Flawless.
She is a beautiful Italian woman, with Mediterranean coloring and black hair. Every article of her clothing fits her petite figure with stunning perfection. Never is a seam pulled or a buttonhole stressed. Her suits are the colors of Necco wafers.
Always high-heeled shoes: spectator pumps, peek-a-boo mules, ankle-strap stilettos. Always free from scuffs and marks. Always in a color that matches the lime green or peach pink or banana cream yellow suit.
Short, precisely cut hair. Eyebrows plucked into arched submission. Lined lips and fingernails lacquered in a matching color. Exactly drawn eyeliner.
"Hi. I'm Maria."
Upon her upper lip, there is a meticulously groomed pencil-thin mustache.
She smokes those ultra-long ultra-thin cigarettes that have a graphic band around the filter. Eves or Satins or Virginia Slims. She drinks Miller Lite directly from the can.
She makes wigs for living. She only uses real human hair.
"Sure, I'll have another," oozes the smirking, curled and delicately mustachioed mouth.
When she gets drunk, she giggles into her diminutive palm. She looks down demurely. And, eventually, she will lure a man into the ladies' room.
There, she will fellate him.
The general consensus is that she performs this service free for some, and for others, the charge is $25.
She usually only does it once a night. Usually.
"Maria's in the bathroom blowing someone."
Upon returning to her barstool, she clears her throat, shakes back her head, raises one eyebrow and lights one of those impossibly long cigarettes. Her hand rises to her hair, needlessly smoothing it.
"No. No one's sitting there. Please. Go right ahead."
Author's note: The only detail I have altered in this post is the name of the subject. "Maria" was a regular at a bar I used to frequent in downtown Cleveland. The only time I was not in the aforementioned bathroom alone was when my buddy accompanied me in order to hold my hair as I undrank shots called Flaming Dr. Peppers (or vice versa). That I will go to my grave never knowing the criteria upon which Maria's price scale was based is something I lament with vast woe.
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11 comments:
That was me Erin, minus the moustache. And those ultra long ciggies, they're called slut butts.
You might have seen Genet in the corner waiting for me to finish. He was the guy listening to his Ipod and smoking his brains out. You might have even spotted the 50 shots lined up in front of him. He was waiting for me... waiting before ordering a cab to sneakers for last call.
I thoroughly enjoyed this post by the way.
Or slut sticks.
One time in Thailand I got cranked on yam yam and ended up in a bar bathroom. It got pretty messy in there. I don't know if they were men women or cattle, and I didn't care.
It shouldn't matter. As long as the deeds being done, it shouldn't matter.
Freedom.
Lou Diamond Phillips & David Haselhoff
I was startled out of my slumber by the moustache reference also. This caused the same questions to spring to my mind as those raised by Ms. Hart (to Hart).
I loved the character. I can't tell whether I am thrilled or disturbed by the added information that Maria was based on a real person.
This character reminded me of the characters in one of my favorite books - Confederacy of Dunces.
I want to know more about Maria and how she interacts with others in the bar (other than just the blowjobs).
Once you suck me in with an interesting character like this, I am your bitch; you own me.
Pinky, I am your bitch; you OWE me.
I wonder if this is how a voyeur feels. It's like I walked in on something I know I'm not supposed to be seeing but my legs refuse to walk away.
I love you. I love you all.
And yes, this is a non-fiction, post. Every word is true--and the mustache was the most fascinating thing about that girl.
But why, people, why did she charge some and not others? She did not need the money.
(shlong, you're looking very enthusiastic these days)
(pdd--at least you're talking past tense)
(stephanie--remember the Saturday Afternoon Special ... Perhaps we, too, are the subject of someone's blog)
(flamingo--baby, I know what you like)
(shawnmonique--welcome and feel no guilt! I come only to showcase my fellow humans in the truest light)
Sometimes I'll throw one in a woman of the night, and they generally decide that money cannot possibly qualify as payment. At this point, I usually spray them down and run like hell.
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