"YEEAH... YEEAH..." HE drawls and you know for sure, even without his ever present copy of America's newspaper of record, Tory Nayor is a native New Yorker. Tall, thin, with roughed up good looks midst dark shoulder-length tresses, dressed urban cowboy, behind the wheel of clean ten year old Cadillac weaving in and out of city traffic with professional ease, he tells the captive audience about his treasures.
To his fare he says, "So, it was like dhis he'e...Found 'em at a little antique shop. A tiny hole in a wall someplace in da Village. I says someplace 'cause it disappea'ed. I'm tellin' ya. Like da typical, right? You know, like, poof! Gone. Magic, right?" Tory checks his rear view mirror to see if his customer is paying attention. "Walked in. And dhere dhey were. Six of da most incredible ceramic mugs you ever laid your eyes on. I'm tellin' ya...Da most exquisite young, tanned female ya ever seen. First, she shows off her body in white camisole, thong an' platform shoes. Dhen, mug by mug, she takes her stuff off an poses nude dhis way an' dhat givin' ya a real good look at, ya know? An' I do mean hairless. Dhen she jumps bare assed naked into da last cup."
The cabby looks up with big, hash-eaten grin, only to see his fare wearing headphones, listening to music on a disc player while gazing idly out the side window.
The owner/accountant/dispatcher/mechanic of Tory's Taxi Inc., sighs. "Oh, well...Can't blame 'im." For Tory knows. To see is to understand. Otherwise impossible to describe the allure those half dozen ceramic mugs have on any virile male regardless of cultural preferences. That girl mesmerizes. Tantalizes. Defines perfection.
The store owner, a threadbare elder in obvious dire need of cash, had assured him the mugs were very, very old. From the Orient. Thus, the outrageous price. The quoting of which had sent Tory into immediate spin-about departure mode. Which elicited an eighty percent reduction. To which Tory had immediately agreed, much to the old man's lament. So, whether or not he got ripped off was not the point. The point, or rather half-dozen of same, are those golden honey toned mugs with the ultra fem wrapped around them in such provocative poses.
"Dhis is it, Sir." says Tory pulling to a stop. "Uh...'leven bucks even."
Tory is handed a five and/...He finger-thumb rubs to expose any hidden bills. None! The fare bolts out of the Caddie, into the crowd. Swallowed up. Lost.
"SHIT! FUCKIN' COCKSUCKA!" He fumes. Savagely takes it out on his steering wheel with a two handed pounding, looking all the Loon (of the crazier-than variety) to gawking passers-by. But, it is the third time this month he has gotten beaten, for a total of thirty-two bucks; nearly all of it his tip money. He stomps on the accelerator. Tires squeal. Tory leaves the curb like a bus driver, without looking and signaling only after the move is made.
Checking his watch, Tory sees he has at least another hour to kill before he picks up his client at the airport for the two hour ride upstate; back home. He snorts, wonders whether it's worth it. Why not just park, take in a diner, do lunch? Pick up the broad and drive home. Make a hundred fifty bucks for a five hour day. Two hours down. Two back. An hour at the airport, parking, waiting, getting the baggage and all of that. Not bad. So? Why does he always have to hustle? Sure the opportunity is there. But, the risk is also there. And much greater here in the city. As this last incident has illustrated.
Deep in his considerations, in a bubble of remove floating through chaotic swirl of diesel fumes, noisy metro traffic and the ever present pedestrian crush, Tory Nayor nevertheless spots a young female with hand raised, on tiptoe, in need of livery. He checks mirror for clearance. Sees none. But he does discern advantage so, swerves. As anticipated the other guy backs off screaming invective.
Tory continues his lane changing diagonal that forces yet another motorist to take defensive measures.
"Oh, yeah?!" thinks Tory in response to the foul hand signal meant for him. He zips down the power window and screams.
"G-F-Y, Buddy! AN' I DON'T MEAN, 'GOOD FOR YOU'!"
Tory powers the window back up. He cools to the AC. He pulls to a stop in front of the young woman. As she stoops to enter, he is swept with intuitive fizzle-wave of doubt. Almost says no. But she has dollars to give him.
"Where to?"
"Uh-oh..." he thinks when given the directions. "That's a project."
He eyes her up. Now it is more obvious. Long fake nails with chipped paint. A small tear in her blouse, just under the arm. Wrinkled skirt. Tory remembers what his favorite uncle always told him: When it comes to dollars, fuck diplomacy.
"Uh...yeeah...Dhis is gonna run ya some dolla's. Maybe upwards o' twen'y bucks. You got dhat much cash?"
The woman takes offense, talks back angry, head a'rockin' side-to-side. "Yeah, I got the money! An', like, who the fuck are you to question me?! Hmm?"
"Didn't mean nothin' by it. Jus' don't wanna get beat outta my fare, ya know? Gotta eat an' pay da rent, too. Right? In fac', jus' before you? A guy/..."
"Don't care 'bout whatever this is about! Not payin' for no, like, sermon!"
To himself he mouths loud. "Fuckin' Bitch!" Out loud, he says, "Fine. Whatever ya want."
Fifteen minutes later he pulls to the curb. "Pretty much like I told ya. Fourteen bucks, plus...well..."
"I know! I know!" she grumbles. "Can't forget yer fuckin' tip!"
"Hey! Lady! It's my freakin' job."
"Least you got a job. Don't be all whinin' an' shit. Some o' us ain't so lucky."
Tory riffs a blue streak in his mind: Listen, Bitch! Ain't nothin' 'bout luck! Fuck luck! It's all 'bout hard work. An' a dream! Yeeah...Workin' hard for a dream. Bein' your own person. Earnin' your own way. Makin' a livin' for yer self/..."
"WHOA!" he shouts as she exits the Caddie. "Don't you fuckin' run. I'll come after ya. Swear ta God!"
"Don't you be 'cusin' me o' rippin' you off, God Damn It! I...I got yo' god-damned money."
She slams the door. He powers down the front passenger side window, leans over and says, "Dhen give it he'e!" with hand out, fingers waggling.
The woman hands him the small purse with long leather shoulder strap and backs off. "Look...I...I forgot...I...I got the wrong purse."
She backs further away. Tory's heart sinks. He turns off the car.
"I'll be right back with twenty bucks, Mister. I live right down there," she points blindly behind her. "Number two-seventy-two. Gonna get my other purse an' be right back."
She turns and runs, already around the corner, out of sight.
"FUCK!!" Tory whips the purse down on the floor, propels himself back up and out of the Caddie to give hasty pursuit. Or, as hasty as being white and wearing cowboy boots will allow. He rounds the corner, sees a courtyard with a bunch of doors, no running female, when it dawns on him that the numbers on these doors are in the seven hundreds.
He is seething. He stalks his prey, aimlessly, looks this way and that for any sort of clue as to where she has disappeared. Sees nothing. Not a window shade moves nor curtain rustles. Tory thinks through his kill instinct to remember the number she gave.
"Two Seventy Two...Two Seven...Yeeah..." He smiles, turns to check out the numbers on the doors again. "Dumb Bitch!" He storms the door numbered Seven Twenty Seven. Does not knock. Enters thinking, "Stupid fuckin' Bitch!"
"WHERE ARE YA?" He screams, hears commotion down the hall, heads that way. His boot heels pound out his fast approach. He changes direction, slides, grabs the doorjamb to stop, takes in every inch of the bedroom. He knows she is in here. Tory eyes the louvered bifold closet door. A smile works itself up to full splendor. Out loud he says, as he tip-toes closer, "So...let's see...Bitch keeps a slop house but keeps her closet door politely drawn, hmmm?" He enunciates each word. "I-don't-think-so..." He flings the bifold aside. She comes at him all hair and flailing nails.
Instinctively, Tory turns his body to the side (to avoid a good swift kick in the nuts) and raises both arms in a defensive X. Once he feels a strike he goes after that hand, grabs the wrist in both his hands, pivots his body, stoops and tugs hard, tossing her up and over and hard on the floor. He does not let go. Twists her arm as he steps over her body which moves her in one fluid motion onto her stomach; him, to his knees. He gives the arm behind her back a small, painful lift. He enjoys the way her ample ass responds to his arm wrenching emphasis. He now straddles her and rides.
"Pay up, Bitch! Twenty fuckin' bucks!"
The woman quits heaving, cries, slobbers, tries to explain.
"Oh, he'e we go! Turn on da faucets! Quit yer blubberin', eh! Can't understand a fuckin' woid ya sayin'."
Tory still hears no recognizable words but understands her, now, perfectly. She has no money. Not a man to give in so easily to caught-in-the-act repentance, he suddenly flashes on the fact that his keys are still in the ignition. In his car. His beloved Caddie. His only Caddie, in the projects, with the key ready and waiting to turn. And here he is, on top of some plump-assed woman, having broken into her apartment, with no chance of being paid. "JE-SUS CHRIST!"
He backs up and off the woman onto his feet. The surreal quality of the situation now flooding his brain with ego-deflating assessment. Woozy, he tells himself to wake up from this nightmare. He hears himself yelling.
"YOU FUCKIN' BITCH! I'M NOT FUCKIN' LEAVIN' HE'E WITHOUT MY FUCKIN' MONEY'S WORTH! YOU HE'E ME, BITCH? WHATTA YA GOT DHATS WORTH SOMETHIN', EH? C'MON!"
He prods her ass with his boot bottom.
She turns angrily, thrusting his foot to the side. Her eyes burn through him.
"Don't look at me like dhat! It was you dhat stiffed me, god damn it! I want my due, dhat's all!"
For absolutely no reason he suddenly considers how her tits, even lying on her side, are perfect. Too perfect.
"What kind o' bra ya wearin'?"
"Say wha'? Damn pervert, you!"
"Dhat's a wonder bra, ain't it?"
"So, what if it is? Not every sister's been blessed with a chest/..."
"Shut up. Give it he'e!"
She looks wide-eyed in disbelief. "My bra?! You want my fuck/..." And it comes to her what he really wants. She unbuttons her blouse and removes it. She shirks each shoulder strap, pulls the front down and spins the bra around so she can unhook it. Her sweeties are exposed with their dark berry nipples tautened.
She throws the bra at him.
Tory reacts, catches it.
She leans back, skirt rides up.
Tory reacts, catches "it" in all its pantiless glory; hairy black, glimpse of pink and moist.
"Wha'? Dhat's all ya got for me? Dhat mess? Wha' da fuck I want wi' dhat? Huh? When my lan'lord comes knockin' on my fuckin' door for da rent, what?! I'm gonna give 'im dhat dhere? Fuck! I'm...I'm..."
She withdraws from his utter rejection. He looks wild-eyed around the room. Now he leaps to her dresser, looks for something valuable. He sees nothing of anything. Everything begins to wah-wah throb and blur together, stirred by his fear that the Caddie is out there all alone just waiting to be stolen; if it hasn't been already. He turns, stumbles to the bed, grabs the blanket and yanks it. Tory looks at this woman with fury in his eyes. For all the world wanting to strike her; better yet, wring her neck until she spews golden coins. But, Tory Nayor will never allow himself to hurt anyone or anything. He knows too well how it feels.
He rages in his mind, while spinning round and drunkenly makes his way back down the hall emerging into the courtyard; in the one hand, dragging a cheap, fake, dirty quilt along behind him; in the other, holding a sweaty wonder bra.
It hits him all at once. The utter absurdity of what he is doing. Stealing cheesy bedding and a used brassier, in broad daylight, all the way up here; him, Wonder Bread white and sporting a rodeo outfit.
Tory drops his booty and runs. From back and behind him he hears her scream. He almost blacks out from horrific anticipation as he rounds the corner. His relief at seeing the Caddie just as he left her gives him such an extra kick that he is able to make a clean getaway before the amassing masses are massed and ready to go.
"STUPIT FUCKIN' IDIOT!" he berates himself. "WHAT DA FUCK YA THINKIN'? RI-I-I-IGHT! YA AIN'T THINKIN'! TOO BUSY BEIN' A FUCKIN' DUMB-ASS!"
And, yet again, he wishes to wake from this nightmare. And, yet again, he falls into the cycle of recrimination against his backsliding ways; addicted to hustling for his self-value; afraid to slack off even a little for fear of descending into the bottomless pit of laziness and prove his Old Man was right all along. And, yet again, Tory flows into that loop of terrible childhood memories, relives the pain and torment at the hand and word of his abusive father and sainted, but spineless, mother.
"NO! NO!! NO!!! STOP!!!!" he screams to break the spell. Step two of his ritual has him snapping on the radio. Every station-stop is set on a talk show. Most range between ultra right wing and fat cat conservative. Which offers Tory, him being a liberal Democrat with decidedly twisted Catholic upbringing, the most grist for grinding rebuttal.
In no time Tory Nayor is smiling, fully engaged in clever repartee with the greatest conservative minds of the day. He delivers his bon mots with passionate glee. He slays their arguments with quotes from The New York Times. And, so he passes the time, calms his mind, keeps himself out of trouble. He gets to the airport and whiles away his wait in his Cadillac listening to confused views of the news by gargantuan conservative intellects. Yes, Tory is intimately aware of the inherent oxymoronic non sequitur. It is what amuses him so. Which helps hold his nightmare at bay. This unending calamity in pursuit of enough money to live on. Thus his perpetual hustle. Working so many hours he has no life. He remembers his dearly departed friend.
"Like da Breeze always said, 'It's life all right. But, it sure ain't livin'.'"
With that, he is off to collect his client, her baggage, and begin the two hour trek back home.
And, except for a couple bouts of road-rage-- which he has to chew on so as not to ram the motherfuckers, thereby unduly upsetting one of his regular paying customers, and of course, notwithstanding her non-stop chatter covering nothing he cares about --things go well. It is when he deposits her and hers, gets paid, and stops at the best local diner to catch dinner, that his nightmare once again reasserts itself.
The calamari is off. But, when he complains, the waitress lifts his plate to her nose, sniffs, says it smells fine to her.
Now, this offensive action of sticking her nose into his plate would be bad enough, just from a hygiene standpoint, not to mention the etiquette infraction. But it is her attitude that really galls him.
"Ay? Wha' abou' 'da customer's always right?' Hmm?" he says in a calm, though anything but soothing, voice of one adance on the ridge of reason.
She sniffs haughtily. "They usually are. But, this time? You're wrong, buddy. Squid smells fine. I should know. Been servin' it all day long!" She unceremoniously plops his plate on the counter.
Those little gremlins in Tory's mind scream in unison, hit that perfect shattering pitch that snaps his sanity. Next thing he knows, he is in a slow-motion techniscape with him draped over the counter, both hands wrapped around the waitress' throat, squeezing with all his might, screaming in her face.
"YA FUCKIN' CUNT! MAYBE IT'S YER FILT'Y BUSINESS DOWN DHERE DHAT'S RUINED YER SENSE O' SMELL! YOU FAT FUCKIN' COW! YOU DON'T KNOW WHA' DA FUCK STINKS! TAKE DHIS PLATE O' SHIT AWAY. AN' DON'T BE EXPECTIN' ME TA PAY CENT ONE, BITCH!"
His situation becomes instantly crystalline. All eyes are on him. He is in very deep shit. "WAKE UP, MAN!" he bellows in booming mind-voice. "WAKE DA FUCK UP!!"
He catches himself from going face first into his plate. Tory looks fast all around. Not a single person in the place takes any notice of him. He checks out the waitress as she draws a glass of soda. She is completely nonplused. He leans over, sniffs the calamari. "Definitely off," he says almost to himself. He throws down two five dollar bills to cover the tab and gratuities.
"Fat broad don't deserve a fuckin' dime!" he steams from inner sizzle. "But I'll be damned if I'm gonna wait on her lazy ass to cash me out. Fuck it! Keep the change, Bitch."
Just as the door swings shut behind him, Tory turns to maybe flip the bitch the bird if she is watching. He sees the waitress hunched furtively over his plate shoveling his calamari into her gaping maw. His laugh is long and loud. "Yeeah, yeeah...Knew she'd do it. Fat pig. Glad I hucked one up in dhere. See how dhat bitch goes down, honey. We'll see if tomorrow ya still think the calamari was okay."
As Tory drives familiar streets home, he reflects on the women he has interacted with today. And those of the day before. And the days before that. Christ, on and on. Every single one of them has had at least one flaw too many. At least for him. Too rich. Too poor. Too tall. Too fat. Too short. Too thin. Too much top. Not enough. Too whorey. Too Virgin Mary. Too forward. Too shy. Too brainy. Too dumb. Too dominant. Too docile.
Every single woman he has met has failed to measure up. Sure he wants to bury the bologna. But, until he finds a broad without that shriveling quality they all seem to possess, he will wait. What choice does he have? Ever try to stuff a cooked noodle into tight cranny? But, he isn't worried. For he is absolutely sure that the reason he waits is not because of some psychological abnormality. But, because he knows exactly what he is looking for and will, one of these days, find.
In fact, his six mug set-- centrally displayed on diffuse lit glass shelving --is the first thing he gazes at once he enters his top floor corner apartment. As his uncaged birds chirp and chatter he makes his way to his mugs, his alter of feminine worship. He beholds her perfection six ways displayed. And, as always, this recurring nightmare comes to an end.
* * *
He startles awake, having dozed off again, in the sun, by the pool. Tory ha-rumphs and his personal servant comes running.
"Yes, Master Nayor?" inquires the formally dressed white haired elder.
"Not quite sure. Something wet. Cold...Make it a G-and-T, hmm? Not too early is it?"
"Oh, no, Sir," mews the sycophant. "Right back with your gin and tonic, Sir." The servant turns to the Missus. "Ma'am? Anything?"
A spectacular beauty, with hairless, tanned, perfect body fully nude and on display, she declines with a mn-mnh, rolls over on her stomach. Her voice is milk-and-honey soft, sweet.
"Would you please do my back?" she generalizes.
The servant craves immediate obedience but, as warrants his position, defers to his master.
Tory marvels at the view of his lady's perfect posterior. Especially the pout between perfect thighs.
"No, you go ahead, Talbot. I don't wanna get my hands all oily. Do 'er as she asked, my good man."
The servant is only too pleased to drop to his knees, squeezes a good sized dollop of sun screen into his palm, begins to rub her entire body, from heels to shoulders, grabbing handfuls of ass cheek in a massage-like subterfuge. It is the same technique he uses when feigning thoroughness of inner thigh application to get some of his fingers, seemingly quite by accident, into where they do not belong.
She, being a lady, does not squeal or otherwise respond.
Tory smiles, glad that Talbot is so conscientious in his vigorous rubbing. He sees nothing tawdry because he knows without a doubt that his beautiful companion loves only him, craves only his touches. They are perfect for each other. From the moment he first saw her he had been under her cast spell. Enamored. Willing to do whatever it takes to keep her satisfied. For she is indeed high maintenance. Though, in Tory Nayor's experience, he has never known such a woman not worth that extra cost in pleasuring, money and devotion. Of course, Tory has never known such a woman not to push her demands up against her man's need not to be humiliated. Except, that is, for his soon-to-be-wife. She actually encourages him to be himself. To be proud of his extraordinary intelligence and business acumen.
A self-made multi-billionaire, Tory started out with a tiny fleet of cars, just one Cadillac, and grew his business empire through diversification to huge proportion. Sold it off several years ago for in excess of one-and-a-half billion dollars. Since then, he has been living the high life.
After all those years grinding away he feels fully entitled to kick back, enjoy the best life has to offer.
And his life truly is the American Dream. Hard work has paid off beyond wildest notion. He lives each day according to his wants and desires and never to satisfy simple survival. He can have anything he wants. And, so, wants for nothing. Which explains how he and she became we.
He had to have her and she was happily had.
As they say, it's all been good. Ever since.
Then why, wonders Tory, is he having this most disturbing recurring nightmare? He should have not a worry. Not a care. Yet? Maybe, just maybe, it's about him not having a life. Maybe, just maybe, paradise isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe perfection is a colossal bore, a bone-numbing weight to keep you from soaring.
"Talbot?"
"Yes?" startles the guilt-ridden elder withdrawing three wet fingers.
"That G-'n'-T, hmm" I think my love is sufficiently slathered. Is that right, dear?"
"MmHmm," she purrs, rocking her pelvis from longing.
It takes Talbot several long moments of brushing the knees of his pants clean from imaginary debris in order to pry his eyes from their focus on her splayed butterfly of glistening pink.
"Yes-s-s-s, S-S-Sir," he hisses from pent steam, not quite upright as he heads inside.
Tory now notices her openness weeping from want. He is on his knees and administering tongue licks, dabs, and plunges, in ever changing pattern until her little girl mews and soft innocent no-noes, belying the yesness of her body, conveys he is on target with effective programming. He seeks to fine-tune the pace.
Talbot nearly drops his Master's Gin-and-Tonic upon returning from seeing the Mistress sidewise, on all fours, perfect breasts swaying to ever quickening rhythm of Tory's full facial attention to her inner most need to orgasm. As she revs up past the point of no return, she unleashes her grunt-to-groan-to-wail of exaltation, and all subsequent twists, stretches, and arching of her perfect orgasming body as well. The elder servant brings his offending fingers to nose and with a whimper releases into absorbent boxers.
Tory looks up with dripping smile. "Yes?"
"Your drink, Sir." says the well seasoned butler.
"Ah, bring it here, good man."
Tory savors each mouthful for a moment before swallowing. Talbot can only stare in awe at his Mistress' perfect splendors; her dripping nectar.
The servant accepts his Master's empty glass. "Another, Sir?"
"Don't mind if I do. But, leave it on the table next to the chaise. Because..." His expression matches Talbot's as he gazes upon the utter beauty of her upturned charms, her subordinate posture, her breathy girlish sighs. "I'm going to be properly fucking that, my good man."
"Carry on, Sir." drones the envious servant as he pivots and walks off.
And, carry on Tory does. Again and again he plunges deep into her girlness as she ejaculates ego-hardening mantras about his size and technique. As for the visual component, she offers sensual perfection of sweep and smoothness and skin without blemish. Aurally she makes obvious her love for whatever he does to her.
Talbot returns with the drink which he deposits per orders. Of course, he cannot manage to force himself away from the scene. To his utter good fortune Master Tory flips the Mistress onto her back, re-inserts himself into shaved treasure and continues to fuck her; perfect tits all a-jiggle. As always, expecting so much more, Talbot is deeply disappointed by her complete focus on her beloved. Not even a coquettish sidewise glimpse. She is wholly into Tory Nayor.
Talbot is put off. As well he should be. For such total devotion is withering to any male not the revered object of the devotee. The servant slouches, sighs, spins about and leaves.
Upon spurt-spasming completion, Tory quite uncharacteristically stays ensconced, leans forward, gives her warm hug, gazes deep into her somewhat surprised eyes, speaks the words, "I love you," that neither needs to hear. For they are exceptionally aware of their shared good-fortune. Each is made better by the other. Life, come its catastrophes, its cherished moments, will have much better been lived together than it possibly could have been apart. They are each other's future. They will grow old together, happy in each other's embrace.
He backs out and wonders, why then, since he is wealthy and hooked up with a woman he adores, is he having such bizarre dreams? The same one only a little different each time?
Tory senses it may be he longs for the time when he was hustling up his empire. Back in the day, he was psyched, had boundless energy. For he aspired to a dream. So spiritually invigorating was it that Tory has long longed for that intoxicant to re-stimulate his body and soul. An addict to the pursuit of a dream, he craves its majestic euphoria.
Finishing the G-'n'-T in the cool of umbrella shade, he gazes on his freshly fucked love baking in the sun, by the pool with its soothing gurgle. He is aroused by her everything. It is as if he can never get enough. Hooked on her perfection.
But the drink and the heat combine to put Tory into the chaise, into quick repose; his last conscious thought, how lucky he is to have such a charmed life, such a peaceful, boring, whitebread life replete with perfect soon-to-be-wife.
* * *
"Shit!" he greets the day expertly reaching for, finding and disarming the alarm. Up at 4:00 AM for a 4:45 pickup leaves him just enough time to make himself a cup of strong instant coffee and hit the bathroom with The New York Times which he receives daily delivered fresh to his apartment door.
"God damn it!" he says, slams down the coffee container with spoon in empty jar clangle.
He grabs a can of caffeine-laden cola from the fridge, heads to the front door, swings it open, stoops down to pick up the paper that is not there.
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" He curses out his old delivery lady. "Fuckin' slacka! Yeeah, yeeah...Oh, I got yer Christmas bonus," He grabs his genitalia through his briefs. "Right he'e, Motha fucka!" Tory slams the door shut, hurries towards the bathroom. "What da fuck am I s'posed to read while sittin' on da shitta?"
As he hustles along, starting to feel queasy, squeezing his sphincter, becoming more and more distressed with every step, he shocks himself by settling for a grab bag handful of his recyclable junk mail to read.
Just barely making it, Tory positions himself, lets loose with a jet splash of foul smelling liquefied bowel bilge.
"An' da Bitch said da squid's good, eh?! Smell dhat...Oh...Oh...Oh, fuck..." Tory holds his breath, fans away the fumes as best as he is able. He thinks to think how that offending cow must be doing this morning. He just had a couple of mouthfuls and he feels poisoned. She chowed down the whole plate of it. He starts to laugh, takes ever increasing comfort in having dispensed some effective street justice.
His laugh transforms to teary-eyed giggling as he imagines the waitress' woe. Which squeezes the bilge water from him in squirts. He fans more furiously still. His uncaged birds take noisy flight in protest of being gassed.
Thirty-five minutes later, showered, dressed, at the contact point and waiting, Tory considers whether he should chance jumping in the deli down the street for a huge cup of much needed brew. He decides he cannot afford to miss this airport run. This client has rarely been late and it is exactly 4:45 AM.
At five o' clock Tory is cussing out the old bitch for being so late. He could have been half through a jumbo cup of java by now. He buzzes up to her apartment.
"Tory? Is that you?"
He presses the button and talks into the wire mesh grid. "Tory's Taxi at your service."
"We're not too late are we?"
"'We'? I been out he'e waitin' on ya since quarter-to."
"Lamb's sake. And I have been waiting up here. Didn't I tell you that I have a trunk I'm taking with me this flight? That I'd need a hand moving it?"
Tory breathes out his ill-tempered energy in a long, long, long sigh underscoring eyes filled with murderous rage draining away to a simple contempt-laden gaze.
"NNNnnnoooOOO you didn't tell me, Gladys. But...Fine...Let's get on with it. We've wasted enough time already. Buzz me in."
As he takes the eight flights of stairs his mind freewheels along: Same ol' same ol'. Anytime a bitch says she needs a hand movin' something? You can bet yer ass it's gonna be you movin' it all by yer lonesome. Fuckin' cunts! All da time yippin' 'bout dheir rights. Say dhey wanna be equal. Treated like equals. Bullshit! Treat a woman like an equal an' she'll be up an' outta dhere in like two fuckin' seconds. Bitches are independent now-a-days. Dhey can always sell da coochie for what dhey need. A guy? Fuck! Women don't wanna be equals. Can't blame 'em. Who'd wanna be demoted?
Yeeah, yeeah...Bitches all da time workin' da angles. Gotta give 'em credit, though. Give 'em dheir due. Dhey know most guys are slaves to dheir dicks. Guys worship whatever gets dheir cocks hard. Cunts just work it to dheir advantage, 'at's all. I mean, even da most skanky bitch in da world's got some sick chump all jammed up on what she does to 'im. Do any fuckin' thing for 'er. Shit! Lick her asshole if she wants 'im to. Let 'er piss in his mouth. Course, da fuckin' chump believes 'er when she swears it was a G-spot cum. But, dhen again, don't blame him. Of course da chump's gonna believe dhat shit 'cause she's been all da time tellin' 'im, "Oh, baby...Nobody ever made me gush like dhat. You're da best!" An' all dhat kind o' bullshit. What's da chump s'posed ta think?
Man oh man...Nothin' worse dhen gettin' played by a nasty cunt. Fuck you up royally. Make you into one o' dhem girlie men. Snivelin' little faggots can't stand up to a bitch.
"She-it!" says Tory at the top of the eighth flight of stairs, bent over, huffing and puffing. It is, however how he makes his money. So he pushes himself to continue to stay within the timeframe of not being late. Tory is relieved, upon entry to his client's apartment, to see the trunk is more like an oversized suitcase. Being Tory's nightmare, however the case proves unmercifully dense-packed heavy. As he struggles down the corridor towards the stairs with at least his own weight bear-hugged to his chest, he pretty much accepts the likelihood that he will experience a severe dislocation of his nuts.
"Dearie?" Gladys shouts to him from down the other corridor. "The elevator is this way, Tory."
His mind registers each letter slowly: E-L-E-V-A-T-O-R. Now, it registers the all important question mark. "?" The trunk drops to the floor with a boom. "Motha fucka! An' I been usin' da stairs all dhese years. Damn it!"
Forty minutes later he is tipping the sky cabbie to deal with Gladys' ball-busting baggage. He deposits her where she needs to be. He collects his one-fifty and her promise to call to arrange her return flight pick-up. He bids Gladys a pleasant adieu, ambles along until he gets a great view of airliners landing and taking off and watches. Minutes flow seamless into one extended moment.
When his consciousness resurfaces he realizes he had been idle for over one half hour. Which whips him into action. First, he gets two jumbo coffees to go, one with ice for immediate consumption. Second, he surrenders to his other addiction. Feeling ambitious he hovers at the terminal exits looking to hustle a fare into the City. Which he finds soon enough. Less than twenty minutes later he hangs out at Port Authority and works the crowd for an upstate fare. He cuts the price by the hour as this unbearable day wears on. At least several times every hour he berates himself for his failure, his slovenly ways. He could have been hustling fares to-and-fro, borough to borough rather than wait for the one big kill.
Tory tells himself to wake up, to stop the cycle from repeating itself as it always has.
Another flush of potential customers flows by. He holds up his Tory's Taxi Upstate Cut-Rate Special sign and judges the face of each individual passing by as to their probability of needing a ride North. Funny how just that one thing stands out. But, Tory knows it is not just one thing. He knows exactly how it is. He was a city boy once. Went upstate to college. Fell in love with the whole quiet communing-with-nature quality of life. Decided to stay there even after dropping out. Living like that makes you totally different than urban dwellers. All of that contained in the eyes, that look of longing to return.
"Bingo!" he says just under his breath as he witnesses 'the look' on the face of a tall, leggy, very good looking woman in her mid-to-late thirties who only now spots Tory's sign, reads it and reacts with a smile as she approaches.
Every step closer the woman takes adds more definition to 'the look' which adds dollars to the cut-rate until, by the time she asks Tory how much, the fare is more than normal.
"One-seventy-five to yer door."
The expensively dressed woman shows surprise. Tory can't tell if his price is too high or too low.
"Great!" says his well-groomed and somehow familiar fare.
"Too low..." moans Tory to himself. "Shoulda held out for da full two bills. What a chicken shit! Coulda really popped it today." Only to remember. "Ri-i-i-ight...It's still a record. A hundred-an-a-half comin' down. Plus twenty from da airport fare. Makes one-seventy. An' dhis one he'e, at one-seventy-five makes three-forty-five..."
Which gets Tory to thinking about the diner he should choose once back in town to maximize his chances for getting a customer on his way home so he can even out at three-hundred-fifty dollars for a day's work.
The client has headphones on, eyes closed, so Tory puts on talk radio and rides upstate inside a timeless bubble. Upon its pop one moment later, he pulls into the driveway of his client's home. He puts the Caddie in park, checks his rearview mirror.
"Yo! We're he'e."
Tory twists around, slides aside the bullet-proof partition. He could, but does not, avert his gaze when she scooches up in the seat; her skirt riding north of her thighs; her legs separating just a bit, just enough to give a glimpse of pale pink silk.
"God Damn!" thinks a surprised Tory to himself as he begins to tingle where he has never before tingled except when in the presence of his mugs.
"Uhm..." Her voice is soft, low. She is now leaning such that Tory gets a great view of her nice sized tits. His tingling is mingling with increasing tumescence. "Well...You look like a no-nonsense kind of guy. So, let me be right up front with you."
"Uh-oh..." Tory thinks with sinking heart feeling. "If she tells me she ain't got da dough? Strangle the Bitch right he'e, I swear!"
"Well...Truth is...I travel so much I never get a chance to make friends, if you know what I mean. And, well..." She vacates the back seat. But before Tory can react she shooshes him quiet, crawls in through the front door.
She gives him a huge-eyed look of innocence. "I'm just dying to get a mouthful of cock! I'll give you two hundred and fifty bucks if you let me suck it."
Tory Nayor thinks he has died and gone to heaven. Just like he does every time moments before his nightmare reasserts its horrific reality.
So, here he is, with money in hand, getting head, which is by far the best (and only) oral sex he has ever had. She actually has gotten him hard. A feat no other real woman has accomplished. His passion, now so enflamed, has Tory experiencing something else for the first time. He actually feels compelled to get his fingers inside her.
As she bobs up and down so warm and wetly to a perfect cadence, he leans forward, careful not to impede her motion, lets his hand trace along the curve of her waist up and around her hip. He reaches between her thighs with huge anticipation; so very ready to touch a real female "down there".
She takes hold of his hand and guides him to the spot. Through the silk of her panties "it" feels smooth, plump and pouting. Her moan, as she takes every bit of him down her throat, pushes Tory off the edge.
"I...I'm cummin'!" he warns as that feel good push initiates its inexorable freefall to climax; this time, already as intense as his best mugsturbation fantasies have ever produced. And, this pleasure wave has only begun.
When, suddenly, her thighs part, she pulls her panties aside and he feels her cock slip hard and throbbing into his hand spewing its own hot and pearly.
He screams, "WAKE UP!"
So grossed out from this turn of events, Tory's valves lock down tight. Ready to cum buckets, his balls bulge blue and hurtful from backlash pressure build up. He groans from ache verging on nausea. Too stunned to think straight he watches the bitch-who's-really-a-guy get all indignant, huffy and puffy; the voice dropping octaves.
"You know it was the best blowjob you ever got! No woman can do it as good as a man, 'cause we know what we like."
"WAKE UP!"
"Yes, wake up! Get out of that rigid role playing. Hey, I paid you! I gave you great head!"
Tory's dick is now the size of a peanut; his balls, as small as peas. And there is no end to the diminution as he hears the broad growl, "Now I want the same in return! Open wide, Honey."
Tory screams himself into a numbed, silent state of mind that, soon enough, rids him of his nightmare.
* * *
"Wha'?" mumbles a rudely awakened Tory, sprawled half on, half off the chaise lounge; his empty glass having rolled from hand, smashing into diamond dust upon torch-lit patio rock. In some kind of mental fog disturbed by the swirls and eddies of repulsion and compulsion, Tory seriously considers his own sanity. Why is he dreaming such bizarre dreams? And, why, for God's sake, is he dressed in formal attire? Napping out here on the veranda, in a chaise, under the stars?
He swings his legs around to the side, sits up, drops face first into hands, makes with revitalizing two-fisted rub. "What the hell is going on?"
"Hmm, Sir?" queries his man-servant Talbot; already stooped over sweeping up broken glass with whisk broom into dust pan.
Tory opens his mouth to explain. So much. Too much. He sighs, wags his head, says "Nothing..." with intonation that suggests everything.
His spouse-to-be steps from the amber-lit mansion onto the veranda, heads his way. Her sassy, splashy dress of thin citrus-hued pinstriped material is awesome contrast to her tanned body which is shown off up to her waist, front, back and sides, in flirty flashes every step she takes with only her tiny thong as cover. And, when she first superimposes knee level torch lights, for one too-brief instant, her flawless body shadow dances through the film of her dress; she, the ethereal vapors of erotica.
Engorgement of Tory's male member is instant reminder of how lucky he is to have found her. To be able to waltz into a prestigious award ceremony honoring him as Man of the Year with such an exquisite woman on his arm, as he will in less than one hour, and to know she is his woman, not some rented beauty, makes this moment all the more special.
"My God, Tory!" she exclaims. Her eyes are devilishly a-glint as they behold his tumescence. She drops to her knees, speaks girlishly. "I told you what Robert said about getting you to the ceremony. And I quote: 'Now, girl...You make sure Tory comes tonight.' Well, Bob..." She says impishly, smiles, unzips his pants, engulfs him balls and all, working him up into a frenzy with anything but a "just following orders" performance.
Talbot himself grows quite rigid as he vicariously enjoys her well-honed oral talents. Her creative panoply of lips, tongue, mouth and throat combinations, make him throb. By the time he hears her glugging, gurgling, moan of appreciation as she milks the Master of his every last drop of satisfaction-- save for one, a translucent droplet clinging to her friction pinkened lower lip, now captured on the tip of her rosy, wet tongue --the man-servant squeaks forth involuntary release.
Still partially midst post-nightmare stupor, Tory Nayor's consciousness is further shrouded by his angel mouth's orally drawn orgasm. In slow motion he had witnessed her sweet mouthings; images that have imprinted his libido; now replaying automatically nonstop some-reserved-where in his mind as he follows his wife into a night of ego-inflating idolatry.
For hours, Talbot wonders if any of many women that the Mistress kisses out of custom, as courtesy, will smell his Master's musky essence on her breath.
Tory Nayor's good fortune knows no bounds. Every day is better than the day before. Each year brings him more than the year before.
For nearly ten years his life has been upward trend. But, also having shared that long rise is the more disturbing than ever nightmare he keeps having. Things keep suggesting themselves. Things about himself he will not accept.
Having reached forty years of age, in just a blink of an eye another decade has passed by. His life, is unchanged. Still upward trend. His wife is just as she has always been. Perfect. Unaged. Best example of feminine advantage to ever walk the Earth.
His empire has tripled in wealth, untold times that in power. He can command anything be bought, taken, created, destroyed, and it will be made so.
Except for one thing. His nightmare. Now worse than ever as he is being ravaged from behind with penetration, no doubt, at the very next juncture. He is too terrified to sleep anymore. So, he spends most of his nights fucking his incredible wife through her cycles of wet and dry, consciousness and deep-sleep.
Poor Talbot, tottering near by, more crotchety than ever and several steps slower, no longer can see well enough to ogle his Mistress during her most revealing engagements. Of all his aged infirmities it is this lost visual acuity that troubles him the most. For, being a man, sex for him has always gained its reality via its imagery. No longer able to behold its beguiling nature, he cannot remember the last time he had a stiffy. Oh, he has been stirred a few times by her scent. Until, that is, his olfactory fall-off became too pronounced to smell her juices. And, even to this day there are moments, especially when she waxes little girl innocent whilst engaged in utter kinkiness, that he senses the possibility he may yet be blessed with one last campaign from his "old fellow". But, not today. His Master blasts her out of boredom, with a complete lack of passion. Tory fucks her because she is there.
So much for Talbot's take. In actuality, Tory fucks his wife to help him stay awake so he won't fall asleep, back into his nightmare. He fucks her out of fear. He does not want to revisit the horror he feels whenever that whatever s/he is appears. It gives him the absolute creeps. Hauntingly familiar, yet a complete stranger to his ways of thinking. Men penetrate. Period. So why, in his dreams, is he so close to being reamed? And, just who is that freak trying to do him?
Which are precisely the questions Tory Nayor refuses to ponder. So he can relax. Which he does. So much so, he slips out of his wife smack back into his dream.
* * *
Numbed consciousness awakened is indiscernible from Tory's somnolence. Endorphin flooded, his mind is one unending realization. He is very, very ill.
Alone. Just him and his mugs. Withering away from some horrid virus. Already too frail to even reach for his phone to call for help. Under birds-dirtied blanket, all a-shiver and sweating, delusions begin to undulate their way into strange performances, feverish mimes knowing his every secret.
Tory Nayor begins to wonder if maybe he is not going to recover. He can't remember ever having felt this bad. Not even that time, ten years ago, when he had gotten poisoned by bad squid. He hasn't driven in days. There are dead song birds everywhere. Recorded messages unreturned are now reaping cursed desertions from once faithful customers. He has shit himself. Repeatedly. No fluid intake has led to dire dehydration. His electrolyte balance begins chaotic spiking. Which will induce cardiac arrest any time now, if he does not get help.
His vision begins to fog over. Blur. He blinks rapidly to clear his eyes. He feels zoomy, accelerating forward and backward at once. Tory beholds his mugs. His love. She motions for him to join her.
Tory Nayor knows he is dying. But, for the first time in his life, he feels no pain. And, so does not plead for this nightmare to end. He is only all about his love for her. Even as he passes on.
* * *
In his mansion, spread nude on mink, face down, arms and legs restrained in spread-eagle, Tory is paralyzed from terror at being penetrated. Repeatedly. Deep. Every thrust further discharging his manliness.
Through tears of humiliation he sees his perfect laughing wife watching him get the same as she is getting from some tall, thin, urban cowboy with roughed up good looks and dark shoulder length tresses.
Every stroke sends her higher; Tory, lower.
He screams for this nightmare to end even as he floats up and out from his body, up to the ceiling where he turns to watch. That familiar stranger, that s/he/it thrusts h/-is/-ers/its large, stiff, well-lubricated member with ball-slapping force. He hears himself screaming like a girl. Recognition explodes. His horror drains last reserves of energy.
Tory's nightmare ends with his inner child's plea, "Daddy, please don't..."
* * *
Vinny JaVon, hip young urbanite, with a dream of running his own livery service, exults in his fantastic fortune. His uncle had been right: Always check the obits. They make the very best place for apartment hunters to find promising prospects.
But, even Vinny's uncle could never have imagined this stroke of good luck. For, this has been the single most fortuitous day in all his twenty-nine years. Not only did he find an apartment. The dead guy left behind all his stuff which included his well-stocked client list and six very awesome mugs.
As the landlord exits the premises counting his money he shouts over his shoulder that the garbage left behind is Vinny's to clean up.
"Sure thing," says the young man as he closes the door. He waits a few seconds to make certain that the landlord is gone then calls up a friend.
"Yo, B!" he sasses via wireless phone. "Just got me a place. C-brate Central, man. When? T-minus yester-whatever. Round up the buds an' bring on da vittles."
He gives his friend the address, closes the communication expecting the usual crew of rowdies will arrive in less than an hour's time.
Vinny hurriedly picks his treasures out of the garbage before consolidating the dead guy's belongings into two manageable boxes. Which he lugs to the dumpster in short order.
Upon his return he gets his stereo system up and running. Next his TV sits a-top a crate at wall center. And above it, across the breadth of the shelf, evenly spaced, he positions his newfound treasures; his golden-hued mugs with that most exquisite female.
A knock at the door abruptly dislodges Vinny from his lengthy fantasy. After a single step his shock over his hardness softens him. He swings open the door and in rushes a chaos cloud of six hyper buds hauling bags of goodies and pumped for fun.
Vinny's courtesy excursion through his new homestead consists of one sweep of the arm and, "The bat'room's over dhere."
"Hey, man...Get a load o' dhese mugs." says one friend.
"Yeeah...Yeeah..." drawls Vinny. "What about dhose mugs, eh? Dude who died left 'em behind. Is she perfect, or what? An' what about dhose positions, eh?"
"But...Wha's up with da dude?" asks another buddy.
"Yeah! Looks like a face full o' da fundamental on dhis one he'e. Huh?!"
Vinny shrugs. "Whatever. But, I'd say by da looks of it, dude must be in love an' goin' tha' extra mile to give her everything she needs. An', more."
"Amen!" chant the buds in unison, quite unable to divert their collective gaze away from the most perfect female they have ever seen.++
