Diary Of A Degenerate 21

I climbed off the whore an unsatisfied man. Sure, I came. But she had fulfilled the lowest possible expectation of the contract, from the lazy head to the disinterested fucking which ended silently and prompted her to immediately request to use my shower. Oh yeah, that's exactly what I want. A prostitute washing off a day's worth of semen shellac in my shower. But I was a gentleman and gave her the go-ahead.

I wished I hadn't. She robbed me of any delusion that she had even a sliver of feminine sexuality when she took out her teeth and removed her wig, placing them both on my kitchen table with more care than they appeared to warrant, then retiring to the bathroom. "Don't use my fucking soap!" I yelled after her, thoughts of a brown primordial soup pouring down the drain like blood in the title scene of "Psycho" playing through my head.


She stomped into the room with my towel buried in her armpit, still scrubbing away, every ounce of her ample frame shuddering with each heavy step. After pulling on her dress she reached into her purse and lit up a cigar. I shit you not, a BIG cigar like some prohibition-era bootlegger gangster, which she gummed away at without any shame. I was almost ready to swear off women forever, but thankfully she gathered up her gear and got ready to leave. "Twenty bucks, mister." She said. I handed her a ten dollar bill and she gave me a disapproving look. "Discount for the shower and the towel I have to burn." She didn't argue.


The brand new door I had installed by management had a massive deadbolt this time, and I was happy to have it as I locked the door behind her. I grabbed a trash bag off the floor and tossed my towel into it and checked the bathroom, where I found two fake eyelashes and a wet bar of soap, and tossed both. Whores never listen.


I opened all my windows to let the stink of sex waft out and couldn't help but think about Vanessa. She was a beautiful girl... better than I deserved anyway, and she took care of me. She cleaned, plied me with daily bottles of top shelf, and paid my bills. How did I ever fuck that one up? Putting up with her craziness and the occasional violent outburst didn't seem so bad after a few encounters with the pasty gutter-trash I was pulling these days. I felt like driving back to our home, knocking on the door and sweeping her off her feet, then drowning out the sound of the radio with her screams. But I had never come back to any of the women. Once I walked out the door they were ghosts to me. But I still had questions for her. I wanted to know the full story behind her letter. Maybe I could justify going back after all.


 

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