An Insightful Morning

September 1, 2008

Her name was Tascha, or at least that’s how she presented herself, serving cold, stale drafts from two mounted pipelines behind the brown boards of the bar. It was the kind of place you would go to as the last resort after a Sunday night drinking binge; last option, last chance of action. You wouldn’t want to go there sober as the clientele that circle these joints can smell it and the anxiety and awareness of the situation blends in to your blood and continues out through the pores of your skin. You wouldn’t want to go there staggering drunk either as it paints a picture of an easy target. What you need is that perfect blend of ten hours steady drinking, mixed with the slow appreciation of your coming sobriety; the world becoming beautifully illuminated through a haze of weary senses in the burning light.

I sat at a barrel-shaped table left to the entrance, dipping in to my second round of drinks with a clear view of what was going on in the small room. There were four or six cabins in the back and prostitutes kept coming in and out with customers. Earlier, a guy who’d been using one of the cabins for shooting up had been thrown out viciously by the bouncers and there was a general feeling of unwelcomeness, whoever you thought you were.

Despite the pleasantness of the interior, my eyes kept returning to the booming creature behind the desk; her breasts hung low and deep, resting heavy upon the side of her ribs. Six pounds of unfiltered gravity, once praised upon as the golden idols of early civilization, a shimmering symbol of perfect adolescent fantasy. Yes, even now, in the autumn of their firmness, every man at the bar wanted to grab them, plunge their bald, beady heads into the pudding and suck up every last drop of milk.

Suddenly the band of people standing around the bar started into a grim series of hollering, and general shoulder tapping, as she rose to the desk with the elegance of a gorilla. General introduction to the act was then made; clear and precise to avoid later confrontation. Reaching to, an until this point hidden shelf, she fetched a gigantic penis, spawning a moment of utter silence. The men glanced at the enormous instrument in fear and the three transvestites hanging on to right side of the bar, giggled in awe. After a small amount of discreet lubrication, she plunged it deeply into the pink void, her legs twisting, shaking and bouncing to music, the wooden boards of the desk now her personal floor of miracle. With a glass elegantly placed under the draft hose, and the inserted rubber rod pushing the lever downwards, it was only a matter of seconds before yellow beer swirled and foamed. In total control of the operation, and with a sign of victory showing around the early wrinkles of her eyes, the show ended as she made a signature move upwards and stopped the stream. After a shortly lived deposit in the humid warmth of her cage, the instrument was then handed to the benefactor of the show along with the now full glass of beer. I watched as he greedily licked and fed on the salty slime, ocassionaly dipping it into his pint as if some kind of erotic taste enchancer.

I had been waiting for this moment for a good hour, as had the rest of the guests and now it seemed as though the night had finally reached its peak and soon enough, we all started leaving. In the end, only the cocaine fueled musculars and nervous ladyboys were left, and the energy of the room had evaporated.

The offers were many, as I strode into the barely settled dew on the concrete battlefield, sniffing the breeze of early Monday morning.

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