Pinned underneath a pair of breasts for the first time since his mother stopped feeding him au naturel, Lance froze, mind and body The he involuntarily quivered, but just a bit.
The boy had fantasized about pawing Madonna since he’d first laid eyes on her. Yeah, she was in her 60s, which is a long way past prime pawing season, but she was Madonna.
Every time he’d caught her so much as glancing at him, he’d felt the pull of her sexuality. He knew she wanted him, and now she had him; resistance was futile. He would be assimilated, without so much as a feeble whimper of protest, not that one was likely to escape his mouth. It was all up to her.
The predator toyed with the boy. She ground her orbs across his face, twisting her back, first to the left, then all the way back to the rigt, not bothering to pretend that she was clumsily trying to get off him.
But slowly, ever so slowly, she did get off his face. She stared down, into his eyes, and saw helpless confusion, with just the slightest hint of lust, which she could smell from a mile away, on a rainy day.
She was about to rip her top off, then lean down, back into his face, titty-slap him out of his stupor, and into a carnal override, when she heard a voice in her head. Kitty’s voice. Kitty’s voice, mocking, ‘He calls you Old Leather Pussy.’
She knew it was true. She knew it was true when Kitty had spat the humiliating coup de grace into her face. She knew it was true, because Kitty was so sure, so absolutely sure of her victory. She could not have been that decisive, that fucking cruel, if it were not true. If she’d tried to fake that, Madonna would have seen rigt through it, and laughed.
He calls you Old Leather Pussy! It’s exactly the kind of thing that she would have loved to have said to some withered, old, ready for the glue factory, former femme fatale, if she’d caught one trying to make time with a boy she was in love with, back in the 70s.
Then Madonna heard it again, in her head, this time with the prelude, “Don’t let you vanity delude you. He calls you Old Leather Pussy.”
Vanity. Is that what it was? she asked herself. Vanity. Ego.
If the boy had been some kind of stallion, some sort of stud, ready to go, eager to please, and experienced enough to do so, it would be different. But he wasn’t. It was so clear that he was not ready to be raped by her, that her voracious libido had slunk back into her frontal lobe, swimming in a sewer of self loathing. It was just her damn ego left.
Madonna’s ego had used every tool it had been given to conquer the world, including, sometimes especially, her wanton sexual power. It cared not that legions of prudes found her vulgar, and called her a whore, for they were all liars, and deniers of their own animal instincts.
Her damn ego didn’t even enjoy the physical gratification of sex, the tension, adrenaline, the physical and spiritual exaltation of a full on rut being satisfied; all it wanted was the smell of napalm in the morning.
Now, her damn ego wanted only to strike back at Kitty for mocking. Her damn ego didn’t give a flying fuck about repercussions. It didn’t care if the boy was damaged, his tie to Kitty destroyed. In fact, her ego wanted nothing more than to destroy a love that was so obvious, and so obviously rigt. Fuck that uppity, little cunt; I’ll show her!
It didn’t care if fucking the boy would completely derail what they were all doing together. Her ego didn’t care about building a better world. Her damn ego was wounded, and wanted revenge.
When Kitty spat her venomous words, by the pool, Madonna’s damn ego wished the body it was trapped in was forty years younger. Now, as the Queen of Pop straddled Lance Lear’s midriff, her ego wished Madonna Cicone was forty five years younger. But that’s not how it works.
Father Time takes no glee in what he does. Father Time balances the scales he carries by capturing the beauty the body loses, and distilling it into wisdom. And Father Time calls upon the super ego to help him in his work.
As Father Time and Madonna’s super ego watched the scene that was unfolding on the floor of the Royal Suite of the Pan Pacific Hotel, they knew they had work to do, because rigt then, for the first time in her life, Madonna felt old, and dirty, and ashamed.