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.


My first three-way 
was a miserable failure. One was fat, the other had a jaw like a bulldog's, neither was clean, and they didn't know how to dress.

"This bird won't fly," the fat one said—in French, thinking I wouldn't understand, and I was glad to agree with her.

I could have jerked myself off a lot more successfully, and not spent a dime.

I left with relief. Their room was way out on the Plateau, and it took me forever to get home.


Filling in the blanks. 

___r_, _____r, _r________, ___r_____, ______r_, ____ __r_, ____r_.

Whore, hooker, prostitute, courtesan, hetaera, call girl, escort ...


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