Cheetah Banana by Donna Dallas

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The cafeteria lunch every Thursday is turkey chili beans and cauliflower. Cheetah eats, stores her energy in her sleek little tummy that swells every time she has turkey chili beans.  Love her.  They love her when they see her, whoever sees her. “Cheetah honey, why do they call you that?  Cheeetaaahhhh.” She ignores the cafeteria aide and sips her chocolate milk. The baby needs her protein, she is just a baby.

All men love the innocent. She sucks on her straw and he is mesmerized.  He waddles his pudgy legs over to her, close as he can without looking like a perv. He is penguin like and smells of ketchup. He leans on the table, bug-eyed and greasy skinned, “is it because a yo’ yellow hair?” Cheetah sets her blue-jay eyes on him and smiles. Pink lips puckered around a zippy straw. She remains silent.

She rises, long legs swagger over the bench and she leaves him to gawk. Cheetah walks out of the cafeteria, out of the building and sachets over to the group of teenagers that stand outside the school all day smoking cigarettes and marijuana. Boys layered in denim jackets under leather MC’s, big black boots with metal toes. The Plain Janes crowd around them and wait to become someone’s babe, to kiss a cigarette-tainted mouth. They offer the divinity of perky breasts and little, inexperienced wombs that will hold the salty prize of macho dropouts.

“Hey Cheetah, where ya goin?” The Plain Janes stare with fascination. Dead. They want her dead, or at least severely deformed.  Cheetah lights a cigarette, blows smoke into a tall, lurking face. “Someplace,” she says, “just someplace.” “You want some company? Ya’ know, like an escort?” “No thank you.” Smile. She smiles for them as if she harbors a dark, rich secret.  She walks away and they flounder, poor little crabs knocked onto the rocks from a heavy wave.

On the A-train, Cheetah stares at the ads lined along the train. Acne cures, abortion clinics, drug and alcohol help-centers, born again Christian-Baptist church for true believers with ‘Kill Islam’ scrawled over it. She wants a Snickers bar, loves chocolate more than dancing. Once the garbage man saw her come home in the wee hours in her little blue sequin halter top and silver satin shorts. She waited outside the Bodega until it opened for chocolate, a Milky Way and Snickers. She sat down on a milk crate and devoured both, hungry child. The garbage man wanted to know what such a young girl dressed like that was doing out so early in the morning. She looked up, angel eyed baby, lips smeared with chocolate, and smiled.  An imp with a pocket full of money and a daunted garbage man left with a flagpole in his pants.

A sweet taste in her thoughts and sleep romancing her brain, Cheetah dozes as the A-train delivers her to the porn center of New York City. Along 42nd street she sees Matghetti, the sex queen from Zimbabwe.  Six foot two, tight and black with yellow-gold eyes, full on Grace Jones look. Matghetti does things to her customers, unexplainable feats that possibly defy gravity. Snakes, satin rope, potions that evaporate into heat and pills that extend orgasms.  She finds the men that want to be paddled or held like a baby while getting a blowjob. Matghetti stops and stares like a hungry wolf, looks Cheetah up and down and touches her soft skin, strokes her cheek. Her finger lingers by Cheetah’s lips. “Light Angel, I saw you dance last night. Come to see me when you are a little older and even more beautiful. We should not stay strangers for long.” Cheetah smiles, dreamy-like and watches the tall Tiki walk west down 42nd street.

Cheetah stops at the newsstand to pick up her Snickers and a magazine with Anthrax on the cover. She heads straight for Willie’s. Her Momma used to dance at Willie’s when it was called Cheetah’s.  At twenty, Momma gave birth to her and called her little Cheetah. Willie waited just eighteen years to snatch up the product of a Goddess and place Cheetah in his kingdom. The money.  It’s all for the money.  But there is something about the way those men rise and fall and plunge as Cheetah moves all around. Power, her momma told her.  It’s the power of being female.  You always act like you’re on a stage. Do it on stage, and off, it don’t matter, just always do it and you’ll always have it honey. Only time you lose it is when you get fat or die. All men want to be king of their throne and you put ‘em there. It’ll come natural baby, don’t worry, you’ll see.

Cheetah gets ready to work the rush hour crowd. She sits in front of her stage-light vanity with all those bright bulbs lit up just for her. Makes her feel like Elizabeth Taylor or Marilyn Monroe beauty queens from back in the day. She puts a red push-up bra on with red pleather shorts and long, over the knee red pleather boots attached to sky-high stiletto heels. No makeup, Willie wants her naked-faced, a little baby girl dressed like a slut. No man will ever turn down an angel face with long legs, flat stomach and a chest budding into creamy, round breasts a little too large for such a tiny frame.

She pulls out the magazine and flips through it. She eats her chocolate bar and takes a quick look at the photo of her Daddy stuck into the mirror frame. She’s never met him, but she loves every crevice, beauty mark, line and bone on his face. Not like him at all, but maybe just his dream-like blue eyes stolen from a fresco angel that sits on a cloud all day and sleeps in the breast of Mother Mary at night.  Maybe the eyes could be why she loves him.  Went away when her Momma was pregnant with her. A big drug bust and he was sent to a federal prison in the mid-west. Twenty-five years and then he’ll be coming for her and Momma.  Then what?

“Almost time Cheetah”, Willie stares at her, almost father like.  She feels a little silly dressed up and stuffing a Snickers bar into her mouth smiling at a beautiful man called Daddy in a photo preserved for her. They’re all daddy’s, every one of ‘em, Momma told her.

Cheetah glides out, swerves with each step to Madonna’s Erotica. She changes as she moves, turning and bending, touching herself.  She smiles, looks through the scores of men who all want to be her daddy.  Cheetah pouts her lips and unhooks her bra. She never stops twisting and touching, pouting like a baby.  She licks her lips and lets her breasts fall right out into the freedom of smoke and strangers. She rubs her nipples, just a little. She watches the men drool and call her, money streams out of their wallets. They wave it at the little angel lighting up the stage. A red light, warm and pulsing, then hot as hell as her shorts fall down and the red G-string frames her hips like a fine gold chain around a rich woman’s neck.

“Over here darlin’, come right over here honey and dance for me. I got you spot on honey, come on baby right here.” A fifty dollar bill floats back and forth in front of her. Like chocolate, Cheetah thinks and oh, how she loves chocolate. She struts over to the fat, well-dressed man drooling his vodka and orange juice down his chin. A lonely Wall Street desperado in need of a touch to linger in his boxer shorts as he brings himself to climax in a lonely one-bedroom somewhere on the upper east side.

Cheetah pulls on the paisley handkerchief that matches baldy’s tie and it is hers. He is hers, as she mesmerizes him with the handkerchief.  She pulls it under her crotch and rubs it to and from, with one hand behind her, as if she were sawing herself in half with it from the crotch up. Perplexed by the dirty eroticism that spews out of this baby bombshell still in high school, money pads her G-string and another Wall Street junkie eyes her. She jumps off the stage, hands on hips, hankie hanging off her G-string. She carries her perfect little ass hauled up in red boots over to her Thursday evening regular.

On her knees, her red-booted wrapped legs laid out across the carpet, she moves softly.  She purrs like a kitten and licks one of his perfectly shined black wing-tipped Bally shoes. Oohing and aahing everywhere, time stops for a touch of tongue on leather and she knows she has put him on his throne. Two hundred dollar bills come at her and she takes it, greedy child, stuffs it into her boot and dances, her face to him. She moves sinewy and watery. She flows around him, above him. Cheetah hovers, saint-like, martyred over the men for sins she may have committed in a past life. Only on Thursdays for him.  Cheetah Banana will love him, the twelve minutes he rightly pays for. Sometimes longer, sometimes less and sometimes less is more.

Matghetti walks in, svelte and panther like, ready to pierce with her body, her mouth. She is a wild animal no doubt. She finds her regulars and disappears with two men to her room a few doors down on 9th avenue, upstairs from Mona’s Triple-XXX Video.  Matghetti glanced up at Cheetah before she left and smiled a wicked, licentious smile that left a chill frost over Cheetah’s entire body.

Cheetah gets up on the small stage, her post for the rest of her shift. She moves, groves, touches and turns, all with that dreamy quality that takes her far off, past Willie’s, past chocolate and money, past High School. She thinks of her Daddy away and if he wasn’t, would she be up there on that stage? She thinks of things to spend her money on, but all those pretty things don’t matter much. She thinks of sex and the dirty men that bore into her with their eyes each night. She wonders what she will do after her dance is over, after child birth, gravity, when her skin turns jelly-like.

Cheetah wonders how long before some man comes in for a drink and sweeps her off her feet, like her Daddy did to her Momma. Matghetti says that Cheetah is like a banana after you peel it. Creamy, off-white, the palest of yellow, the deepest of cream, ripe and swollen.  “Come back sugar, come sit right here on daddy’s lap.”

News

A couple of new releases you should know about! First is a collection of poems by longtime contributor Francis David entitled Ghost Echoes.

Put your feet up and read
a good book

The second is the third (and hopefully not last — God, for it to end the way it did!) installment of the Wanda Casey Series entitled Delicate Tornado.

Mirror, mirror…

And last but not least, is a general call for submissions. The response has already been great, so we’re really looking forward to what will be Pink Litter 15, coming soon! Email me your submission to mistyrampart@gmail.com

I’ll jut be here working on my abs waiting for your submission…

Smoke Show by Sophia Valera Heinecke Now Available!

Sleep Hazzard press’s very first release is an amazing poetry book by an amazing author! Also a big thanks to the cover illustrator, Clara James.

Tobaccoville USA is a company town. Employed at a cigarette packing plant, Duke’s, by day, and at a gentleman’s club known as The Buffet by night, a young lady finds small joy in domestic life with her partner Pearl. When she is accidentally impregnated by a young client at The Buffet, putting down cigarettes is the first of many obstacles that will threaten her way of life and the future of her unborn child.

Click here to purchase on Amazon. E-book format is also in the works.

Delicate Tornado Part Ten: Big Trouble

So I was a horny would be MILF. There were worse things in the world I could be.

Chapter Ten: Big Trouble

I moved in with John in Phoenix, saying goodbye to Reno and all the wild fun I had there. Things were going great between John and me. In fact, I was six months pregnant with our first child! The sex has been amazing, and my insatiable man probably enjoyed it even more than I did, my large breasts getting even bigger and my swollen vulva – well, fuck, I thought I came hard before – my sensitivity was off the charts. “You look really good with some extra weight on you,” he’d say. Maybe he had a pregnant fetish, who knows.

Because our good fortune was unexpected, we decided to wait to get married until after the baby came, but meanwhile I had been working for a pretty prestigious firm and making some good money, even more than I was in my previous profession as willing call girl to the lustful gamblers and resort rats of Reno. I looked back that period as one of tremendous growth, culminating in my soon to be marriage. I had a man that loved me so much he was willing and apparently able to forgive all of my history, of which he only knew a part, but enough. As for how we met, well, people meet however they meet. In our case, he was just some burly guy who stuck his cock in my ass as soon as he got my clothes off and double-penetrated me with another dude. It’s funny how things work out.

My boss, Deloise Hampton, was a strong, beautiful woman who was about Connie’s age. Far from being completely over being my own woman and not John’s soon-to-be one and only, I would occasionally find myself attracted to her. However, I had to keep my pants on, not only for the sake of my relationship, but my job. Carnally speaking I was still off the rails a bit, but somehow or another, this girl had to get right. It was also hard to resist all the male energy in the firm. Reminiscing about my first night of unbridled lust with three of my coworkers, which started the fire inside me, was as good as it was going to get. I knew John understood who he was marrying, but I wanted so desperately to be a good, loyal and trustworthy wife.

When I couldn’t handle it I would go into the bathroom and play with myself, careful never to scream when I was coming. That was as good of a girl as I was going to get. I chuckled that if found out I would claim it was a medical condition. I often wondered what was wrong with me…or my libido…even thought I might seek counseling. But all the voices in my head told me to just accept who I was and roll with it. So I was a horny would be MILF. There were worse things in the world I could be. Almost every night when I’d get home John would be waiting for me and he’d welcome me as only he could. Sometimes, if I was tired, I’d just suck his cock. I figured I was well on my way to being a well-kept, fawning wife. But my past was about to come back to bite me in the ass in the worst way.

One Saturday morning our doorbell rang and it was Deloise, along with someone who I never thought I’d see again, Eddie.

“What are you doing here?” my pissed off fiancé said.    

“And hello to you too,” Eddie said.

“Well, what the fuck?” John said. 

“Wait a minute,” I said, “you two know each other?”

“Oh us? We go way back,” Eddie said.

“College sweethearts,” she said.

This made me think. Was she the one that Connie took Eddie away from? I was more curious than angry. But what did they want?

“Who do you think got you the job at Deloise’s firm?” Eddie said.

Fuck me. He was still pulling my strings. Really?

“We think it’s time you come clean, Wanda,” she said. “After what Eddie told me here and what I know about your future husband, I think it’s long overdue.”

“Wait,” I said. “What the fuck do you know about my future husband? You know him?

I was so fired already I didn’t care.

“Once I found out who you were marrying, I couldn’t stand idly by and let you lie to him or to Eddie. I know from firsthand experience that your man here, well, he couldn’t have gotten you pregnant if he tried. He shoots blanks.”

John’s head hung low. I could see that what they were saying was true. I had no idea. I felt really bad for him, but I was also enraged at the fact that he had fucked my boss. When and how often? It was probably another one of Eddie’s games. John sure liked the older women; first Connie then Deloise. It seemed like I wasn’t the only one with a past. But then I tried to quickly overcome it. What was good for me was good for him. I then felt sad that I couldn’t possibly be carrying his child and that nothing good ever seemed to come from my meanderings.

“And as for you,” Eddie said to me, “how about you tell him about our last night together. When was that exactly? About six months ago I think.”

“John, I swear, it was only one night. It was right before you came back into my life. I was weak. Lonely. I hadn’t had sex in almost five months. I know how much you despise him and I thought I was over him. But it happened. I met him at the resort we used to go to back when he was still married to Connie…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he said. “So what you’re telling me is that baby inside her is yours? I knew it wasn’t mine, but I didn’t care. Just as long it was anyone else’s but yours!”

“She’ll always be mine,” Eddie said.

John’s response was a right hand to Eddie’s jaw, knocking him off the front step down onto the front yard. It was at that point I fainted. When I woke up, the paramedics were putting me into an ambulance.