Girls and Food

We didn't have free love, that is to say the best looking girls still

wanted to get married. We did have dirty whores, and that suited me

fine. It was a whole different aesthetic with the whores, as it was

for the girls choosing between rat-bastards and squares, between

druggie management majors and yippie guitarists. The best looking

whore in the world would be disgusting if she didn't fuck everything

with three legs. As a whore though, she was beautiful. The ugliest

girl looking to get married probably couldn't pull enough dick to be a

whore if she tried. That is unless she actually, truly whored herself

out. For cash. She probably wouldn't pull too much of that either.

Bob's party had a dance floor. It was the dining room because that's

where they put the stereo, the table in the kitchen with the booze,

the pretty girls sitting around in the living room with the yippies

and the management majors. The whores were on the dance floor. I was

dancing. We were dancing, stopping to drink or run outside for a

cigarette, then dancing again, fast, to Planet Patrol or Michael

Jackson.

Some chick was out there with a bottle of Kharkov vodka, taking a

drink straight and putting the bottle to my lips, pouring it down my

throat. She was a big, fat whore. I was in love.

Her hair was greased up and dried hard as a rock, folded and pilled

up high, poking all over in the back, and every time I tried to touch

it she'd slap my hand away and put the bottle in my mouth. All I

wanted to do was see if I could break off on of those spikes in the

back. I put both hands on her big, fat ass instead.

She had a tattoo across her chest, and it showed above the low

neckline of her shirt and stretched every time her big, bouncing tits

went down. I had no idea what it was, but it was colorful and she let

me touch it, putting the bottle in my mouth every time I did.

"Mule," someone said behind me and grabbed my arm.

"Fuck off."

"Mule, we gotta dip."

It was Phil. Hester was behind him looking through the living room

and out the open front door.

"It's cops, Mule."

"Bull shit. Bob just wants everyone to leave so he can go to sleep.

"No really, look."

I looked and saw the silent cherries outside in the street. Closer,

in the living room, the pretty girls had each picked out a management

major to kick their ass later in the night. The yippies were sitting

in a circle, smoking.

"Well shit, I can be in here drinking. That's legal. Bob might get

fucked but I don't care."

"Hester's got that bud."

Hester was still looking outside.

"Fine, go."

"Drink," the whore said and tried to get the bottle into Phil's

mouth. He smacked it away and pulled me out of the room.

"What the hell! I could have fucked her," I said outside.

"I bet you would have. That's why I got you out of there," he told

me. "Look." Behind us, some cops were climbing the steps up from the

street and slipping on the packed down snow. "Let's get some food."

We got away from the houses; dark ones where old people were sleeping

and other ones lit up and packed with good girls and whores. We

passed some brick apartments and the street grew wider as we cut

through an alley, downhill, towards Hennipen and the Uptown Diner.

There were some guys down there, but I didn't notice at first because

I was thinking about Kharkov and my fat whore's tattoo, stretching as

she pounded away on some other guy, her tits bouncing in his face.

Hester was shouting at the guys, I don't know what, but it pissed them

off enough that they started kicking our asses right there in the

street outside the Uptown Diner. They didn't get us as bad as some

people would have, but they did enough that we were all shouting

"Fuck, man. Shit! I didn't do anything." This made them laugh and

walk away, so we went inside to eat.

There were some guys that had seen the whole fight from a booth by

the windows. They were laughing, calling us pussies. Hester went

over there and broke a plate on one of their forearms, swung it twice

before it broke on the kids arms as he held them up to protect his

face. The thick porcelain chucks fell in his lap and the fries went

down his shirt and into his jacket. The other guys were quiet and the

kid was yelling "fuck, man. Shit! I didn't say anything."

We got kicked out and the only place left open was White Castle. No

one in there looked at anyone else or said anything, so we just sat

there and ate out grease. A few blocks down the street we puked it

all back up on the sidewalk.

"It was cheap," I said. It felt a little better.

"I'm out," Phil told us. We were outside his apartment.

"I'm going to Laura's," Hester said, his phone in one hand, the other

hand pointing at a lit window in the building across the street. "See

you Mule."

I needed something to do so I made a snowball, waited for a cop car,

hit it and tried to run. I slipped on some packed-down snow and they

picked me and put me in the back seat.

"Drunk ass-hole," one of them said.

They put me in the drunk tank where everyone else was sleeping, so I

found a dry spot on a bench and passed out, dreaming of all the pretty

girls I'd ever known saying "fuck? I didn't do anything."

Drew Mueller is freezing his ass off in Minneapolis. At times, he posts shit at Mule Z (mulez.blogspot.com