So I wander around the area with bloodshot gaping eyes. The surreal-o-meter is pumping in the infinite range; I feel like I'm wandering the halls of David Lynch's Black Lodge. The adjumas storm my corduroy barricades with endless offers of 'long time long time' and 'short time short time'. They're grabbing my arms and trying to drag me inside. I finally start pointing to myself and saying 'me homo, me homo' to get them off my back. It works; the Won signs flush out of their eyes and they suddenly fill with a sort of squinty disgusted look. You have to grab those sort of laughs whenever you can get 'em. I got a similar high the other day when after telling some Jehovah's witness at my door to scram, they asked me if they could give me a book.
I said no, but that I wanted to give them a book. I then produced an issue of the hardcore porno 'Shaved Snizz', flipped it open to a scene with a woman holding a monstrous penis that had just doused her face with a blast of the pearly white jisim. I begged them to keep it with as much sincerity as I could muster. They filled their eyes, but they wouldn't take it. So much for my career as a deprogrammer. You gotta get those laughs though.
I shamble into a restaurant that's still serving. I point to the whole menu and try to let the guy know that I don't care what he gives me. I eat and a Korean dude comes in and eats too. He tries to say something to me, but I'm blank as usual. Then, for a reason that I do not know, he pays for my dinner. Maybe he's hoping to open a male-fuck-shop and wants to turn me out; maybe he's just a nice guy. I finish and stumble out. Back to the Sexworld. I find the place where, as I surmise from our pre-arranged time table, Tom's working on his third girl. He warned me that he was going for a record of five in a night; and that each one's going to take an hour. So I still have some hours to waste. Outside of this particular whore-store is a nicely arranged living room set up with couches and a coffee table and television.
I ask the female pimp if I can sit down and smoke a dambe. At first she seems okay with it, but then, when I try to sit down, pimp-zilla grabs my arm and drags me down the hallway. I'm shaking my head negatory and doing the motion of pumping my index finger through a loop formed by my index and thumb on the other hand, saying 'no sex, no sex tonight'. But she's not listening. She pops a door and pushes me into a narrow room, where I fall onto a floor bed. 'Fuck', I think, 'Now I'm going to be raped.'. I wait for a few minutes, but no one opens the door. 'I guess they're just gonna let me take a nap.'. I look around. It's a nice little room, with a nightstand, and a toothbrush, sandals, a bathroom and a phone. I stub out my butt and close my eyes...thus confounding the experiment...
I'm dreaming about living on a farm with my father, where we raise manta rays that swim vertically in water under the grass...I'm going to throw feed into the swamp grass...but I throw the wrong stuff...instead of nourishing the manta rays, it acts as a sort of coagulant, and the ground solidifies...suffocating the precious sideways swimming mantas...then I feel someone shaking my leg and I wake up. It's Madame Butterball...she's telling me ' you friend finished,' and beckons me down the hall. I follow.
Tom's out front, glowing with radioactive postcoital emanation. Bliss (ters?). I spy some turned out, tired looking women in the window, fixing their hair and tugging at their bridal gown straps. They don't look at us. But I have to wonder what they see when they do. The sun is up. We ride out of the valley of fuck...