Definitely a burning in his private parts. But certainly not an STD…no, he’d been “safe”. That whore in Vegas at the PC Trade Show, Millennial Pizza, that software that’s almost as much fun as pepperoni and anchovies.
“Hey, mister, we’re here to please…take this demo disk with you,” she had said, something about the slave sandal high heels, the generous décolletage and wind fluffed hair, Peacock eye shadow of a Persian princess…beautiful ears…plump lobes decorated in rubies…that looked very real, a perfume meant to smother, slay, with a sex bondage whiff of leather and lust.
He paused, taking the CD, her fingernails cerulean blue, capped teeth, beautiful lush pink tongue, mouth wide open for a karaoke mike.
“I just wanna get outta here, get a drink, take a shower & Jacuzzi…” he said, “lie down for a few hours.”
“Then say no more,” she said, “I know just the place. The cab line’s over an hour. I have my car out back. This is my town…”
“What’s the fee?”
“You don’t fool around. Hundred for the quickie, three hundred for the afternoon and dinner, five hundred for the sleepover and a grand for the all night special.”
“Stop,” he said, “I know my budget…the Happy Hour rest stop and steak dinner.”
“Fine, sweetie, I need some iron myself,” she says and clicks her claws like the surf on the turf, “but make mine a couple of Maine lobstahs.”
That’s it, he remembered suddenly, the burning…that’s when he first felt the burning…not in his privates so much as in his wallet.