Johnny Niagara awoke like a panther, out here at the edge of things, in suburban Bartlett, and strode naked to his bathroom for his matutinal voiding, an almost sacred ritual, and one he relished. This morning Johnny stood a few seconds longer over the font of fecula, admiring his own tight stomach, its muscular texture, its solidity. No wonder he was considered the lady’s man in The Movement. He mixed politics and cunnilingus with aplomb, revolution with coition like an archimage.
And at the time of this story he had one woman with whom he particularly enjoyed the carnal arts, a wingéd nautch named Iris. Iris of the breasts like planets in an especially extravagant solar system, Iris with a mouth as soft as sunset. Iris, who when she sat astride Johnny, her mammaries seemingly glowing above him, would grind slowly away at his centerpiece as if she were stirring a hellbroth, or mixing paint and maché for one of her artworks. Johnny and Iris were something of an item, but, of course, they were both free to enjoy other parties, as it were. This was 1967. You know.