Tonight I picked up a trashy piece of ass and took him out for steak and single malt. It was my way of toasting the autumn.

The Season of the Witch.

I felt happier than I had in days, despite the fact that the restaurant was filled to the rafters with small-time, small-dick suits and their stupid boobjob miami bitches. The fact was that it felt good to go out and spend some money. The place I spent it in hardly mattered. Well, maybe not “hardly”, but it certainly didn’t matter very much. I was fine as long as there was expensive whiskey. Everything, absolutely EVERYTHING is made better by expensive whiskey. That, and a leather backed chair for my soon-to-be boytoy to sprawl improperly in. The steakhouse was tacky, but it certainly wasn’t cheap. I got a secret thrill when I thought of the size of the check and how by paying for it I was going to effectively purchase my boytoy, several times over. Every so often, I reached into my jacket and gently caressed the fat roll in my breast pocket—the perfect tip of my manicured nail just barely brushing the billfold. .

(that’s right, bitches--that’s how I get my kicks…I spell it out here so that you may judge)

“I really come alive in this weather,” I said, shivering with tipsiness beneath my brand new, mint green cashmere jumper.

My soon-to-be boytoy rolled his eyes and rested his chin on his hand.

“Who gives a fuck?” he said, batting his lashes.

“Darling, when you look as good as I do…” I said, sucking back the rest of my drink before continuing:

“Nearly everyone ends up giving a fuck--sooner or later.”

I laughed and slammed down my glass, pretending, for a second, that I was a proud member of some ancient race of people, long revered for their music and their poetry as well as their abilities at fucking and drinking. I stretched my legs out under the table and shoved them between those of my boytoy’s. All night, I’d been dying to feel his thick wool pants.

The muscles in his thighs jumped when we touched.

For a split second, he cracked an unrehearsed smile that pegged him as the horny little kid he really was. It flashed darkly across his poker face like a blown fuse on a brilliantly false Vegas marquee.

(come on in there are good times at this place, and this most be the place, because there’s no other place but this)

“Please,” I said, looking him deep in the eye, “don’t try to be so cool and reserved on my account.”

I clamped both my legs around one of his and gave a hard squeeze.

“I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, darling,” I said, as I pressed down with all my (not inconsiderable) might, my thigh muscles tense and hard while I breathed in and out of my nose and attempted to keep the expression on my face as impassive and emotionless as possible.

Despite my efforts, my soon-to-be boytoy managed to do the same--regarding me steadily, without so much as a flicker to disrupt the stone cold calm of his fine, gypsy visage.

(He told me his accent was Austrian—oh, please! He must have mistaken me for one of your run-of-the-mill, dumb-as-a-post Americans. Lord knows the closest he got to being an Austrian was when his mama had him out begging in the streets of Salzburg, a broken tambourine in his hand and a submissive smile on his chapped lips)

“That’s much better,” I said, gritting my teeth and letting him go.

“I like someone who knows how to play. It’s a dying art, you know.”

My soon-to-be boytoy went completely into character.

“Je-sus,” he said, rubbing his head. Something I’d noticed he did a lot.

“Listen,” he said, his voice turning low. “Do you have any drugs, or what?”

“Oh, I’ve got drugs, alright. The woman who was staying in my bed is a drug dealer.”

“Yes,” he hissed, flicking at his bangs.

“This infamous woman who was staying in your bed while you slept on the couch.”


“How does that go again? I think you should explain it to me again.”

“Let’s get cigars first. I know this place...”

“She stayed with you for how long…two weeks?”

“Yes. Now what of it?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“I shouldn't have mentioned it. There’s nothing to tell. She’s my best friend. We used to fuck, but we don’t anymore.”

“And you’re gay.”


"You're sure?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake..."

“And she’s straight.”

“I think so.”

“She might not be!”

“Who’s to really say, darling?”

“Well I don’t know,” he said, pulling at his bangs some more. His expression was one of genuine concern, whether for me or for his hair, I couldn't tell.

“Someone should,” he said. “I mean, after a certain point you have to figure out what you are and stick to it.”

“Says who?” I pushed back my chair and felt for my cigarettes.

“I’m going outside,” I said.

“You act as though it’s all so normal.”

"Who the fuck are you to talk about what’s normal? Have you forgotten that you’re a faggot? Don't get fooled by some silly sitcom or some law in Canada. You traded in any stock in normality a looong time ago, cupcake.”

I stuck the cigarette in my mouth and headed for the swinging saloon style brass doors.

I know it sounds strange, but I felt even happier than I had before.

I wish I could explain but I can't so whatever.



cathy does blacks.

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