Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

Working Dinner

<  Entertainers and Dreamers Grow Bitter Eventually

by Gill Hoffs     The Art of Escape  > 


He had a very hairy penis.  Not something I’d expect to see at the opera, certainly not with tickets for a box.  He flicked at it with his hand, awakening the beast, which slowly stretched out of his open fly, the foreskin pulling back in a sticky yawn.

We were alone, but joining ‘friends’ after for dinner.  Stocks and shares over steak and salad, me there to look pretty and smile.  The soprano’s voice soared as my hand caressed him and he groaned beside me, but only enough for me to hear, and respond.

The door to our box held tight in its frame, and no-one could see below the balustrade to my bobbing head or discreet handkerchief for the spit-out after.  He was taking too long, my cheeks ached and his hairiness scoured my tongue.  Tickling his balls with stuck-on nails, I urged him on to the finish.  And… done.  Tucking the cotton square in my clutch, I took a moment to let him recover his poise, and touched up my lipstick.  A fat woman sang on the stage, and I sat beside him once again, waiting.

The curtain swayed down and the lights went up.  The door opened behind us and I turned from the waist, making my breasts more obvious.

It was Him.  I still didn’t know his name, but I hoped for something Spanish, exotic, and memorable.  Not a Wayne.

He called me ‘beautiful lady’ and raised his eyebrows at my partner, who obligingly nodded, fished something out of his wallet and returned a call on his Blackberry.  Pressing a long stemmed rose into my hand, He held my gaze a second too long, then backed out the door with a banknote in his pocket.

The evening finished for me there but I did my duty, playing the part of doting girlfriend for the visiting businessmen and their wives, sipping wine instead of seltzer, just to rinse his taste away.  He was the kind that lingered.

After, there was the usual offer of business for me, too.  Sometimes I took them up on it if I had a credit card to clear or fancied a Prada bag, but I thought of the hairs, and the roses, and the lingering aftertaste on my stinging tongue.

Instead I returned to the opera house.  My rose was wilting slightly from the heat of my hands.  I saw a cleaner sweeping under the seats by the orchestra pit, and asked him if he knew where to find the flower seller.  He smiled, pointing to the boxes above with a wink.

I got lost in the corridors and stairwells, finding myself in the box diagonally above the one I sought.  I would have called out, but then he moved and I saw he had his hands full.  So did his companion.

I turned to go.  Crushing the leafy stem between both hands, I felt a bit of a prick.  But from what I’d seen of those two, so did he. 


published 18 January 2012