PARADOXIA (6 page)

M
omentary satisfaction. Quick fix. Forever on the prowl. Obsessed with their dicks just long enough to wash the taste out of my mouth. Then I wanted more. Needed more. Needed to possess them. Tiny nuggets of their souls. Glut on it. Gag on it. Puke it out. Feed again.

Basement bathrooms in shitty Bowery bars. Favorite stomping ground. Alcohol lubricates the libido. Wears down their resistance. Right, like they had any resistance. Order a double vodka. Scan the room. Pick a target. Zero in. Lead them by their dicks downstairs. Shove them into a cubicle. Lock the door. Bark out orders. Make them pull on themselves while sucking me off. Force them to kneel. Grovel. Prove how filthy they really are. Suck my ass. Drink my piss. Fuck them while squatting over the scummy toilet. Banging myself off. Using their T-shirts to sop up the runny juice. A perfume stained with sweaty sex. The lingering afterglow of a hot five-minute fuck. Their only reminder of me as I disappear up the stairs, out of the bar, back on the street. Temporary fix for an unscratchable itch.

Stumbled into the club stoned on Xanax. He was propped against the bar, one arm draped around his girlfriend's shoulder. I cut right in. No bullshitting. Whispered in his ear to meet me on the third floor in two minutes. Smiled at her as I climbed the stairs. Legs made liquid by the pills. Hot flush which moistened panties. Dry mouth. Twitching. Snatched a drink from some chippy who was making her way to the exit. Swallowed it down, handed her back the empty glass. Asked for a refill. She almost started crying. I spat in the glass. Floated upstairs. He was right behind me.

Damaged lyricist, lead singer and ringleader of the Blank Generation. I had screwed him once before. Needed another taste. Pulled him against me. Deep-throating him with my tongue. Rubbing plump titties across his. Thick grind. Damp crotch.

Tiny little cubby. Groping each other behind a broken door in the corner. Grabbing handfuls of juicy prick, rubbing the wet tip, smearing him all over himself. A heady musk inflames lust. Thrust myself against him. Stuff him inside. Ride his fleshy prick until I come spraying all over his cock, his balls, the front of his jeans. Pull him out. Jerk him off. Make him come. Autographing the wall, the door, his T-shirt. Which I wipe my pussy on. Smiling.

Imagining the look of disgust on his girlfriend's mug when he rejoins her at the bar. The smell of my pussy traced into his collar, his hands, his hair. Scarlet stain on his neck, where I bit and chewed. The argument that was sure to follow. Unnecessary, really. She should be grateful. I took what I wanted, but I gave him right back. Now he'd be able to fuck her twice as long when they went home to make up after their little squabble. If she let him. Didn't matter. He'd still be thinking about me. With or without her.

Needed a bigger hustle. Sick of scratching after scraps. Took up too much time servicing just one john at a time. Had to crank it up another notch. Manipulation elevated to Art Form. Put it up on the stage. In front of an audience, who like johns, pay by the hour, the half hour, or, in this case, every ten minutes. Instead of pleasure, sell them pain. My pain. Their own pain. Regurgitated and spat back at them. A public platform for psychotherapy. Make them pay to be tortured. Assaulted. Abused. The audience as whipping boy, whose sex could and would be used against them.

Obliterate the safety net that separates the spectator from the exhibitionist. The doctor from the patient. Play wet nurse to nightsickness. Detail every form of madness, hysteria, torture, obsession. An unholy vortex of verbal abuse. A hideous din. Around which forms a cult of negation. The figurehead, a fallen goddess, whose cruelty and hatred would be embraced. Revered. Reviled. Feared. A classic nihilist's philosophy the only dogma:
That which does not kill me makes me stronger …

I
throw the phone book to the floor. Kick it in the corner. Shake my head, crack my neck, check my lipstick. Open the door. Frozen, then slowly drawn down the stairs, up the street, past the subway. A thick lull surrounds. Audio hallucinations, swells of deafness, a pleasant cocoon blots out everything except the daydream I'm drifting on.

He almost runs into me. Sandy-blond Greek. Nineteen. On a ten-speed. Jeans, boots, belt. Grabs my hand, begs apology, cup of coffee, five minutes to make up for his blunder. Shitty diner. Offers to take me to Montauk for the weekend. We meet at Grand Central or Port Authority or Penn Station for the 6:20. I lie about my age, my address, my name. I forget his. He rambles on about fate, destiny, he knew this was going to happen, premonition … I smile out the window, nodding slowly.
So did I
, I whisper. My eyes heavy with predation.
So did I
.

Cool wet mist slips in as we exit the train. His innocent joy contagious. I allow it to consume me, envelop me, easy to pretend I'm someone else. Easy to believe that the rain married to his wet mouth against mine will cleanse the horrid stench of the rest of the world from my breath. Easy to believe I'll be able to forget who and what I am, lost in the slip of his tongue as it sweeps my mouth on the small front steps of this rundown motel.

We quickly check in, run to the beach. Heavy fog, light drizzle, deserted landscape. End of the season. Everyone's gone. Sorrowful late-night song of a filthy battered gull echoes like land's end. Run to the water praying it swallows and sucks us both under. He drops to his knees, rubbing his wet face against wet thighs. Pulls down my zipper, wiggling tight pants down over my ass, down under my pussy. Whispers into my hair a gentle kiss. A deep breath. I pull him in. Tuck my hand between shirt and neck, beg him to lick, to lick, keep licking. I open myself up to his tongue, stuck rigid against my lips.

Make him shove it in my sticky sweet meat, cleaved apart by my anxious fingers pinching my clit. Forcing the tiny head to explode with blood which I'd love to squirt into his mouth as I come all over his beautiful face.

As my spasms subside, he crawls around behind me, lapping at me on all fours, stuffing his face deep in the crack of my ass. Deep breaths. Drinking in my perfumed sex. He buries himself deeper, teasing, tickling. Running circles with his tongue against the bull's-eye. Taunting small contractions. Coaxing me to fuck his tongue, to suck his tongue with my ass, pulling me against his probing fleshy spear. His greedy mouth banging and biting me into coming. Again.

He pulls me onto the sand, face-to-face. Tells me to taste my sweet ass, sticks his tongue out till it reaches mine. I circle it in my mouth, panting on all fours, hungry bitch. He asks me, begs me, tells me, demands to take my ass. Now. He slips behind me, his juicy prick moist in his hands. Rubs it against me talking filthy in Greek. Translates it for me, “I'm going to fuck you until you pass out … and when you wake up I'll still be fucking you …” He presses himself into me. Slow. Opening my tiny chestnut hole with one hand, guiding himself into me with the other. Whispering for me to breathe deeply, open up, relax, enjoy. His thick cock pulsing inside me. Sneaking its length into me. Smooth. Telling me to suck him in, breathe his cock in. I slow my breath down, work him from the inside. My asshole twitching, jerking. He knows I'm ready and begins a steady pump, smooth hot cock causing delirium. I buck back into him, thrashing my head from side to side, urging him to pound into me, to fuck the shit out of me. Begging him to. He pulls out, gripping himself, and begins tonguing me again. Just enough for me to miss his cock, just enough to hear the words,
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me …

I caught the 5:45 a.m. train back to the city. I waited until he passed out, slipped thirty dollars out of his wallet, and took off. I didn't “sleep” with anybody … couldn't stand the thought of waking up groggy to get groped by some strange dick that might have been hot the night before. But daylight casts a different pallor. A pallor I didn't want to witness, didn't want to smell the sleep leeching off. Didn't want to deal with who or what I had done. Wanted to languor in the memory long enough to shower it off. Forget as soon as possible all but the temporary satiation that anonymous sex with a complete stranger could uniquely provide.

P
layed social worker to the bums on Bowery and Grand. I'd bring them sandwiches, bandages, booze. They were banned from the liquor store on the corner. Ms. Diana was a female impersonator in his late forties. Dressed in tattered costumes salvaged from off-Broadway playhouses. Tacky lamé turbans piled two to three feet high, resting on top of rotted blond wigs. Wandered up to NYC in the early '60s to escape the persecution of a Southern upbringing. Would sing a song for the price of a scrambled egg on buttered roll breakfast. Something by the Supremes, Martha & the Vandellas, the Shangri-Las.

“The Foot” kept to himself. A filthy rag-and-bone man loaded down with half a dozen hefty bags filled with moldy clothes. I'd slip him a dollar, a donut, a slice of pizza. He'd nod, fold his hands in prayer, and lower his eyes, whispering a silent
thankyou
. The stench of gangrene a noxious cloud of putrefaction.

“The Nose” kept vigil across the street. His swollen proboscis too sensitive, a rotting tomato dissolved by open sores. Proselytizing to passersby to liberate themselves of material goods. Give up their apartments, blood money paid to miserly landlords. Quit their jobs. Slave labor. Share their money, clothes, his fellow brethren, the heir apparent. Screaming at all who passed to rise up out of the pit of vipers. Relinquish their greed. Petty ambitions. False gods. Unreasonable hopes. Promising that “THE END IS NEAR … NEARER THAN YOU THINK …” as he held out an old coffee cup, stirring the pennies, nickels, dimes together. An irritating nursery rhyme which jangled the nerves. Causing shudders.

Eddy the Vet lived in a cardboard box on the corner of Prince. Couldn't figure out how to screw his head back on after his capture in Da Nang. Waking hallucinations the target of vicious tirades. The enemy lurking in red Toyotas, Hondas, hatchbacks. Theorized that taxi drivers were U.S. prisoners of war. Claimed to recognize every cab that passed. Had a story to back it up. Couldn't shut him up once he started talking. Terrible tales trailed up the block, burned into the back of your head.

He boarded at 86th Street. Young Puerto Rican boy, no more than fourteen. Small, thin-boned, frail. Massive babybrowns lined with sadness. Our eyes devoured each other.

He smiled as my pulse boomeranged. I held my tongue in, wanted to grab his big mouth and swallow. He cocked his hips in my direction. Skinny thing. Smiling, teasing, enjoying the attention. We hit 34th Street. He disappeared. My mouth dropped. Kicking myself. I couldn't believe I'd let him slip away. Usually I'd pounce. Pursue. Persuade. Pull them aside. Take them with me. He slipped out the door before I could say a word.

Two weeks later. Same scene. Heading uptown. I had just moved to Spanish Harlem. He gets on at 34th. I had summoned him. All my dreams about his small hands, hard cock, big mouth were about to pay off. I smiled. He lit up. Grabbed his brother's arm. Quick Spanish. “I told you, man, I told you I'd see her again …” I asked him where he was getting off. 110th. My stop. So close to home. Didn't dig that shit. Liked to keep a bit of distance. Nothing too personal. I only wanted a quick, nasty fuck. Not fucking puppy love.

I went for it anyway.

He lied and said he was sixteen. I lied and said I was twenty-two. It didn't matter. We both knew what we wanted. Liquid dreams quenched. He wanted to follow me home. With his brother. I wasn't in the mood for “legal” tender. The brother was too old. Not hot. Facial hair.

We made a date to meet in the small park on 103rd. Park,
right
… two cement bleachers stuck on a sidewalk where the remnants of grass ghosts couldn't even cast a shadow. This I couldn't rush. It'd be over with soon enough. One-fuck wonder. Had to evaluate a few things first. Like what he boosted. If he hustled. How many brothers he had. How close he lived. In NYC, a few blocks can mean a world apart.

I was hoping …

Another New York hard-luck story. He “used to” move coke for his uncle, a Dominican up on 113th. Handled the small runs. Nothing big-time. Didn't touch the shit himself. Yeah, feed me another line, baby … Hated what it did. What it made you do. Saw too many of his brothers take one hit too many. Turned them into freaks. Freak. Just smoke the weed. Feel good. Mellow out. He passed a joint underhand. Smiling. Cheap, dirty Mexican. Didn't matter.

The sun bounced, played tricks on his toffee lips. Got swallowed up in the beautiful chocolate freckles bridging his beautiful nose. I watched his nervous hands dance on his bony knees hiding beneath thin black chinos.

Grabbed his wrists. Led him the six blocks, five flights up to my apartment. Twisted the locks open and closed. Grabbed his face. Licked. Tasting sun, soap, sweet Spanish cheeks. Tongues colliding. I forced him against the door. Crushed him under my dominant size. Experience. Hips grinding into his. Hard. Slipped my hand in his pants. Squeezing cock, balls, full teenage erection. Sweaty. I pulled him out. Firm clasp. Small gasp from parted lips. Which I sucked down in soul kiss. Lost in his deep wet eyes. Let a thick spittle leave my mouth to grease his prick. Perfect aim. Dribble-soaked dick being squeezed in life/death grip. Twisting the head just enough to almost hurt. Testing. To see what he's made of. I shove him back against the door. Walk away.

Of course he follows. Stops at the foot of the bed. Fingers handcuffs. Not knowing who they're for. Never to know. Push him roughly onto the bed. Face down. Biting neck, back, shoulders, ass. Unbuckle him from under me. Freed to the knees. Smiling olive globes, kneaded, worked apart. Lovingly spat upon. Thick white spit shines his greasy asshole. A vision of South American virgins offered up in ritual sacrifice dances in the distance. Force my spear tongue like a knife up his hole. Bittersweet hollow. Turn him over, gently grab his teenage prick. Slow choke it. Twisting. Lick. bite, suck, lick. Salt. Gold.

Pull off my clothes. Climb on top, his arms pinned back. Welterweight body, partially exposed. Hips to nipples. Delicious. Slow grind. Just enough friction to make him come all over my belly. Force his fat lips against me. Sucking up his come. Watch it run down his chin. Run his chin down to my clit. Make him lick. Suck. Bite. Lick. Salt. Gold. Sucking his mouth into my cunt. Which he holds open with two fingers. Spreading the swollen bitch. Poking his hungry pink tongue into hungry pink pussy. I come as he chews me like a rabid little pig.

Want his cock. Slender prick slickly shoved inside me. He precision pumps my cunt. A manic drill. I squeeze him inside, tighten my grip. Close my legs. Focus my pussy on the ridge of his dick, the underside of its head. The smooth skin stretching. Ready to burst. Thrashing up to him, pumping myself off. Using his prick as divining rod.

I bite his shoulder, his neck, his lips. Telling him to come. I wanna see him come all over himself. Again. To come with me. To make me come. He sprays all over the both of us, swearing in Spanish. Eyes closed. Jerking spastically as I bang my clit, slapping it, pinching it. Pulling myself off. Pushing him off of me. Telling him he's got to go.

* * *

New York acts as a flame to which every moth eventually freaks. Second- and third-generation Eastern Europeans. Immigrant Chinese. Exiles from the Middle East. Haitians. Cubans. Puerto Ricans. Southern blacks. Italians. Russians. Koreans. Kids from the Midwest, the Bible Belt, the suburbs. Executives from Connecticut. Producers from the Hamptons. Musicians from New Jersey. Failed actors from the Motor City. Would-be models fresh off the farm. A bizarre fondue, all consumed with a sickness to succeed. To beat the odds. Turn their lives around. Win at any cost. Oblivious to the atrocious exchange rate. Regardless of the toll. In spite of the obstacles. Despite the quality of living. The shitty tenement apartments. Ridiculous rents. Poor working conditions. Contamination. Decay. Ripe with sick twists trolling for night highs.