James Lafond's Beer Hooker, repaired.

The original is broken because the author, for all his talentsⁱ, cops out. He obviously has a serious issue with fatherhoodⁱⁱ, and apparently with cousins fucking, and so on. The net result is a piece much weaker than it could have been, and therefore without further ado I give you - the Proper Beer Hooker.

At age sixteen Shoey was out of the house, running the lunch numbers down Hanover Street (because the cop that walked the beat on Charles Street harrangued him for not being in school, as an introduction to harranguing him for not working for Mister Dan's shoe store). The Diding Ricks often came through South Baltimore to visit his older brother, who ran heroin around Barney Street, and today they were coming out of the Cross Street Market, intimidating and gigantic in their leathers as they sauntered over to him. When in town they often slept on the ground floor in his parents’ house. Shoey's Dad passed away from asbestos lung, the shipyard's version of a golden watch.

The leader said, "Hey, you’re Shoey, Trent’s little brother, right?"

Shoey nodded nervously. Two of the guys shook his hands and the big guy patted him on the back.

"We heard you have like the best music, man. How would you like to bang a hooker? We've got a hooker hauled up over the bar. You want to bang the hooker? It’s about time - you’re a man now, arentcha.”

Shoey nodded yes, gingerly. He was always nervous around these fellas. The big guy slapped him on the back and said,

"Bring some music later, man. We’re having a party.”

At five to six Shoey was knocking on the door, a case of albums under his arm. Mountain, Grand Funk, Deep Purple, Humble Pie, ZZ Top…

There were five bikers drinking beer in the main room of the apartment, hooting and hollering without any music, among spinning fragments of a circular discussion of road trips, perhaps past, perhaps future. The room was painted white with a red ceiling, the bed a beat down twin, the beer Carling Black Label and Erlanger. The hooker was locked behind a white door, inside the bathroom. A biker went in, spent perhaps a half hour, then emerged, apparently very pleased with the hooker’s quality.

"That bitch got the works!"

A thought occured to the second man, and proud of his genius he announced to all present his intention to clean the hooker up himself. He stood somewhat uneasily, shook up a beer, and made for the white door.

No one could be a lesser man than the manly agreement arrived at through stupefied silence on top of the genius' excited posturing, so they all did this. Fortunately for the poor girl, the swill they swallowed had never seen yeast this side of Creation. The men paraded in and out with the prophylactic beer, one lasting a minute or two, one sicko spending well over an hour in there, the other two pretty much keeping it around a half hour. All the while Shoey was their D-Jay, spinning records and taking requests on a sketchy turn table that terrified him with nightmares of ruined vinyl. The music swirled low enough to not irritate the land lord and but high enough to drown out the sounds of the silence in the bathroom.

Eventually, hours later, the downward Sun pushing through the one parchment window shade in the room, the last biker came out, a big fat mountain of a man. He walked over to the cooler, grabbed a beer and handed it to Shoey.

"You’ll need this, Brother -- enjoy!"

As Shoey headed for the ominous, white door the room seemed to lack enough air. Black smudged hand prints of many previous renters danced and twirled before his eyes, spelling out dire warnings and incomprehensible whispers of languages never known. The boss patted him on the back again and handed him a six-pack.

"Have a few rounds with her. She’s been a good sport and she's probably thirsty by now.”

As Shoey came through the door, he first saw the ankle cuffs, connected to a chain going to the pipes. Then he saw her nakedness, as she stood bending over the tub, drinking from the tap. Her clothes laid out on the floor as a kind of makeshift mat. Her sex was engorged, almost purple, sticking out. She was a well-built, soft-skinned, natural blonde. On her flesh various bruises, some older than others, marked her gender in degradees of red, from blue to yellow. Shoey, timorous as for the first day of school, imitated his betters by shaking up his beer some more in preparation for her purification. He did it intensely, with a desperate grip, his last shield and hope of protection as she turned around.

He was relived to discover she was his age and pretty. He was shocked to discover she was his first cousin, Melissa.

She looked at him, expressionless, then looked at his beer and pleaded earnestly,

"Please, not another beer douche. Let’s have a few drinks."

"What are you doing here ?"

"They picked me up from school."

"You mean, they came to school and asked you out ?"

"Naw, I texted Rufus to come pick me up."

"How come ?"

"Dunno. Didn't feel like riding the bus ?"

"Today's Sunday though. When was this, Friday ?"

"Naw. Tuesday."

"This Tuesday ?"

"No."

She looked at him with strange eyes, as if the dull confusion the other men had put on there was cracking up, showing a sharpness underneath.

"Stop fumbling already and take off those pants. Come on, come on, show me your dick, boy!"

She grabbed hold of him at the root, cupped his ballsac perhaps too tightly in one hand and started masturbating him with the other.

"Come on, let go. A handjob's good enough for a kid like you."

As he came into contact with her dismissive tone he exploded, but she didn't stop. She continued to rub right under the head of his penis, while holding his balls tightly cupped. It was excruciating, and it felt like it went on forever. Eventually she stopped, but didn't let go of his balls. Instead, she sat herself on the edge of the tub while dragging him to his knees. She lifted one leg up on the sink, and he just sort-of fell face first in her slick snatch.

About half an hour later Shoey walked out, having earned his first of many gooey milk moustaches. He went straight through the door, never saying a word to anyone, out in the street, the mother of all, the taker of all, without as much as picking up his records. He never saw them again.

He saw Melissa again. She ended up getting married and having kids. He went down another road.

1. He has verve and nerve, he understands timing well, his characters live and the situations they find themselves in use them well and at very adequate length. All together a polished practitioner of the literary art. [↩]
2. Particularly evident in his "deadbeat dad" obsession. The nude fact of nature that all obligation with regards to the offspring squarely rests on the mother's shoulder, that there's no requirement, provision or even room for the father to have any obligation in this respect (not that he can't want to parent his children, or like the children in question - but these are strictly optional and rather temporary, unlike the mother's lot) sits ill with him. He seems to have swallowed feminine doctrines on "shared parenting", which are all the more glaring in his hands on account of all the effort he's obviously invested into clearing out their sisters from his system. I guess the fish may throw up no matter how many meters of line, but never the hook. [↩]