Sunday, April 25, 2021

100 Whores

Lambda Literary Award First Place 2009, 2012

100 Whores

 

Mick Mykola Dementiuk 

 

Searching for Lower East Side Whores


 Introduction by the publisher 

 

Sally Miller, Publisher & Editor 2010



I think Mykola Dementiuk had a lot of nerve agreeing to have these stories published. Writing them I can understand — it’s a drive, really, to write and expose oneself, even in fiction, a need from within. But to name them for the world to see: one’s shortcomings, one’s weaknesses, one’s transgressions against society . . . well, I give him credit where it’s due. As for publishing these whore stories, there were several reasons I decided to do so after much deliberation... I think his voice — the voice of the john — is rarely heard.  And the degradation of women so often seen in writings of former prostitutes and high-class call girls is not only exemplified in 100 Whores, but the degradation of men is made clear, also.

Little will escape you, though you may disagree with Mykola’s intermittent psycho-sexual commentary and philosophy. Not quite a john — more of the local guy who hangs around the neighborhood — he gives voice to the loner, the lonely, the disadvantaged, the sexually confused. 

 Warning: this book may break your heart. 


 

100 Whores

by

Mick Mykola Dementiuk 

 

1. Girlie Shows

 

I was in the 7th grade when I first went to the Variety Photoplays movie house on 3rd Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets. Word had gone around that they’d be showing a girlie movie with nudes and scantily dressed women over the weekend. Of course the school authorities were against this and even complained to the management of the movie house, who just shrugged them off and went on with the show.

 

On Friday afternoon we were warned about going anywhere near the Variety, but Saturday, hidden in our winter overcoats, we surreptitiously showed up one by one at the movie house. We got there early afternoon, before they raised their prices, which started at twenty-five cents, then forty and fifty cents, until it got to a buck twenty-five at night time.

 

I had been warned by the other guys not to let anyone sit next to me or I’d end up being a faggot. Good advice, I thought. That afternoon there were guys from other schools who had also warned their boy students against seeing such filth: wimpy Polacks from St. Stan’s, shady Spanish and Irish guys from St. Brigid’s, smart alecky Ukrainian guys from St. George’s, even high school guys from LaSalle Academy, all sitting with their hands in their laps, under their winter coats, and staring at the incredibly beautiful women on screen, who were getting undressed, posing naked, or skipping around in the sand on the beach.

 

I have no recollection of leaving the place, and all I remember was seeing the price of admission read 75 cents. On the way out, whatever guys remained were looking at the girls that paced the street outside; I later found out these were whores. I hurried home to jerk off in peace to remembered images of the movie screen divas.

 

Years later I found how dull and boring these early nudist films were, but back then it was like a revelation to me. The movie house was a lovely place to come to, and I soon would be doing just that, countless times. §



 2. First Time 

 

 

I hadn’t planned on sex being so disastrous, but the first time I almost got laid it was nothing but confusion. The whore was more concerned with her hair than what I was trying to do. Of course I was scared and meekly obeyed her commands.

 

It was my birthday and I had ten dollars in my pocket as a present. I was on my way to 14th Street to buy something for my gift when a woman said, “Goin’ out, honey?”

 

I had no idea what that meant or why she was saying it to me. I looked around and asked, “Going out where? This is out.”

 

I thought that was clever. She snorted. “How old are you, kid?”

 

“Fifteen,” I said, smiling at her. “And I’m looking for something nice.” I said it proudly and boastfully and I could see she was very impressed. “It’s my birthday,” I added, but blushed.

 

“Oh, gee. Happy Birthday, hon,” she hissed and sauntered closer to me with a bra strap showing. My mouth dropped open and my eyes became glued to the round and luscious breasts that were peeking out of her blouse. I wanted to touch them, cuddle them, suck them. She looked around. “Let’s go to the hotel, honey,” she hissed. “I’ll give you a real present. You got any money?”

 

I said, “Yeah, I got ten dollars.” I would have told her anything just to see her real live breasts.

 

“Anything else?” she said, and she looked around like she was already bored just talking to me. I told her about the extra ones I had, which had taken me some time to save, mostly from my mother giving me ten cents or a quarter for the day and on most days not spending it. In a few months I was able to accumulate a few dollars.

 

She looked at me, as if undecided, then said, “The room is four and I’m ten. You wanna do it?” 

 

“You mean?” I said, still scared I was thinking of it. “You and me? . . . ”

 

She laughed. “Yeah, you and me . . . ” She seemed to be thinking, biting her lower lip and looking at me up and down. “But, hell, no one’s gonna let you in at your age. Too bad you’re not a little older, hon,” she said, already bored and looking for another client. “Hey, I got an idea,” she winked, “We can go into a hallway . . . ”

 

I knew I’d follow her anywhere as long as we did it. The hallway was on 3rd Avenue between 11th and 12th Streets, a long hallway leading past a stairway that went up to an alcove in the back with five steps going down. Weird, how they built this building, I thought, under the impression we were going to another building. Suddenly she pulled her skirt up, showed me her beautiful nylon covered legs, removed her panties, and sat back down on the stairs — I could step right in her.

 

“Well, where’s your ten bucks?” she asked, snapping her fingers. “I ain’t got all day.”

 

I gave her the crisp ten dollar bill and a few singles and let my pants drop. My dick was so hard I could’ve entered her from where I was, but I shot my jism on her legs and belly, spilling out needlessly on her thighs. I recall the sensation of her nylons rubbing against my cock and my semen spilling out . . .

 

I don’t know if she was disappointed, but she pushed herself up, wiped herself with a tissue she had, and pulled her skirt down.

 

“Next time hold it in, baby,” she smirked, winking her eye. “It’ll feel better that way.”

 

She left me standing there with my pants down and my dick sticking upright and pointed after her. What could I do in that hallway but jerk off again? Which I did . . . then fled. §


 

 

3. Jerk Off 

 

My real first time came about three months later. I was saving up the money and jerking off like crazy. The first whore — whatever her name was — had sparked the possibility of getting my sexual desires fulfilled.

 

“Ain’t you a bit young?” the whore asked. I had followed her early afternoon across 3rd Avenue as she walked lazily, turning around at each man she passed by. I was behind her but she seemed not to notice me; must be my age, I thought, and took the chance.

 

“Hi, girlie,” I said. She looked around her, not sure if I was talking to her. “I’ll give you ten dollars if we do it.”

 

She smirked. “Girlie? That’s a new one. Shouldn’t you be in school, kid?”

 

“But it’s Saturday,” I said. “No school.” My dick was hard and eager for what I knew was coming. She seemed undecided and I nervously looked at her. She had a brunette hairdo that came down to her shoulders in a swirl, with a shiny yellow blouse tucked into her very short skirt, which helped to display her dark nylon-ed legs. I bit my lower lip as she stood there looking at me.

 

“I’m not cheap, you know,” she finally said. “Yeah, I know,” I said. I started to pull out the ten dollars when she reddened and quickly took me by my arm.

 

“Are you crazy?” she whispered, looking around. “Don’t do that here. Let’s go down the block.” She hustled me to a building where behind the stairs I sat on a lower stoop, and she made me get on my back and she settled atop me. I had never thought that would be possible, but she rode me like a horse and it felt incredibly horny.

 

At one point as we were fucking, the front door opened and someone walked up the stairs behind us. I felt like something was wrong, and for an instant I was scared and desperate to run away. Instead, I exploded in a frenzy of coming and spilling.

 

I wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to love her . . . but she pushed herself up and said, “Not bad, for a kid.” She pulled down her skirt, then walked out of the hallway and out of my life.

 

I wanted to go after her and tell her I loved her but I just sat there and jerked off again . . . and I came pretty quickly after that, wondering where I could get another ten dollars and get laid again. That was to become my quest. §



 4. Variety Photoplays 


Variety Photoplays stood on 3rd Avenue between 13th and 14th Streets as if boasting to all the shoddy and riff-raff abodes down below 6th Street on the Bowery. The old movie house was a denizen of vaudeville and burlesque followed by monster and cornball comedies that weren’t so funny any more, but it was my favorite place to go when I didn’t have much money to spend on girls. You could always see a picture from a few years before keeping you somewhat up to date. It wasn’t that expensive, either. 

Up front you would be left alone, except for the guys going in and out of the bathrooms, which were in the front. The prospective urinators disturbed your picture watching, but in the back rows or upstairs your cock stood up at the ready, to be used and lavished by the queer guys hanging about, ready to take you any way you let them. 

I had done it a number of times but always as a last horny resort, my longing being for women. But a mouth is a mouth, I figured, as long as it was smooth with fragrant aftershave; you just closed your eyes and let the feeling take over. 

One early rainy afternoon, the other kids still in school, I went to the balcony where I saw a blonde hairdo shining from the seats. Instantly my penis was stiff and I was ecstatic. No one sat next to her, but hell, even with a boyfriend (if there was one going off to get her a Coke), the risk would have been worth it. 

I nearly took a step back when I entered the seat next to her: an obvious guy made up as a girl, his stubbled face covered by makeup so thin that it seemed to force the shadow of his chin that much clearer and certain. I shrugged and settled in the seat next to her; there was no threat of a boyfriend returning, I was sure of that. 

We looked at each other and she had a nice-looking blowjob mouth. My arm went round her shoulder, and somehow her shoulder strap came undone and fell down 7 on my arm. That increased the stimulation I was getting from her and pretending what she was. 

Suddenly, I heard loud female heels pounding behind me and a rough female-mimicking voice exclaiming, “Well, Miss Pretty, I was sitting there!” 

I looked at what I saw standing there, a caricature of a female but obviously a man made-up, no matter how weakly, to look like a girl. Two girlfriends at a picture show, I thought. Where else but at the Variety? 

I smirked and got up. 

“Aw, don’t go,” said the queen, who was pushing her way to the seat I was leaving. “This was getting interesting.” 

“Please, stay, baby,” gushed the first heavy-voiced mimic, joining her friend. 

I blushed and made my way outside. Evening was slowly coming on and the whores were everywhere. §



5. Goin’ Out? 


The few times I had seen her I was always too late — she was going off with a potential customer — and I was angry, looking for a whore I couldn’t fuck but had always dreamt of fucking. I’d been dreaming of her ever since I found the whore place on 3rd Avenue. That first time I was pretty hot and didn’t care — I went off with the first one who would take me to a place where I could get laid.

 

In those days it was easy, cops weren’t around much, and times were different. No one cared who you went off with or where you were going, but I always stopped near the 12th Street Hotel, off 3rd Avenue.

 

Then I saw her . . . a short black skirt and a yellow tight sleeveless blouse accentuated her breasts, making them seem larger than they already were. My penis instantly rose up as if to greet her from the short distance, and I hurried my steps. I didn’t want to miss out on that!

 

She turned, if you call it that, almost like a wobble forward, and tottered to the side and caught her balance. I stopped and looked at her. She was drunk, or stoned on something, and I felt my erection shrinking down. (The last drunken whore I had been with put a damper on my arousal when she said, “You done already?” just as I was about to enter her. My hard dick shrank, too fast, and I sighed, knowing that was it for the night. I thought it would be the same with her: you never can trust a 3rd Avenue whore.)

 

When she mumbled “Goin’ out?” her request was not a teasing question, but more of a bored and tired statement, to which she didn’t even stifle an open-mouthed yawn.

 

I just looked at her, and without a word I shuffled off into the night. § 



 6. Out of the Blue 


On a cool and drizzly afternoon I saw her standing in a raincoat, holding an umbrella, looking to the left and right, nervously smoking a cigarette. It seemed like she was waiting for someone, maybe a date who stood her up, but since this was 3rd Avenue and 12th Street there was little chance of that.

 

I smirked and crossed the street to her side. It had rained pretty hard that morning: large puddles were still along the avenue. It was calm now, just a fine mist where there was wet confusion before. She turned around and saw me smiling at her. Her eyes lit up and I saw a faint smile beaming at me.

 

“Hey, baby,” I said. “How’s it goin’?”

 

She looked quizzically at me. “What?” she asked, looking around. “Excuse me? I thought you were someone else.”

 

I looked at her. Maybe I was wrong: it was still early afternoon and the place didn’t pick up until the evening when it got dark. Perhaps it was like I thought: her waiting for a late boyfriend. I took a chance.

 

“Wanna make some money?”

 

She took a step back, then asked curiously, “Doing what?” I looked at her.

 

“What you think?” I asked. “Fifty-fifty . . . ”

 

“Fifty-fifty, what’s that?”

 

We studied each other, then I said, “You blow me, then I fuck you. Fifty-fifty, half and half . . . ”

 

She snorted. “You think I’m . . . a prostitute?”

 

I looked at her. “Yup,” I shrugged. “You look like a whore to me, but no offense, you know?”

 

She shook her head in disgust. “None taken . . . Fifty-fifty, eh? How much you willing to pay me for that? . . . ”

 

“It’s six fifty for the room and the screwing is ten, okay?”

 

She blurted out laughing, “Ten dollars for that? You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

 

I turned red but knew I’d better be gone from there; this was no whore.

 

“If you give me . . . say twenty-five, no, fifty, I might think about it.”

 

I shook my head. “Ten bucks is the going rate, sister.”

 

“Times change, friend,” she chuckled. “If you can’t go with the flow . . . well, you’re not going anywhere.” She turned and walked off down the street, approaching a guy coming up the avenue. I did not stay to look if they kissed or had a discussion about her price, the going rate.

 

I went home to jerk off. Damn bitch wasn’t a whore! I was sure of it. §



 7. Virgin Whore 


As many times as I’d gone out with whores, it was always a treat to be attracted to one who wasn’t that and to perk up an interest in her as well.

 

Marge was an attractive girl who worked as a secretary in the same place I was a mailroom guy. We hit it off right away, being more or less the same age, but I was hidden in the back while she sat in the front, where, I guess, the clients could stare and ogle her. That’s what she was getting paid for, I supposed.

 

Many times, under pretense of carrying some papers for release, she’d come in the back where I was shuffling around with the documents I was mailing out. After the fakery of small talk I was able to lock the door and get my hands on her, especially under her skirt. I love the feeling of warm cotton and hot nylons and the damp flesh under female clothes . . . aw man, I can come in my pants right now just thinking about it . . .

 

I don’t really know for sure, but I think Marge was a virgin. She was so rabid but gave so little in return. She would willingly spread her legs but wouldn’t remove her girdle or nylons or panties, like a barrier or obstacle I couldn’t get through.

 

This would leave me frustrated with blue balls, which I’m sure I was getting, because I was always trying not to jerk off when she’d go back to work. This was crazy, sometimes two or three times a day she’d appear, and, of course, I’d fall into her lusts.

 

One day I couldn’t take it anymore. She had just left me horny for release. Fuck it! I pulled down my zipper and reached in for my hard-on. Wow, that sure feels good! Beating it up and down, up and down, yeah, that’s great!

 

It didn’t take long but I felt that lurch of explosion as I doubled over . . . and the door opened and there stood my boss — he had his own key — well, I got fired right at that moment, otherwise he would have called the cops on his jerking-off mailroom guy... 

 

I tried talking to Marge in the streets after that but she just turned red and bustled away. I did too, but I wondered if eventually she lost her virginity? I guess she did, isn’t that how it’s done in real life? Aw, hell, what do I know? §



8. The Walker 


I first saw the whore, or so I thought of her, coming down 2nd Avenue toward 11th Street, just a block from 12th Street and 3rd, a well-known whore hangout. It was at least the third time she had walked around the block. The first time I didn’t really notice, I just saw the pretty girl walking past. The second time I smiled, but she didn’t return a glance and just walked off. The third time I saw her I knew she was after something on the block, but what?

 

No way, I thought. In either case she didn’t look like a whore trying to turn a trick, she seemed too plain for that. But she was after something, so I smiled again.

 

She smiled back! I got off the stoop and started to go after her. She was a nice girl with nice clothes, a pink blouse with tan skirt, and she carried a pack of cigarettes and lighter in her hand. Surprisingly, I had not seen her smoke once in all the time she walked around the block.

 

“Nice night for a walk, eh? . . . ” I said.

 

She just shrugged. “If you got nothing better to do, I guess.”

 

I smirked at her and she was smirking at me.

 

Little whore, I thought, and saw her ripping off a piece of paper from the pack of cigarettes she carried. As a matter of fact, she had almost peeled off the entire pack of reddish paper that was their logo and left a frayed white strip around the pack. I wondered about this.

 

She saw me looking at the pack and said, “It keeps my mind off smoking too much, you know.”

 

I smiled. “Oh sure, you don’t want to do that,” flicking my own butt away. We watched it fall into a puddle of water, and all that was missing was a sigh of remorse, because that’s what I was getting from her.

 

“How many you still got in your pack?” I asked. 

 

“What?” she said, looking at me. “Oh, two, and they got to last me all night.”

 

I could imagine what a cigarette would be like when you didn’t have many left; I had been through that many times. Having no money certainly was a bummer, but for a girl? It was easy for them to get bread. Many times I had wished I were a girl because then, I thought, I’d have no money problems.

 

“You should go a block away from here, to 3rd Avenue,” I said. “That’s where . . . the ladies hang out.” I winked and smiled at her.

 

She stopped and stood with her arms akimbo. “I’m no fucking whore, buddy!”

 

She was angry, and reached in her torn pack for a cigarette. We both looked at the sole two cigarettes, eager to be removed and lit up, when she snapped the pack shut and walked away in a huff. She was just a block away from 3rd Avenue, if she turned that way.

 

Getting there, I thought and shrugged. Oh, the hell with her. I went back to roosting on the stoop of my block. §



 9. Delinquent 


Man, she was young! Even younger then I was, and at seventeen I thought I was a full-grown man but she was what? maybe fourteen, fifteen, but certainly not a whoring woman.

 

Plus there was an aura of play about her, like she was dreaming of lollipops and dolls and little girl’s clothes, which I was sure she wasn’t going to find on 3rd Avenue and 13th Street.

 

I stood on the corner watching her pace about. Our eyes met a few times but I just stood there, let the whore come to me, I thought. Pretty soon that’s what she did.

 

She was heavily made up with lipstick and mascara that lined her mouth and eyes like some character from a comic book; she didn’t look real at all.

 

“You looking for a woman?” she said, not looking at me but at my mouth. I wanted to say, Yeah, you know of one? But I just grinned.

 

“Twenty dollars, mister.” she said, “Take it or leave it.”

 

As she talked I noticed her glance down the street several times; a teenage thug stood there, sucking on a cigarette.

 

Shit! I looked the other way. “Where at?” I asked, “The hotel?...”

 

“Ah, no,” she hesitated, biting her lower lip. “Let’s go there,” nodding in the direction of her boyfriend thug, I assumed.

 

No way was I going to walk the street toward him! “Sorry, sister,” I said and walked away.

 

“Motherfucker!” I heard behind me and a torrent of Spanish curses. I did not turn around to see if her boy-friend thug came up the street. I quickly and quietly went home and jerked off. §


 

 

 10. Diane 


 

She was one of the girls I knew by name. Most of them had names like Trixie or Peaches or Bubbles, which put distance between the two of you. How can you screw Trixie when you know it is a sham that she is pretending until she finds a better life with her real new name?

 

That’s why I liked Diane — no dreams, no pretenses or fakeries. She knew what she was, a whore, and that’s what you got when you paid her. Also, no small talk of when she wasn’t one. She liked it and didn’t care about some better life, whoring was her trade and one she lived very well.

 

On Sunday evening, which was a slow day, most of her clients were home with their wives. I came walking down 12th Street and saw her come out of the 12th Street Hotel, a dumpy little whorehouse. I had to smile at her appearance. It had been weeks since I last saw Diane and was glad my pockets were filled with enough cash to get laid with her again. I didn’t care that she just had a guy coming all over and inside her too. I liked her very much myself, and I’d fuck her anytime.

 

She looked like she was in a hurry, yet she stopped when she saw me.

 

“Hey, Diane,” I said. “How’s things?”

 

“Oh yeah, hi,” she said, as though she was elsewhere. “What was your name again?”

 

I told her, then asked, “Wanna go out?”

 

“Aw, shit, I can’t,” she said. Then she blushed and said, “Just had a little time, you know.” She looked at me as if we had an agreement and I wondered what she meant.

 

“Gotta go.” She was about to turn and walk away when she stopped, leaned over, and gave me a peck on the cheek before hurrying off.

 

Wow! I had never loved a woman but I loved one  now. I watched her disappear down 3rd Avenue. Sadly I went home, and couldn’t wait till I would see her again. . . . §



 11. Girlfriend-Boyfriend


The third time I was with her she asked if I was married.

 

“Nope,” I answered.

 

She pondered that. “But one day you will be, right?”

 

I shrugged. “Maybe, who knows?”

 

She looked thoughtful. “Got a girlfriend?”

 

I looked at her. Why was she asking this, when before it was just money? “Nah,” I answered, “Too much trouble.”

 

She smiled. “You want one?” I grinned.

 

“Why, you offering?” She scowled.

 

“No, not me, but I got a girlfriend who lost her guy and I was just thinking, well, you know . . . ”

 

I shrugged. “How much does she want?”

 

I could see her mouth twisting in anger.

 

“Girlfriend-boyfriend, they don’t put a price on it, you know,” she said.

 

I snorted. “Oh yes, they do. There’s a price for everything.” I looked at her and again asked, “How much?”

 

“Go to hell, asshole,” she retorted, and was gone.

 

I looked around the cubby hotel room, shrugged, and went out into the streets. §


  12. Impatience

 

She was an impatient little whore slut. As soon as we got in the room she pulled up her dress — to show she wasn’t wearing any panties, I suppose — and leaned back on the bed. “Well, I ain’t got all day.”

 

I bent down to take off my shoes but she grimaced and said, “Aw, man, just pull it out.”

 

I felt a bit squeamish. I still wasn’t hard — had drunk too much beer — but she said, “I’m gonna count to ten. If you ain’t ready, I’m outta here, buddy,” and she fell back on the bed and started counting, “Ten, nine, eight . . . ”

 

I got in between her legs and held my limp dick in my hand, trying to push it in.

 

She frowned and said loudly, “C’mon, can’t you even get it hard?”

 

I was angry but feeling rather stupid and tried again. My dick, if you can call it that, was limp like a jelly fish, falling all over the place except in her cunt.

 

All of a sudden she flared, “Get off me!” pushing my chest and glaring at me.

 

I said nothing, watching her straighten out her dress, when she cursed, “Asshole!” and slammed the door after her.

 

I just lay there . . . regretting the loss of money I had given her, but most of all regretting the loss of my manhood to the bitch.

 

Jerking off was easy after she left, but the anger stayed and it made the enjoyment seem worthless. § 



 13. Kisser

 

She always wanted to leave me with a huge kiss on my mouth, and once on 3rd Avenue she even grabbed me by the balls as she smacked her lips and kissed me. “Bye, hon!” She left me with the johns glaring at me and trying to get closer to her.

 

I never looked to see who she picked up after me, just walked away, as proud as I could be. Not until later did I find she had smeared me with her lipstick, a deep and bright red, which took me awhile to get off but by then I didn’t care.

 

Her thing was to kiss me after sucking me off, and I don’t mean a peck but a slobbering mouth to mouth kiss, tongue on tongue, lip to lip, just moments after she had given me an amazing blow job.

 

I figured, what the hell? But when I thought about it, Shit, my cock, was it kissing another man’s cock? No thanks. I felt nauseous and went home where I gagged some more. . . . Still, I seem to love women like that . . . §


 14. Blowjobs Only

 

         “What you mean?” I said. “You don’t wanna fuck? You got to             fuck, you’re a whore!” 

We were in the tiny hotel room I had just paid six fifty for and she told me this crap. Hell, what did she think I was? Did she think I was playing?

 

“C’mon, take your clothes off. I gotta get back to work.”

 

She shook her head. “I can’t. But I’ll give you a blowjob.”

 

“Shit, that’s not the same.” I sat on the bed, disappointed and frustrated. This had happened last summer, too, the whore didn’t want to fuck and not even a blowjob either, just that I feel her up! Did she think I was such a loser? Yeah, I suppose she did. I didn’t even jerk off afterwards, the memory always got me mad. And here it was happening again.

 

“Well,” I said, “I wouldn’t go with you if I knew that.”

 

“Why not?” she asked, and winked. “I give spectacular blowjobs! Take my word, even better then getting laid, honey.”

 

She smiled and ran her tongue along her lips and I felt a tinge of hardness in my crotch. I thought about it, then said, “Okay, do it.”

 

She grinned and quickly got on her knees, fumbling with my zipper.

 

“But why is that?” I asked. “Don’t you like fucking anymore?”

 

She blushed and said, “I’m pregnant,” and took my dick in her mouth.

 

It felt good, a dick in a mouth always does, but I’ve had some bad ones, too, those that bite and claw with their teeth leaving bloody scars after they get through with you. Talk about not having real sex; that will do it every time. She continued sucking.

 

“Who’s the father?” I asked, “Doesn’t he know what you’re doing?”

 

With her eyeballs she looked up at me. Mumble mumble, she made a sound, and just continued sucking. I didn’t say anything anymore, just looked at her face sloshing my dick in and out of her mouth. When I felt that glimmering tingle of explosion start to erupt in my balls, and felt it racing through my dick, Wow, I thought, this makes sex worthwhile!

 

She took a nice burst of jism in her mouth, some splashing out, sucking and swallowing like the little baby that she was carrying. I guess she needed that for the baby to suckle on, but I don’t know, maybe? She continued slurping.

 

It was great! I hurried off to work, a new man! §



15. Bad Cough 

 

She was coughing out on the street, coughing on the hotel stairs, coughing in bed, coughing when I shot, and coughing when we were done. I didn’t say a word, just kept my head to the side while she coughed, but afterwards I did say something. 

“That’s a bad cough you got. You should get something for it, you know.” 

She coughed again and said, “What cough?” 

I snorted, “The one you got, it’s kinda bad.” 

She stood looking at me. “Oh, fuck off!” 

I thought Shit! The hell with her! She started coughing again, and worse too; sounded like something was trying to get out from her throat. 

She opened the door, coughed again, and without a word was gone. I kept listening to her coughing as she pounded down the stairs. 

What a sicko! I thought, and rushed to get dressed, trying not to cough or breathe in the air of that room. § 



16. Tattooed Whore 


We walked up the stairs and I saw she had a tattoo on her back peeking out from her blouse. When she undressed I asked, “What’s that tattoo mean?” 

She tried looking at it but couldn’t see the bearded figure and shrugged. “I used to believe but I don’t no more.” 

She took off her blouse and skirt and unhooked her bra. There was a similar tattoo on top of her right tit. “Why that?” 

I asked, looking at her tattoo of a bearded guy. “Is that supposed to be Jesus?” 

She snorted, and sadly told me, “Yeah, once it was, but not now.” 

She got on the bed and I was at her side, moving in to enter. On her thigh was another tattoo; I suppose that was Jesus about to shove it in. 

I shut my eyes and we fucked. After I came I got dressed and avoided looking at her. She didn’t say anything and I left; she was lighting a cigarette as I slowly closed the door. §



17. Room 


There was the Sahara on 14th Street and 3rd but it was too busy and open, like putting a sign out that said, Look at me, I’m after a whore! 

Well, no thanks, I took the hotel on 12th Street. It was cheaper by a few bucks, and I could always use that. Anyway, the hotel had no name in the front, just a bold neon sign that read HOTEL, so I suppose that was its name. 

The first time I ever used that hotel I didn’t even know what was going on. Oh sure, I had seen girls out front and on the street outside, but I was too naïve to know what they were doing or too stupid. 

One afternoon a pretty girl smiled and said, “Goin’ out, hon?” 

I was struck by her greeting and smiled back, “Goin’ anywhere you want, baby.” 

“Cool,” she answered. “Ten for me, the room’s six bucks, okay?” 

I knew I had the ten but wasn’t sure about the singles. She got pissed when I started counting out the money. 

“Don’t be such an ass!” She led me to the doorway of the 12th Street Hotel, where I counted out the bills and found I had more than enough. 

 She smiled and led me upstairs to a room. That was the first time I got laid in a hotel. It was a torn, dumpy, little place but I felt very elegant there. Oh, boy! §



18. Snowy Night 


We were finished and I was getting dressed when she turned from the snowy window and said, “I think I’m going to stay here.” 

 I shrugged, “If that’s what you want . . . ” 

 “Do you have to go?” she asked. 

 Again I shrugged. “Not really.” 

She sat cross-legged on the bed, braless, and lit a cigarette. 

I was already smoking one and figured I’d take a seat beside her. “I guess it must be slow out there.” 

She nodded her head. “Snow hates us girls,” she said, “that and rain. But rain ain’t so bad, it’s the snow that kills you.” 

“Uh huh,” I nodded. “How many have you had tonight?” 

She looked at me, bit her lip, and lowered her head. “Just one,” she said. “You.” A warm smile appeared on her lips. 

I thought it must have been tough out there with the harsh blowing snow since we had been the only ones on 3rd Avenue, a snowed-in ghost-land. On the snowy street we had looked at each other and I followed her. So what, I thought, so I’m using a whore, I like doing that. I suppose she liked using me. 

She talked, I talked, we kissed, we talked some more and I stayed the night. Love was good. In the morning she was sleeping. I left her, had to hurry off to work. Anyway, it wasn’t snowing anymore. §



19. Jumpin’ Judy  


Jumpin’ Judy was a manic broad who didn’t like going to bed. She wanted to do it standing up, with both feet on the ground, so that once you were finished she could walk off and forget you. 

Sometimes after we fucked standing up I’d stop in for a pizza or a donut along my way, and I’d see Jumpin’ Judy on the street, looking for another customer, biting her nails and looking up and down the avenue as if waiting for someone or something. 

Must have been eager but disappointed guys she had sex with, if you can call it sex with Judy. Standing up just didn’t do it for me. I steered clear of her after that because I want someone to lie down with. I guess Jumpin’ Judy wasn’t in to that. . . . 



20. Something’s Coming 


I had a girlfriend but we never did anything but kiss and feel each other up. I was waiting for a move but it never came. She’d just push me off when it got too close. I went out with her a few weeks and eventually found myself on 3rd Avenue. Girls were on every part of the avenue and up and down the streets that I could’ve had my pick of, if only I had some money. 

I stood on 12th Street with my dick erect in my pants but of course there was no satisfaction. I fled home where I jerked off maybe four, five times and couldn’t find any peace or release. Having a virgin girlfriend wasn’t what it was cut out to be. 

The next day I went out with that virgin girlfriend, all to no avail, and broke up with her, telling her “Fuck off!” I quickly found myself back on 3rd Avenue, my new home. I sure was glad payday was just a few days away. § 



21. Goddess 


She said she was a goddess but I thought she was nuts and told her so. “You’re crazy!” 

She looked sad, but just for a moment. “So you don’t believe me?” she asked. “Okay, I’ll prove it.” 

She shut her eyes and started a low chant that was pretty much boring after a while. “Ommmm . . . ” Sounded like Ho Hummmm . . . to me, from a flaky Mrs. Santa. 

I shrugged and went on with my dressing; I had to get back to work. 

Suddenly she opened her eyes and smiled. “You’ll see. Just wait till you get out of here.” She nodded her head and had a warm smile about her. 

I regretted leaving her but that’s what you do with whores, tell them Good bye, baby! 

In the hotel doorway I hesitated, then ran down the stairs and stepped out into the street. Cars went by, sirens echoed, and I walked slowly back to work. 

At the front door my boss stood holding a piece of paper. “I’ve had it with you,” he stormed. He handed me my pay and I was out of there. I didn’t go back to tell the whore; let goddesses learn these things the hard way. Anyway, I think she knew. 

I just walked; what else do goddess losers do? §



22. Paranoid 


I saw her but I looked around the other way. . . . Man, nobody out here. Could it be possible that they were all in hotel rooms sucking and fucking? Anyway, she wasn’t much of a looker, looked more like a college student than a whore. I had nothing to lose so I went closer to her. 

“Goin’ out, honey?” I used the classic introduction for myself. 

She looked at me as if she didn’t know what I was talking about. 

“Excuse me, what?” 

I smirked, and thought, Stinkin’ whore, playing games with me, eh? 

“Wanna fuck?” I said. 

Her eyes opened widely and she glared at me. I could see she was mad but afraid, also. She quickly turned the other way so I shrugged and walked down the block. Halfway up 12th Street I turned and saw her talking to a guy and pointing at me. For a moment the guy looked like he was going to come after me, so I quickened my pace and disappeared around a corner. §



23. Hot Days 


It was a hot day, upper 90’s, and no walkers or whores in sight. Went up 3rd Avenue and no one; around 12th Street and nada; maybe I should go. Think I’ll head back home and get out of this sweat and muck. 

Whew! The sun was beating down; the sweat was dripping, then I saw her coming out of the 12th Street Hotel. 

A moment later a guy also came out, sweating and looking nervously about, then he hurried up the avenue. You could see they’d been together: in the heat, the sexual stench just oozed off them. 

When she saw me standing there, in the slim moving shade of a lamp-post, she barely gushed, “Goin’ out?” as if she were already exhausted. 

I wiped the sweat off my brow and looked at her sweaty wetness. Was it hers? Was it his? I shook my head and walked home. . . . 

The fan was blowing real cool; that summer month was truly oppressive. §



24. Pull Out 


She was pretty and nice, too, and I was glad to be with her. But she had weird rules, like pull out before I came. 

As if I were planning on getting her pregnant? But did you ever try it? You’re really hot and fucking like crazy when she interrupts and says, “Pull out . . . NOW!” 

Talk about feeling frustrated! You instantly lose your momentum as your cock is desperate to regain your eagerness but it’s gone, dribbles out like useless, sore, and tired piss. 

You roll off her, exhausted, out of breath, as she gets up and puts on her clothes. 

“Thanks honey,” she says, without looking at you, goes and shuts the door. 

You feel like an idiot. For this you dished out money? Better you stayed home and jerked off there . . . so you clutch your dick and rub. Pretty soon it’s hard . . . and you’re beating it again, faster . . . faster . . . you feel it rushing up from the pit of your cock, like a torrent of release and satisfaction . . . oh, God! Bliss! You come . . . 

You’re angry and pissed. You leave the hotel as a couple is walking up the stairs. You go home, and jerk off again. You’re angry, hating all women; you come and curse, turn on the other side. You curse some more . . . § 



25. Pay Me 


We were finished, and as I was getting dressed she said, “You can pay me now.” 

 “What?” I asked. “I paid you before we even started.” 

She shook her head. “No, you didn’t. I always put the money I make in this pocket and there ain’t nothing there now, so pay me.” She held out her hand, impatient for me to put money in it. 

The whore was obviously nuts or thought I was a fool that would pay her again. “Maybe you put it in a different pocket. How the fuck do I know what you did with it?” 

She stood with her arms akimbo. “You ain’t going nowhere, buddy, till I get my money!” 

I looked at her, glaring at me. “Did you check the other pocket?” I asked. “Ever think of that?” 

I could see she hesitated slightly and put her hand in the zippered breast pocket. She blushed and said, “Go to hell!” With that she was gone. . . . What an asshole! I thought, but still I had to smile as I hurried off to work. §



 26. Ladies 


I had been with each of them at different times in different places, and each one seemed pleased and left with a smile. This time when I approached they looked at me as if they didn’t know me. 

“Yes?” said Connie to me, as if I were interrupting. “You want something?” 

I frowned, but Connie was like that, so I didn’t answer, just turned to Becky, who I thought liked me, and smiled, “Hiya, Becky.” 

She looked at me and scowled, “Excuse me, do I know you?” 

There was Alison left so I hopefully grinned at her and said, “Hey, Allie.” 

She wove her lips together and looked at Connie and Becky and said, “Who is this? Do we know him?” 

Not one answered in reply and I lowered my head and turned and walked off. 

“Who the fuck was that? . . . ” I heard someone say behind me but didn’t turn to see who it was . . . I think it was Allison. §



27. M’asia 


M’asia was the only girl from the Orient I ever had. Well, she wasn’t from the Orient but from Malaysia, I think, somewhere out there, but who the hell knows where? She thought it was cute; Malaysia seemed to give her some kind of clout. 

“Did you love to lay M’asia?” she smirked one day after we had great sex. She had a wicked smile that got my dick growing hard again. 

“Sure, I could lay M’asia anytime,” I said. “She has a cunt as big as the Orient!” 

She giggled, and said, “You want to do it again?” 

My eyes lit up but I didn’t have any more money. I told her that. 

“Yeah, so?” she said. 

That night I screwed her three times and even was treated to a Chinese meal after. It was great, the food, the sex, the talking . . . wish I saw her again . . . . but I didn’t. §



28. Drinkin’ Lunch 


During lunch at work we used to go to a beer hall a few blocks away. The people I worked with weren’t a bad bunch, but I sure didn’t want to spend my free time with them. Come lunch time I had little choice but to be with them. . . . One day a beautiful whore walked by, short skirted, tight bloused and all made up. I felt a tinge of erection growing in my pants. 

“Disgusting,” said Marty, a co-worker. “I don’t get it what anyone sees in her,” he continued, shaking his head. 

I laughed. “Sex, what you think?” 

“They should have a girlfriend, not no prostitute,” Marty said. “It’s gross anyway.” 

I looked at him. “What’s so gross about it? Wasn’t that one a real beauty?” 

He shrugged. “She wasn’t so hot looking . . . unless you go for that skanky, cheap prostitute stuff, anyway.” 

I smiled and had some more beer. “You tell me you wouldn’t go for her?” 

“No way,” he answered incredulously. “I’ve got my own girlfriend.” 

I grinned again. I had seen his girlfriend a few times, an overweight nagging cow, telling Marty she didn’t like some guys who were around him while looking right at me. 

“Good luck with that,” I chuckled, finishing my beer. 

“What do you mean?” he flared angrily. 

“Nothing,” I shook my head and pushed my seat up. “Hey, we gotta get back.”  

That evening after work I went to 3rd Avenue, and the girls were standing there just like they were waiting for me. I smiled. It felt like I had arrived home and I smiled some more. § 


 29. Wrecked 


More and more girls were coming around wrecked, and I don’t mean booze but drugs, uppers/downers, reds/blues, but what the hell did I know? Just that they were killing themselves, that’s for sure. 

I had been with Suzy twice before, not much of a talker but a good fucker. Sometimes you get a beauty and she lays there like a recent corpse, just counting time and waiting for you to get done. Suzy wasn’t like that; she was an active girl and had her own response to things. Like smiling when she was sucking you off or shamefaced grinning when she swallowed your scum. Boy, was I glad to see she was still around! 

She looked right through me and I knew right away she was wrecked. Her face showed signs of waste, her stance looked like she was going to drop, and when I said, “Hey, Suzy,” it was like an allowance that would get her carted away like trash. 

She stuttered, “Ten bucks mister,” and drifted off, standing where she was sinking downwards. 

“Okay, Suzy,” I said. 

That kind of woke her up. She looked curiously at me for a second then started stumbling to the hotel. In the room she dropped into bed and I knew she had passed out. I felt her tits and cunt through her clothes but it did nothing for me, didn’t give me that same feeling I get from touching a responsive female. So I went through her pockets and her money was easy to find. She had around fifty, sixty dollars, so I smiled, and felt myself growing hard. I jerked off. She didn’t stir once so I left. 

On the street I thought of getting another whore but shrugged — one was enough — and went home. Anyway, the rent was due in a week, and I had a good start on bringing it together. § 



30. A Jerk


Ten bucks,” she said, darting her tongue out of her lips. 

I scowled, pissed that I didn’t have much money. 

“Sorry, baby,” I said. “I’m a little short.” 

I could see she was angry, but she didn’t curse, instead she looked both ways up and down the avenue. 

“How much you got?” she finally asked. 

I felt the slim bills in my pocket and shamefully said, “Three bucks.” 

She blurted out, “Jesus Christ, three bucks?! You ain’t gonna get nothing for that.” 

I turned red and she looked back up and down the quiet avenue. “Okay, I’ll give you a quick jerking but no touching for three dollars.” 

I smiled and went to a building. I got behind the stairs as she fumbled with my zipper and got my cock out. I regretted not being able to touch her tits but she gave a good jerking as I felt the juice rushing up my dick. At my explosion, I shut my eyes in pleasure as she let go of my cock. I suppose she didn’t want to get my scum on her skirt. I don’t know where the sperm shot out, but I felt good and nice. 

On the corner I saw her looking both ways but not at me. Hell, it wasn’t bad for three bucks! § 



31. Dead Guy 


I was signing into the hotel when the cops burst in. Right away I froze, thinking they got me, but they made a lot of noise and went upstairs, leaving two young rookie cops in the doorway blocking our way to the rooms. Hell, I thought, hating to be there. Cathy grinned at them and said, “Gimme a cigarette.” 

I didn’t make a move, thinking she was talking to them, when she turned to me and said, “Well . . . ” 

I turned red, reached in my pocket for a pack, and gave her one. She lit up and turned to the rookies. 

“What happened that we can’t go upstairs?” she asked. 

The gray uniformed rookies looked at each other, then one said, “A death, I guess.” 

Cathy shivered, and said, “I hate dead guys, ugh!” She looked at me and the rookies, kind of winking at them, “Dead guys have no life in them, you know?” 

The two rookie-cops burst out laughing and smirking. When the ambulance attendants came in through the front door, they looked at us and scurried right upstairs. 

“Can we go up now, too?” said Cathy. “I ain’t got much time.” 

The rookies looked at each other; I wanted to run. 

“You working, or what?” said one rookie to her as he glared at me. Cathy hesitated and finally said, “ . . . or what?” 

The rookie didn’t smile but they looked at each other. 

“Can we go up?” Cathy repeated. “Or did you take over the place?” 

One future-cop shook his head and said, “Go on, get outta here.” 

We hurried past them and other cops on the stairs and made it to our room. I was only half-hard that time, thinking about the dead guy somewhere in the hotel. Ugh! I can’t fuck with dead guys so close... and it’s hard to screw when cops are just outside your door. §



32. Too Weak 


I had jerked off three times in the bathroom at work, in the morning, after lunch and before I was done for the day, and that wasn’t a good inducement to go out and get a whore. Which I did . . . 

It being a Friday the avenue was filled with johns and whores, a pair going into the hotel as another pair was coming out. I had some wine after work and was feeling good. With my weekly pay I was ready for anything. 

I looked at the whores, most of them barelegged, as if showing off they were sexually liberated, but I wanted one who wore nylons and a garter belt; just the thought of them wearing nylons got me hard. Then I saw her, coming closer as she crossed over to 11th Street. Not a show-off type at all but kind of tired looking at that, still I saw she was wearing nylons and that’s all that mattered; I stared eagerly. 

She approached down 12th Street. “Goin’ out?” I asked. We quickly said what needed to be said and went to the hotel . . . bad thing was that even with her skirt off and her nylons and garter belt left on I still couldn’t get hard to do anything. Sure, I tried, but it only got some life, not much, and I was still too weak to enter her. 

She was disappointed. Was it the wine I had, or the jerking off I did? Probably both . . . 

She looked disgusted and left without a word. I just kept beating my cock but I knew it wouldn’t get hard. What was the point? I dozed off for a few minutes, then staggered home. § 



33. Old Man 


After we finished screwing she said sadly, “Oh, my old man died two days ago, funeral is tomorrow.” 

I said, “Shit, I’m sorry.” Why was she telling me this? Did I know him? Hell, these things always disturb me because what can you say about them? “What did he die from?” 

She looked at me and shrugged. “I guess it was cancer; the old man smoked a lot.” 

I nodded my head and felt very dumb for taking another puff of my cigarette. 

“How’d you find out?” She sat down and slowly told me about her aunt and how she knew what city she was in and could always reach her by Western Union. 

I listened, and asked, “Going to the funeral?” 

She snorted. “Yeah, right, Oklahoma?” She sighed heavily and we left the room. 

“Take it easy,” I said on the corner. She looked at me and nodded her head. “How else can I take it, sweetheart?” and went on down the avenue looking for another john. I looked after her, but she turned the corner. Let the dead bury the dead, I thought, and went down the street. § 



 34. Big Tits 


There’s nothing I love better than to see some whore walking up the stairs ahead of me and bending over slightly so I can see her pantied ass. Yum yum, what a sight! Not this time, the whore was wearing pants. But hell, she had big tits and said I could screw her between them as she winked in her low cut tight blouse. God, I was hard as hell! So I immediately followed. 

 However, there was something fake about the tits. Oh, sure, they were tits but they looked lifeless, like balloons at a party when you touch them POP! they blow up and nothing’s left. That’s what I thought awaited me when I tried to get my hands on her crotch. 

“Just the tits, honey,” she squirmed, pushing my hands away from her legs. “Don’t touch me anywhere else, okay?” 

I shrugged. Damn, a transvestite, I thought, but a well-made one at that and started pulling my pants off. Underneath her with my stiff dick her big bouncy tits felt like huge balloons that went around my cock. In a moment she was licking so teasingly that the tip of my cock felt ecstatic; I never had that feeling with the big tits tapping my ass. It was wonderful! 

 I felt the scum rushing up the length of my prick and scum pouring out into her face. She did not even turn away, as all the other whores I’d known had done, but melted as I just lay there, the semen sputtering and smearing onto her face. We smiled at each other . . . she struggled down to kiss my face . . . it was the best ejaculation I’d ever had! 

I left the hotel feeling renewed, refreshed, ecstatic . . . but I never saw Miss Big Tits again . . . if she was a Miss . . . § 



35. Long Hair 


She had incredibly long hair that wove down the back of her head in cascading strands that fell to the back of her knees. At first I thought she was some mystical Madonna from God and was out of place on 3rd Avenue, but when I approached she simply named her price and we went to the hotel. 

Up the stairs I was mesmerized by the sight of her hair falling down her back and was frustrated when we reached our floor — I could’ve climbed all the way to heaven. 

It was a dumpy tattered room that probably had bedbugs, but I couldn’t wait to get in there with her. 

“Do you mind,” she asked, “if I do you from the top?” 

“No,” I said, not knowing what she meant. 

She smiled. “Good, otherwise my hair gets in the way. Just lay back, honey.” 

I shrugged and lay down on the bed. She undid a rubber band from her hair and it fell on the sides of her as she was right on top of me; I slid in easily. It was nice, her gyrating atop me, her loose long hair swaying and her breasts firm and full. I came, and in a bit, she got up off me as my penis dropped against my belly. 

She combed her hair with her fingers and again tied a rubber band knot to her long hair at the back. “Thanks, honey,” she said, and was gone. I lay there thinking of her long and beautiful hair. Slowly I grew stiff again and jerked off. She was nice and soft and the night was still young. §



36. Vanishing Whores 


Where the hell was everybody? Disappeared? I don’t mean people walking the streets and avenues but the whores out for a trick or a sale. Shit, man, not a whore in sight! 

I walked up 3rd Avenue, from 12th to 14th Street, damn, no one! Crossed over to the other side and started back down toward 12th. Still, the girls weren’t there. What is wrong? I wondered. Was there a police raid while I was away at work? It’d been at least a half hour that I was walking back and forth, then started on the other side, back and forth, back and forth. 

Then I saw one, blonde and short skirted, but she was walking into Variety Photoplays. Damn, I wasn’t going into no movie house, no matter how hot and horny I was, all I’d get was a stubbled blowjob which only mimicked what a girl could do. But I paid my seventy-five cents and went in anyway. 

I hate going into a movie house in the middle of the day, the darkness hits you like a smack in the face, and it takes a few moments to realize that all around you are people sucking or getting sucked off. Then I saw the blonde going down on a guy in a seat. 

Shit, I cursed to myself, that was fast; she just got here before I did. I cursed again. Well, I never did see her face, maybe she was a guy dressed as a girl and acting like one. That was happening a lot everywhere you turned; you couldn’t go uptown without some fairy trying to lick your dick. 

I took an aisle seat in the row with the guy getting the blow job, and it didn’t take long to see the blonde bouncing back up, wiping the scum from her mouth as the guy stood up and walked quickly past me. I saw her legs poking beneath a short skirt and moved closer to her. It was Sheila; I knew her from the streets outside. I grinned, happy to see her. 

She looked at me. “Figures,” she said, and stood up.  

“But Sheila, don’t you wanna do me? I’ll pay.” 

She hesitated a moment. “I don’t blow no faggots. Now get outta my way, buddy!” 

And she was gone. What did she think the guy was doing there, just waiting for her? Fat chance! I sat awhile fuming, then got out of there, passing guys with their heads down taking cocks in their mouths. I knew the whore thought I was going to do the same. I went home and was angry all night; even jerking off did nothing for me. § 



37. Rainy Afternoon 


On a rainy afternoon I told the regular lunch crowd that I had things to do, and with them looking slyly at each other, I went off to 3rd Avenue, a few blocks away. 

It didn’t take long before I saw a whore coming umbrella-less up the street. The rain had increased but she walked unconcerned, letting the rivulets stream on her body and dress, which was plastered to her. I was hard before she came near me. 

“Goin’ out, sister?” I asked from under my umbrella. 

 She looked at me, smiled faintly, and shrugged, “Guess so, I don’t care. Where to? . . . ” 

I said, “There’s a hotel down the street. Let’s go there.” 

She thought about that and said, “Nah, let’s do it in the rain, okay?” 

 I looked at her a bit puzzled when she said, “Take it or leave it, it’s up to you.” 

 What could I do? I was already drenched, as she was, too. “Okay, but where? Can’t do it in the street, you know.” 

The heavy rain beat down her face, but she shrugged. “Why not? Let’s go to the roof; I like it very much up there.” 

I thought she was joking, but she wasn’t. We entered a 3rd Avenue building and went upstairs. Normally the sight of a woman’s legs will arouse me, but the water dripping off her as we climbed gave me a different kind of arousal. It was like she was melting and only the freshness and wetness could revive her. I was pretty stiff climbing up after her. 

We were on the roof in no time. The heavy clouds and the darkness only intensified what we were feeling. . . . Too bad there wasn’t any thunder and lightning. . . .  

It was fast, but well worth it, and I didn’t go back to work. Guess I had enough; I got fired a few days later anyway. § 



38. The Wet Kiss


Very rarely have I been kissed by a whore. It’s understandable. I know damn well I’m not the one she wants to be with and is doing this only for the money, the drugs, or following what her pimp told her to do. But once in a great while you come across one that wants your lips on hers . . . Becky was like that. 

As a matter of fact when she first kissed me it was just a swift kiss that didn’t mean much, or so I thought, but when she came back up, her lips went to mine. I kind of jerked back from her, the semen/saliva cocktail still dribbling out of her mouth, and when we kissed I was sure she was getting perverse pleasure from the fact I was kissing the remnants of my cock in her mouth. 

We broke, with me thinking that she wanted to get dressed and get the fuck out, but no, she just lay there looking up at me. I pulled my pants up. 

“Most whores don’t let a guy kiss them,” I said, “but you do. Why’s that?” 

She looked at me, lighting a cigarette, then said, “Guys are afraid I might get another guy’s scum on them.” A faint smile was on her lips. “You’re different, you’re nice.” 

What could I do but let her kiss me again . . . and she stayed the rest of the evening but was gone by night. I was never kissed by a whore as good as she kissed me. I miss her still, but I have to wonder: how many cocks did I kiss that night? § 



39. Stuck in the Rain 


After we fucked she looked out the window and cursed. I could see it was dark and the rain was pouring. There was no way she was going to stand out on the street. She let the window curtain fall. 

“Gimme a cigarette,” she said. 

I gave her one and lit her up. She was a silly-looking whore; her hair was held so tightly back that it looked like her face was going to fall apart if it weren’t held in place. I could see she was pissed. 

“Rain will let up soon,” I said. 

“You think so?” 

“Sure, it always does,” I smiled. 

She snorted, “Thanks for the tip,” and I’m sure she whispered to herself Asshole, but she turned away and went back to the window. 

The rain still poured, but not as heavy. She thought a moment, undecided whether to leave or not. 

“What you gonna do? Stay here?” she asked. I shrugged. “Guess so, until it lets up.” We both looked at each other, then she stubbed her cigarette out and said, “Fuck this; there’s better things than staying with you. I’m leaving.” I sadly watched her go; I puffed on my cigarette and listened to the rain through the curtains. I could hear her heels stomping down the stairs. § 



40. Penny for Your Thoughts 


I came down 12th Street still angry from work when I slowed my gait and looked at the girl pacing the corner. She was much too pretty to be a whore, but from where she stood on 3rd Avenue, what else could she be? I figured, what the hell, and went up to her. 

“Goin’ out, honey?” I asked. 

She looked me up and down, then to the left and right, kind of disappointed, then said, “Twenty bucks.” 

I grinned; so I was right! “Does that mean everything?” 

I asked. “Yeah, a handjob/blowjob; what else you expect?” 

I snorted. “I expect to get laid for that price, baby.” 

She wrinkled her mouth. “Thirty bucks will get you laid . . . ” 

“Thirty bucks?! Hey, this ain’t uptown, sister.” 

She didn’t say anything, just turned from me and walked up 3rd Avenue. I went and had a pizza, then went home to jerk off. I hate women when they try to be something they’re not. § 



41. Academy of Music 


I’d been following her ever since 16th Street and 4th Avenue. She was dressed gaudily like a whore that was out of place further above 14th Street. 

She walked with her high heels snapping and clicking like she owned the street, or was trying to draw some attention to herself. I had sped my steps at the sight of her and was right beside her as she stopped and looked at the pictures on the Academy of Music on 14th Street — boring stills of Julie Andrews and some kids in some place far away. 

“Doesn’t look very interesting,” I said, inching closer to her. 

She narrowed her eyes and took a step back. “What?” she asked. “You talking to me?” 

Boy, did she have a lot of makeup on! She looked like Miss Hollywood and Madam Times Square rolled into one, with a Blowjob Queen smiling provocatively nearby for a gobbling dessert. 

I grinned, admiring her short skirt and nylons, with sexy tight dark mesh holding and caressing her thighs. 

“You wanna go in and see this?” I said, winking. 

Her mouth grimaced as she shook her head, dismissing me, and she turned away, walking to the ticket booth. 

I scratched my jaw and watched her go into the movie. What would a whore get out of “The Hills are Alive?” I wondered. Sure beats me. I walked on down 14th Street. §



42. Underground 


On 13th Street off of 3rd Avenue there was an old stairway going down, where occasionally I’d catch a glimpse of some whore or john coming up, but I never had the chance or luck to go down there myself. No whore ever said, “Let’s go down there,” until I had little money and found myself right before the stairway. 

She looked both ways, with a disgusted grimace on her lips, then she said, “Down here, follow me.” 

I thought we were going to a deeper part of the stairway, but once down to the bottom of the alcove she knelt before me and fumbled around with my pants, quickly pulling down the zipper and swallowing my cock. The back of me was on the street facing above, and I could hear people walking over me. A few even stopped to look at us in the shadows, which were doing little to shield us from the passers-by. 

I came, and she instantly spat it out, the look of disgust still hovering about her mouth. She spat a few times then walked around me and got out of the cellar alcove. 

I shrugged; at least I got a cheap blow job, but I saw her already haggling over her next price as I hurried off. I didn’t look to see if she got what she wanted or had no choice but to go down the cellar stairs again. 

I disappeared down 4th Avenue. § 



43. Early Morning 


Dawn was quickly approaching, but a few girls were still standing around looking for action. It was so early in the morning (or very late in the night, depending on your perspective) that tricks were getting sparse, but a few girls did go off with what johns were available. 

I was on 12th Street next to the back of Atlas Barber School when I saw a drunken whore surrounded by three johns, their dicks out of their zippers, mauling her nicely exposed breasts. My dick grew hard from the sight but I was wary of johns: you never knew what could happen with a john. Each one was lost in feeling her tits and lifting her skirt and probing her cunt and ass but doing little to insert themselves in her. 

One guy shot off, holding on to her breast and squeezing her nipple, then he zippered up and staggered away down the street as though nothing was happening. I watched the two guys continue feeling up the drunken whore and saw one guy growing frenzied. He also came on the whore’s clothed belly. He was as spent as the other guy, a bit drained and wasted as he also walked off into the morning. 

That left one before her, but I quickly noticed he wasn’t hard at all, and wondered if at his age it hadn’t been years since his dick was hard. I approached the softened man and reached for a tit, when he pushed me off and said, “Fuck off, she’s mine!” 

By then the whore was almost to her knees in her comatose drunken sleep. I snorted, “But you let the other guys have what they wanted.” 

 “Fuck you!” he said. “I waited my turn, now she’s mine!” 

He stood before the falling whore, very defensive, very protective, and very stupid. I watched them both drop to the ground as the old man collapsed next to her. I did not wait to see if he fucked her with his limp dick or tried to. I suppose he did. I went off into the brightening early morning light. §



44. Queasy 


She kept dreaming of better days when she wouldn’t turn tricks in the hallways or backyards, but she knew it was only a nice dream and something bound to be hopeless. 

I had met her some months before. When she told me that I was the seventh guy to go to bed with her that day, at first I felt repulsed and cheated, as if I were fucking nothing but garbage. I felt like the girl would go with anyone, even a sick pervert, just to get the money. Hell, number seven? I didn’t feel lucky at all. 

“So I’m the seventh guy that you fucked, eh?” I asked. 

“Uh huh,” she smirked. “And you won’t be the last,” she cooed. “The night is still young.” 

I wanted to smack her, the no-good whore. 

She saw my cheeks and jaw bristle. “Aw,” she cooed again, “he’s jealous.” 

I sighed angrily. “I’m not jealous,” I said. “But with so many guys on top of you, you must stink real bad, ugh!” 

She looked at me, her face bitter and mad. “Hey, you remember the last time we fucked?” she said, her lips twisting facetiously, one side of her lip up, the other side down. “When was that, three weeks ago? We kissed, you remember?” she smirked. “Guess where my tongue was, just before you?” and a wide smile appeared on her mouth. “Guess, c’mon guess. Don’t you even wanna know?” 

I ran down the stairs of the hotel but could still hear her shouting above me, “Guess, you asshole!” 

On the street I felt queasy, like I was going to throw up. I went home. §  



45. Cup of Coffee 


It was about five in the morning when I stopped in for a cup of coffee at the Central Diner on 4th Avenue and 14th Street. Weren’t many people there, but 4th Avenue was a busy street with traffic and trucks and whores who would eventually come in for a break if not to get some trade on the side. 

The whore looked overly tired from the long night on the streets when she staggered in and said, “Coffee please, black.” 

She took her jacket off, setting it on the side of a seat, and looked around; I was staring right at her. She turned red and looked the other way. I waited a few minutes, watched her coffee brought to her, then I got up and went to her table. 

“Hey, Peaches,” I said. “Long time no see.” 

I could see her looking embarrassed and flustered, but she kept sipping her coffee; I’m sure she wanted to be anywhere else but where she was. 

Finally she stopped her sipping — her cup was raised to the bottom and I’m sure she had finished — looked at me, and asked, “Do I know you?” 

I stared at her but figured it best not to remind her that she owed me a trick. It had been but a whore’s rip-off, getting me undressed, on the bed, naked, and leaving me like a fool, which I was. 

“No,” I said, “my mistake.” 

We looked at each other and she bit her lower lip, then turned and shuffled out of the Central Diner. I ordered another cup of coffee. There was nothing else to do . . . coffee was good and hot . . . the way I like it. § 



 46. Accident 


A truck crashed on 3rd Avenue and 12th Street, striking a whore and an old lady crossing the street; the old lady was fine, just scared, but the whore was pretty battered. They took her away, leaving her makeup and perfume jars scattered about on the concrete in the street and along the avenue. 

Everybody said the driver wasn’t looking where he was going but kept drooling at the whore, who was crossing the other way, that’s why he crashed into her. They took him away, too. 

In a half hour or so everything was the same. Whores and johns, walking, standing, walking some more, back and forth. . . . Everything was more or less the same . . . I had no money so couldn’t get anything, anyway. . . . Yep, the same. § 



 47. Thanksgiving

 

 On Thanksgiving the whores were gone and the areas around 12th, 13th, and 14th Streets were deserted, vacant of whores, just a few desperate johns looking forlornly up and down the avenue as if their lust would bring the whores back . . . well, it didn’t. 

 But I wasn’t disappointed: I’d had Coco the night before. Though she’d had too much to drink, actually falling asleep as I fucked her, she came to and wanted more, never really knowing that I already screwed her, but what the hell . . . I screwed her again. 

On Thanksgiving there was nothing to do but walk the streets, which is my favorite pastime anyway. I strolled down empty streets as the people were in the country or snug and safe in their holiday homes. Tomorrow the mad rush would be on as if they had to get somewhere, because Christmas was nearby and would soon be here. 

It was as still as Lower Manhattan can be on Thanksgiving Day. At least once a year, more so than Christmas, it is desolate, as if the City stopped in its tracks and took a breather. Ahh. . . . It was a wonderful thing to see and experience . . . I walked on . . . alone . . . and happy. §



48. Nylons 

When I saw her with her nylons peeping out from the bottom of her skirt, I immediately got hard. She was across the avenue and traffic was moving between us. 

I paced back and forth as I waited angrily for the light to change. 

She stopped, as some guy stopped also. They seemed to discuss something then walked off into the hotel. 

 Damn! 

As if grinning at me the green light leered down . . . 

I knew I’d jerk off that night while in my imagination I caressed her sexy nylons. Still, days later, I lusted after that strip of flesh where nylon melded with skin . . . §



 49. Christmas 


Christmas Day wasn’t bad, not a lot of whores but enough to keep the place going; not like the emptiness of Thanksgiving. In a way, I had my pick of them and took my time selecting one. 

Thelma was old, in her thirties I suppose, as were Lily and Babs. I had it in me to try someone younger, more immature, more naïve. However, my chances on 3rd Avenue were mighty slim. 

Then I saw them, two girls really, waiting for the light to change. I sped up my steps and was almost beside them when one turned and looked at me. 

“Goin’ out?” I smirked, looking from one to the other. They looked at each other, then burst out in laughter and hurried across the avenue. 

“Sicko weirdo,” I heard one say to the other, and her friend agreed, nodding her head and bursting out laughing again. 

I didn’t get anything that Christmas Day, just walking, cursing, and shame that I didn’t go out with Thelma, Lily or Babs. § 



50. Harder 


I was looking at the whore from across the avenue wishing I had some money and knowing it would be worthless to approach, but I did anyway. I had been with her a few times and thought she would understand. 

She looked at me, her eyes giving an up-and-down reading, then said, “Goin’ out,” which wasn’t a question, or an offer, just a boring statement. 

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m a little too short of funds,” thinking if I used the word funds it would show that I was older. 

She scowled. “Then stop wasting my time, kid. Get outta here.” 

I was desperate. “I just thought we can talk, you know.” 

Again she scowled. “You wanna talk?” she uplifted her arm on her waist and snorted in disgust. “Get some money, honey. Then we’ll talk.” She tapped her foot once or twice and said, “Beat it, buddy. I’m busy.” 

I went across the avenue and looked back at her. She did not have to wait too long but pretty soon was going off to the hotel with a client john. I was even harder by then, cursing and imagining what they were doing in the room upstairs. §



51. New Year’s 


The streets were packed with revelers and party goers who would last the whole night through. I was on 12th Street and 3rd looking at the mobs of screamers, laughers, and celebrants passing by. The way it was going, hell, who knew who was who? Every girl walking past looked like she was a whore just giving it out to whatever john was standing nearby. 

I lingered outside of the hotel on 12th Street, thinking maybe one would come out, but the people just kept laughing and shouting and walking past me. Then I saw one standing in the doorway near the hotel entrance a few doors down. It didn’t look like she was going to any party, instead it looked like she was trying to keep out of sight. 

I approached and said, “Goin’ out, honey?” 

She looked me up and down, bit her lower lip, and nodded, “Yeah, you got a car?” 

I shrugged. “The hotel,” I said. “It’s cheap.” 

She shook her head, turned red, and sounded angry. “I can’t, they’s bastards in there.” She looked at a drunken couple laughing and shouting, passing us on the street. 

“Well, we can go to the Sahara,” I said, “on 14th Street, but it’s more expensive.” 

Again she shook her head. “They’s creeps in there, too.” 

I wondered about this. “You can’t go anywhere, is that it?” 

I could see her mouth getting bitter as she clenched her lips against her teeth and said angrily, “I’m waiting for a guy with a car. If you ain’t got a car, you ain’t him; so keep walking, buddy.” She moved away from me, taking a few steps down the busy, crowded, drunken street.

I looked at her. “Have a Happy New Year,” I said simply, but she didn’t say anything in return. I went down the laughing/shouting street and the noise was everywhere. §




52. 13th Street 


Right on top of Hudson’s Army/Navy store was the 13th Street Hotel, a non-descript establishment but one I never had the ill-luck to visit and stay in. Something always made me afraid of this sleazy hotel/dump. I think what kept me out were the pimps, classic Puerto Rican and black guys, who would knife you if you just looked at them the wrong way. The other hotels, the Sahara on 14th Street and the 12th Street Hotel, were more to my liking. A few times whores suggested we go to the 13th Street Hotel for a fucking, but I always refused. They’d shrug and we’d go off to another nearby hotel, usually the one on 12th Street. 

Years later I saw Taxi Driver with Robert DeNiro, where he gave himself a Mohawk haircut then shot up the pimps and creeps in that sick whorehouse. The location was a bit off but the film was pretty good. 

Sure am glad I never paid a visit to that imaginary make-believe dump. At times, imagination is as sick as reality. § 




53. Scatterbrain


She looked at me on the corner as if she knew me and was trying to remember my name or something. I had never been with her so I told her a made-up one, Andy, thinking that would settle her curiosity, but it didn’t. 

“Huh?” she said. “You ain’t Andy, you’re Mitch,” and she grinned contently as if satisfied she finally had my name right. “Mitch . . . hey listen,” she said. “I was having my period the last time; you know how these things are.” I looked at her and shrugged. 

“Sure, baby,” I said, “I know. No big thing.” I wondered what had happened between those two lovebirds, whoever he was. 

She looked at me nervously. “I’ll make it up to you, just pay for the room and no charge.” 

My eyes lit up. This was even better than I could have fantasized about, dreaming of some bimbo cocksucker on her knees and getting fucked right after. Pretty good, no? . . . 

“You mean that?” I asked, not really believing it. 

She was biting her lower lips and nodding her head. “Oh, alright,” she said, “I’ll pay for everything, room and cunt on the house, no charge, how’s that?” 

Needless to say, I was ecstatic. We just went to the room and fucked like we were lovers. It was beautiful . . . 

I wonder who she thought I was. I’d like to thank the guy for his identity that made him look like me. §




 54. Fire! 


The 12th Street Hotel burned down. It didn’t exactly burn down, but it was damaged and was closed due to the massive fire damage that would take months to repair. Of course, this made business at the Sahara hotel more teeming and profitable. But it did little for me; I had no money for whores anyway. 

I stood across the street looking up at the hotel, three floors, but the worst damage was on the second floor. Two bodies were salvaged from the turmoil, one a man, the other a woman. 

Was she his wife or his daughter? Nope, a whore who had the misfortune to be stuck in the blaze that erupted and burned too fast for them to get out, as her luck would have it. I wonder if she knew her client, or had they been together before. Interesting . . . had I ever been with her? 

I walked west on 12th Street, still smelling the smoke from days before. The wind was picking up . . . §



55. Mugging


I got mugged going after a whore. Well, maybe she wasn’t a whore but a cunt sure acting like she was one. This was on 11th Street by the pawnshop; I had just turned the corner with the cunt when two black guys were on me. It happened very fast, with few words exchanged. My pockets were rifled, my pride deflated as I watched the fake whore, cunt, rush off with them to 4th Avenue

They had my money so what could I do but get out of there? I tell you the area was changing: thieves, drug dealers, fake whores . . . it was time to put distance between me and this deteriorating place. 

 Thought maybe I’d go to Hollywood. Get a job, find me a girlfriend, and start all over again. That was the best idea I had all year . . . just get out! § 


 56. Loser 


I used to go to my temporary job knowing I’d end up jerking off, sometimes three or four times a day. Yet that calmed me greatly and also kept me from getting too close to the assholes working there with me. 

It was the ‘70’s, with the era of hippiedom dwindling out and the swinging ‘80’s just about to burst upon us. Where I worked we sold porn from the 80’s and 90’s, that is, 1880’s and 1890’s, really crap, but the owner saw us as providing historic art service to the connoisseurs. My ass, it was nothing but old naked garbage, of mustachioed men and overweight women making believe they were still a bit young, my ass! 

 At work, the people hung out during lunch and at a bar afterwards. Sure, I went with them, there is nothing like having a few drinks when you’re all beat from some stupid job. Of course that only increased my horny lust, with the need to have that hunger eased by a rabid blow job and a nice filthy fucking. 

Saying goodbye for the night was easy: I’d see them the next day or Monday, that is, until Harriet started working with us. That destroyed my quest for whores, because what I wanted was to be with sweet Harriet. 

A few months passed, and I saw this job about to come to a close. How do you say goodbye for the last time to someone you really like, if not love? You just do . . . life goes on, no matter what you say or do. But what kind of perverse pleasure was I getting out of rejecting someone who liked me in return? In those days I never suspected that a relationship could be more than a whore tryst. You paid your money, got satisfied, and went off to another. Easy come, easy go. The door closed behind me and I walked down the street, never to see Harriet again. Maybe I had made her into a whore, too? Sick, I was mentally sick in those years. 

That night, after I had been drinking at a goodbye party, I went and got me a whore who laughed scornfully when I couldn’t get it up. 

“Man, you’re really a loser,” she said, shaking her head in disgust and slamming the door after her. 

I sat there cursing myself for my bad luck, then I went home. Tomorrow will be a new and better day, I pretended. § 




57. Inadvertent 


The biggest criticisms I’d get from my co-workers were the inadvertent ones, like laughter at some guy who was seen going after a whore, or some whore walking down the street and all the female co-worker sluts knew what she was after. The sluts would shake their heads with scorn or ridicule as my senses boiled. 

The bitches, I thought. Of course I’d just sit there eating my burger, sipping my beer, and hardly able to wait to get away from those slut skanks. 

“The bitch!” said Kendall, at a whore that just passed by. We were at Broadway Charlie’s, a favorite beer/lunch place the workers seemed to gravitate to, just a few blocks from 3rd Avenue, where my lovely whores paraded. 

“Why is she a bitch?” I asked. 

Kendall stared at me with her twisted mouth, disbelieving I was about to contradict her. “Well, just look at the bitch,” she exclaimed, “a real bitch, wouldn’t you say so, Joan?” 

Joan was another slut/skank that joined us for lunch and beer, but she was after Larry, who hadn’t come in that day. “I guess,” Joan said simply. “I didn’t see her from the front.” 

I smirked. “Maybe she was going to meet up with Larry?” 

That shut Joan up but Kendall blew up in a rage. “You sick pervert!” she hissed, putting one arm around Joan’s shoulder. “Don’t you have some respect for Joan’s feelings?!” 

By that time my burger was eaten and I had downed my beer. I got up, looking at Kendall and Joan — Joan was pretty, Kendall wasn’t; she reminded me of a tired overweight dog. 

“I’ll see you,” I shook my head and walked out, knowing Kendall was whispering behind me. I didn’t care. I went after the whore . . . and that was the best blow job I ever got . . . the memory still gets me hard . . . but the memory also brings back Kendall and Joan, and those I can do without. § 




58. A Puzzle 


As a young boy I always imagined I was a girl playing with other little girls. 

As a young man I quickly discovered whores and that they would let you do what you wanted, if only for a price, which I gladly paid but seldom had enough to get what I really wanted. 

When I started working, after rent and such, my money went to the whores I was so attracted to. 

What’s the psychological reason for that? That I wanted to be a girl who gave it out and was used by guys? My going to the whores, wasn’t that a bit dangerous? 

Besides getting some disease I was setting up myself for victimization by the pimps, a knifing, a shooting, or some such. 

But I hardly ever felt threatened by the whores. Oh sure, there were times when some skank deceived and betrayed me, but I quickly found out she wasn’t a true whore anyway, just some slut who was using the saintly name, whore, but a no-good cunt, really. §




59. Changes 


“Goin’ out?” 

I had been gone to California for a few months, and when I heard it again it felt like I had come home. I smirked and said, “Sure, honey, how much?” 

What she said destroyed me. “It’s thirty for me and fifteen for the room.” 

Was this a new game she was playing or had the prices really gone up that high? “Damn, was ten bucks just a few months ago,” I said. 

She grimaced and repeated, “Well, thirty for me and fifteen for the room. Take it or leave it . . . or else don’t bother me.” 

Not only had prices gone up but moods changed too, and bitter ones at that. I looked around, the whore looked somewhat well-off, as did her pimp who stood a little ways off — there were a whole lot of them, bopping down the avenue and bopping back where they started. 

Shit, I should’ve stayed in California, I thought. 

“I’ll give you ten,” I said, not expecting much anyway. “Just for a blow-job . . . ” 

“Fuck off!” she flared and turned, walking the other way. 

I turned around and made my way down the crowded avenue. Strange, but I felt good about not having given the whore any money. § 




60. Whore’s Baby 


I was on Avenue B going to one of my favorite Chinese/Spanish eateries when I saw Candy. I know that wasn’t her real name, but I never knew what it was. She turned red and looked the other way. She was with a little kid in a stroller. 

“Hey Candy,” I said, “how you been?” She looked at me as if she didn’t know me, so I said, “Candy, you remember, no?” 

An obvious look of disdain appeared on her face. “No, I don’t remember nothing. Let’s go, Cynthia,” and she rushed the little girl across Avenue B, the little circular tattoo still around Candy’s ankle that I had admired quite a few times. I smiled. 

I had lo mein with shrimp toast and plantains, which were pretty good. That’s the only reason I came that far east to Avenue B. §




61. Old Harlot 


When I saw her standing there I immediately hurried to her. She was on the corner of 11th Street and 3rd Avenue, looking both ways but there was no traffic coming. I increased my steps from 12th Street and knew it would be only a matter of time before I got laid. When she turned I had to stop and look her up and down. She looked very nice, dressed in a short red skirt, and a white turtleneck pullover which puffed out her pleasant-looking tits. I felt my mouth drooling even before either of us said anything. 

She looked at me, then turned around — nobody was coming up the street — and said, “Are you looking for action, mister?” 

 Mister? She was probably the same age I was, seventeen, eighteen, but she looked well off. What was she doing selling her body? 

“What kind of action do you have in mind, sister?” 

Again she looked up and down the street. “I got a friend but she’s too scared to come here. If you go with me and we just pass her by, she’ll see what kind of guy you are, okay?” 

I looked at her, the fancy clothes, her hair blonde and all puffed up, the expensive looking bracelet she was wearing. “Does she dress as pretty as you?” I asked. 

She smirked. “Uh huh, even better,” then she added, and winked. “Like a real slut, you like that, don’t you?” 

I had nothing to lose. Anyway, she didn’t say a thing about money so I shrugged and said, “Where’s she at?” 

“Right off 10th Street, just waiting for me to bring a guy over,” she said, and I felt something sinister and underhanded but I was going through with it. Was this a set-up for a mugging? 

As we were walking nearer and nearer to 10th Street she slowed her pace and said, “Go ahead, you don’t need me.” She shrugged and quickly walked back up 3rd Avenue. 

Shit, what’s going on? I continued to 10th Street where I saw an old-looking woman, one that if she were a whore was too old for me to even look at. I sighed, feeling very frustrated. What does the young girl get out of this? Bringing horny guys to the old woman? 

I eased my steps up 10th Street and walked by the old harlot smiling nervously from the doorway. I debated, thinking I’d bring the price down a bit but no, right from the start all she wanted was a ten. And that’s all. I shrugged and followed her into the building. I wondered if she was the girl’s mother, or aunt, or grandmother? 

Afterwards, thinking about it, she wasn’t bad, a bit old, but not bad at all. I had a Coke with my pizza and went home. Sometimes old is good too. . . . §




62. Hickey 


I held her because I liked her a lot, though not as much as I wanted to hold her, just my hands gently gripping her shoulders, till I came, falling on her exhausted, relaxed, and relieved. Sadly, I wished I could tell her of my feelings toward her. 

“Get off, you creep!” she suddenly shouted. “I ain’t got all day, you know.” 

She pushed me off, pulling her bra down which she had braced just above her tits — I liked the sight, it made me hotter — but she pulled her skirt back on around her waist and looked in the mirror on the wall. 

“Man, you’re disgusting!” she said, spinning around and examining a red but darkening blotch on her throat. “This will cost you, buddy, and big time.” 

“For what? . . . ” I asked. 

“The fucking hickey, you bastard!” She stood with her neck out like she was offering a bite to Count Dracula. 

“What hickey?” I asked. “I didn’t do that!” 

“Oh yes, you did. It was just a scratch when you started. I didn’t know you were that gross!” She glared at me and again brushed the hickey. “C’mon, an extra ten dollars! . . . ” 

“What?” I exclaimed. “You’re nuts!” I had pulled up my pants and was buttoning my shirt. 

“You owe me ten dollars, you bastard!” 

“You’re crazy!” I said. “Now get out of my way, you bitch!” 

She blocked my way. “Oh no, you’re not going nowhere.” She stood before the door, with her arms akimbo, her face raged and stormy like it was going to explode. 

I scowled but pulled out my wallet and showed her my last five dollars. She snapped it out and said, “You still owe me, you bastard.” With that she was out of the door and pounding down the stairs. 

I looked after her and felt very sad. I wasn’t in the mood to jerk off, so I quietly left right after her. §




63. Candy 


Candy was my favorite. Even though I knew others who went by her name, Candy #1 was the best! I had been with her quite a few times, maybe four, maybe five, but each time she made me feel like it was the first time that we were having sex — nothing familiar, everything was new — and I sure liked her very much. 

Afterwards, I told her I was stopping for some Chinese food and again her smile brightened. She licked her teeth, “Yum yum, can I go, too?” she asked. It was all little girlish, which drove me crazy, and I thought she was keeping it up because she was with me. Soon I realized that she was like that, little girlish, and it wasn’t just an act but for real. 

Candy was a little older then I was, but by how much, I don’t know, maybe two, three years; still she didn’t act it, but continued being a little girl no matter how old she really was. 

In the restaurant I had my usual lo mein while she got shrimp and fried rice with an egg-roll. I smiled and enjoyed watching her feast; afterwards, we had ice cream, sipped the remains of our tea, and talked. 

She was from Chicago but had been in New York since March. Thought she’d go to Los Angeles when New York got too cold. “I hate the cold,” she said, “can’t stand it, that’s why I got the fuck out of Chicago.” 

“You know people there?” I asked. 

She looked at me and sipped her tea. “I knew nobody when I got to New York,” she smiled, “and now I know you!” She made a very wide smile about her lips; her eyes were bright and playful. 

“When you gonna leave?” I asked. “Hey, y’know, let’s get together before you go, okay?” 

Candy looked at me and shrugged playfully. “Who knows? I don’t.” She burst into laughter and said she really had to go. 

I frowned but returned her goodbye kiss. That was the last I ever saw of Candy. . . . 

Now every time I eat Chinese I think of her. Wonder how she’s doing in LA? . . . § 




64. No Money 


In the morning when I had no money I’d take a lazy walk to 3rd Avenue knowing my luck wouldn’t change. Why’d I do that? I don’t know, maybe just to have a look and remember nice times. As my luck would have it, the place was jammed with johns all casting their nets to whores that were easily reeled in. 

I was thinking I’d see a familiar face, but no, the changes were constant and ongoing. Did the usual whores go away to a better location? Or did they just get out of the whoring trade and settle down in the suburbs? Anyway, I wasn’t going to get a thing. 

I walked to 11th Street then turned west, past the Polish Home, near the Post Office building. By a dumpster I saw a whore on her knees before a cigarette-smoking guy who looked bored but at the same time angry. I slowed my pace, having a good look at them; she was sucking his dick in the open while he stood next to a garbage dumpster. 

 “Hey,” he growled, “what you looking at? Bet you think you’d like it too, eh?” 

My mouth dropped. Was I hearing right? Or had my imagination played games with me? I grinned, “Sure, looks nice. I could use a sucking too,” and I winked, hoping I set up some conspiratorial link with him. 

He glared at me, then said, “You wanna do it, eh? Oh, what the hell? Be my guest.” He gripped the whore’s head and pulled her off. A look of surprise was on her face as saliva dribbled down her chin. All three of us looked at each other. 

“Well?” said the guy. “I’m waiting . . . ” He stood with his dick poised and aimed at me while the whore looked very sad and bitter. 

What the fuck is this? I thought. The asshole thinks I’m going to suck him off? But that’s exactly what he was thinking! I shook my head and turned around.  

“Asshole!” I heard him say. I didn’t turn to see if the slut was sucking him again, probably was. 

I got out of there and went home to jerk off in peace. . . . Times sure were changing. . . . §




65. Haggling 


There was no one around, just this whore and me haggling over the price. 

“Twenty’s too much,” I said. “What with the price of the room you’ll take a quarter of my paycheck.” 

She glared at me. “It’s not my fault you make so little. Maybe you should get another job, one that’ll pay you enough.” 

I looked at her. “I agree I need a better job, but we were talking about now, and you’re charging way too much.” 

 Again she scowled and looked up and down the street. “How much can you spend?” 

I immediately brightened. “Ten, with six for the room . . . ” 

She scowled; I guess scowling was the general whore expression. “Sahara charges eight, they got no cheaper,” she said, and glanced at a guy approaching, but he hurried past. 

“The 12th Street Hotel is cheaper, we can go there. It’s only six bucks.” I looked hopefully at her. 

She bit her lip, glancing around as if she were looking for someone to save her from me. 

“Okay, let’s go,” she said, and walked briskly as I followed behind to the 12th Street Hotel. I was happy. §




66. Jerk Off 


“You can jerk off,” she said, “while I rub myself, okay?” 

What the fuck is this? I thought, but started to jerk off as she diddled her piddle. Oh, no, I thought all of a sudden, no way is she getting away with it. I gave her a ten and I expect something for it! 

I let go of my dick and shook my head. “No, a blow job, like you said.” 

She let go of her cunt and straightened up, her pink baby doll looking provocative and sexy on her, but her ragged face didn’t look too enticing. I again gripped my hard dick as she walked across the room. 

“You have a nice one,” she cooed. “Rub it for me, baby, oooooo . . . ” and again she kind of spread her legs and squatted somewhat, gyrating her hand in her crotch. There was little I could do but jerk off at the sight, which looked kind of erotic and perverse. I felt myself bubbling with excitement. I tightened the grip around my cock and felt that beautiful sensation of my sperm surging out. Oh God! I gripped tighter, semen gushing out, pouring out, exploding out, flying upwards and then spitting itself down on my chin and stomach. 

By the time I opened my eyes to look about me in exhaustion and tiredness, she was dressed with the baby doll hanging about her as she pulled her jacket on. 

“Thanks, honey,” she said. “I’ll see ya.” With that she was gone. I lay there wondering, why did I pay the slut for a jerk off session? Shaking my head, I tried to jerk off again, but I just wasn’t able to come a second time. § 




67. Chop Suey 


They shut down the Chop Suey place on 14th Street, one of my favorite eateries on the Lower East Side. I used to go there after spending time fucking and getting blown, because good sex makes you hungry; that’s why I liked the Chop Suey place, they could fill you up and plenty good, too. 

I’d always ask the whore I was with if she wanted to join me, but after the incredulous faces at me I’d just take their refusal for what it was, a BIG NO! I’d shrug them off and head to my Chop Suey place. 

One evening, after getting rejected for a meal by a whore I just fucked, she paused and said, “Well, okay, I’ll join you, if you promise that you’ll pay for everything.” 

My mind and soul leapt up sky high, and I was ecstatic she was joining me. “Of course, baby, my treat,” I said, winking at her. 

When we got to 14th Street, right away I saw that something wasn’t right. The entrance was boarded up and a sign said For Rent. We looked at each other and she shrugged, “Maybe another time, hon?” 

I didn’t say a word, just nodded as she went back to 3rd Avenue. I watched her quickly get a customer and disappear into a hotel. I looked at the Chop Suey place and felt very sad. §




68. Drinkin’ Again 


Again I wasn’t able to come — had too much gin — but even while I was grunting atop her, she said, “Were you drinking?” Talk about frustration, but she smelled the booze on my gasps and breaths. Still I tried to continue as she pushed me off her. 

“C’mon, that’s over fifteen minutes.” 

I rolled on my side, my dick standing up and still eager. 

“Were you drinking?” she asked again. 

I squirmed and turned red. 

“Shit, that’s why you can’t come.” 

She was putting on her blouse and skirt and shaking her head. “Don’t drink when you go out,” she said. “Drink after you do it, it’ll feel much better.” She shook her head. “The booze will destroy your sex life. Do you want that?” She looked at me then said, “I didn’t think so.” With that she walked out. 

I lay there with my hard dick, feeling angry and stupid at the same time. I jerked off, and came easily, man, that was fast! Thinking it would’ve been nice to have shot into her instead of my fist . . . 

I cursed and left the hotel. I was angry and bitter, hating the whores that I passed by on the avenue. §




69. Memories


“Wow, my boyfriend had a shirt just that color!” she said. She smiled, but hesitated in taking off her clothes, “I loved him in it.” 

She looked sad, thinking about old memories. Her clothes were taken off slowly but she still hesitated in getting on the bed. 

I lay down and stroked my dick, hoping she would get to work. She was in a rickety chair by the window, but then she lit a cigarette and said, “If I had married him like he wanted, this wouldn’t be happening,” and she got a whole lot sadder. 

I scratched my jaw and gripped my cock, pulling back the skin, exposing the red hungry cock head. She looked at it and said, “He was right, I should’ve married him like he wanted.” She lowered her head and started sniffling, little soft weeping sounds. 

I stared at her burning cigarette and felt my hard-on limping and shriveling into softness. Ten bucks I paid her, besides the six for the room, and all for nothing! I got up and slowly came to her. She was still in the rickety chair and I bent down to her. 

“Memories are tough,” I said. “They’ll destroy you, if you let them.” 

She looked at me and sniffled. “I know. Old memories suck! I hate them!” 

We went to bed, holding each other, and made beautiful but sad love. . . . §




70. Ten Bucks 


She always charged me ten bucks while the room was six, but now she wanted twenty with nine fifty for the room. I could understand the few bucks rise in room rates but where did she get the idea of an extra ten, for what? 

“Are we gonna fuck twice?” I asked. “Is that it?” 

She looked at me with scorn. “Hey, it’s twenty. You get what you pay for.” 

“But it was always a ten, where do you get doubling it?” 

 “Screw off, buddy!” She walked up the avenue, not 

looking around. 

Twenty, I thought. Shit! For twenty I have to work a 

few hours, slaving over some stupid papers and 

coupons while she just lays back and does nothing. My 

ass, twenty! 

I crossed the avenue and looked back to see her walking 

with an old guy to the hotel. 

That was quick! I thought. Man, he looked worse off 

then I did! Wonder where he made twenty bucks to get 

laid. 

Aw, hell! I went home to jerk off. §  



71. Eating 


Having sex always gets me hungry. Sometimes in the middle of fucking I’ll think about eating, food that is. A nice Chinese meal with all the trimmings — egg rolls, dim sum, lo mein, General Tso’s Chicken, green tea with some fortune cookies — will always gets my stomach as excited as the thought of fucking did just some moments before. 

I pump faster and faster, eager to explode not in satisfaction and peace, but in flight, thinking and planning the best way to get to the restaurant with food. I thank the whore and hurry off to the Chinks. Whores don’t do me as much good as a good Chinese meal will. I love Chinese food, more than I love screwing a whore, I think . . . well, maybe . . . §





72. Nope 


She took off her bra but left her panties on. I looked at her, “I thought we agreed.” 

She shook her head, “Nope, we agreed on the price, not what we was gonna do.” 

I looked at her, Damn, no fucking! This had happened before, and quite a few times. When you went out with a whore you never knew what you were going to get — a fucking, a blow-job, or just a stinking hand-job. I’d even gone out with a few whores who just lay there while I felt them up. Maybe it was my nature that they read right off the bat, knowing I was just a plain old wuss and they could get away with anything. 

 “I paid you,” I said. “Now I want something in return. And not no hand-job . . . ” 

She looked at me. “Well, that’s what you’re gonna get. Take it or leave it.” 

I scowled. The bitch, the cunt! I knew she wasn’t going to do what I wanted, and I said, “Shit, okay, gimme a hand-job.” 

She shrugged but then bent down and took my dick in her hand. My dick grew half-hard and I said, “You’re a cunt, you know that?” 

She let go of my dick and I could see she was angry. She cursed loudly and started to get dressed. 

“Hey, what’s this?” I said. “You ain’t done nothing yet!” She shrugged. 

“Oh, yes, I did.” She slammed the door behind her. 

I thought about running after her but I just lay there fuming. Jerking off isn’t so hot when you’re angry, yet I was angry all the time and jerked off twice that afternoon before I left that stinking hotel. § 





73. Good Sex 


Having sex when you’re angry is a waste, better you stay where you are and jerk off there. I was always angry when I left work, refusing to go out with my co-workers, because what was the point in rehashing old work memories. The aim of work is to forget it, and not go over it to see if your memories are in cahoots with the others. What rot! 

Fuck that shit! I thought, but every Friday they’d start dropping hints that I wasn’t going with them. One Friday, for the hell of it, I said, “Sure, I’ll go, got nothing better to do.” 

I saw the conspiratorial smirk and wink Ronnie gave to Stella, but thought nothing of it. Those two bitches had to know everything, like who was after whom, and who was screwing and licking who; the scheming bitches were everywhere and always would be. They were as prevalent as the devil scheming to drag you down. I had learned, Don’t mess with the bitches! and I tried very hard not to . . . 

That evening after work the whole bunch went out to Broadway Charlie’s, their favorite drinking place. I had been there a few times with them, but it wasn’t my kind of place. I preferred low-down places where if you fell you stayed down until you slept it off or were swept out with the trash. Broadway Charlie’s was not like that, a place they’d call the medics to revive you then take you away to a hospital to heal and nurse you back to health. Well, fuck that shit! 

Then I saw her . . . blonde puffed up hair, thick makeup, skimpy blouse and incredibly short skirt that I don’t think she even wore any panties under. She grinned and smiled, very sexily. I smiled back. 

“Hey . . . Billy?” she said, and then hesitated. “Is that right? It’s Billy, ain’t it?” She blushed. “I always forget a guy’s name.” 

I shrugged. “Hey, Frenchy, how you doing?” Needless to say, Ronnie and Stella were silent, looking at me as I went off with Frenchy. Wonder what they had to say about that? 

I returned to work on Monday but it wasn’t the same. Anyway, it was time for me to leave that liberal work place. A week later I did just that.§





74. Jailbait 


She was young, I don’t know how young, but way younger than me. I was seventeen, not exactly a 3rd Avenue guy but one who’d been around, and preferred my whores much older than she was. 

“How old are you, kid?” I asked. “Still in grade school or what?” 

She got angry at that one. “I been outta school a lot longer than you know, buddy.” 

I looked her over: a plaid skirt, a white blouse, and makeup that would drown and sink an older woman. Definitely out of school; this meant, cutting class. 

I smirked. “Yeah, Mother Superior’s looking for you. Says you’re late for Mass.” 

She was fuming. “Bastard! Go fuck yourself!” She turned and pounced up the avenue, her flat school girl heels thumping and thudding on the hard concrete. 

I looked after her. I shrugged, hell, it was the school girl look that turned me off. If she dressed like a whore my dick would have been hard to go out with her, no matter her age, but the look she presented was a look of all the little girls that had rejected me years before. I hated them back then and still do. §





75. Business is Business 

 

“What you thinkin’?” she asked as we were getting dressed. 

“I was thinking that it should’ve been longer,” I said. 

She thought a few seconds. “Wanna do it again?” 

I brightened. 

“But that’ll cost you another ten bucks, you know?” 

Shit, like hell I was going to pay again. “Aw, c’mon, that’s not fair.” 

She shrugged and continued putting on her clothes. “Business is business. You got another ten?” 

I sat on the bed. I had come too soon or too fast, shooting on her before I could shove my dick in her, the jism gushing and spilling over her cunt. 

She waited with arms akimbo, chewing and snapping her gum. “I thought so,” she said, then turned and left the room, not even slamming the door behind her, her heels pounding on the stairs as she went down. 

I sat there, dejected, angry, and morose. Finally, I got up and shut the door behind her. Coming again was hard, but I was able to do it. Still, I was pissed and angry. After that I went home. §




76. Sixteen Dollars 


When she told me the price I thought she was kidding. Sixteen dollars!?! But no, that’s what she wanted. 

“Take it or leave it, Mack.” 

I quickly agreed, but shrugged, as if to show it wasn’t such a big thing. “Okay, it’s a deal.” 

In the hotel room I gave her the money, fifteen bucks and a tattered old one dollar bill. 

“Isn’t that odd?” I said, as if talking to myself. “I never met a whore who wanted that amount.” 

She looked at me. “Why not?” 

“Sixteen bucks? C’mon, what can you do with sixteen bucks? At least ask for a twenty. Not everybody carries singles to give you change.” 

She looked at me, thinking I was right. “But Benny told me it’s sixteen . . . ” 

“Well, Benny told you wrong.” I said. “Is Benny your boyfriend?” 

“He’s my pimp,” she said proudly. But I could see she was also blushing and hadn’t been in the whoring business very long, maybe an hour or two tops. 

“Well, Benny’s nuts. They used to get ten now it’s twenty. And I’m sure it will get up to thirty in the not-so-distant future.” 

We both looked at each other, her looking stupid for what she was asking, me looking remorseful for what I was telling her. After we had sex I gave her an extra four dollars but she didn’t even thank me, just left. I shrugged. §




77. A Slap 


I heard the slap — flesh striking flesh — and turned around to see a girl recoiling from a guy before her. 

“You bitch!” he hissed. “Twenty bucks, not fourteen, you moron!” 

 “But Jose,” she said, “that was all he had.” 

He glared at her. “Did he show you his wallet? How you know that’s all he had?” He looked like he was going to strike her again. “Stupid bitch!” was all he said. “You’re dumb! If I told you once I told you a hundred times, twenty bucks for a fucking, ten bucks for a blow job. You got that, bitch?” 

She stood with head lowered, her arms downcast like she couldn’t lift them up anymore. 

“You got that, you bitch?” he repeated. I saw her head nod up and down as she said something I wasn’t able to hear. “Now get to work, you slut!” and he shoved her to 3rd Avenue. 

I watched the whore straighten up and fix her hair. She sniffled a few times, then sighed and went down 3rd Avenue. I went off the other way. §




78. Easy Pickin’s 


She was either drunk or stoned when I started bargaining a price for the act. She looked like she was going to fall apart before we got to the hotel. 

Going up the stairs she seemed like she was going to drop, but I held her by the shoulder and we made it into the cubby room. She slumped to a chair as soon as we got in. Shit, I thought, won’t get much fucking outta her. 

I dragged her to the bed and propped her in it. Her arms were hanging down and her legs were open and underneath her skimpy little skirt I saw she wasn’t wearing any panties. 

I quickly took my pants and shorts off, squeezing my hard dick. Either way, this was going to be a good one . . . then I started growing limp. I held my once-hard dick and tried squeezing it in her cunt, but the limpness was stubborn so I rolled over the comatose whore but getting it in proved even harder than fucking her from the front. I pushed her back and looked at her. Shit, probably took some drugs. That’s what all the girls are doing. Again I tried fucking her from the front . . . to no avail, I just couldn’t get it hard. 

I lit a cigarette and smoked, looking at her purse. Wow, close to fifty dollars she had! I got dressed, pocketed her cash, and left the hotel room. 

Not a bad take, I thought, skipping down the hotel stairs, then went home to jerk my hard and eager dick off. §




79. Bitter Cold 


It was a very cold day that was slowly reaching ten or maybe fifteen degrees, not like it was just some days before, two or three degrees. People were beginning to be seen again, not just hurrying as they paused to get out of the cold, but actually standing, stopping, and gazing at a window to look at goods and clothes, or even whores as they passed by. 

That’s what I saw as I waited for the light to change on 14th Street and 3rd. The cold had made me unaware of where I was or what I was doing. Yet even with the little warmth (ten degrees!) it all came back to me, and in the freezing cold I got a tinge of erection in my cock as I saw the cold but smiling whore standing in the doorway of the Sahara Hotel. Well, actually the side doorway that was used by tenants, that is, whores that lived there. 

I smiled back as she brightened and winked I come over, which I did. She was sniffling something fierce and her nose was red and running constantly. 

“Bad cold you got there, eh?” I said. 

She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her thin jacket. “It’s getting better. It was bad a few days ago.” 

We looked at each other, she biting her lower lip and sniffling, I undecided what to do with her. 

“I suppose you wanna make some money?” I asked. 

She nodded her head and again bit her lower lip. 

I could see the marks from where she had been chewing on it. “Damn, I gotta get to work, but here’s a dollar, get yourself a cup of coffee and a donut. Maybe I’ll see you later.” 

I reached in under my bulky overcoat and pulled out a buck; she held her hand out and took it. 

Damn, she isn’t wearing any gloves! I should get her a pair . . . I walked away and when I turned back she was still wiping her nose on her jacket sleeve and entering the coffee shop off 3rd Avenue. 

I smiled and hurried off to work. §




80. Chica 


Elizabeth was a skanky looking whore who went by the name Chica. Not that she was Spanish but she liked the sound and used it. 

I knew Elizabeth from grade school. In the 6th grade I saw her giving a blow-job to a bigger guy in the stairway leading up to the roof, but I could never get a thing from her. The older guys had her, and when we graduated from grade school and went off to high school, Elizabeth (Chica) was like me, a class cutter and a truant, who got in equal trouble with her parents, other adults, and eventually with the law. 

I knew she was around; I just didn’t run into her. Back in school she’d mark every wall and free space with the name Liz or Lizzie, but when I saw the Chica marking, with its heart dotting the ‘i’ I thought of Liz and the possibility that she was now Chica. 

A few days later I saw her. 

“Hey, Liz, you remember me?” 

She narrowed her eyes and looked questionably. “Can’t place your name,” she said. 

I told her and thought we’d talk about old times when she said, “Twenty bucks, mister, then we’ll talk.” 

“But Lizzie,” I said, “it’s me.” I held out my hands. 

“Name’s Chica,” she said. “Twenty bucks or leave me alone.” 

I looked at her. I could see she was already stoned and didn’t have far to go to hit the bottom, and I wondered what screwing her was like, even back in the sixth grade. 

“Oh, well,” I shrugged. By then she had turned away and was walking down 3rd Avenue. 

Straight for the Bowery, I thought, smirked, and walked off the other way. § 




 81. Pretty Kitty 


Pretty Kitty quickly grew to look like a mangy dog; with sores on her face that sure scared off her customers, but if they didn’t look at her face they could concentrate on her big tits. These she showed off a lot . . . 

Once I saw her with two guys and she was drunk as hell, really falling down, but with a guy on each side they balanced her as they mauled and scratched and bit her tits. I know it’s hard to believe but she was so drunk she didn’t feel a thing. Maybe it was drugs, I don’t know . . . 

One time I saw Pretty Kitty with her pimp and he wasn’t pleased by what she told him. A whack on her face shut her up. 

I turned and walked away. Pretty Kitty was sure getting uglier as time went by, until I didn’t see her anymore. That’s the way things were on 3rd Avenue, I guess. §




82. Old Tricks 


It was early evening and I didn’t know if she was a whore or not, but I saw her on 2nd Avenue and 15th Street, looking dowdy, looking tired, looking wasted, and my dick pounced upwards in its hold in my pants. As I watched her I saw that at the side of her leg, about knee high, the seam of her skirt had torn and revealed the top of her black nylon. Right away I was dying to catch a glimpse of the garter that held her nylon up, and slyly, whenever I could, I gave my crotch a good squeeze. 

I have no idea how old she was, but definitely an oldster, maybe in her 30’s, but what the hell did that mean anyway? As long as she had a cunt it would be all right with me. Anyway, all I wanted was some female flesh. I followed her as she came into the 2nd Avenue Park. 

Around the circular walkway some old people were sitting and talking, but she took an end seat and looked about. I was sure the parting in her skirt seam had separated even more. 

I also took a seat on her bench and lit a cigarette. I looked at her and smiled. She turned away and faced the old farts gossiping. I inched closer to her, pulsing just a muscle to get near her, and raised an arm on the seat between us. 

I yawned. “Man, I’m tired,” I said as if to myself. “I should be in bed.” Hell, it was only 8:30 pm or so! 

She turned back and focused her eyes on me. “Aren’t you a little young to be out so late?” She hissed, then got up and walked away, the seam separating even more, showing her bare white leg above the nylon top. 

I cursed at her but regretted I wasn’t seeing her full leg exposed as she disappeared down the park lanes. 

I cursed again, walked home, and jerked off there. . . . Night time had come. . . . §  




83. Union Square Park 


After work on a nice evening I’d walk slowly in Union Square Park on my way home, not too far from 3rd Avenue but peopled by a different clientele. People strolling mingled with shoppers on 14th Street, but the park was a nice refuge to get away from all that. Along the park lanes a few radical speakers climbed atop their soap boxes, haranguing and shouting at whatever strollers they could abuse or cajole. 

Then I saw her, a whore I was certain, but this far away from 3rd Avenue I wasn’t sure. I took a seat on the bench opposite from where she was sitting across the park lane. She looked at me with that hungry, nervous look that whores have, and smiled, at least I thought it was a smile. I winked, shrugged, and went across the lane to her. 

My dick was hard but I made no pretense of hiding the lump that bulged out in my pants. I was certain she saw the bulge; she certainly seemed embarrassed. 

I took a seat on her bench. “A nice evening,” I said, looking at her. She wore a tan blouse and a dark skirt, with her purse on the seat between us. 

“I suppose,” she answered shyly, and gripped the purse to her waist. “If you like evenings like this . . . ” and she drifted off, turning red and mumbling something but looking the other way. 

I moved closer on the bench, my pants barely touching her skirt when I inched a finger of my hand toward her. 

She bolted upright and without looking or saying anything, disappeared down the park lane. I smirked and shrugged, listened for a bit to the radical screamer, and went home. Man, I was tired. §




84. Not Me 


I saw her slouched in the doorway, her short skirt riding up her legs with her skimpy blouse squeezing and bobbing her tits so that her nipples poked out. When all of a sudden she came to, she looked at me and cursed, “Hey, mother-fucker! You owe me money!” 

I stopped, looked around, and said, “Who me?” 

“Yeah, you!” she said loudly. “Twenty bucks! Fork it over!” 

“You’re crazy,” I said. “I ain’t never seen you. Not me, sister.” 

She looked at me, a bit unsure of herself, and said, “Well, it sure looks like you.” But she was a bit quieter and looked around. Besides the usual 3rd Avenue whores and pimps there weren’t many people around so early. “You looking for action?” she said. 

I thought a moment, eyeing her up and down. Her mistaken identity was riling me somewhat. “With you?” I asked. 

She glared at me. “Yeah, with me!” she blurted out. “You see anyone else, buddy?” 

I smirked. “No, I don’t.” I turned and started walking away. 

“Hey!” I heard behind me. Then, “Mother-fuckin’ idiot!” and other curses, but I was too far away to hear or understand her; I didn’t turn to see if she had drifted down again. . . . §




85. No Whore


I don’t know if she was a whore or not but I certainly was after her. I saw her on 3rd Avenue and 6th Street and she was walking in the same direction I was, toward 12th Street. A few times she stopped at windows to gaze at some used books or pawnshop trinkets but never went in, as I always slowed my pace and stood a few doors away. Maybe she was just a woman taking a leisurely slow walk uptown, or maybe not. Even in its proximity to 12th Street you could never be sure who you were talking to. So I waited; it wouldn’t be long now. 

From 11th Street I saw a few whores slowly sauntering around, nothing much, just slow pacing looking for a john who was probably still at work or with a wife he couldn’t get away from. I approached and stood next to her, as she looked at some musical instruments in a pawnshop window. 

“Do you know how to blow?” I said, gesturing to the tuba that was in the window. She looked quizzically at me but I saw she had also turned red. I smirked, as she slowly walked down 11th Street. At least she knew what I meant, I thought, and went after her. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” I said, also turning red. “I meant the horn you were looking at.” 

She was quiet, staring at me. “Yes, I know what you meant.” She was silent then turned and walked down 11th Street. 

I was confused; was I reading this right? Aw, hell, I turned and walked back to 3rd Avenue. The lovely whores stood waiting . . . §




86. Older Whore 


She was an older woman on 12th Street off 2nd Avenue but with her makeup and high hair-do it seemed very possible that she was an experienced whore. 

My cigarette bobbed in my mouth and I slurred, “Goin’ out, baby?” 

She looked at me up and down, and said, “Beat it, kid. Go back to school.” 

Wow, an older whore! I thought, and not that bad looking at that. “Ten bucks,” I said nonchalantly. 

Again she looked me up and down, and snorted, “Make it forty; then we’ll talk, okay?” 

My cigarette fell out of my mouth. “Forty!? You’re crazy!” 

She stood with her arm akimbo and tapping her foot. “Beat it, kid,” she said calmly. “Go back to grade school, fella.” 

I let my cigarette lie in the gutter, then turned from her and walked away. Bitch, I thought, stinky old fucking bitch. 

3rd Avenue didn’t seem so inviting. . . . §




87. Snoring 


At the last few moments of bliss and exhaustive peace when my semen gushed into her, I heard her snore. 

Zzzz. . . . Not a loud snore of grumbling but a snore that was gentle but still a snore. That pretty much destroyed whatever fantasy I was pursuing, and I just dropped atop her gasping, “Mother-fucker!” 

I should’ve known it was coming; even on the street she looked too dazed and far away as we bargained — she wanted more money, and I wanted to give her less. Going up the stairs of the whore hotel she tripped a few times, so I knew she was stoned; but not that much, to have fallen asleep!? I thought, Not now, aw shit! 

I felt my dick ooze out of her cunt, the fragile flesh of the burning head of my cock still exposed. I grimaced from the slight pain as it flopped onto the brittle overused bed sheet. I leapt off her and grabbed the flesh of my cock, pulling the skin back over the head. 

I hate that shit; should’ve been born a Jew, I guess. I think that every time. 

She snored again, this time louder than before. “God damned slut!” I said, and looked at her purse on a side chair. I smirked, and picked it up. Besides my ten, there were a few singles, maybe seven, and a few coins. Was I her first? I wondered. 

I left the money where it was and got dressed. The hell with it . . . I looked at her, still spread-eagle on the bed and snoring pretty loudly now. I shrugged and left the room. 

“Pleasant dreams, cunt!” I mumbled, and bounded down the stairs. §




88. 11th Street 


I saw her in a doorway on 11th Street looking nervously around like she had evaded someone and my appearance interrupted her. I made as if I were about to enter the doorway, but she blocked my way in. We looked at each other and she gushed, “I forgot my key. Can you let me in?” 

Of course I didn’t have one, and I smirked, “I forgot mine, too, honey. I was hoping you had yours.” 

She bit her lower lip and again peered out of the doorway, suddenly standing back like she had seen someone she didn’t want to see. She pulled me against the locked door and snuggled beside me. “Make it like we know each other, okay?” she hissed. 

I put my arm on her shoulder and pulled her closer to me. Kissing her was a nice warm feeling as her arms went around me. I felt my hard-on growing against her skirt — I could just imagine shooting onto her clothed lap. 

I heard the footsteps’ pausing as if someone were looking at us from behind me, then I heard him walk away. She pushed me off and looked relieved, but disappointed, too. “It wasn’t him,” she said.

We looked at each other. “Let’s go out,” I said. “You’re nice.” 

She gazed at me as if undecided. “I’m not a tramp,” she said. “I don’t go with just anyone.” She turned and walked down the avenue. 

I looked after her, her heels clicking down the street. Should I go after her or not? Oh, fuck it! And I went up to 12th Street. §




89. Gum 


I saw her by the cemetery on 11th Street and 2nd Avenue, her head down, looking for something in her purse. She had one leg slightly upraised, balancing her large bag as I came closer. 

“Hey, Violet,” I said. She looked up at me, not recognizing me, but she said, “Yeah, hi,” and went back to looking for something. 

What the hell does she have in there? I wondered, looking at her holding a bottle of makeup with lipstick in one hand while clutching a brush and comb in her other hand, yet at the same time holding open her gaping purse. I smiled and shook my head. Female purses, I marveled. Girls pretty much carry everything in them and still have room for more stuff. 

 “Found it!” she said, and ripped open an old stick of gum and popped it in her mouth. It must have been really stale and rancid but I saw her chewing happily, very contentedly. “What was your name anyway?” she said. 

I shrugged and laughed. “It don’t matter,” I said and went off on 2nd Avenue. I’m sure she shrugged after me then went back to her street-walking. §




90. Too Fast


“You’re too sloppy,” she said as she tried to push me off. “C’mon, get off!” 

I rolled over to her side as she got off the bed and lit a cigarette. 

“You’re too much,” she said, again blowing her smoke out. “With your fucking and feeling and trying to suck at the same time, man, that’s crazy!” 

She put on her bra and panties, aligning her skirt around her waist. 

“Just take it slow,” she continued, as she dressed. “Let the hands do their work, then the mouth, then shove the dick in.” She looked at me. “Girls will like it more if you do, hon. Believe me.” With that she was out the door. 

I lay in bed thinking, I might even try that next time. She smelled real nice; I lay there rubbing my cock until it got hard again. Jerking off was easier than being with her, I think. §




91. Bou’ah! 


As soon as we got in the room she bent over the sink and started vomiting. Man, that put a damper on my horny mood because how can you fuck someone if they just threw up? 

“Bou’ah! Bou’ah!” There she went again, like an alarm telling everyone to get the hell out, and now! “Bou’ah!” 

I didn’t really regret it since there had been no exchange of money, though I had paid for the room. Anyway, I thought, I’ll be here jerking off later. 

She finally turned around and said, “Sorry,” and started taking off her clothes. 

“You know,” I said, “if you don’t feel like it we don’t have to.” 

She looked thoughtful but said, “It’s still ten bucks.” 

“Aw, c’mon.” I said. “You didn’t do nothing.” 

She belched again but started to remove her blouse. I shrugged and handed over a crisp ten-dollar bill. She was practically naked but didn’t feel any shame, belching a few times but throwing up no more. “Did you eat too much?” I asked. 

She looked at me as if I were stupid. “No, I’m pregnant,” she said, and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out her mouth and nostrils. Then she looked at me, “You ever get a girl pregnant?” 

I shook my head. “I don’t know, can’t say that I have.” 

She looked at me a bit victoriously. “Too bad, it’s a great feeling. I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world!” 

I silently snorted and thought about the father, if there was one, and if he admitted it. 

“Yes, I’m happy for you,” I said. “Truly happy . . . ” 

She smiled contently then belched again, running off to the sink. I sighed, disappointed by the sound of her puking her guts out. 

“Bou’ah!” 

I rolled over to my side so I couldn’t see her, and pecked at a cigarette burn on the hotel mattress. Someone wasn’t careful, I thought. 

“Bou’ah!” §




92. Fake 


At work word got around that Timmy had some counterfeit money. The thing was, it just looked so incredibly phony. There were smears about the corners and the paper was too flimsy for it to pass as real. 

“Timmy,” said Helen, flinging the phony money back at him, “this is bullshit, just as you are,” and she went off laughing with the other girls. 

Later an angry Timmy gave the bills away to any guy who wanted them. “I know where you can use them,” he said, “on the ugly skanks on 3rd Avenue, they don’t know shit anyway.” 

The guys laughed but I fumed; I took a phony bill. Later that night, after I had fucked a whore, I accidentally dropped a fake twenty and didn’t reach to pick it up. The whore saw it on the floor but didn’t say a word. 

“Goodbye, honey,” I said, and walked out. 

She just looked relieved as I shut the door. I grinned and went downstairs. §




93. The Best 


As I took off my pants she slowly undid her boots and asked, “You been out with many girls?” 

I nodded, “Yeah, a few.” I got on the bed, stroking my growing cock. 

She took off her blouse; a red bra contrasted with her white skin. “And you liked them?” 

I shrugged. “They were okay. I think half of them were wasted and the rest were ready to pass out.” 

“So, you had no nice ones? Is that it?” 

“Nice? Sure, they were nice, but, well, you know, they were too fast or didn’t care.” 

She looked at me thoughtfully, then kissed me. It was the best sex I ever had and I was sorry when it came to an end. 

“Can I see you again?” I asked. 

She grinned and nodded. “Sure, maybe.” 

I was happy . . . but never did see her again. §




94. Anger 


I was mad. I asked her outside if we were going to fuck and she nodded her head, but in the hotel room she said she couldn’t. 

“Why the hell not?” I fumed. 

She shrugged. “I’m pregnant.” 

“Shit, so why are you here with me?” 

I was sick of seeing women shrug which she did anyway. 

“I need the money.” 

I was getting angrier by the minute. “Don’t you ever think of earning it, you slut?” 

I saw she was getting angry too. “I’m not a slut!” she said. “You may think so, but I’m not.” 

I looked at her: dowdy skirt and blouse and a bit underweight, sure looked like a slut to me. “You agree to suck and fuck, so what does that make you?” 

She thought a moment and said, “Maybe a whore but not a slut, that’s for sure.” 

I shook my head. “Suck my dick, bitch!” I looked at her crawling on the bed and gobbling my dick; afterwards I was going to complain that she bit me, but I didn’t. 

I impatiently watched her dress and get out of the room. I jerked off after she left. I was still angry. §




 95. Destiny 


By the time I was sixteen I’d had sex with many whores, with jerking off afterwards. 

It was a ritual; I’d get a whore, fork over my ten, and couldn’t wait for her to depart so I could jerk off. 

Some days when I wasn’t going out, but was saving my money for the next time, I’d resist jerking off, too. Sure, I’d have a lot of regret over the fact that I had to save up, but not getting laid meant I wasn’t jerking off. One act led to the other, and since I wasn’t doing one, I wasn’t doing the other. 

Maybe I was crazy! Maybe I wasn’t! Who knew? 

By whores I don’t mean to put them down, either you were one or weren’t one, no big thing; but I’d always gravitated to them. Put me in a strange city and in an hour I’d be propositioned and fifteen minutes after that I’d be laying down atop a whore, waiting for her to get the fuck out of there so I could jerk off. 

Is it my fate and destiny? Well, glad it’s been that way. Now, please leave, so I can jerk off in peace . . . §




96. Chitter Chatter 


I had been with Connie over five or six times — handjobs and blowjobs at first, fucking later. She was my age and at first she presented herself as mature and worldly, but in a matter of minutes I saw her immature childishness. She was from Queens, and came into the City to earn some money and have some fun. It was always great to see her. 

I remember the first time we went to the Sahara Hotel. She was nervous and so was I. I had never been in that hotel and renting a room for a few hours had its drawbacks, or so I thought. But the bored clerk took my money just glancing at my ID, and we went up to the room that I had just bought for us. 

Giggling and laughing in the room it was better than what we were planning to do. We went through a few motions but our hearts weren’t in it at all. Connie said she didn’t feel like fucking anyway — she’d just had a guy that afternoon — and I shrugged and said, “That’s enough, no? Okay, let’s talk.” 

Well, she had nothing to talk about, but I talked plenty. I went on and on about the whores I’d had and was still going to get. “It’s like my dream comes true, whore after whore, continuously, but mostly in hallways and on rooftops,” I told her. 

My eyes were probably distant, looking at fantasy whores all around me, when she said, “How nice,” and got up off the bed. I saw she was putting her clothes back on. 

“Is something wrong?” I asked. 

She shook her head. “No, nothing, I gotta go. That’s all, goodbye.” She slammed the door and left me there in that room. I cursed and ground my teeth. 

“Fucking little whore,” I cursed, and started to jerk myself off. 

Later I realized I talked too much. § 




97. Love


It was our second time together, and the sex was good — well, at least she didn’t complain. 

“I love you,” I said, with some embarrassment. 

She stopped dressing and looked at me. “Say that to your girlfriend, not me,” she said. 

I bit my lip. “You don’t like that? But I really do.” 

She snorted. “So what do you expect? Me saying I love you too? Gimme a break!” 

I was sad. “Don’t you?” I asked. “I don’t have anyone else and you’re so nice to me.” 

She snorted again. “That’s cause you pay me, buddy. If you didn’t, do you think I’d be here with you?” 

I didn’t answer, just looked at her sadly as she turned and walked out the door. I sat there on the bed, then shut the door after her. I didn’t jerk off but wished they had a TV set. 

In a while, I left, too. §




98. Progress 


The place was changing, not only getting more expensive with the girls wanting twenty or thirty bucks or more, but with the pimps standing around protecting and taking money off their whores. In a way it wasn’t a nice place to go to anymore. I hadn’t been there in over a year, and I found more whores at expensive prices and more pimps with their colorful clothes, which probably showed they led bland lives. 

I walked up and down 3rd Avenue, getting propositioned by the pimps as they showed off their wares standing nearby. The whores looked tired and sleepy-eyed but in their short skirts and tight blouses they sure looked appetizing. What they had in store was a hurried fucking, like making it with a corpse instead of a living and kicking woman. 

I was sad most of the time I was on 3rd Avenue. 

Time to get out of here. Progress and growth are inevitable, I heard someone say years ago. Maybe it was, but it still sucked and big time, too. 

I crossed 14th Street and stood on 3rd Avenue looking around. Whores and pimps were on the street but mostly queers and winos sneaking into Variety Photoplays. I turned my collar up from the wind, lit a cigarette and went uptown. §




99. The Oldest 


I suppose in the history of the oldest profession things have always been the same, women do it for money and the men always dish the money out. For me it started out with a ten dollar bill (though a few times they took less than that) and rose up to a twenty and quickly to thirty. Where the hell was I going to get a whore at that old price? Nowhere. 

It was time to leave; old faces were changing, buildings were coming down, new ones going up. They had even gotten rid of the 12th Street Hotel where I had gone so many times and had wonderful and not so wonderful memories. 

Hell, even the Variety Photoplays was no longer a movie house but a legitimate theater, though I wonder at the artistic legitimacy of that artsy/fartsy venue. I heard they’re going to tear it down for a high rise apartment building! Aw shit! 

Better zip my jacket, winter is coming fast. Man, it’s already dark! Better go, I’ll only get older if I stay, but what’s the choice? §




100. Kiddie Whores 


Things have changed, buildings have gone up and people have moved on. Whores have gotten more expensive everywhere you turn. A ten-dollar whore, if you found one, now would expect a hundred, if not more. 

There are now bus stop whores, fire house whores, railroad whores, even in someone’s perverse scheme of keeping girls in their place, kiddie whores and kindergarten whores, up from grammar school whores, I guess. 

3rd Avenue is nothing like it was. Variety Photoplays had to make room for an NYU building, as did the 12th Street Hotel. I wonder where Candy is, and Donna, and Kathy, Michelle, Lizzie . . . and who else? Violet, Connie . . . names that don’t mean anything, I guess . . . 

I walk on; around me the traffic sounds and churns. Honk, honk, honk! 

Wait, did I hear a whore, laughing sarcastically and smirking, “Goin’ out?” I quickly turn around. 

Nah, it was just my imagination. 

I smile to myself, give up a deep sigh . . . and walk on. §  


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1 comment:

  1. Do you remember the name of or recall anything about the shop at 11th Street and third avenue that when I lived on 11th street 1968-70 always had a suit hanging up outside? Was it called Joe's Clothes? Was it a used clothes shop or a pawn shop?

    ReplyDelete