The Atomic Hula by Mike Marino (most important books of all time .TXT) 📖

because they will be sending you a plane ticket and you have to be home before December and then back to school when it starts up again in January." He thought it over, and realizing he had no choice, nor did he intend to stick to the deal anyway.
So, nothing to loose, he agreed to all the terms. Hell, he'd even send them a postcard or two from "The Wish You Were Here" islands of palm fronds, sweet tasting brown skinned ass and skirts of grass. Mickey turned over the first months rent, which left him with $250 and some spare change to spare.
Mrs. Kuramoto gave him the studio apartment right next, wall to wall, to the office, her apartment. That way she could keep a watchful eye on him just as she had promised his parents she would do; and his gaping mouth open love struck look hadn't gone unnoticed to her either. The kid was young, but attractive; innocent to a degree, but, lets face it; he's gonna have to grow up someday anyway somehow. Besides, he was toting around a fully laden cargoe hold of hormones, typhoon powered, that would be raging across the froth of the South China Sea, cresting and peaking with undulating motions, then, ultimately make landfall. So, why not just BE the landfall he'd end up on anyway?
She also knew that first real puppy love could whip itself into a potent and highly powerful sex elixir. Dr. Jekyll meet Mr. Hardon Hyde. Offer him a teasing taste to tempt and wet his appetite and she could then direct, control and harness that puppy love; using it as a puppy leash to keep Mickey close to her bedside.
She did, after all, promise his parents to keep an eye on him to protect him from predators, and God knows they were/are numerous and wily. She got lonely at times too. Her husband, of 21 years, business tripped to Tokyo on occasion, leaving her alone in paradise, and she could now use that now promising precious promiscuous time to train her new young pet on a leash a few rollover and beg tricks in bed of her own. It was true, she thought, you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Now a young puppy, fresh meat, that is another story. She was his first, and without regret, the most unforgettable. Mickey would dive in headfirst, as deep into her rich garden soil as he could plant his roots, many, many musky times. The moist petals of her Lotus Blossom would open wide, hungry and inviting, not to mention deliciously and devastatingly demanding, to devour and swallow whole, the cherry from his own blooming tree of blossoms.
One night as he was lying naked on her bed she came in the room wearing only a double-breasted pinstripe suit top and a grey fedora hat. Marlene and the Cabaret Crowd swinging on a trapeze in the fog. the look on his face made her smile and laugh. "Doc told me once I looked like a double breasted dyke." Mickey’s eyes flying saucered once again. "But you see, I can't be all that" she said. "One quarter of my sexuality is saved for you."
Mickey had heard of dykes, from Doc, and wondered what they were exactly or not exactly. She was sexy though with one breast escaping the double breasted cage of pinstripes. "What is a dike exactly, ma'am"? She had trained him well to call her Ma'am and he did as she told him. "Well, there is DIKE, spelled with an "i" and that is where little Dutch boys put their fingers in, then there is DYKE, with a "y", and that is where little Dutch girls put THEIR finger in."
She stripped but kept on the fedora and sat on the bed and caressed him and held her head to her breast as he tried in vain to get her milk, long since dried up, but it quenched his thirst anyway. He was an only child, but now, not a lonely child. He now belonged to her, and her to him but she wanted him to explore the beach and the others on the beach, but always come back to her when she called, and we would do just that.
Street level apartments in Honolulu just happen to sport spectacular voyeuristic views of the King Kong thong throngs that perform daily and nightly across the street. Haughty hoteliers and convivial concierges arm wrestle one another in the Beach Blanket Bingo Battle Royale for very real estate. The frontlines, no more, no less then mere thin-skinned walkway sidewalks allowing access to the ocean and its sandcastle palace of pleasures.
The wenches and the wretches alike, oozing a sexy, subtle brown Coppertone hot-skin smell, little flecks of sand hidden, embedded, in the fog of its sweet sweat. Coconuts, high up in the trees, hiding until they can be fashioned into fine exotic breast wear; balmy skies, palmy trees; frondy foliage, stacked, racked surfboards; outriggers and catamarans adding to the cacophony of sound and sensory assault of sight as all was being made ready for The Minnesota Tourist Creatures from The Beach Lagoon! Yelling out to the mountain tops of their lungs, ALOHA! YOU'BETCHA!
Hyena laughs coming from the haoli hordes; locals, ever watchful and wary of these post-missionary invaders from Mars; heart pounding waves, skies of the bluest of hues, and in the tropical backdrop cloth of a background the sensuous vibrating g-spot strings of an idyllic islandic ukulele.
Mickey was ready, for what, he didn't have a clue, but damn, he could feel the readiness take hold. The bitch of the beach beckoned to him, all come hitherish more like a tenderloin whore with too much makeup and too many miles on 'er. It was it took. He was off and running in all directions. He put on some old raggedy cutoffs and ran out of the apartment, straight for the beach, breathing and heaving heavily. Once again, the whore had won.
Mickey walked "gingerly", (jes' always wanted to use that word, feel free to insert your own if that pleases you!) barefoot in the footsteps of Gallileo and other men and women of pure crystalline science and unholy blasphemy. He beheld enlightenment in the form of a tiki torch and discovered that the earth was indeed round, egg shaped and elipsing about the universe wobbling all the way. He also found that man would sail under the ocean, fly around the world in 80 days and one day, one lunar tune day, man would walk on the surface of the moon.
Mickey stood still, silent, jaw gaping as he absorbed the scene as much as his little sponge of experience would allow. Gaping and gazing. A numb struck jumbuck at best. The promise of promiscuity made itself visible in the short time it takes to crack a whip. Son of a beach, he had been jolly rogered and jolly and joyfully marooned on an amazing atoll of fantastic, bombastic bikini's.
Fuck science. Fuck fusion and fuck fission. Bomb holding bikini's held massive warheads that if unleashed could be, would be, no doubt about it, devastating. They would release massive megatons of countdown cleavage ten times more powerful than the Nagasaki nuke. Atomique breasts armed with detonator nipples, shared the beach with silos of failsafe missiles of mile high thighs!
Mickey could only stand there, immovable, immobile when he noticed the bulge in his pants rising like the full moon. He was racing head-on for a collision with a hard on that was expanding like its mushroom cloud over Alamogordo!
The time had finally come. Mickey had unlocked the key to sexual universe and was more than ready to split his own sexual atom and detonate!
Chapter Three

Daybreak broke as the sun began its vertical ascent above the endless, homeless horizon. Solar jaws opened wide to devour what remained of the fading night, choking on stars, planets and incestuously feasting on its own crater infested, meteor battered sister Luna. It's a heroin heroine that numbs reality and human fear, holding demons at an opiate distance, at least until the night of dead living returns. It's then that reality and associated fears rematerialize and the demons laugh again.
Mickey now had pockets that were mean street empty. Money for rent had run as dry as the Colorado River in a drought, and he was now spare changed and on the bum; a haiku hobo without a net to catch him should he fall flying high from his tramp trapeze. Life for the young teen was about to become a promiscuous promised land of carnal carnage, heaving hot with a sordid assortment of Turkish delights in back alleys filled with secret doors that opened up to opulent dens of opium and smokey Julie Newmar inspired T-girl Bangkok bars. Honolulu, too, was a Mad Hatters tea party and Mickey wanted to pay the price of admission, if only to see the Bearded Lady and her three legged dog, her two headed Siamese son and her fiery fire eating daughter. He bought his ticket from the barker and entered the tent of mildew and cigars..and headed straight for the land of the holy men and hookers on Hotel Street.
He hoofed along on Kalakau Street, beat and happy at the same time and enjoying his no cost, no charge, spare change "freedom" as it were, when a screeching of tires nudged him back to reality. It was the old beat cab with the old beat cabbie, Doc Yucatan. "Thought tha' was you boy, get in." Mickey lit up when he heard Doc's voice and saw that wonderful and weird yellow machine that passed for mass trans in the Hay-wian Islands. "Hey, Doc...goin' to Hotel Street. Can you take me there? Don't have any money left though so if that’s a problem I'll understand." Doc's eyes got as big as the planet Jupiter. Hotel Street. "Boy, what you want tha' old part of town, anyway? Jes' pimps and drugs and sailors and hustlers is all. Why you want that?" He didn't have to think too long about it. The future held mysteries..mysteries he couldn't wait to unlock. He smiled though and thought to himself, "All that doesn't sound so bad. I'm a pirate now and pirates take pleasure in life, don't they?" The only thing he forgot was the fact that all those imaginary pirates aboard his ship of imagination that eventually were marooned on imaginary islands didn't really exist. He however was real, and really marooned, in paradise granted, but marooned he was in his own new reality. A paradox paradise.
The old cab grumbled along the ave as Doc steered the course to the booze and sex landfill known as "Hotel Street", a series of streets really with cheap bars, bar girls, massage parlors and whores in alleys. "Now, see boy, is that what you want? Don' think so, no. Mrs. K tol' me 'bout you running low on funds and had to leave and she felt real bad, but, business is business eh, kid?" Mickey nodded. How could he disagree with this agreeable character? "Won't be bad Doc. The place has plenty of beaches to sack out on at night and should be able to eat something everyday, don't know what, but something. I'm young, I'll get by"
The kid never had a growling, painful stomache a day in his life and Doc knew it. "Won' be that easy, but stay away from this here hotel area. Too many sailors jes' want'n to drink, fight and fuck. Dangerous she is." The cab wove back to the beach area by the Reef Hotel, right across the street from Mickey’s small studio apartment that once protected him in its 90 degree walled womb