"Hi hon. You looking?" she asks me as I stand beside her as if I were waiting to cross the corner. I’ m incognito.
"Yes, I am," I answer, still looking at passing cars.
I face her. She smiles and pretty dimples form on her cheeks. She is not beautiful; she is cute instead, and outgoing, I can tell.
"Fifty bucks," she says in a pleasant voice.
"I only have forty," I say, which is the honest truth.
Her smile and her dimples seem out of place in a hooker; they belong on some goody-goody commercial. "O.K. You' re kind of cute," she says.
We walk side by side to her room, blending with the crowd, and make small talk. And then we make love, or have sex, or make sex and have love, I don' t know which one it is. But it was well worth forty bucks.
Two Chinks
A summer sun hammers the long line of tourist-packed vehicle strickling by in their way to the beach ramps. The street boils with Yankee cars loaded with old farts dressed in polychrome polyester, and rednecks driving pick-ups that blare Lynyrd Skynyrd tunes out onto the hot sidewalks. The sundry procession goes by, inching its way to the Atlantic with its rewards of overcrowded beaches and piss filled surf.
Debbie stands by the corner, clutching a pack of cigarettes in one hand, her other hand resting on her hip, her rump haughtily shoved to a side and well defined under her light summer dress, a brief dress that exposes the two masks tattooed on her right shoulder just below her hair line. One mask smiles and the other one is sad. She chose that particular tattoo out of the fat and dog eared book a scroungy looking biker artist had given her to pick from; to her it spoke of life' s good and bad times.
Men stare at her with a fixation that would make any woman blush, but she stares back with cold brown eyes and a Mona Lisa smile. The sea breeze tousles her dress and dark blond hair; her small breasts push their hard nipples through her dress' s light fabric. It' s too hot for a bra; besides, she doesn' t own any, an advantage of having small tits, the only advantage she can think of.
Women also stare at her. Some turn their noses up as if offended by an unknown smell; a few laugh among themselves; and others become angry at her sight: she' s giving away for cash what they cherish as a God given treasure, that hair covered slit between their legs that holds the promise of good husbands and happy families. Debbie' s is for sale by the side of the road like a hot dog or a T-shirt, and their men look at it, so easy, reachable and cheap, and their own slits, sitting on upholstery bought with five year loans, drop a notch in value.
She saunters on the sidewalk and trusts her rump in the air with practiced provocation, holding the cigarette pack in one hand, a lit cigarette on the other. She stares at the men in the passing cars, never deflecting her hard eyes from their own scrutiny. It' s hot but breezy and she enjoys the air blowing between her naked legs, carousing her exposed crotch.
She gets a kick out of lifting her dress and showing her triangle to some nerd looking guy, watching his eyes grow big and his brows arch like a cat' s back. It' s amusing to her what the slight sight of a tuft of curly short hairs can do.
Two Chinks in a rental car gaze at her from the curb with their mouths held open in a frozen ooooh. She boldly approaches their car and sticks her head and shoulders through the passenger side window making sure that her dress sags enough to show them her brown nipples.
"Hi hon. Looking for a good time?" She smiles and runs her tongue' s tip over her lips in a long, circular motion. The Asian men remain frozen on their seats, the ooooh fixed on their lips. "For fifty bucks each you can have some good American pussy." She brings the cigarette to her lips, takes a heavy draw and blows the smoke against the wind. The men talk to each other in Chink; she sees smiles crossing between them, and before they can reach their own decision, she opens the rear door and gets into the car, sliding over the seat to a stop, sitting with her legs purposely spread apart. The two men are now staring into her inviting slit resting over the upholstery. Their car joins the traffic stream and heads for her motel.
Debbie and Lucy
Through the window a light sea breeze comes in to tangle with the curtains. We both lie naked on bed. I rest on my back and Debbie' s head is leaning on my stomach, and she has my member in her mouth, slowly working her lips up and down its length with smacking sounds. The TV is on and she is watching the Lucy Show, and I don' t know what' s more important to her, my dick or Lucy; but that doesn' t matter. I gently run my fingers through her gossamer hair and feel the warmth of her face on my belly. Her lips give me a deep and intense pleasure. Life has stopped at the window unable to violate our cocoon of hired intimacy. Life' s Problems await for us out side while the living present belongs to us, Lucy, and the sea breeze. Our universe is nothing but the space inside this cheap motel room. Is this love? Who cares?
Greasy Spoon Talk
My days are long and filled with heat and the drone of engines. I fly with the cowling and the doors off but the wind behind the propeller is still warm and humid. My back sweats and my wet skin sticks to the vinyl seat; I can' t say enough about the glamor of flying. Truck drivers have it easier, with their air conditioned cabs and the ability to stop anywhere they want for a piss and a cup of coffee. All I can do is sit, sweat and buck the wind all day long; long periods of boredom dotted by the stress of picking up banners, rising the nose at full throttle while the banner refuses to leave the ground, hoping the damned kite won' t stall in this tug of war with me sitting in the middle. I get out of the cockpit only to refuel and to take a piss behind the fuel pumps. I hurry back into the airplane where now the odors of gasoline, airplane and sweat are mixed in a sickening cocktail.
I quit my bouncer job because I got tired of dealing with drunks and the late hours. I got to take a chick home now and then but I quickly learned that drunk broads are not much fun in bed. I had one pass out and piss on my bed. Another puked in my bathroom but missed the porcelain throne (how, I don' t know) and I had to clean the mess the next day, a rather unpleasant affair when it is done inside an old cramped trailer in the middle of summer. Girlfriends and one nighters are nothing but trouble so I' m still sticking to professional pussy and I don' t mind paying for what I could get for free.
From the heat of the cockpit I jump to the heat of the kitchen in a greasy spoon, Al' s Dinner, on US 1, by Port Orange. Being a short order cook is not that bad; I get breaks to use the bathroom and Johnny, the proprietor, is quite a character, and old Yankee from upstate New York that has more tales than a convention of liars and who speaks like James Cagney in one of his gangster movies. But Johnny is not liar or make believe poser; his honest straightforwardness doesn' t allow him to bull shit anyone. It is just that the man has enough wild stories of his own to keep me flipping burgers and washing dishes with a smile on my greasy face, and for that I' m very grateful. Johnny has been beaten, arrested, fooled, abused, and generally treated like a dog through his colorful life full of odd jobs but his up beat disposition doesn' t seem to have taken a dent and all his misfortunes are now nothing but jokes to laugh at. And laugh we do.
"Never got into a knife fight with a Porto Rican?" he asks me while I' m scrubbing the hot plate.
"Never, and I' m not looking forward to it." And there goes Johnny, with a new tale and how he ended throwing two Puerto Ricans over the side of a bridge into the river below. He also shows me the scar on his left arm…