Jacque's invitation

Today I worked between Umberto and Hilda, a vendor I'd never met before. She's young, pretty, and she was wearing a low-cut blouse a little too big, and no brassiere. She sells art, and did a booming business. 

Whenever she bent over, a view of her cleavage was provided, and she bent over a lot. A few times she leaned way over to pick something up, and her breasts were visible all the way to the nipples and below.

When she was facing to the side, suddenly my fish display needed adjusting as I angled for another unobstructed view. When she was facing away and bent over just right, her untucked shirt was so loose I could sometimes see the bottom of her boobs from underneath.

I've had sex with women without seeing so much tit.

All day long, I saw as much as could be seen, which was plenty, while also trying to be nonchalant, so she wouldn't feel self-conscious. We even talked a little, but I can't remember about what.

♦ ♦ ♦  

On the other side of Umberto's table was Jacque the Green, and the three of us discussed our assorted wacko politics for a while. We're all happy to talk politics but none of us are much interested in listening, so that conversation didn't last long.

After a few laughs, Jacque invited me to his house sometime, for pizza and videos — so friendship rears its ugly head. Why anyone, especially someone who knows me, would invite me over for anything, I'll never know. It ought to be obvious that I'm not the outgoing and sociable sort.

We'd talked about noir a while back, though, and Jacque said he had a collection of old and noir movies on Betamax, which got my attention.

I asked if there'd be any talk of Amway, Shaklee, or Jesus, and he said no, so I said yes. I'm too poor to pass up a pizza and a movie if it's free. He gave me an address, and told me to show up Thursday night at 5-ish.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Again, we didn't see a single officer of the law today, and the effect is probably the opposite of what the cops expected. The drug dealers have temporarily relocated to different neighborhoods, and most of the  vendors who aren't American citizens have taken the weekend off.

You can still buy marijuana brownies at the pot table, though, because those guys are willing to go to jail for what they smoke and believe.

♦ ♦ ♦   

When my day selling fish was over, I came home and called the guy with the hairy ass — let's call him Harry — to clarify a few things.

"First off," I said, "my rate is $5 an hour, but this sounds like it won't take 10 minutes. There's a 4-hour minimum, so my fee is 20 bucks, OK?"

"That's reasonable," he said.

"I'll be in the city tomorrow night. Is that good for you?"

He said it was, gave his address and some brief bus instructions, and we agreed that I'd be there at 6:00.

"Now, either you provide the shaving necessities and rubber gloves, or I'll buy them and bill you."

"I've got shaving stuff," he said, "but I don't have any rubber gloves."

"I'll bring the gloves, then," I said. "Four bucks extra."

He agreed, which is four bucks more profit, because there are rubber gloves everywhere at Black Sheets, where I work on Mondays. They host orgies, once monthly, so there's a closet stuffed with rubber gloves. I'll just ask Bill and take a pair.

"I'd also appreciate it if you'd shower just before I get there."

"I'm planning to," he said.

"All righty then," I said. "See you tomorrow."

Yeah, I'll see more of you tomorrow then I really want to.

From Pathetic Life #22
Sunday, March 17, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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