Stop & Frisky
Dec. 11th, 2015 01:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonOf course I drop the $5 bill just as my bus pulls up late and of course the wind snatches it from my reach before sending it fluttering into traffic. A harrowing round of human Frogger in the rush hour traffic ensues and after narrowly dodging headlights backed by a few tons of velocity I return back to the sidewalk no richer for my efforts. At the bus stop I watch the 124 ramble off and I've got 40 minutes until the next one.
Immediately I begin shouting at the Big Hippy in the Sky to vent some frustration. I wave a fist as big as a challenge to the violet clouds and setting sun. It was a fair fight I demanded from the Great Impossible Above, one on human terms with none of that omnipotent bullshit.
The Great Impossible remains silent but in its place wailed a police siren as my world began to strobe pulses of red and blue panic.
Rewind a half hour ago. Work done, clock out, no car, and huff it on foot a few miles to rendezvous with the Contact. The Contact has a sack on hold for me and a deadline with which I can reach it. No worries, I know a shortcut down the tracks known to professional taggers and hobo lifers exclusively. Shave a few clicks off the hump.
Arrive on time, make the deal, stash the sack in an empty bottle of athlete's foot powder treatment, sample the wares - Blueberry Kush rolls down the throat smooth and the drama goes numb in my head. Contact has places and people to do, s/he shows me the door with a smile and off I go. Two miles and 45 minutes later I'm losing my last 5 to the wind with the Law wanting to know what the bald headed guy is doing shouting at the Big Hippy in the Sky.
I give my spiel to the law about losing the 5 and missing the bus and how I next lost my shit but I'm all good now requiring neither service nor protection from those sworn to do just that. The cops aren't impressed with my plight though. Word is that there's been a male prostitute who fits my description (bald, beefy going on chunky, and prone to shouting on the side of the road). Word is there's some maniac who was running around the traffic like a damn fool and wearing a t-shirt that seemed suspiciously tight.
Well of course I've been many a things in this world but I've only whored myself out twice... one to Uncle Sam and that other time, you know, when the countess wouldn't give me back my soul otherwise. All of which I begin to explain to the good officers assembled but none of which seems to sway their opinion that they've got their man cold.
"If you're not a man-whore why you talk like one?" The younger of the two cops demands.
"Years in the customer service industry, Sir." I answer with a platinum rewards worthy smile.
"Oh yeah, well if you're not a mad cock for hire then prove it." The older of the two cops sneers at me and one cannot help but notice the slow reach of his hand towards the holster.
"How?" I ask shrugging helpless one would to a non-platinum rewards card member.
"Dance sexy for us." The older cop answers sans delay.
"Whuh-what?" I stammer.
"Dance sexy for us... if you manage to not turn us on we'll know you're telling the truth." The older cop explains with an eye roll as if it was all so obvious.
"I... I don't have any music."
The older cops gives a nod to the younger one who grasping the situation runs back to the squad car, hops in, and a moment later the latest Psy single is blaring out over the PA.
"But... but I'm not sure how this disproves my being a sex worker, Sir."
The older cop quick draws the pistol out of his holster, "I said dance you son of a bitch. Dance sexy like you mean it."
"'Kay." I mumble and start to do me the Caucasian Hustle like it's Lady's night in Nowheresville, Wisconsin.
The older cop cocks the hammer back on the pistol, "No! You're not trying hard enough. I said sexy and you're giving me Prom Night for the Short Bus."
I gulp and amp up the nasty. Shaking my flat ass up to the older cop, gyrating my hips, shimmying up and down as I pace around him with the eyes of the matador upon his prey. I go all out, grinding hips up the bus stop sign, swinging around it with wild abandon, only to let go at the song's end and land before the cop in a pounce from which I rise up like smoke a whisper's distance from his lips.
The older cop doesn't so much as blink, the gun remains steady in his hand a long moment before reholstering it.
"Alright," the cop says stoically, "I wasn't turned on at all. You, Doug?"
"Na-uh," the younger cop says shrugging bored as he returns from the squad car.
"Yeah, don't quit'cher day job, asshole." The older cop reaches behind, pulls out a wallet, tucks a crisp, clean $5 bill into the collar of my t-shirt and orders, "Now I want your ass on the next bus out of here and next time try not to dress like a total meat-slut, huh?"
With that the cops depart, twenty minutes later the next bus shows up, and I board it exhausted. From the window of my seat I watch as across the road from us there's a bald, heavy set man in a thong who stops shouting at the passing cars long enough to pluck a $5 bill that just blew in out of nowhere on the wind.
And so the story goes...
Immediately I begin shouting at the Big Hippy in the Sky to vent some frustration. I wave a fist as big as a challenge to the violet clouds and setting sun. It was a fair fight I demanded from the Great Impossible Above, one on human terms with none of that omnipotent bullshit.
The Great Impossible remains silent but in its place wailed a police siren as my world began to strobe pulses of red and blue panic.
Rewind a half hour ago. Work done, clock out, no car, and huff it on foot a few miles to rendezvous with the Contact. The Contact has a sack on hold for me and a deadline with which I can reach it. No worries, I know a shortcut down the tracks known to professional taggers and hobo lifers exclusively. Shave a few clicks off the hump.
Arrive on time, make the deal, stash the sack in an empty bottle of athlete's foot powder treatment, sample the wares - Blueberry Kush rolls down the throat smooth and the drama goes numb in my head. Contact has places and people to do, s/he shows me the door with a smile and off I go. Two miles and 45 minutes later I'm losing my last 5 to the wind with the Law wanting to know what the bald headed guy is doing shouting at the Big Hippy in the Sky.
I give my spiel to the law about losing the 5 and missing the bus and how I next lost my shit but I'm all good now requiring neither service nor protection from those sworn to do just that. The cops aren't impressed with my plight though. Word is that there's been a male prostitute who fits my description (bald, beefy going on chunky, and prone to shouting on the side of the road). Word is there's some maniac who was running around the traffic like a damn fool and wearing a t-shirt that seemed suspiciously tight.
Well of course I've been many a things in this world but I've only whored myself out twice... one to Uncle Sam and that other time, you know, when the countess wouldn't give me back my soul otherwise. All of which I begin to explain to the good officers assembled but none of which seems to sway their opinion that they've got their man cold.
"If you're not a man-whore why you talk like one?" The younger of the two cops demands.
"Years in the customer service industry, Sir." I answer with a platinum rewards worthy smile.
"Oh yeah, well if you're not a mad cock for hire then prove it." The older of the two cops sneers at me and one cannot help but notice the slow reach of his hand towards the holster.
"How?" I ask shrugging helpless one would to a non-platinum rewards card member.
"Dance sexy for us." The older cop answers sans delay.
"Whuh-what?" I stammer.
"Dance sexy for us... if you manage to not turn us on we'll know you're telling the truth." The older cop explains with an eye roll as if it was all so obvious.
"I... I don't have any music."
The older cops gives a nod to the younger one who grasping the situation runs back to the squad car, hops in, and a moment later the latest Psy single is blaring out over the PA.
"But... but I'm not sure how this disproves my being a sex worker, Sir."
The older cop quick draws the pistol out of his holster, "I said dance you son of a bitch. Dance sexy like you mean it."
"'Kay." I mumble and start to do me the Caucasian Hustle like it's Lady's night in Nowheresville, Wisconsin.
The older cop cocks the hammer back on the pistol, "No! You're not trying hard enough. I said sexy and you're giving me Prom Night for the Short Bus."
I gulp and amp up the nasty. Shaking my flat ass up to the older cop, gyrating my hips, shimmying up and down as I pace around him with the eyes of the matador upon his prey. I go all out, grinding hips up the bus stop sign, swinging around it with wild abandon, only to let go at the song's end and land before the cop in a pounce from which I rise up like smoke a whisper's distance from his lips.
The older cop doesn't so much as blink, the gun remains steady in his hand a long moment before reholstering it.
"Alright," the cop says stoically, "I wasn't turned on at all. You, Doug?"
"Na-uh," the younger cop says shrugging bored as he returns from the squad car.
"Yeah, don't quit'cher day job, asshole." The older cop reaches behind, pulls out a wallet, tucks a crisp, clean $5 bill into the collar of my t-shirt and orders, "Now I want your ass on the next bus out of here and next time try not to dress like a total meat-slut, huh?"
With that the cops depart, twenty minutes later the next bus shows up, and I board it exhausted. From the window of my seat I watch as across the road from us there's a bald, heavy set man in a thong who stops shouting at the passing cars long enough to pluck a $5 bill that just blew in out of nowhere on the wind.
And so the story goes...