35 - Tale of the Sideshow - Hair Fetish

Jason cracked open another beer. There was a hiss, and a dribble of froth. He took a long, slow slip, and around him, some of the others produced flasks or bottles of water. Storytelling, after all, is thirsty work.

"You might have the impression by now that you know what sets our little sideshow apart. Authenticity. Today, almost anyone can go on the internet and see all sorts of things. To get the punters off their asses and away from their screens means we need to show them something they can't find online. The Boss, she has a nose for these things. But once...well, once I found someone on my own. I call this...

HAIR FETISH

I was in Mexico. Not one of the touristy parts, either. It was winter, which meant the sideshow wasn't traveling, and the boss had a thought maybe we could do a winter tour down south. There would be some business to sort out passports and whatnot, but the cops are a lot more reasonable about looking the other way down there. I'd been down to Mexico before, on an archaeological dig. Back when I had...well, aspirations.

So was driving from town to town, stopping in cantinas, judging the size of the population, how much money they had. I'd buy the local cops some beer and tequila, and ask them about shows that came through. Mostly they hadn't had any in a long time. What I was figuring then was maybe we don't do the whole carnival at all, but just the sideshow. There was a sweet old lady named Mrs. Tezcatlipoca, owned a chain of run-down theaters. The kind that would do second-run shows of movies, but still had the stage and the curtains.

So I told her about how in the States they used to do spook shows. A magician would come out and do a bunch of tricks, and then the whole theater would go pitch dark for a little bit, and some phosphorescent spooks would fly around, all props of course—and it would segue right into a horror movie.

Well, Mrs. Tetzcalipoca got to liking the idea. I called the boss and she liked the idea. Of course, we weren't looking for kids at these shows. And the film being played wasn't normal either. Kind of a clipshow. Bits of Todd Browning's FREAKS, mashed up with some psychedelic sequences of the sideshow girls' after-hours performances. Really explicit stuff.

But before the show started, I saw this woman walking along a dirt road, in broken sandals and carrying a backpack, and I slowed the truck down.

Small, barely five feet. Full-figured; I was seeing her from behind, but the dress seemed to just cling to her with each sway of her hips. Yet what I noticed about her first was her ankle-length hair, which was dark black with little chestnut highlights. As I pulled up closer, I could see that she had hair on her arms and legs too, long dark hair. She stopped, and I stopped, and she turned to stare at me.

Eyes green like cloudy jade. The Conquistadors would have pried gems that color from the gods of violated temples. She had a long beard, neatly combed, but the hair was all over her face—long streamers from her cheeks, and along her brow, and bushy eyebrows almost elegant in their black delicacy. Ever her little nose had soft hair growing from it, like the hairs on a dog's snout.

Now, I'd heard of folks with conditions like this before. Seen a few. Yet we'd never had one in our sideshow. Maybe that was why I offered her a lift in the truck.

I drove. She answered questions. Her name was Xochi. She had lived not too far from here, in the town I'd just exited, after making my deal with Mrs. Tetzcatlipoca. Her father had done something for the cartels; what exactly, she never said and I didn't ask. But he had gone away and not come back. Her mother had—well, I learned that she was her pimp, basically. Except her mother had gotten hooked on ****. Had tried to be a mule.

"She got as far as Piedras Negras, and then one of the balloons she swallowed burst," Xochi had said. The overdose had been lethal. The money had run out. Xochi had nowhere to go, nowhere to stay, no job. Her plan had been to wander into town and do some hooking. What else would she do? She stood out too much to be a mule for the cartels. Would attract too much attention.

So I laid it on her. I laid it on thick. What the sideshow was, how we took care of each other. The money, the extra performances. Didn't hold anything back on that front. She asked questions. Only spoke Spanish, and some local language I didn't. Answered as best as I could. Mostly, I think, she was interested. What I was asking her to do wasn't really that different than what she had been doing for her mom, only under bright lights on the stage instead of in a darkened room.

When we got to the next town, I bought her a room. She was skittish around people, I noticed that. Stayed in the truck, head bent down, and didn't want to come out until it was dark. Well, there was no problem with that. I've helped more than one performer get over their stage fright. I was already seeing Xochi as our next attraction. Hadn't settled on the billing yet. The Hairest Cunt In The World was a bit crass, but stuck in my head.

Well, I got some beer and enchiladas from a nearby restaurant, and got her into the room. One room, two beds. We ate and talked some more. She was meticulous about her hair, about keeping clean. I saw her eye the shower in the bathroom from the moment we got in, and said it was fine by me if she wanted to use it. Figured I'd wash up in the morning.

Long shower. Later, I learned she used up all of the shampoo. There was a blow dryer plugged into the wall, and when she came out, dripping wet, she sat down and spent two hours with the blow dryer and brush, going all over her body. I took my time watching. By this point I was a little buzzed, had my shirt off. Then when she finally stood up I saw her. Really saw her.

It looked like the hair had just swallowed her. There was the shape of a woman suggested by all that hair, and I could see those eyes, the nose, but she seemed to float towards me with just the impression of swaying hips and jiggling tits. I was hard—instantly, almost painfully hard—the tip of my prick trapped behind my belt buckle. She approached my bed, and I saw her hand stretch out for the light switch.

I grabbed her wrist. The hair was warm and dry in my grasp, and softer than anything I'd touched, not coarse at all. It was like petting a woman's pubic hair, but no pubes had ever been so long.

"Leave the light on," was all I could manage in Spanish.

She blinked, then nodded. Her bearded face broke out into a kind of smile. Then...

At the time, I thought it was a trick. Static electricity. The hair seemed to rise up all around her. Like a cloud that just expanded. Her hands undid my belt buckle and my mushroom tip popped free, and by then her lips were on mine, and this may seem strange but her beard and mustache were as soft and warm as the rest of her. I'd kissed a few bearded ladies in my time, but this is the first time that it felt...right.

Xochi pulled me out of the pants, and said something in a language that wasn't Spanish. Just pushed me back in the bed and mounted me. I couldn't see her pussy at all, just the dark, wet thatch where it should be. Her eyes held mine, and I think maybe she was a little shy still. Being seen like that. My hands combed through the dark fur where her breasts were, and I found warm flesh underneath. The hair made them look bigger than they were, huge, but they still filled my hands as if made for them, and the little hairy nipples were hard as rocks.

She sank onto me, and it was—I don't know how to describe it. The hair clung to me. It seemed to fill every nook and cranny. I could feel Xochi's soft, warm little body, but we were both engulfed in that dark mass. It wrapped around us both to the point where I couldn't see the light. Could hardly breathe.

It didn't stop there. In the close, hot confines I felt her beard wrap like a serpent around my neck. Something inched down the length of my cock. Imagine having your balls tickled from the inside. I didn't scream or yell, thrash or try to fight it.

I came.

I erupted.

I think the **** of it shocked her. The suddenness. My hands had found her hips and I was hanging on for dear life as she ground back and forth on my dick, the air trapped inside making us both so hot and sweaty it was like being trapped under a wool blanket. I couldn't see her eyes but I could feel the way she stiffened as my balls emptied into her, six or seven hard spurts and—

Well, I'd forgotten to wear a condom. Honestly, I wasn't planning to fuck her then.

When we collapsed onto my bed, her hair pulled away a little. She was curled against me, one hand tracing a nipple on my chest. The long, delicate black hairs on her hands almost seemed like they were trying to weave into the short, curly pale hairs on my breast.

"Sorry," she muttered in Spanish. "Sometimes, it has a mind of its own."

I pulled away to pee, a half an hour later. I'll never forget that experience. There was a hair sticking out of my dick. I grasped it between thumb and forefinger and gave a tug...and about an inch of fine black hair came out. Then another inch. And another. I'm not sure when she came to watch, standing in the doorway of the bedroom as I pullled and pulled, at least two feet of a single long, black thread unspooling from deep inside my cock, and I could feel something inside of there...which finally came out, in a clear torrent of fluid. A little knot.

"They're called bezoars," she said. Some time later, when I had access to the internet, I looked it up. She was right.

When the boss brought the show across the Border, she was happy with my discovery. Local color, she called Xochi. Amelia and Allie couldn't speak Spanish, but I was teaching everyone how to sign anyway, and pretty quick we were all friends. There were complications, later. Xochi wasn't comfortable performing with anyone else, though the two of us worked up a pretty good act, with these condoms blown up balloons and a steady stream of patter. She could pop the balloons, with needles hidden in her hair. Never ceased to draw a gasp from the crowd.

The boss sat us down one night, first night of spring. She had a proposition. Wanted to bring Xochi to the US with us.

Only, it would be a lot easier for her to get a green card if she was married to an American national.

It was a strange sort of wedding. The Fat Lady, Bess, officiated. Amelia and Allie were maids of honor, which basically meant they wore white ribbons on their heads. Dr Gyges and Maria, the Boss and the rest of the sideshow were witnesses. I remembered Todd Browning's movie, the freak wedding that had played out on screen, intercut in our perverse little film with hardcore inserts of dwarfs eating pussy, an Alligator Woman stroking her cocks, conjoined twins giving a double blowjob.

It was me. I was becoming one of them. This was my life now. It wasn't something I could just walk away from.

Jason held up his left hand. Most of the third finger was missing, all except the stub of a finger. On it was a black ring tattoo.

"Three years, next February," he said. "And there are nights I wake up and her beard is curled around me so tight I can't breathe. Maybe one day, I won't wake up at all.'

He blew out the candle. There was no wind, but for a moment his hair seemed to move on its own.