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By Peter_Jarrette All Rights Reserved ©

Erotica / Humor


CALYPSO FANNYWAGON'S RUMSHOP is a lurid, lewd, royal sci-fi sex farce set in the 1960's on a steamy Caribbean island. Calypso and Oona Chut are two glamzons who are bedevilled by a migratory bird with an otherworldly transistor radio and watched closely and without knowledge by senior memebers of England's royal family. Stewpot Street and Federation Way in East Dry River is the down-at-heel location of Calypso Fannywagon's rumshop where lazy locals drink and dominoes and damp doings are the order of the day. The Queen Mother, Princess Margaret and Queen Elizabeth II are Carnival mad Jab Jab Devils who are interwoven in a story of love and dark bombastic forces. Sexual blackmail, wanton lust, erotic encounters, crabs, red ants and a certain Doctor are all present to be enjoyed.

Chapter 1

Calypso Fannywagon knew nothing, nothing more than she loved him so. She felt him, tapping out his cooling, calming rhythms on her slick moulded surfaces...his strong hands making her resonate and sometimes even trill. His adept and knowing roaming, in closing circles of her universal shape, her sections...each of them a connect, a quick route to her limited but capable ability to permeate the tranquillity of the balmy air with her sweet, sweet notes......low and soft... dulcet...then sharp! Sharp and piercing. He played her...she sang for him...just him. She was his instrument.

But Calypso Fannywagon could not be his only. No. She was made for many. She was the creation of minds, hearts and hands...of need; needs of release and dance and movement. She was crafted for ceremony of the carnival of the souls...and the streets. They pushed her slowly from behind and tapped her...and tempered her...and they all watched and listened. How could they not? “What is Calypso Fannywagon?” a young child asked his dancing mother.

‎“She’s an old drum honey.”

Oona Chut had little need of Calypso Fannywagon, they weren’t friends. There was a time many years ago when they were thrown together but that was by circumstance. It was him. They, both of them, Oona and Calypso, true beauties in their time were inevitably drawn to him. He was branded; by the folks on the dusty side of town they called East Dry River, a badjohn, a lothario. And some even said...a bandit. His name was Buford. Buford Marmatron.

What Oona and Calypso had in incomparable beauty they lacked in sense. Buford was a bird. A migratory bird of medium size (as far as birds go) but as vapid as these two sought after glamazons were in their bursting youth, Oona and Calypso were not foolish enough to think that size mattered. And migrants...well; these two Salomé’s knew that we all had to come from somewhere.

Buford liked to stand in rain soaked doorways and listen to street drinkers playing Tiger Feet on his tiny stolen transistor radio. “There’s dat badjohn.” the East Dry River locals would sneer in their island patois, “Buford bloody Marmatron, listen’ tuh dat shit music. Foolish bandit.” and they’d suck their teeth and walk on. An old beaten-up yellow Pontiac taxi pulled up to where Buford listened to his pop music and Oona Chut alighted on the curb...her scuffed white shoe stepping into a puddle.

’There’s a FINE set a feathers’ Oona thought to herself glancing at Buford, slowly closing the warped taxi door behind her and stepping onto the worn pavement. Her small, cream coloured vinyl hand bag with the broken clasp opened, tipped and spilled her loose change onto the wet concrete. Buford flew up out of the doorway swept down and snatched Oona’s coinage into his beak and flapped off. “Yuh lousy bandit!” she shouted at him as he made good his escape. The street drinkers turned away.

The tinny lyrics of What Becomes of the Broken Hearted screwed out of the stolen transistor radio. Oona called out to nobody in particular, “Dat fuckin’ bird have meh money! Somebody! CATCH HE!” and she gave chase splashing into puddle after puddle unaware that her brassiere strap had snapped, her tangerine blouse had flung itself open and her creamy tan breasts were now as animated as her scuffed white shoes as she barrelled along the steaming wet pavement after a migratory bird...and he was gone...up and over the rusty galvanise rooftop of Calypso Fannywagon’s Rumshop...on the corner of Federation Way and Stewpot Street. And that’s where an out of breath Oona gave up her frantic pursuit and staggered into the coolness of Calypso’s. “Woman!” a female voice screamed out, “All yuh breast bouncin’ out! Cover yuhself up! Plenty man in here an’ yuh go give dem erection!” And that’s how Oona Chut met Calypso Fannywagon.

Calypso’s was exotic and a random Facebook status...but they hadn’t invented Facebook yet. It was still nineteen sixty-five. To Calypso Fannywagon, Calypso’s wasn’t faintly exotic or remote. It was her home, business and life. To Oona Chut it was the first place anybody other than her mother ever showed her any kindness or concern. She had no money but Calypso saw to it that this titty hysteric with a broken handbag clasp and an open tangerine blouse had a large, straight glass of hours later, as tiny inebriation bubbles burst quietly around Oona’s head, Calypso Fannywagon calmly said “Tiger Feet ain’ been written yet. Dis bandit, Buford...?” Calypso knew of him too. She’d first seen his fine feathery body in wet doorways years before.“...He ahead ah he time...or he stolen transistor radio is. Dat song yuh heard, it ain’ a hit until de nineteen seventies an’ we still in nineteen sixty-five, ent?” Ent, the local, short expression for ‘not true?’ Oona passed out.

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