Dirty Little Freaks (2 page)

I got my first tattoo long before it was trendy...ok, I lie, it was already in style when I got mine, but at least it isn’t a tramp stamp or a Twilight quote like half the girls in high school had by grade eleven. Mine are thoughtful, each one a careful process I arrive at after months of planning and thought. I usually design them in my head and have an artist friend sketch them out, then only go to one guy, Gypsy Frank on West Fourth, to ink them in. I have a new one underway, something by Poe, or maybe a take on a Cezanne. I am obsessed with his Mount Saint Victoire series and wonder how it will translate onto my ribcage. Eva always laughs and calls me an elitist cunt when she picks one out of a book at the shop and I roll my eyes. I can’t help it; ink is personal.

“So, there is one cool thing about him though,” Eva interrupts my daydreaming.

“What’s that?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. I’ve got to hit the shower soon; this coffee isn’t waking me up by itself.

“He’s in a band.” She replies and smiles, almost shyly. “It’s a punk band, he’s the lead singer. I listened to some of it when we got home.”

“Ha! Aren’t they all?” I snort, “That’s like the snowboarder you picked up in Whistler last year, said he was sponsored. Then we found out they all are, and he was really just a dishwasher, remember that?” I say. Eva and I have a funny game, we remind each other of the losers we’ve fucked just for shits and giggles.

“I know!” she laughs too, but quickly protests, “I swear this is legit! They’re on iTunes and everything!”

“Meh, maybe,” I shrug, “What does it take to get on iTunes? Do they have a screening process? Did you ask him?”

“Oh my
God
, you are such a cynic. It’s a good thing you’re cute, or I’d kick your ass outta here,” she says, looking like she might end up being frustrated with me again. I have a gift, most people end up frustrated if they spend too much time around me.

I stop myself in mid eye roll, and do my best to be kind about her new boy toy. I say, “Ok, that’s kinda cool. It’s almost too bad you’re not going to see him again. So what is the name of this amazing iTunes band?”

“Bondo,” she says, trying to keep a straight face.

“Get the fuck out of here, are you serious?” I start laughing, unable to stop myself. “Bondo? Isn’t that like a glue or something?”

“He said it’s something to do with cars, he works doing body stuff,” she says, going the prettiest shade of red. “I know, it’s a stupid name but they’re punk, you love punk.”

“What kind of punk?” I demand. “New wave? Classic? Do they do anything original or just covers?”

“Uh, I’m not totally sure,” she replies, “I think covers of some bands you like, The Circle Jerks, Dead Kennedys, The Misfits, that kind of thing. The bass player is super hot by the way,” she looks at me slyly. “I checked them out on Facebook when he was still here. They’ve got a gig coming up this Friday at The Roxy, wanna go?”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, feeling smugly superior about their shitty name, but seriously, of course I’ll go. What the fuck else am I gonna do?

I am late for work, again. It’s not unusual, but every time I am, the store owner acts surprised and angry. Luckily he’s passive aggressive about it, so I pretend not to notice. It’s our little game, at least I think he’s in on it. Either way, it amuses me to see him stiffen up when I walk in, then start slamming things while making little harrumph noises under his breath.

“Hey Jag!” I cheerfully call as I walk in at six twenty eight. He ignores me and adjusts his turban. The hilarious thing about my boss is he is an über religious family guy. He just likes money, and there’s no easier money than a skanky sex shop with spank booths in the rear. Ha, in the rear, I’ll have to remember that one for Eva later. He’s a devout Sikh from Surrey, but would never dare to get his hands dirty by owning this sleaze pile anywhere near his home. This is irony in its purest form, Surrey is known as the Lower Mainland’s asshole, it stinks and is full of all the nasty shit the rest of the area doesn’t want. Drugs, sex, white trash, you name it you can get it within two blocks of any Skytrain station.

Jag is a genuinely good guy though. He’s a decent boss and doesn’t treat me bad. He’s never made a pass or used the fact that we’re surrounded by giant rubber cocks and fake pussies to casually pry about my sex life. I just wish the customers would afford me the same courtesy.

I hear him sigh as I drop my old leather rucksack behind the counter and hop onto the bar stool in front of the register. He hands me a long pair of yellow gloves and a pack of sanitary wipes, I see him smirk under his evil magician stache.

“Oh fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I moan and grab them. I slide my hand into one of the gloves and tug it with a dramatic snap. “You didn’t have any time to do this today? You don’t pay me enough!” I slide on the other glove and pick up the wipes. This is a well-rehearsed scene, we play it out several times a week.

“You know if you leave me here alone I can’t get anything done,” he says and waves his hands in the air.

“You know you can get shit done when the store is empty,” I reply, mocking his heavy accent.

He fakes outrage and shoos me out from behind the counter. “I don’t know why I pay you so much if this is the attitude I get. There are a hundred people who are waiting to do your job for-”

“Half the price and no back talk.” I cut him off and laugh. “I know, you’ve told me a million times!” I swear I hear him chuckle as I head towards the booths. I turn quickly, hoping to catch him laughing, but he shoots me a stern look and wags his finger at me. It’s a weird friendship we have, but somehow it works. And let’s face it, he puts up with a
lot
of shit from me.

Half way through my wipe down, I notice two things. First, I think Jag actually went over them a few hours ago, there’s not much cum. Second, I hear a light knocking on the wall beside me and turn to find a hard cock poking through. This is strictly a guy thing, these glory holes. It’s a man on the other side imagining another man’s waiting mouth in here. Sometimes I wonder what kind of mind fuck it would be if I took a try, sucked him dry, then popped out and said “Surprise, you like chicks now.” Heh, that would be awesome. Imagine the look on the dude’s face. Of course I won’t, I love sucking cock but kinda hate people and disease and the grossness of it all. But that would amuse me to no end.

I slap the dick with one of the wipes but it doesn't move. I slap it again and it visibly jerks, but stays put. I take the package of wipes and slap it as hard as I can. I hear a horny groan on the other side. Fuck, he’s into this. How do I get rid of him? I lean close to the hole, his dick stares at me accusingly, the little slit like a tiny mouth begging to be kissed. I get as close to it as I can without getting any ooze on me and yell “Hey asshole, there’s a chick in here!”

That does it. It’s not good for the ego to see it deflate and pull back so quickly, but at least I can get my job done. I stop for a moment and survey the scene, I would hate to bring a black light into one of these booths, it would light up like a fucking crime scene. I could be the Dexter Morgan of shot spot analysis. ‘Oh yes, this looks like he started jerking it over here, dribbled a little...see these directional drops? Then the final act was completed against this wall, you can see the force of the blow, the violent completion of the jerk off.’

The booth is essentially the size of a hall closet, with a black moulded plastic seat that faces a small TV screen. There’s a coin slot next to the TV and for a quarter you get about 3 minutes of porn. You do get to choose, it’s mostly man on man action, or shemales. Shemales are really popular for some reason. I think it’s not so much about the porn though, it’s the experience. It feels at times like a confessional, you’re not confessing to a priest but you’re bonding through some shared wank experience. It makes the guys feel less lonely and less like a freaky asshole.

And of course there’s the possibility that you can stick your cock through a hole and get sucked dry on the other side. For free. With no strings attached. You wouldn’t believe the number of suburban husbands who find their way down here, guys with wives and kids and golden retrievers and nice houses in the burbs. Guys who aren’t really gay, or are gay, or don’t know, but the thrill of sticking their dick in that hole and getting drained is too addictive. I guess it’s easy, you don’t have to listen to the hole bitch about your mother or remind you for the hundredth time that you’re not mowing the grass often enough and the neighborhood watch is complaining again. I get it, but it scares me. Part of the reason I don’t like to date is because of the things I’ve seen and heard in here. Men, even normal nice men in suits and ties and driving sensible cars, don’t seem to have the ability to discern danger when their cock is involved.

I finish up and head to the front, Jag’s already got his briefcase packed and ready to go. It makes me laugh that he carries a briefcase. I wonder if he tells the family what he does here in the city, or if he’s got some fiction about a respectable office job.

“Why don’t you work in an office?” I ask him out of the blue. He looks surprised.

“I don’t know, I just don’t think I’d like it.”

“What did you do in India?”

“I was a civil engineer.”

“What the hell is that?” I ask, knowing full well what it is but I like to keep up the illusion that I’m less intelligent than I really am. It’s a survival skill I picked up in childhood and it stuck. One of those annoying things I don’t think I could shake even if I try.

Jag knows I’m smart though; he looks at me, raises a brow and says, “I designed magical rocket ships that took people to Unicorn Island.”

Did my uber religious Indian boss just diss me? I laugh and say, “Good one. Ok, how did you end up becoming the evil overlord of all this?” I sweep my hand around like a game show hostess.

“I bought it from my Father-in-law.”

“So your family knows?”

He looks uncomfortable. I don’t think we’ve spoken for more than a minute about our personal lives. We have an unspoken rule to keep it all business, all the time.

“Yes, they all know but we don’t like to talk about it. We have several stores, the others are pawn shops and jewelry.”

“So you chose sex?” I chuckle, wondering if this guy runs deeper than I thought.

“I did. I don’t know why, but I like it. It’s comforting, knowing that no matter what is going on in the world with the economy or the politics, people will always buy sex.”

“You’ve got a good point,” I reply, impressed with his logic. “Have a good night!”

“You too, try not to steal money or product,” he smiles slightly as he heads out the door.

“That was interesting,” I say out loud. A short, middle-aged guy in a camo jacket looks up and smiles, anticipation in his eyes. Fuck, I’ve got to keep a gigantic wall up around these guys. The smallest sign of weakness and they’re rushing me, like wolves on a limping caribou.

“Not you. Eyes straight ahead, soldier,” I say and laugh to myself as his face goes red and he looks down, nervous. I can see that he’s holding the pocket pussy modeled after somebody named “Jade.” It’s not me, it’s not my pussy, but every single guy who buys it and notices my nametag tries to make eye contact. Their eyes are always full of questions and horny insecurity. I’ve found the best way to deal with them is to avoid eye contact and simply snarl, “Not mine, your total will be....” That usually shuts them up, but not always. For those dudes who are picturing me naked while they’ve got the rubber pussy in their sweaty hands, I simply stare them down. Works every time. I think I’m a little off-putting, or as every elementary school teacher ever said about me...I do not play well with others.

Jade isn’t my real name anyhow, I don’t even like it. My mom was a drunk. She drank and smoked up and probably did a lot of other nasty shit that I didn’t want to know about. Mostly just an old school small town girl hit the big city and became a raging drunk. My dad was worse, but he wasn’t around much. He did the nasty shit I definitely don’t want to know about, so I generally avoided him when he did decide to show up and play daddy of the year. Usually it coincided with the times he was wanted by somebody for something...drugs or money, it always came down to one of those two for my DNA donor.

Mom though, just your run of the mill angry drunk, but when my grandma found out mom was pregnant, she drove a day straight to New Westminster and dragged my mom back to the family farm in the Kootenays. She lived 28 miles from the town of Nelson, straight up a valley cradled between two mountains. My mom was trapped and sober and I was born on the farm with no problems. My grandma kept me healthy, but ultimately she couldn’t keep me safe. My mom took off after that, dragging me back to the city with her, and that began our series of moves and shitty boyfriends for her, shitty years for me, and even shittier digs every time we packed our stuff in the middle of the night and fled overdue rent.

For a long time my mother didn’t file my birth certificate. Finally stats BC caught up with her and forced her hand, she was going to get fined or in trouble or have to file me. It also helped sway her decision that her welfare worker told her about the extra money she’d be getting if she had me on file. So, my mom being who she is and drinking at the time named me Jack Daniels. No middle name. Just Jack. Daniels. Heee-laaar-ious, I know.