Loving me makes him weak.
I’m not stronger than Wolf, and Lord knows he’s got crazy on his side, but I don’t love him anymore, so I’m stronger than I was when I walked through the door, stronger than when he hit me the first time today. Stronger than when I let him convince me to throw Nada out of the house, when he first started with the washcloths and the crazy. I don’t love him anymore, so I’m stronger.
I believe he loves me and I believe that is my only weapon.
I throw myself into creating the Sarah Bernhardt of asthma attacks, hyperventilating huge loud wheezing noises.
The hitting stops.
Maybe he’s exhausted, or sobering up, or maybe we’ve just reached the end of today’s regularly scheduled programming, the Messianic Crazy Hour. Or just maybe a year of community college acting classes weren’t a total waste of time and he’s afraid I’m going to die.
I didn’t realize how much I want to live. I’ve been ready to die since I’m 15 years old and now, faced with an earlier than scheduled departure, I’ll be goddamned if I’m going anywhere.
He stops fighting & cradles me in his lap, rocking me as I wheeze, shake & tremble, whispering into my ear, “I could’ve killed you, I still can. I love you, but I can still kill you.” I can hardly hear him, the ringing in that ear is still loud, but his breath is damp & sour on my cheek, his arms, cold with sweat, stick to my skin.
I’m counting on that love. I stay curled in his arms, slowly letting my breathing appear normal, rocking & planning…
He pulls me into the loft bed, laying down behind me. Even now, our bodies fit perfectly. He strokes my hair, finger combing the curls, tucking a stray wisp behind my good ear, comforting me, he whispers, “I can kill you right now, but I love you. I can kill you in your sleep if I want to.”
He nudges my legs apart, entering me from behind, sliding in smoothly. I’m wet. I hate to say it, but I am. He croons softly “I love you, but I can kill you anytime” over and over as he makes love to me. Our bodies, utter perfection, my cunt made for this, for him, made for each other even in the insanity, until finally he comes inside me and falls asleep.
I stay awake in his arms all night. Staring at the back alley through the bars on the window. Motionless
I wonder about the baby I think I’m carrying, his baby. Our baby.
He’s still sleeping the next morning as I pad into the bathroom, shower & appraise the damage. I find a few new painful spots as I scrub myself. I want the smell of him off of me. The scalding water beats down on my scalp, tender from being dragged by the hair, running in streams off my nose, the tips of my breasts, down my stomach, between my legs, any place he’s been, any place he’s touched. I want to burn him off of me.
He’s sleeping still, as I let myself drip dry. Let the little bit of June that makes it through the air shaft caress me, tend my wounds, purify me. Extra makeup erases last night. Carefully, layering foundation, cover up, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, & finally lipstick–a recipe that starts our nightly battles. My eyes are red & puffy, but my head is clear & my hearing is back. I listen to the whoosh and hum of his breathing in the bed above me.
He did not die in his sleep.
I’ll pray harder next time.
Super Girl not Supergirl by Dominic Marco
I’m pulling work clothes out of the large wooden dresser, mine since I was too small to open the heavy draws by myself. My mother’d spent hours painting it with perfect strawberry red curlicues and trim. These aren’t the outfits she’d had in mind. This isn’t what she’d planned for me. This isn’t even what I had planned for me…fuck, I’m going to be late for work.
Fleshtoned tights first, then black fishnet pantyhose, followed by a shiny red Lycra halter body suit. Tight, it hugs my body and keeps my breasts skyward. Platform high heeled sandals. I look like Supergirl on the stroll. I wish I felt that powerful. I throw on a wraparound cotton skirt, grab my dance bag: makeup, there’s enough change from the bottom of my purse for subway fare, brushes, combs, date book, phone book, pens, a knife, keys, sunglasses, contact lens solution, toothbrush, deodorant, everything I need to leave the house for an indeterminate period of time.
I grab my stuff, close the door quietly after me & head uptown. On the way to the subway, I stop at a payphone. “Mom? Mommy? It’s me….”
This entry was written by , posted on August 30, 2009 at 10:54 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, East Village, Guys & Dolls, love. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Arms fly from every direction. Someone is screaming. Someone is growling, barking. A rabid animal. My brain shuts down, the floor drops away, time freezes.
There is only Wolf, who has lost his mind, running at me, throwing punches. There are only fists and anger. And me. Crouched in a corner on the metal cot that is was Nada’s bed. I don’t remember jumping up here. Where the fuck is Nada? He wouldn’t be like this if there were witnesses. He’d be sweet, he’d be singing if she was here.
I was an idiot to throw her out.
Nada Tokay, if you can hear me, I fucked up.
I fucked up.
I really fucked up.
He towers over me, one hand holding the Holy Bible, the other a fist. Frantic twists of red hair crawl out from beneath the beret, sweatpaste themselves to his face. In the eye I can see, the one without the patch? No one is there.
“The Devil’s got your soul. I will save you,” he proclaims. I can’t take my eyes off the Bible, sweet Jesus, here it comes, he swings it at me like a bat. Whack.
Direct hit. Right side. Cheekbone, eye, ear.
“What the fuck? Wolf? What the fuck are you doing?” Whack.
Direct hit. Same side.
Sirens scream in my right ear, so loud I can’t hear him on that side anymore. I watch his lips move, afraid to expose the other side, the other ear.
“I’ll save your soul,” he whispers close to my face. “Satan’s in you, you whore. I can cast him out. I can make you free.” Louder now, he stands erect again, it’s building, “I am your Savior, I am your Redemption.”
There’s a crash of cymbals.
He swings again.
This time I dodge.
He’s quicker most of the time, most of his punches will find their mark, but twice he misses & ends up punching the wall behind me. It’s brick, his knuckles are bruised, bleeding. He doesn’t feel it. We’re way past drunk, we’re in the neighborhood of insane now.
Think. Think dammit.
Whack.
I curl into a ball, protecting my soft and tenders.
Wolf hits me with the Bible, again. And again. And again.
He tells me he loves me, again. And again. And again.
He says he’ll free me from Satan even if he has to kill me to do it.
That’s how much he loves me is, he says.
If he doesn’t kill me, I’ll cut his throat while he sleeps, I think to myself.
“Devil money” he mumbles pulling out handfuls of tens & twenties from my bag. He marches to the bathroom with all the money I have, all we have in the world, and flushes four hundred dollars down the toilet. Two months rent.
I don’t feel anything.
That’s not true, I hate him. But I’m past pain and fear.
There are only his fists, that Bible and me.
There’s only me and my need to survive long enough to kill him.
“These belong to the Devil, too.” Wolf picks up my grandmother’s kitchen shears, the ones I use for cutting through chicken bones, & holds it up to my credit cards.
I can make more money.
My bruises will heal.
Keep your fucking hands off my plastic.
I throw myself at him, grabbing at the credit cards & the chicken shears.
He said he loved me enough to kill me.
He said he loved me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 27, 2009 at 12:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, dirty money, East Village, Guys & Dolls, love. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
He says I look like a whore when I work and he doesn’t want whores in his house. Sometimes, when I get home, he’s on the stoop with that wet wash rag, waiting. He grabs me by the hair & scrubs until all of the makeup is gone. Or until I start to cry.
So I don’t complain when he’s so drunk he forgets to come home. Those are the nights I secretly eat real hamburgers and brush my teeth, brush my teeth, brush my teeth so he won’t smell the meat on me. “We” don’t eat meat.
If he’s not drunk & I’m not wearing makeup, he still sings & tells me I’m beautiful. I’m not, but he says I am.
I hate the wash cloths. I hate tofu.
I hate being alone more.
It’s been almost two months since we exchanged rings–in the rain, under the arch, tripping–I should’ve known better. If life was a horror movie, that would’ve been the scene when the audience starts screaming at the stupid white girl “No! Don’t go in there!” and then laughs when she does, cause they know. They know, cause they can hear the scary/monster/slasher music that she can’t hear.
I come home from work, relieved not to see him on the stoop, I open the door.
He’s asleep on the blue shag rug in the living room, drunk. Dead drunk — out cold, in a long red monk’s robe & a blue beret — no pants, no underwear, no shoes, and a black eye patch. My head hurts trying to make it make sense.
My head hurts,
things don’t make sense.
I want to runaway, trip out, destroy something.
I have to be careful
not to destroy
myself.
I drop my work bag. It’s stuffed full with leotards, high heels, makeup, hairspray, money, tampons.Tampons…I can’t remember the last time I had my period. I think I’m pregnant, but I haven’t said a word to anyone.
I just want to be a good wife, to get him off the floor, put him to bed. I bend down, roll him over. He’s holding a Bible, like you see in hotel rooms. I didn’t know we had one. I didn’t know he could read.
I’m still looking at the Bible when Red Wolf explodes.
This entry was written by , posted on August 24, 2009 at 7:02 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, East Village, lonliness, love, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Guys & Dolls isn’t at all like the old Mardi Gras, except for the naked girls, the champagne hustle and the wise-guy wannabe manager.
The Mardi Gras had Times Square written all over it. It was three stages of glitter, mirrors, lights & glamour. It was Ringling Bros & Barnum and Bailey – a three ring circus complete with costumes, stars and trained animal acts.
Guys & Dolls is more like the Beatty Cole circus. One small tent, a lot of in-breeding and just the one fly in the buttermilk. There’s only Lightfoot.
Like the old school Chinese restaurants, G&D has a small front bar, but all the action is in the back. I work the front bar. Behind me there’s an oversized round dining table type stage surrounded by chairs. Dinner. Family style.
When the girls do floor work (and now, watching it daily & having it occasionally, I know what Ralphie had wanted of me…) you’re close enough to know who shaves & who needs to. A thick red carpet covers the floor, the stairs, & the stage and despite the non-stop pounding dance music, it gives the club a soft menstrual quietness. In a style known as Early Guido, everything is flecked with gold–the flocked wallpaper, the marbling through mirrors, the banister of the spiral staircase…
The stairs get you to the “VIP lounge”. Well, the stairs & an $80 bottle.
The lounge is just a large room divided by thick velvet curtains and even more mirrors. Each section has a small couch (velour), a potted fern (fake) & a platform (small) meant to be a private stage. There’s an odd garage dampness and the odor of mildew & Jovan Musk.
There’s another scent, it’s subtle. The johns don’t notice it, but I do. Sweat layered over the Kiwi paste wax the Port Authority shine boys use. It’s the smell of the floor managers. I can smell Rocco’s spotters between the curtains & behind the two way mirrors. They make sure nothing really happens in the lounge, that nothing more than the champagne cork gets popped. Occasionally, a girl manages a quick handjob, if the money’s right, but mostly it’s all smoke & mirrors on premises until the time runs out – off premises, that’s another story.
But here, a guy goes upstairs with girl & a hard on, he returns fifteen minutes later with the same erection and he tries again. Sometimes with the same girl, sometimes with someone new. They act like it’s some kind of lottery or slot machine and they’re hoping to hit three cherries. Suckers buy lottery tickets and play the numbers. Suckers buy bottles of champagne, they live in an yin yang of hope & denial.
Leave ‘em wanting more, sell up or move on…
Wolf hates my job, but, really, I’m having a pretty good time. I make money off bottles bought for me (Okay, I don’t get a LOT of bottles– there are other much more naked, pretty girls around, girls like Toni Rose. Toni is a cross between My Little Pony and Twiggy, with her big eyes, long legs, little boy haircut and phenomenal tits. Another chick dances with a boa constrictor, putting its whole head in her mouth. I can’t compete with that kind of action. But it does happen.) & what’s in my cash register, tips, salary & whatever extra I can “find”. I kinda enjoy the endless stream of porno especially when the porn star’s in the house. Then it’s like being at a pep rally with all the hooting and cheering and go, go, go, ’til he gets to the money shot. It feel like home movies.
It feels like family.
I’m getting better at “finding” money. Generally anyone here who’s not a dancer, manager or pimp is money. Boyfriends, you never can tell. Some are on to the game, some are in a cash flow based “relationship”. Those guys are someone’s personal bank account. They’re also off limits.
General sitting at the bar dopey, lonely suckers are a free for all. Anyone can take a stab at what’s in their pockets : hustling drinks, taking tips, getting bottles or just reach out and take what you want. When a guy is drinking booze, watching titty, booty & poontang & trying to figure out how to get his hands on any of it, he’s pretty focused. If his mind’s on someone else’s panties, getting into his pockets is usually pretty easy. If he does notice, I slide over to his crotch as if that was where I was headed anyway, smile sweetly and what I hope is seductively.
I’m just giving him permission to believe what he already wants to believe.
Don’t look at me like that. It’s not just me, the dancers at my bar are doing the same thing. If I catch them, we split it in exchange for me not ratting them out management. Management would take it all. You know that they would.
Everything about this is chilly except Red Wolf’s attitude.
I could quit if he’d get a job. I tell him that.
I wouldn‘t quit though.
I don’t tell him that.
This entry was written by , posted on August 19, 2009 at 10:55 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, dirty money, Guys & Dolls, pimps. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
There are some decisions I’ve made, actions that’ve changed the arc of my life entirely. At the time they seem like just so much nothing. I threw Nada out of the apartment in the middle of the night. It wasn’t even a blip on my radar.
We fit like puzzle pieces when we make love. I feel loved, finally, when we make love. Afterwards, when he’s fallen asleep, I sneak out of the loft bed and go sleep on the couch.
I can’t sleep in the same bed with my husband.
My husband. Red Wolf. We exchanged rings a month ago. Turquoise, coral & nickle, a American Indian design, of course. They were two for five dollars. I paid for them, also of course.
He doesn’t have a job, my husband, Red Wolf. American Indian, by way of Puerto Rico, by way of Williamsburg, via Washington Square Park. There might’ve been one once or maybe we’d just talked about money before he moved in, I could’ve sworn someone mentioned it, but even though there isn’t one now, he does his best to help furnish my our little apartment on East 7th Street. It needs all the help it can get. He hung the bamboo shades we I bought at Azuma. He’s brought home a blue shag area rug for the living room, stereo speakers, a shelving unit and a small TV. I’m not sure where any of it came from. I mean, none of it is new…
I do have a job. The summer’s over, film school was, well, just more school and so I’m working again. Guys & Dolls is no where near the glamfest that Robbie’s Mardi Gras was. Instead of glitter & sequins, everything is red. The rug, the circular stage, the walls. It’s like being inside a giant menstruating vagina, if that vagina had a bar & non-stop porn on screens everywhere you look. The manager, Rocco, is a slicker, meaner carbon copy of Ralph.
Wolf hates me working in topless bars, he just doesn’t hate it enough to get an actual job himself. He hates that I wear so much makeup to work. He scrubs my face with a washcloth when I get home. I don’t need gilding, he says to me in Spanish. He knows I don’t speak Spanish.
Dame una cerveza. ¿Tienes menudo?
Gimme a beer. Spare change?
That’s the extent of my Spanish.
He talks to me a lot in Spanish. I mostly nod and smile.
If he catches me in public wearing makeup, at the park, he dunks my head in the fountain and smears it all off with his hands. I don’t meet him in the park anymore after work.
He was probably lying when he told me about him and Nada, that she fucked him while I was at work. Fucking Polack bitch.
Nada hooked up with Red’s brother, Brown Wolf, so he moved in with us too. And the kids from the park, every night, a different mass of runaway bodies sleeping on the living room floor. It was just too many people for one apartment.
I know she didn’t fuck him. Now, that a few days have passed, I know it. I feel bad I threw them all out in the middle of the night, bad about all the screaming too. Nada, Brown Wolf, all those kids. But it was too much. Too many people…and I was so tired. Working at the bar, trying to earn money and take care of a home. Trying to be someone’s wife. I don’t know anything about being a wife. With all those people in the apartment, I was stuck in the same bed with him after we had sex.
I can’t sleep with someone in the bed. Not even Wolf.
I’m just so damned tired.
And now, it’s just the two of us.
Me. And my crazy husband.
That’s what he wanted all along.
We fit like puzzle pieces.
Afterwards, I sleep alone on the couch.
Hindsight may be 20/20, but it’s not very useful.
Nada Tokay, if you can hear me, I fucked up. I really fucked up.
This entry was written by , posted on August 16, 2009 at 10:10 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, East Village, Guys & Dolls, lonliness, love. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
He sings to me, has been singing, in public, since we met two weeks ago. Some days, I catch him watching me from a distance, motionless.
This is something new to me, this….wooing.
Something new has pale white skin & wild red hair. It’s Howdy Doody red, Opie Cunningham red, Brenda Starr red. I’m finding it hard to ignore him.
He hangs over my head from low tree branches and sings to me, about me. Red Wolf lifts my skirt, wraps himself around my ankles like some sweet snake content to stay at my feet, and he sings to me.
My skirt is long enough to hide quarts of Budweiser underneath when cops roll past. They cruise the outside circle where we drink and hang –the Indians, Sleazy John & Rat, Jack & Carmine, Johnny One Eye, the Starriders motorcycle club, Haney & all the little runaways. Cops roll past and a dozen hands slide a dozen beers under my skirt.
I look all hippie in this skirt, no matter that that peace & love shit was ten years ago. Long skirts hide how my thighs touch. I have my deerskin full of wine I don’t share with anyone. I hate beer. I only drink beer when I’m run out of wine, when there is no acid to be had.
Sitting in Washington Square Park, drinking wine in my long skirt, I’m supposed to be writing a script for my directorial “debut” at NYU film school–they never should’ve put the school so close to the park–but I can’t think of a single thing anyone would give a shit about. I can’t think at all what with all that singing going on.
So I just hang out in the park, waiting for inspiration, for something that will blow everyone the fuck away when they see it. Anything. Some days all there is is hallucinogenics. Some days all there is is watching the cops roll up, roll past, roll away.
Whether I stand or sit, inspired or not, as long as there’s a cop in sight, there’s beer between my legs.
The cops roll away and one by one, hands reach under my skirt, between my feet and re-claim their beers. And Red Wolf wraps himself around my ankles singing some nonsense he’s made up about me. About the curls in my hair, the whiteness of my skin, my zodiac sign for chrissakes.
He lives here, in the park. He’s out of his mind.
and I think I love him.
I can never let him find out about Floyd.
he wouldn’t love me if he knew.
I’m careful not to run into Shortun.
or anyone else who knows what happened the night the Bon Soir closed...
he couldn’t love me if he knew.
dirtygirl wonders : How do you know the difference between romance, passion, obsession? C’mon, talk dirty to me
This entry was written by , posted on August 12, 2009 at 11:32 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, drugs, Greenwich Village, love. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I found a place, a home of my almost own. I’m sharing it with Nada–she’s willing to sleep in the living room, which is great, cause I’m not. I paid $500 under the table for the rent stabilized lease–we’ll split the rent, $175 a month. It’s a dump, but it’s my dump. It’ll do for now.
I’d found a beautiful place on Avenue D with wood floors & skylights. Hamid wanted to split it with me, but seriously, how the hell do you get to Avenue D? 
No cabbie’ll go past First Avenue. Except for that one block, everything east of Avenue A is a fucking war zone.
Hamid had in his head if we lived together we’d actually be living together and wind up married. Uh, no. Tech is mostly foreign men, all claiming to be exiled princes. Hamid is a Persian prince–I’m not sure Persia even exists anymore, but for sure it’s not a place for chubby Jewish girls to call home.
So I took the place on 7th & 2nd, with the radiator sunk half in the floor, the bars on the windows, the holes in the walls, the cockroaches inside and lots of small shriveled babushka wearing Ukrainian women outside, sweeping the stoops. There’s a small bookstore to the right and a little market to the left. The West Village is all touristy, but there’s no reason to be in the East Village unless you live here. Ukranians. Junkies. And me. It’s quiet, cheap, and walking distance from NYU.
I made it through NCC by the skin of my teeth, transferred to New York Tech, and now, NYU. I had to get off Long Island. I lasted one semester at NYT, what with all the princes running around, knocking on my door, demanding that I cook them dinner. Hullo? Are you out of your royal fucking mind? Cook? I’ve eaten the same meal every single day for an entire semester. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Two slices of Kraft processed American cheese evenly divided onto three Stoned Wheat Thin crackers and a glass of iced tea for a total of nine crackers & six slices of cheese a day. No more. No less. Seriously. I fortify myself with Kahlua & Vodka, sure, but as far as food goes, it’s all you’ll find in my little refrigerator in my little room at the Henry Hudson Hotel. The Henry Hudson (353 W. 57th Street) passes as a dorm for Tech. It’s really just a cheap residential hotel whose current claims to fame are Channel 13 and Nipsey Russell wandering the hallways bothering girls so young they giggle hysterically when he hits on them.
I’d really spread myself too thin there, it was time to go, man, go. Like a pressure cooker with the top nailed down, it was ready to explode. I’d put too much into the mix: My boyfriend, Rey from the Bronx. My other boyfriend, Hamid, the Persian prince. Bobby Lee, someone else’s boyfriend entirely. Maurice, who won’t come when we fuck–he doesn’t want to waste his seed on me & his brother Michael who has no problem with that at all. Milan, a Romanian gardener & Charles Bronson’s body double, barely speaks any English. George the Greek, another “prince”. Duke, (prince-lite) the box boy from the shoe store. My professor, Abe–I got an A, ’nuff said. Hamlet, and finally, his cousin Tulio who likes to sleep in my bathtub.
It’s a wonder I got to any classes.
dirtygirl wonders...
If anyone has ever really manged to outrun themselves. Is it always “where-ever I go, there I am”…? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 11, 2009 at 12:02 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, East Village. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The head of Ace’s cock peeks out from the white towel he’d wrapped around his waist. Peeks really doesn’t apply when you’re talking about Ace’s dick, it’s such a delicate word and his dick is such a monster. The Continental Baths offer an extensive display of the penis, in all its variety and glory, but even here, Ace is unique.
I know Ace from before Speedy, before Frankie even.
He was dangerous and angry. And so good looking in that way that teenage boys are, their almost man-ness just about bursting them at the seams. Olive skin, rippling belly, thick mauve lips, soft dark hair falling into his eyes. Those eyes were on me that first time we touched. He walked up to where I was sitting — always by the cigarette machine at the foot of the stairs, so I could see the door and the floor– Ace looked me dead in the eyes and leaned in like he was going to kiss me. He slide his hand down my thigh, my calf, all the way down to my foot, never breaking eye contact. I never go anywhere without at least one knife in my bag or my boot, somewhere. You never know. Like that night. There was some action on the street, outside the bar, and he needed my knife — needed what I had, that’s all I cared about. I let him take it, and then, instead of kissing me, he cut me and smiled.
He cut me. On his way out the bar he sliced my belly with my own knife, stopped, looked at me and smiled. It was deep enough to bleed, but not for scars or stitches.
There was no way I wasn’t giving that a test drive.
Later, that night, or some other, they get mixed up, but one of those nights after the Chalice, the three of us were alone. Me. Ace. His giant penis. I knew men & women who’d had sex with him. But Jesus, now looking at it, out in the open like it was, I couldn’t figure how. All my holes, could they be laid end to end, were not long enough to accommodate the glory that was Ace.
If you have a baseball bat between your legs, you need to know gentle and Ace only knew angry. I backed out of the penetration part of the sex. He was willing to settle for head. I had a better chance of swallowing an apple, whole.
And here he was again, standing next to the waterfall, in his towel, with his beautiful cruel mouth. His dick hanging out of his towel, my ass eeking out of the back of mine. On a good day, I don’t know what to do when I run into someone I’ve had sex with — a good day being one where I’m wearing some clothes. I don’t even know if what we did counts as sex. There wasn’t much more than nakedness and intention. Does that count?
Ace is still looking directly at me. What was I doing here he must be wondering. No girls allowed in the Continental Baths. I shoulda been wondering the same thing, but I don’t think about those kinds of things.
I do an about face & head back to the small room I’m sharing with Speedy. Small, but the same as everyone else’s, the size of a twin mattress with ”walls” that don’t reach the ceiling. I can hear the slurp and gag of someone getting head two rooms down, the thud thud of an ass pounding down the hall. If I can hear them… but me & Speedy, we get so fucked from smoking dust our noise is mostly from falling against the walls, trying to fit in the tiny room.
I’ma stick with Speedy for now. Compact, but complete. Every once in a while, in the middle of sex, one of us reaches down just to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. He thinks I’m too loose, I say the dust relaxes me. I think he’s too small, that he has an ass-fucking sized dick, not a pussy sized one, but I don’t say that out loud.
I have get my ass in gear, catch my train. I have an afternoon class. Tap Dancing? Acting? Something. I think it’s today, I lose track of the days.
Speedy thinks fucking me means he’s not a maricon.
I think fucking him means I have a boyfriend.
He’s still sleeping. I pull my clothes out from underneath him, shake out the wrinkles the best I can, head up the stairs, praying I don’t bump into Ace on the way out and then I’m out. 73rd Street. Sunlight. I scrounge around in my bag hoping I still have my sunglasses. I can’t handle people looking at me when I’ve been out all night and it’s been days. I can’t stand the light.
I make my train, make my class.
Tuesday. Tap-dancing.
Shuffle. Ball change….
dirtygirl wonders...
What have you put up with just to have a boyfriend, a girlfriend? What will you let slide, just so you’re not alone…? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 6, 2009 at 1:52 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, hustlers, The Chalice, Uptown. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
My back is stuck to the red glossy wall, the sweat’s created a kind of suction as I lay on my side, watching him sleep. Speedy. Looking so perfect, his cock and balls perfectly balanced and symmetrical, laying dead center on his belly, pointing directly to his navel. No curve to the left, no lean to the right. Not the biggest (that would be Ace), but Speedy is so symmetrical, with balls so round, tight and smooth, two perfectly ripe Puerto Rican sugar plums.
Perfect or not, my body aches, my back is killing me. I’ve barely slept. I’d shove his perfect naked ass over and make room for myself if we were anyplace else, but the rooms here are no wider than the twin mattress we’re on. Laying on his back, he takes up most of the mattress, so I’m stuck between a cock and a hard place.
I guess I should be grateful.
Three days ago he’d stashed me in his mother’s apartment on 167th and Southern in the Bronx, then went off to I don’t know– wherever hustler’s go. I’d been outta the loop a few months what with trying to give school a go and things change fast, but I know what it means when he leaves. That hasn’t changed and I’m not asking questions, cause really, I don’t want to hear the details. Seriously. I don’t want to know if he’s jerking off his perfect dick while some old fuck watches or if the old fuck in question is going down on his perfection. I just don’t want to know. I don’t want to have to think about what’s a lie and what’s not. When he’s with me, he’s with me and that’s enough. I stayed for a couple of days watching novela’s with his mother while she ironed his shirts, his jeans and babbled at me endlessly in Spanish. For all I know she’s talking bad about me to my face, or maybe planning our wedding…I don’t speak not one single word of Spanish. And Mama doesn’t speak English.
That’s how I wound up getting smacked. Between the Spanish and the smell of scorched cotton, I was like to lose my mind. I needed some air, some English and something to take the edge off. I snuck outside and found some guys hanging under the El getting high and made myself at home. They spoke the English, they had the joint, I pulled up a piece of sidewalk and we hung.
I didn’t see him coming. I wouldn’t have expected it even if I had seen him. He started screaming at the same time the back of his hand made contact with my face. The combination knocked me off my feet. The boys got quiet and took a few steps back, giving him room to swing and scream.
“What the fuck was that?”, checking my jaw and getting up off the ground. I’m not afraid of getting hit. I can take a pretty good punch if I have to.
“What the fuck? What the fuck you say to me? What the fuck you doin’ out here? I tol’ you, stay inna house. What the fuck you think you’re doing?” His face is all scrunched up, his fist pulled back like he’s gonna clock me any second. I know he’s not. He’ll smack me, yeah, but he wouldn’t punch a white girl in the face, at least not me, at least not in the street.
“I was going outta my mind. Nobody to talk to. I know your sister speaks English, but not to me. Spanish, spanish, spanish all day, spanish. Spanish newspapers, Spanish food, Spanish TV. Spanish, spanish, blah, blah, blah. There’s nobody to talk to, nothing to do, I don’t know where the hell you are. I might as well go home, I should be in school ya know…”
“You get yourself killed hanging out here with these pendjos. You don’t know…,” he grabs my arm and starts hustling me down the street towards his mother’s building.
“I know one thing, maricon. I know I wasn’t getting smacked around out here till you showed up…I know that much.”
Okay, so I know one or two words in Spanish. And I knew better than to call him a faggot in any language, no matter what he does with his dick when I’m not around. Stuff comes into my head and it just sort of falls out of my mouth. So, really, that second smack, I had that one coming.
Speedy moved me into his room in the Continental Baths that same night, the only girl there, thank you. My jaw still ached a little, my back was sore, but still, at least I’d made my point. I’d won the argument.
dirtygirl wants to know:
How important is it to you to be right? How much would you risk just to make a point? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on August 3, 2009 at 9:19 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty boys, hustlers, Uptown. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
