So it happened to be as it often is that I was drunk and went from a bar to a night club or maybe it was the other way round and damn it if I didn't literally stumble over her,
where she stood, short as a child, representing a misery beyond all resistance, there behind those thick strokes of make-up, inside her tight parodic outfit that reminded me, more than anything else, of a moonlighting gogo-danser in a forgotten Baltic seaport. Hell, she was good-looking.
There is nothing as underestimated as bad taste. Alleged bad taste, that is. Nothing else. Or rather: a truly honest taste that is still bombastic. Is there anyone this side of Elvis that's managed to combine the naively pretentious with full-colour drama as well as genuinely unfashionable whores? Yes, we do have european country&western, but that's a completely different thing.
Anyway, I laughed and held her and I put my tongue into her nostrils and she shouted that I'd fucking pay her before there was anything going on and it made me unbelievably horny. We fucked in a public park and then I took her with me. I showed her a hundred and she calmed down and I held my hand in her cunt during the entire ride home. She sapped like a snotty-nosed cow and when we got out of the taxi the plush-covered seat was varnished in a big circle of her secretion. I smelled wonderful pussy. And sperm. My sperm.
Do you like sperm? I do. Especially my own. It smells of newly baked bread, with herbs and yeast and I see the scene with the fat woman in the countryside mixing my semen into her dough, kneading it into large, rounded loaves. There is something sacred about sperm. Sperm is life and it is pleasure. Pussies also have a magnificent fragrance. Jesus fed five thousand men with bread and fish. I do not have to explain that metaphor to you.
At any rate we got to my place and we fucked a few times and watched TV. I told her I liked her and threw her some money and said I didn't care if she wanted them or not. She cried a bit and took the bills and said that I was OK and then of course we were supposed to talk. Shit, it's not funny, but what's a guy to do? She didn't want to but I just have to talk after a fuck.
-Did you think of your parents in a sexual way when you were a child?, I asked her.
She didn't answer but I told her about my dad's dangling balls and his hairy ass and how I'd lain and peeked on him when he got up in the morning and about my mam's aged breasts and sweaty make-up and how her tight yellow pants folded and twisted to follow the structure of her groin. The whore fell asleep. I fingered her for a while and then I too fell asleep.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING she woke me at seven o'clock and got up and said it was broad fucking daylight and wondered if a had a hair-dryer. I told her she's whore and shouldn't behave like a fucking bank secretary and get over here and fuck me instead. She came back after a while and I turned her to position sixty-nine and we licked and slurped for quite a while before I came, somewhat unsuccessfully, with petty little shots of hang-over semen. I sighed and sniffed at the rim of her back door and then I sighed again.
Wide awake I didn't want to sleep any more. The morning was ruined. I wanted to go out and do something. Go for a walk, take a cup of coffee or call a buddy or anything. I told her to take a shower, that she could borrow my towel and then I made some coffee and she sat down and asked for sugar and I said go to hell. She'd woke up and risen early with the discipline of a farmer maid and now she tried to turn it all into some kind of a fucking family morning. It was not what I was looking for.
I drank my coffee reading a swedish fashion magazine littered with pictures of pale chicks with fat lips posing as fucking retards. As usual, constipated stylists bum-full of shit had bent over backwards to attain some kind of androgynous or artistic thing. They're pathetic, the lot of them. Walking about pecking in their stale square inch of the world looking for grains still fresh, hoping they might catch the interest of their fellow rancid charlatans. Standing in a fucking little circle examining each others arses is what they do, which in a way is a juicy thought. I showed the whore the pictures and I laughed and she laughed too. I told her to shut up and I read about what kind of bars you should hang out in if you're a fan of Ian Brown's.
Then I let her go. Bye, bye my little whore I said and gave her another hundred and lashed her between her legs from behind when she stepped out of the apartment. You stinking motherfucker she yelled from the elevator door. I held up two fingers in front of my mouth and flapped my tongue in between, like an american truck driver. See you 'round my little pussy-whore I shouted and laughed at the descending elevator. Then I went down to my favourite café, had a fruit juice and a cigarette and wrote a long letter to a friend in Bruxelles. Having little boys peeing downtown you can't help loving that place.
illustration: DANIEL EGNEUS
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Introducing Paul Kenny, the most truth-telling gentleman in Stockholm.
© Copyright 1998 Asshole Magazine