1978 : the trick

I walk in moonlight, my breasts full and plump, my ass soft and round, hips rolling seductively as I near the bed. My face a blank mask as I look down at him, thinking about what? The car? The money? The task at hand?

Floyd lies naked, an island of flesh lit by garish street lights. He does his best to spread his legs open, to expose himself more. The sheer mass of his stomach eclipses everything in the room. His chubby fingers grab at my dark curly pubic hair and he shoves a thumb inside of me (Audible gasp. Mine. I cannot tell if it’s pleasure, surprise or horror.) His thumb probes deeper, twirling around.

“Suck my cock.” His voice has lost its whininess. He pulls his thumb out of me and shoves me towards the foot of the bed. The thumb, shiny with my juice, he sticks in his mouth and suckles on.

When a man’s pound of flesh is surrounded by four hundred more pounds of flesh, well… finding it alone is work. Tucked inside the folds of those massive thighs, deep beneath the crevice below his belly, I root through his flesh like a pig after truffles. Holding his belly up with an elbow, his thigh away with a hand, I find my prey. No bigger than a thumb or a pale breakfast sausage, I take him in my mouth. Sucking him, stroking him slowly, making him harder, squeezing and pulling, rubbing my breasts while he peeks around his belly to watch me.

I’m getting us both ready.

He lays there, unable to move, a giant overturned turtle, a great sea mammal washed ashore, stranded and at my mercy. My juices are flowing. I’m wet, I’m wet, I’m so wet. I touch myself, separate the damp hairs, the pink outer lips, open myself up and rise up. I close my eyes and mount him as best I can.

“Suck this,” I command, slapping his hand away from his mouth and sticking my fingers, slick with my own juices, in.

I ride him, leaning forward as he grabs my tits, pulling painfully at my nipples. I grip his round arms and ride him, forgetting about his rash, his size, his lack of size. I ride and pump and thrust and grind. I moan and curse and Oh baby, and yes, yes, yes as he comes inside me. I ride him some more, pulling on my own nipples now, rubbing my clit up against his big firm belly, bringing myself to climax. I stroke his big round belly and when I feel him shrinking, I contract inside and try to hold that little sausage a bit longer.

And I think about where I will go in the cute blue Pinto I will buy with his money.

My money.

The money was the real reason I was there, I told myself. Yet, even describing it now, my juices flow and my puss tightens. His flesh repulses me, but having a man want me so badly he’ll pay what I ask, makes me wild. Opens me up inside. To be in charge. To be in control. To be paid.

He’d already washed my scent off and squeezed back into his brown polyester slacks when I realized no money’d changed hands yet. No crisp bills waited quietly on the night stand like in the movies.

“Floyd, uh…you’re leaving?” He stood at the doorway to the lighted bathroom. A gargantuan silhouette, his huge polyester behind reflected in the mirror.

“Yeah. I gotta see what kind of damage those boys did tonight. Keep the room. I paid for the night.” He struggled into the matching sportcoat, patted me on the head, checked his pockets, tossed the room key onto the bed and headed towards the door.

“I don’t wanna stay here all night. We talked about money Floyd… What about the money?” I snatched up my clothes, pulling my panties on without washing him off of me. A little bit of liquid Floyd runs down my leg.

“Lookit kiddo, I don’t have the money with me…”

“What do you mean, you don’t have the money? The cab, the room…?”

I came here to get paid, to turn a trick.

“That’s about all I had, I don’t carry cash. Look, are you okay? D’ya need cab fare?”

Cab fare you mammoth pig? I need three hundred and twenty five dollars. I need your head on a platter. I need my FUCKING MONEY I scream in my head.

“OK? OK? I’m not OK,” screaming out loud, pounding the bed. “What about my money? You said you’d pay me three…”

It’s not a trick if you don’t get paid.

“Hey,” he interrupted. His fat hand on my still naked shoulder, “d’ya think I’m trying to cheat you?” And it is, it’s exactly what I think, but I don’t say anything. “Whad’jew want me to do, tell the guys with the guns ‘Wait, don’t shoot nobody yet. Lemme get money outta the safe to give to my girl?’ ”

“But I thought….I thought you had money with you…”

STUPID, STUPID STUPID. STUPID BITCH

“No, kid,” he said softly, like you do with a child. “You stop by the club tomorrow night and we’ll straighten everything out. OK?”

I’m such a stupid bitch.

I nod silently and sit quietly watching us in the mirror as he kisses me goodbye.
Silent, I watch the door close after his fat polyester ass.
Silent, I sit as my heart and soul walk over and rejoin me, a little thinner now, a little paler.
Silent, I finish dressing and head down to the subway and back home. I have just enough money for the subway, I’ll panhandle the rest at Penn Station for the train ticket back to Long Island, to my parents house.

Maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.
Maybe it was just a dirty little room and I was just too scared or too stupid to ask for the money.
Maybe I was just a chubby girl having sex with a huge fat man and expecting him to keep his word.
Maybe there was nothing sensual about it at all.
Maybe it was just sad.

Stupid bitch.

The next night back at the Bon Soir yellow crime scene police banners criss-cross the doors. I scoot under and creep down the dark stairs to investigate. To find Floyd and get my money.

The dance floor is empty. The bodies are gone, but last night, the police say when I ask, last night was just crazy. A pile of bodies on the floor. They closed the club for good. There were no witnesses. Not a single bartender or manager or anyone who had seen anything. They couldn’t find Floyd either.

JJ forgot to teach me the first lesson of whoring. Get the money up front.

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Posted November 19, 2009 at 8:22 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1978, Bon Soir, dirty money, Greenwich Village, johns, whores. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.