Finally I have money, so early Sunday afternoon I start walking over to my favorite brothel Downtown. But I kept worrying whether my heartburn would pose problems. I imagined her—whoever, after such a long absence—on top, slamming down on my belly: Ouch! I could turn her around and get the back view, but still...
And then the RolAids seemed to kill off the Viagra.
I make this decision, mentally schedule an encounter, and when things don't feel right, I force myself forward regardless, because I've blocked out the time slot for the transaction. Why do I do this?
But then the location—location, location—an unnamed and logoless building with a red awning largely numbered 2221 and a green door near the med school, turns out not to be so ideal at this hour either.
First, there's the street person in the Santa Claus hat who sits on the steam grating out front on the sidewalk. Then the parking lot booth turns out to be manned. And then the suburbanites and their tubby children start clambering out of their SUVs.
"Where is that man going, Mommy?"
"I know him, that's John Psmyth! Hi, John!"
Somehow, complexity has been introduced. There's friction in the transaction that I haven't bargained for.
I turn away and spend the money on a long Sunday brunch and the
Mail.
{NA}
>> posted by Anonymous
• 11/05/2003 06:11:00 AM
•
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