The Girl on the Cardboard

                       The Girl on the Cardboard

By Mick Mykola Dementiuk 

from 100 Whores, Synergy Press 2010

He could see she was sick — pale, pimply faced, her eyes unfocused and watery, her mouth lax and droopy. But sitting like she was on the park bench, her short skirt high on her lap, her bruised legs slightly parted, and her tight blouse showing off a small but cleaved bosom, he didn’t care how young or old or sick, his dick hardened at the sight. 

He almost didn’t see her at first, or the other girl standing before her — their bench was off the promenade — for as he came up the East River he was enjoying the view of Manhattan, the midtown skyscrapers gleaming in the distance from the early afternoon sun. 

It was the first pleasant day of late winter in 1970. Though scattered dark patches of dirty snow still clung to the thawing ground, it was warm enough to walk with his coat un-zippered, his scarf loosened, his gloves and ski-cap in his pockets. 

He almost didn’t see her because the other girl was in the way; whereas the seated girl was some kind of pornographic dream come true — he could just imagine the smell of cunt oozing up the promenade — the other girl wouldn’t make anyone look twice, except in curiosity of what they were looking at. 

Unlike the seated girl, sluttish and inappropriately dressed no matter the warm weather, the other girl, smoking and gesturing angrily, was clad in tight black jeans and knee-high leather boots with a denim jacket over a black turtleneck sweater (she was certainly ready for any kind of weather). Her black hair was cropped close, Elvis/butch-like, and combed in a pompadour that flitted over her forehead like a loose whip. 

He didn’t hear much of what the dyke was screaming about, just snatches of: You’ll do what I say! or: I need the fucking money! or: You’re nothing but a fucking whore anyway! It was only when the dyke spun around that he caught a full glimpse of the girl on the bench. His penis instantly tingled in anticipation; where had he last 168 seen someone looking like that? In a porno magazine? In a frenzied jerk-off fantasy inspired by porno images of females in porno poses he could never imagine witnessing in real life? 

The dyke scowled, then saw him, and brightened. She said something to the seated girl, who merely glanced at him and frowned, then shifted on the bench and stretched out one leg, her skirt rising higher, her thighs opening and showing off a swatch of something black — pantyless?! — her breasts curving rounder and higher in her V-neck blouse. A winter coat lay folded on the bench beside her, and when he came closer and saw her sickly face, he knew right away she should be in bed, alone, sleeping her illness off, healing, taking care of herself, or at least wrapped in a coat instead of sitting like that. . . . Still, no matter the weather he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck the shit out of her right there! 

The dyke bounded towards him. She was probably seventeen or eighteen, but her face was already hardened in that typical clichéd dyke-anger of lesbian animosity, jumpiness, and hatred of the male sex. 

He always distrusted homosexual posturing as not so much a real lifestyle from an honest expression of sexual need, but just that, a posturing, a cowardly choice bred by fear of the opposite gender. 

It was so easy nowadays to come out of the closet and declare one’s gayness. Maybe because of that easy openness young people of both genders were taking on gay lifestyles because it was much simpler to be gay than to confront the fears, tackle the rejections, grow, accept, and overcome the teasing humiliations that always hover about when attracted to someone of the other sex. 

A boy who came on as a loser with girls would in time acquire the necessary skills to charm a prospective date. But now, a few snubs and rejections and he outed himself. Girls, as emotional or sexual partners, were out of the picture forever. And the girls? Whatever innate hoyden drive and tomboy stance kept the boys afar also reaffirmed the girls’ feelings of difference and only 169 brought them together with similar others the boys kept away from. 

At seventeen or eighteen the approaching dyke had already begun to seem like a burnt-out middle-aged lezzie. He didn’t know what to expect: a request or an order — for a cigarette, the time, some spare change — but he knew it would have something to do with the sparsely clad girl seated on the bench. 

Hey, you! the dyke snapped, her voice gravelly, hacking. Looking for some action? Her smirk was a taunting sneer, one corner of her mouth uplifted, the other downturned, her small yellowish teeth pointed and fang-like. He glanced at the girl on the bench — she had crossed her arms over her breasts and was swiftly stroking her bare shoulders before the dyke looked back. In his open winter jacket the weather was comfortable; dressed (or undressed) as she was, she was probably freezing. 

Maybe, he shrugged. Whaddaya got? 

The dyke’s lips tightened. She looked up and down the promenade. It was deserted, so he was the best she’d have to deal with, at least for a while. She scowled and gestured to the girl on the bench; the girl dropped her hands off her shoulders. 

For ten bucks, said the dyke, the cunt is yours. . . . 

His eyes widened and leered, and though the dyke’s sneering somewhat softened, it was also more contemptuous and loathing, as if she knew she hit a soft spot, right in his hard spot. 

What do I get for ten bucks? he asked. If there were any affection between the two he wanted to hear it from her lips as to what she was selling out her lover for. 

The dyke snorted angrily; fifty-fifty, she grunted. 

A what?  

Her eyes spun upwards, her mouth scowled, and she shook her head slightly. Boy, am I a walking confirmation of male stupidity! he thought. 

Half and half, she finally explained. Suck and fuck. She’ll blow you and then you stick it in her, okay? 

He looked at the benches, the thawing snow-patched ground, the spare leafless bushes, the barren baseball fields between them. Where am I supposed to do this fucking? he asked quizzically, certain she was beyond exasperation with him and was about to tell him to fuck off! and turn back to the girl. 

Look! she snapped, her arms akimbo, her legs outspread, her eyes squinted, her lips tight. She gestured to the girl. There’s a paper by the tree, she said. You fuck her on that, alright? 

Paper? He craned his neck to look at the trees behind the seated girl. 

The dyke’s fists went to her head. She groaned, and ran her fingers over her backswept hair. Cardboard! she groaned. She put cardboard on the ground! It’s for fucking! You wanna fuck her or not? Gimme ten dollars! Or go fuck yourself! 

Cardboard? He could imagine the dyke forcing the girl to pick up cardboard boxes en route to the park like some homeless person preparing a bed for the night, or like this alley-whore kid-tramp squatting down for a quickie at ten dollars a pop. Cardboard? How old was that cardboard and how long had it been there? How weather-beaten and scum/pussy-stained? How dogshitted and dog-peed? Certainly she didn’t gather fresh cardboard each time she came to the park. Was the weather-tattered cardboard he spotted in other desolate sections of the park former whoring-tryst sites as she made her rounds along the river? 

He looked at the bare trees and bushes by the baseball fence. None of them would shield the view of any chance passerby – we’d be fucking in the open. In the 45 minutes or so he’d been in East River Park he’d only come upon two people: a skanky woman with tight pants and a dog, and a beaming bald man walking sprightly in the same direction. The man definitely would have passed the girl and dyke. Was the old guy ten dollars poorer, poorer but happy? 

Who do I pay? he asked. 

Me! the dyke ordered, and snapped her fingers twice. He reached for his wallet, pulling out two fives — a wrinkled dirty one at which the dyke snorted — and turned them over to the teenage dyke pimpette. She pocketed the bills in her jacket breast pocket, and he glanced at the other green bills peeking out. 

I’m gonna walk around the baseball field, she said coldly. That takes fifteen minutes. She gestured with her thumb at her friend, and said, You should fuck her by then. Without another glance she turned and started walking upriver, as if leaving nothing she cared about. 

He looked after her for a few seconds, then approached the girl and smiled awkwardly; she didn’t smile back. 

She was a small light-skinned girl, yet for all her haggard/burnt-out/hooker-like appearance she had a baby-fat softness. On her chin, neck, and tits there was a sense of youthfulness that could not be dispelled by her make-up or low-cut blouse. She was probably even younger than her pimp-girlfriend and should have been looking forward to the end of her school year (what? . . . grade school? . . . high school?) rather than sucking and fucking strangers in the park. 

But in our disposable society why was this surprising? Whether it be plastics or cardboard, children or relationships, we discard each at our whim and replace them with others as meaningless and easily disposable. Who was she? A vague memory in some teen mother’s past of when she herself was a girl? A notch on some teen father macho/stud when he finally proved he was no longer a boy? Single mothers, absent fathers, soulless apathetic children, and we have only the extinction of our culture to look forward to . . . and that culture deserves to be quickly disposed of and forgotten. 

He un-zippered his pants, pulled his dick out, and the baby-whore was on him before he could even say, Suck it, bitch! 

But she wasn’t a very good cock-sucker, gagging as soon as his cock went past her teeth, and when she tried to swallow it a second time, the gagging was even worse, her dry-heaves like a shudder from her soul, trying not only to expel the pubic-tinged cock-smell of urined sweat, crotch blisters, and asshole itchings, but the stupid entirety of her whoring life and existence. . . . Yet her shaking tits sure looked nice when she heaved. 

I can’t, she said, shaking her head and looking up at him through teary eyes. He had one hand on her shoulder and moved it to her head. 

I can’t, she repeated, her eyes wide, fearful, trying to shake off his hand. 

It’s okay, he shrugged, stroking her thick in-need-of-a-shampoo blonde hair, tucking the almost-matted strands behind one ear. 

They stared at each other, her eyes curious but alert, then she turned to look up the promenade: the dyke was only half-way up along the fenced baseball field, but he knew it would take longer than the fifteen minutes she said she’d be back in. 

He looked at the girl: his stiff dick was poised inches from her pimply face and she looked like she might try to suck his cock again. Another dry-heave broke in her throat; she doubled over and spat out a mouthful of watery saliva. 

Hey, it’s okay, he said again, and touched her shoulder, feeling a bit ridiculous trying to consol the teenage cunt with his dick an inch or two from her face. 

Let’s just fuck, he suggested suddenly. 

The girl frowned, sighed, (Listen, you skank! he thought, I paid money for this!) then stood up, looked up the promenade again, and went around the bench to the bare bushes standing near the baseball field. 

She lowered herself to a large flat piece of rain-crisp curledged cardboard — Westinghouse, the cardboard read — and he snorted, Yeah, and I’m the loneliest guy in town. He was right between her legs as she tugged up her skirt and showed him her ugly pussy. 

He turned away: he’d never liked the sight of cunts. A cunt was one of the most grotesque and disgusting pieces of human anatomy left unfinished by Nature, and most likely the most underdeveloped part of human physiology. Nature was still trying to formulate and evolve into something useful, that is, something that could elicit not only hedonistic pleasure but also creativity and life. With a woman’s cunt Nature had failed miserably because men couldn’t leave Nature (cunts) alone to change and evolve an unfinished work in the solitude and isolation required of all evolution. Whereas pleasure was a fleeting digression, creation (birth) was brutal and lengthy and it tainted the moments of ecstasy and orgasm (life) by the proximity of smirking reality. 

He never entered a cunt without a guilty conscience, as if the brief euphoria of possession and the using of another human body as a jerk-off pump to ejaculate into was meant to deter Nature from its confounding task of evolving human life into a state of solitary perfection. Nature had no interest in bringing anyone together, whether it be a relationship, a couple, a family, a tribe, a nation. If every woman on earth went unfucked for a decade they would definitely begin to alter because Nature would step in to fill the void. Hell, they might even close up totally, or lengthen into a mimic of male appendages, so what then? Most likely evolution would come full circle; and cocks, male and female, would stretch and curve towards the nearest orifice — one’s own asshole — and our original primal hermaphroditic destiny would be complete. We’d be as one, because by then we would be only one, having no need of the other. 

Still, it wasn’t so much the natural repellant ugliness of her sex that made him focus so long on her cunt — that was expected — but because of the bruises and welts around it, on her stomach, her inner thighs, her legs, and probably on her ass as well. She’d been beaten, that was clear, and by whom he could easily guess, but by what? a strap, a belt, a stick? He couldn’t tell, but she’d been beaten very hard. 

Fresh blood-clotted bruises shone next to fading tawny ones, and he suddenly realized her ugly cunt was even more massive and bloated than it naturally should have been. It wasn’t that she was so sex-crazed and cockstarved that her pussy pulsed in desperate horniness, but that it, too, had suffered the punishment of . . . what? The fucking dyke’s boot kicking and stomping? 

He descended, and entered as easily as if he were sliding into his own greased jerk-off fist. There was hardly any resistance at his entry: her face not even wincing at the pulse of his incision, her cunt as pliant and open as a jar of Vaseline, jelly-like, easy and smooth, loose, open, pleasure-less. 

She opened her eyes; they were unfocused, preoccupied, distant.

Are you in? she asked. He nodded, and increased the speed of his pounding so as to see her breasts jiggling in her blouse beneath him. They were round and puffed, and even on her back they hovered upward and showed a spirit of life and youth that was a contradiction to the abandoned flatness of her teenage whore life. Could there be hope for her? He doubted that; in a year or two they’d be as emaciated and sagging as the breasts of any crack addict selling herself for a two-dollar crack hit. 

How much did you pay her? she suddenly asked, and for the first time a look of curiosity but fear crossed her face, as if afraid of his answer. 

Ten dollars, he grunted, hoisting himself up on his hands so as to get a better look at her from above. She winced. 

I knew it, she said quietly, and bit her lower lip. 

Does she cheat you? he asked. 

She says she only gets five, she said slowly. 

And how much do you get out of it? 

The girl snorted, sneered, and looked at him as if he were an idiot. 

Ha, nothing! She scowled, and turned to look at the baseball fields. The black figure of the dyke was now crossing the end of the field and would soon be turning down the highway side. 

He was steadily pumping in and out of the girl; there was more than enough time. How many guys do you do a day? he asked. 

The girl cringed, her face reddening. 

He was surprised: was it shame and was self-consciousness still possible? 

Probably twenty, she said quietly. And more on weekends. 

It was Friday, still early afternoon, and he had to ask: What number am I? 

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing as if calculating and counting. 

I don’t know, she shrugged. Six or seven, I think. . . . 

He was pumping faster, ready to come. But she takes care of you? he grunted through his humps. 

The girl nodded. 

She knows the park-lady who takes care of the GIRLS bathroom by the track fields. She lets me sleep there at night. 

He looked at her curiously. He knew they locked the track-field restrooms at night (he had tried the doors, GIRLS and BOYS) to keep the vandals out of the last remaining comfort stations in the park (a few portable toilets were used when a temporary construction crew moved in for repairs of a roadway or railings), but he wondered what the park-lady got out of it. 

And in the morning you start all over again? 

She was quiet, then said, With the park-men, three of them, they let me out, but only one fucks me, the other park-men say I’m too young so I only have to suck them off. . . . 

She gagged (a memory of a cock?), but he yelped and finally ejaculated. It was a strong ejaculation, one of the most powerful he’d ever experienced in a female, their bland conversation of sexual humiliation and abjection stirring him to an awesome feeling of power and superiority over her. 

He, too, wanted to beat and lock her up, or at the least, remain atop and inside her as long as he could, keeping her pinned to the cardboard and dirt. He knew that tonight he’d be in a jerk-off frenzy imagining her asleep on the cold and dank GIRLS restroom floor. 

Whore! he thought, but he’d have locked her in the BOYS room instead so she could wallow in the lingering stench of boy cocks and shit and scum and un-flushed urinals inches from her sleeping face and mouth. What do whores dream? Surround yourself with anything twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours a day, and it will permeate your soul and existence to where all else but that is excluded as irrelevant and insignificant. What had she said, Probably twenty cocks a day? So that had to average out to at least two an hour. Two cocks an hour in your mouth and cunt (fifty-fifty) and who would not dream that cocks weren’t a permanent extension of their being, their self, their existence, their consciousness, their soul? What do whores dream of? Certainly not of themselves. . . .

He began fucking her again. She squinted at him, confused, probably thinking he had already shot off, then looked up the baseball field. The dyke was now halfway down the highway pathway, walking quickly and undoing her belt from around her waist. 

A belt! he thought, a fucking belt! 

He increased his pumping. But the first ejaculation was nothing compared to the eruption and speed and contempt of his second one. He even spat on the little whore’s face, knowing he had cheated and won over both of them, the cunt and the dyke, by screwing the garbage twice but paying for it once. 

Ha! Ha! He hated the girl, and if she slept in the GIRLS room tonight he wished he could pour gasoline into the place and burn it down. 

He shuddered, and pulled out even more easily then he had entered. The girl lay still, her legs open, her cunt as ugly as ever, only her puffed breasts still alive and rising up and down with her breaths. 

He grabbed each tit and squeezed, painfully and brutally, and he wanted to lower himself atop the pornographic nightmare and fuck her again. 

The dyke stormed around the baseball field, just steps away from them. He got up and took a step back, alert, wary. She didn’t even look at him but surged toward the girl on the cardboard, her thick leather belt wound in one hand and striking the loose end flap against the open palm of her other hand. He zippered his pants, walked backwards to the promenade, and leaned against the railing. 

You fucking whore! the dyke spat out. 

The girl on the cardboard instantly arched her back and raised her lower torso, aiming her red and bruised and wet vagina at the dyke. The dyke raised her arm and swung the belt down . . . even from the distance of the river railing, probably ten or fifteen yards, he felt the pain between his legs as if he, too, had been struck by a vicious belting. 

The girl dropped down on the cardboard, crying, groaning, weaving her shut legs back and forth as the dyke continued belting her legs and ass and ordering her to reopen her cunt again. Slowly, the girl did so, whimpering, her eyes wide, pleading, No, please! I swear I didn’t enjoy it! But the dyke struck again. 

He sighed, turned away, and walked upriver, the belt-smack sounds melding with the river-slap echoes striking the concrete retaining wall below the promenade...

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