Continually getting ideas to write short stories at times gets a touch difficult and when I get a brain freeze like I’ve been having lately, even sticking my head in an oven won’t thaw it out. So what I sometimes do to get the grey cells working again, is take myself out; meet some real live people, not like the ones I make up in my head; I mean real live flesh and blood characters like this high class, top of the line, if you have to ask how much she costs; then you cant afford to hire this particular prostitute.
This interview took place a number of years ago. It was night time; I was in a lounge I won’t mention and a city I won’t mention either, when I met Talulu Tight-Thighs – not that anything happened between this woman and me but sometimes things can be taken the wrong way, and hey, the last thing I need is something that seems incriminating when it’s not the least bit true - after all, I'm a married man. I’m not worried about Talulu saying anything because as far as she’s concerned, to use her own words, “Whatever happens in the bedroom honey; stays in the bedroom.”
Before I let Talulu relate to you in her own words about her life, let me tell you a little bit about this real sweet mama; especially what she looks like, since it wouldn’t be appropriate to post a photo of her on my Blog, even though she said it would most likely be good for business. Hey, I’m here to promote myself as an accomplished writer (almost finished the “great Canadian novel" – catchy title – might even use it) but hmm, if she gave me 10% of whatever she pulls in, I just might reconsider because being a writer and an artist; paydays when they happen, are usually pretty thin; not even enough cash to wear a small hole in my pocket.
The night I met Talulu, she was alone and half standing up at the bar – by that I mean, her well-formed ass, we’re talking buns of steel, was half sitting on a tall bar stool. Her back was turned to me but just the same, the way she stood, the way she moved, I could tell she had an animal living inside her and it was on the prowl; we’re talking a tiger in the jungle during mating season. She was in heat; most likely permanent heat; fangs and claws, fur and a long twitchy tail; ravenous and ready to devour; her main course consisted of men. Didn’t matter if they were fat, skinny, hairy or bald, had a pimple on their ass or not; she was more than happy to give them the ride of their lives – for a price of course; a big price – after all, she’s the Rolls Royce of hookers. And I knew, before my feet even reached the bar, she was just the person I was looking for; a real live hooker for a real live interview. Any woman who looked like that and moved like that just from behind – I knew she had to have some wonderful rich stories tucked away in her double-G bra and tender-tight thong.
Now getting an interview with a hooker may not be that difficult if you have some money to spend but the amount of money I had tucked away in my best pair of faded jeans wouldn’t have been enough for two minutes of her time, even if she was giving it to me with her panties down around her ankles dropping a steamin’ sixteen coiler in the little girl’s room. I’m not a bad looking guy and my personality is fairly decent – only three or four women have ever thrown a glass of beer in my face or slapped it. You might say I’ve got a touch of the Blarney – the gift of gab to a certain degree if you know what I mean. Some macho, handsome, muscled-up dude might saunter up to the bar and casually say to her in a voice that would melt 10 pounds of frozen butter, “Can I buy the lady a drink” and think she’d be thrilled that he’d be coming on to her, but I knew better. I’d have to really impress her, get her tight little stretchy thong in a knot if I was going to get any kind of an interview.
So, sidling up the bar and casually planting my ass on the stool next to hers, I nonchalantly said, “Can I buy the lady a drink?
Now, most men would have fallen off their stools and flicked around on the floor like slippery dead fish, when she said in a voice smokier than the Smokey Mountains, “Thank you, I believe I will have another.”
Nodding to the bartender who had a face shaped like a weasel’s and a hairdo like a rat; the long skinny tail of tightly braided hair tied with a tiny lavender ribbon hung down the middle of his back, I smoothly said, “You heard the lady. “And make mine the same.”
I could feel the eyes of every male in the dimly lit lounge boring into my back like sharp pointed stilettos and I could smell the testosterone and pheromones rushing towards me, desperately yearning to know my secret. I knew what they were thinking – it was pretty obvious – they were wishing they were me. Every man in the place would have given their left nut to be sitting next to Talulu Tight-Thighs.
If I thought she had animal magnetism from behind; Talulu’s frontage was drop dead gorgeous – not only was she built for a good solid bed from behind; she was so well endowed in the front, a mattress wouldn’t have been necessary. Her heat was radiating and encapsulated my body; like a panting dog, I was careful not to step on my tongue when I made myself more comfortable on the stool.
When the drinks arrived, I raised my glass and looking over the sugary brim into her warm milk chocolate eyes I said, “Be damned! Here’s to the best looking woman me or any other man in existence has ever laid eyes on.”
Clinking her glass against mine, she pursed her soft pouty lips together, making a kissing sound; then smiling broadly she said, “I don’t give freebees honey.”
Hell, I don’t know whether she knew or not but she damned near gave me a freebee right then and there. Looking deep into those dreamy bedroom eyes, hearing her voice as rich as gold and feasting my eyes on her spectacular body that would have put Helen of Troy to shame, I damn near came in my pants.
Now, what the bartender and all the perspiring and drooling men in the lounge didn’t realize was that I’d already made an appointment to meet Talulu. She’d never given an interview before and thought the idea was quite interesting. Like she said, “Honey, even I need good publicity.” To be continued...
No comments:
Post a Comment