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Viewing the local antiquities

 
 
Other voices, other rooms 
and call Annie's old agency, on the off chance:

"Who do you have working today, and what do they look like?"

"I have Angel and Marissa. Angel is 5'6", blonde, 34C, 120 pounds, 23—" [click].

I redial the number: Non est disponsible.

I buy a banana (phosphorus!) in the corner store to kill time. Then redial.

"Call back in 10 minutes."

"I'm back. Marissa?"

"Marissa is 5'2", dark hair, 32B, 100 pounds, 22."

"Could I make an appointment with Marissa at 4:30 for two hours?"

"What is your name"?

"John."

"Call back at 4:10."

"What is the address?"




"This is John. I have an appointment with Marissa for 4:30?

"The apartment number and the code is 708."

The chain rattles; the door opens.

Marissa is a studious-looking girl with thick black rectangular-framed hipster glasses; the bridge of her nose is so broad she looks like she's peering around it. For a moment I think she's too tall, but it's only the high heels she shows she doesn't know how to walk in, as she stilts her way into the dinette with the money.

"May I take a shower"?


Naked, she stands; I forget the bridge of her nose and her gait, kneeling before her: Her breasts are small, fresh, resilient; no sag: so few have erected her nipples as I do, now, shyly one, tenderly the other, that they pinkly hardly protrude from her flesh.

She sits on the bed, falls backward. I put my hands on her thighs and push them slowly apart: her cunt pouts, fresh too: pink with not a hint of brown, not yet dewy. Seeing the folds, the whorls, grokking the French term of endearment mon petite chou, still with my hands parting her thighs, I lower my head—

"I don't do that."

Above me, she frenches me like Ming did: With two hands molding her cheeks, I
slip my right index down her crack, find her anus, but not slipping my finger in, press: a dry star.

Not on all fours but down on her elbows, her face crammed into the pillow, her knees drawn close to her torso, she pokes her butt as far up in the air as she can, her cheeks so much plumper than I expected, her cunt [mounting her] so much tighter:

Young, cocktight, smacksolid:

Comes the moment of knowledge: not faith or belief or conviction: that coming is possible, ahead, across the long plateau of her back: as she works:

Why would anyone want more than this resonant sound from such, a, small, girl:

One stroke short I stop pumping, so my climax is a single large spasm.

It's been more than a year that I've been Angel's regular.

{280}

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4 Comments:

I love it. It's like Woolf meets Joyce in a night terror, though benign, of thought.

By Blogger Lili, at May 20, 2006 6:47 AM  

Thanks. Jessica (after Jessica Simpson, no doubt) is no Molly Bloom, though.

Generally, I hate for a TV or a radio to be on -- those are not the sounds I want to hear -- but in this case I made an exception....

By Blogger John Psmyth, at May 20, 2006 7:23 AM  

Jessica may be no Molly; Nick is no Leo. But Joyce would most likely approve--it's just more storystealing, as everything is, according to him.

So raise a glass of white wine to slight obscurity and clink.

(and Yes I said yes I will yes.)

By Blogger chelsea girl, at May 25, 2006 9:17 PM  

Storystealing is what Jessica herself is doing, too. That's what celebrity culture is all about. Since it wasn't a point I had in mind when writing the story, I guess it's OK to highlight it.

By Blogger John Psmyth, at May 27, 2006 9:43 AM  

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