Tanka

“Chaws” The Beat Poet

Why being a poet would be so cool

I’m in a smokey bar, wearing a black turtle-neck, black skinny jeans, and a black beret.

I sit quietly in the back of the bar, seemingly morose and depressed. I ignore my adoring fans, but allow them to rub their hands across my shoulders as they pass behind me, hoping to get the attention of the Great Charles Roast, Poet Illuminator A la Grande. They know not to linger, but some take too long, and earn a silent rebuke from my entourage of coeds from the local community college writing program.

Any one who speaks to me must call me “Charles” and pronounce it “Chaws.”

The show starts with a nod from me to the house manager. The lights dim. I wait patiently through the sad performances of “Chaws” wannabes who, after they’re finished, look expectantly in my direction, seeking my approval.

My approval is given sparingly, and only to those I know will not become my rival, or take my place. It is simply given. When the “poet” quiets, if I approve, I will snap my fingers once, and once only. That is the signal for the room to begin snapping their fingers on both hands. It is the equivalent of a standing ovation.

It is rarely given. Otherwise, if no snaps, they know a glance from me, very briefly, in their direction, means there is hope. It is enough to thrill them into working harder. At a glance to the poet, the room of observers snaps quickly and quietly with one hand, acknowledging my brief approval.

They come off the stage, walk to my table, and place a few dollars into the hands of one of my beautiful, adoring, impressionable young college coeds, who is studying poetry in college, and who hope my greatness rubs off on her.

If I don’t look up, and I don’t snap, it is a destruction of their hopes and dreams. And it is usually because they have the talent to become “the next ‘Chaws.’” Those words are forbidden to be spoken in my inner circle, or near me, where I can hear them.

To speak those words near me results in quick breath intakes by my coeds and sycophants. They look to me to see if I heard. If I did, I shrug my right shoulder, and the speaker of those words becomes dead to me. They are now shunned by the poet community. They slink off in tears and apologies. The room knows what happened, and they turn their turtle-necked backs to the offender.

Don’t mess with “Chaws.”

Soon, the lights dim further. Several performers have been quietly acknowledged. No one was destroyed tonight. I feel too good. The restless room quiets. They know what happens next.

My beautiful coeds rise slowly. They ooze through the crowd and without a word, accept the cash money the audience practically throws at them.

The coeds come back to my table, and count the donations. It may or may not be enough. If I shake my head, the coeds rise again, and seek more donations from the audience, who know something special is happening.

They know I only seek more when I believe I have something special to give them. Today is one of those days. I shake my head with barely a twitch.

The coeds rise and begin the process all over. The crowd eagerly empty their pockets and hand over their remaining cash to my lovely assistants, who return to my table to count again. I nod. It’s the sign the crowd has been waiting for . . .they are ready.

A rustle ensues as every one settles and stares at the stage, silence settling on the crowd as if all have suddenly lost the ability to speak. They know not to watch me as I walk to the stage.

However, I am not quite ready. The mood must be just right. The crowd shifts their view to me. I signal to one of my coeds with just a glance. She knows what that means. She rises slowly from her chair and walks sensuously to me.

She leans in perilously close, her breasts heaving as they brush, then press against my arm. She kisses me on the cheek, slowly pressing her lightly made-up and slightly parted lips to the corner of my mouth. She leaves the kiss there, savoring it, then reluctantly pulls back. Her breath is hot and rapid. Her face is flushed with excitement. She slowly turns her head and places her ear to my lips.

In a breathy, smooth baritone voice, barely a whisper, I tell her to move the stool on the stage. The vibrations from my words cause her to shudder involuntarily.

I tell her nothing more. She waits, keeping her ear to my lips, her breath coming quicker in anticipation. I know what she wants. I give it to her.

I grasp her chin in one of my large, smooth hands, and slowly turn her head so we are face to face, millimetres apart. I stare into her dark eyes with my piercing blue eyes. She whimpers with excitement. She can’t look away. She cannot blink.

Silence engulfs the room. The other coeds begin breathing in rhythm to the one in my hand.

Slowly, I kiss her parted lips, quickly darting out my tongue to run it slowly along her lower lip. She nearly swoons when I whisper in a harsh tone, “Do it, now!”

As she reluctantly starts to pull away, I pull her back, still gripping her face, and whisper harshly, again, “Say my name.” Trembling, not with fear, but with sexual energy, her voice raspy with desire, she says, “Chaws.”

I release her. She can barely stand. As she rises, she needs to place her hands on the table for support. I look at her heaving chest and see she responded as I expected, needed. Her nipples are erect through her thin, black turtleneck. Her face is flushed.

She knows what will happen tonight, if I feel I have been successful in the performance of my work. She stands, thrusting out her chest, proud of the effect I have on her, drawing the stares of men and women both, jealous of her status as my lover.

She walks slowly to the stage. The audience watches in fascination, wondering if the stool will be pushed back, or pushed closer. The coed walks slowly up the stage stairs, all eyes on her, including mine. As she slowly walks across the stage, her breasts, unencumbered by support and needing none, move and sway with an intoxicating rhythm.

She stops, bends over and grasps the stool. Her back is arched, and she turns her head, looking back at me in anticipation, almost pleading with me. It’s a look I like, and have seen on her face before, in a different, more private setting. It’s a look I’ll want to see tonight, later. Maybe. She is getting bold. I like that. She’ll want to be put in her place. The audience is enthralled and cannot stop watching, eagerly anticipating her next move.

She continues to look at me, slowly, but unconsciously, licking her lips. I look at her, staring back, desire evident in my own eyes. The audience move their heads collectively, back and forth, from her to me, like an emo tennis match is taking place before their eyes.

They know the importance of what happens next. If the stool moves back, they know my mood is unsettled, my brain unfocused. Even then, my performance will dazzle them.

But if the stool moves forward, towards them, they know they can expect to hear something few ever get to experience.

I nod once. She knows what that means. The crowd does not. They watch, like voyeurs watching something they know they shouldn’t be seeing.

My beautiful companion, who will be with me until this night is over, slowly looks at the audience. Pure sex emanates from her aura. She shifts one leg in anticipation of her next act. The crowd barely contain themselves, breathing heavily, forgetting their drinks on the tables in front of them, their friends dissipating in the fog of the moment.

A slight pause, then my beautiful coed begins to move the stool forward. The crowds energy climaxes in a collective gasp. A woman in the front passes out and falls to the floor, her companion too transfixed on my assistant to notice.

But that only begins my performance. The coed slowly stands. She waits, in anticipation, her hand slowly caressing the seat I will soon be resting on. She watches the crowd and waits for them to settle again. The woman who collapsed slowly rises unassisted by her companion and returns safely to her chair. My coed works the room like a pro, specially chosen and trained for this purpose by me.

She slowly swivels her head, her chest and nipples still prominent, turtleneck nearly bursting at the seams as her breasts try desperately to free themselves. All eyes return to her. She makes eye contact with all. Some wither under her strong sexually energized gaze, some groan with barely suppressed desire, and some stare, hypnotized, unable to move or look away. The crowd is ready.

In the back of the room, I slowly stand. I wait to make sure no one watches me. My entourage of coeds stands with me, their eyes roaming my tall, muscular form and the erection barely contained in my tight pants. Their eyes linger there, for a moment, desire evident in their eyes. I linger and enjoy their lusty stares.

Slowly, I walk through the crowd. Like oil and water, the crowd and I never mix. I slip through them like a wraith. No one watches, eyes and heads turned away.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs leading to the stage. My luscious coed, in all her glory, slowly approaches me, and starts to walk languidly down the stairs. Halfway down, her hand reaches out, and grasps my own outstretched hand.

She slowly, seemingly, pulls me up onto the stage and walks with me to the stool. The crowd can now watch me, as I have made my entrance.

I sit on the stool, bringing my face level with my coed assistant’s face. She moves closer to me. I spread my knees apart to give her closer access. Like before, her breasts pressed up against my chest.

As she moves to kiss me, I stop her with a slight shake of my head. She whimpers her need, and her disappointment. The crowd moans in disappointment, and expectation. Soon. They feel it. Their own excitement rising, pheromones so thick in the room, you can almost see them. I fear that any minute, now, an orgy of passion could break out in the crowd.

I know not to push it too long. I grasp the sides of my coed’s face with both hands and pull her roughly in for a hard, wet kiss. It lasts several seconds. She tries to consume me with her hunger, pressing her body so hard against mine I fear we will topple off the stool and be unable to stop. The crowd is hopeful, any way.

Not exactly the performance I planned, but the audience won’t mind, and neither will my coed. But that will have to wait.

I abruptly break away from her kiss, and push her away. She tries to approach me again. But with a look from me, she stops. I look back towards my table, and she knows what I need from her. She turns and leaves. The crowd murmurs with disappointment, but are silenced by a glance from me.

The crowd doesn’t watch her leave. Their eyes are glued to me.

The stage manager lowers the lights until it is pitch black inside the room. A single, small spotlight turns on over my head, hitting it’s mark exactly as planned.

The light, directly overhead, shines down on my head, which is tipped forward. My position, along with the beret on my head, cause shadows to fall strategically over my face. My silhouette and shadow are all that is left of me.

I feel the tension in the room. Someone shifts in their seat, anticipation rising like the crescendo of a silent orchestra. I must begin soon, or the wave may brutally collapse on my moment.

Without further ado, and with no microphone, I begin to speak, my strong baritone resonating in such a way that the glasses on the tables vibrate. I give the crowd what they have been waiting for:

Tanka. You’re welcome Not at all, not a problem The pleasure is yours Of course the pleasure is yours Soon the pleasure will be mine

The crowd is stunned. No one moves. What have they witnessed? It’s a new level of brilliance, beyond the capacity of most to comprehend. But they know they were just a part of history.

A Tanka poem. Subtle in its obviousness. Complicated by its simplicity. And relevant to the moment they have been part of.

I stand and walk out of the spotlight. Low levels of light begin to glow in the room as the crowd take out their phones and photograph this momentous occasion. The light is enough to see by.

I walk to the steps, where I am met by my beautiful coed. She can barely contain her sexual arousal and roams her hands over my chest. She slips one hand down to grasp at my erection, but I quickly stop her by clasping her hand in mine.

She takes the lead, and walks me out the door, followed by my other coeds.

As I leave, I hear the finger snapping begin, rising to a heretofore never heard level. The crescendo shuts off like a switch as the door to the club closes.

My sexually aroused coed pulls me eagerly to the right, towards her apartment. I gently ease my hand out of her grasp.

Without another word, I turn to the left, and walk away, alone, but not lonely.

My sexual energy has dissipated, used up on the stage. But the euphoria remains.

I am satisfied, satiated. The moment has delivered and I need nothing else. .

But to change my underwear.

Chuck Roast is a humorist (“humourist” for those of you who like the “incorrect” spelling)for the publication Illumination, a Top Writer in Satire, and owner/editor/writer of his own Publication, Dad-Bods, which is currently sitting idle while he develops his social media skills and gains more exposure through manipulation of said social media. Here are the links to his accounts, LinkedIn, Twitter. Comments are always appreciated. Thanks for reading. Write On!