Looking for Hope

by: Dawn DeWinter

 

Chapter 10 – We’re All Mad Here

The caravan of Hope got lost again, this time through rural Arkansas. (As if there is any other part of Arkansas!) This time no one could blame Dawn, for she was still rolling, rolling with the river. "It’s the fault of this backward state," asserted Duchess authoritatively. "If they’d put more rest stops along Interstate 40, then we wouldn’t have got lost looking for a gas station with a toilet."

Mortimer was tempted to disagree. There had been a gas station within sight of the Interstate highway, but they’d been forced to pass it by because anyone wanting to use its toilets would have to walk through a crowded café, and Duchess wouldn’t allow her son to do that clad only in a woven cap and booties, and a pink security blanket and soiled, stinking diapers. It was one thing, she said, for the people of the Hollow to ridicule her son because they were kith and kin. But she wouldn’t abide impertinence (another big word!) from strangers.

So the Lincoln had navigatored ever deeper into the piney woods looking for a discrete toilet where someone could change Pigpen’s nappies. The other cars followed in a procession going nowhere. Eventually, as the road turned to gravel, they found an abandoned lean-to behind which Ches changed Pigpen’s diaper. Why Ches? Because he’d volunteered to do the work. And why would he do that? To insinuate his way into the hearts of both Pigpen and the Duchess. Ches played up to everyone he met, since he never knew where his next square meal would come from; and he was willing to accept food from anyone.

As hoped, Pigpen became putty in his hands, for no one had ever kneaded the boy’s privates before. (Selfish Sammy had never been willing to reciprocate whenever he messed around with young boys, blind mutes, and livestock.) Duchess decided that Ches might make the perfect stepdaddy for Pigpen now that Dawn was gone and Sammy was "all blowed up." Ches was thoughtful, considerate and someone she definitely wanted to f…. ("No," she thought. "A lady does not use such language. I admit only that I want to know Ches biblically. I yearn for him to explore my innermost being.")

It was Bill who first saw the teenage boy on the mountain bike, but Duchess who interrogated him. He looked to be about thirteen – a smaller, freckled version of Ches. As cute as a button, he had eyes like buttonholes: black and empty, they looked like they hadn’t yet picked up the thread of a single complete idea. Duchess wasn’t optimistic about getting a useful answer. "Are they any motels around here?" she began. "You know – is there any place we could stay the night?"

"Motel? I don’t reckon I knows what that is. But I don’t spose we have none. Those who fix to stay round here at night bed down with local folks."

"What sort of people live about here," Duchess asked, already knowing that all of them were beneath her dignity.

"In THAT direction," the kid said, waving his right hand, "lives the lady with all the hats, and in THAT direction lives the Marsh Heiress. I reckon either’ll put you up for two bucks. Visit either you like. They’re both mad."

"But I don’t want to stay with mad people. They’re not my sort," Duchess sniffed.

"Oh, you can’t help that," said the kid; "we’re all mad here. I’m mad. I reckon it’s ‘cause we’re all kin. A thousand of us. We’re all ascended from Old Zeke Marsh. He’s daid now. I reckon you’re mad too."

Aghast, Duchess asked, "How, my good urchin did you conclude I’m mad? Madness does not run in my family. It’s improper."

"You must be mad," said the boy, "or you wouldn’t have come to Yokum’s Patch. It’s a place to leave. No one who aint tetched comes here." He then brushed a fly off his neck with his foot to prove his point.

So far the boy had struck Duchess as more addled than mad, so she challenged him: "Youngster, how do you know that you’re mad? I wager you’ve never seen a doctor in your life, never mind a brain specialist."

"I get mad all the time," he growled. "I’m real angered right now ‘cause you got your nose so high in the air." He then kicked Duchess’s shin as hard as he could. As she toppled over in pain, he hopped on his bike and vanished into the woods. The last thing anyone saw was a giant smile.

"That boy’s all smile," Bill observed. "He’s not really angry. He’s really mad."

"Help me. Help a lady rise to her feet," demanded Duchess. Surprisingly, Mortimer beat Ches to her hand. Once again, Duchess was impressed: "He’s spry for an oldster," she reflected. "I wonder what he looks like without clothes?" As she wondered, she stared. Mortimer, blushing, self-consciously crossed his hands over his crotch.

There being nothing further to see, Duchess started walking in the direction in which the Marsh Heiress was said to live. Everyone trailed behind, with Pigpen being the most behind, as no one would walk behind his behind.

"I’m not impressed by madwomen who collect hats," Duchess declared to her followers. "They are snobs, and I can’t abide snobbery. Besides, it’s distinctly lower class to display one’s wealth in public. And if she’s truly mad, there won’t be a single hat I’ll want to wear. An heiress will be much more interesting to meet and probably more gracious. As she is wealthy, she won’t be truly mad, just eccentric."

Soon a mansion loomed before them. It had to belong to the Marsh Heiress, the wealthiest woman in the Patch, for its roof was thatched with rabbit fur and each of its seven gables had an unbroken glass window. It was so large a house that it awed even Duchess. To herself she said, "I must be raving mad after all! These hoboes have no business asking the Marsh Heiress for shelter. I alone belong here. The riffraff should have gone in the other direction to look for the lady with the hats."

They came upon a table under a tree in front of the big house. Seated at it were the Marsh Heiress and the lady who owned so many hats. This day she was wearing a stovepipe hat, in striped red and white felt. Between the two women a three-hundred-pound man was sitting fast asleep. The Heiress and the hat lady were using his enormous belly as a stand for their teacups. The table was a large one, but the three of them were crowded together at one corner of it. "No room! no room!" the hat lady cried out when she saw Duchess approach.

"There’s PLENTY of room," said Duchess indignantly. Kermesse, Bill, Frodo, Mortimer, Ches, and Pigpen, y’all sit at the table. I shall stand on my dignity until I am entreated to be seated."

As the odor from Pigpen wafted towards their hosts, the enormous man awoke. His three chins waggled as he spoke. "I am Sam. Sam I am. I am Sam Boreman. A Boreman am’s I. But I am not a boring man. Not a boring man am I." He smiled at his cleverness. A well-told joke only improved with age.

"If you’re not a boring man, then what are you Sam Boreman?" asked Frodo.

"I am straight. I head straight for females. You’re a man sitting close to me. Man, I don’t want you to sit close to me. Didn’t I tell you I am straight? And straight am I."

"How tiresome he is," thought Duchess. "Is there anythin’ to eat?" she asked. "We are quite famished." Now, that was a good word. It should build respect.

"Oh, do have some food," the Marsh Heiress said with an encouraging tone. She uncovered a plate of hard-boiled eggs, smothered in a green herb, and pork jowls. Duchess looked wary.

"Yes, there’s nothing to eat unless you like green eggs and pork," said Boreman. "I do not like green eggs and pork. I do not like them. Look at the green eggs on my fork. They must have been cooked by a dork." As he stabbed disdainfully at one of the eggs, it launched itself into air. Boreman moved his massive buttocks just enough for it to land underneath him. It looked like he was trying to hatch the egg. He fell fast asleep.

"I do not like green eggs and pork. They’re not kosher," declared Duchess loftily.

"Try it. You’ll like it," said the hat lady to Frodo.

"He won’t like it. He doesn’t like anything but pizza and burgers," said Bill.

Gingerly Frodo tasted the green eggs. As he did, his pupils dilated. Suddenly he was starving. He couldn’t be sated. The more green eggs he had, the more he looked and acted mad. He started to giggle, at first a little, and then a lot. It was almost as if he was smoking pot.

"I like green eggs and pork," Frodo said. "These could make it anywhere, even in New York!" He laughed at his witticism. "It isn’t a crime, he thought, "for words to rhyme."

"Frodo likes it!" exclaimed Bill. Then everyone but Duchess dove into the pork and swill.

It was true, the more they ate of that green herb, the hungrier they got. Soon everyone was giggling, flushed and hot.

Duchess was not amused. "What do y’all have for me to drink or eat? Isn’t there food for a lady who’s effete?"

"Would you have some wine?" said the Marsh Heiress; "it’s quite divine."

Duchess looked around the table, but saw nothing but, shudder, green eggs and pork. "I don’t see any wine," she remarked.

"There isn’t any," said the Marsh Heiress.

"Then it t’weren’t very proper of y’all to offer it," said Duchess angrily. "I expected better manners from the heiress to the Marsh dower. I’ll have y’all know that my kin came over on the Mayflower. I’m a person of quality. I demand civility."

"It wasn’t very civil of your friends to sit down and eat without being invited," said the Marsh Heiress.

"I thought we WERE invited. After all, the table is laid for company. And we are company."

"I like the shape of your breasts. May I fondle them?" said the hat lady, who had been looking fondly at her bust, with a look of lurid lust.

"Women shouldn’t stare at each other’s breasts," said Duchess warily. "You’re being very crude. A lady asked you for food, and in reply you’re being quite rude."

The hat lady replied, "Why are a woman’s breasts like a police raid on a drug den?"

Duchess was aghast. "They’ve begun asking riddles! Am I now expected to perform for dinner? Oh Lord, deliver this poor sinner."

"Do you think you can find the answer to the riddle?" asked the Marsh Heiress.

"Well, duh! I’m not ten years old anymore," said Duchess.

"Look at me! Look at me now!" exclaimed the hat lady. She was standing on her head, inside her hat, atop a ball. Something somewhere went "boing, boing" as she hopped about the grass. "Look at me now! I can juggle a fish on a rake." And so she did for a while, until she had, with maximum guile, lifted the skirt of Duchess for all to see, that she was as female as one could be.

"I should have worn panties! Have been less daring!" cried Duchess, as she got stuffed by the rake with a pickled herring.

And yet, as she chased the lady in the hat around the yard, she soon stopped caring. For the fish, she was still carrying, was making her nipples get hard.

Said the hat lady: "I have another game to play. It will tell us as much about Pigpen as we learned about his mother. It’s called "DOWN-DOWN-DOWN with a diaper." And in a flash she had rendered Pigpen naked to his knees. "He’s big for his age, and Jewish I sees."

"Stop that," Pigpen cried. "Pull it up. Pull it up. This is no fun at all." He started to bawl.

"I will show you another good game that I know," said the hat lady, as she leered at red-faced Fro-do. Then, fast as a fox, she grabbed his box. "Take a look," she said, as she stripped him to his socks.

Unlike Pigpen, he said, "Oh, I like that a lot!"

Bill, overwrought … said he wished to go away. But soon he said, "I’d like to stay," as the hat lady, said with a bow, "Honey Bill, I think you’re just WOW!"

"And I will give you some fun," said the Marsh Heiress to Ches, who stifled a yawn while baring his chest. But before the Heiress could bag her tigger, the lady with the hats began to snigger, "Twinkle, twinkle, you big guys, how I wonder where your penis lies."

Boreman’s giant belly awoke, as he sang in his sleep, "Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, little girls …" and went on for so long, that Bill had to pinch his fourth jowl to end his song.

A bright idea dawned in Duchess’s head. "I now know the reason, why you’ve no company, whatever the season. You’re so awfully lewd, it’s a wonder you’ve never been sued."

The Marsh Heiress interrupted, while leering. "I’m tired of foreplay. I say we have sex without delay."

"I’m afraid we must go," said Duchess, quite alarmed at the proposal.

"But not before Boreman has told us a story," cried both the Heiress and the hat lady. "Wake up, Boreman!" And with all of their fingers they pinched all of his jowls.

Boreman slowly opened his eyes. "Once upon a time there were three little sisters," he began with great hurry, "whose favor I did my best to curry. I gave them sweet candy, which they all found quite dandy. I took all three to a lake near Lucking, where I hoped to do some …."

"That will be quite enough, Boreman," said the Marsh Heiress. "You don’t know how to tell an interesting tale. You should have said that you’re already gone to jail. No harm came to his nieces," she told everyone, "cause they left a trail of Reese’s pieces. I’m afraid there’s no hope for Boreman as long as he lives here in the Patch," she confided. "Quite mad, he’ll always be trying his nieces and cousins to catch. Whenever and wherever you go, you must take him so that he can be taught that the love of children should not be bought … with sweet cotton candy and high-test pot."

"He needs to be in a hospital for a while," said Duchess.

"Completely agreed, and here’s his long file. You must take Boreman with you whenever you go. It’s his only hope for a future halo."

"All this talk is making me very sleepy," Boreman said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He then fell fast asleep to dream about Little Orphan Annie, the Little Princess, and Alice in Wonderland.

"Really, now you ask me," said Duchess, very much confused, "I don’t think …."

"If you don’t think, you shouldn’t talk," said the Marsh Heiress. "Just lie on your stomach, pull up your skirt, and let my fingers do a moonwalk."

Duchess was too shocked and appealed to respond.

"Boreman is asleep again," said the hat lady, and she poured a little cold water on his crotch. Pigpen tittered. "I’m not the only one," he said, "who looks like he’s wet himself." He smiled; it was nice to have company.

Boreman shook his head impatiently, and said, without opening his eyes, "Of course, of course, you want to have sex with me, baby pies. I’m hot. I’m really cooking."

"Have you guessed the riddle yet?" the hat lady said, turning to Duchess again.

Duchess was not going to give her the satisfaction of an answer – not after she’d flipped up her dress. So she wasn’t going to say ‘bust’. Instead she said, "I give up. What’s the answer?"

"I haven’t the slightest idea," said the hat lady.

"Nor I," said the Marsh Heiress.

Duchess sighed wearily. "I would think you’d do something better with your time than waste it in asking infantile riddles."

"Doesn’t everyone kill time while they’re waiting for an answer?" said the Marsh Heiress.

"The answer to what?" asked Duchess warily.

"Oh, look at her! Isn’t she coy?" said the hat lady with joy. "She’s feigning not to realize … that we’re waiting for the orgy with these guys."

"Yes," chuckled the Marsh Heiress. "Why else would they have come here, except for a sex orgy? Well, are you game? I want to start with you two," she said, pointing to Bill and Frodo, "cause I saw you holding hands, and I just to love to come between lovers."

"And I love kink," said the hat lady. "So I think … I’ll start with the old wrack with the great-looking rack, and the boy in the nappy, provided she married his pappy. Incest is best, far better than the rest. For maternal love it’s the true test."

"I think it’s time to depart," Duchess said. But no one got up.

The tip of her nose, always her loftiest point, felt a drop of rain. Then two, then three. It then began to pour, and all but Boreman ran through the door – into the big house. Inside they found only bedrooms. They were trapped, for none of them had the willpower to turn down sex in the presence of a queen sized bed. That night no one slept alone – except for Boreman. Though he did eventually awake enough to come indoors, he soon fell asleep in front of the single television set while watching Sesame Street.

There was lots of coupling, but it wasn’t quite the orgy that the Marsh Heiress and hat lady had in mind. For one thing, Kermesse kept Pigpen away from the hat lady and his mother, who was making lesbian love for the first time. Afterwards, Duchess wondered whether all lesbians shouted "look at me" as they dove between another woman’s legs or suckled her breasts.

Was Kermesse opposed to incest? "But no," she said the next day. "I am French. Donc, I have ze open spirit. Ze incest between ze mother and ze son is not necessarily bad, always Malle; but I desire Pigpen to rest with me."

Yes, she had been falling for him – despite his clothes, his smell, his immaturity. He was a boy she could mother. That night there could be no question of sex, as Pigpen curled up in a fetal position for protection. Yet it was his first night sleeping in the same bed with a woman since his mother had weaned him at age eleven. That night Kermesse gave him a new nickname, one that stuck for the rest of his life. "I not like ze way you call yourself," she said stroking his hair. "Pigpen. Zat is no name for a young man who is beau. It is necessary to find a better name for you. But what?"

Just at that moment Pigpen soiled his diapers yet again. Kermesse wasn’t entirely displeased, for she now had an excuse to change his diaper and to powder his bottom. Even so, she found the smell repugnant. "You stink like a mouffette, like a … skunk," she said. And then she laughed. "Zat’s is what I will call you. I will call you Pepe because you remind me of the ze romantic skunk in the cartoons – Pepe Le Pew." To herself she added, "With the good chance, my Pepe will be as amorous as ze skunk. He was always hopping about, zat one, looking for love. I hope my Pepe will hop with me. I love to hop."

Mortimer ended up with Ches.

It started with Ches, stuffed with green eggs and pork, deciding he could take a night off from pretending to love the one he was with. "I’m tired. I always seem to need a catnap after dinner. I’m just going to curl up on an empty bed," he said, "and ignore them all."

Mortimer was already hiding in the closet, avoiding sex with everyone and anyone, when Ches came into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and lay down to nap. Ches, thinking he was alone, became enamored with his own sensuality. Incredibly supple, he began licking his genitals. His tongue had reached the bottom of his sack when he finally saw Mortimer peering at him from the closet. Mortimer wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing, but he was seeing enough to be aroused.

"Mortimer, just don’t stand there gaping. Come over here and give me a hand." He stretched out invitingly. Ches knew that no one, male or female, could deny his whims when he did his best to look adorable.

In Mortimer, thirty years of repression came to the fore. Though fairly certain that he was still as heterosexual as the day he married, he could not deny Ches sexual release – not when the boy stretched so sensuously. That night Mortimer gave and received his first blowjobs. He would even have slept with Ches, had Ches not wandered off to find a secret place where he could dream alone. Mortimer, alone, wondered whether Ches cared for him – a little or a lot? "It’s so difficult to know with Ches. He’s such a tomcat it’s hard to know whether he’s capable of loving anyone for long. Give me a dog any day."

Meanwhile, the Bill and Frodo were having sex with the Marsh Heiress in her canopied bed. Frodo at first played at being macho. "I want to be inside you," he told the Heiress, "while Bill, my lover, caresses your breasts."

"There’s no way," the Heiress said, "that I’ll have intercourse with you. You’re much too young and virile. You must have a million sperm swimming frantically about in every spurt you make. If you come inside me, I’m sure to have a baby. I’m incredibly fertile. I’m just twenty-seven and I’ve already been pregnant seven times. My ten children live with their fathers. Frodo, are you ready to raise a child? If not, keep your thing to yourself."

Frodo pouted. "What is there to do then?"

"Do you not have eyes? Do you not have a tongue? I will teach you, sweet boy, the art of cunnilingus. When I am through with you, women will come from far and wide to converse with you."

Bill, excited at the prospect, said, "And I will use this (she waved a strap-on dildo) to make Frodo feel like a woman even as his tongue feels a woman."

"Ah, so Frodo likes to feel like a woman?"

"Yes, and to dress like one too," said Bill. Frodo blushed and looked away. By the time he was looking back, it was to see a blue velvet bra, panties, and garter belt. It felt strangely liberating to put them on in front of a total stranger. Makeup, pink lipstick and blue eyeshade were even more exciting for Frodo to wear. Pink polish went on his nails for the first time, fingers and toes. Then Frodo felt the silky feel of sheer black nylons. Frodo’s sexual excitement energized Bill and the Heiress. "You’re the first girly-boy I’ve had sex with, Frodo, but you won’t be the last. I can’t believe how sensuous you’ve become. You’re making me wet."

That was the signal. Frodo moved towards the apex of her long, willowy legs. As he did, Bill took up position behind. Just before his tongue was in place, the Heiress said, "I only have sex with friends. So consider me a friend. My name is Gloria, and you, dear girl," she said to Frodo, "are named Freda from now on. Isn’t that right, Freda? -- You’re a girl who likes to eat pussy. Say it, Freda. Tell me I’m right."

Frodo looked back at Bill who was just then entering him. As Frodo winced, Bill whispered in his ear, "Say you love the name Freda. It’s the perfect name for the perfect girl."

"I’m Freda, a girl who likes to eat pussy." And Frodo then ate Gloria’s.

Afterwards, as Frodo lay awake, he thought about his chance meeting with Dawn, who had shot through his life like a comet. In her wake, he had found three women. Two were lying asleep beside him. And one was newly awakened inside him. "Freda," he thought. "I like that name. It sounds like freedom. I didn’t even know I was looking for freedom until Dawn came to New Hope. But now I know that’s what I was hoping for all along."

When Frodo awoke the next morning, he once again made love with Bill and Gloria. He not only agreed to be called Freda. He had become Freda. "I want to dress like a woman today. I want to be a woman today," he told his bedmates. "From now on, I’m Freda, a she."

Bill beamed and Gloria’s teeth gleamed in a giant smile. "Well, Freda, if you’re going to look like a woman in the Patch, we’re going to have to find you some cowgirl boots, some jeans, and a man’s shirt to tie in a knot around your midriff to show off the rhinestone I’m puttin’ in your navel."

Freda liked the way her navel glistened. She was in no hurry to leave Yokum’s Patch. No one was. Dawn’s journey of Hope had stalled in rural Arkansas, as the weary travelers heeded the siren call of sex, drugs and carefree rest. With green eggs in the morning, green eggs at night, they stopped looking for Dawn’s early light. They lived for the day, without heed to the hour, though it already neared midnight. The boy who was all smile had said to them all, "We are all mad here." And so they were, as they lived without fear.

What about Dawn and Jim? Were they still alive? Were they still without Hope? For an answer to the east we must go, to the Father of Waters, or as Dawn was now calling it, "The Mighty Muddy."

 

Chapter 11 – Rafting to the Mississippi Queen

They were in the middle of the current, Dawn lying on top of Bill’s trunk, and Jim in the water, kicking away, trying to guide their "raft" to shore. The passing hillocks were alive with the sound of music as Dawn belted out "Ol’ Man River" in her own inimitable style.

 

Dere's an ol' man called de Mississippi
Dat's de ol' man dat I'd like to be!
What does he care if de world's got troubles?
What does he care if Hope’s not a she?

Ol' man river,
Dat ol' man river
He mus' know sumpin'
But don't say nuthin',
He jes' keeps rollin'
He keeps on rollin' along.

"Dawn, girl, I know sumpin’ – pushing you is a real strain. My body’s all aching and racked with pain. I’m getting weary, and sick of trying to push us to shore without some help from you."

"But there’s not room for both of us back there to push the trunk. One of us must ride."

"Dawn, honey, this is the twenty-first century. "You white folks no longer get to play while us colored folks ‘work on de Mississippi’. Now get your white ass into the water, unless you aint ‘skeered of dyin’."

Dawn dove in; Jim jumped out. Now she was on top and singing, "Show me dat stream called de river Jordan. Dat’s the ol’ stream dat I long to cross." But the river didn’t remain the River Jordan for long, for the Mississippi kept rolling along, and Dawn, her muscles femininely soft, was making no headway against the current.

Soon they were both in the water singing, "Ah, gits weary, an’d sick of tryin’. Ah’m tired of swimmin’, and scared of dyin’."

Through teamwork they finally pushed the trunk ashore. They were on an island about three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide, with a steep hill about forty feet high in its middle. Jim insisted they climb the ridge to scout for help. "I never thought we’d have such a rough time getting to the top," Jim gasped, "but then I didn’t think you’d be so out of shape that I’d have to carry you."

From the summit, there wasn’t a soul or habitation to see. "There’s no one around," announced Jim. "We must be in Mississippi." Dawn shuddered in agreement. That night Jim took shelter in a cavern, as Dawn took shelter in her arms, while it stormed like all fury about them. In the morning, when it was as bright as glory, they collected enough driftwood to build a raft, using pantyhose from the trunk to tie the logs and boards together. They even had makeshift paddles.

They set out for shore, but Dawn could not pull her weight, and they ended up once again in the main current heading southward. Just before lunch they bumped into a ruined frame house floating in the river. They climbed through an upstairs window, where they found a man’s bedroom with furniture and clothes strewn about, apparently by an explosive force.

"Are you thinking what I’m thinking?" asked Jim.

"Yep. This is the house that used to belong to Duchess and Sammy. That must have been quite an oil gusher to blow it this far west and south."

There was something on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. So Jim called out to him. But he did not budge. "Hey, are you deaf?" Dawn hollered shrilly. Still no movement. "No one could be that deaf," Jim said. "Do you hear those dogs yowling? They heard you. That man’s not asleep. He’s dead. You stay here, Dawn. I’ll see if it’s Sammy."

Jim came back her face blanched with horror. "It’s Sammy’s body all right. And naked as a sow. He must have come upstairs after we left."

"But why?"

"To play with himself, it appears. Dawn, honey, I don’t want you to go over there. Never. You must not see what he was doing to himself. I’ve never seen anything so perverted, so disgusting in all my life. You’re my sweet Alice. You’re much too young at heart to look upon Sammy’s evil."

Jim threw some old rags over the cadaver, but she needn’t have, for Dawn didn’t want to see it. There were heaps of greasy cards scattered around the floor, and old whisky bottles, and a mask made out of black leather with a ball gag. All over the walls were pornographic words and pictures drawn with blood-red paint.

There were also some dirty men’s clothes, a straw hat, and some men’s underwear hanging against the wall.

"Those clothes’ll fit you near enough," said Jim. "You’d better take them ‘cause it’s dangerous for a black man to travel with a white woman in the Mississippi delta. At some point, you’re going to have to disguise yourself as a man."

Back on the raft, Dawn rummaged through the clothes they’d taken and found eighty dollars sewed up in the lining of an overcoat. "Now there’s good luck," Dawn said. "Now we’ll have some money when we finally hit land."

Just then they hit it. A point of land snared their raft, and they found themselves beached on the river’s eastern bank. "It’s time," Jim said, "for you to dress like a male."

"There’s no way I’m going to wear men’s briefs," Dawn protested.

"Dawn, yes you will. You’re beginning to stink. Take everything off and put it into this pillowcase. We’ll take it with us. But you, my girl, will be wearing men’s blue jeans, a yellowed tee shirt, red socks, and black sneakers."

Dawn sullenly changed into the drab-looking, rough-spun clothes. She now looked masculine enough, but, as Jim said, no one would yet mistake her for a "real man." So Jim had Dawn practice being a man. After a while, she even walked like one. Sort of.

Together they lumbered through marshland and scrub, heading away from the river. After an hour of trudgery, they came upon a paved road that they followed, unwittingly, in a long curve back to the Mississippi. Even so, their hearts were cheered as they came upon a beautiful garden, bright with flowers and gushing fountains.

A large, artificial rose tree guarded the entrance to the garden. The roses "growing" on it were white, but three gardeners were busily painting them red. Dawn, ever curious, went over to ask why they were painting the roses. The youngest gardener replied in a low voice, "Why the fact is, you see … Mister, this here’s sposed to be a RED rose-tree, and we put in a white one by mistake. If the boss was to find out, we’d all get the chop. So you see … Mister, we’re doing our best to make things right before he …." At this moment, the oldest gardener, who had been anxiously keeping watch, whispered hoarsely, "The boss! The boss. The Queen is coming!" The three gardeners ran in the direction of the road.

There was a sound of footsteps, and Dawn and Jim looked around, eager to meet the boss. He’d surely be able to direct them toward Hope. First came ten mustachioed, unshaven men carrying clubs. They were dressed uniformly in black leather studs, jackboots, and peaked military-style hats. They made Dawn shudder because they looked like bikers.

Next walked ten young men dressed like construction workers, hard hats on their heads, spades on their shoulders, and a groping hand in each other’s back pocket. Next strutted ten young men, peacock-proud and gleaming with cut diamonds. Each held a mirror for the other to watch. After these, came ten teenage boys skipping gaily hand in hand. Dawn thought they looked sweet, for they were wearing identical tee shirts – with an embroidered cupid shooting an arrow through two hearts.

Next came a queer assortment of eleven older men. Those in business suits strode like kings, lords of all they surveyed. Others were simpering queens dressed in satin, silk and crushed cotton. Among a third group dressed in gym clothes Dawn thought she recognized her Newark jogger. However, he was so busily smiling at everything that was said, he went by without noticing her. Dawn was at first crushed at the rejection, for the jogger had definitely been leading her on just before she fell down the manhole. But she was able to comfort herself with the reminder that she was now dressed as a male, and didn’t look at all like Alice in Wonderland.

Finally, at the rear of this grand procession came a regal looking man in a Cupid tee shirt with two hearts, and beside him minced the biggest QUEEN that Dawn had ever seen! Everything he was wearing – the pearl necklace, the lavender blouse, the three-inch wide, red patent leather belt, the turquoise Capri pants, and the red plastic sandals – had definitely been bought in women’s wear, as had his eyeshade, lipstick, and red disk earrings. He’d plucked his eyebrows, shaved his head, and painted his twenty nails red. Yet he did not look like a woman, not at all. Not only had he made no attempt to disguise his lanky male physique, but he also sported an elegant goatee.

As the Queen reached Jim and Dawn, he paused, and asked them their names. "Jim," said the black woman glaring. "Huck Clemens," said the white man staring.

"Well Jim and Huck – if those be your real names, which somehow I doubt – you have no business bein’ here. You’re trespassin’. Now git off this headland before I call the law!" the Queen said with cold fury.

"Nonsense," said Dawn loudly and decidedly. "We’re not going anywhere until you help us."

The Queen fell silent. As the wealthiest, most prominent queen in the whole state of Mississippi, he was accustomed to instant obedience. That’s why he’d surrounded himself with toadies. They’d take any amount of abuse from him to stay rent-free in the lotus land resort that he’d created at the cotton plantation he’d inherited from his ancestors Crimson O’Hare and Reele Butter.

Not knowing quite what to do with people who talked back to him, the Queen suddenly shouted, "All right, can you play Twister?"

"Yes!" shouted Dawn eagerly. Jim shot her a dirty look, and whispered: "Dawn, are you forgettin’ that I’ve got nothin’ that any gay man would want to grope?"

"Don’t worry," Dawn replied with an excited look in her eyes. "I’ll play for both of us."

To Dawn’s delight, her game of Twister included the Newark jogger. As they were making body arches, she even got his name, or thought she did (she couldn’t hear too well with her ears pressed against his inner thighs). It was Whitt Babbitt. She succeeded in getting his body tucked away, comfortably enough, under her arm. But generally, just as she had got his neck straightened out and was going to give his head a big kiss, he WOULD twist himself around and look away. Dawn found it provoking whenever Whitt unrolled himself, and tried to crawl away. Her game, seduction, was a very difficult game indeed, but finally, with her face pressed against the zenith of Whitt’s pant zipper, and her two front teeth easing it downward, Whitt’s body stiffened. Dawn had won her point and match!

Whitt nodded as she whispered to his groin, "You must find a way for me to stay tonight because I want to see if you can f…k like a bunny."

"Get off of his head!" the Queen suddenly shouted to Whitt. "You two are disqualified for amorous inattention."

"You’re saying I broke the rules," scoffed Dawn. "There don’t seem to be any rules in particular. Leastwise, I didn’t know there were any. I was just doing what everyone else was doing – groping the cutest guy around."

The Queen looked angry. "I’ll have you know, Huck Clemens – if that be your real name – that I’m the cutest guy around. Always have been, always will be. Isn’t that right, my good men?"

Everyone roared agreement, even Jim (as the Queen remarked approvingly). Dawn, however, was not about to lie. She was, after all, a good girl. Even so, Dawn felt uneasy. She knew it wasn’t wise for her to have a dispute with the Queen – not if she wanted to spend the night with Whitt Babbitt.

"How do you like the Queen?" asked a feline-looking youth in a low voice.

"Not at all," said Dawn. "He’s so extremely …." Just then she noticed that the Queen was close behind her listening, so she went on, "handsome that he puts everyone else to shame. I had to lie to Whitt Babbitt about his being the best looking man here because I want to seduce him, but Whitt and everyone else here is trumped in good looks by the Queen."

The Queen smiled, and interrupted graciously. "You must be off your head to want to have sex with Whitt Babbitt. You’ll be disappointed with him. He comes quicker than a rabbit. However, be my guest. You and he can sleep in the velvet room tonight. Now, why don’t you and your handsome black friend join me on the front porch of my palace for mint juleps." He then took Jim by one arm and led her to the front portico of the antebellum mansion, while Dawn, neglected, trailed behind.

"I’m off to the head," announced the Queen when they reached the porch. "You two make yourself right at home." He minced off.

"Dawn, are you planning on our staying the night?" Jim asked. "What about the journey of Hope? Shouldn’t we get back on the road?"

"Jim, can’t you see I’m all tuckered out. That was hard work swimming down the Mississippi. It’s been so long since I was in a soft bed. We should stay here tonight."

"You mean, you want to stay with that Whitt Babbitt. What are you trying to do? Make me jealous? Two can play that game, you know."

"Jim, I don’t think a gay resort is the best place in the world for a woman to go hunting for sex, even if she’s dressed like a man."

"I may surprise you, Dawn. Shush, the Queen’s comin’ back."

He had a tray with two tall glasses of mint julep and a can of cheap beer. As he placed the tray on the table beside Jim, he picked up the beer and tossed it at Dawn. "I reckoned you’d prefer a brewsky," he said with a sneer. "I’m sure it’s to your taste."

Dawn, forgetting that she was wearing pants, tried to catch the beer can in her non-existent lap by throwing her knees apart. The can soared through the gap where her skirt should have been and landed on the floor.

The Queen had a curious look on his face as he watched Dawn fumble to pick up the beer can. Dawn felt uncomfortable. Soon the Queen asked, "What did you say your name was, honey?"

"Huck T … Twain."

Dawn gulped nervously. Somehow it seemed that she’d said Clemens before, so she’d dared not look up. She was waiting for the Queen to say something.

"Honey, I thought you earlier said it was Clemens?"

"Oh yes, I did. Huck Twain Clemens. Sometimes I say Twain to honor my mom, sometimes Clemens to remember my dad."

"How interesting. Hmmm. Do you see that baseball beside you and the catbird on the fence? Could you throw the ball at him so he’ll fly away and leave the dovecote alone?"

Dawn did her utmost to toss the ball like a man. Standing on her tiptoes, awkwardly she threw stiff-armed from the shoulder. Alas, her throw, a feeble fifteen feet short and six feet wide of the target, gave her true gender away. The Queen looked her straight in the face, and with a surprisingly pleasant voice, said, "Come, now, what’s your real name? Is it Barbie, or Tess, or Cathy? You’re a woman in male drag, right? Come on, what’s your real name, honey?"

"It’s Dawn. You’ll still let me spend the night with Whitt Babbitt, won’t you?"

"Sure, why not? That runny-nosed runner was late for my Twister party. It’ll serve him right to end up in bed with a girl tonight. Don’t let him see you with your guy clothes off until you’ve got him begging for sexual relief, for you’ll never be able to get his little, one-eyed head off if he knows you’re really a girl. Women scare him witless."

The Queen insisted that Dawn explain why she was masquerading as a male. Out came the story of Hope. "So you’ll be heading off to Arkansas tomorrow?" the Queen asked. Dawn and Jim nodded. "Then I’m coming with you," the Queen announced. "My house party is boring me. I need some distraction. Looking for Hope might be interesting. I’m SO bored. Of course, I shall have to bring an entourage, a lackey or two to attend to my needs."

As the Queen had a Mercedes limousine seating nine, Dawn and Jim eagerly agreed to have him journey with them to Hope, Arkansas. All seemed to be set until the Queen, yawning, beckoned to Jim. "Since Dawn will be busy with Whitt Babbitt tonight, I consent to your satisfying me tonight. Come now, we’re heading off to my bedchamber."

"What are you going to do, Jim?" Dawn whispered. "He thinks you’re a guy. When he finds out the truth, he’ll be cutting off your head and feeding it to the birds."

"Don’t fret you none, Dawn. I know how to keep my secret from a queen." Jim winked as the Queen took her hand and led her like a child to the royal bedchamber.

As anticipated, Whitt’s orgasm came with jackrabbit speed. Dawn, however, didn’t mind for she was already half-asleep, and thankful for the early rest. In the morning, she decided it was time to put her patriotic jumper back on.

Whitt had no problem with Dawn’s cross-dressing. After her performance in bed, it didn’t surprise him that she was more female than male. However, Whitt was horrified to see the American flag on the mud-stained jumper. "You can’t wear that flag here!" he said, his voice quavering with deep emotion.

"Oh, oh," Dawn thought. "He’s still trying to fight the Civil War. What does he want me to wear? The Confederate battle flag?" Suddenly she worried about Jim. Was there such a thing as gay white supremacists? She didn’t think so. They seemed as a group remarkably glum and severe. But strange things happened in the Mississippi delta. They weren’t far from the crossroads where the Devil once taught Robert Johnson how to sing the blues. Maybe the Horned One had planted a colony of gays in Mississippi in order to lure the likes of Dawn and Jim to their doom! Maybe the Queen was actually the Prince of Darkness!

Fear gripped Dawn like vice. She was almost deaf to reason, so it took her several moments to grasp what Whitt was saying. What was it? Yes, he seemed to be saying that local folks would be upset if she went around with a mud-smeared American flag waving on her bosom. "They’re true patriots in this county," Whitt said. "Let me see if I can find something suitably feminine for you to wear until you can get your jumper cleaned."

He came back with a red skirt and a knit white top with three-quarter length sleeves, a deep v-neck, and a full-color American flag! Around the flag in elaborate script were the words "God Bless America."

"How …?" Dawn began to ask.

"It belongs to the Queen. He’s in a wonderful mood this morning. He must have liked the piece he got last night because I’ve never seen him with such peace of mind. So, when I asked to borrow the outfit he wore to last month’s masked ballgame, he gave regal assent. As I left, I heard him ask if I was heading off with my girlfriend to a football game at Old Miss now that I was going straight. I had no idea what he was talking about."

As she donned her new outfit, Dawn pondered the news that the Queen was in an excellent mood. But how could he be? Did he not have sex with Jim after all? Or had Jim somehow kept her true sex concealed?

Dawn headed off Jim as she was accompanying the Queen to breakfast. "Tell me, did you sleep with the Queen? Did you have sex? If you did, then why he’s such a good mood this morning?"

Jim pretended to be insulted at the last question. "I’d have thought that you, of all people, would realize, Dawn, that people are in a good mood after they’ve had sex with me. And yes, we did have sex."

"So he was ready and willing to have sex with a woman?"

"Not ‘xactly. I know how to deal with queens. I told this one to roll over onto his belly. I then pushed his face into the pillow and f..ed him hard as I could using an English cucumber I’d filched from the kitchen. He told me that I was all he’d expected from a black man. I think he’s in love with me. Certainly, he’ll go anywhere with me until the cuke rots."

Though Dawn’s eyes were green with jealousy, she reluctantly agreed to Jim’s sharing the backseat of the limo with the Queen, whose hand was stroking Jim’s cucumber through the denim as they headed across the Mississippi River to Arkansas. Dawn meanwhile had her hand inside the chauffeur’s unzipped pants. Though Whitt had complained about being ordered to drive them all to Hope (for he was anxious to get back to Newark), he wasn’t complaining about the special handling he was receiving from Dawn, so long as she remained awake.

Both Dawn and Jim were pleased they’d reduced the Queen’s entourage to a single "lackey," because there would be more room for Duchess and the other searchers for Hope once they’d reunited. Since the Queen had dressed particularly outrageously (including a diamond necklace and a mink stole), they were relieved to see that his limousine had black tinted windows. With luck, they’d be able to travel incognito with him clear across Arkansas.

They didn’t take the most direct route to Hope, inasmuch as Dawn insisted on their heading up to Interstate 40 to look for possible stragglers from the journey of Hope. For some reason – possibly it was the tire puncture – they ended up in the piney woods near Yokum’s Patch. As they hovered around Jim, who alone knew anything about changing a tire, who should stroll by – but Duchess carrying a basket of eggs!

(For those among you who are murmuring about the statistical improbability of this chance meeting, let me remind you that this story is a fantasy. After all, is this meeting really the hardest thing you’ve had to swallow? What are the odds against so many people being sexually attracted to Dawn? Aren’t they astronomically high? In any case, aren’t you just a wee bit curious about how the first meeting between Duchess and the Queen will go? What will the Queen do when Duchess tries to correct his language? Will it be "off with her head" or love at first sight?)

 

Continued in Chapter 12 – The Mock Girl’s Story

 

 

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© 2001 by Dawn DeWinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.