Sunday, August 07, 2005

Blow Job

Current mood: By Request

I look at my five hundred dollar gold watch.
"Oh no, I have to go. I have a appointment with a prostitute. For a blow job."
My co-workers glance around at me. Over their shoulder pads, through their Armani glasses, non prescription. Some flick dirt from their jackets, two thousand dollar suits.
"Okay, be here for eight, tomorrow. The presentation is at ten and we need to revise the options."
And I leave.
The doorman hails a taxi for me.
"Oh sir, leaving work early."
"Yes James." His name was James. "Im going to a hooker for a blow-job. My wife wont perform, so I have to use b-girls."
"Yes sir, have a pleasant afternoon."
The yellow taxi screeches up and James opens the door. I run my gloved hand, leather, over the seat to remove and crumbs or dirt particles and sit in.
"Where to?" asks the driver.
"To fifth and Main for a harlot. Please."
The driver smiles, happy to have someone with manners in his taxicab and pulls into the traffic, swearing.
When we arrive at the prescribed destination, I already have a soft erection from thinking about the fellatio. An Irish slut swings up to me.
"Well, what can I do you for?"
"A suck off, please."
She shrugs, drops to her knees, undoes my fly on the street corner and performs the request. I begin to back away, searching for support and I walk right into a street light pole. I grab it with one hand, over my head, and I pull the streetwalkers hair.
"Ooooh, my wife would never do this!" She works the shaft.
"That bitch is so straight!" I yell as I fill her mouth.
She cleans her face off and says a price I can easily afford.

2 comments:

  1. Can't say I appreciate this.
    Kind of low-brow. Too much Bret Easton Ellis.
    If he were prone to spelling mistakes, it could be an extract from some unpublished novel of his.

    And unpublished for good reason.

    You're never going to read this, are you Ryan?

    Didn't think so.

    ReplyDelete