The sickly sweet stench of body heat wafted and tumbled with the cool desert winds, accompanied by the poignant odors of acrid smoke and wet, hidden sex. Murmurs stirred between shouts and cries, dampened and muted in the roar of crackling firelight at the center of the festival. The earth underfoot felt slick with filth. The heat of the effigy warmed the faces of the nameless in the undulating crowd while the thick of their crowded warmth drew sucked sweat from their pores and tickled their flesh. The devil was in them, this night.
Gordon pushed through, frustrated with finding himself separated from a familiar face. Upon chasing a pair of blondes through a midway constructed entirely in sex toys, Gordon had found himself far from the costumed soothsayers den where his troupe had agreed to meet. He bated his concerns with stolen glances and brazen gawks at all the tits left on display, bursting through halter tops and soaked brassieres or simply left bare to shiver in the wind. Tits of all ages, races, and sizes greeted him at every bend. In this duchy of deviance, the breast was queen.
Gordon's heart swelled and leapt to his throat with the epiphany he was the lone fox in the chicken house, not another man to be seen.
To his right came a voice, gruff and poisoned with years of smoking. "Let me guess, Timmy Tommy. Your birthday is on the fourth of July." The maiden then hawked, then spat.
Gordon gleefully spun in mid-step to face the source of the voice. He discovered a mountain of a woman, whose mass would better describe furniture than a woman of thirty-six, sprawled across a stage of fine linens and silk. Fluorescent bulbs, shaded with rose and lilac, shone down upon her cracked, cratered skin, which glistened with grease. Her stomach bubbled from her frame in rolling hills, the landscape of her torso inexplicably held beneath the aged leather of a corset, which matched her lipstick and eye shadow. She smiled at Gordon with an expression that could only be described as "hungry".
But her breasts.
They rested atop of the bulges of her stomach like folded wings or clay moving down a hillside, the right pressed gently against the linen on which she laid and the left rising and falling with her short, shallow breaths. Her nipples were the size of cookware and wagged in the breeze. They too glistened with grease, but they also sparkled with glitter and tiny stickers of neon stars. A faded - one might even say "rusted - American flag was inked across her chest.
He felt star struck. Perfection, glittering before his very eyes.
"Jeez, kid, never seen a good pair of tits before?" his Duchess flirted. Then hawked. Then spat.
"Only once, though hers were quality to your blessing of quantity," he began.
It wasn't long ago I was living with me mum in a tiny flat in Devon. Me dad had run off with a young tart who worked for 'im in his business but mum never seemed to mind. She was always a quiet woman, sincere and polite but never felt the tick to speak her piece. She was a good lady, though. Looked after me and my brothers, kept us clothed and fed and did all the the good things a good mother should do. She got a job helping girls down at the university deal with women problems, telling 'im what to do with themselves. Good woman, that one.
Only once did she ask one of her students to watch us boys while she tended to her clients. That bird's name was Constance, a real tight piece of work; blonde and curt with the misses but never shy to help whatever guys she was buggering that week roll one out over the misses' landline. Sometimes me and my brothers, we'd listen in, though we never knew what the bloody hell she was on about.
I still don't know what a cream pie's got to do with anything, but 'at's besides the point.
One day, me eldest brother, William, dared me to ask Constance to see her tits. Not wanting to disappoint 'im, I strode right up to the twat and demanded to know what she kept beneath her knit sweaters.
Glory to God, she didn't hesitate to show me. Of course, she gestured for me to get fucked and told me and my brothers that we were creeps, but I think she got a little thrill out of it in the end.
It was the coy smile, I think.
She never did come back, though.
Oh, Constance, my angel of anatomy, will I never see you again?
A firm hand clamping down on his shoulder brought him out of his memories. He turned to discover Jamie standing next to him, staring in utter shock at the behemoth of breast before him. Jamie caught himself and reached in his pocket, cracking a grin from ear to ear.
"What is it?" Gordon asked.
"Stick out your tongue, old chap," Jamie demanded. Gordon obliged, uncertainty evident in the expression on his face. Jamie quickly snatched a tiny white square from his pocket and placed it on Gordon's tongue.
"What the fuck?" Gordon shouted, recoiling. "What did you just do?"
"Acid, my friend," Jamie said. "Old chap, you're about to see the very Tits of God."