Pagan Moss' Peep Show Stories

Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Swan Lake

Swan Lake

He stumbles through the front door with his derelict hair and clothes covered in filth like he does every Friday night. He sits down and waits in silence--his wiry beard resting on his chest. When I come out to greet him, the whole place smells of cheap alcohol. He looks close to death and I think maybe he'd be better off stinking in the waiting room at Harborview. But this is his therapy--probably one of the only things still keeping him alive.

As I walk over to him, he starts to stir. He looks up at me and I sense he's searching, trying to remember if I'm the one.

I reassure him. "Hi, sexy. It's good to see you. Did you miss me?"

He smiles, remembering. "Yeah, I did."

"I missed you, too," I say getting the paperwork ready.

He looks like he couldn't afford the video booths at the local peep show, let alone the ninety dollar fantasy shows he gets here. But he always pulls out a wad of cash and with one eye trying to focus, counts out five twenty dollar bills.

"Keep the change," he jokes. "It's the State's money, anyways."

"Thank you," I say and I take him down the hall to the same room I've been taking him for the past three months--the one the other girls don't like to use. They don't like the way he smells.

As soon as he steps into the room, he starts stripping, leaving a trail of clothes from the door to the couch. I tell him I'll be back, but he never answers. He's in his own world, standing naked before a mirrored wall, sizing up his reflection.

When I come back a couple minutes later, he's still there, admiring his flesh.

"Do you have your music tonight?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, pulling a CD out of his bag and handing it to me.

I walk over to the CD player. "Hmmm . . . Tchaikovsky," I say, putting it in and pressing play.

The music fills the air.

He sits down on a towel spread out on the couch. "I thought you'd like it," he says. "You seem like the type."

"Funny," I say. " I was thinking the same thing about you."

I sit down on the chair, which he places right in front of him. I always sit in the chair like some kind of pseudo psychiatrist--a witness to his madness. Maybe it wasn't such a bad use of the State's money after all.

We spend the first part of the show with our eyes closed, exchanging energy . . . the way he and his sister used to do when they were kids. He showed me how they did it, sitting face-to-face; the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet almost touching.

"Can you feel the energy?" he asks.

"Yes, I can feel it, baby," I say.

We sit that way for a while, exchanging energy. I think I'm getting the raw end of the deal.

He stands up suddenly as if drawn by the music. He faces the mirror and starts stretching and doing side bends.

"What do you think of my body?" he asks.

My eyes take a gander at his portly hirsute physique. "It looks good," I say.

He stands sideways and sucks in air. He places one hand over his stomach, attempting to flatten the bulge.

"I just need to lose this," he says, turning this way and that, assessing the goods. "Then I'll be happy."

He then turns around to take a look at his ass, clenching his cheeks.

"You should feel this," he says, poking his ass with his finger.

"Yeah, looks tight," I say.

He starts dancing to the music. I step back and lean against the wall, watching him leap, promenade and plie--his fingers soft and graceful.

"Wow, you're really good at that." I say.

"I used to do ballet when I was a kid."

"I can tell."

He digressed, standing on his tippy-toes, flexing his calf muscles at me.

"Check 'em out," he says, poking again at his flesh.

"Very nice," I say.

"You should feel them?" he says. "Seriously, you won't believe it."

"I believe you; I can see them from here."

"Come on," he says. "You gotta feel how hard they are."

I knew he was harmless. I'm sure he hadn't been touched by a girl for a long, long time. I felt it was the least I could do; just a small token of humanity. I walk over and poke his calf with the very tip of my finger, withdrawing it quickly.

"Wow, just like a rock!" I say.

Satisfied, he sits back down on the couch and wipes the sweat off his forehead with a towel.

I stand right in front of him, my legs apart.

He starts stroking his placid cock, staring between my legs. I bend my knees a little so the muscles in my legs can be seen. It's how he likes it and it's one of the strangest things anyone has ever asked of me.

His cock starts to grow in his hands.

I move my hips from side to side a little so my legs won't fall asleep.

I tell him he's sexy. He seems to agree with me.

He strokes and strokes like he's working toward something--something that's gonna take him a while. I wonder if he'll be able to do it, or if maybe the alcohol's gonna win out tonight. His eyes start rolling back into his head and he struggles to bring them forward, blinking and shaking his head, trying to focus again on my thighs.

I tell him I want to see him do it tonight. I want to see it real bad.

He nods and keeps at it, while Tchaikosky blares in the background.

I run my hands over my thighs, telling him how strong they are.

That seems to do it.

His face twists up in agony and his whole body curls up in a ball like he's been punched in the stomach.

I fetch him a hot towel and wait for him outside the door while he recovers. The drunk ones are never to be left alone as they often find their way out into the hallway, stumbling about in the dark like lost children.

I hear him hum as he puts on his clothes. The music stops and I knock on the door.

He steps out of the room and we walk down the hallway in silence. In the lobby, I tell him I had a great time. He smiles, curtsies, and stumbles out the front door.

I wonder how he'll manage.

I grab the cleaning supplies and put on a pair of latex gloves. I walk back to the room and his smell hits me in the face. I empty a half can of Lysol in the room, trying to kill the stench.

One of the mistresses walks by the room and looks in. "I don't know how you deal with that guy," she says, holding her nose. "You couldn't pay me enough."

I thought about what she said as I scooped up the soiled towels.

I knew the answer, but I knew she'd never get it . . . not too many do.

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