- Butterfly Gods
- Bristlecone Pine Press (February 25, 2012)
- ISBN: 9781607220305
- ASIN: B007DM5CA6
Monday, January 28, 2013
In P A Brown’s short story Butterfly in Butterfly Gods, Adam Williams has come to the isolated
to research native butterflies for his thesis. He comes at the invitation from the mysterious Santiago Tavares Almeida, reclusive owner of the island. All Adam wants is to study the beautiful tropical butterflies. He gets a whole lot more when the mystery man, island of Costa Fuego Santiago shows up unexpectedly. Adam suddenly finds there are more things in this rain forest than flying jewels.
Butterfly Gods is a collection of hot erotica, including the novella Angel Light and new stories Up the Backstretch and Homecoming
Dense growth on either side of the narrow trail muffled my horses’ footsteps. Occasionally something would dart across the path ahead of me, or I would hear a distant crash—proof that I was not alone on Costa Fuego. The isolated island off the coast of
Brazil had a population of none, since it was privately owned and the men who came over to tend things boated in and went home every night.
My gaze continually swept the nearly impenetrable maze of rain forest and creeping vines that vied for the rare streamers of light that pierced the canopy along the open path. Somewhere I heard the steady rustle of running water and the high-pitched call of one of the island’s subspecies of parrot. My thin shirt clung to me. My thick shoulder muscles, which I had built up at the gym before this trip, were getting stiff from the long ride. The saddle creaked between my legs, a familiar sound after all the hours I’d been out here. Even with the protection of my jock, my balls ached.
Everywhere I looked, butterflies flitted from one exotic bloom to the next. They danced above me, below me, and all around. The exquisite creatures I had come here to catalog were overwhelming.
Golden-winged Dryas iulia, danced in shafts of sunlight on delicate wings, like the go-go dancers at Micky’s. The sapphire Heliconius eleuchia, wings as blue as the eyes of the hot stable owner who had arranged for my horses, and the giant Caligo memnon, with its massive eye spots, flittered through the sodden air on deceptive-looking fragile wings. I also caught sight of the iridescent blue Heliconius wallacei flavescens. My secretive benefactor had been right. The area abounded with butterflies. I envisioned a very productive week.
Santiago Tavares Almeida was the only wealthy patron who had responded to my original query for funding to study rainforest Lepidoptera. The tiny, exotic, often colorful butterflies had been my passion as long as I could remember.
Santiago seemed to share my enthusiasm; at least the response I got from him implied that. I would have liked to have met him, but from everything I’d heard, he was a total recluse. Pity, it would be fun to share this beauty with a man who could appreciate it.
I’d been traveling for several hours now. A quick recheck of my hand-drawn map showed me I was getting close to my destination. I kneed the young gray gelding into picking up its pace. The trail around us was still narrow, so I couldn’t push for too much speed. A large pearl-winged fly settled on the horse’s sweat-slicked neck, and I knocked it off. A dot of blood oozed out of the bite. The fly returned moments later, and this time I slapped it with the knotted leather reins, killing it instantly.
The lethargy of my horses crept up on me, infecting my former upbeat mood. The day grew muggier, and I found my cotton shirt and bush pants clinging to me. Sweat dripped from under the brim of my Tilley hat. I was glad I’d had my hair cut right before I left for this trip, even if it did mean losing all the platinum highlights I’d gotten from my summer on muscle beach. I knew I was no where near as buff as most of the guys there, but then, I wouldn’t take steroids. What I had was what Mother nature gave me—good muscle tone, a body guys said they would die for, and a killer smile. I heard that a lot too. Not from the muscle boys—on steroids like most of them were, they were useless in bed. No, I found the twenty-something guys who might be skinny but could pack away a slab of meat more my cup of Oolong.
Daylight was failing when the towering buttress root of a kapok tree forced the trail left. I guided the horses, single file, around it and pulled to an abrupt stop on the other side. I’d been expecting the jungle camp would be a typical army Quonset hut or a crude wood and frond structure barely able to fend off the rains. Certainly, that’s the way
Santiago described it. “My little camp in the forest. Home away from home. I hope it will suit you.” Since I had no idea where his home even was, let alone what it was like, I didn’t know what that meant. But if it was anything like this place, the guy lived large. Solitary, maybe, but he wasn’t missing out on anything material in his lonely existence.
I stared, mouth agape, at the building in front of me. It wasn’t huge, maybe a thousand square feet, and the facade of glass on every side reflecting the verdant forest all around made it seem smaller. I thought I spied solar panels on the flat roof, facing the sun through the clear-cut half-acre of forest around the house.
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Monday, January 21, 2013
In this re-issue of The Butcher's Son by Dorien Grey, Dick Hardesty is pressed into service when someone starts burning down gay bars all over town and the police chief (nicknamed "the butcher") shrugs the whole thing off. Then drag queens and female impersonators get into the act and Dick is required to sleuth out who is hot and who is not. From the first of the Dick Hardesty series.
The Butcher's Son
Zumaya Boundless; 2nd edition (December 29, 2012)
As hard as it is for me to remember, sometimes, I haven’t always been a private investigator. None of us starts life doing what we end up doing, of course, but how we get where we are instead of someplace else is often pretty fascinating to contemplate. Now, in my case…
Did you ever have one of those years? You know: you start New Years' day with a hangover and everything just goes downhill from there? Well, it was one of those years. I was stuck in a job I hated and Chris, my lover of five years, was getting the seven year itch two years early. We’d been together ever since shortly after we got out of college, and each of us was the other’s first real relationship, so I guess you couldn’t really blame him. That, plus the fact that we lived in a gay ghetto, so the candy store syndrome made it easy enough to stray for anyone so inclined, and Chris became increasingly inclined.
But we were hanging in there, putting on the good old “perfect couple” routine whenever anyone else was around and working on matching ulcers when they weren’t. I was up to two-and-a-half packs of cigarettes a day and rising; Chris was devoting considerable time to adding to his swizzle-stick collection. All in all, a real fun time.
Chris was always a lot more into bars than I was, so it wasn’t unusual for him to go out by himself, though I noted that lately he’d been going out a lot more than normal. We did hold to our Saturday-night-out-to-dinner tradition though, after which we’d stop in at the Ebony Room, a nice little neighborhood bar close to home, for a nightcap. This particular night, however, Chris suggested we go to a new bar he’d found, Bacchus’ Lair, which he said had a great drag show. I should have put “great” in quotes, since I was never much for drag, but Chris got a kick out of it, so we went.
I should also point out that this was after Stonewall, but not all that much, and the community hadn’t completely gotten its act together in most cities. Blatant homophobia was the attitude of choice for most police forces, and ours was particularly noted for its less-than-tolerant methods. It was also a solid source of income for the city—bust a gay bar, haul in 30 or 40 gays too scared or too poor to fight it, charge them with “lewd and lascivious conduct,” drop the charges down to “disturbing the peace” and slap a $350 fine for a “no contest” plea. The city was happy; the police were happy; the lawyers were happy. The gays weren’t happy, but who cared?
Bacchus’ Lair was located in a former loft upstairs over a discount furniture store on the edge of skid row. A lot of gay bars were in this area, probably partly because of the lower rents, and the smaller likelihood that neighbors would complain about the clientele. Bacchus’ Lair was decorated in Early Flamboyant—tables the size of dinner plates, purple tablecloths, purple carpet, purple stage curtains, wall fixtures with dangly globs of plastic that I suppose the management thought looked like grapes. Wall niches with little gold cherubs shouldering platters of plastic grapes. Oh, and a cover charge. And a two-watered-down-drink minimum. But you got to keep the little purple umbrellas that came with them.
Additional excerpt posted 3/9/09.
To purchase the ebook from Amazon, click http://www.amazon.com/Butchers-Dick-Hardesty-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00AUYNCF6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1358635354&sr=8-1&keywords=the+butcher%27s+son
To purchase ebook from Barnes & Noble, click http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/butchers-son-dorien-grey/1102423798?ean=9781612710839
Monday, January 14, 2013
Sometimes funny, sometimes tragic and often bawdy, Lola Dances by Victor J Banis ranges from the 1850 slums of the Bowery to the mining camps of California and Montana, to the Barbary Coast of San Francisco.
Little Terry Murphy, pretty and effeminate, dreams of becoming a dancer. Raped by a drunken profligate and threatened with prison, Terry flees the Bowery and finds himself in the rugged settlement of Alder Gulch, where he stands out like a sore thumb among the camp's macho inhabitants--until the day he puts on a dress and dances for the unsuspecting miners as beautiful Lola Valdez--and wins fame, fortune and, ultimately, love.
MLR Press (February 2008)
ISBN: 978-1-934531-42-6 (print)
"Hey, little girlie."
"Guess what I've got for you."
Terry Murphy was used to it. He went past the loading dock every day to get to the theater for his dance lessons. They were always hanging around there, never fewer than two of them and more often four or five, and always quick to taunt him. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and ignored them.
At first he'd been afraid they might physically assault him and he'd had to resist the urge to run from them. Some instinct told him that would be a mistake, that it would only empower them, encourage them to follow through with threats that were, as yet, only implied.
It wasn't that he lacked courage. But even if he had, even for a moment, thought of standing up to them, what chance would he have had? They were young, some of them probably younger even than he was, at least in years, but they were far older than he was in other ways. They were all of them as tall and as burly as any grown man, hard muscled from loading and unloading the drays that came and went at all hours of the day and night. He was five foot five inches in his stocking feet, slim, skinny really. He was muscular enough, in a wiry, dancer's way but it wasn't fighting-muscular.
Anyway, it wouldn't have mattered how tall he was or how muscular. He wasn't the sort for fisticuffs. He had learned that early on, at the Mission School. He'd always been smaller than the other boys his age and it hadn't taken the bullies long to discover him.
Once, when he was little and working in the washroom, he had found one of the girls' uniforms, fallen behind a rinse tub and left unnoticed. On some whim he hadn't paused to analyze, he'd put the blouse and jumper on—and had been found in them by a couple of the older boys. The story had quickly spread around school, and made him the center of an attention he would rather not have known.
He had quickly learned the strength of passivity. He couldn't outfight them, or outrun them or stay clear of them. What he could do, he soon discovered, was spoil their fun. The pleasure of just punching on him had paled quickly for them, especially since no matter how often or how brutally they did it, he flat out refused to cry or, as they demanded repeatedly, to "say uncle." He simply would not give them that satisfaction. Even if they had killed him—and once or twice he thought they might—they couldn't get that out of him.
There wasn't a lot of fun for them, as it turned out, in punching someone who responded so passively, and it hadn't been long before they found better candidates for their torture. After that, they had mostly simply ignored him and Terry had conspired with them in that by getting very skilled at "fading into the woodwork."
At first, he had been convinced that these toughs at the loading dock, too, would eventually take their fists to him, until they lost their enthusiasm for a victim who refused to participate in their sport, and the prospect dismayed him. At the same time, though, there was something about these hooligans that fascinated him in a way those other boys when he was younger hadn't, though he couldn't have put into words what it was.
The truth was, he could have avoided them. Though it would have been several blocks out of his way, he could have reached the theater from the alley on the opposite side, and he wouldn't have had to cross their paths at all. But that, some stubborn part of him insisted, would have been a victory of some sort for them, too much like crying uncle.
Sometimes when he saw them, though, stealing glances at them because he tried to pretend he was not aware of them at all, he was assailed by a strange kind of lightheadedness, a dizziness almost, that came over him out of nowhere.
They were ruffians, crude, boorish, unwashed. Sometimes, even at a distance, he actually thought he could smell them: the grease on their hair, the stains on their too seldom laundered clothes, the sweat of their too seldom bathed bodies.
He couldn't, of course. They were never close enough for that. It was just some trick of his imagination. They never ventured from their places standing by or sitting on the loading dock where they could usually be seen playing cards, or kneeling, dice snickering on the ground between them.
Still, it seemed as if there was a scent that emanated from them, that filled his nostrils, like the odd spices that wafted from the shops in the Jewish quarter when he walked that way, odd and yet strangely familiar, reminiscent of something he couldn't possibly have known.
But where did it come from, that odd sense of familiarity with these young men, of some proximity, even, that was not of a physical sort? What caused it? What was it about those thick muscled arms and legs, those stubbled chins, already showing men's beards, the hair some of them already sported on their chests, while his chin was as smooth as porcelain, his body all but hairless?
His voice, too, was hardly changed from what it had been when he was a boy. When he sang, it was in a woman's voice, not a man's. But why did those man-deep baritone voices with which they jeered at him make his head swim, give him that strange fluttering feeling in the pit of his stomach, at the same time it—and they—frightened him? None of which he had experienced with those earlier bullies.
What had changed, then, in the years since he—and his tormentors—had passed through puberty? That something was different here, he was stone certain.
He had a strange feeling that if he had even paused to smile at them, to stroll over to where they were, they'd have run from him just as he had sometimes wanted to run from them.
He couldn't think why that should be true, though. It was ridiculous to think that these street toughs could possibly be afraid of him, of anything he could do; but somewhere inside himself, he believed it. There was something overdone in their bravado, something concealed within it of an opposite nature.
It had given him courage, that peculiar conviction, not the stand-up-to-them kind of courage, but the stoical, go by and pretend he hadn't seen or heard them kind. He did that now, looking straight ahead, his chin tilted upward. He ignored the titters that followed him, though his senses as he passed by them were so preternaturally heightened that he heard them clearly enough, was aware of them not just as a group, but each of them singly, could have sketched them if he'd been an artist, recognized each voice for his individual timbre, as a mother was said to know by instinct the cry of her child out of an entire crowd of children.
He couldn't prevent himself from blushing, though, as they shouted and jeered him—something that he did all too easily and that was one of the banes of his existence; but he doubted they would notice that.
His face the color of rose petals, he let himself in the stage door, hurrying. He was late. The girls were already in the rehearsal hall, the pianist banging out a facsimile of a can-can, slippered feet making a swishing noise on the wooden floor. The Professor stood in the open doorway, watching Terry run down the corridor.
"So good of you to join us, Master Murphy," he said. "I hope we're not interfering with your social life."
"I'm sorry," Terry said breathlessly, hurrying past him, to the dressing room. "The manager was late. I can't leave the bar until he gets there."
"That, Master Murphy," the Professor said, "is not my problem. My problem is a dance class that I run for all my students, and that I cannot hold up for one of them who refuses to be on time."
Terry didn't waste the breath arguing. He stripped quickly, donned the dance cup, the tights, the slippers. He left his glasses in the dressing room—he saw everything through a myopic haze without them, but it was too hard to keep them on when he danced and he couldn't afford to have them go flying off and get broken—and hurried back to the hall. He did not even take time to do the customary warm up stretches, though he knew he was flirting with disaster dancing without warming up.
Flirting with disaster. That, he thought, pretty well described his life, didn't it?
# # # # #
Afterward, when the others had gone, he stayed to practice. His body ached, the predictable penalty for skipping his warm up. There was a pull in his groin that would be an actual cramp in no time, and the Professor had been particularly punishing today. The muscles in his shoulders felt as if he'd been tortured on the rack.
He stretched at the barre to loosen up, and worked some more on the jeté. He almost got it right, but he landed badly, nearly twisting his ankle. He dropped to his knees instead to spare it, and found the Professor watching him from the doorway, unsmiling.
"I think, Master Murphy," he said, "perhaps dance is not your métier. Not classical ballet, at any rate, though if you had arrived in time for the can-can…" He shrugged and left that thought unfinished. It was hardly a compliment, in any case. The girls danced the can-can.
"I'll get it," Terry said, getting up and brushing the stage dust off his tights. "Anyway, so long as I'm willing to pay for the lessons…"
"You pay half what the girls pay," the Professor said, "and cost me twice as much work. And, you're two weeks behind in your fees, might I remind you?"
"I'll get your money," Terry promised. "And I'll practice more. I really want to be a dancer. And I will one day. I know I will."
The Professor regarded him solemnly for a moment longer. Then, with another dismissive shrug, he turned away. "Be sure the stage door is locked when you go out," he said as he departed. "The watchman's not here until ten."
# # # # #
The girls had left already. The dressing room was empty. Terry stripped wearily and paused for a moment to look critically at himself in the mirror that ran the length of the dressing room. His jet-black hair fell in damp ringlets about his face, making it look even paler than it was. It seemed to him as if he could see the bones through his skin, like a baby bird's.
He had lost weight, too. Even working half the night as he did, rushing from one end of the Bowery to the other, cleaning three different bars for old man McGuirk, it was all he could do to make ends meet. Most of it went for that dingy room with its one tiny window and its soot covered walls, and what his landlady called, rather grandly in his opinion, "dinner"—all that watery soup, with bread that was always stale and occasionally moldy, and on Sundays, beef ribs that were mostly ribs with the occasional bit of fat or gristle still attached.
One meal a day. He had hope sometimes of being able to supplement that with something more filling, from one of the street vendors, maybe. Even an apple from the apple cart would have been a delight. They always looked so red and shiny, they might have been made of wax, and every time he passed the cart, saw them sitting in their crimson loveliness, he could imagine the taste, the crunch as he bit into one, and the sweet juices running down his chin—but by the time he had paid the Professor's fees, and too frequently replaced the quickly worn through dance shoes, he was lucky if he was left with a penny or two to spare, if that, and the growl that these days never quite left his belly.
Of course, hunger was no stranger to the neighborhood. Others, little children, even, ate what rotten food they could find on the streets and sifted through the piles of garbage outside the saloons and whorehouses to find anything edible. Terry had not yet gotten that hungry, though he had often come close.
To read more from Lola Dances, see the excerpt from 2/11/08.
To purchase the ebook, click http://www.mlrbooks.com/Bookstore.php?bookid=LOLA0001 (MLR Books) or http://www.amazon.com/Lola-Dances-ebook/dp/B004HD5YHA/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1358031304&sr=8-2&keywords=lola+dances (Amazon)
To purchase the paperback, click
http://www.amazon.com/Lola-Dances-Victor-J-Banis/dp/1934531421/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1358031304&sr=8-1&keywords=lola+dances (Amazon) or http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/lola-dances-victor-j-banis/1100069964?ean=9781934531426 (Barnes & Noble)
Monday, January 7, 2013
Minnesota Strip: A Tale of Times Square Queers is another scorching story of gender-bending, sex, and the quest for freedom from the Lambda Award winning MYKOLA DEMENTIUK at his best. Turning tricks can be a very dangerous profession especially when you're a male crossdresser trying to come on to guys as a hooking female. Your outward appearance may be sweet and feminine but the masculine reality can get your face bashed in, if not something a lot worse. And passing as a female, well, very hard to do yet Connie was made for just that. Being a small framed boy at the age of nineteen and getting all dressed up she could easily pass as a hard-on inducer on the Chicago streets, the men going after her as much as she led them on. Her pretence at being naive and innocent, almost under age and pleading, "But sir, I have never sucked one before, I might do it wrong," only led her to be prodded to her knees and give them a blow-job, pretending to be tricked into doing just that for a few dollars but which was her original intent anyway, the men satisfied as they'd zipper up and scurry off while Connie would just get up and go on to the next unsuspecting customer...
Minnesota Strip: A Tale of Times Square Queers
Connie felt very unsure about her cock and balls bulging at the left of her crotch, it was as if something had appeared which had never been there before. It was always so natural to be tucking and holding it in that she even grew to walk slightly funny, actually prancing about with her thighs close together that she stepped almost virginal like, still untouched and un-smeared, exactly like a pure virgin girl would be doing, which was her point anyway, to be pure and innocent. But this evening Connie had let go of her pretenses and fakery, no longer was she a fraud or a sham, pretending to be something else. No sir, what you see is what you get, and that includes a big cock as well!
And as she walked with Toni she knew that her cock and balls weren’t just puffing out but now stood erectly in her pants bulging before her; it was evident what she had there, a nice thick hard-on. Faces grinned and leered, some embittered and disgusted, others just gaping open mouthed and drooling. Toni walked beside Connie, her own penile bulge not as big or evident but both looking so very eager and hungry, as if impatient to get to their destination, Eight Avenue, or as common usage would have it at the time, the Minnesota Strip.
The term was first used by the Minneapolis police department under some vague notion that East Coast prostitutes were coming from the Midwest, namely Minnesota. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were spent investigating this idea that it became a common term among young runaways headed for the Big Apple, New York City and in trying for their fortune, which never got any further than walking the streets or shacking up in cheap hotel rooms.
Though Connie and Toni were indeed from the Midwest there was no evidence that girls were actually from Minneapolis but term had become somewhat easy for them to use as in the pick up line, “Where you from, cutie?” “Minnesota,” she’d answer, chewing her gum and look around, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or leave it” and they’d end up in a cheap hotel room dive. In the same way that some years ago Hippies and the Love Generation were all headed for San Francisco, the Minneapolis generation all seemed to come from Minnesota, no matter where they were from. No difference that they ran away from Tucson, or Baton Rouge, or Dayton, or Newark, in the end the runaways found themselves as having gone on the road from one place, Minnesota.
Of course the majority of the street hookers were females yet there were also many queer boys, picking up the signs of the times, Gay Rights and all, who wore dresses with makeup that at that young age they were in, their early teen years, it was easy to misrepresent their sexuality, male or female. They looked ideal to be a perfect tryst for one or the other; and along the Minnesota Strip, there were hundreds of thousands of takers, each one jumping at a cunt or a cock for a few bucks then going on their way. Easy come, easy go.
Connie and Toni went through busy Forty Second Street, past the various movie houses on each side of the street, with sexy bookshops and peep show booths along the way. Of course Connie was new to the area but very eager to plunge into whatever awaited her.
“This is it, sister,” said Toni, “the beautiful Minnesota Strip,” and she flicked her cigarette to the street and opened up a pack of gum, inserting one in her weaving smacking lips. “That there is Port Authority bus station,” she gestured to a large building on Forty First Street, “That’s where the girls come in thinking they’ll be right away models or actresses, ha!” she sneered and spat out the gum immediately sucking up another one, “that’s where I got in from Kansas myself,” and he shook her head. “Funny you came on a train,” and she looked at Connie. “Oh well,” she shrugged, “whatever, as long as you’re here, that’s important,” and she winked, and still holding on to Connie led her up the avenue.
Bars and clubs and more sexy movie houses were on the avenue with a hotel entrance at nearly every corner that Connie was amazed at how much space there was to be rented out for an hour or two, but preferably a lot less then that. Yet girls hovered around many doorways, or down various side streets, waiting customers for a little time that Connie began to feel embarrassed and ashamed that her penis was so evident at her crotch when all around there were plain but sexy little girls, all there for the taking by hard men. Boys or girls, what difference did it make anyway?
But she and Toni walked on ahead, smirking at men until they came to Forty Seventh Street, where two black hookers stood on the corner talking trash.
“Miss Jackie, what makes you think he’s in love with you?” Connie heard and looked up; it was an obvious man’s voice but clad in a ladies wig on her head with a short micro skirt around her.
“Pearl, you bitch,” the other answered, also in a deep man’s voice, “its love, I know it is.”
Toni led Connie right to them.
“Jackie, Pearl, this is Connie; she’s new here, first time on the Strip.”
The two transvestites looked at Connie.
“Oh my,” said Miss Jackie, immediately reaching out for Connie’s stiff erection, “it’s wonderful to meet you, sweetie,” and she blew her a kiss while groping her crotch for the stiffened penis.
Connie didn’t resist; the clear visibility of her cock, each step she had taken here, the gentle rubbing of the hard muscle against her jeans only added to the sexual lust and need until it erupted in her uncontrolled ejaculation. Less than fifteen seconds of pawing by Miss Jackie and Connie had cum again.
“Jackie, you sissy cunt,” Connie heard, “Can’t you see the girl is a-cumin’ and a thick cum at that?” as Jackie nodded her head and firmly continued pawing Connie off through her pants.
Connie fluttered her eyeballs and gazed through a daze at the trio before her; they stood hungrily looking at her and breathing open mouthed, Jackie still rubbing her cock until she felt moisture on her fingers. She picked them up to her face and licked whatever she could get.
“Oh, glory,” squealed Jackie, “never before had I gotten a dose of scum so easily and right here on the Minnesota Strip, ideal honey, you’re ideal!”
Connie felt very calm and contented, at peace with what she was happening, showing off her crammed cock and balls and satisfied with what was happening. Ever since she stood on the subway beginning to feel that heady sensation of arousal building and boiling in her she knew it would be only a matter of time before she erupted but the openness of Jackie’s stroking her, in front of people on the wide street, bringing her ecstatic pleasure; this was it, she knew, a hand-job where and whenever she wanted it or that which another was willing to perform, fucking sex right on the street. Hallelujah!
She tottered but caught her balance, Jackie’s arm around her.
“Connie, you alright?” It was Toni, standing right before her as Jackie held her and resumed groping her between the legs. Eyeballs drooled after what they were seeing but Connie didn’t care; this is what she always wanted, to be observed by others, to be putting on a show for them, to be the star attraction, that was the entire point of life, wasn’t it?
But as if coming to, she pushed Jackie’s hand off and tried lighting a cigarette and froze open-mouthed. In the crowd, looking right at her stood unshaven and wasted Tubby, Mr. Honey, who had lost weight, ten, fifteen pounds, and it looked as if he was shriveling away for no apparent reason.
Yet the old anger came back to Connie; after all he had abandoned her on the subway and now appeared out of the blue? No way! she sighed but raised her voice, “Hey, Honey, you asshole!” dropping to her knees and reaching under Jackie’s short skirt, “How’d you like this?” and she tried bringing Jackie’s dick out but Jackie squealed and pushed Connie off; Connie fell from her knees and landed right on her ass.
“Ouch, aw damn, my fucking ass!” she yelped, trying to straighten herself up. “That fucking hurts!”
“You don’t have to be stupid about it,” Jackie bitterly spat at her, “Just because you’re a street whore doesn’t mean you do it with anybody out on the street. Have some sense about you girl,” she said, straightening out her skirt and aligning it on her body, “Get some money first,” and she turned and disappeared on the Minnesota Strip.
But Toni leaned down and offered to help Connie to her feet, shaking her head but still holding out a hand to her. Connie almost took it but another hand presented itself, it was the hand of Mr. Honey. Connie lowered her eyes and grabbed it instead, getting to her feet.
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