“What’s your name?” he asked. “Femmeoldhoe Formaldehyde,” she said. “What?” He retorted with big eyes. But really all he wanted to know was, “How much?” “Seventy-five and up,” she said. “Look at you!” he protested, “You’re all wrinkled and ...”
She jabbed him in the face before he could continue insulting her. And followed it up immediately with an upper cut to the diaphragm. He doubled over incredulously. She was not in the mood for ingratitude. But she refrained from kicking him in the balls in case she was still gonna fuck him.
Oldhoe knew this kind of man all too well. Too pussy for a real relationship. Not man enough to admit to his weaknesses and work on himself. Putting down whoever would let him. She remained silent as he painfully turned up his head. Looked like he had tears in his eyes. Maybe rage? But she knew that anger was just another veil for suffering. Deeply buried within she felt compassion, which she promptly blocked out. Ironically, her hidden human compassion had kept her going on the streets all these years. A compassion she had come to understand as a curse.
“Still gonna get it up or what?” she challenged him, as she took off her dress, exposing two large breasts, only held up by the uncomfortable wire of a thin red lace brassiere. Breasts saggy and dense enough to slap the hell out of his cheeks if she wanted to. Like the woman on the tv-screen smashing beer cans with her big bad balloons. Femmeoldhoe had been around the block a few times and seen some things. She knew how to handle the sorry pieces of ass, that called themselves men, willing to pay the price of a both cheap and costly fuck.
