Fiction

The #1 Song in the Country

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 FICTION





The #1 Song in the Country by Ben Neihart



I was twenty-eight, tall, bony, a bit stooped when I walked. Maybe it was a little bit late in the season for another sexy rage-filled singer-songwriter chick, and maybe I wasn’t that angry or horny, but I got a contract anyway, with Warren Brothers, after a photo of me getting my pussy shaved by Mr. Michael Stripe appeared in Playboy. The photo accompanied

his interview, in which he said he wanted to fuck me. A bitch profiled me in Salon. I fucked ICA agent Benet Little, from the L.A. office, and got a bit part as a witch on Days of Our Lives. The suits at Warren Brothers tried to fix me up with Ballart and Warden and Kidface and the Rust Brothers but I was like, We can talk

about producers, no problem, when it’s time for me to go into the studio, but I’ll write my own songs, OK? I told them, I’m moving home to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, as a matter of fact, until I finish them. There’s a music scene, Ed Kowalski from Alive is in town, and he’s definitely fuckable, and so on.


    

I rented the top floor of a rowhouse in the city. I wasn’t used to being alone, so I wrote fourteen songs in a month. The suits loved them, called them tight and hook-filled and they went on about the sampling we could use in the song they thought would be the second single, but for the first single they wanted a song with hardcore lyrics. Couldn’t I talk about my pussy or maybe pee in a guy’s lap? I got on the phone with my agent, but she was no help, so uncreative. I got Michael Stripe on the line and asked him what I should do. “I need urine for the single, and it can’t just be a fucking blowjob where he dribbles some piss into my mouth,” I said. “I need raunch. I mean, it can’t be an accident. I think if I’m going to do this I need to pee on a guy so I know what it’s, um, like.”


    

“Let me ask Ed Kowalski,” Michael started, “he might know a guy.”


     “Call me back.” An hour later, Michael called. “Ed set it up with a guy who needs the money. If that’s okay, meet the guy tonight at this park, I think the address is . . .”


     “I know the place you’re talking about,” I interrupted, and hung up.




     I went near dark. I watched ducks descend into a mucky pond. A few cars were following the park roads, headlights off and tires rolling across the loose gravel. The sound made me smile. I wasn’t sleepy, and the air had achieved its cobalt heaviness. The ducks were really just a splash I couldn’t see.


     I wasn’t there long before a boy rounded the near shore and came up to me, dropped to his knees. “I could smell you from way fucking far away,” he said, “so I followed my nose. I’m glad that I did.”


     “I’m the singer,” I said. “I hate asking you this. I mean, if you don’t want some chick pissing in your lap . . .”


     He licked the palm of his hand. “I want you to piss in my lap more than anything.” He had shaggy brown hair parted in the middle, thick eyebrows, a fat round nose. He wore a tight tan T-shirt and jeans. Good shoulders, flat belly, strong arms.


     “Can I tell you how genuine you sound?” I said. “You’re good.”
     “I’m in a band, too. Ed’s gonna maybe produce our record.”


     “Oh, I’ll totally mention you in my publicity for my disk.”
     “I have a great body. I work out all the time. You wanna, like, touch it?”


     I reached out and gave his arm a squeeze: soft soft skin


over hard round muscles. He flexed for me, and I was impressed.

    
“Look, I need to be up front with you,” I said. “I’ll pay you a hundred an hour, but you have to be creative. I’m looking for sensations I can use in my single, and I’ve been

fucked before and I know what it feels like. There’s the pee and all, but I mean, I might have to prod you and lick you, like that. Let me taste your hair? I mean, I’m sort of famous so I’m used to being objectified but for now you’re a nobody and so maybe you don’t like it.”


     “I want to fuck you. You don’t even have to pay.”


     “No, I wanna pay. I can expense it. And then I won’t feel bad about the pee. Now, I really do wanna taste your hair.”


     He laughed, but when he understood that I was serious he bent his neck and presented me with the top of his head. I took a lock, a big mouthful, and held it there. My mouth was slippery, pumping out saliva as I moved across the top of his head, wetting him, and then, before I knew what was happening, the boy slid his hand along my inner thigh and pushed a thumb up my panties.


     “You, like, shave your pussy?” he asked. “I thought that was a thing just for the magazine.”


     “I like the way it feels,” I said. “By the way, you taste so, um, briny. Let me taste under your arm?”


     He held out his arm as if I were going to give him a shot. I rolled the short sleeve of his T-shirt up over the hard round cap of his shoulder and dipped my nose and mouth into the nest of hair. He brought his upper arm down tight against my cheek and along the side of my head, clamping my face in his pit, and I took deep deep breaths, almost laughing, licking and wetting the hair. With my other hand, I played with his nipples. Slowly, he loosened his hold on me, and slowly I pulled my face away from him and told him we should go to my place.




     He followed me up the stairs — three flights. My apartment was the only one on top. As we trudged the final couple of stairs, he pushed his face up my skirt and traced his nose down the crack of my ass and licked my crotch. I stood there, feeling the wet of his tongue, and then I started to squat, and I could feel my ass sort of open as I let him support some of my weight. The boy had a bull neck and those shoulders, so I wasn’t worried. He wrapped his arms around my lap from behind, with his face still buried in my ass, and tipped me forward so I was on my hands and knees. My door key fell out of the slit pocket of my skirt. As I reached for it, he put his thumb and forefinger in my pussy and took my ass in the rest of that hand, flipped me over, supported my back with the other arm, and picked me up, carried me to the door.


     “I have to pee,” I said.


     He smiled. I liked the way he looked, holding me. Shoulders straining, neck veins and muscles standing out. “Piss on me.”


     “Yeah,” I nodded. “You’re good.”


     As soon as we were inside, with the door still hanging open, I started to pee, through my underwear, down his fingers,

down the front of his T-shirt and the lap of his jeans.


     “The record company wants me to call the song ‘Territory,’ but I don’t like that. It’s too cerebral. I don’t want real punk, you know, either. Like not ‘Golden Showers’ or ‘My Yellow Stream.’ Am I too heavy?

You can put me down, although I have to admit I really like a guy who’s clearly physically stronger than me. You wear a T-shirt well.”

     “How about ‘Jasmine Wine?’ ” he asked.


     I gulped. “That’s so damn Steelie Nicks; I love it.”




     He sat on the toilet while I hung my pissy clothes inside the stall shower. I got a fresh wash cloth and rinsed off and stood in the shower and douched with something fruity and put in my sponge.


     “I’m going to start fucking myself,” I said, two fingers still up my pussy.


     “I don’t know why you cleaned up,” the boy said. He pulled off his T-shirt, unbuckled his jeans and just sat there, legs wide open, and I pulled the denim off, down his hairy thick legs. I was in a sort of kneeling position in front of him, and he lifted his feet, rested them on my knees so the pouch of his white briefs was right there in my face. “You might as well fucking taste this now, I mean, if you like stick as much as you like hair.”


     I peeled the waistband down and cupped his dick out of the fabric and he leaned forward and sort of rested his balls on my chin.


     “I have to pee now,” he said. “You want it?”


     I started to hear a melody. It was simple, strong, it was a great fucking tune but it was just outside of me. I nodded, and he put the head of the dick in my mouth. I spit it out.


     “Keep your dick pressed against my neck,” I said, “I don’t want any on my face. Stream it down the front of my body.”


     It was warm, and there was a lot of it, some pooling in my belly button, my lap. As soon as he was done, I took his balls in my mouth for a quick kiss and then I told him to start beating off, we could get off together. I heard the melody again. God it was sweet. A song was coming together. The words warm like blood kept going through my head. Warm like blood, saffron, and then, with twin rhythm guitars, the chorus: I can smell you from far far away far far away ooh I can smell you from far far away far far away . . .


     The boy sat back down on the toilet and I lay at his feet on the bathroom floor, rubbing my swollen labia with my knuckles. The head of his dick looked like a fat extra thumb in his fist — and as he stroked it, spitting down there, wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand, I looked at his nipples beneath the hair of his chest and they were the same color as his lips and I liked that and I told him and he said, “I want to come over and fuck you.”


     I didn’t say anything at first but then the chorus of my song came to me, and the melody, and I sang it to him: “I can smell you from far far away . . .”


     He got down on the bathroom floor beside me, supporting himself on one thick elbow, and pulled me onto his lap; I watched the dick go inside me, shaved pussy lips swallowing him, and I started to come right away. We tangled our fingers
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up together as he bucked against me. I heard my words, I heard my melody, my fucking song, my first single. He was singing it back to me, and it occurred to me, in a flush of generosity, that the song would work as a duet.




     The rest, of course, is fizzy bitter pop music history: the infamous “Yellow Wine” video, Nightline, the fights over the boy with Iona Apple and Murielle Shocked, my bomb second single, the one I sang alone, my triumphant power-ballad comeback with the
re-mixed version of “Crestfallen,” the flings with Tawnie and Nick Flexum, and the very public debacle of Thick Boy, as he was calling himself now, dissing me at the Grammys and walking out of the Maverick party with that bitch, Jule.


     I ran after him, out into the crowded plaza swarming with fans and media. “Hey,” I called out to him. “Are you sure you want it to end this way?”


     He stopped in his tracks. Jule took him by the elbow, but he shook her off and took a couple of steps in my direction. “The way we started,” he said, shaking his head, “I mean that was beautiful and real, but now you’re all about glamour and gowns and shit. What do we have left?”
     “We’ve got jasmine wine, baby, jasmine wine. We shared that. You’ve got to admit we shared that.”


     “Yeah,” he said, touching the crotch of his Versaci leathers. “But Jule knows that vintage, too.” He winked at me, those cruel cruel eyes. “We’re going home now to uncork.”







©1997 Ben Neihart and Nerve.com