Passions: Interlude– Filbert and the Lady of the Night

14 Nov

Previously on Passions:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The thing about whores is they don’t feel like fucking.  Whores feel like the best and most expensive sex toy ever devised. Like you just paid a hundred bucks to jerk off.  There is nothing in the pleasure of a whore you can take with you.  No memory.  It exists only in the moment.

She was kneeling over his back, ticking him with her hair.  She looked exactly like a girl from his high school. Cathy Chao.  Cathy Chao was tall, like a model.  She had a face like a model too.  Everybody wanted to fuck her.  The first time you saw her you would choke a little like you’d swallowed a bug.  But hard to jerk off to.  One of these women where you can’t beat off to her because she is too beautiful.  You can’t conjure up a scenario where she might fuck you plausibly.  You end up beating off more to the chubby girls than the beautiful ones.  She ended up marrying some Persian MBA and then leaving him for his boss.

This hooker looked just like her.  She looked just like her in high school, not whatever used up version of her existed now.  He choked when she walked in the room like he had swallowed a bug.  He suddenly felt self conscious lying there nude with a coarse bleached towel over his nuts.  She was all smiles.  She had no idea.  Maybe she thought he was new at this.  She gestured for him to flip over.

Here was a hooker, luck of the draw, who looked exactly like his fantasy crush in high school and he couldn’t even squint and pretend he was living his sixteen year old dream.  The concept of whore had been so deeply ingrained in his mind, it was like–  you’d have a better shot at getting the stun gunner in a slaughterhouse to start thinking of the cattle as pets.  She tickled his back with her hair.  Reached under his scapula to rub the pesky weird shoulder muscle.  She smelled like strawberries.  Cathy Chao from high school hadn’t smelled like strawberries; he didn’t know what her smell was but it was probably Obsession by Calvin Klein or some shit; her dad was an orthodontist who had money.  It further ruined the illusion.  If this whore was going to go to the trouble to have bone structure like Cathy Chao, why didn’t she smell like Cathy Chao also.  She was softly soothing his hamstring.  Then digging her thumbs into his lumbar.  Wait, what?  She skipped the ass.  Did she think this was an actual massage?  What kind of fucking oversight was this?  They go legs, asscrack, tickle the back of your balls giving you an erection, and then flip you over and make an “A OK” gesture and put their finger through the hole, meaning, “wanna fuck?”  She skipped the ass– did this bitch think she was a licensed fucking masseuse?  That it was juts a coincidence that she was hired to perform massages on an all male clientele who exclusively came in alone and at night, working solely in the company of other slender and broken-looking nineteen year old girls?  She was kneading his erectors spinae.  His rhomboids.  The bottom of his latissimi dorsi.  She was doing an excellent job.  Fuck, he thought.  I accidentally bought an actual massage.  What the fuck kind of retard was working the door at this place.  Her hands were careful and expert and soft, it was like a lover’s touch.  He didn’t feel any of it.  He was burning at the idea of the wasted time not fucking this whore.  Having to get another girl, maybe go to another whorehouse.

But no, there it was.  Her fingers lightly tickling his asscrack, making the hairs on his back stand up.  Like the kids used to do to each other at camp, that tickling touch that puts you in a trance.  ASMR, they call it now.  ASMR-ing the back of his scroat, a little treasure of nerve rich skin that never gets touched.  Every nerve in his body was singing.  She tugged at his side to get him to flip over.  He was pleased to see his cock pumping into full stiffness with his heartbeat.  She chuckled at this.  Pulled out a condom.  He waved it away with a pleading arch in his eyebrows.  “Bareback?”  it was meant to communicate.  She chuckled again and shook her head “no.”  Fucking twat.  Oh well.  Go ahead and work like a mule to get my numb cock off for the shit tip I’m gonna give you then.

She rolled the condom on him.  Started sucking him off.  It felt like your hand being gripped with salad tongs while wearing a catcher’s mitt. She mounted him.  They get on top of you first because the kind of guy who goes to a hooker isn’t used to it.  He’s either grinding into some middle aged  dead fish on her back or nothing at all. She made her eyes big and said “ohhh” in that slightly off kilter way Chinese people have with vowels.  She was big eyeing and ohing and nodding at him, affirming that she was having just the best time.  Squatting on her haunches and flying up and down fast.  They want to get you off and go back to watching ridiculous Chinese soap operas in their filthy little break room.  Her cunt felt like nothing.  Don’t let anybody tell you that a condom is for anything other than destroying sex.  Next, doggystyle.  Another position that unlaid schlubs are unused to.  He could almost pop off.  But it wasn’t about that anymore.  He wanted to make her suffer now. He pounded her.  So fast and hard that he could feel his dick bending, and he broke a sweat.  He wanted to beat her pussy up so the next guy stung.

Right as the minute hand was grudgingly grinding into the end of his allotted hour, he made himself grunt and pop off.  As pleasureless as spitting.

He had stopped to buy a pack of gum with a twenty, specifically so he would have a ten dollar bill to insultingly tip the girl if she sucked.  He was pleased to have received a battered old ten from before the mint changed the look of the money.   It could only have been better if it said “I grew hemp.”  She was wiping his dick off with Kleenex; he looked at the wall as he dragged his pants on and dropped the bill on the end table, still entangled with the receipt for the gum.  Fucking cunt.  Whoever said immigrants have a work ethic was full of shit.

6 Responses to “Passions: Interlude– Filbert and the Lady of the Night”

  1. Senator Dianne Feinstein (D-CA) November 14, 2012 at 8:22 pm #

    If this was supposed to be Filbert’s inner monologue, I’m not buying it.

    It doesn’t fit in with either of his voices from his letters. That is, it doesn’t fit in with the grammar cop or the john making fun of the whores.

    This guy actually seems representative of DT’s inner monologue, not Filbert’s.

    • Hugh November 15, 2012 at 11:32 am #

      Agree. This does not sound like Filbert.

  2. Anonymous November 20, 2012 at 10:35 pm #

    This episode was a dud. Half-assed effort that sounds awfully similar to the blogger’s previous entries about his visits to massage parlors.


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