Authors: Edward Lee
The Minotauress (16 page)
"Well, hey there, Mr. Writer!" greeted—if a bit loudly—Mrs. Gilman behind the check-in desk. "How was your nightly walk?" but naturally she pronounced the word nightly as "nat-lee."
""It was wonderful, Mrs. Gilman... "
Three chunky prostitutes in lingerie stood up at the desk as well, a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette. They all had big silly grins on their faces.
"You mean yer nightly walk home from the bar, huh, Mr. Writer?" jibed the red-head.
"I must confess," the Writer chuckled, but only now did it occur to him that he must reek of beer-breath.
"Probably lookin' to git lucky," said the blonde, "but the Crossroads ain't no place to git lucky. All them
skanky
gals they got up there?"
skanky
gals they got up there?"
The brunette batted her eyes. She would've had a great smile were it not for the missing incisor. "Right
here's
the place to git lucky, ‘specially fer a handsome,
rich
writer like you."
here's
the place to git lucky, ‘specially fer a handsome,
rich
writer like you."
The Writer sighed. "Really, I'm not that—"
"What's all that?" Mrs. Gilman asked, pointing to the parcels under his arm.
"Oh, the mail. I noticed the post box was full when I was walking up."
All three of the younger girls perked up when they noticed the three long boxes under his arm. "Any'a them boxes fer me?" asked the red-head. "Or me?" added the blonde. "I'se expectin' somethin'." "Me too!" exclaimed the brunette.
"Well, let's see," and the Writer began to read the address labels on each box. "Nyna Rhodes... "
The red-head's hand shot up. "That's me!"
"Anita Gonzales... "
The brunette beamed.
"Beatrice Mullins."
The blonde raised her hand, bouncing up and down. The Writer distributed the boxes, then gave Mrs. Gilman the rest of the mail. "Probably just bills for you, Mrs. Gilman."
"Like death'n taxes," but then she paused. "‘Cept I don't really pay no taxes to speak of. But I reckon I'll be payin' lots more once this Arkansas shyster gets in the White House. Kin you
believe
the news says he's gonna win?"
believe
the news says he's gonna win?"
"I'm an apolitical writer," the Writer said. "I have no opinion... "
The blonde and red-head ran up the stairs with their boxes, excited as children who'd just been given a surprise. The brunette remained, however, opening her box at the desk. "Oh, I just so hope this is it!" she gibbered.
The girl squealed with delight. The Writer did a double-take. The box read WONKO KITCHEN PRODUCTS: THERM-O-FRESH FOOD SAVING SYSTEM.
"I'se gonna go use mine right now, I am!" she celebrated and scampered up the stairs.
"These girls," Mrs. Gilman said, shaking her head with a smile.
The Writer looked hard at her. "Mrs. Gilman? Why on earth would girls such as these spend two hundred dollars apiece on those—"
The phone rang, truncating the rest of the Writer's query.
"Oh hi, Doris, dear! And how are you today?"
The Writer could feel a long conversation coming so he drifted upstairs. He counted thirteen steps to the landing.
What would happen if, say, tomorrow I walk up these same steps, but there are fourteen? And the next day fifteen? And sixteen the day after that?
What would happen if, say, tomorrow I walk up these same steps, but there are fourteen? And the next day fifteen? And sixteen the day after that?
It must be a slow night; very few bedsprings were heard, but he did hear someone say "Who's your daddy?" but he was sure it was a woman's voice.
He passed a door half-open, unconsciously looked in, then gaped.
"Haa! Come on in!"
It was Nancy, and the reason for the Writer's gape was due to the fact that Nancy was sitting hunched on her bed, one hundred percent naked.
Oh, dear,
he thought.
Oh, dear,
he thought.
Her perfect breasts, however badly tattooed, depended from the pose; she was leaning over painting her toenails. Every contour of her physique seemed to exist without perceptible defect.
Redneck paragon... A physical pattern of excellence. Shakespeare could write a pastoral verse-sequence about her, in octosyllabic couplets...
Redneck paragon... A physical pattern of excellence. Shakespeare could write a pastoral verse-sequence about her, in octosyllabic couplets...
"How do my toesies look?" she asked, then stuck her long legs out.
"Preeminent," the Writer droned.
"Does... that mean good?"
"Yes." Like slow syrup, his gaze drooled down the legs to the adorable bald triangle of creases betwixt them. Even inclined on her elbows, her stomach showed not even an inkling of a ridge.
Though touched upon previously, it must be stated in full now that the Writer was—and had been for a number of years—a self-imposed celibate. It was the sexual angst he craved, that strange edge of need unrelieved. He knew that it's what his Muse demanded: to stare into the promise of
la petite-morte
only to have it sift through his fingers like so much proverbial sand. Monks did it, priests did it, even Jesus Christ did it, and the Writer figured that if he could imitate just one facet of them, then his writing would be charged by the same verity that charged their systems of faith. But even in his abstinence, however, he
was
allowed to look. As a Writer, he was a seeker, and hence, a
seer.
If the human self was the only thing that could be known and therefore verified, everything that that same self
saw
was verifiable as well.
la petite-morte
only to have it sift through his fingers like so much proverbial sand. Monks did it, priests did it, even Jesus Christ did it, and the Writer figured that if he could imitate just one facet of them, then his writing would be charged by the same verity that charged their systems of faith. But even in his abstinence, however, he
was
allowed to look. As a Writer, he was a seeker, and hence, a
seer.
If the human self was the only thing that could be known and therefore verified, everything that that same self
saw
was verifiable as well.
His penis swelled in his pants to the extent that it felt like a hamster that had died and entered rigor mortis.
"So what'cha doin' tonight?" she asked, rocking her feet.
His teeth ground as the realities bled through the ideal. The atrocious tattoos turned her into a desecrated icon. His autograph was still in plain sight above the "Smiley Face" with a nipple for a nose.
"I was doing my Dylan Thomas imitation," he said.
"Huh?"
"Drinking a lot."
She giggled. "Oh, I heard you hang out up the Crossroads." Her eyes went wide in a hopeful recollection. "I gang-banged ten fellas there once fer ten bucks a piece. Next time you're there, look fer the dark spot by the corner pocket. That's me."
The Writer stood speechless.
"So who's this villain yer talkin' 'bout? His name's Thomas?"
Whuh...
"Oh, no, not villain.
Dylan.
Dylan Thomas. I was making a quip. He was arguably the century's greatest poet in the English language—he wrote
Deaths and Entrances.
He was what they call a ‘biblical symbolist.'"
"Oh, no, not villain.
Dylan.
Dylan Thomas. I was making a quip. He was arguably the century's greatest poet in the English language—he wrote
Deaths and Entrances.
He was what they call a ‘biblical symbolist.'"
Nancy's angelic face showed recognition. "I gots me a step-brother who plays cymbals—and drums, too."
"No, no, Dylan Thomas' best verse juxtaposed the exuberance of faith in God, with the cruciality of our need to redeem ourselves for our sexual sins."
Her peaches-and-cream tits bounced when she giggled again. "Oh. I guess I'se need ta read him!"
"But I was actually joking in my preliminary reference. He was a
big
drinker," the Writer explained. "I'm sure it was just an excuse for his alcoholism, but he would regularly contend no matter how much alcohol he consumed, he could prevent himself from getting drunk merely by
thinking.
"
big
drinker," the Writer explained. "I'm sure it was just an excuse for his alcoholism, but he would regularly contend no matter how much alcohol he consumed, he could prevent himself from getting drunk merely by
thinking.
"
"Thankin'?" the prostitute queried.
"Yes. He believed that alcohol
accelerated
the quality of his creativity, so he would drink but by the force of his mind, not allow himself to get drunk." He was also an oaf and an oddball, who died from alcohol poisoning, but the Writer neglected to mention these facts.
accelerated
the quality of his creativity, so he would drink but by the force of his mind, not allow himself to get drunk." He was also an oaf and an oddball, who died from alcohol poisoning, but the Writer neglected to mention these facts.
"Just by
thankin',
" Nancy uttered amazed.
thankin',
" Nancy uttered amazed.
"Oh, yes. The human mind is quite a powerful thing, the sheer force of will."
"But'cha know?" Her face lit up. "I'se kin do somethin' with
my
mind! Wanna see?"
my
mind! Wanna see?"
All those beers were finally sinking in. The Writer was wobbling a bit in place. "Uh, well, I really should be go—"
"Just you watch!" she advised, and adjusted her pose. She leaned up on her arms, and parted her creamy thighs with her knees bent over the bed's edge. "Watch my titties'n cunny... "
Well, I know what titties are,
the Writer thought.
And I presume that "cunny" is a vaginal reference...
"Um, sure."
the Writer thought.
And I presume that "cunny" is a vaginal reference...
"Um, sure."
Nancy closed her eyes and leaned her head back. A delectable pink tongue glazed her lips, and she began taking slow, deep breaths though her nose. She was obviously concentrating on something with great focus. The trim stomach moved slowly in and out and, next, she was moaning ever so lightly.
The Writer's gaze switched from her breasts to her crotch, then back to her breasts.
And what breasts they are,
he had to note. His drunkenness began to struggle with his stubborn celibacy, as his loins began to percolate quite like a coffee pot. His gaze fixed on the nipples, pink as her tongue and roughly the size of silver dollars but then—
And what breasts they are,
he had to note. His drunkenness began to struggle with his stubborn celibacy, as his loins began to percolate quite like a coffee pot. His gaze fixed on the nipples, pink as her tongue and roughly the size of silver dollars but then—
Hmm...
The nipples began to increase in size, a fascinating transformation, like a dried sponge dropped in water, until they'd grown to a circumference of the bottom of a soup can. Even the breasts themselves seemed to gain girth, blood vessels presumably dilating by the command of her brain. Could he even see the gentle blue ghost-lines of veins pumping more blood into the coveted tissue?
My God,
the Writer thought. And not only did the areolae grow in circumference; they also grew in depth, until they stuck out like pink macaroons.
My God,
the Writer thought. And not only did the areolae grow in circumference; they also grew in depth, until they stuck out like pink macaroons.
And when the Writer looked between her legs—
Gracious!
The pea-sized clitoris has transmogrified into a drunkard's nose.
"There!" Nancy celebrated. "How ya like
that?
"
that?
"
"You are woman not only of description-defying beauty, but one also of applaudable talent."
She unconsciously tweezed her papillas, which were now the size of those mini-marshmallows, strawberry-flavored, of course. "And I'se done it just by
thankin.'
"
thankin.'
"
"Proof of the mind's power, indeed," but the Writer had to keep wincing away from the tumid attributes.
She grinned coyly. "Wanna know whats I was thankin' 'bout?"
"Uh, well... "
"I was thankin' 'bout you fistin' my cunny'n jerkin' yer peter off on my stomach, I was. Then just rubbin' all that warm cum all
over
my skin... "
over
my skin... "
"My, oh my... "
Now her bare foot trailed up the inside of the Writer's leg, and suddenly the toes were wriggling like an old Magic-Fingers over his crotch. The Writer felt his penis urp up an instantaneous effusion of pre-ejaculatory fluid.
"It's a real slow night," she pointed out. "And I ain't got another trick fer another half hour... "
The Writer knew an embarrassing wet spot was surely forming against his pants. He stepped back, careful not to stagger. "Really, I must be going."
"Aw, yeah," she said, disheartened. "Guess ya gots to git back to work on yer book—"
"Yes, yes, but have a good n—" and before he could bid her a good night, a side-glance showed him something familiar on her dresser.
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