Dirty Little Freaks Read online

  I slap the dick with one of the wipes but it doesn't move. I slap it again and it visibly jerks, but stays put. I take the package of wipes and slap it as hard as I can. I hear a horny groan on the other side. Fuck, he’s into this. How do I get rid of him? I lean close to the hole, his dick stares at me accusingly, the little slit like a tiny mouth begging to be kissed. I get as close to it as I can without getting any ooze on me and yell “Hey asshole, there’s a chick in here!”

  That does it. It’s not good for the ego to see it deflate and pull back so quickly, but at least I can get my job done. I stop for a moment and survey the scene, I would hate to bring a black light into one of these booths, it would light up like a fucking crime scene. I could be the Dexter Morgan of shot spot analysis. ‘Oh yes, this looks like he started jerking it over here, dribbled a little...see these directional drops? Then the final act was completed against this wall, you can see the force of the blow, the violent completion of the jerk off.’

  The booth is essentially the size of a hall closet, with a black moulded plastic seat that faces a small TV screen. There’s a coin slot next to the TV and for a quarter you get about 3 minutes of porn. You do get to choose, it’s mostly man on man action, or shemales. Shemales are really popular for some reason. I think it’s not so much about the porn though, it’s the experience. It feels at times like a confessional, you’re not confessing to a priest but you’re bonding through some shared wank experience. It makes the guys feel less lonely and less like a freaky asshole.

  And of course there’s the possibility that you can stick your cock through a hole and get sucked dry on the other side. For free. With no strings attached. You wouldn’t believe the number of suburban husbands who find their way down here, guys with wives and kids and golden retrievers and nice houses in the burbs. Guys who aren’t really gay, or are gay, or don’t know, but the thrill of sticking their dick in that hole and getting drained is too addictive. I guess it’s easy, you don’t have to listen to the hole bitch about your mother or remind you for the hundredth time that you’re not mowing the grass often enough and the neighborhood watch is complaining again. I get it, but it scares me. Part of the reason I don’t like to date is because of the things I’ve seen and heard in here. Men, even normal nice men in suits and ties and driving sensible cars, don’t seem to have the ability to discern danger when their cock is involved.

  I finish up and head to the front, Jag’s already got his briefcase packed and ready to go. It makes me laugh that he carries a briefcase. I wonder if he tells the family what he does here in the city, or if he’s got some fiction about a respectable office job.

  “Why don’t you work in an office?” I ask him out of the blue. He looks surprised.

  “I don’t know, I just don’t think I’d like it.”

  “What did you do in India?”

  “I was a civil engineer.”

  “What the hell is that?” I ask, knowing full well what it is but I like to keep up the illusion that I’m less intelligent than I really am. It’s a survival skill I picked up in childhood and it stuck. One of those annoying things I don’t think I could shake even if I try.

  Jag knows I’m smart though; he looks at me, raises a brow and says, “I designed magical rocket ships that took people to Unicorn Island.”

  Did my uber religious Indian boss just diss me? I laugh and say, “Good one. Ok, how did you end up becoming the evil overlord of all this?” I sweep my hand around like a game show hostess.

  “I bought it from my Father-in-law.”

  “So your family knows?”

  He looks uncomfortable. I don’t think we’ve spoken for more than a minute about our personal lives. We have an unspoken rule to keep it all business, all the time.

  “Yes, they all know but we don’t like to talk about it. We have several stores, the others are pawn shops and jewelry.”

  “So you chose sex?” I chuckle, wondering if this guy runs deeper than I thought.

  “I did. I don’t know why, but I like it. It’s comforting, knowing that no matter what is going on in the world with the economy or the politics, people will always buy sex.”

  “You’ve got a good point,” I reply, impressed with his logic. “Have a good night!”

  “You too, try not to steal money or product,” he smiles slightly as he heads out the door.

  “That was interesting,” I say out loud. A short, middle-aged guy in a camo jacket looks up and smiles, anticipation in his eyes. Fuck, I’ve got to keep a gigantic wall up around these guys. The smallest sign of weakness and they’re rushing me, like wolves on a limping caribou.

  “Not you. Eyes straight ahead, soldier,” I say and laugh to myself as his face goes red and he looks down, nervous. I can see that he’s holding the pocket pussy modeled after somebody named “Jade.” It’s not me, it’s not my pussy, but every single guy who buys it and notices my nametag tries to make eye contact. Their eyes are always full of questions and horny insecurity. I’ve found the best way to deal with them is to avoid eye contact and simply snarl, “Not mine, your total will be....” That usually shuts them up, but not always. For those dudes who are picturing me naked while they’ve got the rubber pussy in their sweaty hands, I simply stare them down. Works every time. I think I’m a little off-putting, or as every elementary school teacher ever said about me...I do not play well with others.

  Jade isn’t my real name anyhow, I don’t even like it. My mom was a drunk. She drank and smoked up and probably did a lot of other nasty shit that I didn’t want to know about. Mostly just an old school small town girl hit the big city and became a raging drunk. My dad was worse, but he wasn’t around much. He did the nasty shit I definitely don’t want to know about, so I generally avoided him when he did decide to show up and play daddy of the year. Usually it coincided with the times he was wanted by somebody for something...drugs or money, it always came down to one of those two for my DNA donor.

  Mom though, just your run of the mill angry drunk, but when my grandma found out mom was pregnant, she drove a day straight to New Westminster and dragged my mom back to the family farm in the Kootenays. She lived 28 miles from the town of Nelson, straight up a valley cradled between two mountains. My mom was trapped and sober and I was born on the farm with no problems. My grandma kept me healthy, but ultimately she couldn’t keep me safe. My mom took off after that, dragging me back to the city with her, and that began our series of moves and shitty boyfriends for her, shitty years for me, and even shittier digs every time we packed our stuff in the middle of the night and fled overdue rent.

  For a long time my mother didn’t file my birth certificate. Finally stats BC caught up with her and forced her hand, she was going to get fined or in trouble or have to file me. It also helped sway her decision that her welfare worker told her about the extra money she’d be getting if she had me on file. So, my mom being who she is and drinking at the time named me Jack Daniels. No middle name. Just Jack. Daniels. Heee-laaar-ious, I know.

  As soon as I was old enough to throw punches and defend against the bullies in grade school, I changed it to JD. It just so happened that Salinger was already one of my favorite authors by then, a fact I hid by huddling under my covers and reading “Catcher” by the light of my pilfered keychain flashlight. If my mom caught me, she’d become enraged by her ‘pretentious’ daughter trying to show her up, thinking she was so much better than anyone else. Follow this by a slap or two, then tears and a night spent in her cups wailing about what a terrible mother she is. As I said, it was easier to play dumb in my house.

  In grade eight I was sent into an alternative program. We were back living in New Westminster; a low rent Pepto Bismal pink heritage building located directly next to the Skytrain tracks. It was cheap, cheaper because I think my mom was fucking the old Portuguese manager...and possibly the handyman, but I didn’t want to know. Every morning I’d stop in at the Hari Krishna restaurant on the bottom floor and pick up my lunch
. They loved me there, it was a free restaurant to begin with, and all vegetarian, but they gave me more than enough food for lunch and dinner as they were closed by the time I got home from school. To this day the taste of a lentil patty makes me want to break out my saffron scarf, shave my head and dance around with my tambourine singing “Hari Hari.” No, not really, but belonging to a group where you don’t have to think for yourself seems appealing at times.

  Lucky for me, Eva ended up in the same alternate program, read, “special school for slow and bad kids.” I was considered slow, she was bad, really bad. She was the same age as me, 13, and had already been expelled from several private and public schools on the Lower Mainland. Her parents were wealthy, kind, still together and utterly confused at their crazy rebellious pot smoking, boy obsessed only daughter. She had a town car drop her off every morning and called her driver “Jeeves.” That couldn’t have been his real name, but I’d never asked. Maybe one of these days I will.

  She was a firecracker, a gorgeous firecracker, and she liked me. After her attention fell on me, I was set for life socially in terms of high school. Everybody loved Eva, and loved her money, so I got to tag along to the craziest events, concerts and house parties in mansions on the West Side.

  One night when we were finishing grade nine, she talked me into taking the Skytrain down to Kits Beach to sleep outside under the stars. It’s a really popular beach, so we thought we’d be ok sneaking in a night there. I met her at Broadway Station and we hopped the 99 bus to Kits, then walked the few blocks down to the beach. It was a gorgeous summer night in Vancouver, the smell of grilled meat wafting from the beachside restaurant. Why couldn’t the Hari Krishnas be carnivores? I lamented this for the thousandth time as we stopped on the grass. I would’ve killed for a burger right then, like literally fucking killed, torn the throat out of a cow and cooked up the whole body. My mouth was watering by the time we got to the sand.

  Eva kicked off her shoes and ran towards the water. I was wearing my knee high Docs, a sweet Salvation Army thrift store find, and sat down to unlace them. I carried them with me, not wanting to lose them to some quick thinking thief, and noticed Eva left her expensive flats behind. She just didn’t care about these things. I’ve always admired that.

  We splashed around a little, squealing and laughing in the water, then headed for a nice spot on the grass. The sun was setting and the lights of Vancouver clicked on, our own private show it seemed. She sparked up a joint and we took turns on it, my first time so I sputtered and coughed when I inhaled which set her to laughing so hard she had tears down her cheeks.

  I got into it though, I was apparently born chronic, and soon the effects were spreading through my body. My arms felt light and fuzzy, my legs felt leaden, like I couldn’t move if I tried. My face was frozen in a permanent Joker grin and I found everything was nicer, the lights twinkled and the ocean smelled delicious. I could hear the sounds of traffic in the distance and the faint screech of seagulls overhead. I fell back into the grass and marveled at the cool earth, the prickly poke of each blade on my skin and the crazy sensation of being connected to everything, I was part of an ecosystem and almost felt like weeping for the revelation. Almost, come on, I would have fucking punched myself in the face if I had actually cried.

  Eva fell back into the grass next to me and grabbed my hand. Not in a lesbo way, but in that shared communion way.

  “Your name should be Jade.”

  “What do you mean?” I managed to squeak out, my throat and lips dry.

  “JD, it sounds like Jade. And Jade is beautiful but tough, like you. It’s the hardest thing on earth but everybody thinks it’s precious. It can cut glass, did you know that?”

  I think she meant diamonds, but I didn’t have the heart to correct her. “I don’t know, Jade sounds like a porn star name.”

  “You should be so lucky. I would love to do porn when I’m older.”

  “You’d be perfect for it,” a male voice said and we both sat up.

  “Hey,” Eva said, “who are you?”

  His name was Butch, he was an adorable Filipino guy a few years older than us, he had smooth skin and perfect teeth. He found us while taking a leak in the bushes, which he continued to do as we talked. I had never seen an uncircumcised dick before, and Eva caught me staring. “I think Jade likes it,” she laughed. And that’s how it happened; I was Jade from then on, even though I never really liked it. It just stuck.

  It turned out Butch had a bit part in some cheesy Vancouver produced teen TV drama, so Eva fucked him on the beach that night. He also had a group of friends with a bonfire, better weed and a bunch of booze just up the grass from us. They also had burgers grilling on a portable BBQ, glorious fucking burgers. I think I ate six in the time it took Eva to fuck him and come back. By the time it occurred to me that he could be a serial killer rapist making off with my best friend, she was done and by my side, swigging straight out of a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, wide grin on her face.

  And for the record, Jade is a porn star name. Hence our bestselling rubber twat modeled after a porn star named Jade. I always laugh at the little cured ham pocket pussy when a customer slides it across the counter, hoping to make eye contact. I secretly hope mine is prettier than the fake one, I always mean to get a mirror and check it out, but never have.

  Chapter Two

  Fist Fights and Bass Finger

  “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m on the mother fucking list!” Eva screams at the bouncer denying us entrance to The Roxy. We can hear the steady spine thumping bass coming from the club and the line winds around the block. Granville Street is hopping, it’s eleven on a Friday, anyone who’s anyone is here. This has been a no traffic area for as long as I can remember, so drunks and tweekers are free to stumble here and there with no worries. A frat boy and his buddies walk by, he smashes his beer bottle to the ground and whoops. I stare in disgust, I hate guys like that, and I can’t help my sneer.

  “What the fuck are you looking at, freak?” he yells right in my face, arms out like he’s going to attack.

  “Nothing,” I reply, cool as a cuke and spit on the ground in his direction. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s good, fucking bitch,” he says and walks away, not understanding he was just dissed by a “freak.” I wonder if he’ll ever get it.

  “We are on there, I know we are. The lead singer of, like, the band that’s playing right now? He personally invited us!” Eva continues to argue with the beefcake dude guarding the door. I don’t say a thing. I know she won’t quit until she gets her way.

  “Sorry miss, do you know how many girls a night try to get in that way? I don’t see your name, I can’t let you jump the queue.” He looks up and down his clipboard carefully, not seeing us on it.

  “Come on, do you know how pissed he’ll be if you deny him access to this?” She motions up and down her body.

  “Ok, what’s his name?”

  “Diesel.” She says and looks smug.

  “Everybody knows his stage name...I mean his real name,” he says and raises one eyebrow.

  Eva looks stunned. You can tell she’s thinking but can’t quite remember “big cock bent over couch’s” name. Fuck, this is going to be a long night. He glances at me and we share a look.

  “Gage!” She yells triumphantly, “His real name is Gage Patterson!”

  The bouncer hesitates, he really wasn’t expecting her to know that, neither was I. I’m sure he’s thinking he’ll regret this, but he reluctantly unhooks the velvet rope and lets us pass.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Eva blows him a kiss as we go in.

  The club is packed. We don’t even bother to check our things. I’m glad I shoved everything into a small wallet and shoved it down the pocket in the front of my short plaid skirt. I sew a little pocket inside all of my skirts just for this reason. Yeah, I sew, big fucking deal. I’m wearing shredded black tights and have my hair sticking up as high as I can ge
t it, the sides are super short and I have long, green extensions falling down my back. I love the eighties punk look, well, love might be an understatement…I fucking worship the eighties punk movement. Tonight I compliment the plaid mini kilt with a black Ramones tee, a black leather jacket and dark, smoky eyes, very heavy on the mascara. I am wearing my ‘fuck me’ boots, as Eva called them, but I think of them more as ‘fuck you up’ boots. They’re knee high Fluevogs, black leather and have about a hundred eyelets. I love them so damn much, they are pretty much the only article of clothing I’ve ever spent full price on. I used to walk past the Fluevog flagship store on Granville Street almost every day on my way to work. I would pause and stare in the window so often that one clerk would wave and smile brightly at me every time he’d see me. I knew how much they were and saved up until the glorious day I waved back, and opened the front door. The look of surprise on his face was worth the money, and the boots were the icing on that cake.

  I know I look good tonight, my tits feel full and perky and my legs feel long and elegant. We push our way through the crowd so Eva can spot Diesel from somewhere near the front. The beat is slamming, and my body picks it up immediately. My hips sway in time as we walk, and I accidentally brush up against the bodies of one or two hot, drunk men. Shit, I think I’m in heat. I do a mental evaluation and try to check myself. Nope not working, my body wants to grind tonight, and my brain is quickly losing control. I hope Eva brought something to blame it on: there’s nothing wrong with finding yourself on the receiving end of a punk band bukakke party if you can say it was the X.

  Eva turns to me and yells, “I think I see the bass player, the one I want you to meet.” She points to the stage where a few guys are thrashing around, playing it up for the crowd. The only one who stands out is Diesel, the others are moving too fast for me to know who’s on bass.

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of myself tonight,” I assure her. She’s been yapping about this guy since she hooked up with Diesel and I’ve been dashing away every time she tries to force me to look at him. I get this weird feeling that Eva has some kind of nesting thing going on, she wants to settle down and a dating foursome with her bestie might just be the thing for her, but not for me. No way I’m getting roped into faking it with some loser bass player just to appease her need for domestic bliss. Out of the corner of my eye I see Eva jumping up and down, waving her hands frantically.