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
Some chick was out there with a bottle of
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.
"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.
"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
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
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
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