PARADOXIA (5 page)

T
wo dozen lines were laid out on the musty dresser. A pocket-sized transistor radio belted out classic R&B through the static. I was pulling a trick with Judy, the barmaid from the shithole I occasionally worked at. She had set up the gig at a lousy midtown low-rent hotel within walking distance from the bar she still tended. She was on a lunch break. Servicing two black dealers from the Midwest, who'd head into town every few months to pick up a shipment, check the shit out, blow off a couple of grams, a grand or two, and head back to Detroit.

She was well into blowing the ringleader by the time I'd arrived. My “date” greeted me at the door immaculately dressed in deep purple polyester pant suit complete with wide-brimmed hat, pinkie rings, and gold canine tooth. He bowed at the waist and ushered me in. Leading me over to the dresser, he supplied me with a short glass straw. Inviting me to indulge. Loosen up. Get comfortable. Checking out my round ass as I bent over to sup. Judy's mouth full of cock, took it all in, letting out a small chortle. Tricking with her was playtime. She had a great attitude about sex, only fucking men for money. Had to support her seven-year-old son. Put her girlfriend through law school. Fast sex for hard cash helped.

I sniff up two or three lines under my “date” Leon's urging, who's by now himself so high he's sprawled out on the bed, rubbing a huge prick through rough polyester. The shit kicks into my skull like a wayward rocket ricocheting around inside my head. “Come suck on your big daddy, you sweet white ho …”

I do what I'm told, slipping a Trojan over his rainbow-colored cock. I position myself over him, off to one side affording him the faint waft of hot pussy. He slips his thumb inside succulent wet walls of flesh, pulls it out, sucking on it like a toddler. Mumbling a nonstop flurry of “oohhh baby's” and “that's it, mama's.” I roll my eyes and continue to blow him. Locking eyes with Judy, who's adopted the same position, ass in the air toward the john's face, who like my trick is busy babbling while anointing his fat black lips with her sluice. She begins to mimic my every movement. We roll our eyes in unison. Stick out our tongues. Make obscene hand gestures. Reminiscent of a Harpo Marx/Lucille Ball mirror trick from an
I Love Lucy
rerun on late-night TV. We both crack up, laughing hysterically, simultaneously tumbling off the queen-size bed, almost knocking each other out. The johns think we've lost our minds.

Erections flag. Time to suck up a few more lines. Take this shit to another level. Judy and I always ready to milk it out. We'd charge by half-hour increments. Spend most of the time goofing off, playing with each other, talking the tricks in circles, giving them massages, anything to keep the actual time spent fucking and sucking to a quick burst. That was all most of the johns needed. More than what most of them deserved. Generous bitches, weren't we?

But these two brothers knew what they wanted. Paid to get it. As soon as a dozen more lines were sucked up, they were hard again. Hungry for pussy. White pussy. Pink pussy. Good pussy. Pussy that would bang up and down, pounding long lean pricks in a monotonous hammering, an endless battering. Pussy that knew how to work for that dollar. Would work for that dollar until both cock and cunt were too raw to touch, too raw to fuck, too fucking raw to even look at anymore. And so we pounded. We sat on top of them, banging into them like battering rams. We spun around on their pricks, our backs to them, so we could watch each other. Judy pumped like a cheetah, her short red hair, pale skin sprinkled with freckles, iridescent green eyes, long legs, rode that bastard like a caged animal returned to the wild, slaughtering her first kill. She was yelling at her trick to come. To “shoot that fucking come inside that tight white pussy …” That was it. He came inside her howling like a wounded puppy. I was still grinding away, just about ready to lose my high, when Judy, soaked in musky perfume, came over to squeeze my tits with wet fingers trailing the intoxicating aroma of her hot sex. Pulling on my nipples, squeezing and twisting. Spanking my swollen little clit. Whispering in my ear, “You like this too much, you horny little slut.” I came all over her fingers, spraying hot juice all over the trick's cock, balls, down the crack of his ass. Judy spit on her middle finger and stuck it straight up his black asshole. A few quick pokes and he was ready to squirt. I banged myself against him, bruising my pelvic bone with every thrust. The shit finally came, screaming a string of ridiculous obscenities which caused us both to giggle. We politely excused ourselves, collected the cash from the dresser, took a quick shower, and split. French-kissing as we hailed two cabs.

T
he first few years spent in New York were a blur of alcohol, sex, and drugs. I had moved from crash pad to squat to storefront to a series of cheap apartments in tenements. Chelsea, Tribeca, East 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Streets, Delancey, East 12th in three different apartments in the same building, Spanish Harlem, Murray Hill, Brooklyn. Running up overdue bills. Disappearing in the middle of the night, usually on a whim, invited to sleep on somebody's couch, take over their spare room, or share their bed. It was easy to bum around. Occupancy rates were down, rent control was still in effect, people were more generous. Less suspicious.

There were any number of ways to avoid having to actually hold down a job. I knew every single one of them. When I was truly desperate, I'd put a few days in at tittie bars, go-go clubs, strip joints. I enjoyed hustling for drinks, the false promises, leading men on, taunting, weaseling money off of lonely degenerates. I hated the long hours, sleazy management, and trips to Jersey when the gigs ran out in Manhattan. Loved the power pussy had. The way men were drawn to its mysteries, as if prospecting for gold in foreign territory. Sweet evil flower, instrument of torture and ecstasy. Delicate blossom, root of deception. Buried deep in its fleshy folds, so very many ancient secrets, a magic which has confounded men since it was banished from the Garden, full of voodoo whose spell turns men into monsters.

Decided it was time to cut to the chase, eliminate the middleman. Cultivated a few “regulars” from the bars who could afford to pay me by the hour what I'd usually pull in a day or two. My overhead was incredibly low, since I rarely paid rent, but I still needed cash. Tricking could accumulate the most money while exerting the least effort. I thought it was an invaluable service, filling a small pocket of a lonely man's life with momentary joy. Flooding the dark night of their psyche with my light, my youth. My pussy a place where they came to worship, which offered up relief from a petty existence frustrated by work, wife, kids, responsibility.

Tricking, to me, was the ultimate freedom. A blank screen onto which you could project any image you want. A relapse from reality. A place where I could excommunicate my self from myself. I would dissolve into a thinly veiled disguise replete with alias, game plan, M.O., fake ID. I took a strange pity on the men I serviced. Had more respect for them than most of my other relationships. Everything was on the level: You sell them a fantasy for thirty minutes or an hour. They get what they pay for. You get what you need. Money. And then they leave. No bullshitting. No babysitting. No hand-holding. Most men were too needy. Desperate. Dependent. Little boys, never able to murder that little girl inside of them. Always begging for love, compassion. Constant attention. Confirmation of their manhood. Sexual recognition. Phallic worship. Just like a john, only they resented paying for it. But they still get milked. One way or another.

Through some twisted miracle I was able to avoid syphilis, gonorrhea, herpes simplex I and II, genital warts, and AIDS. I was either blessed, or I belonged to the minuscule percentage of the genetic population which is truly immune to such unfortunate viral infections.

Of course, I suffered monthly. Excruciating blasts of dull pain as inner organs swelled and ebbed blood. Plagued by an all-consuming throb that rendered me useless, impotent, confined to the menstrual hut, where I was overcome by blood visions of the devil dancing on my ovaries.

Every twenty-one days—yes, since every aspect of my life was accelerated, the monthly monster came every three weeks—I was plunged gut-first into a fevered dervish, where hormonal fluctuation conspired to spin me into hallucinatory torpitude. Confined to bed, I would drift in and out of consciousness. Fantastical dreamscapes only a body flushed with pain could produce. Leftover religious delusions wormed into the spaces between nod and R.E.M. A parade of tortured saints, their horrifying lives of torment and rapture played out in a terrifying technicolor. Ruby, maroon, burgundy, emerald, viridian, magenta, violet … every shade of blue. Their glowing robes tattered, shredded, stained by seeping sores. Wounds inflicted, tolerated, embraced as testaments to their faith, their love, their agony. Moments of their lives rolled into a mini-drama in my dreams. Chased, mocked, hounded, surrounded by the evil grins and grimaces of ghoulish apparitions, the sainted ghosts of my vision were the willing victims of a sordid morality play. Punch-line prayers never decreed a winner in the age-old Saint vs. Sinner controversy. And hell … I'm no angel. I've always sided with the bad guys.

L
ate-night after-hours club. Not yet sunrise. Earlymorning feeding frenzy. Looking to nourish the life's blood. Feels like a bust, when the corner illuminates a Latin Lothario playing solitaire. We're sitting diagonally across from each other, I'm crossing and uncrossing my legs, flashing black panties as he licks his lips. The gauntlet of drunken punters obscures our view. It ups the ante of our little game. He cocks his head back, bites his lower lip, rests his left hand on his inner thigh. I dead-eye him as I open my legs, slowly inching closer to the edge of the crushed velvet couch. Throw my head back a little. Drop my eyes from his mouth to crotch and back again. Show him the candy-colored tongue dancing in my mouth. Trail him with my eyes, as I get up and leave the room. Of course he follows.

I step into sky-blue-pink puking up another day. Light a cigarette, drag deep. He's standing beside me. “Come home with me …”

I close my eyes, whisper, “Why?”

“So I can blow coke up your ass and fuck you breathless …”

“Get a cab …”

We slip into the dingy backseat of the aging yellow beast. It stinks of boozy sweat, cigarettes, and chewing gum. A real aphrodisiac. I balk when my temporary distraction directs the driver to Queens. The last time, the only time, I went to Queens, I left with hallucinations of butchery and mutilation. This time, however, I was sober, not tripping on blotter, stoned on pot, or drunk. Not high. Not yet …

The ride seems quick, the skyline of Manhattan disappearing into sunrise. And he's got my shoes off, sucking on one dainty foot, while grinding the other into his full crotch. I stare out the window, blasé, not yet high, not yet turned on. He slips my shoes back on, after deeply inhaling their leathery perfume, and pays the fare, escorting me into a lush duplex. The entire apartment is done in soft creams, off-whites, ochres. Huge bay windows showcase the necropolis we just departed. We still haven't really spoken to each other. There's no reason to. Easy Latin listening swells gently around the room. He disappears into the kitchen to fix drinks, a light champagne punch. Returns with an opal tray set with delicate crystal glasses, a cocktail shaker, and a small mirrored box full of finely ground cocaine. He offers a silent toast and the twinkle returns to my eyes. Perhaps just a small illumination from the mirrored box of sexual miracles he just set down and opened. He produces a petite silver coke spoon, dips it in the box, holds my chin, devouring me with his dark eyes, and places it under my left nostril. I close my eyes and sup. He repeats the ritual two or three times, never taking his eyes off my face. Infatuated with the expansion in my pupils as the blue of my eyes are erased by black. Then he helps himself. Three quick snorts up each nostril. Rubs a little on my lips. Starts to lick them. To bite them. Corners my lower lip between his canines. Draws a small ruby of blood. I can feel his heart race. Mine too. He cups my face, whispers in my ear, “Turn over, give me your ass …” I prop myself on the back of the soft leather couch, allowing him to slowly lift my skirt, slowly pull aside my panties. He leaves me there for a moment. Steps across the room, admiring his game. Returns with a small silver straw. Packs it with the white devil. Does as promised back at the club. Blows it up my ass.

Six long lines of coke later and the skin sings. Memory collapses. Time disappears. Thought is replaced with sensation. Every molecule expanding outward, teleported into a parallel dimension. Breath hits pockets of pure oxygen, every pore responds, enhanced by a rush of electricity.

Entranced, slow gyrations replace apathy. I can no longer sit still. Every muscle begins to deep grind. He backs up a few feet, watching me squirm. “What do you want me to do, you horny little bitch … fuck you??? Not yet …” He's backlit in the center of the spacious cream womb we inhabit. I can't remember his face as he stands three feet away from me, features blurred as the sun splays behind him. I'm so high I astral project. I'm watching us from somewhere beyond the ceiling. Watching him ball up his fist and strike his prick a few times. Like a drunken boxer punishing himself with slow, steady, deadly blows. I see myself, still sprawled out over the creamy couch, pulling my panties further to the side, exposing pink. We're both hypnotized. A manic edge starts to swell, swallowing us. I leave the couch and crawl on all fours, lapping at his thick fists. He continues to pound himself, slow, steady, deadly. He removes his belt, methodically cracking my ass once or twice. Asks me if I like it. I nod my head, lowering it as I raise my ass. Every time he knuckles his cock, he beats my crack, causing my pussy to quiver. I moan like a happy animal.

I return to my body. Rabid. Unleash his prick. Lick. Suck. Swallow it. Deep-throat him and hold it there. Suffocating myself with musky cock. Refuse to relinquish even an inch of prick until I almost pass out. Come up for air hungry, greedy. He encircles himself in a tight fist. Beats the head against my lips, not allowing me to suck or swallow. Slapping roughly his thick, engorged meat against cheeks, allows it to rest at my nursing mouth. I suckle the tip.

He forms a noose with his belt. Slips it around my neck, sweetly pulling my hair free. Drags me crawling behind him like his favorite pet. Walks me into the kitchen. Snowy white tiles, immaculate gleam. Lifts me up onto the spotless counter which occupies center stage. Sits me facing him. Belt loosely dangling. Reaches under the counter for an industrial-sized box of thick plastic wrap. Begins to encase my breasts, upper torso tightly. Wrapping and rewrapping until I'm mummified in clinging film. Cuts it off with a small, sharp boning knife. Licks the edge of the wrap. Seals me tight. Mechanically cuts off a large sheet. Wraps it around my face, sealing in my breath. I feel like a blow-up doll ready to burst. He plants his lips over my nose and mouth, sucking out the last of my breath. Holds his mouth over mine seconds too long. He senses my asphyxia. Lowers himself to my crotch. Sucks, bites, swallows until I come quickly, flooding his face and neck with juice. He raises up, slowly cutting a small hole between my lips. Holding the sharp blade inside my mouth until I lick and suck. He drags it out, carefully slicing a tiny paper cut on my lower lip, whose blood he's already tasted. He drinks again. A single drop. Tears the plastic from my face. I slump, sucking for air.

He pulls me to him, embracing me like a small child. Strokes my face, my hair. Pushes it from my lowered eyes. Draws them up to him. Locks in. Circles my throat with one hand. Firmly. “Come …” He slides me off the counter, leading me by the scruff of the neck back into the living room. Walks me to the couch, applies pressure, forcing me to kneel in front of him. Sticks his first two fingers in the mirrored box. Plants the thick white tips deeply up my nose, into my mouth, down my throat, back up my nose. Holds. Removes and savors.

I forget where I am, who I am. But know why I'm there. I turn away from him, exposing myself. Peeling damp panties over my obscene roundness. Sticking my sex straight up in the air, an overheated cougar stalking rough prey. He slinks over to me, lifting me with fat fingers coaxed into juicy cavities. Tight little holes whose greedy mouths make slurpy sounds around his digits. “You can't stand it anymore, can you … you need my fuck, don't you? Don't you???” he taunts.

I whisper, “Yes, you fuck …”

He slams himself inside me. Holds me pierced on his prick. One hand scooping my throat, bending my head back, off to one side, forcing me to watch his cool evaporate. Replaced with rage, frenzied fuckface. Thrashing his head from side to side, banging slim hips into round ass. Relentless delivery. Banging us both into oblivion. Throttling me with the force of his manic hammering. Every few minutes rearranging positions. From behind, on top, sideways, against the wall, straddling, bent over, on his lap, upside-down, searching frantically for the smoothest, deepest route in. He puts me back on top of him, cupping my ass in magic fingers which never cease to kneed, pull, pinch, twist. Pulling me open, spreading me apart, deep bounces up and down for what seems like hours until we collapse. Both too exhausted and numb to even come. We pull apart, drenched, drained, brain dead. “Let's go to sleep …” he purrs. I lie and say I'll be right in, I'd like to shower. He tells me to help myself. Disappears into the plush bedroom. I slip into the shower, its cool pulsating jets of liquid balm soothing the mauled little animal. Coming down and well spent I get dressed. Decide to leave after helping myself to a makeshift bindle. Sorry I'll never see him again. I just couldn't. Bad for my health. That cocaine.