Archive for desperate housewives

The Bathroom Stall

I hear the bathroom door open; the music shoots into the room and then becomes muffled again when the door shuts. I hear the clap of stilettos on the marble floor in front of the stalls and then the sound of one opening and closing.

I examine my toe-nails. The French pedicure is starting to peel. Who gets a French pedicure? It looks so tacky.

“That wasn’t very nice, Joan,” a voice says and I look up and through the crack between the stall and its door.

“Up here.”

I look up and see Miriam looking down at me.

“Jesus!” I scream, “Miriam, what are you doing?”

“Finishing our conversation.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

I realize she’s not going to get down, so I finish, wipe off, pull up my thong quickly, without looking at her.

“Cute ass,” she says with a giggle. I hear a Zippo open and flash on before it snaps shut. I look up. Miriam has a cigarette hanging from her mouth. “Want one?” she asks.

“No.” I reply, straightening my dress. “How did you know I was here?”

“Brad told me. He heard you and that guy talking. Is he your boyfriend or husband or…? He’s older than you.”

I said nothing.

“Right,” she giggles, “does he know about me?”

“That I was looking for a whore? No, it was a surprise, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why did you run away like that?”

I turned to face her, “because you weren’t what I had in mind.”

Miriam jumps down and I hear the stall door open and close again, and then the sound of hip hop come pounding in before the door closes and the music’s reduced to a series of thumps.

I open the stall door and it stops midway. Miriam throws it open all the way and pushes me into the stall, closing the door behind her.

“Hi, Joan,” she says. “Did you think I’d left?”

“You’re fucking insane, aren’t you?”

“I want you to write about me,” she says.

“Is this what this is about?” I ask her indignantly. “Miriam, I’m not a writer. I just drink coffee and smoke cigarettes.”

“And fuck,” she adds, pushing me against the cool stall wall and bringing her lips to my ear, “don’t forget you fuck.”

She licks my ear lobe and traces my jaw line with her lips.

“You never answered me, Joan,” she whispers, “how would you fuck me?”

Her hand slides up the inside of my thigh, under the gray jersey dress and then higher, until her finger is grazing the space between my thong and leg.

I push her away from me and she pushes hard against me, “what, Joan?” she asks, “why do you run away?”

“I’m busy now,” I whisper.

Miriam kisses me. Her lips are hot; she pushes mine apart with her tongue. I feel it over mine, moving slowly. Her right hand has slipped around me, pulling me closer, pinning me between her and the wall. Her other hand has reached into the low cut of the dress and pulled it to the side, so my tit is exposed. I feel her cold fingers and hot palm cup it; she pulls away from my lips and brings her mouth to it. Her hand is now pushing away the other side of my dress so both my tits are out. She’s moving from one to the other, still holding me to her.

I let my head rest against the wall and finally bring my hands up to touch her. Her back is warm. My hand slips under her little black tube top and I pull it up to see her tits, those little nipples I’d seen earlier.

She brings her mouth to mine again and presses against me so our tits are sandwiched together between us. I put my arm around her, reach under her skirt; her ass is soft and full. I hadn’t noticed before when she had that skirt on.

Her fingers have found my thong again and she’s playing lightly over it with her fingernails. I moan as she begins to kiss my neck.

The door opens and the music fills the room. There’s the sound of stilettos on the floor, but I’m not listening. Miriam is sucking on my earlobe and I can hear her moans distinctly; her fingers are under my thong, playing my clit and I’m playing with her asshole.

Someone pushes the stall door open: “oops, sorry,” she says when she sees us and closes it again.
I pull my hand out from Miriam’s skirt, “Miriam…”

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she whispers in my ear, her finger now inside my wet cunt.

“Yes,” I say, “yes, but not here. Come to my hotel.”

“And your boyfriend or whatever?”

“He can watch.”

A Hooker Named Miriam

In 2005, Weyco, a medical benefits company, began its aggressive campaign against smokers by giving employees fifteen months to kick the habit. Employees who failed to quit were fired. When challenged on the topic, management cited health care costs as the driving force behind their decision: smokers, after all, are a walking liability. Companies around the country have followed suit.

Smoking is not merely a factor in employment. Slowly but surely, legislation has criminalized the habit. Some years ago, the editor of Vanity Fair got fined $2,000 just for having an ashtray on his desk. Almost all states have banned smoking in restaurants and bars completely. The “smoking section” is outside—and not in the front, either. You have to go out back, by the dumpsters.

Nevada is the only state you can really smoke anywhere anymore. So we come here every once in a while to let go, unwind, sit back and indulge a host of bad habits, among them smoking.

I light a cigarette and look around, leaning against the bar. A few tables are arranged before me over the ugly carpeting; it’s a nice casino, with a lot of room. There are no windows in casinos, no windows and no clocks. Time ceases to exist here and one is consumed by his most primal urges: conquest and possession.

It’s in the eyes of the men and women playing Texas hold ‘em a few feet away. It’s in the eyes of the men and women circling around the top players waiting for some scraps of some sort. Hunger, need, desire, greed. Sin, sin, sin.

No one knows how Texas hold ‘em came about. Legend has it that it originated in the 1900s in Robstown and that it came to Vegas via a group of gambling Texans, one of them the legendary Doyle Texas Dolly Brunson. In the late sixties, the game was only played at the Golden Nugget. But because the poker room was such a sty, it never took root. Eventually the pros moved over to the Dunes on the Strip, where they milked the wealthy and inexperienced tourists. By the 70s, the no-limit variation of the game had become the main event of the newly-formed World Series of Poker Tournament.

“What can I do for you?” I hear the bartender ask me and I turn around to the stereotype good-looking guy you always read about in novels with a female protagonist, the one you can never find in real life. True to genre, there he is: all electric blue eyes, blonde hair brushed casually over his forehead, and die-for smile on his lips.

“What can you do for me?” I ask scanning the name on his breast, “What can you do for me, Brad? To start: is that really your name?”

“Yes,” he answers, smile widening. He switches my ashtray with an impeccable one without taking his eyes off mine. The motion makes me think of the one-handed bra removal. I suddenly see him, in a dorm room at LVU, charming eager freshman girls with his handful of tried and tested, no-fail tricks.

“Do you play poker, Brad?”

“Sometimes,” he replies, giving the bar a swift wipe. “You?”

“I don’t take to things without a clear history.”

“Martinis have a clear history.”

“Really. And just what is their history?”

“The martini comes from the Martinez, a gin and vermouth drink invented by Jerry Thomas in 1862 in California. According to legend, he had a regular who commuted every morning from San Francisco to Martinez, so he made him this drink to warm him up and named it ‘Martinez’, for the destination. Eventually, when the strength of the alcohol diminished due to government control, less stuff was needed to make it easy to go down, so they got rid of the maraschino cherry syrup and other sweetening ingredients. Eventually, vodka replaced gin. And there you have it, the martini.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Can I offer a martini?”

“Actually, I’ll have a café Americano. Extra sugar. White sugar, none of that sweetener stuff.”

“Coffee and cigarettes, then you must be a writer.”

I laugh and sip my coffee.

“Writers used to live at cafes,” Brad says, “but they banned smoking, so they moved into bars. Then they banned smoking there too, so they moved into casinos. It’s the last safe haven. I’m surprised there aren’t tons of people sitting around with laptops and little notebooks.”

“The last safe haven!” a man next to me interjects. “I used to write.”

“Oh?” I look at Brad, but he’s busied himself with the order.

“Then I realized I couldn’t do it.”

“You couldn’t write a novel?” I ask.

“No, I did write a novel. But I burned it. I can write, see. But I realized then, I shouldn’t.”

Brad puts the coffee in front of me.

“What was it about?” he asks the man.

“I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“Everything is part of The Story, it’s not real, but we tell it and it becomes real, real as this bar.”

I sip my coffee.

“We trap ourselves with our fictions and dreams. They feed the illusion and they keep us asleep. We are imprisoned,” he says, looking directly at me, “we are not aware of what truly is. Our senses are flawed and fiction and stories only add to our inability to perceive.”

“But literature,” says Brad, “doesn’t great literature open your eyes to new experience?”

“Is that experience enlightening? Or is it merely the account of another somnambulist stumbling along his idea of reality?” the man responds. “No, there is no merit in literature, my dear. The Toltecs—the Toltecs believed that you have to live the life your father lived: as a warrior. You have to fight the alien parasites that are The Story. The Story is not really yours, not really you no matter what you tell yourself. The Story was given to you by your parents and mentors and people in your life; it feeds on you and you have to fight it. You have to fight the parasites.”


He slams his drink and looks at me, “I don’t know.”

He gets up, slams a twenty on the bar and walks away.

The Story is a parasite. It is inside me right now, pressed against my diaphragm, its yet-unwritten aspects tangling their tendril-like loose-ends with my viscera. A few tables away, my husband and some others are playing Texas hold ‘em. Over here, I am being eaten by the parasites.

“We get odd characters like this occasionally,” says Brad. “They keep things interesting.”

Brad doesn’t understand. Brad’s a Barbie boy in a Barbie world.

“Hey, Brad.” Speaking of Barbie, here’s the life-size version. The place is almost worse than California. Almost because even though the tits are fake, the faces aren’t. They all have something, some imperfection that has been left alone and this imperfection alone, juxtaposed with the impossibility of their dimensions, makes them beautiful.

“Lee, how’s it?” Brad replies, turning around and getting a glass, “usual?”

“Naw, it’s been a shit night, I need somethin’ to slap me awake. Gimme some tequila.”

“Lost some money?” I ask her.

She smiles, “oh, I made money. But it was pullin’ teeth gettin’ it.”

“You be careful, Lee,” Brad warns, and I realize he’s not talking about her night; he’s talking about the conversation.

Lee’s a hooker. I look her over; she’s dressed in a short jean skirt, a tit-popping shirt and cowboy boots. It’s the Jessica Simpson look, safe but still skanky enough to do the trick. Or turn a trick, rather.

See, prostitution is legal in Nevada, but not all Nevada. According to Nevada Revised Statute 244-345, the license board in a county with a population of 400,000 or higher may not license any houses of ill fame or any person for the purpose of engaging in prostitution. Clark County, where Las Vegas is located, is the only county in Nevada at present with a population exceeding the limit imposed by this regulation.

Lee downs the tequila.

“OK,” she says, “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you later maybe.”

She turns to me, “it was nice meetin’ you.”

“She’s really nice,” I say to Brad after she’s gone.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little quiet, “she is.”

“Hey, Brad, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.” The smile is back again.

“I want to be with a girl tonight. Can you help me?”

“I know a lot of great pick-up lines,” he jokes.

“No,” I say, without smiling, “you know what I mean.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. I serve drinks at a casino. That’s all.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Eight years.”

“Then you must know someone who can help me.”

An older man in a hat and aviators comes to the bar and takes a seat a few stools from me. Brad straightens up and walks over to him, “how’s the night going, Don?” he asks the stranger.

“Still young, still young,” Don replies, putting out his cigarette. “Cuba libre.”

“Coming up.”

“How you doin’?” Don asks me, looking over.

“Frustrated.” I reply.

“That’s no way to be. Brad, give the lady another of what she’s having.” Don reaches over, “I’m Don, I play to win, but sometimes I don’t. I don’t get frustrated. I just wait for the next hand.”

“Well, Don,” I say, “I’m Joan. And you’re my next hand.”

“Is that right?” he asks smiling.

“Joan here’s a writer,” interjects Brad.

Where did Brad get that idea? A woman drinks coffee and smokes and suddenly she’s a writer? If I’d known it was that easy, I wouldn’t have gone to college.

I ignore Brad, “Don, I’m going to be with a woman tonight.”

“I fuckin’ love you!” he says laughing.

“In order to do that, I need a woman.”

“What kind of woman you want?”

“A beautiful woman. An interesting woman,” I say, “a real woman.”

Don lights another cigarette, “fake women are no fun.” He chuckles.

“Come on, Don, help me out here.”

Don looks at Brad, “call up Miriam, kid. Joanie needs to meet Miriam.”

Brad looks hesitant.

“Call Miriam, goddamnit before I fire you.”

“Are you his boss?” I ask Don.

“It’s an expression, Joanie,” he puffs on the cigarette. “Oh… I think you’ll love Miriam. Shit, I love Miriam. Brad! Get Miriam to come over here! I want Joanie to meet her!”

“Brad, are you being a cock-block?” a sing-song voice asks behind us. “Who’s Johnny?”

“I’m Joan.” I say and spin on the stool until we’re face to face.

Miriam has long, straight auburn hair and bangs. It makes me think a bit of Winnie Cooper off The Wonder Years, only with reddish hair and hazel eyes, a too-short skirt, knee-high stiletto boots and a cropped white top. She has no tits and isn’t wearing a bra, so I can see her nipples through the t-shirt.

She’s looking at me the way women look at each other, with a quarter of admiration and three-fourths envy. She doesn’t know I’m not on her turf. She doesn’t know I am her turf.

“Joanie here is looking for someone like you, Miriam,” Don tells her, puffing on his cigarette. “She’s been asking all night for a girl like you.”

“And what would she do with a girl like me?” Miriam asks him.

“I’d fuck you,” I respond.

“Miriam, do you want a drink?” Brad asks.

“No,” Miriam takes the stool next to me and comes really close and lifts my face with a finger, “is that what you want, Joan?”

I sip my coffee.

“How would you fuck me?”

I’d fuck her hard. I’d hurt her. I’d pinch her nipples until I heard her scream. I’d slap her pretty face until that smug, whore look fell off it.

“Surprise, is it?” she asks, taking away her hand, “or is it you don’t really know? Is this new to you, Joan? Have you ever been with a woman?”

“Joanie’s a writer,” says Don, “a damn good one, aren’t you Joanie?”

“What do you write, Joan?” Miriam asks me.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t write. You only fuck.” Miriam takes one of my cigarettes from the pack on the table. “OK, then. When do you want to fuck me?”

“I don’t,” I say, pulling a ten out of my wallet and setting it in front of Brad, who’s staring at us without moving. I get up and leave.

The room is dark when I walk in and I leave the light off. I undress and get in bed and begin to wonder why Don wanted me to meet Miriam. Of all women, why her? She was nothing like I’d imagined a hooker should be. She was a hooker; there was no doubt about that. But I’d been thinking about someone more like Lee. It wasn’t that Miriam wasn’t sexy; she was sexy, in her way.

She just wasn’t what I was looking for.

So why Miriam?

Because she was real. Miriam wasn’t like Lee; she doesn’t make your fantasy happen. Miriam has it on her terms, whatever it is. What are her terms? How would she do it?

I think about her sitting on that stool in the casino bar, in those cheap-looking boots, that little translucent top. I think about her nipples that I could just barely see through it.

“How would you fuck me, Joan?” she asks me, running her tongue over her lips. They’re coated in strawberry champagne lipgloss, or some other disgusting combination and her breath is smoky, like the bar.

“How would you fuck me?”

I part my legs and my hand trails down over my stomach. How would I fuck you… I wouldn’t fuck you, Miriam. I wouldn’t.

I pull her hair and bring her to her knees, off that barstool, on the tacky carpet that decorates the bar. I push her skirt up until it’s around her waist. She’s wearing nothing underneath.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Miriam?”

She stays on hands and knees on the ground, her head bent and I pull he pony tail again until her head is lifted, until her back is arched.

“You want me, don’t you, Miriam?” I slap her skinny ass. “Don’t you?”

I stroke my pussy thinking about Miriam on her knees, waiting. I run my other hand over my tits. I think about her lips, strawberry champagne, parting as she waits.

I’d make you wait, Miriam. I’d make you wait until you couldn’t wait anymore.

I flip on my belly, my hand still playing lightly on my clit, teasing myself. I get on all fours on the bed, shrug the sheets off.

“Give it to me, Joan,” I imagine her moaning.

I lick my finger and bring it back, this time over my back, so I can thrust it easily into myself.

You like that, don’t you, Miriam? Yes, you like that. You want more. Another finger. And another finger. Beg, Miriam. Beg for me to fuck you.

Fuck me.

I can’t hear you.

“Fuck me!” I scream.

The lights come on; I look over my shoulder and see Thomas standing at the threshold, leaning against the wall, his cock pushing against his pants. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

I raise my eyes to his, “so?” I ask, “are you going to fuck me?”

He walks into the room, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants and his shirt. With a move of my head, I throw my hair over my back and look at his reflection on the glass of the painting over the bed.

He runs a hand over my ass and then slaps it hard. I think I feel his cock on my thigh for a moment, but then the heat diminishes and there’s nothing. I try to look over my shoulder, but he takes my hair in his hand and pulls my head back so my eyes are on the wall.

I feel his grasp release my hair and then my eyes are forced shut by the force of something being tied around my head.

I see black and the little streaks of light that filter in around the blindfold. There’s no sound.

I feel his fingers on my clit. Fingers or lips, I can’t tell and I don’t care. It feels good. Then his tongue, slightly circling my cunt. I want him to thrust it inside me, so I can feel it wiggle against the folds of my pussy, a real tease. I reach back and touch his head, as to insinuate; he pushes my hand away.

He stops. I turn to look, moving my head up so maybe I can see through the slit between my nose and cheek but he takes my hair and straightens my head so I’m looking forward again. He takes one of my hands and then the other; I fall against the bed. He pulls my hands over my head and I feel him tie something around them.

He’s over me. I feel his weight on my back, my thighs struggle under me. His breath is on my neck. As I pull yourself up, I feel my pores open with the shallow gusts of breath against my back. The pressure on my legs releases as he pulls himself up and off me.

I feel his hands on my ass; they run up my sides and slide under me until they’re cupping my tits. He flips me over easily and I stretch my legs.

I feel his breath on my thighs, closer and closer to my pussy until his tongue is on my clit again. I moan, one ounce of pleasure and two-thirds of frustration.

“I want your cock.”

His tongue digs deeper, teasing me, slipping over me without rhythm or focus until I can no longer register the pleasure; I’m desensitized to the motions.

“Fuck me!”

I bring my hands down to reach him, but I can’t. He pushes them up and slaps my tits. The sting echoes over my body.

“You want my cock?”

“Yes,” I say to him, “YES!”

And I feel it rush into me hard and deep. He pulls out, so the head of his dick is nestled in the folds of my cunt. I moan, frustrated, and draw my legs around him. I want to force him in, to make him fuck me.

Not yet, Joan.

I’m powerless. One inch. Two inches. Out. One inch. Three inches. Out. I thrust against him.

And then all the way again. He starts fucking me like I want it: hard, without stopping. He puts one of my legs over his shoulder and pounds into me hard and deep. It hurts; it hurts good. He puts my other leg over his shoulder and pounds. I can hear my body slap against his with every stroke.
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. And then faster, slap-slap-slap-slap-slap. His balls are slapping against my ass.

I feel his hand over my mouth; I didn’t realize I’d been screaming.

He rolls us over the bed, so I’m on top, facing away from him. I put my feet down on the bed and lift myself into a crouch so I can maneuver myself on his cock. I start to bounce on it. His hands grip my hips and he thrusts up to meet me, with his cock deep inside me.

I slow down and stop so I’m hovering over him, he takes my hair with one hand and pulls, to bring me down but I resist. I slip out of the tie he’s used around my wrists and then remove the scarf from my face.

I look over my shoulder at him and then sink so his cock is inside me and then I begin to move up and down, faster and faster. I watch his cock go in and out of my cunt; it glistens with how wet I am. I love watching myself get fucked like this. Seeing his cock inside me makes me go faster, until my thighs can’t handle it anymore and I fall to my knees like I’m riding him. I imagine him as a horse, then, as I bounce on him. I lean forward so he can get a view of my pussy and ass; I feel his cock against my g-spot.

Moans—mine or his. Mine and his. I’m riding him hard. The sight turns him on and I feel his cock throbbing inside me. M vagina contracts around his dick. I contract, he expands; then I feel his cock contract and I know he’s close before he whispers, “I’m close.”

I’m close, too, but he comes first. It’s the feeling of his hot cum shooting into me that sends me reeling and I come hard after, my whole body still except for my cunt that shakes with my orgasm long after it’s gone.

I fall back on the bed, wet with sweat.