Then
Mama purred at him, "I like your outfit, honey - reeel sexxy!"
He
got on her lap, snuggling against her huge breasts, and a shovel-like hand descended
on the leather
of his crotch; it began to rub him, slowly and savoringly. They seemed completely
oblivious
of the others. Her fingers slithered over him like fat, black worms. He moaned;
then,
when it seemed
he was about to climax, he embraced her neck and, panting, whispered into
her ear,
touching aside one dangling red plastic heart. And he shuddered, twisting in
her arms.
Mama
sighed. Closing her eyes, she rocked him awhile. Then she brought her face close
to his
and giggled.
"You're
an evil prick, baby!" She pinched his cheek.
He
winked at her.
"You
sure?" she said.
He
blew her a kiss.
For
the first time, she looked at them.
"You
girls wanna be Hoes for a night?"
She
grinned.
"I
guess you are girls. You look like girls, but it don't really matter much here.
We service lots
different
types . . . One night a guy wanted to fuck a statue of Venus. I told him I didn't
have no
statue of
Venus - but! he could fuck the flower pot on the coffee table. Same material,
wasn't it?
But it was
better. Stuck his Tang in the soft compost with the ferns, got so excited he
shot right
through the
pot! Broke it! Cracked it! And I charged him for it - the pot, the ferns, the
compost!"
She
laughed hysterically.
Hole
fell off her bouncing thighs.
"What
d'ya say?" she pursued them, wiping her mouth, "Great experience . . . Besides,
Holes
here wants
to watch you, young lady, be screwed . . ."
The
girls were confused.
"You,
honey," she jerked an obese thumb at Linda, "He's just hot for you."
Linda
felt her cheeks burn, but she looked at the woman as though she had not understood.
Hole, watching
her, seemed strangely distant, standing within a kind of grayish shadow rather
than light
and his face settled into a hard mask that frightened her.
Yet
it was him.
"I'll
give you 50 percent," continued Mama, "and you, kid, you wanna make some money
too?"
"You
serious?" B.B. said.
"50
percent," Mama answered.
"What
I hav'ta fuck?"
"Anybody
wants you, honey, that's got the money - albino, bald men, blind man with a
12 inch
cock.
Even a woman."
"Holy
shit," B.B. said.
"Lots
o' that here too."
"Nawh.
I ain't interested."
He
walked away and sat at the couch behind the poinsettias.
"I
don't care, " Linda said.
Hole
smiled.
"What
about you, young lady?"
Womba,
peering at her suspiciously, shifted her weight onto her right leg, causing
her buttocks,
which stuck
out like sandbags, to roll against themselves; she was pensive.
"
. . wahll . . ," she glanced at Linda, " . . yeah . . okay . . But ah aint fuckin'!
Ah'll piss or shit on
anybody
. . .and beat em up ef dat riffs em - but no fukkers! Can yuh handle dat?"
"Come
on," Mama answered, turning into the corridor.
"Yuh
reeely gonna do dis?"
"Yea,"
Linda said, "It's different. Why not?"
Womba's
room
They
followed Mama behind a heavy curtain into a room. The bed was covered with a
clear
plastic sheet,
like a white frosted cake inside a cellophane wrapper. She indicated some
drawers and
the closet.
"There's
stuff in there - costumes, chains, belts, handcuffs, whips, anything you need,
even
meaner
boots than you got on, honey. I'll send you any Beg Asses show up."
At
the door she turned around and surveyed Womba's body.
"See
ya later, honey pot," she leered at the girls crotch.
Womba
made a face at her. And Mama went on to the end of the corridor. She held open
the door,
waving Hole and Linda inside.
Linda's
room
"This
is your palace," she said.
There
was a queen size bed with three pillows across the top, and on the night stand
a lamp
with a pink
tulip-shaped glass shade. The ceiling had four buzzing fluorescent tubes arranged
in a square;
in opposite pairs two were red and two were blue, so the light in the room was
a
flushed,
flickering violet. Mirrors, tied to the walls by twisted, knotted lengths of
wire, were tilted
to reflect
the bed - except a small oval one which was set into the wall.
"That's
your porthole," Mama told Hole," one-way mirror. You can see your girlfriend
doin' what
she
does best - that is, if she don't mind . . ."
Linda
glanced down at the bulge in his pants; they were leather pants, she wondered
if his
organ smelled
like leather, and she looked up at him. Hole. What a funny name! He was cute,
but he made
her shudder now. She smiled at him. It was her graduation night, something
especial,
that came just one time in life. So who cared.
"50
percent," she said.
"50
percent," Mama laughed and walked out, leaving them alone.
"What
you wanna see?" Linda asked.
"You
know," Hole said.
No,
she shook her head.
He
smiled, turned around, and walked slowly to the door.
"Your
cunt . . .," he said softly, closing the door behind him.
Mama
left him in the adjoining room.
Lindo
wondered if she was crazy to do it, not really knowing why she was doing it.
She could
run out now. Why should she stay? But she wanted to feel something strong
about it,
to be angry, or to be sad or deeply disappointed - or even happy. She wanted
to hate
him. But
she did not feel anything really. Maybe she was crazy. Dropping her coat on
the bed,
she went
to the oval mirror and stood there, gazing into it. The glass, streaked and
clouded like
a lens suffused
with cataracts, erased most of her face.
the
Old Man
Mama
looked up from her desk when she heard the door opened; an old man, weaving,
slammed it
shut and lurched forward, lips struggling to articulate words, with his right
hand
raised up
inside a brown paper bag. He tripped and fell into the couch, his coat brushing
the poinsettias,
and pollen rained onto the hard surface of the glass covering the coffee table,
swirling
about in the minuscule eddies of turbulence caused by the crashing body.
He twisted
round and found Mama standing over him.
"I
want . . .," he blurted out.
Mamma
nodded.
"
. . I want . . . a young girl . . my daughter - to punish me!" he closed his
eyes, ashamed and
excited.
Mama
was impressed the words came unslurred. He was new to her. He held up a crumpled
photograph.
"Like
that - just like that," he gasped.
Then
he relaxed, sinking back into the cushions of the couch; his flushed face reposed
beneath
struggling
folds of skin.
Mama
glanced at the discolored photograph and snapped her fingers until he looked
up at her.
"Twenty
bucks now," she demanded.
He
became excited.
"You
got her? You . . . Just like that? Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, punish me!" he
wailed.
In
his agitation, the brown paper back dropped away, revealing his hand clutched
on a Gideon
Bible streaked
with excrement; the stench billowed from it. And he dropped it, anxiously
searching
his pockets, until he found some bills which he threw at the coffee table.
Mama
counted it - at least twenty dollars - and stuffed it into her dress.
"Yeah,
I got her," she said, bending over him, " . . so young! so pure! And you done
wrong her,
didn't
you? Come on, she gonna beat the shit out o' you, if you got any left!"
She
lifted him off the couch and shoved him into the corridor.
He
staggered forward, bent down like a gorilla, excitedly sniffing the floor. She
steered him
to Womba's
room and pushed him inside, quickly shutting the door. Then she went back to
her desk
and set the timer.
Mama
Wonders
She remembered
B.B. Where did he go?
He had sat
on the couch. He didn't go to any of the rooms, she were sure.
Where was
the dumb fart?
With an angry
grunt she got up, crossed to the door, went downstairs, and looked into the
bar.
He was there.
"Damn
kid!" she hissed to herself.
Huffing
back up the stairs, pulling on the banister, heaving herself up by pushing on
her
watermelon-sized
knees, she was irritated at the imposition he had forced on her.
She hated
to leave her lobby.
To Mama the
world outside was where she got the groceries and where her customers
came from.
That was all. She knew them, knew all their types. And they were all so
hopelessly
confused - what brains they had, floating in alcohol, were inhabited with the
cold, cannibalistic
monsters which they called Memories.
She did not
pity them.
She slammed
the door behind her. Sitting at her desk, she poured herself a glass of
buttermilk,
and noted the time. Then, humming contentedly, she flipped through a picture
book of roses.
BB
& the Tenderloins
The
buzzing television set had the bartender's complete attention.
But B.B.
was far more interested in the woman sitting next to him. She was a very pale,
older woman
with a necklace of clear glass beads, wearing a velvety dress whose sleeves
ended at
her elbows in gaping, frayed circles. At the moment she was staring at the bottles
behind bar.
"Where
is this place?" B.B. asked, disturbing her concentration.
"Where
are we?"
She
turned to him.
"You're
in the Tenderloin, son," she said.
"Huh?"
She
rolled her eyes.
"Tenderloin!"
But
he still looked puzzled, so she faced him and pronounced it again very slowly,
sliding
her palms
down her sides and to her groin, " . . .tender . . .loins . . .get it?"
B.B.
watched her hands trim the bluish coat against her body.
She
was in good shape for an older woman.
He
stared obviously, and laughed.
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