Muse of Queens

I’m not going to lie, writing professionally is a tough career choice. How you eat in the next month depends entirely on how well your next book sells. People think it’s tough living from paycheck to paycheck, living from book to book is even worse.

I didn’t start into writing in order to make money, I wrote because I loved to write. I was a fresh, young mind who thought he could change the world with the words he could put on paper. Unfortunately, that dwindled, and now, I’m spent. I have no ideas, no more brilliant thoughts or interesting plot twists. My book proposals have practically become kindling for my agent’s fireplace. I made no money, therefore, he made no money.

It’s even worse when you’re first novel is a breakaway hit. When it sits on the New York Times bestseller list for months at a time, you know you’ve stumbled on to something big. And I thought it was huge. I had the Porsche, the loft in the city, I made appearances every where, I was the center of attention. But, as Warhol promised, I only got 15 minutes. My second novel flopped, big time. So did my third, and my fourth. Now, I sit here in my apartment, throwing darts at a picture of J.K. Rowling. That sell out of a bitch.

I needed to recharge my batteries. I was only 26, and my life was going down the drain. I would be completely washed out if I couldn’t sell another book. I dropped out of college to start my writing life, so I had nowhere to go. If I could just get back that enthusiasm, that spark, those flashes of brilliance that force the readers to turn pages.

My life long friend saw that I was in distress. He, unlike my dumb butt, actually finished college. He was now a Sociology teacher at the local community college. He liked what he did, and that was all that mattered. I, too, liked what I did, but it didn’t get me anywhere. One night, after his night class, he took me out for a drink at the local pub.

“Jeremy, you need to get yourself out of this. Have you even considered another line of work?” he asked.

“Mike, it’s not about work, or keeping myself busy. I feel that I was born to write, so that is exactly what I am going to do.”

“Buddy, admit it, you need the cash. Your accounts are dwindling, you live in a dump, and you look like hell.”

He was right, I did look like shit. I had a two day growth on my face, my clothes were a crumpled mess, my hair was wildly out of control. I needed help. I used to look great. Six foot even, lean build that was always complemented by some fancy suit. My clean shaven face always showed my stone-like features and sharp cut jaw, and I had always had a well-oiled hairdo that forced my eyes to shine their brilliant blues.

“What am I going to do? I have nothing anymore. Every day, I sit with pen in hand, and nothing happens.” I was starting to leak tears now, and the alcohol wasn’t helping.

“Maybe that is your problem, just sitting there. You need to get out some, observe what’s happening, see what people like, and then write what you see. And most of all, maybe you should get laid.” Again, he was right. I had to get out more, get back in touch with the same people that threw me out of the loop.

Mike helped me back to my apartment, as I was too drunk to even see straight. I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but when I woke up, it seemed like the most beautiful morning I had ever seen.

In the same clothes I had fallen asleep in, I took to the streets of New York. I had always lived around the Queens area, so I felt very comfortable in the areas that the tourists wouldn’t dream of coming too. I tried to take it all in. The sights and the sounds. The smells of the fish docks, reeking of the days catch. The wet-slapping sounds of fish hitting crates of crushed ice. People yelling at each other, doing their jobs, swinging their knives. To anyone else it would have seemed chaotic. But to the true New Yorker, it was clockwork, as it would in any other hour.

I kept walking, past the docks and into the city. People were everywhere on the sidewalks, trying to sell the unsuspecting passer-by the fake Rolex or pair of Oakleys. But it was behind these people, behind the green-grocer stands and the guy selling news papers, it was behind them, that I saw her.

I don’t know what drew me to her, I don’t know why I saw her face amongst the sea of people in the markets. It had to be her hair, clearly surpassing mine in manners of sloppiness. Perhaps it was her denim cutoffs that hugged her petite figure so perfectly. Or her makeup that has been put on over and over again, with out removing the original layer. Maybe it was fate, or maybe it was the fact that she was the only one who seemed alone.

I was alone, as well was everyone else in the square, no one had any relation to anyone else. But this woman, this girl, seemed to be isolated, as if she was being avoided. She could have killed me, she could have taken my worthless wallet and squatted in my apartment after she stabbed me in the alley ways. She could have been the most dangerous woman in the city, but I still approached her.

“Hi, I’m Jeremy” I said, hoping for the best of this potentially disastrous situation.

“Well, Jeremy. I suppose you’re looking for a good time? It’ll be fifty for an hour, take it or leave it.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say to this, it took me completely off guard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, I’m not looking for sex from you?”

“Then what do you want?”

“I don’t know really, maybe we should go for a walk, try and figure out why I came to you. What do you say?”

“You’re not going to kidnap me or anything, are you?”

This woman was delusional, and obviously not from around these parts. It’s almost as if she felt, scared. Little girl in the big city. “No. No kidnapping, no raping, no prostitution. I just want to walk and talk.”

“Ok, It’s starting to get a little dull around here anyway. By the way, my name’s Belle.” She stuck out her hand for a shake.

“Belle, isn’t that French for beautiful?” I shook her hand and watched as her eyes lit up entirely. It was as if I was the only person in the entire span of her life that had ever bothered to offer her a compliment. For the rest of the day, she seemed to take on a significantly happier persona.

We walked forever, we had no destination, no where to be. I was still out looking for ideas, getting back in touch with people. Nearly half the day was spent, and I had not felt anything new. The floodgates of inspiration had yet to pour back on me. Belle talked about how she came to be a New Yorker. She was originally from small town Iowa, and came to the city in hopes of making it big as a dancer. Broadway dancing fell through and she had to pay rent through working at a local exotic bar. From the tone in her voice, it didn’t sound like she was very proud of any of her actions or decisions. I really felt bad for her. I wished that I could help her.

Eventually, it became dark. I may be a native of these parts, but not even I wanted to be on the streets this late at night. Belle offered to take me up to her place, just somewhere to stay until the streets were a little less gang-ridden.

Her apartment was not much better than my own. Bare bulb essentials, little furniture, a refrigerator that made more noise than what it was worth. She offered me some tea, and I graciously accepted. Sitting in the kitchen, I watched her put water on to boil.

She was sexy, in an odd kind of way. Her denim shorts hugged her hips so perfectly, her legs were a perfect kind of pale. The same hue in her skin went all the way up to her face. Her thin hands appeared heavenly soft as they reached up to remove some strands of hair that had fallen into her face. Her hair, was remarkable. A dark black and a complete mess. I wasn’t sure what it was about this woman, she just seemed so incredible.

And she had caught me staring. “What?” she asked. I looked dumbstruck for a few moments, and then responded, “Oh, I was just thinking how Belle really must mean beautiful.” Again, she got that look in her eyes as her heart melted. She walked across the kitchen, I stood up. We locked into a warm embrace, she started to cry into my shoulder, and then she asked, “Why are you so kind to me?”

“I don’t know” , I said as I comforted her. We stood like that for quite some time. Then she looked up into my eyes, and we kissed a kiss of passion and fire. The floodgates had opened. I ran my hands up her back, and grasped on to her head, holding her face close to mine as our kiss went deeper and deeper. Our tongues were intertwined in a fury, as if they were worms fighting for the same ground.

She broke the kiss, and took a step back. With her eyes on mine, she unzipped the front of her jacket and took it off. She stood in front of me, her pale breasts upheld by a red, lace bra. Without either one of us saying a word, I followed her to her bedroom. This room matched the rest of the house; dim, and sparsely furnished. An old, king sized mattress lay on the floor in the middle of the room. She lay down on it, propped up on her elbows, facing me with a “come hither” look in her eyes.

I couldn’t resist. I unbuttoned my shirt and threw it to the side. I moved forward and held her head as I kissed her again. My other hand snaked around to the middle of her back and deftly unhooked her bra. It fell limply forward and Belle removed her arms from the shoulder straps. Her nipples were hard and perfect against her pasty skin. The dark areolas contrasting so well against her white bosom. My hand moved up and grasped her left breast, giving it a good squeeze as I continued to kiss her. My lips made their way down her neck as my fingers began to pinch her nipples, making them even harder. My journey went further south as I took her left nipple in my mouth, and her right in my hand. Belle was now moaning and writhing in a lustful sweat.

“Oh, god, Jeremy. That feels fabulous. It’s been so long, oh, my god” she gasped in between her shortening breaths. I kissed my way down her chest and over her navel. My hands undid the button and zipper of her shorts as my tongue worked in and around her very cute and distinguished navel. She lifted her hips towards my face as I pulled her shorts towards her ankles. My mind flipped as I saw that she was completely bare. No panties, no hair. Nothing. The only thing that had kept me away from her sex for the day was one meddlesome piece of fabric.

I dived in for it. I wrapped her clitoris in my tongue as she practically leaped of the bed in pleasure. I worked my tongue around her pussy as a painter works a brush around the paints. Or better yet, as a writer moves words around the page. Her moans were near orgasmic now, she was having a difficult time remaining still. In my pants, my penis was growing with the anticipation of what could be the greatest sex ever. Belle was grasping my hair as my smooth tongue worked its way deeper and deeper into her pussy. I made a mad flutter and flick with my appendage and she jumped. One hand held her lips apart, my other hand was tickling the outside of her anus. Working it slowly inwards. Eventually, it became too much for Belle, she arched her back, thrusting her beautiful pussy into my face, screaming in her orgasmic wave of pleasure. After a moment, she calmed back down, and regained a steady breath.

“Oh, shit. Jeremy, I haven’t cum that hard in such a long time.” She wasted no time in returning the favor. I stood up at the foot of the bed, and she crawled across towards my aching hard-on in my pants. She ran her hand over it as it was still inside my pants. Belle undid the zipper and button, the weight of my belt pulled my pants to the floor. My boxer shorts tented out as the hard, seven inch pole held them outright. Belle pulled those down next, causing my cock to spring out even further, slapping her in the bottom of the chin. She giggled as she brought my member into her hands and stroked the shaft up and down for a moment. Her tongue snaked out and flicked around my urethra and the head of my dick. I thought I was in heaven. The way she moved her tongue around my dick was amazing. It only got better when she closed her lips around the head and started to suck her cheeks in. I thought I could have come right then and there, but I held out.

She worked her mouth down my shaft, lubricating even more of my cock in her saliva. I wanted to cum so bad, but I didn’t want to do it in her mouth. I pulled her head of off my cock, and shoved her back on the bed. I lifted her legs up and bent them back to her shoulder, leaving her pussy and her anus completely exposed, ready for a thrashing. I placed my cock at the entrance of her pussy, coating my dick in the juices that were practically running down into her ass.

I went for it. One thrust, all the way into the hit. She gasped in, and held it. I waited for a moment to let both of us get used to the feeling. Her pussy was so warm, moist, and incredibly tight. I began to fuck her, moving my dick back and forth across her pussy lips, making her moan and grunt with pleasure at each and every thrust. Her hand made her way to her clit, and she began to rub in furiously as I fucked her. Both of our bodies moved together, her breasts swayed with our motions. Our breath became short and interrupted between our moans of delight. I felt her come, I felt her pussy walls flex around my cock as she again screamed in ecstasy.

“I’m going to come soon”, I said

“Tell me when”, she responded.

I pumped for a few more minutes, sending her practically into oblivion. “Here I go”, she pulled off of me, grabbed my dick, and started to pump it with her hands. Streams of milky whiteness flew from the end of my cock and landed on her. On her face, her breasts, her stomach. I felt as if I came in gallons, but saw that it was much less. I was spent, and collapsed at her side. I watched her as she picked up dallops of my jism and licked them off of her long, slender fingers. She collapsed next to me, and within a few short minutes, we were both sound asleep.

The next morning, I couldn’t explain what happened. I woke up in her bed. But she wasn’t there. I got up, and looked around. Her closets were bare, as where her cabinets. What little furniture she had was gone as well. Except for the refrigerator, it still sat there, making all the noise it could. On the counter next to the refrigerator sat a stack of books, I moved forward to investigate them further, and discovered that they were my books. My novels that I had written, all four of them were there. The successful first to the horrendous fourth.

Then, it came. The ideas, the brilliance, the perspective. It all came rushing back to me.

My next book came out then next month. It was a hit, noted as the best come back novel ever. It was about a girl whose dreams were spoiled and crushed by the weight of the big city. I made millions off of that book, more than any other author of that time. I feel I owe it all to Belle, even though I have never seen her since that one night.