The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (35 page)

She sensed that he was distracted in some worrisome way and so slowly began to wiggle her little fingers under his balls. Soon she was tickling the rim of his asshole. Just as she eased in her finger to the second knuckle, the Fur-Coat-Guy squealed his tires in three slots down in his “pre-owned” Lexus. The shining silver car was as inconspicuous as a fart in a confessional. The guy jumped out, wearing assorted rugged gear from L.L. Bean, and yelled, “Hi!” as he waved at Frodo. His hair flopped around like Hugh Grant’s and he had carefully not shaved in a day and a half. Frodo wondered if this was the guy’s idea of tough.

Frodo sat on her finger in the battered Chevy Caprice and thought, “Great. Now I got two assholes working here.” Just then she licked the hole in the head of his dick and gently wiggled her finger in his asshole. That turned the key to his heart and Frodo had an orgasm of supremely voluble pleasure, causing him to groan loudly. The guy dodged around the front of the Lexus and started running to the Chevy. The windows were a little steamed by now.

“You okay?” Asshole shouted. “You know older guys have to be careful of the cold.” In Frodo’s mind, his customer went from being The Guy in that instant to The Asshole. Frodo wondered where his nephew had found him. He could picture row upon row of assholes trying to look like fur trappers in downtown Manhattan. They had met at some bar in Tribeca where this guy was trying to impress him about how he wanted to buy a nice fur “under the table.” His nephew told Asshole he understood and would he like a deal on a fur coat (the nephew knowing that Frodo needed to get some cash moving).

Asshole leaned into the nephew breathing sushi into his face and said, “Yeah, Sport,” which sounded kind of faggoty to the nephew but the Asshole said he had cash for the coat. There were two problems with non-criminal citizens, civilians, or, as the pros called them, assholes. They wanted to tell you things you didn’t need or want to know, and they wanted to rip you off to make themselves feel smart.

“My name’s Aston—” said Asshole at the car window.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Frodo, “And my name is Dick Nixon, but I don’t want it to get around. I know who the fuck you are. Just a minute.”

At this point Sylva sat up and looked at Asshole, who she immediately dismissed quite rightly as an asshole. Then she turned to look out the windshield and lit a Marlboro while her fingers toyed absently with her left nipple under her coat. Frodo was very good at licking nipples and he would get around to doing that soon enough. Still, she was a little anxious to get started from all that sucking.

Frodo mopped up his wad and zipped while she dabbed a little come from the corner of her mouth. Then Frodo got out of the car. He buttoned his plaid polyester car coat and they walked to a pillar in back of the car. They confirmed the price and Frodo went back to the trunk. He undid a padlock that went through a chain in a hole in the trunk lid and hauled out a black garbage bag with the coat in it.

“Cash first,” he grumbled.

“Don’t I get a look?” asked Asshole.

“You want me to get a model? Try on a chinchilla coat under the expressway here, Sonny? There’s a cop shop about ten blocks that way. You think if they go by on a doughnut run, they might get some idea it’s a tax-free transaction? The rats around here are mean enough to steal the fuckin’ coat and eat it. Never mind the people.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, what was I thinking?” Asshole smiled at Frodo who looked at his customer like he was an old piece of cheese. Then the news got worse.

It seemed that Asshole only had 7,500 on hand, but was good for the rest in a couple of days. He pointed to his car like it was collateral. Frodo figured the guy leased the car, but he needed the seven and a half.

Once the bag was secured, the Guy drove back to his condo in Red Hook. Along the way he stopped under the Gowanus again and picked up fifty dollars’ worth of coke (generously laced with baby laxative) from a local Mexican dealer. The dealer waved at passing cars now and then. The guy figured they were regulars. The cars all looked the same to him as they were covered in salt and street grime, unlike his pristine Lexus. He chuckled about stiffing Frodo out of the cash he still had in his wallet. He hadn’t done pre-law and art history at Swarthmore for nothing.

His condo was not yet the swank chick trap it could become, owing to the nearby garbage treatment facility, but time and developers would fix that. He picked up a quart of Tanqueray gin on the way home. Once there, he placed his rubber paddle with fake fur glued to one side on the pillow and washed his orange and blue dildo. Then he put out various jars of lubes and creams.

Checking the clock, he ordered a round-the-world pizza delivered from Tony’s on Court Street. He and the guy on the phone chuckled over the name, they being two men of the world. He then put on a Sinatra disk and slipped into his midnight blue ultra-suede jumpsuit with the zippers going front, back and sideways. It drew attention to his dick. It never crossed his mind that most women already knew where it was. He was ready.

Shortly thereafter, Peaches McGuire got out of a cab and banged open the unlocked front door of his building. Every inch of Peaches was pale, creamy pink except her large brown eyes, her strawberry blonde hair and her rosy little cunt. Her nipples were a dark shade of pink. Her tongue was a captivating luminous pink and she liked the way men’s eyes fixed on it when she smiled and put the tip of it right between her teeth. She could be a very bad girl at times and she was still smart enough to stay clear of the flying drool.

After doing an MA upstate, Peaches had come to the City to work for a very hip urban planning firm in Chelsea. Two months later, the only planning the city was doing was how to keep from defaulting on its bonds. She was laid off. Rather than return to Poughkipsee and her boyfriend, Boxer Barton (heir to a once prosperous Chrysler dealership), she decided to plow a new furrow in a field where her pink endowments would not go to waste. She answered a classified ad and took employment as a fantasy escort. It was a concept developed by an unemployed epidemiologist from Bangkok. For five hundred bucks she would do whatever the geeks wanted as long as they didn’t touch her. She would touch them with anything from whips to oatmeal if they liked, but they had to sit on their hands.

She had assumed this arrangement would be no more lucrative than urban planning, but she was wrong. She soon found that the male population of New York City is so driven, exhausted, nervous, guilt-ridden, nipple-starved, delusional, terrified and perpetually, constantly horny, that they thought this was a hell of a deal. In fact, when she coolly removed all but her panties and bra, it would be hard to argue the point, and hard was the name of the game. She usually took off the rest if she was fairly sure they would pull a muscle.

She went through the Guy’s chosen repertoire of tricks, opening a zipper here and shoving in a dildo there. He got the chinchilla out of the garbage bag. She tried it on as requested. He studied her face. He seemed to like her getting the feel of this coat she could never have. Being a girl of insight, she saw that in him and wished she had a bigger dildo.

She did a modest amount of stroking and more spanking than he had expected. In time, he blew his lid while staring at her nipple from an inch and a half away. It was snowing hard by then. Getting a cab would be impossible and, having nothing else to do, she had got a little drunk. She dozed while the guy took a shower to wash the Vaseline out of his ass. When he was under the water, Peaches checked his wallet. She was a forward-thinking young woman. He had asked her for a real date, which meant one of two things. Either he was falling in love with some idea of some other woman he had in his head, or he intended to stiff her. The question was, did he have the cash at all?

She rolled over onto a pillow with the coat pulled up to her waist. This allowed her to inspect the wallet in peace. She reasoned that men never thought about much else if they had a clear view of her ass and pussy. She looked in his wallet and found her five hundred along with another seven bucks left over after the gin, drugs and pizza. She took the five hundred.

At that moment, the front door of the apartment hit the floor as though it had been punched out by a concussion grenade. The biggest, hardest males she had ever seen clomped over the door and started talking to the guy in unhappy tones. He had come out of the john in his T-shirt with his dick hanging out. The look did not suggest dealing from strength. She deposited her five hundred in a zippered, hidden pocket in the coat and pretended to have passed out.

What the guy had not noticed was the grimy Chevy Caprice chugging along Third Avenue behind him. Frodo had seen him stop to pick up the coke. Frodo had known the dealer for quite some time as they had done some business together in hideous retro furniture from the sixties. Chairs that had cost 20 bucks new then were worth two thousand now, even beat to shit. Then too the dealer did evictions in the Bronx on the side, so he had a line on some choice pieces. Frodo did the brokerage, selling the stuff to art dealers in Manhattan who sold it to assholes.

Having seen the coke deal right on his turf, Frodo got angry. He had been stiffed by an asshole, because understandably enough he wanted to get busy and worship Sylva’s ass. He realized that you should not try to think about more than one asshole at a time. Distractions should be avoided, so it was sort of his own fault. Being stiffed, however, was out. So he called his nephew, the real estate broker in Manhattan. He had paid for his nephew to go to Yale, so a little favor would be reasonable in return regarding this guy now known as Asshole.

The latest hot real estate location was Harlem near the Park, and the nephew had tried several times to buy a perfectly restored brownstone from a huge black man who declined to sell. In his research the nephew found out the homeowner was called Marblehead and did all sorts of highly unpleasant things for lots of money. So the nephew called a contact who got a line on Toodles, who got hold of his old colleague Marblehead, and voilà. Within an hour Marblehead had joined Toodles in the walk up to and over Asshole’s front door. Then they showed the guy a window of opportunity that left him three stories up without a floor.

Frodo did not care about the coat. It was used goods now anyway. He did not care about the five small. He did care about the guy, who was clearly an asshole with the gall to treat him like an asshole. The guys should know that they were the assholes. Otherwise there would be asshole anarchy. Now and then you had to let them know. So Frodo bit the bullet and sold a couple of T-bills before maturity, lost 5 percent and got liquid again. By five o’clock he had a hundred and seventy five thousand back in the bank. About half of that would go to Marblehead, but in business you got expenses. Frodo was not cheap, just thrifty. The guy had gone to flight school but flunked out, having no airplane.

By seven that night Tony Crunch was off Frodo’s ass and Frodo was tenderly exploring Sylva’s. She lay on her tummy on her new gold satin sheets with lace ruffles on the pillow shams. She felt like a safe little girl, which she had never felt before in her life. She was reading a Spanish language bridal magazine which he had bought her by way of a proposal. He slowly tugged her thong from between the smooth mocha cheeks of her flawless bottom and left behind little kisses in its wake. The wedding was going to take place as soon as she could figure out a way to show him where Honduras was on a map. She was happy though to stay in Brooklyn. Honduras meant zip to Frodo but whatever made her happy.

Sylva had seen the coat and couldn’t care less about it. Chinchillas were nasty little fuckers, whereas Frodo was a very nice, patient, caring, attentive and rich fucker. He was also an old fucker. They both knew the marriage would not last very long, as Frodo was reaching the tape at the end of the race. She would make out like a bandit when he crossed the finish line, a career he fully endorsed. When he died, she would get the ratty old Chevy. The seats were stuffed with cash and bearer bonds. Then there were the warehouses in Jersey.

A month later at the wedding reception at Maria’s Gourmet Cuisine in Coney Island, Frodo said, “Fuckin’ Lexus, my ass. Dumb fuckin’ asshole.” Sylva fed him a tiny, delicate piece of sweet, white wedding cake with creamy icing. He smiled the smile of a man who would be forever in love and they very gently kissed.

Slinking amongst the overly bedazzled crowd, I slide my way to the bar, careful not to trip on my Cinderella slippers and long, velvet gown. And while they’re not glass, they may as well be; they are clear, tall lucite, more like stripper shoes than orphaned fairy tale footwear, but they seemed like fun, a modern twist on everyone’s favorite orphan. The fact that I’m at the party at all is only a testament to my friendship with Marlene, aka Princess Leia, who keeps swooping in and out carrying trays of food and admonishing people not to remove their costumes. She had a strict admittance policy and, fearing that I wouldn’t get in, I adhered to it, even though I wasn’t even sure I was in a party mood. Nothing like the chance of not getting in to make me want to be part of an inner circle.

I’m making my way through my cocktail, trying to find someone I know, or might want to know, when I see a gorgeous nymph of a girl, the kind who my heart speeds up for, the kind who makes me want to pull them by the hair and never let go. She is dressed as a classic schoolgirl, not surprising in this crowd but still charming nonetheless. Her hair spurts out in two brown pigtails, tied with those rubber bands with big pink beads on the end that I haven’t seen in about 20 years. Her skirt is short and plaid, on top of strategically ripped fishnets, her shirt white and sheer, her bra the exact opposite. A studded collar beams out from around her neck, but I’ve been watching her for an hour and know she is alone. This isn’t a slave collar, but an I-want-to-be-a-slave collar, even if that desire only lasts a night. Her bottom lip is pierced smack in the center of it, a surly circle daring anyone watching to touch it. Daring in that defiant way that really means, stay away. But I can’t, or don’t want to. She is the kind of girl who challenges me, who makes me want to tie her up with her own fishnets, make her defy all her own practised coolness to beg me to fuck her. It’s Halloween and although there are far more original outfits at this party, I only have eyes for her. I approach her slowly, keeping my eyes on her until she is forced to look my way, even though others are vying for her attention. Her bright red lipstick glows against her pale skin, and though she’s probably 21 or 22, she could easily pass for 5 years younger, her sullen eyes and daring look just asking anyone who’ll try to have their way with her. My hand is practically itching to grab her, to get her across my lap, her ass exposed, but before I race too far ahead of myself and completely scare her away, I pause and regroup, taking a deep breath and trying to pretend that she’s just a pretty girl at a party who somehow hasn’t set off a rush of heat inside my brand new black lace panties.