Viewing the local antiquities

Achieve and sustain. 

Since I'm planning for Jennifer's return, I decide to lay in supplies, but at this point, I'm plastic—though not latex—-free; I don't even have a checking account. This great country, however, makes it easy to purchase Viagra: One USA Today advertiser offers the option of paying by wire transfer via Western Union.

So I make the call, and undergo the protocol which—surprise!—I pass with flying colors. Of course, I have no insurance, I lied on that question, and of course I haven't had a medical exam in the last year, because with no money that's hard, so I lied on that too, but presumably the point of the protocol is not to screen, but to avoid liability, so I don't feel too bad.

So then the little blue tabs came via FedEx, bearing their gift: Not a pharmaceutical hard-on, but the induced mindset that what worked once, twice, many times will work yet again, so my head doesn't soften me.

It's the Protestant fuck ethic: With a whore, the opportunity cost of a lost erection is high, so don't let that happen! Although given the givens of dating, the same is true for that kind of sex too.

Vive la Viagra!


Tag: .

When I scan photographs of Asian women in crowds wearing white SARS masks 
why do I find their faces erotic?

Masks, in themselves, don't do anything for me—although with chins, lips, noses, cheekbones hidden uniformly each brushed-stroked pair of eyebrows, broad brow, widow's peak, glossy crest, bob, pony-tail is exposed as unique—but their wearers remind me of women, also masked, also Asian, providing personal services in nail salons, as their sisters, nieces, daughters, mothers might also do in a brothel, though without a surgical mask.

Some girls, in fact, work both these cash, tip-driven businesses: Annie, for example: pour le taux.


Is she, or isn't she? 
I looked up over the seatback to see her taking off her black cowboy hat. When she sits down, I can look left to see her reflection in the window. For miles, I peep as she grooms and preens herself: as she adjusts her leopard-print sheath round her tits: her fingers with their many silver rings, including the index: her throat, with its careful black ribbon:

In fact, I get up, go down the aisle, and come back to my seat just to get a good look at her: branded shopping bags at her feet; the cowboy hat on the seat next to her; the peaked plucked eyebrows that no longer arch to ask a question:

And still, I peep at her preening: She puts her hair in a butterfly clip: mirror, powder, lipstick: buffs her nails: takes her hair out of its clip to smooth it once more:

A rattle of plastic, and there is her face over the back of my seat, smiling:

"I dropped my hair thing, do you see it?" Her little voice, clottily sweet.

It was down among the cord to my computer.

"Your clip."


She's reading the You and your money column in Cosmo, while conducting a long conversation on her cell: Korean tonalities, long singing dipthongs. Then she takes another call:

"Why did you call from a pay phone? I want our time to be special."

She gets off at Penn Station.


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