Diner Obssesion

Diner Obsession

Mark Coleman

  In the diner, she ran the blintze in and out of her mouth like a miniscule, tartaric dick. Momentarily forgot her Post, I guess. Her lips moist. A bit of spittle here and there. She acted as though it belonged to the largest Negro in Africa. In and out. In and out. Upon exiting, she curled her tongue around the tip. The illusion was a pretty dull one, seeing that the tip was uniform with the rest of the slender member. Yet the way she went at it certainly didn’t lack gusto. The lactic marrow would have to disembogue at some point. And I figured that some point would be sooner than later.

  She half-closed her eyes then closed them all the way. Gave a little moan. I squinted at her from the semi-blindness of alcohol overindulgence. Took a sip of lukewarm coffee that had not been heated by a top-off. The waiter also refrained from refilling our water or asking how the food was. Assuming that he already knew the answer from the ecstatic way my date was eating. Not that I had set out on a proper date with her, just picked her up in some dive on Broadway.

  Showed me Tantric sex books she had bought earlier when she was doing the rounds with her shopping. Compulsive buy that she was eager to put into practice. I didn’t have a condom on me, but decided that the situation could be dealt with when it was come to. She bent her head back, and tried to deepthroat, giving a sudden, shocked gag. Eyes grew large and watery. I imagine someone had done this to her recently. And I’d wager you two-to-one that it was before the week(end) was out.

  It was 3 am on a Sunday morning. I didn’t see myself going to church, and figured I’d see how far this would go. The eggs in front of me were starting to get cold. The bacon somehow still sizzling. The cigarette I had lit (without the paper fully catching) long dead. The coffee went from lukewarm to lukecold. Hers drowned in creamer, and fed an inordinate amount of sugar. The cook peered out the wicket then stuck his head back in. The waiter still didn’t come, so, by way of jest, I asked her how her food was. She gurgled an unintelligible reply to which I smiled with nothing but the corners of my mouth.

  I got the Tabasco then saw the Cholula. Generously dowsed my eggs then dashed a finger of pepper on them. Lifted a forkful to my mouth; my eyes still fixed upon what was happening across from me. In addition to already being cold, the eggs were undercooked, and the probably Mexican-Blend-bag-cheese was not fully melted. I tried a piece of bacon, and faired slightly better with this. It had a nice crunch to it, at least. I was washing down a mouthful with the glass of water, which at this point was nothing but half an inch of dissolved ice, when I felt her shoeless foot in my crotch. I looked down, and there were her adolescent-flower-patterned-socked-toes massaging me in dexterous, little squeezes alternated with small circular motions.

  I wondered if she intended to bring me to a climax in this manner. After all, she had no way of knowing the amount of sweat and number of thrusts it would take to achieve that aim. I’ve never been able to ejaculate in a timely manner, and so much the worse if I was wearing protection.

   Sometimes it works out, and a girl will do those nasty things she’d obstinately deny ever having even thought of, (not to mention actually have partaken in) otherwise. And there she is, in a cinch, making strange, forbidden tableaux with me on the sheets just to get the spurt out. The springs, realizing the uncouth encounter above their heads, giving diminutive chirps opposed to the full-on nest-of-mice squeaks they would let out on a more appropriate occasion.

    There are strippers out there in both the shady and the high class joints who will offer you a handjob at the end of a round of lap dances. The session drawing to a close as the music begins to fade, and you pay for yet another. Hoping against all hope that some twinkle of non-monetary cupidity, or at least real human compassion, would enter her eyes in lieu of the faux lust and expected sensuality. But alas you’re not even ships that pass in the night for she is a siren surrounded by wreckage, and you’re nothing but a lousy bit of flotsam washed up at her feet. She gives insincere thank-you’s that she make sound like declarations of love to the sharply dressed men who present her with only-a-botanist-could-identify-flowers and expensive baubles, night after night.

  So, in some remorseful fit of jealousy, you follow your itching feet out the exit with maybe a crust of pre-come in your shorts, and a bit of a bun tied on. Take out your pack and chain-smoke your way to a rooming house where the fluorescent tubes flicker in the hall, and the bulbs are all burned out in your room. Sinking into bed unable to sleep with the stages still lit up in your head, and the tassels still spinning on fresh, cameo nipples that look to be straight off of the harp strewn assembly line.

  Beating your head against the wall in half-dream, and repeating the more mellifluous of the stage names. Maybe a Melody or a Bettie that recalls a more famous Bettie sans bondage. Dressed in apricot colored and scented panties that those fortunate enough to be close to without a barrier of heavy precipitation could attest to. Say she’s straight out of a jojoba bath, perfumed and through with a time consuming toilet, and she hasn’t dressed beyond those cotton divinities to which you would willingly build a shrine, and pass the rest of your days in secluded worship.

  Maybe, she sits in front of a miniature looking glass that sits atop a dresser containing letters from old flames and postcards from a dead grandmother, and slowly brushes her hair with an azure-tinted silver hilted brush. An heirloom of sorts from a mother that works at a more conventional grind (or, maybe, still a housewife to a husband who has not aged well.) Then she purses her lips and applies a conservative amount of lavender lipstick followed by a smidgen of rouge. Maybe, she has on more than a pair of work-write-off-panties, though they can still be seen where a kimono swimming with Koi and lotus—or, and this seems the most romantic scenario, Oshidori—parts. Then again, maybe its just a simple cotton-to-silk dressing gown, and maybe, and far more likely, no such Horai nonsense takes place, but she finishes her toilet in front of some mindless soap that cliffhangs on the commercial breaks. All that babble-babble for the lonely. But you doubt she’s lonely.

  Sitting there with a dog-eared, but rich, boyfriend. Painting her nails the mellow pink that adorned them tonight with a cigarette perched in the crenel of a marble ashtray. Another heirloom? Eating cold pizza from a generic pizza box; the kind all the mom-and-pops seem to carry in Hollywood? What floor? How often does she take air if at all? Does her beau shell out a pittance more to have admirers-from-the-club-flowers in pots lynched from the balcony? Does he content/placate her with diamonds? How many facets? How often does she go to the movies? Does she get off on all that sappy tripe they force feed the fairer sex? Does she drink often? Does she have a problem with cocaine? Whose lockers are hers bordered by at the club? Do they ever have disputes? Does she apologetically decorate the interior with yellowing valentines?
  She sits there, and looks tired. She hasn’t masked the lines on either side of her mouth nor the dark circles under her eyes. She had an appointment with her chiropractor that she had to cancel because the owner called her in to cover a shift. Her back and neck ache from pole tricks. She doesn’t want to go in, but she needs the money. Some of the guys in there spend a lot. More than they can afford. Sometimes, their whole paycheck. Just for a duck and rub from an ass and a pair of tits.