I went from exposing my jewels at the table to the server nook by the bathroom, where I forgot to mention the Jewess worked as a waitress...and she was naturally back there as I stumbled shitfacedly into her conversation. The coworker quickly left after seeing my junkyard face and it was, so to speak, the Jewess’ and I’s first private moment...and the Jewess had gotten herself totally smashed, right up alongside the rest of us—her scratch and sniff voice box was slurring and her eyes were coming down barbituationally—so I made my next bold parlay...I had to dive in the bathroom quick because I had done something even I could not believe and once inside, I wasn’t sure if I actually did what I’m about to relay, so misplacen and out of body was my temperament as I looked at myself in the mirror and pulled out my cock to piss...it all came back to me...and “it” wasn’t more than five seconds in duration but was profoundly irregular, and went like this...”Think of the most beautiful person you have ever seen...” I was saying to the lovely J, and at this point she had her arms around my waist, and her answer or rather half rebuttal was half started when for no reason other than blonde jingoistic ornreyness I deftly, unconsciously, and very very quickly put the index and middle fingers of my right hand right down her open mouth and throat while simultaneously shooting my left hand right up her little tanky t where I found her right tit, which I squeezed with zeal. And for maybe one to two seconds I was quietly frozen by the gentle beauty of the mammary gland...but as quickly as I had acted, I un-acted and ducked into aforementioned bano where I decompressed and left the JEWESS in a state of universal bewilderment, perhaps slightly swooning into her eventual death...goddamn what I had I done?
Fucking great, I thought, but fucking weird too, I thought again...Here was the start of something beautiful, a holon, a separate kindling whole event to go along with many other whole digressions to form a holoarchy of “perfect practice indiscretions” which I believe I am one of only three in the world creating such a system...I laughed and laughed at my dirty mug in the glass, asked myself aloud if I knew what I was doing, answered myself that I had not shitting idea and marched my candy ass back out into the group barking at Hemlock and Vorken to do some mouth lock gymnastics, squeezing Lana, the wife next to me, every chance I got... everyone squashed with the table resembling something like a wreck from the hue-down day feasting...
We finally got outta there after the third rendition of Grease’s “Summer Nights” Karaoke that had the place in stitches...Waiting along with Daney and Loon to get a cab, with Hemlock’s etc. already gone to the Bustop, Boulder’s only strip club, when approaches the Jewess losing her stomach contents right there on the sidewalk in front of her place of employment! Christ she was good! I didn’t know whether to run over and scoop her up for takehome or get the hell out before I grabbed that little five dollar ass of hers...the cab arrived saving a decision and in we piled for the journey out North Broadway, land of Autoshops, Truck rentals assholes, and horse tackle...and this Bustop was a mother of a place, and it had a smell, like stripper perfume, secret diabolical cotton-candy of the wonderful ladies of the neon and black, the fireman’s pole presaged synthesizer look of ham n’ eggers holding tightly onto their few singles, wary of giving away too much, hoping to buy some attention...what is it about the men who sit front row, dumber than a bag of hammers, with their measly sawbucks, holding back, expecting special favors from the ladies, to tip with only a buck or two every hour?...these bastards who expect to be admired for their mere presence?! Waiting like doomed roses blooming on a sidestreet, don’t they understand that these women cannot give them anything beyond a show, an illusion, to surround themselves with themselves, like Gandhi’s harem there to test the moral fabric of one willing enough to bring spirituality through the door and five dollar cover...
So I say, and even from my pisskop bank empty existence, bring at least one hundred dollars to your strip club and throw it generously! Stand up and throw the women your hard earned fun tickets, don’t wait, don’t be late, hurry up, the choice is yours don’t be late...if you must play the game then play for the sake of the hard nosed whores and at least give them your full attention and livelihood...
We had cinnamon thrills...blue light of evening had set into the cavern, helped by neon, made kinky by phermone, and spontaneously I turned to Vorkin, all six and a half feet of him, and exclaimed
“Les Morts Sont Dans La Maison” (the dead are in the house)
to which he replied in Draconian Croate
“Ya vit a espo la damme” (I want to marry the bitch)...Jesus, I had to calm him down, he wanted to run off with this Brazilian Russian Sasha and take me along for proof and an extra hand...
”Vorkin, you big ass, remember this: What we can leave is NOT the Tao.”
“Price, your kinetic energy, I want to put to my lathe, leave me to my Uzzo.”
Like Blue Meanines, the women of our crowd were seated all around the perimeter tables, in an oblong form, with their cuneiform cocktails and smokes, for they loved the smut and their men’s partake of it, but just wanted to chat—those chits—and compare the important accessories like shoes, handbags, and external integument of their cheek structure...but hell, us men were filling out the front rows and each had visited the ATM in the lobby and pulled out some amount ending in “hundred” & proceeded to the bar to procure a heineken or coors light, a vodka tonic and finally to trade in the twenties for packs of singles...
The Roy and Scorpio Gun brothers were each holding in the two hundred range, generously making sure they padded my forty bucks so I could keep with tradition—history must be this or it is nothing. The sundry details of stripping, like an enormous wide load bearing down on you in the street, well, that’s bout it, there isn’t much to say that everyone doesn’t already know about smut, being the oldest institution and couched in the deepest human desire, the one for men that is the “biting through”...biology, taxonomy, wretchery, squalor, or the Meister Ignorance, which I believe to be the case for inquiry, the place to start...
In a way the Bustop is like a Killing Jar, a place where you put your insect desires to die so you can look at them undamaged, turn them over, take copious notes, begin to make your collection that will pin up somewhere on your merit field blanketing the mind where both the Id and the Savior can threaten the EGO...and I cannot say of course that my clear mind awareness was very much present on any of these occasions of the waiting at the Bustop...thereby Emerson said it best that genius studies the causal thought but I wonder if Emerson had ever seen the things I’ve seen for there was surely not the pimp assed bright neon half-truth Bustop to further his studies...
-Michael Price
