Tuesday, November 13, 2012

South End realness

Trick number nine: this one really is South End realness —there's a picture of Ronald Reagan in her bedroom. Maybe that's beyond South End realness. Usually I try not to get fucked if I can avoid it, but I guess this time I can’t. Afterwards I'm walking down the street and suddenly it's like I'm going to shit in my pants, so I rush into some bar I've never seen before — oh, it's Fritz’s, the gay sports bar, which might be the only gay bar in Boston that I haven't been to yet. Just as I'm in the bathroom, I get a page, and when I get to the payphone it turns out the guy is staying at the Chandler Inn, where is that exactly? Upstairs from Fritz’s – you've got to be kidding!

I go back in the bathroom to shit some more and then I grab a cocktail, why not, and when I get upstairs he kind of looks shocked, I figure it's because I've arrived so fast but maybe it's something about my hair because that's what he's looking at when he says: you really are punk. About five times. Of course I'm thinking honey, I'm way too much of a queen to be punk, but that's not what I say. He’s already handed me the money anyway, which means I'm undressing him and turns out he's a good kisser and his mouth is so mentholated that it opens up my sinuses, he's actually pretty sexy for some guppy, sucking my dick right away and I'm starting to think I should have a cocktail right before every trick, right? Or right before everything. I mean I feel that good, maybe Fritz's is the answer. But then about 5 minutes later there's someone knocking on the door and this guy jumps up and says oh, I forgot to tell you.

            Turns out it's his boyfriend, and we have to get dressed really fast and pretend we just met in the bar downstairs. Are you serious?

            His boyfriend looks confused. I'm sure I look confused. But then somehow we’re all on the bed together and for a few minutes I actually get to do that thing where I don't know who's touching me or where I can just close my eyes and lie back and yes, I do start to think about whether it's true that the only time I have sex in a bed is when I'm turning a trick but whatever, this time I can just close my eyes and relax and when we're done they want to take me downstairs for a cocktail — okay, I can't refuse, even if it is a sports bar, and when I head to the bathroom at one point the first guy follows me a moment later and he says you handled that really well, thank you, hands me a hundred-dollar bill and honey, I know it sounds like I'm making a lot of money, I mean I guess I am making a lot of money but as we all know it will not last. But really, can you believe that no one has called Abby or me from that glamorous roommate ad we put up all over town? Boston is so fucking tired.



james said...

mattilda - I love these stories the best. I have finished my work for the summer, and have been in Houston for Five weeks. I have been with this sex worker mostly the whole time I have been here. She lets me stay at her house all night, and does not ask for 'donations' every time like she did when we first met. O.K., Mattilda, I hope that youi are doing great!!!

mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

James, it's lovely to hear from you – and, I'm so glad you liked these pieces! They are from the novel I'm now writing, Sketchtasy, which, as you may have guessed, takes place in Boston in 1995, oh my…

Love –