We headed out for dinner after he’d pissed on me. I swallowed most of it, the rest he did over my face and into my hair, which had lacquered on the walk downtown and now hung over my eyes in taught, bolshie curls like I was some sort of wanna-be teen movie star.
The place he chose was on west eighty-sixth, and it struck me as the sort of schizophrenic diner that serves suits and soccer moms by day and hookers and suicidal loners by night - with neither ulterior group having any clue of the others part in its twenty four hour, seven day per week story.
We were the contradiction to the rule, of course. In truth, I didn’t actually know what he did as I’d never thought to ask, and his cursory air had made it clear from the outset what I was going to be to him - which was pretty much everything I’d hoped for and wanted.
I’m not even sure we were really there for dinner, though he insisted the burgers were the best for ten blocks. I asked him to order for me, to choose whatever he wanted me to eat.
His blue eyes sparkled as I pressed the menu back into the voluptuous waitress’s hands. She smiled. It was vacuous, the sort of heaving, faked effort that illuminated the chunk of three hours old gum that swirled turgidly around her mouth like dirty laundry at an aging launderette.
She probably thought I was his daughter, but only after first disregarding us as hooker and John. I didn’t blame her for that - it was way past two a.m. and here’s a guy in his fifties taking a girl in her teens to a slum diner.
Yeah, we took in a show.
A few of the disconsolate and lost looked up from beneath their own personal nightmares. I hadn’t realised I’d shouted it aloud, but they soon turned away again.
The waitress seemed to brush it off as teenage petulance, flashing me one of those laconic smiles that suggest to meaning well but is actually so patronising. Maybe it was genuine, it was hard to tell with all the acid and weed I’d ingested. Or maybe she felt my attitude matched my piss streaked hair. Yeah, that was it - I was the absconding daughter. Maybe Daddy had just rescued me from a needle in the arm inside some squalid nearby flat, prior to a gang bang that I’d have been mostly comatose through, and had brought me to the diner for a stiff talking to. Quit drugs, stay in school, and all that.
She wasn’t unattractive for a woman significantly closer to his years than mine. She had a buxom, heavy chested figure, the sort that looks better out of clothes and often features prominently on amateur porn sites where the selfie taker’s emphasis can be on the voluminous frontage being crammed into a small square image.
Love.
I started imagining her with his fat dick in her mouth. She’d love it. I could smell it in every fibre of her being. She was the sort that would groan desperately with doe eyes rolling to the back of her skull in ecstatic gratitude, and all because he’d used her like a piece of meat. I totally got that, because he’d spent the preceding three hours doing exactly that to me, and I’d been ever so grateful to him for it too.
I thought of him beating her, of how she’d be on all fours with her saggy udders sweeping back and forth across the wood-paneled floor under the duress of his physicality - and all the time she’d be begging for more as he lashed her huge ass with a nine tails until searing red welts grimaced in streaks of crimson across its wobbling expanse.
She’d thank him afterwards. And in that moment if he’d asked for fifty dollars out of her purse, to tide him over until next time, she’d have given it to him, and allowed herself to believe, just for a few hours, that she’d actually see him again.
The door whooshed and the night’s cool breeze scuttled through the diner. A man stood barely upright in the doorway, with his arms out like he was walking a tightrope between skyscrapers in a hurricane. He was wearing cheap, dirt-caked jeans, a t-shirt, and the sort of parka jacket you get given by charity workers when they find you out cold in a box under a bridge. Dried spittle clung to the edges of his mouth, his bloodshot eyes rolled like dulled marbles and he groaned something about ‘Marty.’ - ‘Has anyone seen Marty?’
No one answered, most didn’t even bother to look up, and he staggered back out the door. Someone do him a favour and put a bullet in his head, I thought to myself, and then turned my thoughts back to the waitress.
I guessed she was the sort that ‘wasn’t one to judge’ - or at least prefaced all of her judgments with that statement. I decided that I’d want her to be like that with me, like all maternal. It was the way she’d sized me up - from how she glanced at my braless tits as I left them to their own inept struggle with the plunging front of my capacious cotton dress. Then there was the knowing disapproval that I’d rocked up to the diner in my school issue thigh highs, wearing grubby, laceless sneakers. But it would always come back to the dress - one so short that when I bent over you could see the glistening shimmer of my arousal sparkling on the bald lips of my young, bare cunt. I smirked to myself. He’d nailed my panties to the bedroom wall of his apartment, right before he’d nailed me.
‘That’s art baby, that’s art.’ - was what he’d said.
She’d pretend to be different, to be the responsible mom - but for all her good intentions she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She’d have me out back somewhere, maybe the janitor’s closet, slouched on a slightly broken chair with my legs spread as she voraciously sucked on my clit and told me in impassioned groans how beautiful it was to see a young woman with such flared labia. And then she’d beg me to cum for her, and I would.
I couldn’t tell whether I found her attractive, or just liked the idea of it. She certainly kept herself reasonable, with cheap fake red nails and a mane of blonde hair that she wore swept back off her face. But the makeup, only a bit of soft lippy and some mascara to daffy up her features, was the giveaway. She didn’t want to look too good on a night shift in a diner frequented by whores, addicts and psychotics. Smart. But she was proud, she wasn’t going to rock up to work looking like a bag of shite either. I felt for her - it must have been a hard balance to strike.
They started chatting. He was flirting with her. I liked that. It made me feel cheap. She liked it too. My guess was that he was the first sober, handsome, amenable guy she’d seen on a shift in decades.