"Just bring yourself."
Dinner serviceMy whore, Sophia, efficient, brought me into the green room with time left on the clock, so the rice wasn't cooked.
Now she squats at the low red lacquer table, her chopsticks always in motion; their tips tracing graceful fractals from mouth to bowl to mouth to bowl to mouth: each circuit like all the others but always itself. I'm using chopsticks too, of course—with all the grace of eating with my hands.
Sophia eats little; in fact, she picks at her food. Her chopsticks prod, kick, pile, pince, lift: bean sprouts; cabbage; kimchee; rice: but never the marginal chicken wings, or the beef.
Squatting by Sophia'a side, her sister, with permed hair and downturned mouth; perched on the arm of the green room couch, a boy in collegiate slacks and a crew-neck sweater.
"We are one family."
Smiles and gasps in her cube; a stone face at table.
The door chimes: The mama-san gets a bag from behind the couch, goes through the outer curtain into the foyer:
"I kept it for you. Will you eat with us?"
He's my age, a gray-beard: academic, tall and thin; jeans and a Crouching Tiger tee.
"I guess I'm John."
We chaff with the whores.
"Kim? As in kim-chee? Next you tell me your sister's name is Rice!"
On the TV screen that isn't a monitor, Jerry Orbach, looking worn, but wise enough.
"No Korean TV?" Mike asks.
"There," says the mama-san, gesturing to a stack of unlabelled videos. "They don't like. They want Engish."
"Did she call?"
"No, I'm going to give her another day."
"You can wash your hands in the bathroom," says the mama-san.
I pull back the green room's inner curtain, step left into the bathroom: Opposite the sink, shelves that hold aspirin, Maalox, baby oil, KY, anti-bacterial soap, rubbing alchohol, stacks of towels, with stilletto and platform shoes lined up in pairs on the floor beneath; they must step out of them there as they go to change out of their uniforms.
My hands dry, I step out and Iook straight down the stairs to the dorm: no doors, no hall: They must sleep, when they sleep, on the open plan, all in a row of beds, like an orphanage. Atop the long bureau, lit by the big mirror, a midden of compacts, discarded polyester tops and bottoms, towels, bracelets, earrings, hairclips, CD jewel cases, cell phone, Walkmans, piled tabloids in Hangul and Thai, stuffed bears, dead colorless flowers in paper cones from the florists; no clock or watch to be seen.
Returning, I compliment the mama-san on the condiments.
"Which one is Sophia?" asks Mike.
Full serviceThe service was worth a detour, as the Guide Michelin woud say.
Sophia nibbled my cheeks with her incisors while she pegged me; perhaps the mama-san took a moment to brief her, before we joined hands and went up the stairs.
After round two, when she'd finished gasping and kegeling, I pulled out, crawled back to lie between her open legs, and laid my head down to rest, ear to her belly: and heard her stomach rumble.
Questions for study and discussion
1. Are Sophia and her sister putting their brother through school?
2. Do the mama-san's marginal cuts of meat put Sophia's billable hours at risk?
Friday pussy blogging
Hiromi of Panties, panties, panties sent VLA a picture of herself as a catgirl. Several pictures, actually, but this is the one that I liked the best. Because all cats like to flirt with their tails...
And here's what Hiromi has to say:
I love little pussy, her coat is so warm...
[All rights retained by Panties, panties, panties.]
NEXT WEEK Red sneaker diaries. Coming soon: Kim. Antiquarians, if you'd like to guest post about pussy drop me a line.
LAST WEEK Lili of EroticaLee2.
THIS WEEK'S FRIDAY PUSSY BLOGGERS Aphrodite, DirtyTalkingGirl, Eden Gardener (and again), Freya, Lili G, Prospero, Red Sneakers, Violet (missed this one!), Pagan Moss. You too? Come on down!
Rain splatters the windowpane. I look ahead into the mirror over the bed, but can't see her face: Just her golden hair, rhythmically swinging as I clamp fingers into her soft cheeks and accelerate, pumping her doggy style:
After three hours, she dried.
During my refractory period, Annie taught me the words to a children's song; we sang it together. I remember some of the rhyme words:
When she'd opened the door to me, the slanting late afternoon light had picked out lines of strain, lines of thought, lines of age on her forehead.
Now, the rain's gone. I stand, reach for the clothes I left hung over the back of the chair: Annie's sprawled out, strong legs open: The light from the lamp on the nightstand smuts the crease in her belly.
I hope Annie's remained la bonne bourgeiose. I imagine her owning a condo, though with her work ethic she could have bought an apartment block. Last time I was up in the French Quarter, I saw a combination Internet café/hairdressing establishment called Annie's and walked in, but even if that was where she put her money, she wasn't there.
Her eyelashes flutter, her eyelids twitch, against the skin of my shoulder:
Her head on my shoulder, my hand reaching down to her haunch: A respite.
Before Saturday night.
I dreamed I could see being in love with Lan again: Looking down to my chest, there, inside me: A shining gold spinning sphere always expanding, never exploding, yet always the same size.
All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."