dirty talk
christina was an IBC teller downtown,
always dressed as if she were going to work,
even on our dates uptown, where we
shared coffee, a cigarette, and some
coffee cake while
talking of all the fallen
literates before Bukowski.
"that sexist pig never deserved a god damn thing,"
christina told me as she bit the head
off the coffee cake.
"bukowski was alright. but I've never been one to judge a writer by
his
style, only by what he says and how long he lasts," I said.
"you know," she said, sipping her coffee. "I used to write a bit of
poetry before I got out of college, junior year."
"I'd like to read some of it," I said . . .
back at her place, a small one bedroom apartment down
2nd street, just off dove ave., she turned
her key and
flicked the lights on.
"it's not much," she said.
I went in.
she turned the corner and disappeared into a small bedroom
and shut the door.
we shouted to one another.
"YOU SAID YOU WERE A WRITER, RIGHT?" she said.
"SOMEWHAT. I USUALLY KEEP TO MYSELF."
"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"
"I DON'T PUBLISH TO MAGAZINES," I said.
then I heard running
water inside the
room.
"NOT EVEN SMALL ONES?"
"SMALL, WHAT?"
"SMALL MAGAZINES!"
"I'M SORRY. WHAT?"
I heard the running water
turn off then
she emerged from
her bedroom, in a white Pink
Panther towel.
"small magazines. do you publish to those, at least?" she said.
"not in the least," I said. "I don't find my work that great right
now."
"well, that's a shame."
and she went back in and I sat there
looking around.
she had an array of
stuffed collectible animals up on
her wall, collecting dust. her tv was no
larger than mine
and she had a walk-in kitchen
connecting to her
living room.
\after several minutes,
she emerged with a towel over her head
and a new wardrobe, looking
prettier and damn near irrisitable.
"i have work at 8 in the morning," she
told me.
"ok," I said.
"alright . . . so come on. we don't have a lot
of time. I like to keep this kind of thing
on schedule."
"Oh," I said
and followed her back inside
her room . . .
"you have pretty eyes," I told her
as she stralled me.
"don't say that. I want you to talk to me
dirty. say anything dirty, please," she said.
she bent her head toward mine
but her lips were on my neck,
feeling skin, numbing it with
a sudden warmth.
"I can't talk dirty," I told her.
"just try," she said.
"I . . .I want you to suck my cock," I told her.
with a swift movement, she
grabbed a handful of my balls.
"yeah? what else, baby?" she said.
I let out a loud gasp, not our
of pleasure, of course, but pain,
a handful-of-balls pain.
"baby, I can't do this! YOU HAVE MY BALLS IN A GRIP!"
I told her.
she squeezed. "yeah? what of it, baby? talk to me dirty!"
and then her mouth swallowed my cock, my balls.
what a gag reflex.
"oh . . . baby, I can't . . . I've tried in the past," I
told her.
"try harder, or you'll lose me," she
said.
"alright," I told her and pulled her off.
"seriously? that's it? fuck. no wonder you're not confident
in your fucking writing, ya' fucking dick. get the fuck out!"
she said.
I dressed
lit a cigarette
and walked outside.
outside, i could hear the howls of
cats raping one another and
for a moment
that brought clarity to my
dirty, dirty soul.
I lightly knocked
and waited for
my whore.
always dressed as if she were going to work,
even on our dates uptown, where we
shared coffee, a cigarette, and some
coffee cake while
talking of all the fallen
literates before Bukowski.
"that sexist pig never deserved a god damn thing,"
christina told me as she bit the head
off the coffee cake.
"bukowski was alright. but I've never been one to judge a writer by
his
style, only by what he says and how long he lasts," I said.
"you know," she said, sipping her coffee. "I used to write a bit of
poetry before I got out of college, junior year."
"I'd like to read some of it," I said . . .
back at her place, a small one bedroom apartment down
2nd street, just off dove ave., she turned
her key and
flicked the lights on.
"it's not much," she said.
I went in.
she turned the corner and disappeared into a small bedroom
and shut the door.
we shouted to one another.
"YOU SAID YOU WERE A WRITER, RIGHT?" she said.
"SOMEWHAT. I USUALLY KEEP TO MYSELF."
"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"
"I DON'T PUBLISH TO MAGAZINES," I said.
then I heard running
water inside the
room.
"NOT EVEN SMALL ONES?"
"SMALL, WHAT?"
"SMALL MAGAZINES!"
"I'M SORRY. WHAT?"
I heard the running water
turn off then
she emerged from
her bedroom, in a white Pink
Panther towel.
"small magazines. do you publish to those, at least?" she said.
"not in the least," I said. "I don't find my work that great right
now."
"well, that's a shame."
and she went back in and I sat there
looking around.
she had an array of
stuffed collectible animals up on
her wall, collecting dust. her tv was no
larger than mine
and she had a walk-in kitchen
connecting to her
living room.
\after several minutes,
she emerged with a towel over her head
and a new wardrobe, looking
prettier and damn near irrisitable.
"i have work at 8 in the morning," she
told me.
"ok," I said.
"alright . . . so come on. we don't have a lot
of time. I like to keep this kind of thing
on schedule."
"Oh," I said
and followed her back inside
her room . . .
"you have pretty eyes," I told her
as she stralled me.
"don't say that. I want you to talk to me
dirty. say anything dirty, please," she said.
she bent her head toward mine
but her lips were on my neck,
feeling skin, numbing it with
a sudden warmth.
"I can't talk dirty," I told her.
"just try," she said.
"I . . .I want you to suck my cock," I told her.
with a swift movement, she
grabbed a handful of my balls.
"yeah? what else, baby?" she said.
I let out a loud gasp, not our
of pleasure, of course, but pain,
a handful-of-balls pain.
"baby, I can't do this! YOU HAVE MY BALLS IN A GRIP!"
I told her.
she squeezed. "yeah? what of it, baby? talk to me dirty!"
and then her mouth swallowed my cock, my balls.
what a gag reflex.
"oh . . . baby, I can't . . . I've tried in the past," I
told her.
"try harder, or you'll lose me," she
said.
"alright," I told her and pulled her off.
"seriously? that's it? fuck. no wonder you're not confident
in your fucking writing, ya' fucking dick. get the fuck out!"
she said.
I dressed
lit a cigarette
and walked outside.
outside, i could hear the howls of
cats raping one another and
for a moment
that brought clarity to my
dirty, dirty soul.
I lightly knocked
and waited for
my whore.