Viewing the local antiquities

"Just bring yourself." 

My 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."

"Seoul."

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.




We chaff with the whores.



On the TV screen that isn't a monitor, Jerry Orbach, looking worn, but wise enough.


"There," says the mama-san, gesturing to a stack of unlabelled videos. "They don't like. They want Engish."

"Did she call?"




"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.



The 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.

We laughed.



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 can’t bring myself to say pussy: the plosive “p” followed by sibilant “s,” then the clamp-toothed grin of a long “e”: Yuck. I prefer the tough, straightforward cunt, but playing at being a furry pussy makes me forget some things. Like that I’m 34. Thanks to a genetic gift, my age is often taken for mid-20s. As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve gone the reverse of most people: I’m more shallow, not less; more superficial, not deeper. In my early 20s, when I received admiring looks from men, I’d bristle, unwilling to be turned into a sex object. Then, after gaining weight, I wanted ever more to be loved for who I was. On the inside.

But now, slimmed yet on the cusp of losing my youthful looks, I crave those lustful glances. I want to be coveted. Cat-like, I need to be constantly petted and admired. To that end, I’ve tightened my pants, donned push-up bras, raised my heels. My initial reluctance to pose for photos faded away as compliments came in (even the weird ones are appreciated). Now, each compliment, each assessing look, each flirtatious encounter flows straight to my cunt.

I used to believe in the importance of being happy with what I had. If I had a man, he was enough. If I didn’t, well, I was enough. No more. I’m becoming more aware of the feast before me, the soft lush lips of a younger man, hard thighs moving under loose clothing, the hot masculine scent of a man brushing by.

I don’t want that to be a one-way thing. I don’t want to be a dirty old woman, invisible, my lust unreturned by a society with no real models for mature sexuality. When will playing the pussy, flaunting my ass, stop being cute and start being desperate?

Fuck that. I will not age “gracefully”; there’ll always be someone who wants pussy this good. I’ll make them want it.

Meow.

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:

...Il pleut
...la tortue...

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:

REM sleep:

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.