Viewing the local antiquities

Generally, I don't expect 
lubrication from whores. But sometimes it happens. In a District hotel:

During my refractory period Lynn [Bracken?] tells me about raising parakeets with some crazies in an Idaho trailer.

I put out a hand to her haunch.

"Second round?" Doggy styling. And then—

The skin of my cock strains with the bloodrush before I'm aware of the smell: Fish, iron, salt, soil, wax, hair: Snuff, thick in my nostrils, cramming the air.

What do whores think, or feel, when they lubricate?
I know what I feel: I enjoy it. She's wet, and she knows it; she reeks, and she knows it; and she knows that I know. Something she felt, or recalled, or imagined, released her, which wouldn't have happened if I were not with her, in her, up her. And if I'm working behind her, she has to remember who's taking her, who made her wet. Or know she's forgotten. The service, she chose. But she didn't chose this.
Brute facts.



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