Viewing the local antiquities

Prematurely cute. 

Climbing

My Viagra stash was all gone, so thought I'd see how I did without it.

It's strange to enter a brothel not hard, with the back of my neck not hot.


Not here.


Not here.

whore1 was big-boned, whore2 looked too calculating. So the mama-san broght whore3 from behind the curtain to the green room. She looked just right.

And up, up, up we went.

Descending

$220 lighter—she counted, then laughed—and having disrobed, hung my clothes up on the "available" (advertised) "exercise equipment," having wrapped a fluffy white towel around me, and followed her back down the stairs, jutting slightly, past other whores in the hall, on the landing, fortuitously, appraising, past the green room, where a hand reached out for the money: Dripping in the sauna, I overhear raised voices in female Korean. I take a Spa magazine off the top of a squared stack of FHMs and Gallerys and read it, cover to cover.

These days, people airbrush themselves tan. Imagine!

It's either Whore3 vs. Mama-sana, or she's working two guys.

Bathing

She details me: Every crevice is ruthlessly scrubbed, all skin soaped. If she had a toothbrush instead of a loofah, she'd use it, with special attention to my asscrack, my hole, and my grundle: rimming being a specialite de maison. When I stand up, she hoses me off with the shower nozzle, then towels me dry, though not very thorougly. Damply up up, up again: I'm in front: she raises my towel and plants a fat sloppy kiss on my right cheek.

Touching

"Lie down."

"Don't move."

Another long absence.

I get up and flick the boombox radio slider Off—it's disquieting—and lie back down on my belly.


"I told you, don't move!"


She gets out a bottle of rubbing alchohol and unscrews the cap. I cup my hands, she pours. I wash my hands in the cool doctor's office-y smell. She dries my fingers, my palms, the backs of my hands, with a towel, thoroughly this time. The light in the room is next to the window. She drapes the red hanging curtain round the light: the room dims and pinkens, almost as if it were a boudoir in a romance. We begin.

Looking

"Look at me."



She raises up on one knee, reaches under herself, puts my head to her lips, squats, lifts, eases herself down, and grinds. I come in one stroke, jam down her haunches to keep myself up her. She is beautiful, with her calm distant moon face above me.

Later, I think she must have wanted me to see her new breasts.

Rimming

Feather light, her nails drift, circling shoulder blades, down the small of my back, circling each cheek, brushing just the tuft of my balls, catwhisker-light. In a half cycle, I raise up my pelvis to give her a better angle: She clamps her hands on my cheeks and spreads them.

Dipping, stinging, twirling: sweetly probing my hole—She must be able to roll her tongue.

Not Lucy's lewd lip smacks but tiny tst's, slst's, lapping and kissing: Faint sounds from far away, "back there."

The air that could be too cool but isn't blows over my back.

Halting

She starts off the second service by sucking me, but finally, still barely hard, I lift her head up off me and ask her to stop.


She looks at me with black lacquer eyes.



Nothing.

Perhaps she thinks I'll call customer service?

She undrapes the curtain and the room becomes bright.

Talking

"I know you like Jennifer, she will be back in May." [The mama-san had said Monday, though not which Monday.]


"No, she is having the operation for her breasts."


"It won't hurt. Look!" Lifting her breasts with both hands. You can suck and touch every part of me."


"You're cute."


"Tina."

Parting

Down, down, down the stairs she is lascivious again.

In the foyer, masses of tulips.

"Have a happy Easter!" sings the mama-san

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