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Monday, April 24, 2006
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 "SHE COME ROUND HERE, JUST ABOUT MIDNIGHT
SHE MAKE ME FEEL SO GOOD, MAKE ME FEEL ALRIGHT"
In the course of a man's day, there are things that he sees that are noteworthy. He witnesses other things that are of considerable amusement. Rare is the day when a man witnesses an event that will Change His Life Forever. Those days are the ones that, as W. Axl Rose once so eloquently put it, "fill the pages of My Book of Memories." Saturday night, really, but you get the point.
I've alluded to the fact that my current employers are fucking me over mightily and I intend to write about it in excruciating detail in the coming days. The people I work for are engaged in the the most unprofessional nightmare I could have imagined. Indeed, their business practices in their totality are severe enough to make a common mafioso shudder with disbelief. For now, I'll just say that these are the most unethical motherfuckers I've ever dealt with and leave it at that.
This is unfortunate because the place where I work (as opposed to the people I work for) is the Greatest Show on Earth. Seriously, the Ringling Brothers have no idea what the concept really represents and has no appreciation for its potential. This is, after all, where I came to know Sydney the Whore. It is amoung the great regrets of my life that the experience of this Wonderland has been spoiled by the vicious cocksuckers for whom I work. Well, I use the word "work" figuratively as, by the time you read this, I will have quit.
I've come to know the patron of Sydney the Whore and can report that he's a good guy. I'd like to describe him in detail as it would enhance the story, but I'm mindful of the fact that I worked where he lives, and I have no desire to cause him any embarrassment. He's a fellow well met and something of a libidinous kindered spirit. The more I learn about the gentleman, the more deeply I admire him. He has whoring about perfected to a science and one cannot help but admire that. Since Wednesday, I've seen him with no fewer than four women, at least two of whom can be described as true professionals. If you're anything like me, you recognize professionalism when you see it.
Frankly, the man is the Patron Saint of Prostitution. And until the Catholic Church creates a medallion with his face on it with which the Faithful can express their devotion, I will refuse to consider it a "real" religion. Just the knowledge that men like him exist brings me an inner calm that I can't fully describe. Knowing that he's out there makes the world seem like a safer place to me. Some of you might not understand this, but some of you are very stupid.
Late Saturday afternoon, the Gentleman of the Hour was at my desk and we were exchanging pleasantries. Again, you'll note that this is a very amiable chap. However, we were interrupted by another resident who was approaching the elevators with shopping bags in each hand and was unable to open the high security doors to the lobby. Ordinarily, neither of us would have given this a second thought. After all, we all play the hands we're dealt, and if you can't organize your grocieries properly, then you should just stand in the lobby like a dolt until you either die or someone with a more finely honed sense of mercy lets you in. The fact that helping such people was sort of my job would have slipped my mind entirely.
But this resident was different. Very, very different. This was one of the sleekest, sexiest black girls on the face of the Earth. In her heels, she was nearly six feet tall. She's perfectly slender in the places that matter and richly full in the places that matter more. Plus she is possessed of a British accent, but not British teeth. I know this because she's a very nice girl, with a smile for everyone she sees. To say that she is something of a celebrity to everyone in this building with a penis is an understatement too mighty for words. And this is a building that literally vomits beautiful women on a Saturday night.
My interlocutor - my hero - abruptly broke off our words, ran to the door, opened it with his majic access fob and held it open for her as she entered smiling. Then he returned to my desk and we did what baldheaded, unsightly men of early middle age do. We exchanged our dark visions of how we would violate this beautiful, sweet young girl if given the opportunity. Then conversation was lewd, yes, but scientific in a way that only a True Pervert can truly appreciate.
We then went about our lives, he living every man's fantasy and I plotting the several means by which I could visit my unholy vengence upon my employer. It seemed as though the day would pass like any other.
Just as I was preparing to depart what would be my second last day on the jobs, things took a radical turn. At exactly 11:38 PM, I allowed entry to an even more stunning black girl than the one with the groceries. This one strode to my desk until she was close enough for me to actually feel the waves of sex that washed from her to me. By the time I could smell her perfume, I could already feel the humiliating- if familiarly calming - sensation of a flaccid, spontaneous orgasm soaking through the legs of my suit pants. I've ruined more of my own snazzy business suits that way than I care to admit.
What came next shook the very foundations of everything I was raised to believe, the laws of statistics and what is my budding athiesism. This perfect creature asked for Our Hero, both by his name and suite. And this Goddess of a Girl - Monica the Whore - did so ... in a British accent.
This was an example of Shock and Awe at its very finest. In the 36 years of my miserable life, do you know how many beautiful black girls with British accents I've met? Two, that's how many! They aren't exactly common in Toronto.
Yet this man was able to find a third, seemingly on whim, just because of the girl in his condominium building with the grocieries. Moreover, this wasn't just any beautiful black girl with a British accent that he found. He found one who was willing to fuck for money. And he did so in just five hours.
As something of a history student, I've devoted well over twenty years of my life devoted to the greatness and degredation of the human spirit. Having studied the works of both Leni Riefenstahl and G. Gordon Liddy, I know what The Will can accomplish. But this was staggering beyond any mortal sense of comprehension. This Pope of Pussy, this Potentate of Poontang; through the sheer force of his imagination and the power of his wallet, was able to bring to life a whimsical suggestion that came to him in the lobby one afternoon. And he did so in just five
hours.
That, my friends, is how Power works. Power is a marvelous thing. If you can, I suggest that you acquire some. Then you too can get magnificent black hookers with British accents.
At the very moment that Monika the Whore spoke the Great Man's name, I immediately surrendered any illusions that I may have had that I'd ever be a great man, or even a good one. Those dreams were buried in seconds, only to be filled to by a greater one. The only dream left to me is to be the manservant, or houseboy, to the Great Man.
Perhaps I can I greet his Whores at the door and brew them tea. As the Great Man socialized with them, I can draw a bath for their amusement before withdrawing to my quarters and leaving them to their carnal missions. When they are done, I would wipe the Whore's cooter with a velvet cloth and send them on their way in a glided chariot.
Yes, this is a tiny dream, but its the only one left to me.
Recommended Easy Listening of the Day: Little Bit of Whore By: Johnny Thunders From: Anthology
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