Viewing the local antiquities

Problems with intimacy 

There's a tall white refrigerator against the back wall of the cube where Angel's left me after taking the house money off to her new brothel's mama-san.

I open the freezer door, slam it: the stale sting of defrost knocked my head back, but the cube is ventilated enough for the smell not to linger; the walls don't go all the way to the ceiling. Sometimes the light from the shower room next door will fan out yellow on our ceiling, seeming to carry sound: splashing, laughing, talking; groaning.

The nightstand has lube, baby oil, kleenex: None of the things that would make the cube hers: No CD player, no flowers, no little notebook, no business cards; the drawer slides quietly shut on its runners, still empty.

Even with two pillows under her, Angel's masturbation technique leaves no room for my tongue—she closes her legs, covers her lips with her fingertips, then rubs in a circular motion—

So I let her keep working herself, get on all fours over her, wrap an arm through her loosened hair, under her shoulders tight round her ribcage: She loves to be bear-hugged. Pressing up with the strength of my arm, lifting her, I lower my mouth to her tit, but pause short of suction: her brown nipples are already heavy and swollen. I select the nearest, twirl with my tongue: brush with parted lips slippery: blow coolth: flutter: pause: incise: then move to the other. Just as I would, she pushes down with a shoulder blade, up with her breast: toward me, toward my mouth as, down there, her flurry peaks:


She stiffens, her hands at her side now, still. I pull my arm out from under her and rock back on my heels. Putting my palms under her thighs, I urge her upwards and back:

With what ease she rotates her hips to raise her legs, spread them wide in the air. It's as if they counterweighted, swinging smoothly on oiled gimbals. Now she stabilizes herself by pulling her thighs back with her hands, pulling herself still more open, rocking her center of gravity up, just as I would for her when she'd rim me and baby my balls.

Her lips are exposed: swollen, plumcolored, gleety. They shine. I lay my wet tongue against her engorged floret, not licking her, simply resting my tongue there, not a slurp nor a suck nor a flicker:

"I'm juicy."

Sliding down her bristle, I flatten her clit with my upper lip's membrane, chin to the mattress, mouth wide to her fluids, slithering into her hole: probing her pulp.

Pinnned and spread, Angel would show her round heels to someone behind us, anyone who might to watch or join in the action; I, my head down, sucking and slurping, my ass in the air, my balls dangling low.

Again I lower my head, lave her, put my lis to hers, and s-u-u-u-u-c-k-k-k-k up a freshet of salt.

"Your hair is too long."

"I know."

"I will cut it for you."

"Have you ever cut a man's hair before?"


"I think I will stick with my barber."

"Here is a man! I will practice with his hair, and if you like it, I will cut yours."

Does she come? Who'd be so crass as to ask? Does she not come? Actresses shed real tears, why not whores fluids? Could it be that she comes and hates me for coming?

"I love Victoriaville, but it's so dirty. It smells."

"When I talk to the Mayor, I will tell him two things: Clean the streets. And legalize the massage parlors!"

"There was a girl going home in a taxi. But the taxi driver stopped half way. He didn't take her all the way home. If massage parlors were legal, that would not happen."

"Because he would not have to."


"The word is rape."

All the while we talked, she was stroking me, making me ready for the second service: Fingertipfeathering my breasts, my belly, my thighs: tweaking my nipples, lightly scratching my balls: plucking the loose skin of my shaft: 'til I tightened, and she tentered the ridge of my taut skin between thumb and fingers.

I turn to her, bobbing and rigid; she makes to lie down on her back but I stay her and say, by putting my hand on her haunch: Doggy:

Behind her, kneeling between her legs, I brace myself with my hands on her cheeks, mount her, and start building the heavy beat I love best: the whumpf whumpf whumpf of my belly and thighs against not-too-plump cheeks; but before I can steady into the rhythm, Angel squirms, still on all fours, out from under me—


puts her knees together, then backs again toward me, her legs now between my knees: I reach down to clasp her cheeks again, she twists a hand up from between her clasped thighs, grips me, and we ease me back in her.

And I build to a tubular come that misfires Awwww when I stop pumping just barely too soon.

I imagine she clasps her legs—when she masturbates, when being taken doggy style—to tighten herself. Like Annie, she's loose from the mileage. I'm touched that she might want to come, touched that she might want to feel me inside her; gratified for the new feeling: My own come thickening, slowly climbing, squeezing itself up my shaft; because she tightened herself around me, I tightened myself round my own fluids.

Angel gives me a round-bellied plastic jar splashed with red Chinese ideographs.

"Dried mango. I will have some so you know I do not poison you." She eats.

The twisted brown peels are dusted with a sharpsour powder: At first tasteless and dry, they bloom sweet on the tongue.

"Not too much. They will give you—poop poop poop poop—



I give Angel a single stalk of green lucky bamboo in a white China pot with indigo characters.

"You always give me something that grows. I think you had a garden once."

"No... Yes. Once, long ago."

How did she know?


See also
The letter R.

Friday pussy blogging 

This week, that cosmopolitan, Mercurial, Girl:

Hi! Kim’s pussy here. Well girls, tell me, shall we dish? Yes, I thought so.

When she was little I had this thing going with her mouth. We had this agreement that we would keep her hands busy. Her thumb was always in her mouth and her other hand in the diaper. But alas, her parents interfered and got her a pacifier and kept telling her to take her hands out of her pants. Sigh. As she got older, she got sneakier and learned to use her blankie for cover.

She rents me out don’t you know, any Tom, Dick, or Harry that has the proper change can poke his penis in me. What I want to know is why I never have a Sarah, Jane, or a Cindy paying for the privilege to kiss me. She also doesn’t charge enough. But that’s not my fault, if she only had real breasts and not those two pathetic little bumps. I kept telling her to get implants, but not any more. Why? We read in the paper about women who are having cosmetic surgery on their pussies. And I have a confession to make: My labia are uneven. I’m afraid if I keep on her about her cleavage those mosquito bites will insist I get evened up. And I like myself the way I am.

Though I’ll admit that I’m envious of the pussies I see at the club who have luxuriant, trimmed fur pelts. Alas, bald is better than looking like a bad comb over.

One benefit of our work is she swaddles me in wonderful fabrics! No more itchy polyesters or sweaty nylons; only the best silks, satins, lace, and cottons for me. And they fit so well. Ooh la la. Bye, girls!

Paris. We'll always have it.

[All rights retained by Mercurial Girl.]


NEXT WEEK Violet. Coming soon: Melissa. Antiquarians, if you'd like to guest post about pussy drop me a line.

LAST WEEK Red Sneaker Diaries.

NEXT WEEK Violet of Tiny Nibbles.

FRIDAY PUSSY BLOGGERS Eden Gardener. Kind words from Aphrodite, Lili, Monmouth, Pagan, and George.

The corner. 
Again, the front door is padlocked shut; but this time the windows are boarded up, too.

It looks like the flames climbed up from the pizza joint on the first floor, up through the dorm and onto the top floor, and spread to Le Coq Joyeux next door, where there's a damp note tacked over the street menu saying Closed/Fermé.

There's yellow crime scene tape wound round the whole property, sealing off the dumpster hulked on the sidewalk, there to receive the debris: smoke- and water-damaged plaster, laths, couches, beds, monitors; ruined towels, uniforms, blankets, sheets:

Errant flames from a crackpipe in the basement?

A business dispute?

The first step to the mixed-use development the mozarella vendors have in mind for the property?

Previous The corner.


The Corner
[1], [2], [3], [4], [5], [6], and [7].

Protect and serve 

"I have news!"


"We were robbed!

"He came in and held a gun to the mama-san's head. There were only women in the house: two downstairs, the cook and the mama-san, four up here, me and my friend and two other girls.

"All women!

"He didn't think the mama-san gave him enough, so he came here."

"He must have been crazy, to think that the money was with the girls. What did you do?"

"We called 911.

"I ran down the back stairs, down to the basement, and through the door to the next basement, and I ask the people who live there to go out to the pay phone and call the police, but they say "We can't do that!" because what they are down there to do, is cocaine."

So how did you call 911?"

"Oh, my friend used her customer's cell phone."

"And the police came?"

"Of course! That is what they are for!"

"What did they think?"

"They thought it was funny. I ran up to the street, in this, with no shoes, in the snow, and waited in an ATM."

Angel takes my hand and leads me out of the sauna into her cube.


The evidence of things not seen 

I went to see the gates by Christo in Central Park yesterday.

The hemmed saffron panels—or curtains; banners; skirts—hang at the angle determined by wind prevailing, and move when the breeze freshens. Where one panel hangs still in shadow, a second, not ten feet away, will shake and flap, moved by the unseen into the brightening light.

Christo devised and built instrumentation to detect the invisible: The unseen, moving over the face of the city.

Christo enabled the city to blush.


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