cut-glass gem-stones. If I think about what I’m doing, I’ll screw up, so just flow with events, follow her, become part of the moment and everything will be fine. It’s the very moment we set foot on the landing that the lights abruptly flare up, and there’s a figure brandishing a Civil War blunderbuss loaded with buckshot… startled, Flexi steps backwards, collides, and I lose my footing, slithering, then pitching over and back down, hitting each step on the way. Into a blackness as dark as midnight.
I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure. When I wake my head is pulsing, I’m naked, lying spread-eagled on cool silk coverlets on a four-poster bed, my wrists and ankles fastened to the bedposts. I struggle, but they’re secure. As my skewed vision adjusts I become aware of eyes on me. Three women. Three middle-aged well-fleshed matrons. I now know them to be Sister Rosa, Miss Ebony, and Madame Thirstquench. They are my new owners. I am in their power. Miss Ebony sponges my forehead where there’s matted blood from my fall. Her touch is gently possessive. Sister Rosa spoons me rich broth, when it trickles down my chin she uses the spoon to scoop it back up to my lips. Noting the deformity of my tongue, uncoiling it to its full not-inconsiderable length. Something obscenely suggestive about the way she does it. Madame Thirstquench puts a big vinyl record on the radiogram, and the room fills with low dancing Cajun music.
They tell me Flexi has long gone. Escaped into the night. No-one will miss me. No-one will report me missing. But don’t worry, I’m safe here, with them, they’ll care for me, they’ll look after my every need. The three ladies live together. They whisper to each other, pointing and sniggering. They leave me alone, and I sleep. Slipping into a realm of restless dreams. When I wake they stand around the bed. They’ve changed into loose night attire. Florid house-coats, gauzy negligee, see-through diaphanous. Yet creepily predatory in their stance.
And Sister Rosa sits on my face, straddling my shoulders, her full warm weight enveloping me, her legs clamping up the sides of my head, inching her body forward until the dense pubic growth and the moistness of her vagina lips slip over my compliant face, devouring me into that lush gaping convulsing pussy. I open my mouth to gasp, my tongue extends, extends and extends, flickering, probing, delving, lapping. She groans, moves her quivering thighs, riding me, fucking down onto me. My tongue extends, extends, extends, teasing the bud-morsel of clitoris, into her cunt-mouth, up and in, further, rubbing her g-spot, up to the cervix, further. She squeals and squirms, grinding herself down to meet me, quivers and cums around me. She slumps. I can’t breath. Drowning in her aroma, her fleshiness, the seeping wine-wetness of her.
I’m so painfully erect that I’m aching. As she raises herself, exhaling in a long satisfied sigh, Miss Ebony takes her place. Her vaginal juices are a narcotic on my palate, drinking her down, my lips and mouth slippery with secretions, my tongue finding its rightful place, thrusting, worshipping, adoring. As she’s pulsing, her spasming vulva ravenously hungry for me, an erotic convolvulus. Feeding it frog-tongue, lips, pangolin-tongue, mouth, chameleon-tongue, anteater-tongue, tongue-tip curling, wriggling, the flat of my tongue slurping, lathing. And then Madame Thirstquench, until I’m blind with roaring sensations and drunk on lust and cunt and flesh and need and desire. I’ve cum in long white strands up my stomach, tingling and awash in post-orgasmic oceans of calm. Breathing heavily. Sister Rosa clucks and tut-tuts, wiping my groin meticulously clean.
Weeks pass. My body is smoothly hairless. There’s a long intricately-wrought chain that encircles the base of my penis and nips around the scrotum above the testicles, its links extend and attach to the wall. So I can stand, move around the bedroom, but never leave the vicinity of the bed. I have books and TV with remote. Cajun music on the radiogram. Food when I need food. Wine when I need wine. And all the cunt my tongue will ever need.
I’ve found my place. I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure.