So I retorted with: “Drinkwards let it be then, drinkwards is bestwards as we speak, ya amar!” I notched the volume switch higher for the two catwalk-material sharmingas on my right to ear and think I am confident. They eyed me real proper from top to bottom and stopped halfway. Then halfway from left to right and stopped halfway.
Weeeeell, modesty is by far one of the many dashing traits in my sizzling personality, but if you really wish to divulge, yes, big package ya madamet, you bet I swear! It’s not the pants, it’s nasty Eri, Eeeeeeri, oink! Oh Eri, oink oink! Only known by a slew... he’s a killer, the Circumcised Madrefûcker they call ’im on the street, frowning one-eyed Cyclops, regurgitator of green pustular sins and black sticky fire, the brimstone and the venereal baby boys, and demonic hordes of children project by the scores of gazillions, whole continents crowding behind the eye, a sacrifice of a peninsula, vanishing into the sea, forever waiting, waiting to shatter the gate to smithereens and drown the world.
“Wlik ya ahla bel sheikh! What we like tonight? Eh?”
“Crissycross Bloody fucking Mary!” I ordered as I crossed my chest. The bartender was all smiley smiley of course, sidi.
Oh, and shikishikishikishiki was their excuse for music.
A window. I threw an eye through.
A stretch of red in the black sky. I smiled. Bleeding rectums beckoned.
Bang slammed a door. I looked back.
Three belly dancers stormed out of their rooms laughing, the eastern gate blown to hell, thank God, the chador keys thrown away for Allah is away on business and nothing beats reporting to an absentee boss. These virgins of heaven were flashing me their bosoms as we spoke, giggling as they went from room to room.
A stallion and vixens I swear to god we are, we Oriental god-looking bastards. God made us out of His own disgusting spat image. Read your scriptures, Euro-trash! It’s all there. We are as tempestuous and cruel and gorgeous as Yahweh. You too-whites, you too-blacks, you too-yellows are simply mutations of the image of the god of Genesis. You’re like us, but you’re a little fucked up. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. Weather and living conditions do take their toll.
Then... splaf! Glass under my nose, very fuckin’ fast that was! I looked at him. He smiled at me with green teeth showing. “Come here, you. The Ayrton Senna of bartenders, I knight thee.” And I put a ten-thousand-lira bill in his pocket.
“EuheuheuEuheuheuGeuheu!” he slyly remarked.
“You may go now,” I told him.
I nosed the glass. Very rancid, of course. He made it in a second to impress me. I took a sip, tonguing it up and down, left and right, in my palate for testing. Oh fuck it, what am I doing? Al kohol is al kohol, and the tongue will just have to take it. No?
I say yes.
No?
I don’t know, I think I’ll go with yes.
Then a lilylilhoe, delightfully underage, freshly cropped, tallish, she came out of nowhere, I swear, she grabbeth my face and licketh my ear. Oh the nasty schlupka! Ayayay ya Allah, not the bloody ear! For you see, ya akhi, due to a horrific childhood collision injury I was smitten as a result with a G-spot there. The lilylilhoe must have had inside information for she went at it with knowledge.
So she laughed and of course she asked for a drink.
“Ya walad, give the lady what she wants.”
She shrieked, “Yiiiiih! Shu mahdum! Lady! Hahaha!”
I smiled.
“Yiiiiih! Leish hek snenak? Your teeth are all black, mister! Pourquoi?”
“Later, ya amar,” I said to her, and then after a wink, “Mesh in public, okay?”
“Hahahahaha!” she retorted.
It became clear I was just regularly spouting pearls of comedy because everything I said made her laugh. So I kept talking as she dreamily observed my mouth move and being moved like a leaf when deep sounds came out. Every inch of my skin was a map that she devised with care like Christopher when his sailors began to rebel. And every time I spoke she nodded, and it was Holy Scriptures that she wrote down on her little tabula rasa.
“Badde fuut ‘al bathroom, okay?”
“Okay, ya amar.”
She smiled and she swooshed away just like that, and her hair zebrafied the lightbulb, and I saw her squeezing between the jiggling, giggling fat bodies and the harharhars of her horrible friends.
“What’s with ze rosy schlupka, eh? Shu? You like rosy schlupkas? You don’t like zis?”
I was still looking back, smiling like an autistic kid, when she came along.
I looked back once more and oh my goodness — we were under assault yet again! Mojo soldiers! Left flank, left flank! This time by a sharminga like no other, I swear. So I eyed her really proper to give a frank answer as to whether I want zis or not and, by Jove, cabbie! Hooooold! For she was a yummy-yummy-swallow-every-drop kind of wench, ya cabbie! Her lips were warm and sanctified beyond perfection by the god-trampler Silicon. Her breasts seemed to gasp for air under her Victoria and Fatima’s Secret. An oh-just-tear-me-apart soiree dress and really outlandish earrings. Perfect hourglass figure but time was running out. 36, I give her, 36 or 37, not more. She was staring at me right through the eyelobes, and then without prior warning, she looked down at Eri. Eri grumbled. A steady slow hum. She ran her heels underneath my sheikhly black dress and she woke up Eri who was in a deserving slumber. Blitzkrieg Allah almighty! I thought to myself.
“Shu ismik ya amar?” I asked.
“Esmeh Chastity,” she answered.
Hahahaha, how bloody goddamn cute! Her name was fuckin’ Chastity.
“And what’s the name of the rosy schlupka bi sharafik?”
“Esmah Fidelity.” She was getting jealous so she said that as if she just ate a whole pile of horseshit.
“Fidelity, is it?” I said with a huge grin.
2:11
So I followed the sharminga home and she felt suddenly motherly toward Fidelity so we were three. They discussed a price between themselves and then informed me of their findings, which I thought reasonable. We got downright nasty halfway through in the cab, and the cabbie was bearded and all, and was going apologies to Allah for us, and he dropped us in Bourj Hammoud after hurling us with some calligraphied insults. Aaaaaaaah Bourj Hammoud, the den of Armenian thieves and jewelry carvers.
So we entered the crummy tasteless apartment and we went at it, humping humping hohoho all night long, as if we were to die with the light of day, ya know, the John Donne’s kind of hatred to the fucking sun, oh why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us, ey? Why? Hurry hurry, one more fuck baby girls before the light shines us blind like the residents of Plato Hotel. One more kamikaze squadron of children projects missing Pearl Harbor by miles. Oh lonely egg thou art. On your backs, a genocide in your mouths, on your hair, on the curtains, watch out! I’m gonna spill an Africa on your fingers, in your mouth, I swear, an Asia plus two Chinas on your bosoms. Get the lifeboats, baby girls, for I am coming and my ancestral swine will sustain it until we are all dead. Oh how lonely thou art, oh you egg.
I got them bare like fallen vineless Eves and I served them real proper. The time of their lives, they told me.
And the wind blew in the room. Our long hair flew here and there, this way and that, slapping about, as a sol diez drowned the room with utter madness.
I wiped. I wore my pants and went out.
4:32
It was geese-bumping-in-walls kinda weather, really fuckin’ cold, so I walked faster. Having felt no additional warmth whatsoever, I walked slowly again.
Bravo, boy. First fuck in ages. Paid for and billed. Romance at its utmost sickening point.