Happy Birthday Roman
story codes: MF, Exhibitionist-Voyeur


Happy Birthday Roman
by Elliot Lawrence


Roman Dubois a cross dressing martial artist, new age prankster, woodpecker, actor of ill
repute and a Havana cigar smoking Star Trek rider, in the midst of an ugly divorce from a
needle nosed acupuncturist was having a soiree in the Mar Vista area of West Los Angeles
and I was invited. Of course I would go, knowing from past experience it was going to be an
out of sight night. I donned my olive green navy flyboy suit, slipped on my black high-top
Chuck Taylor’s and took off flying sideways and mostly out of control the neighborhood
streets. Finally, after crash landing kamakazi style on his front lawn, I dusted myself off,
slipped up to the cast iron front door and knocked three times.

“I was sent by Joe.” I whispered low.

A small panel in the upper left corner opened and a single eyeball, greenish in hue, peered
out.

“If you turn left you’ll away be right.” A tinny voice cracked wittily.

“May Allah feed you miserable soul.” I replied in an Arabian accented monotone.
It worked like magic. The door slowly creaked open and there he stood, Roman the birthday
boy, wearing high heels, black petal pushers, a tight pink angora sweater, blue lip liner and
black eye make-up a la Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Go Lightly, his favorite woman of literature.

“ I love your outfit.” I lied as I handed him his present, a copy of “The Tibetan Book of Yiddish
Humor” a rare first edition signed by the author Lama Rimpoche Abramowitz. I had purchased
the book during a midnight run through the Ramrod Lounge, a seedy gay bar near the end
of the line that doubled during the day as an occult bookshop and incense manufacturer.

“Thanks Mary.” Roman blinked rapidly as he drew the book to his chest and wiped a
lonesome tear rolling down his left cheek. He was easily moved by anything meaningful or
meaningless. He also called everyone Mary.

“I know you love treats and if you go out into the yard you will be treated to an eyeful. I’ll be
out in a few.  My gal Sal is upstairs and she’s taking my bath.” He said in a sing song matter
and then dance passed me puffing his fat Havana, bounding up the stairs blowing smoke
rings.  I meandered toward the rear of the house where two heart shaped doors led to the
backyard. As I reached for the knob, a familiar voice scratched the air like nails on a
chalkboard.

“Don’t you dare come out here.” The voice creaked.

I  immediately knew who the voice was attached to. I could smell it. It was connected to Fat
Matt Benderson, an obese, bearded Freudian psychoanalyst form Acron Ohio, whose
patients I felt deeply sorry for. Fat Matt had a distinct body odor. In fact, he stank and I hate
the fat Freudian fuck, so I opened the doors to spite him and peered out onto the patio. On
the wooden deck, seated in a large lime green wooden chair, next to the cedar hot tub, sat
an absolutely stunning and entirely naked young black woman. Above her milk chocolate
stomach sat a pair of perfectly shaped breasts, topped off with two dark pointed nipples, and
nestled below, hidden under her glistening black nappy pubic hairs was a perfect pussy,
which she seems hard at work on.


“I don’t know you do I?” She said, not looking up, but still working hard between her legs.

“No, I don’t think so. I never forget a pus, I mean face.” I stammered.

“You know she’s not playing with herself.” Matt stated in his boring pseudo psychoanalytic
tone.

“Oh, I hope that’s isn’t what you think I am doing.” I’m just trying to get this laser ring into the
pierced hole at the tip of my clit.”

“Well, I’m not sure exactly what I was thinking.”

“Gee, what a refreshingly honest response. Truth is a far fetched concept in this town.” She
replied, opening her thighs wider and continuing her work.

I tried not to stare, but that was impossible given the circumstances. As my eyes traveled
across her body, I noticed something very interesting. Amidst all her darkness, imbedded in
her blackness, sitting slightly exposed and a bit ajar, was her puckered and perfectly pink
asshole. What I found so interesting was that with white women it is the exact opposite.
Everything is the nether region is pink, except for the asshole, which in each and every case
is brown in hue.

“My name is Justice, but friends call me Domino.”

She told me she was an exotic dancer from Watts or Washington Heights or somewhere that
started with a W. I don’t really know. I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. It was
her little chocolate candy box and pink asshole that held me. I gazed over at Fat Matt, who
had a distinct resemblance to Jabba the Hut from the Star Wars movie. He was drooling as
he watched her work on her lower lips.

Without warning, Justice or Domino, jumped out of her chair and skipped into the house, her
brown breasts bouncing as free as the summer wind.

“Where the fuck did she come from?” I asked no one in particular especially not fat Matt who
at that very moment was sniffing the seat of the seat Domino had just vacated.

“Mmm, if I could only bottle this smell, I would be a rich man, yada yada dum dum dum dum.”
Matt sang out and then dance around the patio.

When he finished dancing, he explained that Roman had met her a few night before at an
animals rights rally and they became quick friends. She need a place to stay and Roman told
her she could crash for as long as she needs to. Fatso then told she was competing in an
erotic dance contest at the Flamenco Lounge in El Segundo.

“You mean exotic, don’t you?” I corrected him.

“No, when I say erotic, I mean erotic, not exotic. The dancers use dildos instead of partners.”
His face flushing as he spoke.

With that the heart shaped doors flew open and some of the arriving guests marched out
onto the patio. It was quite a sight to behold; a female kick boxer from the Grapevine, a part
time dog walker slash biologist from London now living in El Cahone Pass north of L.A., a
redneck rapper form Boca Raton Florida and a Tibetan who claimed to be a cousin of the
Dali Lama and worked at Mao’s Kitchen a Chinese restaurant in Rancho Mirage. I found this
last thing to be incredibly hypocritical given the present political climate between China and
Tibet.

I started a few conversation with the guests, but my mind was somewhere else, namely
between the cheeks of the back beauty’s ass. I had to find her, so I excused myself and went
inside, seeking Justice. I searched every nook and cranny of the house, without any luck. I
decided to go into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my overheated surface. As I
splashed my face, the very Justice I was seeking found me. She entered the bathroom now
wearing a blue velvet sweat suit. She pulled down her pants, sat on the toilet and peed,
loudly.

“By the way, I finally got the ring in my clit.” She said as she grabbed some toilet paper and
patted her puffy pussy.

“Congratulations.” I smiled.

“You know, the reason I wear it is because when I fuck, the ball rubs back forth across my
clitoris and I come over and over.”

“Really.”

“Yeah! Let me show you.” She smiled, got off the toilet seat, spread her pink pussy open with
her left hand and with the forefinger of her right, she flicked the ring back and forth over her
now engorged clit.

“You see what I mean?”

“I do. Hey, you think I could try that.”

“I don’t see why not.” She whispered.

Without further ado, I put my finger right on the golden ball above her clit and flicked it back
and forth.

“Oh yeah, that feels so good.” Domino moaned and her tongue danced across her thick
upper lips and more creamy moisture dripped from below.
  
 I rubbed her and then slowly inserted my index finger into her now soaking wet vagina.

“You’re a funny guy, aren’t you?” She whispered as she thrust her pelvis forward to gain
more traction.

“Turn around.”  I grunted keeping my finger inside her hot nest.

What I had in my dirty mind was to fuck her in that little pink asshole of hers, no that I had
anything against her cunt hole, but I especially love the back hole and her anus reminded me
of a pink carnation, which just happens to be my favorite flower.

“Sorry, not tonight. I have to go to El Segudo.”

She stepped back and my finger made a popping sound as it was ousted from her pussy.
“Maybe another time when I’m not so preoccupied.” She said as she walked out of the
bathroom.

“Hey, my birthday is in a few weeks. You wanna’ come to my house?” I shouted after her.
But it was too late. She already was out the front door and in her car. I brought my finger up
to my nose, inhaled and headed back out to the patio wondering how she would do in that
dance contest.

© 2008 Elliot Lawrence
Elliot Lawrence was reared on the east coast but landed in L.A. for a few weeks in
1985.  Elliot has lived in L.A. ever since; he says his next stop is the Southern Cross.