He took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips.
Her nails were cracked and chewed and none-too-clean but he paid that no heed.
"The first thing I want you to know," he said, "is that you are safe here."
She stood there, looking puzzled. Was this some odd role-playing script?
He looked into her eyes and saw the fear that she was trying so hard to hide. His heart swelled with anger. What kind of a world thrust a girl, a mere girl, out into its coldness and demanded that she face rape, even death, as the possible price for her daily bread?
She had no way of knowing what lurked in the hearts of the strangers who paid for her favors.
"Whose child are you?" he wondered.
"I am going to get us something to eat," he said, shaking off his thoughts. "Take yourself a good, long bath while I am gone. Scrub off all that make-up. "
He had prepared the bathroom for her with all the things a woman could want -- bath salts, lotions, a loofah. He wondered if she had ever known such luxuries.
He slipped out of the hotel room, in search of Chinese take-out and some new clothes for her that didn't look like a Halloween hooker costume.
Someday he would explain to her, someday, after this business trip of his was over and he had brought her out of this city and into a real home, that lives are saved in many ways, and that she had saved his as much as he had saved hers.
That he had been on his way to the Fourteenth Street bridge that night with no intention of returning, when she had called to him out of the darkness.
It was a come-on she offered, nothing of interest to a man in his state of mind, and he had brushed her off and kept walking.
But her words, "Are you lonely, mister?" echoed in his mind as the bridge loomed before him, garish and terrible -- and then, in the sad shadow world of his mind, something flashed or something snapped.
Death was darkness upon darkness. Death by his own hand, in those deep, pitiless waters, beneath the hard lights of this bridge, was a coward's solution.
"Are you lonely, mister?" she had asked. Yeah, he was. But the East River's icy embrace would bring no solace. And she would wait there in the darkness for other fools like him to wander by, until, until --
He spun around. He retraced his steps to where she was still standing, her face reddish in the glow from her cigarette as she leaned against the bricks of some building.
"Meet me at the Pemberton Motel -- you know where that is? Good. In an hour. Room 245."
She knocked at the door one hour and 13 minutes later.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
A Ghost in Love
Oh, if only I could!
If only I could have some kind of cosmic power and be able, unseen, to whisper into the ears of every single woman on the planet, every single one, from the factory worker in Beijing to the Hollywood actress to the exhausted mom in Cleveland:
"You are gorgeous, you are a goddess, you are a daughter of the universe and divine! You are beautiful, you are wonderful, you are powerful, you are necessary!"
And if only, as the words slipped into her ears, she would seize upon them, she would believe them, she would know that they were true ....
If I could drift like a ghost upon the Earth but still have power to kiss the tears from every weeping woman's cheeks, to lift up her shoulders as she bent beneath her burden, to wrap her in a loving embrace -- and all that she would know of it is that her sorrow suddenly eased, her burdens lightened and that somehow, someway, she realized that she was loved ...
If I could possess for a moment, in turn, the being of every woman's lover and taste her kiss upon my lips and stroke her hair, caress her curves and feel her shiver with pleasure as we became one ...
Wouldn't it be wonderful?
If only I could have some kind of cosmic power and be able, unseen, to whisper into the ears of every single woman on the planet, every single one, from the factory worker in Beijing to the Hollywood actress to the exhausted mom in Cleveland:
"You are gorgeous, you are a goddess, you are a daughter of the universe and divine! You are beautiful, you are wonderful, you are powerful, you are necessary!"
And if only, as the words slipped into her ears, she would seize upon them, she would believe them, she would know that they were true ....
If I could drift like a ghost upon the Earth but still have power to kiss the tears from every weeping woman's cheeks, to lift up her shoulders as she bent beneath her burden, to wrap her in a loving embrace -- and all that she would know of it is that her sorrow suddenly eased, her burdens lightened and that somehow, someway, she realized that she was loved ...
If I could possess for a moment, in turn, the being of every woman's lover and taste her kiss upon my lips and stroke her hair, caress her curves and feel her shiver with pleasure as we became one ...
Wouldn't it be wonderful?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Ecstatic smoky memory
The pleasure was mine, all mine.
How I shivered in ecstasy, how I longed for the moment to linger.
Not one but two beautiful cigarettes had been lit, so close beside me on the bench that long ago evening. As one lovely mouth clamped tight and drew in a draught of sweet smoke, indulging her nicotine passion, another mouth was opening in a thick, smoky exhale.
I was bathed in smoke, shrouded in smoke, soaked in smoke, puff after puff, breath after breath – as rich, intoxicating and delicious as the mists that must fill the air of some happy place in heaven. I inhaled the fumes that poured from those lips, inhaled so hard that it hurt, and held the smoky elixir inside of me as long as I possibly could.
We never spoke a word to each other. I had been there when they wandered into the place, for a break from work perhaps, or from a round of shopping. I got up as they approached, because I guessed they might be seeking a place to smoke and I knew they wouldn’t sit there if a cigarette-less person occupied the spot.
They lit up and I immediately sat back down. Which odd move on my part conveyed two possible silent messages: I was a non-smoking jerk who was trying to spoil their cigarette break, like those cranks who sit in smoking sections, scowl and cough. Or, I absolutely, completely, totally, did not mind that they were smoking.
For once in my tortured life, I won. They assumed the latter, as odd as such a notion might be. I was as exultant as a kid at Christmas as they kept right on smoking, paying no heed whatsoever to the fact that their smoke was blowing right in my face. They made no attempt at all to aim their exhales away, or even to hold their cigarettes down to prevent the sidestream smoke from twisting and twining its way into my airspace. I was of as little concern as the armrest on the benches.
Oh, this is how it must have been in the good old days, I thought. Anywhere a woman might have gone in years gone by, she might be expected to bring her cigarette – to the schoolhouse, to the store, to the movies, onto a plane, into the maternity ward -- and as each pleasurable puff left her lips, almost nobody minded where it went.
None but a few inveterate whiners had any problem with enjoying secondhand the fragrant, smoky perfume that every fashionable lady exhaled from lips of deepest red. Fain might a man curse at the aroma of a bakery drifting out onto the street, or the rich leather tones of a new sofa, as to rail at a woman’s heavenly exhale.
But the whiners persisted. And they have won. And today, I went back to that mall, for the first time in a long time, for it is far from my home. To my great sorrow, the smokers were banished; the air was clean, in a relative way, but I felt as if the life and soul had been sucked out of the place. I bought nothing and I did not linger.
How I shivered in ecstasy, how I longed for the moment to linger.
Not one but two beautiful cigarettes had been lit, so close beside me on the bench that long ago evening. As one lovely mouth clamped tight and drew in a draught of sweet smoke, indulging her nicotine passion, another mouth was opening in a thick, smoky exhale.
I was bathed in smoke, shrouded in smoke, soaked in smoke, puff after puff, breath after breath – as rich, intoxicating and delicious as the mists that must fill the air of some happy place in heaven. I inhaled the fumes that poured from those lips, inhaled so hard that it hurt, and held the smoky elixir inside of me as long as I possibly could.
We never spoke a word to each other. I had been there when they wandered into the place, for a break from work perhaps, or from a round of shopping. I got up as they approached, because I guessed they might be seeking a place to smoke and I knew they wouldn’t sit there if a cigarette-less person occupied the spot.
They lit up and I immediately sat back down. Which odd move on my part conveyed two possible silent messages: I was a non-smoking jerk who was trying to spoil their cigarette break, like those cranks who sit in smoking sections, scowl and cough. Or, I absolutely, completely, totally, did not mind that they were smoking.
For once in my tortured life, I won. They assumed the latter, as odd as such a notion might be. I was as exultant as a kid at Christmas as they kept right on smoking, paying no heed whatsoever to the fact that their smoke was blowing right in my face. They made no attempt at all to aim their exhales away, or even to hold their cigarettes down to prevent the sidestream smoke from twisting and twining its way into my airspace. I was of as little concern as the armrest on the benches.
Oh, this is how it must have been in the good old days, I thought. Anywhere a woman might have gone in years gone by, she might be expected to bring her cigarette – to the schoolhouse, to the store, to the movies, onto a plane, into the maternity ward -- and as each pleasurable puff left her lips, almost nobody minded where it went.
None but a few inveterate whiners had any problem with enjoying secondhand the fragrant, smoky perfume that every fashionable lady exhaled from lips of deepest red. Fain might a man curse at the aroma of a bakery drifting out onto the street, or the rich leather tones of a new sofa, as to rail at a woman’s heavenly exhale.
But the whiners persisted. And they have won. And today, I went back to that mall, for the first time in a long time, for it is far from my home. To my great sorrow, the smokers were banished; the air was clean, in a relative way, but I felt as if the life and soul had been sucked out of the place. I bought nothing and I did not linger.
Crush Pretty
In the distant past, I placed a gentle kiss upon certain tiny toes. I rubbed them lovingly, just as one might also caress the shoulders of a spouse, a close friend, a brother, a sister. No more, no less, than anyone would do for an adorable child in a loving family.
But she has grown a little older now and set boundaries, and boundaries are always to be respected.
The other day, those little toes were dressed in sparkly silver shoes, pretty shoes. And the owner spied a beetle creeping across the porch. With savage glee, she stalked it. She spoke to it:
"I bet you had babies recently. You won't be going home to your babies."
And she stomped. She raised her little shoe over that beetle and all, what 60 lbs of her or so and with obvious pleasure, she crushed it.
Press down,
exert force,
twist side to side slightly
to overcome the resistance of the carapace,
then drag back and forth
til the victim is nothing
but a black smear upon the cement.
This beautiful angel is no budding pyschopath. She'd never harm a butterfly or a puppy; this I know, for her heart is tender for the things she loves. She cries at the sight of roadkill and when a pet passes away. But repellent things, ugly things, earn no mercy from her. And the hatred of a girl for repellent things, ugly things, can burn hot as a drop of molten steel.
Nobody paid much attention that day as she smashed that beetle. Certainly no one chided her. That is as it should be.
Some might say I am a bad man. For we are dear friends, as close friends as family can be. And long ago, when she was first impressionable, I encouraged her to crush things that were icky. "Good girl," I said, as her tiny toes sought out and smashed her first worms, beetles and such. "You are a very good girl."
Certainly I could have said, "All life is to be respected, little one, even icky things."
But I did not.
So ants now earn from her immediate crushing. Beetles, too, die when she is in the mood. Rollie-pollies are "cute" and she spares them.
So it is. So it simply is.
But she has grown a little older now and set boundaries, and boundaries are always to be respected.
The other day, those little toes were dressed in sparkly silver shoes, pretty shoes. And the owner spied a beetle creeping across the porch. With savage glee, she stalked it. She spoke to it:
"I bet you had babies recently. You won't be going home to your babies."
And she stomped. She raised her little shoe over that beetle and all, what 60 lbs of her or so and with obvious pleasure, she crushed it.
Press down,
exert force,
twist side to side slightly
to overcome the resistance of the carapace,
then drag back and forth
til the victim is nothing
but a black smear upon the cement.
This beautiful angel is no budding pyschopath. She'd never harm a butterfly or a puppy; this I know, for her heart is tender for the things she loves. She cries at the sight of roadkill and when a pet passes away. But repellent things, ugly things, earn no mercy from her. And the hatred of a girl for repellent things, ugly things, can burn hot as a drop of molten steel.
Nobody paid much attention that day as she smashed that beetle. Certainly no one chided her. That is as it should be.
Some might say I am a bad man. For we are dear friends, as close friends as family can be. And long ago, when she was first impressionable, I encouraged her to crush things that were icky. "Good girl," I said, as her tiny toes sought out and smashed her first worms, beetles and such. "You are a very good girl."
Certainly I could have said, "All life is to be respected, little one, even icky things."
But I did not.
So ants now earn from her immediate crushing. Beetles, too, die when she is in the mood. Rollie-pollies are "cute" and she spares them.
So it is. So it simply is.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A joy to behold
She was a perfect specimen of Woman -- tall, slender, with rich, dark, brown hair, a petite little face and tight shorts around her firm, kissable, sweet rump.
As she strode forward down the sidewalk, accompanied by two very lucky friends, I deeply inhaled the cigarette smoke that she spilled from her rosebud lips. The finest perfume on earth could not have compared to that ambrosial mist that she breathed forth. To think that this very smoke drifting upon the humid air, had seconds before been hidden deep within her lungs, sending pleasure waves through her body -- had touched her, filled her, deep within, more intimately than even the most passionate lover could ever hope to do!
And now, having satisfied her need, having delivered the precious nicotine for which she hungered, the sweet smoke mingled with her own breath and ascended the pretty chimney of her throat to fill again her mouth, roll across her tongue, dance around her teeth and escape through the doorway of her lips!
And the very essence of it, the same smoke and sweet breath that had kissed her deep within, now found its way to my eager senses, and I drank it in joyfully.
And my non-smoking, non-capnolagniac friend who happened to be with me, waved his portion away in annoyance. Uncomprehending, unaware -- as clueless as the barbarians who burned the books of the European monastaries because they could not read them.
The Goddess took a final drag and threw her cigarette away still burning, into the street, as a Goddess should. A Goddess is not bound by mortal rules about proper disposal of her cigarette. If it be her pleasure to drop it to the ground and crush it beneath her heel, so be it; if it be her pleasure to simply throw it away, so be it.
Were I unaccompanied, I might have scampered like a little mouse over to that morsel of her pleasure and carried it away and inhaled its last stray vapors in the privacy of my car, kissing the tip where her lips had so recently rested.
But alas, I was not alone. Rarely am I alone when such ecstatic moments come my way. I do believe I could return to that very spot on my own and wait four days, and nothing but old men and stray dogs would pass by me.
As she strode forward down the sidewalk, accompanied by two very lucky friends, I deeply inhaled the cigarette smoke that she spilled from her rosebud lips. The finest perfume on earth could not have compared to that ambrosial mist that she breathed forth. To think that this very smoke drifting upon the humid air, had seconds before been hidden deep within her lungs, sending pleasure waves through her body -- had touched her, filled her, deep within, more intimately than even the most passionate lover could ever hope to do!
And now, having satisfied her need, having delivered the precious nicotine for which she hungered, the sweet smoke mingled with her own breath and ascended the pretty chimney of her throat to fill again her mouth, roll across her tongue, dance around her teeth and escape through the doorway of her lips!
And the very essence of it, the same smoke and sweet breath that had kissed her deep within, now found its way to my eager senses, and I drank it in joyfully.
And my non-smoking, non-capnolagniac friend who happened to be with me, waved his portion away in annoyance. Uncomprehending, unaware -- as clueless as the barbarians who burned the books of the European monastaries because they could not read them.
The Goddess took a final drag and threw her cigarette away still burning, into the street, as a Goddess should. A Goddess is not bound by mortal rules about proper disposal of her cigarette. If it be her pleasure to drop it to the ground and crush it beneath her heel, so be it; if it be her pleasure to simply throw it away, so be it.
Were I unaccompanied, I might have scampered like a little mouse over to that morsel of her pleasure and carried it away and inhaled its last stray vapors in the privacy of my car, kissing the tip where her lips had so recently rested.
But alas, I was not alone. Rarely am I alone when such ecstatic moments come my way. I do believe I could return to that very spot on my own and wait four days, and nothing but old men and stray dogs would pass by me.
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