Viewing the local antiquities


















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True virtue in the District of Columbia 

Where does true virtue lie? With the honest whore who grants me the use and pleasure of her flesh for an hour?

Or does true virtue lie with the utterly corrupt ruling class that pays for her services with the money they make from war, or from selling the war?

Or does true virtue lie with the john who makes his living by promoting abstinence?

Randall Tobias resigned as deputy secretary of state one day after confirming to Brian Ross of ABC that he had patronized the Pamela Martin firm. Speaking Saturday on "Good Morning America," Ross said Tobias told him Tobias' number was on Palfrey's phone records because he had called "to have gals come over to the condo to give me a massage."

"Gals"--what a degrading word.

Tobias, who is 65 and married, was director of U.S. Foreign Assistance and administrator of the U.S. Agency for International Development. He previously held a top job in the Bush administration overseeing AIDS relief, in which he promoted abstinence and a policy requiring grant recipients to swear they oppose prostitution.

Angel, Anna, Annie, Cathy, Elaine, Gabrielle, Icy, Jade, Jasmine, Jennifer, Jenny, Jessica, Karina, Kay, Kim, Laura, Lisa, Lucy, Lynn, Mei-Ling, Ming, Naomi, Oie, Pammie, Pink, Sasha, Sophia, and Tina are the heroines of these stories that you are reading. They are truly virtuous. They are your daughters; perhaps your lovers; perhaps your wives. They are courageous, friendly, honest, efficient, kind, hard-working, can be intimate, and work very hard. "Charity" and "whore" come from the same root. Can Randall Tobias and the rest of our depraved ruling class say that they share a whore's virtues?

Of course, there's an art to the business being a whore. I'm sure Pamela Martin was a good one:

Palfrey's attorney, Montgomery Blair Sibley, said Friday that he has been contacted by five lawyers recently, asking whether their clients' names are on Palfrey's list of 10,000 to 15,000 phone numbers. Some, Sibley said, have inquired whether accommodations could be made to keep their identities private. ABC is expected to air a report on Palfrey and her clients on Friday's edition of "20/20."

Disclosures have been made sparely and artfully.

Good. I like the spare, and the artful.


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Taking my pleasure 

Taking Angel from behind

Taking the plastic bag with the crackers
The spoon
The tin
The blue ice pack
From Petrossian's to the door of her brothel

Taking her hand as she leads me upstairs

Taking the money out of my wallet

Taking my time

Taking my time while I eat
Digging in

Chewing with my mouth open
Chewing with her mouth open


Taking a breather

Taking my pleasure
Taking Angel from behind
Taking my Angel from behind
Having taken her call

Taking my pleasure in the sound of her
Taking my pleasure on her
In her
With her

Whirr of the vacuum
On the stairs
In the hall
At the door

A slow afternoon

Someone else in the house
Knowing the regular's going at it with Angel
Hearing us do it
Jealous: The caviar Angel will be sure to tell her about
Jealous: Angel's take-home
Jealous: That Angel goes home

The wood frame of the table, creaking
Ripe smacks
Slick sounds of the slippery slippy slip slipping slit slipped
Cinderella taking it hard
Capricious lubricious salacious delicious—

Taking Angel from behind
Taking pleasure
Taking my pleasure
Take two

Taking up the position
Hauling her hips up
Squeezing her cheeks
Throwing my head back

A cry caught in the throat

I'll take a—
I'll take a—
I'll take a—

Mother of pearl
Her unseeable smile

"It's raining, so you are lonely."

Taking my pulse

Taking my pleasure
Taking Angel from behind
Taking my Angel from behind


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My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground 

I walk in my hide, walk naked from her rented bed through her hall to her efficiency kitchen, as if I were at home; as if I had all the time in the world; as if we were lovers.

She, naked too, stands at the electric stove, lifting the edge of the pancake so the batter runs under: a single huge pancake, in the special pancake pane.

I put the syrup and margarine on the kitchen table; her fridge, a Louis Vuitton invoice ("PAID") held to the door with a daisy magnet, was as empty as mine. On her desk, the bills, neatly arranged in plastic storage boxes; the family smiles from a seashell frame.

A painting throws back light from the wall: A troupe of white-robed white-winged little girls with black-dotted eyes who, smiling, ply their gold harps, brass trumpets, bronze violins, copper drums, hovering high in white impasto:

"I think I missed two."


Out the big window, the darkening city's grid glows. Naked, we walk down the hall.


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Angel's Apartment: 1, 2, 3.

"Goodbye, my friends!" 
Angel, of Dunkin' Donuts, grasping her midriff overspill in both hands.


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Long time 

Slowing stretching straining pausing my endurance all the way up her: All my weight poised on her ample cheeks, borne down through her loadbearing thighs, knees: There may come that confident moment when I sense, looming, the cheekrippling titswaying foamsighing slamgrunting cockclenching loving my yaw petite vessel as much as I can—

But not this time. Like Noah I sent out a bird that never returned.

"Are you tired?"

Angel's voice, from beneath me. Angel knows me so well. I rock back, shrinking and cooling. When she turns on her back and opens her legs, I crawl up between them, lay my head down, ear to her breastbone: She cradles me, locks her arms round my back, rocks me. As much as I can—

I’d jerked off first in the shower, my simple plan for a strong second come. Below my aging cube-dweller’s belly my cock was half-hard, ‘til I rummaged round up my asshole, cleaning myself for her rimjob, soapyfingered—

Lather jerk repeat:

My whole body stiff, while head down eyes closed I lean with my left hand on the shower’s wall, with my right hand jerking, jerking, jerking:

Come on, come on, come on

The hot water beats on my already heating shoulders.


"Is this your first time"? 

"What your name?"

"Do you have children?"

"Are you smart?"
"Smarter than some, not so smart as others."

"What is your job?"
"It would be hard to explain. Information technology."

"What is your name?"

"Slow, slow!"

"Are you married?"


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Yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound 

Angel clicks on the boombox because of the neighbors.

My knees sink deep into the mattress.

The bedframe creaks creaks creaks—

The headboard bang bangs bangs the wall—



Errraaugh! Ah!

"My hero!"

"This is not a good bed."


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Angel's Apartment: 1, 2, 3.

No such roses see I in her cheeks 

"—but you have to pay more because it is my apartment."

Angel unchains her door, greets me: Grey just-like-silk nightie with cheesy black fringe round the hem and deep neckline; not the white cotton and lace that I gave her. She wears pom-pom slippers:

Bare feet: muscled calves: aging belly: creased neck: spotty complexion: She—

Smiles. I swell.

"I don't have a job."

"The other girls had to stay 24/7. But I came home to my apartment."

I kneel on her rented white shag carpet by her rented white bed: She lifts her knees all way to her shoulders, then opens her practiced legs wide, exposes her paired long swollen dark lips: her dainty pink puckered rim:

Quite charming.

Bending my head, I inhale her bouquet: the perineum odor not shit narrow and sharp but rounded, warm, rich: like dung: the barnyard where I am the cock. She doesn't keep herself as quite clean here at home, as she would in her brothel.

Messy, noisy, I eat her: Smack my lips at her lips: Slither myself along, around, between, inside, down, up her furrowed sensorium: Liptug this channelled fold, that: Chin jammed to the mattress dig never-far-enough up her: twiddling:

She heats and swells. She drapes her legs over my shoulders, squeezes her thighs round my ears and heaves, heaves, heaves her cunt up against my mouth. My nose, in her sticky rough fur: my tongue, straining, probing, insinuating: my hands, clasping her cheeks, so she can move only up, or down, towards, or away: hot, or warm: full, or empty:

Angel moves her hand down to her motte: Because she's said she can't come unless her legs are together. Chin dripping, I rise and crawl up over her torso, suction and tongue-flip her big nipples erect, while she works her arm and hand, rubbing one out, heaving her pelvis up, concentrating:

How well I know the foregone conclusion: Her little "Erh!"

I lock my tongue's lash her final flurry, nip her nipple when her hand stops: Then snuffle her neck, no perfume, did she lose it?

"It's easier for me this way."

There's no room for me when she closes her legs.


Angel's Apartment: 1, 2, 3

Fellow Antiquarians: I hope I haven't lost my touch, and I apologize for the pauses that my life now makes inevitable; but I have not forgotten VLA, nor you.

Today Angel asked me for money 
because her slipped disk means she's unable to work.

I don't have it; but if I did have it, would I give it? I haven't even seen a diagnosis on paper; all I've seen is the perfectly circular pattern of bruises on her back, where she got herself cupped. That seems genuine, since she might have lost clients turned off by them. But I'm not sure I want to invest in her small business.

"It's OK. I sent too much home."


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All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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