Hot Water French
Usually, when you visit a prostitute, the first thing she does is wash off your balls. Your dick, too, of course. That’s the part that goes inside her, the part that could spread syphilis, the clap or herpes. So it needs to be all spic and span. But the balls are special. They are a bit clumsy and delicate. My motto is: ‘Handle with Care.’ Your balls need a few special maneuvers with the wash cloth. By now, her clothes are off. She has gone to the bathroom in your hotel, turned on the hot water, which you can hear as you are reclined on the bed, waiting. Then she comes out, smiling. She carefully lifts up your balls and playfully wipes them down, as you lay there like a big dummy.
This is not how you pictured sex. You never really did picture anything. You thought about coming really hard, and that was about it. In the back of your mind you sort of had an idea of warmth or intimacy or something that resembled the activity that goes on when a man and woman like each other enough to have sex. Mostly, though, your dick was talking to you and saying ‘Get me off.’ The girl’s breasts are nice and bouncy, but they are hard to reach as she washes off your balls. You can tell by the antiseptic nature of this transaction that she doesn’t really want you to touch them or any other part of her. You have paid top dollar to insert your dick in her, and that’s all you are getting, partner.
Once I got a hot water French from a hooker in Las Vegas. We met in one hotel and then went to mine. I remember the drive over there in my car. It was August, hotter than a son-of-a-bitch. My car had no air conditioning. I remember her sitting beside me, me thinking this was something like a date, but not exactly. I was going to have sex with her. Sex was related to dating and love, or should be. They both belonged to a broad category of things that included kissing, touching, romance, intimacy, having babies, so from one point of view they were kind of related. For her, though, this was a business deal, like renting an apartment or financing a car. We got to my hotel and she dutifully washed off my private parts after she’d stripped in the bathroom, out of my sight. She told me she was giving me a hot water French and asked me if I knew what that was. I didn’t. But I sure wanted to find out.
“Wait here,” she said. Her lovely naked bottom disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water running again. She came out. I could tell her mouth was full of something. It was hot water. She went down on me. The way a hot water French works is this-the girl lets the hot water come out as she is doing you. It gushes out in spurts, suggesting a climax. It is very inspiring and powerful. I think I lasted less than a minute. Then I, well, you know. She got up and ran away from me. Again I saw her cute little pear-shaped bottom disappear behind the bathroom door. I thought about the relationship between me and her bottom. There really was no relationship. It was not an ass that wanted me to touch it, or look at it, or fool around with it, just an ass that wanted to get away from me as fast as possible. Then I heard the sound of her spitting, followed by the toilet flushing. The toilet flushed away hot water and my seed. The air conditioning was set to the ‘high’ position in my hotel room. It was too cold. It did not feel good. Underneath me was a wet and sticky sheet. You should feel warm or something after sex. I felt like an empty paper bag. I had not held her or touched her. The only places we had contact were her mouth and my dick. Technically it was sex, but it had not felt like anything.
She came out of the bathroom with her clothes on. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Can you pay my cab fare back to the Sands?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I gave you what you asked for. Why should I pay more?”
She gave me a dirty look and went out the door into the hall. Her bottom, encased in a pink dress, was gone, this time for good. It was a bottom I had hardly known and never touched.
My state of mind was despondent, so I decided to go downstairs and do some gambling. I went to the craps tables and lost several hundred dollars. Each time I placed a losing bet, the croupier’s stick raked my chips away across the green felt table, where they got blended into the stacks of chips in front of him. It reminded me of the toilet flushing upstairs a little while ago. My sperm, mixed along with half a mouthful of hot water, got flushed down the drain, never to live, never to be seen again.
Viva Las Vegas!
Oedipus time-travelled back
Years and years
Now Jocasta is
I’m sorry, Mom, that I was scared
Of lightning bugs
The deep end of the pool
High school and
That yellow bus
But since I bought this blunderbuss
My demons all seem to have fled
As for Dad
The demons said
Right before they left for good
That I should just blow off his head
Stacey’s Story – Paul’s Version
I have been 27 years old my whole life
I have seen death, war, famine and my father
Everything I had was stolen
Well they think of me a loser idiot hooligan criminal
It just so happens in this baggage car
There was a robber
From both sides of the tracks
Who raised his five kids with his wife of four years
And as time goes by twice
He cheats on me three times
So I started asking myself questions about
Who I was
And I was sitting outside under the full moon
Every beam of light shines brighter
I guess you sort of need to be on the train
To see what I’m talkin about
I know way too much now to argue or deny
And am not sure what the bottom line is
But I feel it is a sense of spirit within you
And in the plants and trees and birds
And in the headlight of that train
That stops in its tracks
Right before it decides
It’s not going to run you over after all
Make Sure I’m Dead
When you bury me
Make sure I’m dead
I don’t want to go
Until I’m done
My eyes have seen what they’re supposed to see
Not what they’re shown
Until my ears have heard the truth
And my mouth knows what it tastes like
Until my nose has smelled
The flesh of the newborn
Till these legs are worn
From walking every road it wants to
Till my arms are sore
From helping up those
Who have fallen down
On the same road as me
Help me out of this box
Get me my cane
These legs will carry me
Down the street
Around the corner
I’ll be back
When I’m done
Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has travelled all over the place and met lots of people from all walks of life. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one.