Sitting outside the first whorehouse in Vila Mimosa. The same place, I remember, where Samanta used to work, where I first saw her standing out front one distant summer night and couldn’t believe such an exquisite creature was possible; when she was still young and bratty and sassy and full of insane young sex attraction, that untouchable impossible charm of a young whore. But they age so fast in this place. They grow old and hard and ugly and cynical and mean. And still they keep coming, I think, the endless roulette wheel of young girls, spinning like a slot machine, bells, fruits and cherries. Different faces, same girl, different whore, same whore, all the same, all trying to beat the fucking game. And I watch them come and go, watch them getting old and tired and flabby and mean, sucked up and spit out here onto these greasy old cobblestones right before my eyes, while I stay young and crazy and laughing in the face of this clown show of death and destruction-derby sex. I think of the many faces I’ve looked into over the years here, and how I fucked away their youth and innocence like a vampire sucking away their very life essence
Now I’m waiting for the guy with the stolen cell phones to finish snorting his last line of coke so I can pay him off and take the phone I’ve been haggling over with him over for hours now and go off and give it to the next little whore I wanna lose a few bucks to here. It’s nice to stay in touch. He slides up to me at the bar for further negotiations, chewing on his words like some furious hellbound nocturnal rodent. I look around distractedly as he chatters on in the humid pissy air. Two young bitches stumble by clumsily in their cheap plastic high heels, dressed in skimpy tipsy rags of glittery nothing, holding hands like a pair of schoolgirls. They shriek in drunken delight as they hop over a pile of bum-vomit laying in the filthy road. The tired old fuck music is blaring over a distorted speaker as a monstrous Cuban whore makes her hideous way along in their wake like some crippled old drag queen’s ghost.
I hand the coke-head phone thief his money and pocket the purloined device. I jump back on the bike and head off down the road, passing the humid little clusters of shirtless killers and thugs who populate the shadowy streets here like toothless barracudas. The cops standing with their machine guns like underwater spook plants wave me through another 3am roadblock. I gun it into the tunnel doing 100, then out to the warm breeze of my spot on by the winking waves of Copacabana. A few minutes later, I’m waiting again like a hungry pilgrim for the distant lights of dawn.
Copyright Jonathan D. Shaw 2010
Let’s hear it, fuckers!
So do you love or hate your whorehouses? Sometimes I’m confused.
Like just about everything else in this world, it’s a love-hate kinda thing. Got it?
And you’re not alone there… mostly I’m confused!
There’s something very shamanistic about the whole thing… like an out of body-whore house-spirit/demon experience… Rad.
I’m not sure why…but it reminds me of Carlos Castaneda. Something about the strange burden of experience in dangerous and unusual places…
“Nothing in this world is a gift. Whatever must be learned must be learned the hard way.” – Carlos Castaneda
Tal qual!
“Disguise our bondage as we will, ‘Tis woman, woman, rules us still.” — Thomas Moore
All I can say is you are so hot! I love the way your writing can turn me on! This early in the morning reading your writing all I can say is Wow! Keep up the great work. You make this vampire want a hour myself! I read the story below. I get that love/hate for a good whore hell you make me want to be a whore for about an hour with the right Jon if you get my meaning hehehe
Vampiras~
JS I’ve never been exposed to these kinds of activities [paid sex, drugs and heavy alcohol] until I started reading your writings. It’s weird and uncomfortable but so interested and entertaining at the same time. Your writing style is very addictive actually…
“I am the only drug, yes.” she said blankly.
Narcisa quote?
Yep.