Cut-to-the-quick suck or fuck.
College boys, classes done for the week, looking now to party, dared each other to do a prostitute at least once. It was so entertaining to the workers. Young men, especially the big jocks, nervously approached the whores; then most walked away quickly. A few stayed. It all depended on the come-on. Some of the older, more experienced, pros had all the amorous charm of used-car salesmen. The younger ones had perfected an appealing come-hither look—lips pursed, eyelashes batting, topped off with a shy innocent blush, smile, and look-away act.
No matter what the approach, none of these sex providers felt exploited. Most were drug and disease free and insisted on double methods of protection. They looked at prostitution as a short stop on their way to greater things. They felt that purchased whoopee was just another service for sale. Money paid for services provided. No more exploitive than any money paid to your mechanic or your dentist.
The police patrolling Halsey Street kept a low profile. They made some token arrests of the prostitutes from time to time but usually stepped in only when big-time drug dealers tried to come in and sell heavy drugs or when pimps tried to harass the streetwalkers. It worked that way for years. The area wasn’t residential, so very few locals complained about it. The shop owners who weren’t involved in the sale of sex-related merchandise were closed and gone for the day before the action really got going.
The police often started here when looking for bigger busts, because this was a portal to whatever was happening on the streets. No matter what the criminal activity, someone on Halsey Street had information about it. And for the most part, the streetwalkers cooperated; they were the eyes and ears for the cops, because they knew the police let them sell their more fun parts.
So, it was the start of just another Friday night on Halsey Street, swelling up with a thousand different ways to separate sex from love.
Streetwalking regulars Lady Dijonnaise and Sheleeta Buffet ambled through the crowds, taking in the Friday night sights and sounds. The twin six-foot-seven, 350-pound black transvestites, who had begun life as Cletis and Cleotis Stubbs, respectively, were well known. According to urban legend, they once had been pro wrestlers turned celebrity bodyguards and now, cross-dressing hookers.
Lady and Sheleeta stopped and exchanged friendly banter with the sex workers as they made their way down the street. There was an easygoing feeling of camaraderie among the hookers. They understood one another, and they looked out for one another. Tonight, all the talk was about the bond issue that was soon to be voted on. If it passed, many of the workers were afraid that the city would begin to seriously go after them, clear them off the street to make way for the shiny new office towers, shopping malls, and residential communities. It had already happened in other sections of Newark. The city was trying to bounce back from years of depression. As the city rebuilt, the sex workers lost territory. Halsey Street was one of the few remaining areas where no one really bothered them.
Lady and Sheleeta tried to assure the hookers that the bond issue would never pass.
“This is going to be another good night on the stroll.” Lady Dijonnaise laughed excitedly as she looked at the waves of horny humanity flowing by.
“The sweet smell of cock is in the air!” She threw her head back and inhaled deeply, savoring the smell.
“No, honey, I just burped,” Sheleeta replied, and fanned at the air in front of her face, trying to make the burp disappear. “You probably just smellin’ my last trick’s dick area. I can still taste it. Oh, he had a lovely man region. Just lovely. Succulent! Wonderfully maintained! Fragrant like the first day of spring. His balls were elegantly trimmed and coiffed, cut to highlight a super-sized King Kong unit. But, sadly, his big monkey’s spunky was a little funky.”
Sheleeta reached into her purse and pulled out a tin of Altoids. She was about to pop one into her mouth when her attention was drawn to a beautiful Japanese woman approaching. Sheleeta became rigid with emotion. The woman who stopped Sheleeta in her tracks was the former Mr. Haiku Ono, a recently transgendered hooker known as Spicy Tuna.
Spicy saw Sheleeta and quickly crossed the street to get away.
“You better step off before I throw some wasabi whoop-ass on you!” Sheleeta shouted as Spicy retreated. Seconds later, Sheleeta was trembling, almost in tears.
Lady went to Sheleeta and tried to give comfort. “Now, girl, don’t be reliving your personal tragedy out here on the street. Walk on. Be strong.”
“Tell that to my heart! My wounds haven’t healed! I’m still in pain,” Sheleeta blurted out. “That bitch poisoned my cat! Then she took the carcass and threw it on my porch. Oh, the ugliness! The carnage! I can still hear the screams.”
“You were the one screaming, Sheleeta,” Lady reminded her. “The cat had been dead for hours.”
“I’m having a flashback.”
Now Sheleeta was brimming with tears.
“You’re right, honey. Sure you’re right. That girl served you up a big steaming bowl of WRONG. But Spicy was off her lithium at the time. You know she is crazy as hell when she is off that shit,” Lady tried to reason.
Sheleeta nodded in understanding and tried bravely to suck up her tears of grief.
“But Peesonthechaise was a wonderful cat, wasn’t he?” Her words were choked and halting. Her lower lip began to quiver. Soon, Sheleeta lost the battle and collapsed into a sobbing, wailing wreck. Fortunately, there was enough Kleenex in her purse for crisis tear-dabbing and nose-blowing.
Lady Dijonnaise wrapped her massive arms around the massive Sheleeta Buffet in a big bear hug. They each felt the other’s beard stubble.
“I mourn that cat every day, too, Sheleeta.”
Lady hated herself for lying to her brother/sister. There had been times when Lady wanted to stuff Peesonthechaise down the garbage disposal, but she couldn’t figure out a way to make the gruesome death look accidental. She was glad the little bastard was dead, and she was secretly grateful to Spicy Tuna for taking him out.
Lady looked up and down the street for something to take Sheleeta’s mind off her dead cat. If Sheleeta didn’t stop crying soon, she’d start to hiccup uncontrollably. When that happened, she looked like a big-ass widemouthed frog on steroids.
Lady had to stop the crying now. Her eyes scanned Halsey Street. Then, miraculously, she saw what she was looking for and smiled broadly.
“Who wants to split a bucket of Original Recipe?” she cooed.
“Oh, the Colonel! I’d love some. I’m already having a delish-o-gasm!”
Sheleeta broke free of Lady’s arms and bounded across the street toward the KFC, her Manolo Blahniks straining under the load. She looked like a small army tank racing toward a target.
Lady and Sheleeta ordered, then took their food to a table with a window view of Halsey Street. It was dark now, and there was an electricity sparking the night that was both edgy and entertaining, like an open-air carnival.
Lady was dividing up the food and napkins when, again, Sheleeta stopped cold.
“Not Spicy Tuna again. Let it go, Sheleeta.” Lady had had enough of the Peesonthechaise lament for tonight, and she was hungry.
“No! No! Look who’s back.” Sheleeta was excitedly pointing across the street.
Lady looked out the big window and saw a beautiful black woman with long legs, clearly defined calves, and firm thighs coming up the street. She had the face of an angel and flawless dark skin, and although she was obviously mature, she still had the ripe body of a teenager—eager, full, and lush. Her breasts stretched the top she was wearing to its fiber limit. She was the stuff wet fantasies were made of. The sexual energy she exuded spilled over beyond gender boundaries. She was clearly distinguishable, even through the manic blur