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

Meubles. In all the Victoriaville brothels I've ever been in, the language of the house has been Korean. And all the arrangements and accommodations have been variations on a theme:

You enter through a 24/7-ajar outer door, often with an "Open" sign, then encounter an inner door, where you ring the bell to get buzzed in. Many houses train a security camera on the inner door, so the whores may greet their regulars, or unwanted vistors can be screened.

If the building is very small or old, the inner door may give on a simple foyer, but more often you enter a waiting room with one or two couches, a wide-screen TV, perhaps a crimson-and-gold painted shrine glowing with red Christmas bulbs, holding offerings of fruit, most often dusty. A curtained doorway leads to the whores' quarters, where (I suppose) they sleep, crash, paint their nails and do their hair, change into their uniforms, gossip, share tips, and prosecute feuds and rivalries. If your whore has not already collected you at the door, the mama-san greets you, brings one out to you, or presents you with a selection from which you may choose. Sometimes, they display themselves on the couches.

Your whore leads you upstairs, or down a hallway. Mostly the carpeting is red, but at least not outdoor. A kitchenette may be off the hallway, a sauna, a storage room, but there is always at least one table shower room. Assume a long hallway, with eight cubes hence eight whores at a time, then figuring conservatively: 8 * ([50] (house) + [100] (whore)) * 3 * 265 = [954,000].

And like you, perhaps, she works in a cube, although one with a ceiling and a door (brass number, hollow, cheap hardware) that will lock. There is a Japanese-style gridded screen, a chair, or an exercise machine to hang your clothes on, a nightstand with kleenex, oils, lube, and nothing in the drawers. Sometimes a boombox, red digits low glowing. Always wall mirror along a low bed or mattress with towels folded at the foot. The mattress will be solid, resilient with no springs, not hard, like a futon.

At 2111, the walls and the ceiling were spackled with glitter: Take him and cut him out in little stars: The Milky Way, in a dim pink sky.

And of course a bowl of cellophane wrapped red-and-white swirly striped peppermints in a bowl next the door, so the departing guest can sweeten his mouth.

Her crinkly bush. "Like Brillo."

I loved the sweet feel of my shaft when Lan slid her sloppy slit up and down it, but her bush—she was young—was so sharp and stiff that her backstroke or her rotation would hurt me.

But how could I have said what I said? Embarassing things.

I took the cunt more travelled by and that has made all the difference.